Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (29 page)

‘It’s so beautiful! You must be enjoying doing it.’

The decorator pursed his lips and squinted sideways at the squirrel he was painting in shades of russet and grey. ‘It’s what I’d call old-fashioned like, along wi’ they cracketts. I’m a magnolia man mesel’.’

I inspected the despised ‘cracketts’ that stood one each side of the fire. They were long low divans, oriental in style and upholstered in crimson silk, with round, tasselled bolsters at the arms. Another, covered in green velvet, was positioned by the window so that one could lie gazing out at the stupendous view. The floor had been scrubbed and polished and overlaid with Persian carpets.

‘What d’you think?’ Isobel came to link her arm through mine. She wore an amber-coloured wool suit with a little jacket that fastened asymmetrically and a full skirt appliquéd with quilted satin zigzags. Her hair had been cut short in a spiky urchin style.

‘It’s ravishing.’ I fingered her sleeve. The wool was as soft as rabbit’s fur.

‘Oh, this? It’s Tonio Cellini, darling. It cost my entire year’s dress allowance. Except Conrad paid, of course. But I meant the decorations.’

‘It’s enchanting. Now the inside of the house will fit the outside. Extravagantly fantastical.’

‘You haven’t seen anything yet. This pipe that they’ve had to put in to shore up the ceiling,’ she pointed to a pillar perhaps half a metre in diameter in the middle of the room, ‘is going to be made into an oak tree with gilded leaves and a silver trunk and warm air’ll be directed through it to heat the room so there won’t have to be any radiators. Rafe.’ She beckoned to her brother who had been walking round, hands in his pockets, looking at the improvements. He came to join us. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘It’s very … fanciful.’

‘You mean you don’t like it?’

‘I didn’t say that. It’s just a bit more –’ he described circles with his hands – ‘elaborate than I’m used to. I like early Georgian.’

‘
He
says he’s a magnolia man,’ I said in a low voice indicating the decorator. ‘Does it mean men can only like one thing? How dull for them.’ I smiled to show that I was teasing.

‘I won’t have my sex impugned by a slip of a girl,’ replied Rafe. ‘Be careful, Miss Savage, or I shall take my revenge.’

Isobel stared at me and then at him. She could not have failed to hear a note in his voice that was flirtatious and at the same time proprietorial.

‘What do you think of my new look?’ she asked with a hint of challenge.

Rafe inspected her then turned her round so he could see the back. ‘Very smart. Highly fashionable, I’m sure. But you know I’m conservative in my tastes. I liked the old you better.’

‘I’m still the old me inside. Nothing can change that.’

‘Oh good, you’ve arrived.’ Golly came in carrying a tray of tea things, followed by Conrad, who acknowledged our arrival with one of his graceful little bows. She was wearing her brown boiler suit as usual. ‘Marigold! No crutches! And what a very nice leg it is! Every bit as nice as the other one.’ She put the tray on a table and kissed me warmly, took a step towards Rafe as though she might kiss him, then thought better of it. ‘Fritz is bringing the cake. I’m ravenous.’ She threw herself onto one of the divans by the fire and seized the silver teapot. ‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday. The milk was off this morning and ants had got into the bread bin.’

‘You should have a cook,’ said Conrad.

‘My dear boy, I only eat three times a day. What would they do for the rest of the time? Besides, I should feel fidgety having someone huffing over my shoulder.’

‘Fritz does not huff. He makes himself useful in countless ways.’

‘Fritz is an exception. You’re a lucky dog. Good things come to you like flies to a stale bun. I suppose you wouldn’t consider lending him to me? Just while I write my new opera?’

‘Certainly not. I need him myself. I did not know you had begun it.’

‘My opera, you mean? Oh, I’ve only just jotted down a few musical themes. I’m looking for a plot. Something fresh and
timeless but with contemporary resonances. Not Shakespeare or Goethe or any of the big boys. They’ve all been done to death. I want something that seems charming and almost lightweight on the surface, but into which you can read all sorts of darker themes. A medieval fairy tale perhaps. What do you think of the
Morte d’Arthur
?’

‘A terrible idea. We have all had a surfeit of Camelot.’ He looked at me. ‘Your leg is better?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘So you will return to London straightaway.’ He sounded almost as though he was eager to see me go.

‘Oh … well, no … there are plans … lots of decisions to be made.’

He narrowed his eyes slightly but did not question me further. Instead he turned to observe, with a slightly pained expression, Golly pouring the tea and dripping it over the tray. Conrad certainly looked as sane as anybody, I thought, as he took the teapot from her and finished filling the cups. He handed one to me. It was lovely, very fine pale yellow porcelain painted with birds. No, he did not look mad. His eyes did not start, his mouth did not foam and his hair was free from straws. His clothes were not disordered; on the contrary they were neat and stylish and he gave the impression of being quite frighteningly clever. But presumably madness comes in many guises.

Prompted by this idea, I asked Conrad what Ludwig the Second had looked like.

‘He was extremely handsome as a young man but then he became gross. Also because he liked sweets and cakes his teeth fell out. Why do you ask?’

I tried to imagine Conrad fat and toothless. ‘Oh, no particular reason … I suppose he wore beautiful clothes?’

‘He had a preference for ermine and blue velvet. He was an effeminate man.’

I asked myself if Conrad might be gay. Two bachelors living in isolation on a hilltop strongly suggested the possibility. And
he was so keen on interior decoration. His headlong pursuit of Isobel after such a brief acquaintance might be a desperate attempt to resist his natural inclinations. I was quite sure that Fritz preferred men to women, but Conrad was a dark horse.

‘What happened to him in the end?’

‘He withdrew from affairs of state and bankrupted himself decorating castles. Finally he was deposed on grounds of insanity and soon after he drowned in Lake Starnberg. It is generally believed that he committed suicide.’

‘Oh dear.’ I glanced towards the window where Rafe and Isobel were standing, talking earnestly. It was unlucky that there was a lake quite so close.

‘You are interested in Ludwig.’ Conrad gave me one of his penetrating stares.

‘I can’t help thinking of him when I’m in this house. It’s very suitable for a magician.’

‘I prefer the term illusionist. Ludwig was himself obsessed by illusion. He had a grotto made in the castle of Linderhof with an artificial lake and a waterfall and machinery that made waves. He dressed in the costume of Lohengrin and rode in a boat shaped like a cockleshell, drawn by a giant swan. The lights were programmed to change colour after ten minutes, ending with a rainbow. It was ingenious and technically advanced for the time, powered by twenty-four dynamos and heated by seven furnaces. Was it the vision of a genius or a lunatic, would you say?’

Conrad put his hands behind his back and I saw in the depths of his dark eyes the gleam that suggested he was amused. Suddenly I was very nearly certain that he knew why I was asking about Ludwig.

Fritz came in with the cake. He was accompanied by Buster who greeted us all with screams, as though he had not seen any of us for weeks. ‘You permit I bring in the good little dog?’ he asked Rafe. ‘He vas loning in the car and he bark.’

‘He won’t learn if he’s always given in to,’ said Rafe crossly.
‘But it was kind of you to fetch him,’ he added more graciously. ‘I just hope he won’t make a nuisance of himself.’

‘No nuisance. Ve like ze animals. Vat fettle, Marigold? How is your leg? Or I must say, vait you a minute,’ he put down the cake, pulled his notebook from his pocket, riffled through it, then brought out with a little effort, ‘Ha … is … yor … liggie?’

‘Much better, thank you,’ I replied. Fritz looked disappointed. ‘Oh, I mean champion. You must remember I’ve spent most of my life in London. You already speak the local dialect better than I do.’

Fritz brightened. ‘Let us take tea.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Me troat’s aaful gyezend.’

‘Honestly, Fritz, I think you’re making it up,’ said Isobel. ‘Now, Marigold, come and sit next to me.’ She drew me down onto one of the divans. ‘I want to hear all the latest gossip. Is it true what Mrs Capstick tells me about Tom and a femme fatale called Marcia Something?’

‘Isobel!’ said Rafe reprovingly. ‘Have some sensitivity, for God’s sake!’

‘Oh dear,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Is it a sore subject?’ Though I tried to look insouciant, she must have read something in my face for she said in a softer tone, ‘Your father’s very attractive to women. Can he help it if women fling themselves at his head? And personally,’ she lowered her voice so that no one else could hear, ‘I think an unfaithful husband’s better than a dull one.’

Isobel had always defended my father. In some ways they were alike, particularly in their conviction that society’s rules need not apply to them and that any attempt to call their behaviour to order was the result of the most tedious kind of egotism on the part of the moralizer. My father called it cant; Isobel called it eyewash. He had once commended Isobel for being sensual but not sentimental, which he said was a rare combination in a woman.

‘Dimpsie ought to see that Tom’s affairs are nothing to do with love,’ continued Isobel. ‘Of course he’s going to make the
most of any opportunity that comes his way. What man wouldn’t? It’s just a physical release, like going to the lav.’

‘That’ll do, Isobel.’ Rafe looked annoyed.

Isobel smiled mischievously. ‘I’m only repeating the lesson you taught me, that it needn’t mean anything more than scratching an itch.’

The little hollows appeared above Rafe’s eyebrows. ‘I was trying to put you on guard against smooth-tongued philanderers, that’s all. Might we find a more suitable topic for tea time?’

‘
Pas devant les enfants
, you mean.’ She pinched my arm. ‘But Marigold isn’t the innocent she appears.’

Perhaps it was just the pricking of my conscience, but I thought there was something questioning in the look Rafe gave me. I was thankful I hadn’t said anything to Isobel about Sebastian. Her first loyalty would always be to Rafe. But the fact remained that I still hadn’t found the right moment to enlighten him about my previous sexual experiences and this was both craven and dishonest. I sought a diversion.

‘This is so pretty,’ I said, referring to the decoration of the fireplace embrasure.

Bits and pieces from out-of-doors – what Evelyn would have called
objets trouvés
– had been arranged to add to the charm of the room. Each side of the fireplace, a six-foot pine bough had been upended in a bucket of sand. At the end of every branch was a candle. Makeshift shelves of planks and bricks were filled with books interspersed with pebbles, fir cones, nests, eggs and feathers. Presumably Fritz included nature study among his many interests. I could not imagine Conrad troubling himself about such things.

‘I can’t understand why everyone makes such fuss about sex,’ said Golly. ‘I once had a boyfriend and we tried it a few times. It was hell on the knees and I always got a sore throat afterwards.’

Isobel gave an explosive laugh, which she tried unsuccessfully to turn into a cough.

‘You may laugh, my dear,’ said Golly equably. ‘It’s different for a good-looking woman like you. Men want to make you happy. No man ever cared a damn for me. I was born with a plain face and I never learned the art of improving it. When I was a child, my mother said that if you looked at yourself in the mirror for more than ten seconds you’d see the devil grinning over your shoulder. Even now, though I know it’s silly, I never take the risk. Sex seems to me a terrible waste of time – but I suppose millions of people can’t be wrong.’

‘Not everyone has your dedication, Golly,’ said Conrad. ‘For all those who never read a book or go to a concert or an art gallery, and we are informed that they are in the majority, there is plenty of time to waste.’

I could tell that this conversation was doing nothing to endear Golly to Rafe. His eyebrows were making more pronounced V-shapes.

‘How do you make this wonderful cake?’ I asked Fritz.

‘You make a bottom viz flour and lemons and eggsies and
die Hefe
– vat is zat?’

‘Yeast,’ said Conrad.

‘Yes, yeast and zen you add it a mix-up of wanilla and cream, zen you it smozzer viz butter and nots and honey. It is very good … no –’ he held up a finger, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it – ‘it is purely belta, wey aye?’

‘I’ve never heard anyone say that. Are you sure?’ Fritz showed me his vocabulary list. It seemed to be a foreign language.

‘I haf here,’ Fritz searched in his other pocket and brought forth a small battered book, ‘some folk fables of Northumberland. This helps me viz the language. They are most charming. I like this one called
The Ring and the Fish
. It is a love story. Shall I it to you read?’

It was a complicated tale about a handsome prince and a beautiful dumb peasant girl. They were madly in love but the king objected to the peasant girl as a daughter–in-law on the grounds of her class and disability and made her undergo a
series of trials in the company of blue-blooded loquacious princesses. After the peasant girl, aided by her superior intelligence and a magic singing cake, had thrashed her competitors, the king declared that any contestant who brought him his own diamond ring would become the prince’s bride. Then he hurled the ring into the sea from the ramparts of his castle. The princesses went back to their kingdoms in terrible tempers and the peasant girl became a cook. She found the ring inside a giant cod, presented it to the king, the young couple married and lived happily ever after.

‘I wish she’d been granted the power of speech at the end,’ I said. ‘It must have been a frustrating marriage having to communicate through a cake. And they were already down to the last few crumbs in her pocket by the wedding day.’