Once a Land Girl (39 page)

Here, in this grand hotel, in the beat of the irresistible music, in the arms of this handsome officer, nothing happened. Nothing, nothing. It was like dancing with a block of wood carved in
imitation of a man, but with no male response. Prue wriggled herself even closer. What was the matter with Gerald Wickham? Was it her fault? Never had she felt such a failure.

He danced well, kept in time, she had to admit that. Sometimes he pushed her away so that she could give an independent turn, wiggle her hips, return to him with a wicked smile, but still she
got nothing more than a brief nod. They returned to their table for minute cutlets, the bones dressed in paper ruffles, like those in Manchester, and small grilled tomatoes. By now a fatal
combination of drink and disappointment had taken hold. Prue felt a recklessness come upon her. She had no intention of asking more about Gerald’s boring golf club or listening to his dreary
answers.

‘Are you planning to get married?’ she began.

‘Not a question I’ve ever asked myself.’ Gerald seemed faintly surprised. ‘And you?’

‘I tried it once. Didn’t work out. I suppose I might be prepared to try again, but it would have to be someone pretty bloody special.’

‘Quite.’ A waiter filled their glasses. Prue put her elbows on the table and supported her head in her hands. Her mother had once given her what she called an invaluable tip: if you
hold your head in a certain way in your hands, your eyes increase their sparkle. If this was the case, it was lost on Gerald. He merely lighted a cigarette, postponing the moment of trying the
cutlet.

‘But my theory about marriage,’ Prue said, trying to control the slight slur of her voice, ‘is probably a little unusual.’ Gerald raised one eyebrow politely. ‘I
reckon that as it’s so difficult to know how things are going to work out, even when you’ve found someone you think you love, you might as well just weigh things up in a cold and
calculated way and take a chance. If there’s enough in common, you just might find that in the end you really do love each other and it all works out . . .’ She was conscious that her
words were skittering, some falling like dominoes. ‘So you could say that, for instance, you and I might make a happily married couple. We seem to get on, even though we don’t know each
other very well. We want the same things . . .’

‘Do we?’ Gerald flicked ash onto his side plate, ignoring the ashtray.

‘Well, I imagine we do. Quiet happy life. Children. All that sort of thing. I think I could get you to like cows.’

Gerald nodded. ‘Possibly,’ he said. Then, looking straight at her, frowning: ‘Is this by any chance a proposal?’

Prue, startled, laughed. ‘I hadn’t really thought about that,’ she lied. ‘It was just a theory – a theory that was meant to show you that, should you and I want to
be man and wife, it could work.’ Gerald stopped frowning but said nothing.

‘To be honest, I think I’m a little drunk.’

‘I think you are. Shall we have another dance? Then, perhaps, ice cream?’

This time, when she stood up, Prue sensed the room was in the grip of a volcano. The floor heaved, the walls caved in, but Gerald supported her. She was grateful for his kindness. She wanted him
to know that although she was a little muddled from the drink her silly proposal had not been meant to sound serious. ‘Usually,’ she whispered, ‘people propose to me. Dozens of
men propose to me. Just for once I wanted to be the proposer . . .’

They waltzed on among the collapsing walls, the staggering dancers, the exploding lights. Then they were back at the table, Prue safe at last in her chair. ‘Just one last question,’
she said, making a supreme effort to control her voice, ‘why did you book separate rooms?’

Gerald turned to her. ‘My dear girl, why do you think?’ His look was one of utmost scorn.

‘I don’t know what to think. That’s why I asked. It seems to me if you drive a girl to London, take her to stay in this place, pay all that money, you must want to sleep with
her.’

‘How very wrong you are. Think about it. We scarcely know each other. Aunt Ivy told me you don’t have much fun, stuck in the country. I liked the idea of giving you a little innocent
amusement. In my book, that doesn’t have to include sex.’ He regarded her, now, pityingly. ‘You go too fast, Prue. You go too fast. You must learn to slow down or you’ll
drive away what might be possibilities of some real thing. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I suppose I do, though I’ve never thought of that before. I’ve always reckoned, fuck first, see what follows.’ She saw Gerald flinch and decided, recklessly, on one last
chance. ‘If you want to change your mind – well, think of me as one of those fast loose girls who enjoy . . . What I’m trying to say is – I’m willing, even at this
last moment.’

‘I know what you’re trying to say, and I’m not willing. I’ll get the bill. Bugger the ice cream.’

Battered by her own foolishness Prue followed Gerald upstairs. She was still unsteady on her feet but now he did not support her. He walked ahead, ignoring her condition. But he did unlock the
door, come into the room with her. Prue turned her back to him.

‘Would you mind?’ she said. This was not a final attempt in her dazed mind: this was practicality.

Gerald slowly unzipped the dress. Prue was about to move when she felt a finger travelling down her spine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to be the first to turn
you down. But it wouldn’t work, you and me, not in a thousand years.’

Prue gave a small, snorting laugh. ‘That’s OK. Honestly. Thanks for a nice evening.’

‘I’ve ordered your breakfast for eight. We’ll leave at nine.’

‘Fine.’

‘Here, I’ll undo the necklace.’ All his brusqueness had left him, now the evening was nearly over. ‘I hope you might still like to come out sometimes. We could go to a
theatre, a film. Talk about cows, if you like. And Dickens. Not about ourselves.’ He lifted her hair, undid her necklace, handed her the pile of glittery stones which were warm in her
hand.

With no plan in mind, but with an invisible movement she tugged at the undone dress. It fell to her waist. She turned to Gerald, breasts bare. He did not look at them, but kissed her lightly on
the cheek. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, and left.

Prue, in bed, laughed at herself: a laugh that turned into a howl, then tears, then more laughter. No sleep at all.

Gerald drove her back to Wiltshire very fast: he had another meeting near Salisbury. He dropped her at the Old Rectory. Prue, not wanting to face Ivy’s enquiring look
immediately, took her own car back to the cottage. Once again, Johnny was waiting for her at the gate. ‘I’ve got news for you,’ he announced, as soon as she was out of the car.
‘I found a gun.’ He held it up, smiling.

Prue, carrying her case, followed him into the kitchen. On the draining board lay two headless pigeons, their mauve feathers faintly luminescent in the morning light, their claws scrunched up
like the hands of aged dowagers. Blood dripped from their necks into the sink, where Johnny had thrown their heads. They had fallen so that they looked at each other in death, beaks almost
touching, eyes half shut.

Prue, sickened, turned to the kitchen table. Beside the remains of Johnny’s breakfast lay two rabbits, their stomachs split wide, the red-brown empty caverns showing.

‘Just got to skin them,’ he said. ‘Rabbit casserole tonight, pigeon tomorrow. No more worry about the shortage of food. Isn’t that good news?’

‘I suppose it is, yes,’ said Prue.

Johnny propped the gun in a corner, turned and looked at her. ‘Not a word,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, not a word about your night. I don’t want to hear. I don’t
ever want to hear.’

‘OK, OK. Fine.’ Prue picked up her case and went upstairs to her room.

‘I
heard from Johnny it all went very well,’ Ivy said to Prue, the next day.

‘I think it did. Though I’m not quite sure what to make of Gerald. I wasn’t certain how to interest him.’ She caught Ivy’s fleeting look, but ignored it. After a
good night’s sleep she was feeling strong, normal. The night at the Savoy was reduced to a distant bad dream. Her worry now was not Gerald but Johnny.

‘I have to say I’ve always thought of my dear nephew as something of a dark horse. I’m not sure what to make of him either. Never have been. Now, let’s have a cup of
coffee. Then perhaps you could run me down to the post office.’

They sat in the sitting room, the tray of coffee things arranged in their usual orderly fashion on the table between them. Ivy asked if the dress had been a success.

‘I loved wearing it,’ said Prue. ‘And again, thank you so much. I’ll never have a dress like that.’

‘Did Gerald notice it?’

‘I expect he did.’

‘Huh. Did he dance well?’

‘Oh, yes. I loved the band.’

There was silence for a while, chipped by the clink of silver spoons against porcelain.

‘Now, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you, Prue.’ Ivy cleared her throat, touched her hair. ‘My will, inheritance matters, if you’ll forgive my
speaking about such things. All very easy, with no children. Everything was decided and signed some time ago, as you can imagine. Everything except the contents of my cupboard room. Somehow I
wanted them to be left unassigned. I wanted to be free to leave them to someone who might come along and appreciate them. I could well be dead by the time Gerald’s married, if he marries, and
who knows if his wife would fancy all that old stuff? But you, Prue, it seemed to me you loved and appreciated it. So strange we’re the same size, and you looked so beautiful in that dress.
You’d look beautiful in all of them. So this is my wish. When I die, you must assure Gerald that my clothes go to you, and I’d like to think you’ll have fun in them.’

‘But you can’t! I mean, you can’t just give them all away. I couldn’t possibly accept – we’ve only known each other for a very short time—’

‘Ah, but I felt we were kindred spirits from the start. You were one of those bonuses, sudden from heaven. Now I can’t imagine you not here, lighting my days, reading my
books.’

Prue’s eyes were cluttered with tears. Ivy’s were dry. Prue tried again to protest at her generosity but Ivy tossed aside her objections with an imperious wave of her hand. Had it
been almost anyone else, Prue thought, she would have hugged them with gratitude and delight. But her employer was not the sort of person who would welcome being hugged, any more than she would
agree to being addressed by her Christian name. These things Prue found strange, but supposed it was a matter of age, and she had grown to appreciate the formality. It gave a polite distance to
proceedings but in no way deterred warmth, merriment, humour or the exchange of ideas.

‘So that’s it,’ said Ivy, putting down her empty cup. ‘Done. Finished. It’s been on my mind for a few days so I’m glad it’s settled. You must promise me
you’ll make sure—’ ‘I promise I will.’

‘Now, off to the post office, shall we? In the car.’

Prue helped Ivy into the low passenger seat of the Sunbeam. Then she revved up the engine, which always brought a squeal of delight, but drove quite slowly through the lanes ablaze with
hedgerows of May green. Ivy kept a silent smile. Prue was conscious of a strange longing to say something about the affection she felt for her. If she had dared, she would have told Ivy that she
loved her in a funny way – a granddaughterly sort of way. But she said nothing, made herself concentrate on the cheerless prospect of looking for somewhere of her own to live, finding a job
and a husband. But for the time being, as Ivy’s ‘companion’, she could not have been happier.

That summer, the pattern of life with Ivy did not change. Prue went to the Old Rectory every day of the week. There were few new tasks, apart from deadheading the roses. After
lunch she would go to the sitting room, or to a chair on the terrace, and continue her way through Dickens. When Ivy came downstairs from her rest, she would urge her not to stop: ‘Take your
chance, take your chance – the rest of your life might be too busy,’ she often said. When they were together she would speak of moments in her own life that revealed to Prue unknown and
unimagined worlds: she spoke so eloquently, with such humour and twists of language that Prue was enchanted. She spent less and less time at the cottage, and saw little of Johnny.

He was happily engaged in making the stable doors: Ivy declared herself very pleased when they were finished and immediately commissioned a new five-bar gate for one of the fields. When he
wasn’t working at his carpentry he was shooting rabbits, pigeons, pheasants. Suddenly fascinated by cooking, he produced suppers made from whatever he had caught, and vegetables from the
garden that he had begun to resuscitate. There was no longer time for writing poetry, he said, but this did not seem to trouble him. Prue judged him happy, more as he had been when she had first
known him. There was no sign of any vodka, or of his drinking.

No word came from Gerald, no suggestion of another night out. But a postcard arrived from Rudolph, now back in America, sent on by Stella. ‘Thank you for your letter,’ he wrote.
‘This is just to give you my home address, should you ever change your mind. My love, Rudolph.’ The picture was of the azalea avenue leading into Savannah. It was one of those cards
that would remain for ever on a shelf, its picture fading as it gathered a bloom of dust – the kind of card that would be taken to a new shelf when there was one. Rudolph seemed a very long
time ago, but she did not throw the card away.

In July there was a heatwave. Ivy said that, despite her many years in hot climates, she could never like great heat. It sapped her energy, she said. Her mornings were spent on
a
chaise-longue
on the terrace, in the shade, reading
The Times
. She wore a straw hat with a ribbon round its crown. When she emerged from under the buddleia tree, which flickered
with butterflies, sunlight pierced the loose weave of the brim, scattering gold freckles on her pale skin. After lunch – in celebration of summer, the shortbread was briefly replaced by
home-grown peaches – she took a much longer siesta in her room, blinds drawn. Prue noticed that she leant more heavily on her cane, but there seemed to be nothing wrong with her beyond
inertia caused by the relentless heat. Prue would make lemonade every day. It seemed to revive Ivy for her daily watch of the light fading from the terrace. She would return to the
chaise-longue
with a jug and a glass, her blue-tinted spectacles and an anthology of poems.