Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (26 page)

Tony put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. He said, “I can’t promise to live forever, but I’ll do my best.”

Despite herself, Eleanor smiled. “I believe you would.”

“We’ve talked about it, then. Cleared the air, like you said. Now we can go on enjoying ourselves.” He looked at his watch. “Just about time for lunch. And this afternoon I shall take you to Broadway in the car and buy you a cream tea, and this evening we shall dress up in our smartest togs and do our best to dance to the local band. Give the residents something to talk about.”

*   *   *

On the Sunday morning, like any husband, Tony decided to take himself off and see if he could find some man prepared to play a round of golf with him. Eleanor was invited to accompany him, but she declined and had her breakfast in bed, blanketed in newsprint and all the Sunday papers. About eleven o’clock, she got up and had a bath and got dressed and went downstairs and out of doors. It was still sunny, though not as warm as the previous day, and she set off briskly in the direction of the little golf pavilion, with the intention of walking out over the course and meeting Tony on his way in.

When she reached the pavilion she stopped, hesitating because she was uncertain as to the layout of the course, and not sure in which direction she should head. She was trying to make up her mind when a voice behind her said, “Good morning,” and she turned and saw, sitting in the sheltered veranda that fronted the pavilion, none other than the honeymooner, Mrs. Renwick. Mrs. Renwick wore a tweed skirt and a thick knitted jacket, and looked content and comfortable in a basket chair, warm in a patch of sunshine, and out of the wind.

Eleanor smiled. “Good morning.” Slowly, she went to join the older woman. “I thought I might walk out, but I don’t know which way to go.”

“My husband’s playing golf too. I think they come from that direction, but I decided it was more pleasant to sit than to walk. Why don’t you join me?”

Eleanor hesitated, and then succumbed. She pulled up another of the basket chairs and settled herself beside Mrs. Renwick, stretching out her legs and turning up her face to the sun.

“This is nice.”

“Much nicer than walking in that chilly wind! What time did your husband go out?”

“A couple of hours ago. And he’s not my husband.”

“Oh, dear, I am sorry. How mistaken can one be? We’d made up our minds that you were married, and even possibly on your honeymoon.”

It was amusing to realize that the Renwicks had discussed her and Tony, just as they had speculated about them.

“No, I’m afraid not.” She glanced at Mrs. Renwick’s left hand, expecting to see a sparkling engagement ring, and a shining gold wedding ring as well. But there was no flash of diamonds, and Mrs. Renwick’s wedding ring was as thin and worn as the hand that wore it. Puzzled, Eleanor frowned, and Mrs. Renwick saw this.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that … well, we thought you and your husband were on
your
honeymoon.”

Mrs. Renwick threw back her head and gave a peal of quite girlish laughter. “What a compliment. I suppose you found out we were in the honeymoon suite!”

“Well…” Eleanor felt embarrassed, as though they had been prying. “It’s just that Tony works for the Triangle Hotel Group, and he and the manager are old friends.”

“I see. Well, I’ll put your mind at rest. We’ve been married for forty years. This is our ruby wedding, and a weekend at Brandon is my husband’s little treat instead of throwing a party. You see, we came to Brandon for our honeymoon … we could only afford to stay for two days, but we always promised ourselves that one day we’d come back. And it’s just as lovely as ever!” She laughed again. “Fancy you thinking we were newly-weds. You must have wondered what on earth a couple of old fogies like us were up to.”

“No,” said Eleanor, “we didn’t. You looked perfectly believable. Laughing and talking and looking as though you’d just met each other and fallen madly in love.”

“An even nicer compliment. And we’ve been watching you. Last night, when you were dancing together, my husband said he’d never seen a better-looking couple.” She hesitated for a moment, and then went on, her manner now very down-to-earth. “Have you known each other long?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor. “Quite long. Two years.”

Mrs. Renwick considered this. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “That is quite a long time. I’m afraid nowadays men are very spoilt. They seem to get all the advantages of married life, handed to them on a plate, without having to bother about any of the responsibilities.”

Eleanor said, “It’s my fault. Tony isn’t like that. He wants to get married.”

Mrs. Renwick smiled tranquilly. “He obviously loves you,” she said.

“Yes,” said Eleanor faintly. She looked at the older woman, sitting there in the pale sunshine, her expression kindly and her eyes wise. A stranger; but all at once Eleanor knew that she could confide in her.

She said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t marry him?”

“No concrete reason. I mean, we’re both free; we neither of us have other commitments. Except our jobs.”

“And what are those?”

“Tony’s manager of the Crown Hotel in St. James. And I work for a publishing company.”

“Perhaps your career is important to you?”

“Yes, it is. But not that important. I mean, I could go on working after I was married. At least, until I started to have children.”

“Perhaps … you don’t feel prepared to spend the rest of your life with him.”

“But I want to. That’s what’s so frightening. This thing of becoming part of another person. Losing oneself. Tony’s parents never made it. They divorced when he was a boy. But my parents did everything together, they lived for each other. When they were away from each other, they used to telephone every day. And then my father had a heart attack and died, and my mother was alone. She was only fifty. She’d always been such a marvellous person, and a tower of strength to her family and her friends, and she simply … went to pieces. We thought that when she’d stopped grieving, she’d pick up and start again, but she never did. Her life simply stopped when my father died. I love her very much, but I simply can’t go on being unhappy with her.”

“Has she met your Tony? Does she like him?”

“Yes. And yes, she does like him. She’s a little disconcerted by the fact that he’s in the hotel business. Once we went home for the weekend, and Mother was rather tired, and Tony offered to cook the dinner. It really threw her. She was all embarrassed and flustered. Like a hen. Afterwards she said to me, ‘Your father would never have done that.’ Everything harks back to my father. Not in a happy way, but almost resentfully, as though he had no right to go without her.”

“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Renwick. “It’s difficult for you and so very sad for her. But I’m afraid the final parting comes to all of us. I’m sixty now, and my husband is seventy-five. It would be foolish to pretend we have many years left to us, and by the law of averages, he will probably die before me and I shall be left on my own. But I shall have marvellous memories, and being on my own has never frightened me. I am, after all, myself. I always have been. I adore Arnold, but I never wanted to be with him all the time. That’s why I’m sitting here now, and not trudging down the fairway feeling martyred, and watching him miss all his putts.”

“You never played golf?”

“Heavens, no. I could never make contact with any sort of a ball. But I’m lucky, because when I was a child I was taught to play the piano. I was never very good. Not good enough to become a professional. But I used to play in our local orchestra, and sometimes for dancing classes and that sort of thing. But mostly I played for myself. It was my private thing. My time on my own. Restoring when I was tired. Comforting when I was anxious. It has sustained me all my life, and will continue to do so, whatever happens.”

“My mother doesn’t play the piano. She doesn’t even want to garden any longer, because my father isn’t there to garden with her.”

“Like I said, I was lucky. But there are other things. I have a friend who has no particular talents. But she goes out every afternoon for a walk with her dog. She walks by herself, rain or shine, for an hour. Nobody is ever allowed to accompany her. She assures me that more than once it has saved her reason.”

Eleanor said, “If I knew I could be like that … Not like my mother. I’m so afraid of being like my mother.”

Mrs. Renwick sent her a long, measuring look. “You want to marry this young man?” After a little, Eleanor nodded. “Then marry him! You’re far too intelligent to let yourself be overwhelmed by any man, let alone that charming-looking creature who obviously adores you.” She leaned forward and laid her hand over Eleanor’s. “Just remember. A private world of your own. An independence of spirit. He will respect you for it, and thank you for it, and it will make your life together infinitely more interesting and worthwhile.”

“Like your life,” said Eleanor.

“You know nothing about my life.”

“You’ve been married for forty years, and you still laugh with your husband.”

“Is that what you want?” asked Mrs. Renwick.

After a little, “Yes,” said Eleanor.

“Then why don’t you go and get it? Grasp it with both your hands. I think I can see your Tony now, at the very end of the fairway. Why don’t you walk out and meet him?”

Eleanor looked. Saw the two distant figures walking in—one of them, unmistakably, Tony. A ridiculous excitement filled her heart.

“Perhaps I will,” she said.

She stood up and then hesitated, and turned back to Mrs. Renwick. She put her hands on Mrs. Renwick’s shoulders and stooped to kiss her cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

She left Mrs. Renwick sitting there in the basket chair. She went down the steps of the pavilion and across the gravel and onto the springy turf of the fairway. In the far distance Tony, seeing her, waved. She waved back and then began to run, as though, even if they were going to spend the rest of their lifetimes together, there was no longer a single second to be wasted.

A W
ALK IN THE
S
NOW

Waking to darkness, Antonia, drowsy with half-sleep, at first thought herself back in the flat in London. But then consciousness stirred. No sound of traffic, no pale light seeping through curtains that had never properly fitted, no bundling of a duvet up to her ears. Instead the darkness; silence; extreme cold. Linen sheets, tightly tucked. The smell of lavender. And she knew that it was a Saturday morning at the end of January, and she was not in London, but home, in the country, for the weekend.

Her mother had sounded a little surprised when she had telephoned to say that she was coming.

“Darling, heaven to see you.” Mrs. Ramsay adored it when Antonia came home. “But won’t it be dreadfully dull? Not a thing going on and the weather’s appalling. Terrible gales and bitterly cold. I’m sure we’re in for snow.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Without David, nothing mattered. She only knew that the prospect of a weekend alone in London was unbearable. “I’ll take the train if Pa could meet me at the station.”

“Of course he will … usual time. I’ll race upstairs now and make your bed.”

Mrs. Ramsay was right about the weather. The snow had begun to fall as the train made its way from Paddington Station and out into the country. By the time they reached Cheltenham, the railway platform was two inches deep in snow, and Antonia’s father, come to meet her, wore rubber boots and the very old tweed coat, rabbit-lined, that had once belonged to his grandfather and only came into its own in the most bitter of weather. The drive home had been dicey, with frozen ruts in the road and the occasional skid, but they made it safely and duly arrived, only to be plunged in darkness just as they sat down to supper. Antonia’s father, after lighting candles, had telephoned the authorities and been told that a main cable was down, but repairmen were, at that moment, setting out to find the fault. And so they had spent the evening by firelight and candle-light, struggling with the crossword, and grateful for the Aga, which simmered comfortingly on, allowing them to boil kettles for hot-water bottles and make warm bedtime drinks.

And now, the next morning … still darkness, silence, and cold. Antonia reached out a chilly hand and tried to switch on the bedside lamp, but nothing happened. There was no alternative but to sit up, grope for matches and light the stub of the candle that had seen her to bed, and it was astonishing tc see, by its pale flame-light, that it was past nine o’clock. With a sort of puny courage, she threw back the covers and stepped out into the icy cold. Drawing back the curtains, she saw the whiteness of snow, black trees etched against the half-light, no glimmer of sunlight. A rabbit had made its way across the lawn, leaving a trail of footmarks like sewing-machine stitches. Shivering, Antonia pulled on the warmest garments she could lay hands on, brushed her hair by candle-light, cleaned her teeth and went downstairs.

The house felt deserted. No sound disturbed the quiet. No washing machine, no dishwasher, no vacuum cleaner, no floor polisher. But someone had lighted a coal-fire in the hall fireplace, and it flickered in a welcome fashion and smelt comforting.

Looking for company, Antonia made her way to the kitchen, where she found comparative warmth and her mother, sitting at the kitchen table, which she had spread with newspapers, and where she was about to embark on the tedious task of plucking a pair of pheasants.

A small and slender woman with a mop of curly grey hair, she looked up as Antonia appeared through the door.

“Darling! Isn’t this terrible? We still haven’t got any power. Did you have a good sleep?”

“I’ve only just woken up. It’s so dark and so quiet. Like the North Pole. Do you suppose I’ll ever get back to London?”

“Oh, yes, you’ll be all right. We listened to the weather forecast and the worst seems to be over. Make yourself some breakfast.”

“I’ll just have some coffee…” She poured herself a mugful from the jug that stood at the back of the stove.