A Tale of Two Families (12 page)

It was as if a starting pistol had been fired. In a desire to please Baggy everyone began to eat quite extraordinarily fast, pausing only to praise and be grateful. The enthusiasm was perfectly genuine until the punch bowl had been replenished with a second instalment. Then the pace slackened and the compliments to Baggy become distinctly histrionic.

It was soon after this that Robert became so silent that June feared he was feeling ill. The truth was that he’d had the idea of putting an asparagus feast into his projected novel. He still intended this to appeal to a vast public – and a vast public, surely, liked to read about food being eaten? He could make something out of the crisp bread and golden butter, of the sunlight glittering on the champagne (it seemed to be getting very hot in the Long Room) but how could one lyrically describe a stick of asparagus? It hadn’t really any beauty, and the piles of sucked stalks were rather disgusting, not to mention the melted butter running down people’s chins. Perhaps he should make his asparagus feast revolting, which would be more in his line – only, this time, he didn’t intend to write that
kind of novel. Perhaps… but he suddenly knew he didn’t want to think any more about asparagus for a long time, if ever. He came back into circulation, much to June’s relief.

May also had become anxious, a fantastic idea having occurred to her. Was there some reason, quite apart from expense, why people usually ate only small quantities of asparagus at a sitting? She had read somewhere that if you ate pigeon every day for forty days you would die. Was there something like that about asparagus? And was champagne all right with it? Whisky wasn’t all right with oysters. There was a third instalment keeping hot but she couldn’t face it or let anyone else face it. She sprang up saying, ‘Marvellous, marvellous, and we’ve finished the very last stick. Now for the strawberries.’

Strawberries had the great charm of not being asparagus. Robert decided
they
should go into his novel. The very words, ‘strawberries and cream’ had a fairy-tale charm. He saw them in startling contrast to the dark, gothic mass of his general idea. Yes, strawberries, certainly – perhaps wild ones, gathered at dawn by a heroine rather like Sarah but with a very different voice.

Not that Sarah’s voice had been heard much during the meal. She had concentrated on eating. With the exception of Baggy, who had enjoyed watching everyone else eating but eaten little himself, she was the only person who retained her enthusiasm for asparagus. She said she could eat it every day for a year.

Well, she could eat it every day for a week, May decided. She should be persuaded to take the twelve still-uncooked bundles back to the Hall. No ugly head of asparagus should be raised again at the Dower House for a very long time.

Later in the afternoon Fran went to Baggy’s room to tell him what a great success the feast had been. She found him sitting in his armchair doing nothing, except smiling gently.

She hoped he was basking.

‘Oh, Baggy, everything was splendid,’ she assured him.

‘Truly, Fran? Did you all get
enough
?’

‘We did indeed, and for the first time in our lives.’

But with asparagus, she reflected, as with several of life’s especial pleasures, enough could be synonymous with too much.

At supper that evening (always ‘supper’ on Sundays, though otherwise indistinguishable from the usual ‘dinner’) Hugh remarked, ‘Well, eat, drink and be merry – for tomorrow Aunt Mildred comes.’

Fran said, ‘Now, listen, Hugh – in fact, listen everyone! It just isn’t fair to expect the worst of Mildred and, what’s more, it brings out the worst. What’s so wrong with her, anyway? What does she do? She’s a perfectly harmless old lady.’

‘She’s not and you know it,’ said May. ‘She rarely comes for so much as a meal without upsetting someone. How we’re all going to stand her for a fortnight I simply don’t know.’

Neither did Fran but she said firmly, ‘Nonsense, darling. Anyway, let’s all forget past irritations and do our best to be nice to her. Baggy, you’ll help me, won’t you?’

Mildred had only been invited to Rosehaven when June had felt it absolutely necessary, but Baggy knew her well enough to consider her annoying and what he would have described as ‘very fancy’. Still, she was Fran’s sister so there ought to be some good in her. Every day he became more devoted to Fran. ‘Of course I’ll be nice to her,’ he said kindly.

‘Sweet of you, Baggy.’ Not that Mildred cared much for elderly men; she often said she felt an affinity with the young. Remembering this, Fran appealed to Hugh again, ‘I wonder if you realise how fond of you she is.’

‘I don’t and I’d rather not,’ said Hugh, then added a trifle impatiently, ‘Oh, don’t worry, Fran. I shall only be seeing her at the weekends. I expect I can keep the peace – if only she’ll lay off calling me “Little St Hugh” and telling me my true vocation is the church.’

‘It’s meant as a compliment. She admires you enormously.’ This was untrue. Mildred had recently said to Fran, ‘Naturally I’m fond of Hugh but you must admit he’s a bit goody-goody. So’s his father. Of course they’re both handsome but give me George every time.’ If only George would be nice to Mildred, how Mildred would blossom. Fran, turning to him, said, ‘Well, I know I can count on you, George. Even to Mildred you’re always the perfect host.’

George had been wondering if, during the next fortnight, he could find it necessary to spend quite a few nights in London. But he might be a nuisance to Hugh and Corinna at the flat. Also, May might suspect he was up to something. (God knew he wasn’t; astonishing how little temptation he’d had to face recently.) And he was still very much enjoying life at the Dower House. He felt capable of taking Mildred in his stride and he would come home every night positively exuding bonhomie.

‘Tell me something she likes,’ he said to Fran. ‘Something I can bring home as a treat.’

‘Liqueur chocolates – anyway, she used to.’ Mildred was apt to be faithless to the things she liked, when someone took the trouble to buy them for her. But she’d like anything George gave her.

Robert said, ‘June and I were discussing her last night, more or less burnishing our armour. It’s absurd to pretend that she does anything really awful – well, not often. It’s just that she’s a past-mistress at the art of deflation. Almost everything she says takes the stuffing out of one, if only a little. And the effect’s cumulative. I wonder
why
she does it.’

Fran could have told him but she wasn’t going to. It would be handing over another stick to beat Mildred with. But unfortunately he was already on the track himself.

‘I suppose,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘she practises deflation of others in order to
in
flate her own ego. Quite interesting, psychologically.’

Yes, of course that was it, Fran was sure; she was equally sure that Mildred didn’t know what she was up to and was quite unconscious that her ego hadn’t got all it needed. Indeed, she often infuriated Fran by her intense self-satisfaction. Still, there must be some basic lack, and Fran now saw a chance of enlisting sympathy for her sister. She said, ‘Well, starved egos can be pretty tragic. Don’t grudge her a little extra ego-food.’

‘You’re breaking my heart, Mother,’ said May. ‘We shall have to make a rule to ask each other, “Anyone fed Aunt Mildred’s starving ego today?”’

Fran laughed, but ruefully. She suspected that feeding Mildred’s ego might become a family joke.

June said, ‘Let’s hope that some of our general happiness rubs off on her. And it ought to help that she’s coming at such a perfect time of the year. Lilac, laburnum, hawthorn, chestnut candles – and some of the fruit blossom’s still out. In a way, I wish they didn’t all come together; I’d like to spread them out over the whole summer. And there’s the nightingale too. We must take Aunt Mildred to hear that.’

‘She’ll addle its eggs,’ said May.

Fran looked at her curiously. It was unusual to see such a grim expression on her pretty, delicate features. Her dislike of Mildred was far more intense than anyone else’s and Fran had never understood why. She had once asked May point blank and been put off with a noncommittal answer. Fran sighed. It was obviously impossible to enlist May’s sympathy. Still, she was in her way, as good a hostess as George was a host.

‘We’ll go and hear that nightingale tonight,’ Hugh said to Corinna. ‘And we’ll take Penny – on the leash, of course. It’ll be quite safe.’

‘Let’s hope the nightingale doesn’t make her feel any more sentimental,’ said Fran. ‘I’d forgotten how emotional bitches get at times like this.’

‘She’s unusually sensitive,’ said Hugh, with a touch of pride.

After supper there was something on television that May wanted to see and Baggy and Fran joined her. The others strolled around outside, watching the last of the sunset, which for some time had been flooding the Long Room.

George, remembering June’s remark about happiness, said, ‘I wonder just why we’re all so happy in this place.’

‘Oh, we’re just country starved and lapping up nature,’ said Robert.

June said nothing. With one arm through Robert’s and the other through George’s, she knew exactly why she was happy.

The nightingale began to sing even before the sun was set.

Next morning it was finally agreed that Fran, May and June should all go to the station to meet Mildred. May tried to get out of it but her mother persuaded her – ‘Do let’s start off on the right foot, May darling. I wonder if Baggy and Robert would care to come?’

‘Damn it, she doesn’t need a whole reception committee,’ said May. ‘And there wouldn’t be room in the taxi.’

‘I do hope it will be on time,’ said Fran anxiously.

It was early and they arrived at the station ten minutes before they needed to. A surprisingly cold wind was blowing and the train was late.

‘Mildred, of course, has bewitched it,’ said May and then mentally rebuked herself. Bitchy remarks of this kind were pointless and they upset her darling mother.

‘Here it is!’ said Fran enthusiastically.

A dozen or so people got out of the train, most of them fairly young women, hatless and mini-skirted. Certainly none of them was Mildred.

‘She hasn’t come,’ said June.

‘No such luck,’ said May. ‘Look!’

Mildred was descending at the far end of the long platform. She was wearing a large white straw hat trimmed with green ribbon and a white cotton frock printed with buttercups and daisies. It had a tight bodice and a full skirt which reached to her ankles. On her small feet were green leather ankle-strapped shoes.

June said, ‘Mother, she
can’t
dress like that – not in this day and age.’

‘Wait till you see her latest evening outfit,’ said Fran.

‘Well, evenings are different. I wouldn’t mind wearing that dress in the evening. It’s really very pretty.’

‘She hasn’t seen us yet,’ said May. ‘Trust her to walk in the wrong direction.’

‘I think she’s going to the guard’s van,’ said June. ‘Yes!’

A large trunk was being lifted on to the platform.

‘My God, she’s come for life,’ said May.

Mildred now turned, saw them, and came running towards them swinging a little white wicker basket which looked as if it might house a dove. It was her handbag.

Fran thought, ‘Well, she runs better than I do. I suppose that’s the difference between being sixty-nine and seventy-two.’

June said, ‘Ought we to run too?’

‘A brisk walk will suffice,’ said Fran.

They met her less than halfway and there was much embracing. Then June managed to get in, ‘Aunt Mildred, how pretty you’re looking.’

‘Yes, it’s not a bad little cotton dress,’ said Mildred, spreading out her skirt and hitting May with her wicker handbag.

‘I meant you, too,’ said June, with sincerity. No one could have denied that Mildred Lane was pretty. Her white hat, worn on the back of her head and suggestive of a halo, revealed her still genuinely fair hair, bobbed and hanging against her cheeks. (So had she worn it in her youth, so would she always wear it.) The blue of her eyes was barely faded. (It was her habit to hold them very wide open. At their best they looked starry; at their worst, just a little mad.) Her unlipsticked mouth had a childish softness. Only in profile was her jawline revelatory of age.

She said, ‘Dear June, how well you’re looking – and so plump. May needs to put on weight. Your face is far too thin, May dear.’

‘I’ll get a porter,’ said May.

Mildred’s trunk was too large to go into Tom’s taxi but it was eventually lodged in the open boot, where it stuck out precariously. By this time Mildred had annoyed Fran by saying, ‘How funny it is to see you in the country! I always think of you as a very towny person.’

But at least Mildred was in a good mood. On the drive home she became quite lyrical. ‘Oh, the woods, the lovely woods! How one longs to plunge into them! Is there a dog I can take for walks?’

‘Not in woods,’ said May. ‘Some of them are full of pheasants and strictly preserved. Anyway, Penny’s out of action.’

Penny’s condition was then explained by Fran, very fully. Mildred said, ‘Poor sweet lamb. Well, I must keep her amused.’

Fran instantly decided Mildred should have nothing to do with Penny. Then she pulled herself up. Why shouldn’t Mildred have a share of Penny? Perhaps she was fond of dogs? If so, Fran didn’t know of it but she did vaguely remember a puppy they’d shared as children, quite amicably. How exquisitely pretty
Mildred had been as a child. And surely she had then been… perfectly normal? Anyway, I got her asked here, thought Fran, and it’s up to me to make her visit a success. She smiled warmly at Mildred and said, ‘What fun it’s going to be, having you here. I shall enjoy showing you the village. And we can take some trips, to several nearby towns.’

‘Let’s leave that till later,’ said Mildred. ‘What I need most now is solitude, solitude under a wide sky.’

At the Dower House, Baggy and Robert came out to greet Mildred, Baggy having decided to please Fran by what he thought of as ‘doing the civil’ and Robert having been asked, by June, to be on hand. Mildred, her blue eyes at their widest, said to Baggy, ‘Why, Mr Clare!’ (Baggy afterwards told Fran, ‘She seemed amazed that I was still alive.’) To Robert she said brightly, ‘How’s the writing?’ somehow making it sound like a hobby, not a profession. Although she favoured the Dower House with a long look she made no comment on it, and that very fact was somehow an adverse comment.

Robert and Tom, the taxi driver, tackled the job of getting the trunk upstairs while Mildred was shown the two front rooms. She said she found them gloomy. Shown the Long Room, she said it must get very hot. (Damn it, thought Fran, the front rooms
are
gloomy and the Long Room does get hot. There’s usually some truth in what she says – but why say it? I suppose she’s ultra-honest, and most of us aren’t.)

May excused herself, to get busy with lunch. ‘You show Aunt Mildred her room, will you, Mother?’

Fran was glad to; May would be spared Mildred’s comment – which was ‘Quite pretty but what a small wardrobe.’ Well, one could hand on the ‘Quite pretty’ – improved to ‘How pretty’. Fran left Mildred to do her unpacking.

Downstairs, Baggy, Robert and June were talking – of course about Mildred. ‘Oh, stop it,’ said Fran. ‘And that goes for me, too. We’re all working it up. She hasn’t done or said anything outrageous.’

May, coming in from the kitchen, said, ‘She will. Let’s all take to drink.’

‘Not for me,’ said Fran. ‘I’m going to give the creature some exercise.’ She knew that the conversation over pre-lunch drinks would continue to be about Mildred, and everyone, including herself if she stayed, would get a kick out of it.

Walking Penny, she tried to take her mind off her sister and, finding this impossible, concentrated on charitable thoughts. There was no doubt Mildred was much loved at her Bayswater boarding house; Fran had seen that for herself. Two elderly gentlemen paid gallant attention, a twittering spinster acted almost like a lady’s maid, the proprietress could not do enough. Unfortunately Fran was convinced that they all had an eye to the main chance; Mildred had twice saved the boarding house from bankruptcy. And charitable thoughts about Mildred’s generous behaviour at her boarding house came up against Fran’s distinct resentment that Mildred should be so rich. Their parents, knowing that Fran was well provided for, had left all their money to their younger daughter. Fran had fully acquiesced in this but felt entitled to be a mite peeved that, while her annuity remained exactly the same (with the cost of living perpetually rising) Mildred’s investments had gone up and up. And no credit to Mildred, who considered money barely mentionable. George had for years handled her affairs.

Fran took Penny to the end of the lane, then returned her to safe keeping, refilled her water bowl and fed her a few comforting chocolate biscuits. Penny, who had already had a very good breakfast, ate them as if famished. Fran fed her some more, then came out and firmly closed the door on her. A loud rustling
of tissue paper could be heard from Mildred’s room. No doubt unpacking was still proceeding.

Fran rejoined the group in the Long Room. May was standing with a billowing sheaf of dresses over one arm. She said to Fran, ‘I went to take your dear little sister a drink and she handed me this lot for “someone to press”.’

‘Oh, dear! Can Mrs Matson do them?’