Elegance and Innocence (30 page)

I’m not certain if it’s the unbelievable size of the place or Flora’s driving, but suddenly I’m finding it very difficult to catch my breath.

‘We’re here!’ Poppy jumps out of the front seat with surprising agility for a girl of her size.

‘My God, Poppy!’ I gasp. ‘You live here?’

‘It
is
nice,’ she concedes. ‘But it’s full of damp and costs a fortune to heat … not a patch on my little cubbyhole in Notting Hill.’

She pushes the car seat forward and I try to step out. However, my knees are shaking so much that I collapse onto the drive instead.

‘Upsy-daisy!’ Flora picks me up off the gravel, completely unfazed (people evidently always fall out the cars she drives). ‘Deep breaths, Louise; it will pass. Isn’t this air terrific?’

And the next thing I know, I’m surrounded by dogs. Not just two or three but easily twelve of various breeds and sizes, jumping, barking, licking and sniffing in that over-intimate way you dearly wish they wouldn’t and all smelling quite distinctly, quite strongly of dog. In the midst of this canine cloud, a woman with absolutely no sign of ever owning a chin emerges, towering above even Poppy in a pair of old Wellingtons and brandishing a pair of lethal looking secateurs.

‘Down!’ she booms, in a voice that could rule an empire (or destroy one). ‘Down boys! Jasper, No! NO! Just push him off,’ she instructs me. ‘He hasn’t been done yet and he’s a
terrible
nuisance.’

‘Mummy!’ Poppy leans forward across the sea of waggling tails in an attempt to kiss her mother on the cheek. However, this noble effort is thwarted not just by the dogs but by Mrs Simpson-Stock herself, who performs a swift side step, thus neatly avoiding any form of physical intimacy. The move throws Poppy off balance and she lands heavily on her mother’s shoulder.

‘Honestly, Poppy!’ she snorts, pushing her away. ‘Still as clumsy as ever!’

‘Yes, Mummy,’ Poppy giggles. ‘You know me!’

‘Hello, Flora.’ Mummy’s hand shoots forward as if it were spring-loaded. She shakes Flora’s hand so violently that her blond bob bounces up and down and her sunglasses fly off her head, lost in a sea of dog. Next she turns her fearsome
hospitality to me. ‘And you must be The American!’ she bellows, giving me the same brain-addling handshake.

‘Louise, Mummy. Her name’s Louise,’ Poppy corrects her.

‘Yes, well, Louise, welcome to Lower Slaughter. Just make yourself at home. We have only a few rules here. First off, supper is 7:30 for 8 pm. Sharp. And secondly, no feeding the dogs! They’re fat enough, aren’t you, boys, aren’t you, my lovely little babies! Yesssssssss! And thirdly, no strangers in the gun room. If someone’s going to get their head blown off, I’d prefer it was a member of my own family. Understood?’

‘Absolutely,’ I joke. ‘We have similar rules about guns in my family too.’

She stares at me stonily.

No one makes a sound. Even the dogs sense I’ve made a
faux pas
and freeze mid-wag. Somewhere in the distance a peacock cries eerily. Wind whistles through the chestnut trees. Time, who waits for no man, is apparently quite accustomed to standing still for Mrs Simpson-Stock.

‘Yes. Well. Be that as it may,’ she says finally, and the film starts rolling again. ‘Poppy will show you to your rooms. I expect that you will actually
sleep
in yours this time, Flora,’ she adds, raising an eyebrow significantly, to which Flora responds by turning several shades of crimson and giggling nervously.

In a desperate bid to repair the damage I’ve already done,
I thrust the Penhaligon’s gift box towards her. ‘These are for you,’ I smile, the very essence of obsequiousness. ‘Just a little something to say thank you.’

‘Very much obliged,’ she replies brusquely, taking the box and tucking it neatly under her arm without so much as a glance. ‘Bound to be scented candles or soap. All anyone ever brings me is scented candles and soap. I’m certain I’m the cleanest, freshest smelling woman in Christendom. But you’re very kind. A well brought up young woman. Don’t expect such civilized manners from an American. Now, I must finish pruning these rose bushes before supper. Remember, 8 pm sharp! And Poppy, for Christ’s sake! Don’t slouch! Come on, boys!’

And she tramps off, engulfed in the cloud of dogs.

We stand in silence a moment, more shell shocked than anything until Poppy heaves a long sigh. ‘Isn’t she a darling? I think she adores you already.’

‘Bit of a favourite,’ Flora confirms. ‘It was two years before she even spoke to me.’

Poppy unhands the bags from the boot. She slams it shut and gathers her things. ‘Shall we go in and I’ll show you around?’

I stare at the pile of luggage. Something’s missing. ‘Where’s my case?’

She and Flora look at each other.

‘What case?’ Flora says.

The whole bottom of my stomach falls away. ‘The blue
nylon case I brought to the office. The one I asked you to put in the boot for me.’

There’s that damned peacock again.

Poppy opens her mouth, then shuts it again. She looks confused. ‘But when you said put your bag in, I thought you meant that,’ she explains, pointing to the cherry red straw bag. ‘I thought that was your weekend bag.’

My throat is dry. ‘
That
is my handbag,’ I croak.

Silence.

‘It
is
an awfully big handbag.’ Flora’s trying to be helpful.

She’s not.

‘Oops!’ Poppy laughs awkwardly, slapping me on the back a little too roughly. ‘Never mind! You can borrow some clothes from Flora and me. I’m sure we’ll find you something!’

I’m drifting into a coma of despair. All my easy adaptability instantly vanishes.

‘Come on, Louise! Don’t look so glum!’ Flora says. ‘It’s not the end of the world! I’m sure I’ve got a pair of knickers you can borrow and those trousers you’re wearing –’ she eyes my ‘not too tatty’ jeans – ‘well, I’m sure they’re just fine … dinner isn’t, well,
too
formal and as long as you don’t go riding in them …’ Her voice tails off as she begins to comprehend the reality of spending a whole weekend at Lower Slaughter with nothing but a pair of jeans and a cardigan.

We stand in silence for a moment, staring at the blank space on the driveway where my bag should be.

‘I
am
sorry,’ Poppy apologizes softly, putting her arm around my shoulders and easing me gently towards the front door. ‘We’ll sort something out, I promise.’

But, well meaning as they are, all I can think of is how they’re at least six inches taller than I am. How will I ever manage without my borrowed Wellingtons and my carefully folded crease-proof dress?

Poppy shows me to a room on the east side of the house that’s decorated in pre-war Liberty prints and has the kind of sloping ceiling and uneven floorboards that conspire to attack even the most docile visitor. The bed groans in protest when I sit on it.

‘There’s a lav just down the hall and Flora and I are right next to you.’ Her voice is gentle and kind, as if trying to console an elderly relative. ‘Why don’t you have a rest and I’ll knock on your door when it’s time for dinner?’

‘Wonderful!’ I force a smile. ‘I’ll just have a lie down.’

They leave and I sink onto the bed. A gentle breeze wafts in through the open window and suddenly I deflate like a balloon, utterly worn out. Much to my shame, stinging tears well up in my eyes. The tears of a disappointed eight-year-old who wants to go home. Resistance is useless. I curl up into a little ball and surrender. All my expectations of another dazzling Ascot-type triumph dissolve. For all my fastidious planning, I couldn’t have reckoned on this. I’m going to end up being uncomfortable and badly dressed all weekend, shambling about like a homeless person in the
same outfit for three days. I punch the pillow in frustration and a blizzard of feathers spurts out, covering the duvet and part of the floor.

That’s all I need. Sobbing bitterly now, I crouch down and try in vain to gather up the dusty feathers whirling around me.

So here I am, scrambling around on my hands and knees, drowning in a sea of self-pity and non-waterproof mascara, when slowly I become aware of the sound of piano music drifting in through the open window. It begins softly, delicately, building in a series of intricate themes. Slowly it gathers strength and force, finally exploding in a pile of octaves, furiously stacked one upon another, and then subsiding, softening, melting, and beginning the cycle all over again.

I kneel on the floor, transfixed. Perhaps it’s a recording or maybe someone’s listening to the radio. But after a while the piece ends and then a particularly tricky bit is repeated; it’s played over and over until the pianist gains confidence and clarity. And I realize with a shock that the music is live.

I stop crying. Or rather, I simply forget to continue. Getting up from the floor, I push the bedroom door open and creep downstairs, following the music like a hypnotized child trailing after the Pied Piper, moving as quietly as possible so as not to break the spell.

Most of the guests are out on the lawn, playing croquet
or collapsed into loungers. The house itself is abandoned. A warm zephyr blows in through the open windows, gathering and releasing the sheer curtains with silent, invisible hands, almost in time with the music.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn a corner and follow the corridor along until I come to a long narrow room, bordered on one side by a wall of windows and on the other by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. At the far end of the room, there’s an elegant early-twentieth-century Steinway grand piano. And there, unmistakable, even with his back towards me, sits the young man from the opera house steps.

Playing with a kind of tremendous fury, oblivious to everything around him, his long fingers glide over the keyboard with unbelievable speed; one moment attacking, the next caressing in a dazzling display of technical and interpretative brilliance. The total assurance of his playing is nothing less than heroic. Nothing is measured or hesitant. Even the softer passages display a level of involvement and commitment uncommon in everyday life. I hover a moment in the doorway. Nothing, not even an act of God, is likely to distract him, so I steal in.

And as I stand, listening in the corner, a remarkable transformation takes place. My shoulders release and sink forward. The tight thread knotted in my head begins to unravel. And gradually I’m aware of the even, steady sound of my own breathing. The last rays of the shocking pink sunset glow over the lawn, outlining his shoulders and
highlighting his dark hair. They radiate around his fine features like a halo of golden light; too beautiful to be real.

Only he is real.

And then, incredibly, even the all-pervading smell of dog vanishes and is replaced instead by the delicate perfume of the late summer roses that wind around the open glass doors.

I don’t know how long I’ve been there, maybe a few minutes, maybe half an hour, but after a while he stops playing and turns around.

‘Oh, hello,’ he smiles. ‘Fancy seeing you here! Have you been there long?’

‘Yes, well, no …’ I hesitate, ‘not long enough. That is, you play so beautifully.’

‘Thank you.’ He tilts his head shyly. ‘Fourth Ballade. Chopin. My favourite. Or, actually no,’ he corrects himself, apparently unable to let such a shocking inaccuracy slide. ‘Beethoven’s my real favourite, and then Chopin, Brahms, and you can’t beat Rachmaninoff. Do you like him?’ He plays a few bars of Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto. ‘Isn’t that amazing? And this bit …’ He launches into another passage. ‘This is the absolute best bit of all!’ he shouts above the crashing chords. ‘You’ve gotta love it!’

‘Yes, it’s amazing,’ I agree, laughing. His eagerness and delight is infectious.

‘See and wait! Wait! Listen to these octaves!’ He pounds away, fingers flying. ‘I saw someone break a finger once
playing those – isn’t that incredible! Ruined his whole career.’ And he smiles again as if it were the most wonderful news in the world. ‘Do you know any Prokofiev?’

‘Only
Romeo and Juliet
and
The Love for Three Oranges
,’ I admit.

‘I love
Romeo and Juliet!
’ For a moment I think he’s going to explode with excitement. ‘Mercutio’s death scene – so tragic!’ Again, he begins to play, filling the room with the dramatic, halting, march that characterizes the end of Act Two, replacing a whole orchestra with an intricate transcription for single piano.

Curling up in a nearby armchair, I make myself comfortable and bask in the light of his enthusiasm and astonishing talent.

I can’t recall the last time I saw someone enjoying something so much, so openly. Perhaps it’s my age or just the people I hang out with, but almost everyone I know seems to be an aspiring cynic. We stand at the edges of our experiences, smoking cigarettes and trying to convince each other that we’ve seen this, done that and it isn’t so hot anyway. It’s considered un-cool to be passionate, if not downright gauche. And on the occasions when one of us does become excited, it’s under duress, both embarrassing and brief. It’s considered unrealistic; a kind of madness that descends and has to be apologized for the next day. ‘Real life’ is, after all, a serious and rather dull business. And the more serious and dull, the more ‘real’ it is.

I don’t know how we all collectively came to the conclusion that this is the way adults behave but, as I watch him play, I feel an aching in my chest: an intense longing to let go of my eternal pessimism and trade it instead for the easy joy before me. The rapture I hear right now.

He finishes Mercutio’s death scene and is launching into the flowing, ominous passages of the balcony scene when I hear someone crossing the wooden floor.

‘There you are!’ I look up to find Flora standing over me, wearing a floral dress. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. It’s almost time for supper.’ She offers me a hand, pulling me out of the armchair with a good, solid all girls hockey team yank. ‘I see you’ve met my brother Eddie. Eddie!’ she shouts. ‘Eddie shut up, for Christ sake!’ He stops playing and swivels round indignantly.

‘Oh, it’s only you, Old Bag,’ he says, giving her a wink.