Good Behaviour (30 page)

‘What shall I do?’ Mummie said to Rose, who brought her the telegram. When she asked Rose a question it was as though she
laid a burden down.

‘He’ll have to come for the funeral,’ Rose decided, ‘but he won’t be staying. After he sees the yellow room, he’ll be laying
his plans for the night mail.’ Their eyes met. Something like naughtiness flashed between them.

‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Mummie agreed, ‘and Miss Aroon can meet the boat train – that would be cheaper than a taxi.
Not that petrol’s cheap. And all these telegrams – the porterage must be in pounds and pounds.’

‘Ah, don’t upset yourself, madam,’ Rose said. ‘It will only all come out of the estate.’

I kept quiet. I was so worried that any show of agreement from me would change their decisions. However deeply it might hurt
me, a longing to hear about Richard, to keep in touch, throbbed in me as regularly as the ticking in a poisoned finger. Besides
this – to see the companion of Papa’s youthful rampages would be to explore a bright place where Papa belonged by right, a
place where I could see him far distant from the patient doll he had become. The doll I was not allowed to play with. I had
fought for my rights of possession in him and I suppose I had lost. Clearer than the memory of his hobbling run across the
fields to save me when Hubert’s horse had hopped it so ungovernably came the other memory: his betrayal of our hour, his agreeable
subjection to Mummie’s quiet derision. The ghosts and whiffs of disloyalties stirred in that past air, hinting at pity, not
at love.

On the night he died, when in my distress I looked in for the comfort of helping him, Papa had needed nobody but Rose – Rose
who had killed him with her spoiling and her whisky. I would have given him anything except whisky. Surely he might have needed
me most.

I stood with unknown travellers in the cold of the gloomy station waiting for the boat train. Steam plumed the air, fortified
by the hissing of water on hot ash and hot iron. A small, sedate engine made a supreme effort and set off with its train and
its few serious passengers. The emptied rails and lines assumed a magnificence. Over my head the iron stays and echoing unfurnished
arches of the station became part of the empty spaces within me. I stood waiting in their cold shelter, sometimes wetting
my lips and sucking them in, folding them under and over. It was a relief. It was companionable.

Presently the daily business proceeding inattentively round me proved a sedation; the ceremonial surrounding trains lifted
my heart by its very distance from myself. A magnificent ticket collector, stuffed man of the moment, strode unseeing towards
me, removed, like a great toy, from real life. I felt the moment had come to inquire about the boat train. He only shook his
head. He conveyed a mystery he could not probe.

‘She’s late,’ was all he told me. The train might have been coming in across miles of steppes, followed by wolves; he
would not answer for her. I decided I had time to go to the ladies’ lavatory, and it was from there that I heard the sounds
of the boat train rushing to its standstill; gasping out steam; its carriage doors clanking open and banging shut; calls for
porters; willing responses; barrows rattling beneath the frosted window of the lavatory; footsteps making their coherent passage
to an immediate purpose. Above the common noises, a voice, direct as a child’s, flowed and floated on the air: ‘Is the bar
open?’ it asked.

‘It is of course, sir.’

‘Ah, splendid. And can you tell me at what time the five-thirty boat train leaves for Cork?’

‘At half past five, sir.’

‘Ah, splendid. That’s what I thought.’

‘Are you being met, sir?’

‘I hope so. Just look after this stuff, would you? And keep an eye on that. Don’t touch it. Just watch it. I don’t want to
take it into the bar … ’

The voice could only belong to Papa’s friend. When I came out his porter was still standing beside a lavishly preserved leather
suitcase across which a camel’s-hair rug and a dark overcoat were folded neatly. Placed on top of the lot, as though on a
newly plump grave, was an enormous wreath of orchids, sustained on wire and moss and backed by a hedge of variegated holly.
Orchids for Papa, I thought; what a rehabilitation. With the orchids came a clear picture of Papa at hunt balls, the exotics
yearning round. Although he couldn’t dance because of his gammy leg, and never talked much, and would be silent now for always,
his enchantment was imperishable.

Tears pushed into my eyes again, tears for himself, not for
his death. I swallowed them strictly down before Major Massingham, Papa’s forbidden friend, who had once flogged Richard,
and from his distant magnificence had paralysed and frightened Mrs Brock, came bundling towards me. I saw an elderly gentleman
in a tweed coat and a soft brown hat worn at his own sacredly absurd angle. He took my hand.

‘How dear of you to meet me. You’re –? You’re –?’

‘I’m Aroon.’

‘Of course. What a girl, bless you, aren’t you? Ghastly day for you. End of an era for us all, actually. Let’s get my stuff
into your car, shall we, and then perhaps something to steady the nerves. Look
OUT
—’ he shouted as his porter picked up the
orchids and holly. ‘My dear fellow, don’t hold it like that, you’re going to drop it and ruin the whole thing.’ He picked
up the wreath gingerly. ‘I took a separate cabin for this last night,’ he said, ‘only one berth in mine. How do you like it?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, I think so.’

When we had shut the car door on the wreath and the luggage and he had given the porter a small tip (doesn’t do to overdo
things) we went back to the bar.

‘I shall have a glass of port and brandy,’ he said decidedly, ‘and I’m going to make you one of my specials. Have you a lemon
about you?’ he asked the woman behind the bar. ‘Good girl. Splendid. Now we need a large measure of brandy and a small bottle
of dry ginger ale. Oh, capital. I feel it’s called for. Now, tell me if you like it.’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. We sat near the fire at a marble-topped table with iron legs.

‘I suppose we shall be in time for this five-thirty train,’ he said, looking unhappily at the clock, which said eleven-forty-five.
‘How far is Temple Alice? And the funeral is at two o’clock? I suppose we couldn’t hurry things on a bit? No, of course not.
What time do we lunch? That’s a question. Quite a question.’

I had no answer for his question so I asked if he’d had a good crossing.

‘My wife was rather against the whole thing,’ he said absently. ‘The heart, you know, the old heart. Your mother didn’t want
me to come either. I expect she always thought I was a poor influence.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He gave me a jackdaw glance. ‘You’ll miss him all right, poor child. We all have our difficulties. And Hubert. Too dreadful.’
He put his hand on the back of mine, then took it away again. ‘I shall have to get into the right kit before luncheon. Shouldn’t
we go?’

‘It’s warmer here.’ Everything was expanding for me. Ease soared from me and flowed back through me. I was going to say it.
It was easy. ‘How’s Richard?’ I had said it.

‘Oh, my dear, my dear,’ he looked at me; there were tears in the red-veined blue eyes, ‘he’s in a ghastly pickle.’

I was going to be generous. ‘She looks wonderful,’ I said.

‘The whole thing’s beyond me,’ he said.

I was going to be more than generous: ‘I expect they’ll be terribly happy.’

‘If that’s his idea of happiness—’

‘He must be happy.’ I wanted to hear him deny it.

‘Wrong from the first.’ He shook his head and looked into his glass. ‘Reading books in trees. Nannie was right – unhealthy
stuff. Then there was that governess – we sacked her. She was in it somehow. Queer person. She found things. Gave a couple
of good winners too, but it got a bit much. Mrs
Who, can’t remember.’

‘Mrs Brock. She drowned herself.’

‘Did she? Did she really? Sad. Then that footman, quite harmless of course, but we sacked him too. Nannie thought he was a
poor influence – one does one’s best. Trouble at school. Who hasn’t, after all? Forget it, I always think.’

‘But he’ll be happy now,’ I insisted. I must hear him contradict me. It was my right.

‘How do I know? No use asking me. Terribly upset about Hubert. That was unfortunate – we hoped this damned expensive safari
would help that. Now he comes home with some wonderful heads and horns and gets himself into this fix. Poor girl, she’s pretty
upset.’

My heart could not contain the hope filling it. How to ask? ‘Do you mean … ?’

‘Yes. I do mean.’ He looked like an angry blue-eyed baby with a pain it can’t explain. ‘Broken off his engagement, broken
up the entail, upset his mother, and taken himself off to farm in Kenya with Baby Kintoull.’

The glory drained, the hope failed – always the same. The post comes daily and no letter for me. I was licking my lips, alone
again. Baby Kintoull – I could see her in whipcord trousers and an open-necked shirt, blond and sunburnt. I might as well
know the worst: ‘I suppose she’s beautiful?’

‘Good-looking,’ he corrected me.

‘Married?’

‘Married?’ His blue eyes dropped open. ‘I don’t think you quite have the riding of it,’ he spoke gently. He paused. ‘They
were in the same house at Eton. Let’s have another drink,’ he said.

He went across to the bar and left me under an arching of
the sky. Now I knew why the station roof soared and vaulted upwards. It was to give space enough to the volume of my happiness.
When he put the drinks down on our table my being leaned out towards him as if I leaned far out of the window that was myself
into a sunny day.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I wanted to thank him for a moment only comparable to that flying moment when Richard had kissed me,
but my acceptance of the drink had to do instead. He drank his third glass of port and brandy as in duty bound and looked
doubtfully at my glass. ‘What time do we lunch, did you say? Perhaps we really ought to be making a move.’

‘Oceans of time,’ I said. I wanted to sit on and on in this warm, kind place where the moments went dimpling, sliding by,
and even the bottles on the shelves looked so more than real, so more like bottles than bottles, so true to themselves. Truth
was so easy to see and speak, entirely believable when spoken. My elbow slipped off the edge of the table. I put it back again.

‘I shall have to change out of these clothes before luncheon.’

‘If you want to know –’ words loomed out of my mouth – ‘I don’t think there’s going to be any luncheon.’

‘Oh, I can’t believe that.’

‘And another thing you won’t believe –’ I was free; I could say what I pleased – ‘Richard loved me.’

‘I’m so worried about catching that five-thirty train.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘I know you’ll do your best to get me there in time.’

‘No question.’

‘Then drink up, like a good girl. Let’s get going.’

He didn’t take in what I was saying, a bit muzzy probably
after all that port and brandy. I felt clear as a bell myself. They would toll a bell for Papa. ‘You heard what I said?’

‘I wonder if they would make us a ham sandwich?’

I’m not a greedy person about food and drink. My theory is: if it’s there, I may as well. ‘What a good idea.’ I accepted it.
‘And you do believe me?’

‘Of course. Absolutely. Did you say we’re twenty miles from Temple Alice?’

‘Nineteen and three-quarters; we’ll do it easily.’ I spoke distinctly, repeating three-quarters carefully because I really
didn’t think he was making much sense. He went across to the bar, and not too steady on his feet, I thought; good thing I’m
driving. He came back with a plateful of ham sandwiches and a pot of mustard. He put the plate down in front of me.

‘Blotting paper. And that very kind girl tells me I can change in the station master’s office. There’s a huge fire going in
there, she says, and he’ll be simply delighted. I think that’s best, don’t you?’

‘Then you needn’t see Mummie, or only just.’

‘That’s a point too. Eat up like a good girl. Is your car locked?’

‘I forget if it does lock.’

‘Oh dear.’ He looked at me. ‘This
is
a rampage. Give me the key in case.’

‘If I can find it –’ I spoke with proper weight and responsibility – ‘you may certainly have it. But don’t lose it.’ After
a search in my bag I remembered distinctly that the car door hadn’t locked for years, but I gave him the ignition key as he
was looking anxious and I wanted everybody to be happy now that I knew Richard was not going to marry any glorious girl.
If he would come back to me across the world I would wait through a thousand safaris.

What would he say? Now I wondered what he would say when he came for me. I could not decide, but I could clearly see myself
in a low (though roomy) thatched house in the foothills of Kilimanjaro with dark servants bowing low, cooking exquisitely.
Some happy years in the high air and the sun, then, when Mummie died – my breath came sharp across my teeth – we would come
back (with our two jolly little boys) to Temple Alice. Perhaps I would give Rose the furthest gate lodge, but I would not
put in a lavatory and she could go to the well for water and pick up dry sticks for her fire in the ash plantation. I saw
her, an old woman stooping under frozen trees. She would get a new cardigan every Christmas from me. I felt myself hover over
the future, all time between lost. The thought of Papa brought me only happiness. How glad I was that I had told him Richard
and I were lovers, especially now that he could never question or betray me.

‘Would you bring me another of these?’ The girl behind the bar looked doubtful.

‘A small brandy, miss?’ she said rather miserably.

How little she knew what I was celebrating: ‘A large brandy, please, and give yourself a drink as well.’ My kind feelings
for everyone overpowered me. ‘Do be happy,’ I said to her. ‘I want you to be happy.’ She put the drink and a little bottle
of ginger ale on the table beside me and skipped nervously back to the bar. With careful and delicate precision I poured the
ginger ale, just enough and not a drop too much, into the brandy, and stretched my feet to the fire.