Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (14 page)

‘I showed Dimpsie the painting you gave me. She thought it was terrifically accomplished. She used to paint, too. She spent two years at the Slade, you know.’

‘I didn’t know. Or if I did I’d forgotten.’

‘She actually won a scholarship and had dreams of going to Paris and throwing herself at Picasso’s feet, but getting pregnant
with Kate put paid to that. It’s a shame she’s ended up surrounded by corn dollies, knitted tea cosies, pressed flower cards and mirrors decorated with barbola work.’

‘What’s barbola work?’

‘I don’t know but Dimpsie says it’s hideous. She only takes it not to upset the woman who does it. Is there anything sadder than talent wasted?’

‘Perhaps not having any, like me.’ He didn’t sound sad but, on the contrary, amused. I definitely had the feeling he was secretly laughing at me, but I didn’t mind. I was glad I could cheer him up. ‘Look, there it is. The pele tower.’

Fortunately for my leg, the square tower of rugged stone with a crenellated parapet and arrow-slits for windows was only a stone’s throw from the road.

‘It looks so ancient. When was it built?’

‘Most pele towers were put up in the sixteenth century, though the Scots and the English went on fighting long after the Union. Killing and cattle-thieving was part of their culture. They enjoyed it too much to give it up.’

‘I can’t think why men like fighting so much.’

‘It’s an overrated pastime,’ he agreed dryly.

I felt I had wandered into forbidden territory and was glad of the distraction created by the difficulty of getting me out of the car. The path to the tower inclined steeply with an unbroken covering of snow, so I needed all my breath to get there safely. Buster was thrilled to be allowed to run about and had to be discouraged from barking at every bird, gorse bush and stone, and from darting between my legs. Rafe told him off severely. Buster looked abashed for several seconds before launching himself at my shoulder bag, which was swinging from my neck in an enticing manner.

The pele tower was fairly dark inside. I was disappointed to find that the room contained nothing but a pile of logs, but Rafe stood rapt, as though he saw ghosts laughing, quarrelling, calling for food and weapons in preparation for a raid, kissing
women and children goodbye in the knowledge that they might not meet again in this world. He turned slowly, as though wishing to take in every detail, though the walls were bare of decoration, the floor was trampled mud and, apart from something that looked like a coffin in one corner and a flight of rough stone steps in another, there was nothing to see. I waited patiently, only moving when I felt my crutches sink into the mud.

He came to my rescue in time to prevent me toppling over. ‘Come here where it’s a bit dryer. See that water trough?’ He pointed to the coffin. ‘They used to bring the horses and cattle in here to keep them safe from the Scots. And look at these grooves in the buttress. That’s where they used to sharpen their swords.’

I put my fingers into the indentations, imagining the sound of the blade being whetted on the stone and savage minds filled with bloodlust. But there must have been passages of love in this grim building, too. Or perhaps only lechery and child-begetting.

‘It’s a pity you can’t get upstairs,’ said Rafe. ‘Someone repaired the floorboards in the nineteenth century and put glass in the windows, but the fireplace is original. There’s some carving, flowers and birds – crude but strangely touching. A little poetry amid the blood-letting. Would you mind if I went up just for a moment?’

‘Of course not. I’m quite happy.’

Rafe ran up the steps, Buster following, and disappeared into the room above. Rafe’s interest in history was another virtue. Not only athletic and manly, but intellectual and artistic as well. I heard his feet on the floorboards as he paced back and forth for what felt like several minutes.

‘You’re shivering,’ he said when he came down. ‘I’ve been selfish keeping you standing here.’

He tugged my crutches from the mud and we went out into the light.

‘Hang on a minute. I’ve got caught on a bramble.’ I tried to
unhook myself from the thorny stem that twisted round the door.

‘It’s a white rose.’ Rafe bent down to release the hem of Bobbie’s beautiful coat. ‘It flowers all summer long and smells of almonds—’

He was interrupted by an explosion that sent all the birds flapping into the sky. I screamed and Rafe threw himself to the ground. I would have done the same had I been able to. Someone had fired a shot at us. On the hill opposite I saw the tiny figure of a ragged-looking man, like a pencil scribble on white paper. The brilliance of the snow made my eyes run. When I blinked away the tears he had disappeared.

‘Are you hurt?’ I leaned precariously over Rafe’s prostrate body. ‘Oh God – say something,
please!
’

Rafe was lying face down with his hands clasped over his head. ‘I’m … all … right.’ He disengaged his fingers, rolled himself over on to his back and sat up. ‘All right, good boy. That’ll do.’ Buster stopped barking and tried to lick his face.

‘That was a gun, wasn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Are you
sure
you’re not hurt?’

Rafe dropped his head on to his knees. I always had difficulty with trembling legs and cramping feet before a performance, but Rafe’s entire body was shaking. He tried to make his hands into fists but tensing them seemed to make it worse.

I had always considered him so much older, stronger and wiser that the idea that I might be able to comfort him seemed presumptuous. But sympathy overruled caution. I let my crutches fall and dropped down beside him. Tentatively I put my arms around him.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, not certain what I meant. ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’

After a while the shuddering began to subside and he raised his head. ‘Sorry. It’s just a physical response … I can’t … I can’t—’

‘I know. I know about the tank.’

He sighed and lifted up his arm to put it round my shoulder. We sat for another minute leaning our bodies against each other, not saying anything. Buster managed to insinuate his head between us, looking up into his master’s face with perplexed eyes. The melting snow seeped through my skirt and tights into my knickers. It was agonizingly cold but I endured it willingly.

Then Rafe turned to look at me. ‘I ought to have thought of you. But I’m afraid I was in a blue funk.’

I shook my head and smiled. I could see lots of different shades of blue in the irises of his eyes, like the stripey bits in glass paperweights. ‘I thought of me first, too. It was all over too quickly for bravery to come into it. But why did he shoot at us?
If
he did. It might have been a mistake.’

‘I’m sure it was. Probably a poacher trying to hit a rabbit. You’re shivering again. Just a minute.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll come behind you. It won’t be dignified,’ he tucked his hands into my armpits, ‘but it’ll be less likely to hurt your leg.’ He lifted me up easily. ‘What a featherweight you are.’

‘I’m not as light as I was. Specially after that lovely lunch.’

He gave me the crutches. ‘Let’s get you back to the car.’

By the time I was safely installed, Rafe’s hands were more or less steady. As we drove back to Shottestone Manor I felt the light-headedness which, with me anyway, always follows extreme emotion, like the brief freedom from anxiety that follows a performance before you begin to worry about how well you’ve danced.

I did most of the talking. Rafe asked me about Diaghilev and the influence of Russian ballet. I practically gave him a lecture on the subject. I was eager to erase the incident at the pele tower from both our minds.

‘Oh, look!’ I interrupted myself in the middle of telling him about Nijinsky who had put Pavlova’s nose seriously out of joint. I pointed to a house built on a crag high above the valley. It was taller than it was wide and had several round turrets
with extinguisher caps. ‘It’s Sleeping Beauty’s castle! That’s what Dimpsie, Kate and I called it, anyway. We went there for a picnic once. It was such a romantic place! But it wasn’t visible from the road in those days.’

‘Some of the larger trees halfway down the valley were blown down in a bad storm a few years ago. They were all planted by the chap who built the house in the 1860s, so they were all getting a bit ancient. I’ve forgotten his name. An eccentric poet. A recluse. It’s called Hindleep, after the hill it stands on, because long ago it was colonized by deer.’

‘It had the most wonderful atmosphere, I remember, even though it poured with rain and Kate fell into some stinging nettles and I cut my hand on a piece of broken glass. I’ve still got the scar.’ I glanced down at my wrist bone on which a jagged line was just traceable. ‘Though it was ruined, it still seemed alive, like a haughty old woman with a magnificent past. Look how the clouds seem to be hanging on the pinnacles. You can just imagine a king and queen with tarnished crowns slumbering on thrones thick with dust and cooks asleep with their heads on the kitchen table beside bowls of dried-up cake batter and rotten candied cherries. And a princess lying on a bed veiled with cobwebs.’

‘You make it sound romantic. I must admit that until now I’ve always thought of it as a Victorian monstrosity.’ Rafe spoke with the contempt of one born and bred in an acknowledged Jacobean masterpiece. ‘I believe it’s completely derelict now. The parish council asked for tenders from salvage firms to have it pulled down or blown up, but it was much too expensive.’

‘I’m glad!’

Rafe laughed. ‘I don’t think you’ll find it has much atmosphere these days. They had to put up a lot of fences and barbed wire to stop people getting in. A few years ago someone killed themselves by jumping off the bridge that leads to the house. It’s a sheer drop of several hundred feet.’

‘I remember.’

‘Come to think of it, that’s how the poet died, isn’t it? The original owner, I mean. The poor chap threw himself off because his poems weren’t selling.’

‘I never knew that.’

As we drove back to Shottestone I pictured the old house sleeping on through storms and sunshine, high on its frowning cliff. I imagined it hedged about by wire and fences, through which brambles and weeds and trees would have grown, as in the story. Because of the rain, Dimpsie, Kate and I had picnicked in the room that had huge windows on one side looking down on the lake. We had laid out our picnic on the only piece of furniture left, a long table with faces carved on the legs. Dimpsie had put cobwebs on my cut wrist, which was an old remedy for wounds. My father had been annoyed because a lot of dirt had got in with the cobwebs, but it had healed without any problems.

‘Here we are.’ Rafe turned off the engine. ‘I expect there’ll be tea in the morning room.’

‘Thank you so much for a wonderful—’ I started to say.

‘Marigold.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘You’re remarkably kind and decent and generous. You mustn’t let us Prestons take advantage of you.’

‘What do you mean? It seems to me the boot’s on the other foot. You’ve given me so much hospitality and I can’t repay it. I’ve always loved coming to Shottestone.’

‘Have you? That’s good.’ He got out and came round to help me out.

‘Hello, you two!’ Isobel came running down the stairs into the hall. ‘You’ve been ages.’ She kissed me. ‘What do you think?’ She twirled round to display the dress she was wearing. It was sleeveless, of a soft heathery-blue crêpe de Chine with a wide chiffon collar in the same shade. ‘It’s the best Newcastle can do. Do you like it?’

‘I’m not sure about the colour,’ said Rafe. ‘It makes you look a little washed out.’

‘I think it’s beautiful,’ I said truthfully.

‘Oh, men never know anything,’ said Isobel. ‘I’ll bring down all the stuff I’ve bought to show you, Marigold. But you,’ she tugged at Rafe’s collar, ‘must listen and learn.’

‘Thank you, Isobel darling, for including me in this important symposium, but I should only be in the way. Anyway, I’ve got a bit of a head.’

She looked at him properly for the first time. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

To me Rafe looked wholly restored to his calm, quizzical self but she, of course, knew him much better.

‘Nothing. Don’t worry. I’m going up to my room for a while. I don’t want any tea.’ He walked off without another word, taking the stairs two at a time with Buster galloping at his heels.

Isobel’s anxious eyes followed him. ‘What’s happened to upset him?’ she asked me as soon as he was out of earshot.

‘We went to look at a pele tower.’

‘The one at Waterbury?’

‘Yes. When we came out someone took a shot at us. Oh, by mistake,’ I added, seeing Isobel’s expression of dismay. ‘I’m certain it was an accident and probably the bullet didn’t come anywhere near, but it sounded very loud because everywhere was so peaceful. I nearly hopped out of my skin. Rafe thinks it was just a poacher …’

Isobel had turned away and was already running up the stairs after her brother. I was not offended. Isobel was the person most able to comfort him. I went in to the morning room.

‘Marigold! How lovely!’ Evelyn had been sitting on the sofa in front of a good fire, with her eyes closed. If she had been asleep she sprang awake remarkably quickly. She took away my crutches and helped me out of my coat. Balfour and Gladstone, the latest in a long line of Preston spaniels named after British prime ministers, came over to be petted, then returned to the hearth. ‘Darling, you must be cold. Come and sit next to me. Have a sandwich. Mrs Capstick has her shortcomings but her sandwiches are second to none. Just like everything else, there’s
a right way and a wrong way. You must have very thin bread, soft cheese not butter, and lots of cucumber with a scrap of tarragon vinegar, salt and pepper. How do you like your tea? No milk and no sugar, isn’t that right? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to put that leg of yours up on the stool?’

It felt pleasantly familiar to have Evelyn fussing over me. I had never resented it as Isobel did, probably because she was not my mother. Also she was right, as usual. My leg had begun to ache as it always did by this time of day and it was much more comfortable in a horizontal position. And the sandwiches were delicious. I complimented her on the tea’s refreshing smoky flavour.

‘It’s lapsang souchong. I have it sent from London. Now where did Rafe take you? He tried to be mysterious about it but of course I knew at once when he said he was taking a friend out to lunch that it had to be you.’

‘Did you? How?’

‘I knew it must be a girl because he polished his shoes and put on a clean shirt. And it wasn’t Bunty because I’d just spoken to her on the telephone less than an hour before and she would have told me. Poor darling, he’s been away so much he doesn’t know any other girls round here. And we all know how susceptible Rafe is to pretty, intelligent young women. Which is just as it should be before a man settles down.’ She put her soft hand with its manicured nails over my collection of bitten ones and leaned a little towards me.

When Evelyn put on a particular face, lowering her chin and looking up into one’s eyes with unblinking concentration, it meant she was telling one something for one’s own good. Or sometimes hers. Her eyes, despite the tiny lines that had appeared beneath them and a slight sparsity of lashes, were still brilliantly blue, like Rafe’s, with the same dark ring round the rim of the iris. Her skin was perfectly made up, very pale in contrast to the dark red mouth.

So what was she actually saying? That Rafe had a reputation
as a Lothario? I remembered Bunty from the dinner party. Sweet-natured but plain might sum her up if one were disposed to be uncharitable. Which I suddenly found I was. Evelyn wanted me to know that Rafe and Bunty were in the habit of lunching together. Wasn’t it rather odd then, that as far as I could remember he had not addressed more than half a dozen words to her during the whole of that evening?

Evelyn continued to look up at me. ‘I’m delighted that Rafe and Bunty have so much in common,’ she said. ‘Horses, shooting, fishing, all that sort of thing. She’s a nice girl and it’s obvious she simply adores him.’

Now I began to catch Evelyn’s drift. I was being warned off.

‘Of course you and I rather despise those things as philistine.’ Evelyn smiled conspiratorially. ‘You’re a great artist, Marigold. I’m very proud of you. And I, in my own small way, with my garden and …’ her eyes roved round the room before they fell on the cushion that had remained in her work basket in a half-completed state for several years until my mother finished it for her ‘… my petit-point, have artistic leanings. But Rafe will inherit this house and the estate and he needs a wife who can share his interests and entertain his sporting friends.’ Evelyn seemed to have conveniently forgotten that her own lack of proficiency with fishing rod and fowling piece had not disqualified her from being a suitable chatelaine of Shottestone. ‘Not that I imagine he’s in love with her. But proximity will do great things. Friendship can develop into something closer. Of course Bunty is not a beauty, but gradually a man finds that the face that expresses sweetness and affection may be quite as charming as ravishing eyes and a pretty nose.’ Evelyn gave my hand a little stroke. ‘Love isn’t always a hot-blooded thing, darling, is it? Sometimes the best relationships have their roots in mutual respect and companionship.’

The high-minded tone of Evelyn’s conversation – reminiscent of our school chaplain’s sermons – was new to me. But when she wanted something she was prepared to use whatever tools
lay to hand. Kindly but firmly, she wished me to understand that, though she approved of me as a person, the local doctor’s daughter was not good enough for her only son.

I owed Evelyn much. I was sure that, had she not used her considerable powers of persuasion – even going to the lengths of a cosy little supper à deux – my father would not have agreed to pay for me to go to Brackenbury House. But fond of her and grateful though I was, I immediately determined to consider only Rafe’s interest – and, of course, my own.

I decided to find out a little more. ‘I did like Bunty so much.’

‘Yes, such a reliable, level-headed girl. Never missish or winsome which is so irritating.’ That told me that Evelyn thought Bunty unfeminine. ‘And a fearless rider to hounds, apparently. The only child of dear friends of mine. John and Caroline Lumbe of Lumbe Hall. Such a pity! Two thousand acres and no sons to inherit.’

I imagined Rafe and Bunty cantering across the moors, her splendid horsemanship earning his unbounded admiration. I saw them dismounting at the pele tower, Rafe fastening the reins of both horses to the stout stems of the white rose … plucking a flower and presenting it to her … Bunty tossing back her hair (in my fantasy it was long enough to be wind-tousled). I imagined him picking her up and carrying her inside … the stairs were a slight difficulty being steep, and Bunty being on the brawny side, but in this fantasy he had the strength of ten. Upstairs was a bed left by the Borderers, a little mildewed but miraculously sound … I imagined him throwing her roughly on to it … ripping her shirt from her shoulders … No, it was hopeless. Bunty was as wholesome and as exciting as rice pudding and just not the sort of girl men lusted after. He might lust after the two thousand acres, though.