A Tale of Two Families (11 page)

Robert went in for torches. June called after him, ‘Be sure you shut the front door when you come out.’ She explained to Fran that Penny was very sensitive and restless. ‘I’ve an idea she’s coming into season.’

‘Such a ridiculous expression,’ said Fran. ‘Sounds as if she’s something to eat.
My
dogs, no doubt vulgarly, just came on heat.’

Robert returned with torches but said they must use them cautiously or they would scare the bird. ‘And we can do without them if we keep to the park. It’s level walking.’ He led the way with Fran.

Soon there was no doubt that the singing came from the little wood.

‘Let’s not go any closer,’ said Fran. ‘Well, this is something I shall always remember.’

June, standing with her arm through George’s, said, ‘Me, too.’

A clock struck. The nightingale, as if resenting competition, stopped singing.

‘That was the stable clock at the Hall,’ said Robert.

George said, ‘That place gives me the shivers. Look at it now, there’s only one room lit up – if you can call it lit up. What a hell of a life for that girl.’

Fran pricked up her ears. She had met Sarah at tea one Saturday afternoon and been astonished by her beauty, and even more astonished that George showed so little interest in her. Had he been merely disguising his interest from May?

Robert said, ‘We really ought to see more of her, June. She’s so nice and I’ve stopped minding her voice.’

Fran’s ears switched their interest to Robert. Then she accused herself of being ridiculous. If Robert ever showed even a flicker of real interest in any woman but June, that would be the day!

‘Hugh and Corinna see quite a lot of her,’ said June. ‘Oh, there it is again.’ The nightingale now surpassed itself. ‘I wish May could hear it.’

‘Where
is
May?’ said Fran.

‘Making jam,’ said George.

The nightingale now rested again. The party headed for the cottage. It was quite dark now and Robert and George shone their torches ahead. A light breeze wafted the scent of the lilac towards them.

‘Heavens, how lucky we are,’ said June. ‘Lilac and a nightingale! And there’s a marvellous laburnum coming out near the cottage – and a may tree.’

‘“The lilac, the laburnum and the may”,’ said Robert. ‘I’m sure that’s a quotation but I don’t know who wrote it. Funny how one likes to quote. It seems to crystallise things.’

They were back at the cottage now. Robert’s torch shone on a drift of cow parsley, left on the edge of the lawn.

‘“Where the cow parsley skirts the hawthorn hedge”,’ said Fran. ‘And I do know who wrote that: Rossetti, the most loved poet of my girlhood.’ She sighed, partly because it was so long since any poetry had given her pleasure and partly because a marvellously romantic setting was being wasted. Robert walked with his mother-in-law, George walked with his sister-in-law – though even if Robert had walked with June and George with May, Fran wouldn’t have considered it romantic. She never did consider marriage romantic; just, at best, reasonably comfortable, as her own marriage had been. She said now, ‘We must send Hugh and Corinna to hear the nightingale.’ Though she wasn’t sure that even Hugh and Corinna measured up to her idea of romance. The truth was that, for her, romance needed a touch of the illicit. She rebuked herself for such a disreputable idea but really felt quite unrepentant.

‘Come in,’ said Robert, opening the cottage door.

‘No, thanks, I’ll get back now,’ said Fran.

‘Me, too,’ said George. ‘Goodnight, June, darling.’

The light from the hall was shining full on June’s face. Fran stared incredulously. Surely there was no mistaking the look in June’s eyes as George stooped to kiss her? Oh, God, that was one bit of illicit romance Fran didn’t favour. Then she relaxed. June was now looking at Robert with exactly the same loving expression. It was simply that the dear girl had a loving nature.

‘Tell May about the nightingale,’ June called, as Fran and George made their way towards the lilac grove.

‘We will, darling,’ Fran called back. She must have been mad to think, even for a moment, that June would ever let herself fall in love with May’s husband, ever do anything to hurt May.

George was saying, ‘Funny how we used to think of this lilac grove as a maze. I could now find my way through it blindfold.’

‘
I
couldn’t,’ said Fran, hanging on to his arm. Dear George, just the kind of man she would have fallen for in her youth. Was he really a reformed character? She doubted it. But long might May go on believing it.

They found May in the still empty, brightly lit conservatory, with an illustrated catalogue and a yard stick. She now favoured painted bamboo furniture – ‘Might be better than wicker. Anyway, I’ve not seen any wicker I like. But I’m still not sure I’ve got the right line on this place.’

They left her to it.

On Thursday evening Corinna rang up to say that she didn’t think she and Hugh would come down for the weekend – ‘You see, we’ve got two seats for a first night – actually, Sir Harry gave them to me – and we rather fancied going out to supper afterwards, and I shan’t fancy getting up early on Saturday morning. So we thought we’d just spend a quiet weekend in London.’

‘But it’s Baggy’s feast on Sunday,’ said May. ‘Asparagus and strawberries.’ She explained at some length, adding, ‘Do make an effort, darling. I’m sure he’ll be hurt if you and Hugh aren’t here.’

‘Hang on a minute… I’ll ask Hugh.’

‘Tell him Penny’s coming into season, will you?’

‘Oh, my goodness…’ Corinna shortly returned to say, ‘Hugh thinks we should come. Of course it is very sweet of old Baggy. And Mother, please listen: Will you ask Aunt June to be terrifically careful Penny doesn’t get out?’

‘I will, darling. Try to get here for Saturday lunch, will you? I’m having something nice.’

‘All right,’ said Corinna. Well, it would save cooking at the flat or going out for a meal.

May relayed the conversation to Fran, concluding, ‘Sir Harry, as she calls him, seems to be rather taken with her. He used to upset her by saying she’d never be any good.’

‘Is he making a pass at her – or whatever the latest expression for it is?’ Fran, at Corinna’s age would have been delighted to be made a pass at by a distinguished, middle-aged actor such as Henry Tremayne.

‘Not that I know of. I’d wish him the best of luck – I would, Mother; anything to stop her marrying Hugh. It’ll be just like
brother and sister marrying. I suppose June
is
being careful not to let Penny out?’

‘It’s pretty tricky, seeing that they usually have the cottage door open. Why don’t we have the creature here?’

‘Of course! There’s that little bedroom I haven’t furnished yet. We’ll bring her basket over.’

‘And I’ll undertake to exercise her and keep her amused,’ said Fran, who was still dog-starved. ‘I’ll go and tell June now. She’ll be greatly relieved.’

Penny was duly installed, to her satisfaction. Next to Hugh, Fran was her favourite person. It was Fran’s belief that, with a little effort, she could make herself first favourite; but never, never would she make the effort.

On Saturday morning the arrival of the asparagus and the strawberries created something of a sensation. Even May, who always bought more than she needed, was staggered.

‘Why on earth did you let Baggy order so much?’ she asked Fran.

‘Well, there are so many of us – and he said you’d want to feed three women in the kitchen.’

‘Not on asparagus. They consider it a weed. I’ve got chops for them. I wonder if we could persuade Sarah to come?’

‘And how about asking Mildred to come down a day early?’ Fran had finally succeeded in getting Mildred invited to stay for a fortnight, having agreed to extend her own visit and act as chief brunt-bearer.

May shuddered. ‘I’m not having Aunt Mildred one day before I need to.’

Baggy came into the Long Room, where his purchases had been set out for inspection. Fran and May received him with grateful enthusiasm.

‘Truly magnificent,’ said May, wondering how she could get so much asparagus ready to serve at the same time. Thank God the Matsons would stalk the strawberries. She hoped she’d ordered enough cream… With an effort she got her mind off tomorrow’s feast and on to today’s lunch.

Hugh and Corinna, on their arrival, were sent to see Baggy’s present, now moved to the long slabs in the old larder.

‘Frightening, isn’t it?’ said Hugh.

‘Mother wants Sarah to help eat it. How shall we get hold of her? She may come over this afternoon but one can’t count on it. She asked us not to telephone except in some emergency.’

Hugh, his eyes on the forty-eight bundles of asparagus, said, ‘Well, if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.’

After lunch (modest, by May’s standards, chicken and fruit; she had intended to make an exotic pudding but been delayed by the arrival of the feast) Hugh telephoned the Hall, with Corinna standing by. He was about to ring off in despair when Sarah answered. She said she hoped he hadn’t been ringing long – ‘Our telephone’s shut away in a little room nowhere near anywhere. Grandfather doesn’t think telephones should be on the loose. Is anything wrong?’

Hugh attempted to explain but made no headway. Sarah said, ‘This is a terrible old telephone. Grandfather won’t let the post-office take it away. Could you shout, please?’

Hugh shouted. Sarah, at last, heard the word ‘asparagus’ but formed the impression that he wanted some. ‘Sorry,’ she told him, ‘our beds were exhausted years ago. Such a shame because I did so adore it.’

‘Let
me
try,’ said Corinna. She then proceeded to speak quite quietly but with careful far-forward enunciation and – miraculously, it seemed to Hugh – Sarah heard. At first she
said that coming to lunch was out of the question. Then she wavered. Finally she said, ‘Oh, it would be marvellous. I’ll see if I can arrange anything and then come over and let you know.’

‘Don’t bring any spaniels with you,’ said Corinna. ‘Penny’s in season.’

‘Oh, goodness! Do be careful with her. I’ll be with you soon.’

Hugh said, as Corinna hung up, ‘How excellent your voice production must be.’

‘I think I’ve got control of it at last. Sir Harry took some of us to an empty theatre one morning and I could make myself heard right to the back of the gallery.’

Hugh wondered why she hadn’t mentioned this triumph before – she often told him of her failures and of scathing comments Sir Harry had made on them. Perhaps she was going to be good. Hugh hoped so with all his heart. He had taken it for granted that she would eventually have to suffer disappointment. Perhaps he had been accepting her own, very humble, opinion of her work.

‘Come and walk through the lilac,’ he said.

‘I keep expecting it to be over.’

‘Oh, it’ll last a couple of weeks yet unless the weather turns very hot – judging by the lilac bush we had in London.’

They strolled around the paths and the little hidden garden until they heard Sarah calling them and went to meet her.

‘I’ve managed it,’ she cried, triumphantly. ‘The poor old darling couldn’t bear me to miss a gorge of asparagus so he’s going to have his lunch specially early. You mustn’t think it’s he who insists on my being there for meals. It’s just that, if I’m not, I know he doesn’t eat properly.’

‘Do you actually have to feed him?’ asked Corinna.

Sarah looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no. But if he’s on his own he doesn’t concentrate. How marvellous your telephone voice is, Corinna. You seemed to be whispering right in my ear. And how ghastly you must think my voice is. I’ve only known how bad it is this last week. The Vicar’s just got a tape-recorder and he let me hear myself on it. I was shattered – I sounded just like my grandmother. I always knew her voice was awful but I’d no idea mine was the same.’

Hugh told her she was exaggerating but Corinna simply said, ‘You could cure yourself, Sarah.’

‘You mean if I trained, the way you have,’ said Sarah, looking wistful.

‘Of course that would be ideal. But I think
I
could teach you.’

They had reached the lawn in front of the cottage, where there was some rustic garden furniture bought at a sale by May and painted white.

‘Sit down and listen,’ said Corinna. ‘We had a Society girl in Sir Harry’s class who spoke just like you do, and he said it was because she clenched her jaw. That does something terrible to your voice and to your enunciation. Sir Harry made this girl speak with her jaw absolutely slack and it made the most enormous difference – only she kept forgetting and then he’d yell at her, “Unclench, girl!” He says lots of Society women speak that way – and it’s very catching; several of us started speaking with our teeth shut as tight as rat traps. Sir Harry was furious and said, if we didn’t stop it and the girl didn’t stop it, she’d have to go. After that, we were perpetually screaming at her – and at ourselves, “Unclench, unclench!” And she suddenly got cured and now has a particularly nice voice. Do you understand, Sarah? Now unclench, and speak with your jaw slack.’

After several false attempts Sarah managed a few words in a soft, breathy voice.

‘Much better,’ said Corinna, ‘except that now you’re hardly speaking at all. Don’t be nervous. Talk at the top of your voice but keep your teeth unclenched. Do you know any poetry by heart?’

‘No,’ said Sarah, in her harshest tone.

‘You’ve clenched again. Well, learn some, and practise it with your jaw absolutely dropped – it doesn’t matter if you look like a village idiot. You work on it, hard, and I’ll hear you next week.’

‘I didn’t know you could be such a bully, Corinna,’ said Hugh. ‘But I do see what she means, Sarah. Your voice does sound different when you unclench.’

‘I shall never remember,’ said Sarah, in her normal voice. She then remembered and repeated the words with a slack jaw and in a deep fruity voice.

‘Sounds like Mrs Siddons asking “But will it wash?” said Corinna. ‘You don’t have to be sepulchral, just natural.’

The conversation continued, with Corinna frequently interjecting ‘Unclench!’ Hugh, impressed, was also a trifle bored. He went off to see Penny.

The door of the room allotted to her was open and she was not inside. Hugh raised the alarm. She was eventually discovered in Fran’s room. They had both been enjoying an afternoon nap.

‘I heard her whimpering,’ said Fran apologetically. ‘Actually, I’ve been having her in my room at night – she gets so lonely. But of course you’ll want her with you, while you’re here.’

Hugh, both jealous and grateful, said, ‘No, that’d make her miss me more when I go on Monday. She’d better stay with you, Fran.’ He added, with the light of battle in his eye, ‘Have there been any dogs around the house yet?’

‘Not yet. She’s nowhere near at her height yet.’

‘When did she start?’

‘Your mother thinks, last Monday.’

Hugh, summoning up his recently acquired knowledge, said, ‘Then I think the dangerous time will begin in the middle of next week. I’ll ask Sarah. And please, Fran, do be very careful. Sarah says it would be terribly bad for her to be mated this first time.’

‘It certainly would,’ said Fran. ‘She’s nowhere near full grown.’

‘I’m afraid she may be,’ said Hugh gloomily.

‘Well, she isn’t. She’s growing all the time. She’s going to make an exquisite dog – aren’t you, my creature?’

Hugh gave his grandmother a grateful smile, then put Penny on the leash and led her out.

Halfway through the lilac grove he could hear Sarah and Corinna talking. Again and again Corinna interrupted that conversation with a dictatorial ‘Unclench!’ Well, the elocution lesson must end now. He reached the cottage lawn and claimed Sarah’s full attention for Penny.

Sarah, after discussion and scrutiny, said she thought Penny’s dangerous period wouldn’t be until the end of the coming week.

‘Oh, good!’ said Hugh. ‘I shall be home again by then and can protect her.’

Sarah grinned. ‘Dogs don’t actually attack the house.’

‘But I’ve read they’ve been known to gnaw their way through wood,’ said Hugh.

‘But not through brick walls. The Dower House is pretty solid.’

‘Unclench,’ said Corinna.

Hugh said, ‘Darling, could Sarah be let off unclenching until we’ve finished talking about Penny?’

Corinna subsided. She was, anyway, finding both the conversation and the uninhibited examination of Penny a little embarrassing. No doubt she was being ‘genteel’ – as Sir Harry
frequently accused her of being. But he hadn’t accused her of it that day in the empty theatre. She had been alone with him there (the ‘some of us’ mentioned to Hugh had been an invention) and highly suspicious of his intentions. His behaviour had, however, been most professional and he had spent much of the time in the gallery, while she remained on the stage. But he had tested her voice production by making her say ‘I love you’ in various ways: gently, desperately, broken-heartedly, passionately, etc. He’d praised her for all these except ‘passionately’ and even then he’d added, ‘Still, imagination did seem to be doing something to help out inexperience.’ Then he’d taken her out to lunch and told her there was just a remote chance that she might be able to act. And he had said nothing whatever about assisting her to a fuller experience of life. Well, of course that was splendid.

She returned from thoughts of Sir Harry to find Hugh and Sarah now discussing the eventual mating of Penny which sounded even more embarrassing than the present arrangements for her non-mating. She said, It’s teatime, in case either of you are interested. Anyway, Penny looks thirsty. And I’d just like to mention that you’re clenching worse than ever, Sarah.’

‘I’ll practise on my own,’ said Sarah. ‘I swear I will. I’ll start as soon as I get home.’

But when she arrived for the Asparagus Feast next day she was still clenching.

May afterwards declared that no meal she had ever provided had been so difficult to cope with as Baggy’s asparagus. Saucepans had to be helped out by a fish kettle, a bread tin and an enamel bowl. Even so, she only cooked three dozen bunches. She felt sure that, if she cooked the lot, much would be left uneaten and Baggy would be disappointed. The feast
must
be a success for him – and she had certainly done her best to make sure it would
be, having given instructions for family enthusiasm with the energy of a cheerleader.

And the meal certainly began well, with the massed asparagus (first instalment) looking magnificent in a mammoth punch bowl. Carrying out Baggy’s wishes May had provided nothing else except melted butter and bread – long French loaves bought in Soho by George. (It was typical of him that he hadn’t in the least minded travelling with them, inadequately wrapped and causing much amusement. Various commuting friends had hankered to duel with them.) And of course George had provided champagne. Baggy had raised no objection to that.

‘Well, now,’ said May, as she finally sat down at the table. ‘This is all very exciting.’