Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (27 page)

How tempting this sounded. No one had even offered to put me into a taxi or pick up my dry cleaning before, let alone be my source of strength and comfort.

‘I want to protect you. You’re so tiny and fragile. Quite, quite beautiful and … damn! That was the front door! They must be back from Newcastle already. Quick! Get your clothes on!’

He sprang out of bed and flung back the curtains.

I grabbed my skirt and zipped myself up. ‘Rafe, we’ve got to talk—’

‘Shh!’ He put his finger to his lips. ‘Wait till they’ve left the hall and then go downstairs and get in the car. If anyone sees you, pretend you’ve been to the lavatory. I’ll come down in a minute with a book I’ll say you were asking about. Wait a minute.’ He flung me a comb. ‘You’d better tidy your hair.’

I made the best of myself as instructed and went out to the head of the stairs. I heard Evelyn say, ‘There you are, Spendlove. Some tea, please. And bring Mr Preston’s pills …’ her voice trailed away.

I crept downstairs and out to the car. The temperature was falling fast with the onset of dusk. I sat and shivered for five minutes until Rafe joined me.

‘Sorry. I met my father in the hall. He was convinced he was at his club and that I was Lord Bledsoe. Poor old chap, it’s so sad to see him in that state.’ He started the engine and set off down the drive. ‘Never mind, darling. Now I’ve got you,’ he rested his hand on my knee, ‘I feel as though I could never be very depressed about anything ever again. Do you know, I haven’t felt as happy as this for years. Not since our crew won the boat race by half a length, in fact.
If you were the only girl
in the world
,’ he smiled as he sang, ‘
and I was the only boy
…’

‘Rafe. Darling. Naturally I love you more than anyone in the world …’

He smiled more broadly. ‘So I should hope.’

‘But I do just wonder if it’s a good idea to think about getting married actually straight away …’

‘Why shouldn’t we? If you’re worrying about Dimpsie, don’t. As a son-in-law I’d be in a much better position to help her. I’m very fond of her.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘As for Evelyn, I’ve told you not to give it another thought. Once she sees my mind’s made up, she won’t stand in my way. How can she? I’m thirty-one years old and already running the estate. I know she can be difficult, but she’s devoted to her children.’

‘Yes.’

I told myself that for once I must not be a silly little coward. I must make it clear to Rafe that I was on the point of leaving for London to resume my career and that I could not marry him this year or next. Perhaps never. I opened my mouth to do this, but instead out came a yell as Rafe jammed on the brakes to avoid a moped without rear lights and we went into a skid.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ he asked as he brought the car to a halt several yards further on. He had kept his head and saved us going over the edge of the hillside and down into the river. ‘Sorry, but I must go and make sure that idiot’s all right. Shan’t be a jiff.’ He got out of the car and disappeared into the gloom. Before my circulation had returned to its usual speed, he was back. ‘That was Jack Banks, son of our builder. He’s all right, thank the Lord. Just a bit shocked. And frightened that I might report him. I said I wouldn’t, provided he promised to get his rear light fixed in the morning. I’ll ring him tomorrow to make sure he has.’

Rafe was a model of responsible, adult behaviour. I thought of the old lady and was filled with shame. So much so that I couldn’t say another word until we pulled up outside our house.

‘Goodbye, my darling.’ He leaned over to kiss me. ‘Sweet dreams. I know I shan’t be able to sleep for happiness, but I shall think of you and I shan’t mind a bit.’

‘Come in for a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.’

‘Couldn’t it wait? Naturally I want nothing more than to talk to you – apart from making love to you, that is – but I ought to get back and see to my father.’ When I looked at him pleadingly he said, ‘All right, dearest girl. Your slightest wish is my command.’ He turned off the engine, then sprang out to come round and open my door. ‘Do you know, it’s wicked of me, but I rather miss having to fetch those crutches. You were so deliciously dependent.’

I found my latchkey and let us in. Glancing up at the long-case clock I saw the moon-face, its mouth drooping between fat pale cheeks, disconsolate in the dim light of the hall lantern. The radio was on in the kitchen. Someone was singing, ‘
I don’t
know why there’s no sun up in the sky, Stormy Weather
’ with melancholy pertinence.

‘Let’s go into the sitting room,’ I said.

Rafe followed me in. Dimpsie was lying on the sofa as though asleep, the neck of a wine bottle in her relaxed grasp. She opened her eyes as I leaned over her and said, ‘Go to hell!’ Then she was horribly sick.

‘Anyone’d think it was a royal command,’ grumbled Dimpsie as we set out the next morning to drive across the valley to Shottestone. ‘I’m not tidy enough for an audience. And did it have to be so early? My head is agony.’

The truculence in her tone was explained by the residual alcohol in her bloodstream. When sober, nothing that Evelyn could demand of her was too much trouble. Once, when Mrs Capstick had burned her hand, Dimpsie had stayed up practically all night, poaching salmon and setting it in aspic and piping meringue baskets under Mrs Capstick’s direction. When Evelyn had complained that the aspic was too soft, the cucumbers too thickly sliced and the baskets too crooked, Dimpsie had taken the criticism without a murmur and had eagerly put on an apron to help serve the guests at the party to which she had not been invited.

‘Poor you,’ I said with less sympathy than usual. I was busy steeling myself to face the ordeal ahead. I was certain that the summons, issued to Dimpsie via the telephone while we were breakfasting without enjoyment on a boiled egg apiece, had to do with Rafe and me.

‘Oh, I know I’ve only myself to blame and I apologize more than I can say for making such an exhibition of myself in front
of Rafe. It was weak and it was selfish and I’m thoroughly ashamed.’ I glanced sideways and saw that Dimpsie’s eyes were filling with tears once more. ‘Beastly
bloody
woman! I never thought I’d be wicked enough to wish anyone dead, but I’d really enjoy seeing her head on a spike.’

I did not need to be told that she was not talking about Evelyn. Over the boiled egg, I had pieced together disconnected sentences between bursts of crying, and gathered that barely five minutes after Rafe and I had driven off for an afternoon of decorous swiving, Dimpsie had answered the front door to find Marcia Dane practically driving the bell push through the wall with her forefinger. She had been swaddled in furs, according to Dimpsie, and wearing enough lipstick to paint Newcastle red twice over.

Marcia Dane had accused my mother of refusing to release my father from a marriage that was a hollow mockery. Furthermore, Marcia said she could afford to free Tom from the wearisome monotony of a GP’s existence so he could pursue a medical career better suited to his talents. Unless Dimpsie was a monster of unimaginable selfishness, she would instantly grant Tom the divorce he had several times requested.

Dimpsie had replied that if he did ask her for a divorce she would agree to it, but so far he hadn’t and she didn’t believe he ever would. Marcia said that Tom had said Dimpsie was as exciting as cold porridge in bed but she was clearly a barefaced liar as well. Further hard words had been exchanged, which Dimpsie could not perfectly remember, but the upshot had been that she had threatened to call the police if Marcia did not leave the house forthwith. Marcia had complied and Dimpsie, standing forlorn in a dusty, dirty, empty house that had once been a cosy domestic nest containing an adored, if not adoring, husband and happy little children, had to choose between the noose and the bottle. At this point in the narrative I had said with genuine feeling that I was heartily thankful she had chosen the latter and Dimpsie had done some more weeping in my arms. Then
the call from Evelyn had come. When I asked my mother what sort of language and tone Evelyn had used, she had only been able to come up with the adjective ‘crisp’.

‘I wonder what could be so important that she wants to see both of us?’ mused Dimpsie.

I was too distracted to reply. By the morning post had come a letter from Lizzie. She had quarrelled with her grandmother, and she hoped I didn’t mind but she had moved into my room in Maxwell Street while she looked for somewhere to live. Naturally she would leave the minute I returned but would pay the rent meanwhile. She told me about the US tour and brought me up to date on company gossip, which I found I had missed more than I knew. The last paragraph had worried me, though.
When I got back from the States, rumours were flying around
that you and Sebastian were engaged! I was able to tell them
that it was complete poppycock, because of course you’d have
told me if there was the remotest possibility of anything so
wildly preposterous. And the rumours have died down now
anyway, because Sebastian’s sleeping with a new girl who’s just
joined the LBC. Her name’s Sylvia Starkey and she’s quite pretty
but her dancing’s not a patch on yours. She says he makes her
do horrible things – what, she wouldn’t say. I bet he’ll chuck
her as soon as you come back, but I thought you ought to know
how things stand so you can be on your guard against bitchy
remarks from the other girls
…

Sylvia Starkey was welcome to Sebastian’s sexual predations, I thought, as we drove through Gaythwaite.. But did that mean that he would no longer give me the principal roles? I was so worried about this possibility that I allowed my mother to ramble on without listening much to what she was saying.

‘She was most insistent that you came too,’ said Dimpsie as we turned into the drive that led to Shottestone. ‘Perhaps she’s having a drinks party and needs help with the canapés.’

I wondered whether to tell her about Rafe and me. All night, whether waking or dreaming, my brain had struggled to find
the right words to explain why I could not marry him. Each time, the expression of pain and disappointment I imagined on his noble, dear – supremely noble, infinitely dear – face nearly killed me. At dawn I had cried hot tears of misery into Siggy’s comforting flank. Evelyn might scorn my inferior pedigree all she liked. The angry speech she was no doubt preparing this very moment worried me hardly at all. Of course she would accuse me of ingratitude, duplicity and presumption, but I would be able to set her mind at rest on that score. However much she was hating me now, she could not hate me more than I did myself.

‘I’m afraid it’s going to be something rather unpleasant,’ I said, feeling that perhaps I ought to prepare her. ‘Yesterday Rafe and I … look out!’

There was a delay while Dimpsie apologized to the gardener whose wheelbarrow she had run into, then we were on our way up to the front door and there was no time for explanations. The strange noise coming from the front of the car turned out to be half a rake that had wedged itself under our bumper.

‘Good morning, Mrs Savage.’ Spendlove opened the car door on Dimpsie’s side. ‘A
very
good morning, isn’t it? I might venture to say the best I’ve seen for a good many years. How are you, Miss Marigold?’ He scampered round to my side. ‘A happy day indeed.’

I smiled weakly.

‘Madam is in the drawing room.’ Spendlove winked hard at me. ‘With Mr Preston and Mr Rafe.’ He skipped across the hall, flung open the door and trumpeted our names as though we were persons of consequence.

‘Marigold!’ Evelyn came to greet me arms held wide. ‘
Dar
ling! We’re so thrilled!’ She enfolded me in her scented embrace. I wondered if fatigue and anxiety were making me hallucinate. ‘Kingsley and I have always been so proud of you and now you are to be one of us.’

Rafe went to kiss Dimpsie. ‘I hope you approve of me as
your son-in-law.’ It was clear that he expected an answer in the affirmative, but this was reasonable. After all, I was the daughter of an impoverished philanderer and he was a member of one of the oldest families in the county and heir to a large estate.

Dimpsie looked at me. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You haven’t told your mother?’ Evelyn patted my cheek. Though her usual immaculate self, I noticed she had dark circles under her eyes as though she too had slept badly. ‘Naughty girl. But perhaps you wanted to be sure that Kingsley and I approved before getting up Dimpsie’s hopes? In which case that was very wise of you, my dear, and proof, if we needed any, that you have grown into a thoroughly sensible and intelligent young woman.’

‘You mean you don’t mind?’ I had counted on Evelyn as my greatest, though unwitting, ally.

‘Well, darling, though I must admit at first I
was
inclined … we had expected that Rafe would choose someone of his own—’

‘Mother!’ Rafe’s voice was peremptory.

‘Oh, surely we know each other well enough to be frank?’ Evelyn took my hand and looked into my face almost pleadingly. ‘Haven’t I always treated you like my own daughter? But the mistress of Shottestone must have certain … qualities.’ She made a jerking movement with her chin and neck like a snake attempting to swallow its victim whole. ‘Which I’m certain you possess, my darling. You are an exceptionally graceful and lovely young woman, and not without erudition. And anything lacking, I can teach you myself,’ she added, rather spoiling the compliment.

‘This is all nonsense,’ said Rafe almost roughly. ‘Good heavens, this isn’t Chatsworth. It’s hardly more than a glorified farm. If Marigold doesn’t mind the considerable inconveniences of living here – inadequate central heating and a fitful hot water supply just for starters – I shall think myself extremely fortunate.’

‘You will inherit my collection of first-period Worcester,’ Evelyn said, with some emotion.

‘Oh … thank you.’ I was desperately trying to remember
some of the sentences I had composed during the long reaches of the night which would make clear the absolute impossibility of combining marriage and my career. I was distracted by Dimpsie, who broke into violent sobbing.

‘Marigold! You and Rafe! Oh, I can’t … believe it! Just when I thought … I had nothing left to live for. Oh, this is too wonderful …’

Evelyn put her arms round my mother and guided her to a sofa. Kingsley flapped his arms and grimaced in alarm as Dimpsie howled like a baby.

‘Your mother’s been under enormous strain,’ Rafe said in a low voice to me. ‘This is all about your father really, isn’t it?’

I nodded, grateful for his understanding. Honestly, the man was making it more impossible every minute. He was a saint, an angel, a pattern of perfection.

‘Someone ring the bell for Spendlove,’ said Evelyn when she had succeeded in stemming the flow of Dimpsie’s tears. ‘We must celebrate.’

He must have been hovering outside the door, for he appeared in seconds with the customary champagne. My stomach, queasy with exhaustion and distress, revolted at the sight of it. ‘Mrs Capstick says she couldn’t be more pleased, not if someone had given her ten thousand pounds,’ whispered Spendlove as he handed me my glass. ‘I left her in the kitchen with her apron at her eyes.’

‘To Rafe and Marigold.’ Evelyn lifted her glass, smiling bravely.

‘To Rafe and Marigold,’ echoed Dimpsie, her face shining with happiness.

‘To Rafe and … ah,’ Kingsley looked perplexed.

I seemed to be standing at a crossroads. In my imagination I looked one way, saw myself married to Rafe and living at Shottestone. I saw a boy who looked like Rafe, fair and straight-backed and clear-eyed, and a pale little girl with red hair and a tendency to let her powers of invention carry her away. I saw myself coming downstairs, having kissed them a tender goodnight,
and going into the drawing room – perhaps a little shabbier now but more lovely than ever – for a glass of sherry before dinner. I saw Evelyn, older and rather frail but her wits still sharp, smile at me over her bulb catalogues as she planned the spring borders. I saw Rafe reading aloud to us something from the newspaper that had amused him. I saw him happy in all his occupations with farm and estate, his demons banished, tolerant of his wife’s inability to make anything but a muddle of Red Cross committee meetings … the vision became a little blurred. But the scene changed and I saw myself walking across the valley to our old house where Dimpsie still lived, busy and cheerful, a much-loved mother and grandmother. I saw her before an easel in the drawing room which had been converted into a studio, painting with a passion. I saw her come to greet me, her face alight with inspiration.

I looked down another road. I saw myself standing in the wings beside Miko Lubikoff, waiting for my entrance. Fate had been kind to me. I had recovered my former strength, avoided further serious injury, and the critics had been on my side. I had worked and starved and suffered, narrowing my sights to the one great goal. I had had more than my share of luck and was invited all over the world to dance in the most coveted roles. For ten or perhaps fifteen years this life would be mine, before I grew too old and had to resign myself to teaching girls whose eyes were fastened on the same prize. But I so ardently desired that it should be mine, at least for a time! Then I saw in my mind’s eye my mother, a wretched slattern, lying on the sofa in the dirty, echoing house, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. I saw Rafe racked by headaches, suffering the torment of rejection, perhaps in his dejection marrying some hard-faced, cold-hearted, socially ambitious debutante who did not love him.

I looked down the third road and saw myself dancing in the corps de ballet of third-or fourth-rate companies, in daily agony with my intractable foot, disappointed and bitter, all my dreams destroyed. Nights spent in cheap lodging houses, saving coins
for the meter, boiling up sausage rings for sustenance, exchanging my body for more infrequent roles. I saw Dimpsie lying on the sofa with an empty bottle of pills in her hand and a note propped up on the chimneypiece …

‘I’m so proud, darling.’ Rafe kissed my brow tenderly.

I tried to smile. ‘You’re all very kind. I don’t think I deserve it.’

I drank a little of the champagne, which tasted like poison, and winked back a tear. I drank a little more and vowed that not a soul in the world should ever guess that there had been sacrifice. What was more, I would teach myself that no sacrifice had been made until I had learned the lesson thoroughly by heart.