A Winter's Child (7 page)

For half an hour the two women worked side by side, Dorothy talking quietly and, she hoped, safely of the domestic and parochial issues which not only dominated her life but with which she was at ease, the delicate matter of who should present the prizes at Upper Heaton's Annual Flower Show, the eternal servant problem particularly now that the girls were returning from the munitions factories in such an awkward frame of mind, spending the colossal wages they had been earning on fur coats, of all things – would you believe it? – and strutting around the millinery department of Taylor & Timms as if they were as good as anybody.

‘But at least,' she concluded cheerfully, ‘now that the war is over there are no more bandages to roll and no more Balaclavas to knit. And no more queues.'

‘It must have been terrible,' said Claire and with a brief very quiet smile she sat down in the armchair by the window, stretching herself full length against the deeply upholstered, gently sloping seat, and lit a cigarette which she smoked not with the brittle smartness of a Nola Swanfield but with the leisured satisfaction which Faxby was, as yet, accustomed to see only in its gentlemen.

‘You smoke,' said Dorothy, not accusingly but her head coming up with the alertness of a terrier on the scent of a rabbit. ‘I rather thought you would.'

And closing her eyes, still lazily, luxuriously reclining, Claire inhaled once again, not with defiance but amusement and said almost dreamily, ‘I know mother. Not in front of Edward.'

Still on her knees by the suitcases Dorothy shrugged her shoulders, a little heavier than they used to be but still white marble to Edward in the candlelight, her fair skin flushing with one of her quick bursts of indignation since she was mild with no one but her husband and always rushed to defend him.

‘Well you may think him fussy. In fact I dare say you do. But he hates to be confronted with – well – things he doesn't expect. And it would simply never enter his head that you might smoke a cigarette.'

‘Then how do you know he would object?'

‘Claire!
Because I just do.'

How many times had she heard that? Too many to count. Simply too many altogether. But, sitting in the deep, softly padded chair with the cool spring sun on her face, the thought of daffodils in the garden below her and old branches sprouting their tender new green, she was too comfortable for anger, still inclining to amusement and understanding rather than condemnation. Her mother, she knew, would wash those scandalous undergarments of black
crepe de Chine
and peach-coloured silk herself and dry them in secret so that the laundry-maid should not gossip to the maid next door and give all Upper Heaton cause to wonder if all they had heard about women at war was true. What did it really matter? She had worn the garments to please Paul and was not ashamed of it. She simply regretted that she had been too young and shy and innocent to do the same for Jeremy. In an ideal world it would have been possible to tell her mother so, and to be understood. But Claire had schooled herself long ago to accept the limitations of the world in which she lived. She could not talk to her mother. But she understood her anxieties, her uncertainties, her needs. She knew why her mother behaved as she did and, therefore, allowed herself no right to be unkind.

‘All right, mother. I won't smoke in front of Edward. And I won't let him catch me smoking elsewhere.'

She had given in easily, without pain. But Dorothy, as always, could not feel she had won a victory until there had first been a battle.

‘It may seem trivial to you Claire. But apart from everything else this
is
Edward's house.'

‘I know, mother.'

‘And he
does
have a bad chest.'

‘Mother.'
Her voice had not hardened but cooled slightly. ‘He smokes a cigar himself occasionally, if there is someone like Benedict Swanfield to give him one.'

The last phrase had been true but ungracious, possibly unnecessary. She waited for Dorothy to tell her so. But at the magic word of Swanfield, Dorothy's quite charming flush of anger faded and she at once became very serious and preoccupied, as one might expect a lady-in-waiting to look when talking of her queen.

‘Such a clever man,' she said abstractedly. ‘Edward has such a high opinion of him. You had better have a good rest this afternoon since he will want to talk to you tonight.'

‘Edward?'

‘For goodness'sake, no. Mr Benedict Swanfield. Claire – you are not going to be silly are you? I had wondered.'

‘Silly about what, mother?'

‘About your position with the Swanfields.'

‘What position is that?'

Dorothy Lyall rose to her feet slowly, quite heavily, and stood for a moment biting her lip, looking worried and puzzled as she had done at her tea table and then, shaking her head, heaved a great sigh.

‘So you
are
going to be silly. I was afraid so.' And she managed, but only just, to prevent herself from adding ‘Your father was just the same'.

‘What does Edward want me to do, mother?'

‘Heavens – it is not a question of Edward …'

‘Mother.'
And although she was no longer amused or tolerant her voice was steady, unwilling to be manoeuvred or emotionally pressured but perfectly ready to be rational. ‘To you, mother it is always a question of Edward. So you had better tell me what he wants.'

‘And why should I not consider him? What you seem to forget, Claire is that he and I…'

‘I know. We are agreed on that. What does he want?'

‘Only your good. And don't raise your eyebrows at me in that scornful manner because it is the perfect truth. The Swanfields are important people, the most important we know, and if Mrs Miriam Swanfield is good enough to offer you a home at High Meadows then – Heavens – most girls in Faxby would give their eye-teeth for the chance.'

‘No, mother.'

‘What do you mean?'

But she had known, from the moment her husband had made his wishes clear to her, exactly what Claire would say. She had already rehearsed the dry-mouthed little speech with which she would convey to him her daughter's refusal. But what she could not convey was the calm yet troubling authority with which Claire had spoken, no act of defiance which could be browbeaten or otherwise overcome, but the reasoned decision of a woman who would only listen to reason. And how could she tell this rational, resourceful woman how Edward had actually rubbed his hands with glee, had even hummed tunelessly but recognizably with delight, when Benedict Swanfield had informed him of the family's plans for Claire? As Jeremy's wife there was a place for her at High Meadows where she might make herself useful to Jeremy's mother. She would have her own room, her personal maid, her monthly allowance, the glorious advantage of Swanfield credit in Faxby's better shops, the use of a Swanfield motor car. And even more important than all this, her residence at High Meadows must surely carry with it permission for her mother and her mother's husband to call as one would call on relatives and close friends, freely and without invitation. It would be a new lease of life for Edward. How could she tell her daughter that? And then, meeting Claire's eyes, she flushed a mottled, awkward red as she realized how easily and quickly her daughter had understood.

‘I'm sorry, mother.'

She was, in fact, very sorry indeed. But it would be Dorothy, not Claire, who would have to endure the reproaches of Edward who was often peevish in his disappointments, the barbed hints of ingratitude, the effect on his nervous indigestion which would require Dorothy's ministrations the whole of a sleepless night. How could she force Claire to change her mind? Edward would expect her to make the attempt. But she could no longer turn the key in the door, could not threaten this girl – this woman – with anything that would be likely to frighten her. Could she plead? Could she appeal to Claire's loyalty or her affection? Suddenly and very heavily as if some weight had struck the back of her neck, she hung her head, ashamed of the answer to her own question and of the tears in her eyes.

But what else could she have done? How else could either of them have survived without Edward?

‘Claire – you seem to forget that Edward and I – that we are content together. You have never taken into account that I that –'

Gasping most uncharacteristically for breath she could not finish, her cheeks and neck and even her ears flushed now by the stranglehold of embarrassment that had seized her tongue.

‘You will not admit that I –'

And knowing exactly what it was her mother could not manage to say, Claire, with pity and kindness, quickly supplied a compromise.

‘That you are fond of him.'

‘Well of course I am.' Dorothy released from her perplexity, from the agony of wondering why, with her daughter's clear eyes upon her, she could not bring herself to say, ‘I love him', laughed suddenly, and found it expedient to glance at her watch. The first round of the battle had left her floundering in deep water but she had not entirely lost faith in her own tenacity, the dogged determination which had always allowed her to fight another day.

‘Good Heavens, it is almost time to dress for dinner. And please be punctual, Claire, because it
is
the Swanfields and you know how Edward gets into a panic.'

‘Yes, mother.'

Dorothy smiled, her cheeks turning to their natural rosy hue.

‘Well then – we have had a nice little chat. Oh – and Claire?'

‘Yes, mother.'

‘You do have an evening dress? I mean a proper one. The kind –'

‘The kind Edward would approve of? Yes, I do.'

‘Oh good. Then if you could be downstairs by half past six, just in case the motor won't start and we have to send for Mr Stevens from the garage. Rest a little now, dear, since it's a party night.'

She closed the door carefully so as not to disturb Edward who would be taking his afternoon sleep in the study below. And, remembering first to slide off her shoes, Claire lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and in perfect stillness and silence reconstructed with the entirety of her mind, her senses, her emotions, the image of Paul, filling the room with him until he was the reality and Edward had gone.

Miriam Swanfield greeted her rediscovered daughter-in-law with an emotion she considered essential to the situation and which Claire, sensing how much she was enjoying it, did not resist.

‘Dear child, it seems like yesterday.'

‘Yes – yes of course it does.'

But, in fact, she realized at once that her memory of Miriam had been quite inaccurate, the imposing, almost imperial dowager of four years ago having shrunk – in the same way that Edward had shrunk – to a self-centred little lady, more than a shade too heavy for her tiny, possibly swollen feet. While far from ‘seeming like yesterday'she felt that a whole century had ebbed away since she had last entered this entirely feminine drawing room, with its blend of prettiness and cosiness which was altogether Miriam. At least a century. Yet, very pleasantly, she allowed Miriam to take her arm between soft, helpless little hands and to lead her like a trophy from one Swanfield to the other.

‘You will remember Eunice?'

Barely. An abrupt, well-meaning woman who had burst into tears at her wedding and who now, to Claire's surprise, did not appear to have grown a day older, but rather to have taken on the appearance of a worn out, slightly apprehensive girl.

‘Yes – indeed I do.'

‘And Toby,' said Eunice, ‘my husband –,' bringing him quickly forward before anyone could forget him, making absolutely certain that he had his share of notice, his rightful place beside his wife, presenting to Claire a pale, wispy, fine-boned man with an amiable smile who reminded her at once of a high-bred, high-tensioned, none too robust greyhound.

‘How very nice to see you again.'

‘And Nola?'

She held out her hand to a woman who offered no more than the tips of lacquered, languid fingers in return, barely troubling to raise her painted eyelids to look the new arrival up and down, although her glance, when it came, was speculative, shrewd, rather too prolonged for good manners.

‘Did we meet,' she said, ‘when you were here before?'

Claire smiled. ‘I think so.' Of course they had met. They both knew it. But Claire had been a child then, of no interest to Nola either as a rival or as an ally. She was a child no longer. The lacquered hand fell idly to Nola's side, her lean body in its narrow, grape-purple dress folded back into her chair, one leg thrown across the other, its shape perfectly visible through the thin, crepe fabric in a manner which always made Miriam uncomfortable.

‘Well, well – I suppose we shall be meeting again.'

‘Do come and sit by
me,'
said Miriam, who had not for one moment relinquished Claire's arm. ‘Here, dear, on this sofa, while we are waiting for Benedict. My word, how very smart you look.'

But, had she cared to tell the truth, Claire's dark red dress, cut like some kind of oriental tunic with a fringed sash loosely knotted around the hips was no more to her taste than it had been to Dorothy Lyall's, or Edward's. It was too plain, too severe, yet, at the same time, and although the word itself was in neither Miriam's nor Dorothy's vocabulary, too sensual; revealing not flesh as they themselves triumphantly revealed their nude arms and shoulders, but the whole of a long, supple silhouette, a new shape and concept of femininity which seemed alien to them and, therefore, dangerous.

But Dorothy, who had long since relinquished the dream of a ringleted daughter in white organdie, had made no comment when Claire had come downstairs that evening, having taken the precaution beforehand of pointing out to Edward that, since Nola Swanfield was famous for her outlandish wardrobe, the family at High Meadows must surely be accustomed to such things – might even like them – and would not take Claire's eccentricities amiss.