A Rather English Marriage (31 page)

Reginald stretched his legs to unlock the tense feeling behind his knees, and scrabbled his fingers in the peanut bowl. He could picture it. They'd both be sitting out here on the terrace at the back of the house. She'd have had a few drinks, a last brandy, they'd be admiring the garden, darkness would settle, he'd steer her indoors … Here imagination grew a little imprecise, but the next image moved to his bedroom. He'd put his arms round her, tackle the zip, dress would slip from her shoulders … As he pictured it, the big boy responded
gratifyingly to this vivid seduction scene. No problem, old boy, Reggie said to himself; she'll go down in flames!

His heart quickened at the prospect, beating so fast that it was almost painful. Extraordinary thing, he thought, this chemistry, electricity, whatever it is. Only have to think about sex and the whole system goes on red alert. Pulse races, eyes dilate, big boy stands at the ready, just because I think of Liz with her clothes off. Must be why Jane in the
Daily Mirror
was drawn wearing her undies all through the war. Making sure the lads were at the ready. And then on the day victory was declared, she took everything off – finally! He smiled to himself. He liked a joke you waited five years for. Old heart was thudding like mad. Whoa, he thought, steady on, plenty of time yet. He shifted position to relieve the constriction in his legs and chest, and thumped his ribs a couple of times. Have another cigarette, Reggie, old boy; calm down.

Imagination stumbled over the final practical aspect of the evening. Would he need johnnies? Liz, after all, could presumably still get pregnant. Well, Reggie thought indulgently, and what if she did? Plenty of men became fathers in their seventies. He rather liked the idea; indeed, he liked it better the more he thought about it. If it was a boy, they'd put his name down for Eton. Wouldn't send him to Sedbergh, no bloody chance! He'd never expose any boy of his to the crude, remorseless bullying he had endured at the hands of the stupider sons of lesser Scottish gentry or self-made Northerners. Nothing less than Eton or Harrow for his son. Have to stay on here in that case. Need space for nannies, nursemaids, whatever. He liked the idea of having a nanny in the house again. He'd sort out the money somehow. There must be a family trust that would educate his son. Decision made, he poured himself another drink. Maybe it would be a girl. No. Imagination stopped dead there. Not a girl. A son. Point was, he wouldn't need johnnies.

Aids, though. What about that? He dismissed it. Poofters got Aids, didn't they? Poofters and drug addicts. Not decent girls like Liz. Sabrina had slipped a condom on to him with
cool, supple fingers, so quickly that it was there before he knew what she was up to. But that was different: they had to be careful, the paid professionals; never knew where a client had last been. Liz would be insulted.

He looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. Not too late to ring. Where the hell was Southgate? High time his dinner was on the table. Reginald walked through the French windows into the soft warmth of the drawing-room, its daytime hues harmonized to pearly grey, dark lilac and purple in the dimness of the summer evening. He snapped on a table lamp and lifted the telephone.

It was weeks since Liz had last seen Reginald for that oddly unsatisfactory evening together, she in her black dress and Italian tan, distracted by worry about Lissy; far too many weeks since he had dropped her off with hardly a kiss and no struggle at all. Since then, silence. Liz knew, and kept reminding herself, that a man's sense of time is quite different from that of a woman. Men can let months go by and then ring as though they had spoken to you yesterday, while women count the days and even the hours. Liz was a sophisticate in the battle of the sexes and thought she understood how the male mind worked. All the same, by the time Reginald finally telephoned, she was frantic.

Her daughter had stayed on for several days, enjoying the pampering and, in the end, graciously accepting the offer of some garments from the shop. The short, flared dresses that were in fashion that summer made ideal pregnancy-wear. Alicia surveyed her reflection and saw that she looked delicious. Liz began to think she might find herself landed with her daughter for the entire pregnancy, and wondered disloyally if this would capsize her own plans – for she did not care to be seen by Reggie in the role of prospective grandmother.

Already, this unborn baby, this foetus, was binding mother and daughter close. Lissy solemnly promised to attend the ante-natal clinic regularly, and grudgingly agreed to think about informing the baby's father. Though she didn't see why, she said, when her brother, Hugo, would make a perfectly good father-figure, if the poor bloody infant
had
to have a man in its life. Then she caught Liz's eye and acknowledged that she was being absurd, and the two of them laughed together conspiratorially: lone women, same predicament. Eventually Lissy, keen to show off her new look to her friends
in London, borrowed another twenty pounds from her mother and caught the train back. Peace had been made between them.

Liz returned to worrying about Reggie. Had she said or done something wrong that last Thursday evening they had spent together? She scoured her memory but could recall only that he had talked about his wartime exploits and she – surely? – had found herself rather impressed. Had he, then, met another woman? It would not be difficult. Poor old Reggie was a walking widower in need of a wife: it stood out a mile. Maybe
that
was the problem – her refusal to go to bed with him. Perhaps he had concluded that she was prudish or frigid. Next time I will, Liz promised herself. I've made him wait long enough, poor old heffalump, and if I don't, someone else will.

Let's face it, between Lissy and the infernal bank manager, I need a cash injection fast. Whittington has been breathing down my neck like a dragon, panicking me with his talk of bankruptcy and liquidation. ‘Sell the shop, Mrs Franks.' She recalled his nasal, wheedling voice. ‘Sell the shop and realize your assets while you can. Pay off your creditors and take a steady, salaried job. With your experience, you could easily get a post in the – what do they call it? – women's wear section of a London department store. Money coming in regularly, you'd know where you stood. It's the recession, Mrs Franks. It's biting very hard.' ‘I will
not
be a shop assistant!' Liz had said. ‘I had imagined,' he said tartly, ‘that was rather what you were now? Correct me if I'm wrong.' ‘You're wrong,' she had retorted. ‘Be that as it may …' His voice droned on … Finally, he said, ‘It's up to you, Mrs Franks: the choice is yours. The bank will extend your business loan for another ninety days. After that we shall either need to see regular reducing payments, or we shall have to call in the loan. I'll confirm that in writing.'

Liz's thoughts returned to Reginald. What other solution is there? And besides, he's not too bad. At times I think he doesn't just fancy me, he actually loves me. God knows, that'd
be nice. I love to be loved. Could I ever love him? He's got beautiful manners. He's overweight, yes, but I can take him in hand, get him to lose a stone or two. At least he isn't physically
repulsive
. I can face going to bed with him. He doesn't exactly drive me wild with desire, but that's not the point. He doesn't disgust me.

His house must run pretty smoothly: it's always spotless, and he's immaculately turned out. There's that manservant – time I learned his name, might be a useful ally – and presumably a housekeeper as well. Probably a cleaner comes in. Gardener. Quite a large staff. Have my hands full looking after that lot. They won't be too pleased to see me come along. Got used to having things their own way. Be like Mrs Danvers in
Rebecca
all over again, I dare say. Steady on, Liz … He hasn't even rung yet.

And then he did. She was watching the news. John McCarthy's release was rumoured to be imminent and she didn't want to miss the sight of his face as he emerged after years in some cellar, blinking and grinning at freedom, to hug that brave, persistent girl who'd engineered it all – but it was still just speculation from various so-called Middle East experts. All the same, they had made her forget her own panic, so that when the telephone rang she was genuinely distracted.

‘Yes?' she answered, abruptly, preoccupied; and then, with a glad cry that she could not disguise,
‘Reggie!'

Her voice was so womanly, so vibrant with welcome, that he could almost have said there and then, ‘Marry me, Liz.' And it might have been better if he had. But Reginald overruled this guileless impulse and said, ‘Ah! You're there. Thought you might have been away on holiday again.' (As though he'd seen her last week, instead of nearly two months ago!) ‘All well with you?'

Instantly on guard, Liz answered, ‘Fine. Could certainly do with a break.' (Just in case he was offering her a weekend in Venice.) ‘Still here for the time being. How have you been?'

‘Oh, not too bad, you know. Busy, pretty busy … Care to have dinner one evening? Long time no see.'

‘I should think dinner would be lovely,' she said coolly. ‘Do you want to fix a date now?'

Now that the moment was approaching when they must consummate or abandon their relationship, they were shy and gruff, putting off the occasion as though trying to avert it. Everyone is modest before a first encounter. Even in darkness – though wishing to make love in the dark is taken as a sign of inhibition – people must eventually bare their bodies to one another and be naked as newborns, stripped of clothing and artifice. Now that the game, the chase, was soon to culminate in this trial of their secret needs and abilities, suddenly both would have liked to postpone it. As Reggie grew older, he found the chase more fun than the capture. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps the end was too closely associated with death. Perhaps that had always been his problem. But a date had to be set.

So he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice, ‘How are you placed for Saturday?'

‘This
Saturday?' asked Liz.

What's she on about, thought Reggie,
this
Saturday? This week, next week, sometime, never? Games these women play. ‘Why not?' he parried.

‘This Saturday would do as well as any. Had you anywhere special in mind?'

‘Care to come and eat here?'

Aha, she thought. I am to be paraded for the benefit of the housekeeper, the manservant, and God knows who else!

‘If you like,' she said.

‘Splendid! Pick you up, what, about eight?'

‘Eight on Saturday will be lovely. Look forward to it.'

They both hung up, and both glanced at the time: Reggie at an elegant, slightly tarnished brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece; Liz at a black and white digital clock in a sleek modern shape on hers. It was not quite twenty past ten. Start the countdown, thought Reggie, and his heart raced quite alarmingly at the prospect. Steady on old chap, he told himself, still got four days to go.

I'd better book a facial, thought Liz, and have my roots done; and fit in two aerobics classes between now and Saturday. Just under four days to arrange it all.

‘You sure you're going to be comfy?' asked Roy, for what must have been the fifth time that day. June didn't find it annoying. It was so long since anyone had looked after her, worried about
her
comfort, that Roy's expressions of concern were a luxury.

‘It's lovely, Dad,' she said. ‘You've worked ever so hard. I hope you haven't done yourself an injury lugging stuff about and scrubbing the floors. Don't it all look nice, though?'

‘Didn't have to do it all on my lonesome. Arthur came in from over the road to help with the heavy things and his missus took a whole lot of bits and bobs down to the church hall for the next bazaar. Molly Tucker, you don't know her, she was an old friend of Gracie's, Molly sorted out some of Grace's and Vera's and' – had to be said, you couldn't avoid it for ever – ‘Alan's old clothes, and took the net curtains and your bedroom ones to the launderette and washed them. People have been good neighbours. Makes me sorry I've stayed away so long.'

‘Well, now you're back,' said June firmly.

‘Not for a few more days,' Roy said. ‘You know how welcome you are here, but some people can make white look like black, they've got that sort of mind. Better I stay up at The Cedars till the boys get here. Then there can't be no wagging tongues.'

‘Let them wag!' said June, but she was not altogether sorry to have a few nights by herself. It would give her time to settle in, get used to the feel of the place, get some idea of whether she could ever belong here, amid the classy streets, posh shops and smooth white faces of Tunbridge Wells.

‘You be OK on your own?' asked Roy, again not for the first time. ‘I ought to be off now, but I'll be back round about ten o'clock tomorrow morning – in time for elevenses at the latest.'

June looked at him and thought, How did this little, kind, fussy man produce the V-shaped body, strong arms, wide shoulders and broad face of my Alan? Even when he got old, Alan would never have gone like this. Roy must always have had the furrowed, anxious face of a tiny furry creature, big eyes on the alert for predators, jug ears scanning every rustle. How did this frightened little man's seed grow into the great oak of my husband? Yet Alan only looked big; he was fearful inside, always on the look-out for neglect and insult, afraid of inflicting pain, afraid of incurring it. Billy now, he takes after his Dad in looks, but he's tougher; he's got my Mum in his nature. Be good for them to live with their Grandad for a while. Too long since they had a man about the place. They'll test him, see how much he'll stand for. I must tell him not to weaken or give in to them. I wish he'd go. He looks ever so tired, and it makes me nervous, him hanging about. If I get on edge, I'll have another go at my arms and that'd make for a rotten start.