Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (31 page)

‘I’ve had the most interesting afternoon,’ said Dimpsie. ‘I went to see the O’Shaunessys. Nan wasn’t there, only Jode and the baby. I took some more things from the shop which he seemed pleased with. I fed the baby and changed him while Jode made tea and he told me how worried he was that Nan takes no interest in the child. Then we chatted about this and that and I just happened to mention I was planning to start a new vegetable garden because the one we’ve got’s in too much shade and nothing does well there. He said the ground near the
caravan is too stony for vegetables so he’s going to dig a new plot here and twice a week he’ll pop over to look after it in return for being able to grow stuff for himself. Isn’t that a great scheme?’

‘Terrific!’ I had no faith in Dimpsie’s vegetable plots, since after the first few weeks everything became hopelessly overgrown and got clubfoot or whatever it is that carrots get. But I was delighted that her enthusiasm for projects had returned. ‘I don’t suppose we’ve got anything for supper?’

‘Oh!’ Dimpsie looked guilty. ‘I meant to go and get something on credit from Armstrong’s but I forgot.’

I toasted the last crusts of bread and we scraped out the marmite and marmalade jars and made cocoa with hot water and some powdered milk which refused to dissolve properly. Siggy had a rusty tin of corned beef which he seemed to relish. I didn’t mind the short commons too much, having eaten a large slice of cake. And besides, I had put on weight since breaking my ankle and I was determined to get properly fit again, even though my dancing career was over.

‘Just think, darling,’ said Dimpsie, ‘when you’ve married Rafe you’ll have Mrs Capstick’s gorgeous food every day.’ She put down her piece of toast and looked at me solemnly. ‘There isn’t a minute that goes by without my thanking God for your marriage. You’ll be so happy. And so shall I, having you always near by. I was
dreading
the loneliness. I can admit that now, can’t I, without sounding like a selfish clinging mother? You and Rafe falling in love has given me the strength to face life again.’

I slept badly that night. When the sky began to pale I decided I would have to tell Mrs Peevis that I could not take the job after all. I dozed off again feeling relieved that a decision had been taken, only to be shaken awake what felt like seconds later by my mother.

‘Rafe’s on the telephone. He must have spent all night thinking about you. Isn’t it romantic!’

I went slowly downstairs.

‘Good morning, darling.’ Rafe sounded in good spirits. ‘You sound sleepy. Have I woken you?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Eight o’clock. Horribly early. But I’ve been going over and over our conversation last night. About you being a waitress at the Singing Swan. And I realized when I had time to think that my attitude must seem to you inexcusably reactionary and snobbish. I can’t bear there to be any disagreement between us. Will you forgive me, darling? I think your determination to support yourself and Dimpsie is admirable. Take the job with my blessing.’

‘Oh! Rafe!’ I felt an overwhelming gratitude. ‘I was dreading telling poor Mrs Peevis. She was so pleased when I said I’d do it.
Thank
you!’

‘You needn’t thank me, darling. You’re the one that’s going to have aching feet. I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep. I just hated to think we were on bad terms.’

‘I’m glad you did. I was unhappy about it too.’

‘What about dinner this evening? We could go to the Castle in Carlisle.’

‘That would be fun.’

‘I love you, Marigold.’

‘Oh, good. I love you, too.’

I heard the telephone trilling in its maidenly way as I let myself in through the front door.

‘Hello, Marigold. I can’t speak for long. I’m in the call box on the corner of Maxwell and I’ve only got three fifty-pee coins. How’s the foot?’

‘Lizzie! It’s fantastic to hear you. A bit stiff still but it’s heaven to have got rid of that bloody old cast.’ I manoeuvred the telephone so I could sit down in my father’s armchair. Siggy jumped on to my knee. Since my father had left, Siggy had been allowed the run of the house and had been marginally better tempered. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘We’ve started rehearsals for
The Prince of the Pagodas
.’

‘Who’s going to dance Belle Rose?’

‘Sebastian’s ex, Sylvia Starkey. She’ll make a complete muff of it, if you ask me. She’s technically competent, but has about as much sweet simplicity as Carabosse.’

Carabosse is the bad fairy in
The Sleeping Beauty
. I tried not to be glad that Lizzie thought Sylvia would be hopeless. This would be the lowest, meanest, vilest kind of dog-in-the manger-ishness since I had no chance of dancing it myself. Nonetheless, I did feel an unpleasant little dart of envy.

‘I honestly think Sebastian’s losing his grip,’ Lizzie continued.
‘The trouble is, the Russian tour’s been cancelled because of some diplomatic row, and both Freddy and Alex are off for at least six weeks with injuries. Have I told you about Mariana? Her knee operation revealed extensive osteoarthritis so her career’s finished.’

‘No! How terrible!’ I was really sorry. ‘She can’t be much more than thirty.’

‘Twenty-nine. Very bad luck, isn’t it? And gossip has it that the man who was going to sponsor
The Prince of the Pagodas
dropped dead with a heart attack before he could sign on the dotted line. Certainly Sebastian’s face is as black as thunder the whole time. I wouldn’t be in Cynthia Kay’s knickers for anything.’

‘Who’s Cynthia Kay?’

‘Oh, haven’t I told you about her? She’s just joined the corps. Quite pretty and as hard as nails. Sebastian’s screwing her but she’s nowhere near good enough yet for any principal roles.’

I remembered what it was like to be in bed with Sebastian and felt sick. In this case envy didn’t come into it. Nothing, not even the offer of star billing with the best company in the world, would have persuaded me to let him lay a finger on me again. I hated myself for having let him treat me with such contempt. ‘Any news of Miko?’

A short pause. ‘I don’t suppose for a minute it’s true, but I heard a rumour that he’s talking to a Russian … Valentina something-or-other … who’s just defected.’

‘Oh.’ I understood that it was all signed and sealed, but Lizzie was trying to break it to me gently. It could not possibly matter to me in my present circumstances, yet I felt a tremor of envy, which I tried at once to quell. ‘What are
you
dancing?’

‘Need you ask? Back row as usual and lucky to be there. I made a dog’s breakfast mess of this morning’s rehearsal.’ Lizzie was exaggerating, of course. She was a pretty good dancer and to the untrained eye her performance would probably have looked ravishing, but we were talking about standards of perfection here. ‘I don’t even want to think about it,’ Lizzie continued. ‘Entertain me with your doings.’

‘Well … last week I started a new job as waitress in the village café. I work from two until six. The customers are mostly polite and nice and leave good tips. Yesterday a man tucked a whole pound under a saucer. Sadly his wife saw him do it and filched it back. A substantial tea chez the Singing Swan was supposed to be one of the perks of the job, but now I know what state the kitchen’s in I can’t face a thing. I have to smuggle in apples to keep up my strength.’

‘That bad?’

‘The chip fat looks like molasses but doesn’t smell as nice. Luckily the chips are always served with a slosh of glue-like gravy, so no one notices what an odd colour they are.’

‘Chips and gravy? How peculiar.’

‘It’s a north-country thing. Mrs Peevis is a lamb but she hates cooking and she’s in pain all the time from her hips. The only thing she enjoys is betting on horses. She has a nephew called Dale who drives into Hexham every morning so she can have her flutter on the gee-gees, as he calls it. She wins small amounts occasionally and that makes her happy. But I know for a fact that she bets ten pounds every day, so no wonder the café isn’t doing well if she’s regularly losing fifty pounds a week. How are you getting on at Maxwell Street?’

‘Okay. Nancy and Sorel had a bawling match one night so Sorel’s moved out and we’ve got a lumberjack in her room.’

‘A lumberjack?’

‘Officially he’s a forester but I don’t know the difference. Sylvia Starkey’s looking for a new pad and Nancy and I thought we couldn’t stand living with her so we didn’t let on to the company and put an advertisement in the evening paper instead and Nils answered it. He’s Swedish. He wanted somewhere to stay in London while he spends time with his girlfriend who’s a chartered accountant in the city. He’s very clean and tidy, awfully good natured and knows nothing whatsoever about dancing. The perfect flatmate. How’re you getting on with Rafe? Is he still being cool and brotherly?’

‘No-o-o …’ I hesitated.

‘You can’t be so mean as not to tell me?’

‘Well, we made love and … I’m going to marry him.’

A scream from the other end of the line. ‘Marigold! You’re joking!’

‘I’m perfectly serious. Evelyn’s giving a drinks party next week to celebrate our engagement.’

‘It’s just that in your letter you said Rafe hadn’t so much as patted your cheek. Was it the sudden release of a torrent of passion that had been dammed up for years?’

‘Not exactly. We just sort of suddenly realized … I have to confess it feels a bit unreal.’

‘How deliciously romantic! Please,
please
ask me to the wedding!’

‘I was hoping you’d be a bridesmaid.’

‘Duckie, of
course
I will! Oh, I’m so excited! A good old-fashioned wedding! How many bridesmaids are you having altogether?’

‘Four little ones plus you and Isobel.’

‘Crikey! It does sound smart! Have you thought yet what our dresses’ll be like?’

‘Evelyn thinks palest blue duchess satin with garlands of green and white flowers.’

There was a brief pause. I imagined Lizzie leaning against the glass wall of the telephone box digesting this. ‘She’s going to be your mother-in-law so naturally she’ll be interested. But you’re not going to let her dictate your own wedding, surely?’

‘Rafe’s parents are paying for the whole thing – your dress, my dress, the flowers, the food, the champagne, every crumb of cake, every grain of rice. My parents haven’t got a bean. Evelyn’s planning the most beautiful, stylish wedding in the history of the world. I understand her. It’s not just to show off or be competitive but because she’s extremely discriminating and a perfectionist. And it
will
be brilliant.’

Another pause. I could picture Lizzie’s frown as she wound
a ringlet round her finger. ‘I can see how difficult it must be for you,’ she said eventually. ‘But surely Evelyn ought to consult you? It isn’t just about money, is it?’

‘She firmly believes she is consulting me. She asks me what I feel about this and that and before I can answer she tells me what I ought to have and why and she’s probably right. She’s got several yards of ivory
pointe de Venise
lace that she bought years ago for Isobel’s wedding dress which she says would be perfect for me. How could I possibly turn it down without being churlish and ungrateful?’

‘I don’t like the sound of that. Not the lace – that’d be fabulous – but how does Isobel feel about it?’

‘I admit I felt my blood drain when Evelyn said it. But apparently Isobel isn’t going to be married in church because Conrad’s a Jew. I’m so stupid that it had honestly never occurred to me.’

‘Oh dear.
Now
I see. It’s one great tangle of emotions – disappointment, compensation, gratitude, obligation – for ever and ever, Amen.’

‘And you’ve got to remember I shall be living under Evelyn’s roof for quite some time. So it won’t do to begin on the wrong foot.’

‘Marigold! It’s a recipe for disaster!’

‘Everything’s complicated by the fact that the Dower House, which is the only other decent-sized house on the estate, has been let on a long lease. All the other houses are farmhouses and not sufficiently grand. Besides, the tenants have been living in them for generations. We couldn’t possibly ask them to go.’

‘Why don’t you buy somewhere not on the estate?’

‘Apparently people like the Prestons don’t buy houses. I gather it’s a rather vulgar thing to do.’ Lizzie giggled and I found myself giggling too. ‘I know it’s silly, but that’s the way they look at things.’

‘Mm. I suppose that wraps it up really. But don’t you feel just a little bit resentful?’

‘I’m so conscious of having nothing to bring to the marriage – no
blood, no acres, no dowry. Evelyn’s being utterly sweet to me, saying that I’m just like a daughter to her and she knows I’ll make Rafe happy and be a good wife. I just hope I will.’

‘You’re not having second thoughts?’

‘No-o.’

‘Marigold?’ This was said sternly. When I didn’t answer Lizzie said, ‘Of course I know what it is. You love the man but you love dancing more.’

I felt a fierce pain just below my ribcage. ‘Oh, Lizzie!’

‘And you feel guilty for being ambitious. You’re accusing yourself of being a cold-hearted bitch and you can’t bring yourself to disappoint Rafe and his parents and your parents. So you’re going to throw all that talent and years of training away to please other people.’

‘Have a heart. What would you do in my shoes?’

‘I’d ask him to wait a while. If he loves you … oh damn, there are the pips … we’re about to be cut off … promise you’ll write and tell me everything …’

‘I will. Goodbye, darling Lizzie, and thank you so much for ringing …’ A burring sound told me I was talking to the ether.

For the past week I had been rising at half-past six and slipping out of the house before breakfast. These days it was light by seven. The air was freezing at this hour; each frond of bracken was rimed with frost and last year’s fallen leaves snapped under my feet like fine porcelain. But trees were greening and birds were nesting. My plan was to run a little further each day. Already my joints felt looser and my muscles stronger. I always took the path that began a few hundred yards from the end of our drive and wound up through woods to the foot of the great rock on which Hindleep was built.

As I jogged to a steady rhythm, Benjamin Britten’s music for the second act of
The Prince of the Pagodas
ran through my mind and I tried to remember the sequence of steps for Belle Rose’s pas de deux with the salamander. By the time I reached the place where the trees grew more closely together and the path disappeared, I was always breathless and dripping with sweat.

It was with a sensation largely of dismay therefore that on this particular morning I came panting into a small clearing where the canopy thinned to admit a faltering ray of sunlight and saw Conrad.

His surprise must have been even greater than mine. He at least was in the grounds of his own house.

‘Hello,’ he said, recovering first. ‘What are you doing here?’

I put my hands on my hips and dropped my head forward to ease my breathing. Half a minute passed before I could speak. ‘I’m trying … to get fit … again. What … about … you?’

‘I was looking for a particular lichen. It is called
teloschistes
flavicans
. Look.’

He pointed to a branch just above his head. I tried to stem with my sleeve the flow of perspiration that poured into my eyes, so I could see the tiny clusters of golden yellow tufts.

‘It’s … very pretty.’

‘I think so.’

‘Are those things in the … house yours, then … the feathers and stones, I mean. I thought they must … belong to Fritz.’

‘Oh? Why did you think that?’

He gave me a look that seemed to appraise. I became conscious of the skimpiness of my leotard, the depressing grey colour of my pink crossover cardigan which I had washed by mistake with my black tights and the drops of sweat hanging from the end of my nose. He was wearing a red scarf tucked inside the coat with the astrakhan collar. His face was pale with cold and his hair and beard looked blacker by contrast. His eyes were like shiny pieces of jet. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I pressed its soft white folds to my face. It smelt faintly of pencil boxes.

‘I don’t know. You seemed too … too … sophisticated.’ I could hardly say too materialistic, though that would have been nearer the truth.

‘You mean spoilt and worldly. You think I must drink only out of gold cups and dine on roast birds of paradise.’

‘Oh no.’ I shook my head and regretted it at once, because my nose began to stream. I was obliged to blow it on his handkerchief.

‘That, if you will forgive me, is a lie. It is generally assumed that those who have money must necessarily be servants of mammon. In fact frequently the opposite is true. Those who
must be frugal and calculate the price of a piece of cheese are often unable to value things except in terms of dollars and shillings.’ I acknowledged the truth of this. I had never had the opportunity to be extravagant, but since living at home my brain had become a calculating machine. I was unable to look at a rotten tomato without comparing its price with that of a blackened banana.

Conrad picked up a pine cone, examined it closely, then put it in his pocket. ‘You have heard of Epicurus, the Greek philosopher?’

‘Um … wasn’t he awfully fussy about what he ate?’

‘That Epicurus was a hedonist is a common misconception. On the contrary he advocated living simply, enjoying modest pleasures in order to find happiness in an imperfect world. He held that a garden, a handful of figs, a pot of cheese and a few friends are all that is needful for contentment. This seems to me intelligent.’

I visualized this charming scene and saw the snags immediately. ‘I don’t expect you do much shopping so you wouldn’t know that figs are fiendishly expensive in England,’ I said apologetically. ‘Also the weather …’

Conrad gave me a sudden sharp look, whether because I had dared to disagree or because of my fruity sniffing I didn’t know. He closed his eyes briefly, as though reordering his thoughts, then said, ‘The hall is finished and the drawing room is halfway. Come and see.’

‘I’d love to but I have to get back. I’m my father’s receptionist. He’s the village doctor and the surgery opens at nine.’

‘Then come afterwards.’

‘I work at the local café in the afternoons.’

‘This evening then?’

‘I’m meeting Rafe.’

My face, which had been cooling, grew hot again in case he thought I was being untruthful and making up excuses. Since our last visit, when Conrad had enlivened the occasion by
jumping from the balcony, Isobel had asked us to Hindleep for drinks, tea and even supper, but Rafe had been determined in his refusal. I put this down to a combination of things; his annoyance at the abduction of his own workmen, the pervasive Bohemian atmosphere, and most potent of all, his disapproval of Conrad as his sister’s lover.

‘I see.’ He did not press the invitation further but stared up at the ragged circle of sky that could be seen between the branches. ‘What do you consider should be the springs for one’s actions?’ he asked, still looking up. ‘What principles should operate in the process of decision-making?’

I hopped from one foot to the other. The sweat was growing cold on my body and the chilly air was making its temperature felt. ‘Um … I don’t know really.’

‘You have some notion of the difference between right and wrong, I suppose?’

‘Yes, but sometimes one chooses to do wrong all the same.’

‘And why?’

I thought hard. ‘Because it’s easier. Because there’s something you want so badly that you’re prepared to lie and cheat and steal to get it.’

‘So you are saying that one
ought
to be impelled by honesty. By truthfulness.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But you yourself do not always consult the truth?’

‘I’m not the only one.’ I began to feel indignant. ‘Everyone fudges the truth.’

‘Does that make it all right?’

‘No. It makes it human.’

‘Is it reasonable to disregard ethics when they are inconvenient?’

‘No! I’m sure it’s a mistake to pursue something whatever the cost to one’s conscience.’

‘Truth, then, must be our guide. We should aim in all situations always to stick to the truth and nothing but the truth as we may perceive it.’
‘Certainly. That is … unless the truth might hurt someone else.’

‘Ah.’ He brought his gaze down from the treetops to look at me with that characteristic gaze that seemed to see into the smallest crevices of my mind but told me nothing of what he was thinking. ‘You lie out of consideration then.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘Tell me, Miss Marigold Savage, do you prefer that others deceive you out of the kindness of their hearts?’

‘Well, I shouldn’t like it if people blurted out horrible things about the shape of my nose or the rottenness of my jokes. But if it was something important, naturally I’d want them to be honest with me.’

For a while we continued to look at each other until I was forced to do more mopping and blowing. The dripping of my pores and nose placed me at a disadvantage during this catechism, as I felt it to be. Conrad’s tone was neutral, but I felt there was something more behind his questioning than a mild desire for a little early morning philosophical argument.

He smiled suddenly. ‘I saw a mountain hare this morning.’ His eyes were softer now and a degree of friendliness permeated the biting air. Sudden changes of mood seemed to be characteristic. I was tempted to ask him about our meeting on the train, but on second thoughts decided this entente cordiale was too new and fragile to risk.

‘Are they different from ordinary ones?’

‘They have shorter ears and tails. But the chief difference is the whiteness of their coats in winter. Beautiful things.’

‘I should like to see one.’

‘Do you like flowers? Of course,’ he added, not giving me a chance to reply. ‘All women do.’ He pushed up his sleeves and spread his fingers to show they were empty, brushed one hand over the other and held out a tiny posy.

I took them. The petals and leaves were wet with crystals of melting ice. ‘Thank you. They’re lovely.’

‘You are familiar with the sweet violet, the primrose and the anemone. But you may not know this little white one. I have looked it up and its common name is spring snowflake. That is charming, is it not? Now you had better run off for that appointment with your father.’

My dignity had already been so compromised that I made no objection to being dismissed like a bad child. I tucked his handkerchief into my sleeve and turned to run back down the hill.

‘Come another time earlier,’ he called after me, ‘and you may see the hare.’

‘How pretty.’ Dimpsie picked up the vase in which I had arranged the small posy and held it to her nose. ‘Mmm. Delicious scent.’

We were enjoying fried mushrooms and tomatoes, the fruits of my labours at the Singing Swan.

‘Conrad gave them to me.’

‘Really? When?’

‘About three-quarters of an hour ago. I happened to meet him in the woods.’

‘How romantic! But as you’re both engaged to someone else, of course it wasn’t,’ she added quickly.

‘No. Actually, I rather think they were in the nature of a lesson.’

‘A lesson. What about?’

‘Oh – about roast birds of paradise.’

But when Dimpsie pressed me to explain, I said I had to rush or I’d be late.