Before and After (11 page)

My
phone rang and I stretched out to answer it, scanning the incoming number as I did so. There’s nothing worse than a call on your mobile late at night from an unidentified source, is there? It was from The Jolly Spree. I spoke briefly for a moment and hung up. Well, it seems that Archie was on his way home
sans
rather a lot of cash, his yacht, and the affections of his son who was committed to crewing for Charles Carlton for six weeks for a pittance and as much Australian totty as he could handle. Although Archie was very kindly, but unbeknownst to him, carrying an envelope for me. The day’s work done, I prepared for slumber, secure in the knowledge that Archie, whom I had given the front door key of The Dolphin to, was about to stumble upon his wife in a
very
(to quote [email protected]) compromising position indeed. I stretched and yawned with a sinuous pleasure. I closed my eyes without a thought in my head other than the tantalising image of the lovely croissants I would be eating for breakfast the following day.

I
woke abruptly. For a moment or two I couldn’t fathom where I was. I spend so many nights away from my own bed that I usually can snap to at a moments notice, but I had been rudely awakened by I knew not what. It was just starting to get light, judging by the pearly opalescence of the curtains screening the windows. I cocked my ears, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary, and then it came again. The noise that had woken me. A baying, keening sort of noise. If I didn’t know better it sounded like a donkey giving birth. It was of course, Archie mourning the loss of his wife. Of course he hadn’t lost her, it’s just that he felt he had. Those emotions can be two very different things, as anyone with a degree of age and experience will be able to tell you.

I
listened again, and the sound came again. What
was
he doing? Howling at the moon perhaps? I shifted in my bed and wished that I had bought some ear plugs. Really, the noise would disturb us all. Had the man no scruples? I was half tempted to go and investigate, but really, it was useless. Let me give you the wisdom of experience here. If a woman is upset, she can be comforted whilst she is crying. If it’s a man. Wait. There, simple isn’t it? And very efficacious. I think it comes down to man’s inability to see the wider picture, they are so relentlessly single minded aren’t they? Whereas a woman, even a vacuous simple minded creature, can step outside herself as it were. Even if she just steps to the point where she can view herself as a heroine in a black and white foreign film, she’ll at least cry in a more becoming manner and eventually calm down. Men are bound with the old stiff upper-lip upbringing and the belief that big boys still don’t really cry. Of course when they finally do, we wish with all our hearts they wouldn’t.

Tomorrow
would be the time for the fine tuning of plans, the wise word, the shoulder to sniff on, the arm of comfort, the understanding look. Tomorrow I could begin the delicate mending of hearts. But not tonight.

I
turned over in my bed and placed a pillow over my ears that muffled the awful sounds a little and eventually I dropped off. Though my dreams were interspersed with images of foaling donkeys.
Not
something I would easily forgive Archie for.

Rule
Number Eleven

“
A
woman
scorned
is
indeed
a
sight
to
behold
.
However
,
this
is
nothing
compared
with
the
misery
of
a
man
spurned
,
or
seemingly
.”

The manners of the British, or perhaps I should say
English
because I really can’t include the wild machinations of the Irish, are sublime. Truly, consider for a while. If you were so unfortunate as to be in a hostage situation, or a hijack, or a ship going down, which nationality would you rather be with? Of course the Americans are frightfully jolly and vociferous but perhaps not
quite
the ticket – and they do tend to panic a lot, don’t they? Of the Mediterranean lot, well, we may applaud their diet, we may aspire to their so called levels of spontaneous affection but I shudder at their ability to behave well under duress. The ability of the English to know how to behave under truly appalling conditions is well known, indeed, envied throughout the world. It may well have something to do with the upper class always having been raised by a succession of nannies (cold baths, not crying, not making a fuss and the firm belief that a
nice
cup of tea is a common cure for everything) which although not universally applauded as the most loving of childhoods, certainly breeds
restraint
.

Archie
Amble at breakfast certainly showed restraint. He and Sylvia were sitting with Bella at a small table in the bow window, anchored to reality with a coffee pot and toast. Candy, resplendent in a pink jumpsuit was dodging around a few other guests who were nursing severe hangovers judging by the amount of tea and orange juice, aspirin and bloody mary’s being ordered when I ventured downstairs.

Bella
jumped up to greet me and insisted I try a croissant. Flaky and warm, direct from the oven they were as good as I’d imagined them to be. As I was eating I watched Sylvia and Archie. Sylvia had slightly red eyes, but a distinctly defiant air to her, whilst Archie, other than a tic in his cheek was quite normal. Or what passed for it, deep within the soul of a British man.

“So,
I understand from Mr Carlton that he’s taken Hal on? How wonderful! What are the plans?” I asked innocently, dipping a triangle of croissant into my tea.

“Oh,
umm, he’s sending for his things, then he sets out on Tuesday,” Sylvia answered for her husband, who was staring gloomily out of the window at a flurry of scavenging seagulls attacking a dropped crust of bread on the pavement.

“Hmm,
I suppose it’s a good thing for him. Well, won’t do him any harm anyway. Six weeks of working his way round the Aegean’s as good as a holiday in my book,” Archie added in a heartily forced tone of voice, his eyes blankly looking ahead. He was bravely going along with the idea that conversation, even under such trying times, must be kept up I noted with approval.

I
glanced at Bella to see how she was taking the idea of her adored brother disappearing for a while. But, thanks to the young’s ability to be sensationally selfish I could see that all she was thinking about was seeing her painter Fiachra in the morning.

“Oh, Carlton asked me to give you this.” Archie reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I thanked him and he said, “What was the investment business then Flora? I didn’t really get round to discussing it with Carlton last night. In fact,” he continued with the air of a man who’s just awakening from a frightening dream and finds himself back in the safety of his bedroom but believes there’s
still
something nasty lurking behind the curtains, “I didn’t really talk about much at all.” He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Lost a lot though. Might as well face up to it, no point in ignoring it. Don’t know what came over me!” He squared his shoulders and raised his coffee cup to his lips. “Sorry.” He added to nobody in particular.

I
willed Sylvia to respond, but she was sitting as usual with her hands in her lap, twisting her wedding band round her finger. Although I did notice despite the red eyes, a very slight tilt to the corners of her mouth.

“Lost
what pa?” Bella asked, her head jerking towards her father in surprise.

I
stepped into the breach.

“I
think what your father is trying to explain is that he lost at backgammon to Mr Carlton. It’s amazing isn’t it how we take on the personality of the town we’re staying in? I mean,” I went on quickly thinking that I might as well get it over with and save myself the boredom of the conversation later on, “I mean as we’re all in Brighton it’s as if the spirit of the Regency has overtaken us. Gambling and losing, gambling and winning it’s all the same I think you’ll find in the end. A sport. Nothing more. A certain
licentiousness
is allowed.”

I
glanced at Sylvia who was looking down at her plate.

“A
gamble or a fling out of the ordinary doesn’t count on location. And just think how revived we’ll all feel tomorrow! Archie has lost some money and a boat he never really cared for, Hal has a fantastic travelling opportunity, and I hope that Sylvia has made a new friend. How wonderful!” I picked my teacup up and sipped. Of course what I wanted to say was far more than that, but it would suffice for the moment. Breakfast time is never the right moment to sing the praises of Aphrodite’s belt where all the charms of passion and seduction are stored robbing the most upright citizen of their reason and judgement. Nor was it the time to mention St Bernadine of Siena, the patron saint of gamblers, the saint that recognised the flush of the heart that thumps at the idea of a spectacular win. Or loss, of course.

“Oh.
I see. Well, you’ve got lots more money haven’t you pa?” Bella asked complacently, greedily mopping up the crumbs from her plate with her thumb.

Archie
was struggling manfully with himself. He’d been fleeced last night, and then he came back to – well, he came back to find his world turned upside down. His wife practically naked and in the arms of that, that
woman
! He doubted that the image would ever leave him. It felt as though it were burnt into his retina. His wife. His
wife
looking like a – well, try as he might the word eluded him. But my god she had looked like he had never seen her look before in his life. That’s what rankled more than the other thing – he’d never been privileged with the sight of his wife positively abandoned, wanton,
thrilled
even. Oh, yes, perhaps in the early days of marriage, but that was tempered with a shyness and rectitude on both of their parts. And as for the money… he sighed. It could have been worse (though
how
it could have been was a mystery, but it was the sort of thing one said to oneself). Perhaps that damned woman Flora was right. Could he look at it like that? A blimp? A glitch in the day-to-day habits of his life? He doubted it. Last night he had been wounded. This morning he was injured. He sighed again, and involuntarily gave a strangled whimper from the back of his throat.

I
glanced sharply at him. Breaking down
now
wasn’t on the cards at all.

I
lay my hand on Archie’s arm and made soothing noises, willing him to meet my eyes.

“Everything
will be alright, you know, Archie,” I said

He
repeated my words dully, looking at me with dawning hope in his face.

Sylvia
caught my eye and gave a grateful little smile. Her shoulders weren’t slumped and her head was held high. The air of defiance which she had casually thrown around her shoulders was still there though it was tempered with a light dusting of acceptance. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was humour – she was like the late princess in that respect –
not
her strongpoint. But she looked as though she had come through a night of unspeakable experiences unscathed. Even, dare I say it? Happy. Well,
happier
. It’s amazing what a difference a few moments of lust can wreak, isn’t it?

“Now
then, I suggest we do what the Regency
bon
ton
did on a breezy Sunday morning,” I said, gathering the reins of power to my shoulders, even though it was going to be a hard pull with Archie.

“What’s
that then Flora?” Bella asked, no doubt hoping for news of a highly indigestible thirty-three course regency luncheon.

“We
will take the air. We will
promenade
. Come on, best foot forward,” I called with a great deal of forced jollity to the table. I marvelled sometimes at my own stamina, but I have always been blessed with a huge amount of energy that isn’t affected by other weaker constitutions.

I
ignored Bella’s groans and Archie’s sighs. I chivvied the Ambles upstairs and went to settle our account with Candy from the wedge of £50 notes stuffed in the envelope from Charles Carlton.

“Ellie
sends her love, but she’s breakfasting in bed this morning,” Candy said in a low voice, bending over a sheet of paper, adding figures up. The tip of her tongue was pushed between her teeth as she concentrated on her addition.

“Quite
wise, too,” I said warmly. “She must be very tired. It was a late night for her.”

Candy
raised her eyes from her paperwork and gave me a slight but perceptible wink, and went back to the bill.

We
left the club and stretched our legs along the prom. White horses glinted out to sea, those charming white waves that catch the sun making you realise that although not too windy on shore it was very choppy indeed on the sea. I pitied Hal for a fleeting moment, the Jolly Spree may well have been fitted with every known bit of machinery and gadgetry known to man, but nothing other than the hand of Neptune stilled the exhausting swell of the sea on a boat. Rather him than me was my final thought on the matter. My sort really doesn’t travel well on the water.

I
urged the Ambles onto the pier and as we sauntered down the long wooden decking towards the funfair at the end. As usual I was aghast at the amount of shell-suited, trainer-clad white trash, as I believe they’re called, that crowded the pier. We attracted quite a few stares, but then, I’m used to that. My wardrobe, my demeanour and my looks have always been noticed. The Ambles gave off an air of moneyed arrogance that is easily picked up on, and that too caused some second glances. Bella pleaded for us all to go on the ghost train, and reluctantly Archie and Sylvia agreed. Bella clambered aboard and gestured for me to go beside her, but I gently ushered Sylvia towards her and then nimbly popped into the two seater enclosed bench beside a disgruntled Archie.

We
watched as Sylvia and Bella jerkingly moved off on the rails in front of us, their cart pushing through double doors that had garishly painted skeletons on them. A very bad audio tape cranked into gear and screams and crashes could be heard following their progress. It sounded like a very bad domestic row. Our own little seat made a juddering movement and soon we were off following them.

“You
know Archie,” I said as we nosed through the doors, “Last night was a revelation to us all in different ways. I really would try to forget it if you can.”

Archie
flinched, though whether it was to do with my words, or the fact that we were hurtling towards a brick wall smothered in fake blood, it was hard to say. Bogus cobwebs brushed over our heads and I obligingly screamed and held Archie’s arm. Come on man, I mentally urged him,
react
. The part of the ride where the cart swung out on railings over the sea, did in fact make me jump, and there was no insincerity in my clutching convulsively at his arm. He responded by squeezing my arm, and I felt that perhaps the shock had been worth it. The cart slowed down and we were crawling upwards past imitation coffins and mannequins dressed as ghouls when Archie suddenly seized my hand and pressed it manfully in his own. I gave a practically
Edwardian
simper and allowed him to continue to hold it for the rest of the ride, till we emerged from the dark into the light when I discreetly disentangled his flesh from mine.

“I
feel like a fool, Flora,” Archie confided as we stepped on to the slatted wooden floor of the pier.

“We
all do, from time to time. No real harm done, everything will be fine,” I repeated, staring into his slightly bloodshot eyes.

“Everything
will be fine,” Archie obediently said, flinching from my gaze but then meeting it manfully.

I
patted him on the shoulder, and gave probably the millionth-heart felt thanks I have made to Count Emmanuel and his book.

I
sped them to the Dolphin Derby, where I won a neon purple furry toy, and then onto the penny arcade. Rushing them through the noisy arcade was a hard task. Neither Bella nor Sylvia had the slightest idea that these sorts of places existed, and they had the look of intrepid explorers on their faces.