Wish Her Safe at Home (23 page)

She probably thought I was being flippant. However, if she really thought this, was there any point in my affirming it was just my style?

“By the way, you’ll have seen I wrote my address on the cheque. So please come to visit. We’ll continue with our merry little chat and by no means neglect—now, what does Billy Graham call it?—that all-important follow-up! I think what he really meant was...
tea and sympathy. Or in our case
sherry
and sympathy: because this time we’ll do our very best to make it stimulating! Yes?”

* * *

On my way home I was reminded of something. By Doreen’s words, not Mrs. Pond’s.

Roger had never thanked me for those two pounds. It was most
odd
when you came to think of it. It wasn’t so much that one wanted to be thanked, but—

Yes, it was.

And he had never even mentioned them.

I didn’t like it when a person became careless over things; even quite trivial things.

He said everything I’d ever wanted to hear.
I
said the things which I had always wanted to say. It was bliss; it was sheer enchantment. I was twenty-five and beautiful and I moved through every day and night in a kind of dream, a dream of heaven which I took to be reality. I was happier than I would ever have supposed to be possible...
as if we were living now in Eden long before the Fall. Yes, he was Adam and I was Eve and though we weren’t in the least ashamed of our nakedness I at length covered mine with my white dress to signify the purity that had always been his—that had always been awaiting him. And I wafted through my days and through my nights in a dream of heaven which was here on planet earth. And I looked radiant in that white dress: my mirror told me so but more especially did his eyes as he stepped towards me and held me close and together we waltzed across the gleaming ballroom floor, with chandeliers glittering beneath my dainty feet and all the other dancers stepping back to clear an avenue in whispered admiration—“Who is she? Isn’t she lovely?”—an avenue that led on to further enchantment amongst shimmering rock pools and coloured lights and down narrow winding paths all tucked away from view. And I
was
radiant. I was a princess—with my lovely black ringlets and my rosebud mouth, with my cheeks bearing the bloom of rouge and happiness, with my feet enwrapped in those scarlet satin slippers which would make me dance forever. (But that was a story which had ended tragically; this one was going to be so very different. I
know
—let me change the red to pink!) And yes it was all a fairy tale: the great four-poster in the magic glade to which we ran laughing in our wedding clothes—he had acquired his somewhere on the way. I shan’t describe what happened in that bed any more than I’ve described what happened in my own; but oh the feel of him, the feel of him, the feel of him. Bursting stars against a backdrop of black velvet.

The bed was like Elijah’s chariot (no—on second thoughts maybe not—
poor
Elijah!) or like some mythical Arabian carpet. It bore us smoothly to exotic climes while all the time the orchestra was playing, dreamily romantic, far below: we could just make out—still—the glittering barge on which it played, moored on an ornamental lake strung across with Chinese lanterns.

And I sang to him as we floated.

“Oh, fuck me once and fuck me twice and fuck me once again; it’s been a long, long time...
”

Then I giggled.

No,
that
couldn’t be right! Surely?

Well, why ever not? As he willingly turned over and took me in his arms again and prepared to carry out all my commands (while the moonlight played such naughty tricks: that sexy fleece upon his chest looked spun from purest gold!) he was finally able to demonstrate how much he’d learned from Bing.

“Rachel—you—are—quite—a—girl!”

And I returned the compliment.

We were off on a honeymoon that was going to last through centuries.

It was Celia who eventually turned up. She told me that she liked my dress; yet I could see she had her reservations. (I had of course removed the train—and just as obviously I wasn’t wearing the veil!) I saw things far more clearly now: I saw them through
his
eyes as much as through my own.

“Celia, why has it taken you so long? I wrote to you eight days ago.”

“Yes, we noticed. I’m afraid the letter was delayed.”

“Is Roger on his way?”

“No, he can’t come. Exams looming. But he sends you all his love.”

“Oh, yes—the poor soul! Yet I’m sure that he’ll do well. If ever a man was born to carry all before him, that man was Roger Allsop. How’s Tommy?”

“Spending the day with my mother. Oh—he too sends lots of kisses.”

But she was again speaking absentmindedly. And she kept on glancing at me when she thought I wasn’t looking—she would never meet my eye for longer than a second. I had quickly realized why. She felt scared to witness such certainty, such calm...
such evidence of attainment. For all that’s said about it people still aren’t comfortable in the face of liberation. They feel threatened. They affect a cynicism. Only cynicism can conceal, to some extent, the size of their own failure.

“What did you want to tell us?” she said.

I came directly to the point.

“Well, about your all living here, Celia...
I’ve had to change my mind.”

I thought she turned a little pale. I went on.

“I can see now that it wouldn’t work. Yet I didn’t want to put that in a letter. It might have seemed perfunctory.”

“But we gave notice to the agent—oh, days ago, straight after your party!—and the new tenants have already signed a contract!”

“Oh dear. What a shame.”

“We thought it all so settled.”

“Yet if only you had come to see me sooner! I can’t apologize enough.”

She didn’t look appeased. I tried to introduce a calmer, more congenial note.

“But naturally it makes no difference to Thomas’s inheriting the house.”

“Well, at least that’s something!” she said. “Are you sure?”

She was disappointed, clearly; I had to make allowances. “Yes, of course I am.”

“Mark said you hadn’t yet been in to sign the papers.” Her tone was almost lifeless.

“Well, I can’t begin to tell you, Celia, how extraordinarily busy I’ve been!”

She didn’t reply to this. When she spoke again there was still that taste of coolness in her voice; before today I simply hadn’t encountered it.

“Why don’t you think that it would work?”

“Because I’m in love and—well, it was silly of me, I was all mixed up, I’d taken too much wine. I
ought
to have seen. We’re going to need our privacy.”

She disregarded all the rest. “You’re in love?” she said. I might have told her I was Willie Shakespeare in disguise.

She even felt a need to repeat it—“You’re in
love
?”

“Yes! Head over heels!”

“Oh.”

“Yes
oh
indeed. Oh, oh, oh! Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars!”

“We didn’t even know that you had met anyone.”

“Oh, what nonsense! Most certainly you did!”

She simply shook her head.

“You can scarcely have forgotten,” I said. “Why, you were even introduced!”

She looked at me as though I might be suffering from delusions; but then mercifully she must have realized it was her own memory which lay at fault not mine. In addition to being disappointed she was plainly very tired. A dangerous combination—as I knew only too well from remembering my own disappointments in London.

“Are you meaning to live with him?” she asked dully. “Is he going to move in?”

“What need? He was here long before I was. Long, long before I was. Except in a way, of course, he wasn’t. But up until now he hasn’t said too much about that side of it and I haven’t liked to push. You see, it’s all immensely complicated. I’d rather let him reveal things in his own good time; or perhaps I’d better say—at his own good pace! I mustn’t risk giving him a stammer, you understand, or making him feel in any way an oddity.”

She still seemed uncertain how to respond. I held up my hand to show her the lovely little band of gold he’d given me. (I noticed, impatiently, that the varnish was chipping off a couple of my nails. There and then I made a vow: on no account must happiness be allowed to turn me slipshod! When had I last washed? Life was so full of incident these days now that I had a man about the house. And not just any ordinary man either; rather one who had most likely had to be celibate for well-nigh two centuries. Oh, he was such a devil! No rest for the wicked! And anyway—let’s be honest about this—sometimes for one reason or another a person simply can’t be fagged to wash. I think that’s true?)

“True?” I asked.

“What?”

I didn’t want to start regarding her as unintelligent. Therefore having shown her the ring I stood up and pirouetted for her—as I so often did for my husband. “And this of course was my wedding dress—though plainly doctored now to some degree.” I gave her my usual tinkling laugh. “I can hardly bear to take it off.”

“So you’re...
married already?” This also seemed extremely lame.

“Oh my! I would have to blush a great deal if I weren’t!”

Dimplingly I covered my face and feigned sweet girlish modesty. She looked towards the door.

I asked: “But aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

Though even then she hesitated. “Congratulations, Rachel.”

“
Heartiest
congratulations, I hope.”

She nodded.

“You may kiss me if you like.” Yet I don’t know why I said that. I really didn’t care whether she kissed me or not.

But she did. And it was a woefully lacklustre performance. Was Roger making typically thoughtless demands on her, stopping her from getting her beauty sleep, forgetting she had a mother’s duties to perform as well as a wife’s?

“You know, it’s suddenly occurred to me, Celia. I don’t believe you look at him—not any longer—in quite that same old way. Do you remember? In the garden...
when we were sitting on my wrought-iron bench? Well, never mind: with you two it was always just a question of time, wasn’t it? I knew that from the start. Now, my dear, which would you prefer: tea or coffee?”

She declined them both however. “I only meant to stay five minutes.” But she didn’t look as though she’d ever find the wherewithal to get up from her chair. “So, Rachel, this man...
why have you never mentioned him?”

“But I
have
! How can you possibly utter such a falsehood?”

Oh, Lord, that sounded harsh; I instantly regretted it. Especially since she looked so completely unsure of herself and of the world around her—it was a little touching, unexpectedly pathetic. Whatever they might lack materially at least she and her husband had always seemed to possess confidence.

“Celia, you
must
forgive me! I realize it wasn’t a falsehood, merely a misunderstanding. And in my simple unworldliness, you know, I’d thought the whole thing would work out so very nicely. It was he who made me see it wouldn’t.”

“He?”

“Yes, dear. Horatio.”

She still looked dazed. It must sometimes be such an awful strain, I thought, having to live up to Roger.

“Perhaps you’d like to say good morning to him? I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

It was almost a whisper. “Is he here now?”

“Good gracious, no. Do you think that we’d ignore him if he were? The wicked man is still just loafing in his bed—
our
bed, I should say. But all the same he can definitely hear you because he
is
here in a manner of speaking; and all you have to say is, ‘Good morning, Horatio, isn’t it a lovely day!’ or something of that sort. He won’t mind you calling him Horatio. He’s already very used to the free-and-easy manners of our present age!”

She said: “Good morning, Horatio. Isn’t it a lovely day?” She didn’t sound at all well.

“Poor Celia. It
has
been something of a shock, hasn’t it? I can see that. But have no fears about the rest of it: I give you my word that this afternoon I’ll go straight round and sign those papers. And listen, dear—surely you don’t have to get back immediately? Can’t you just say bollocks to your lord and master? There’s a little coffee place across the road where I can buy you a cup of hot sweet tea and a bun and we’ll continue with our pleasant little talk. Wouldn’t you like that? Then spare me half a second; I’ll fetch my parasol and hat.”

“Your hat?” She must have gathered from my tone that it was something rather special.

“Yes, it’s new. Just wait until you see it!”

But obviously she must have felt she couldn’t. I was away for literally three minutes—I hadn’t even put it on—yet when I got back she had let herself out of the house. I looked up and down the street but she’d already gone.

People were sometimes so peculiar.

It was a pity, I thought. Oh, not for the sake of the tea or the conversation—entirely immaterial!—but she was evidently upset and the sight of my latest acquisition would have cheered her up no end. It was white and floppy and broad-brimmed: a picture hat the like of which—at least until I had stumbled on a most important truth—I’d never had the opportunity to wear...
not being a member of the haut monde or a frequenter of Royal Ascot or even of Buckingham Palace garden parties—I mean of course not until
now
! So what was this vitally important truth? Very simple. I had realized merely that you have to find your own opportunities...
and that the day is all but spilling over with them. In short the world can be yours if you will only wear the right sort of hat. (Wasn’t there a slogan once? “If you want to get ahead get a hat.” I could have written it myself!) And pinned to the side of
this
right sort of hat was a soft full-blown red rose, incredibly real-looking, which matched perfectly—picked out quite beautifully—the theme of roses on the dress. And the long red ribbon which I tied under my chin made it a hat so very much like Scarlett’s...

Yes, what a pity that Celia hadn’t seen it.

Anyway I called up the stairs again, just to tell
my
lord and master that I was still going across the road for a cup of coffee, but that I’d try not to stay too long...
home was always the best place for any girl to be; especially—one might add—for any girl as newly married as I was!

But it had occurred to me that Doreen’s mother hadn’t yet seen my full regalia. And Doreen herself could possibly be there.

Even her boyfriend who went weightlifting? The one with the rippling back?

Well, if he was—and if I behaved myself impeccably—I wondered if he might let me take a peep?