Gracious Living (20 page)

Vivienne and Line stayed together all day, either taking in the view at the carpark with Martin or watching the horses in the mounting yards. Their choice for the Cup was Happy Union; it started at twenty-five to one and came in eighteenth. Together with the Rostens, they left the course early, about an hour after the last race, another engagement, they said, but a few days later over coffee with Kate and Elizabeth, Vivienne said that if it hadn’t been for her grandparents she wouldn’t have gone at all; she’d never been so bored in all her life and if Cup Day was the acme of human endeavour then the species was in for a sorry
future – which as a linguist she had known for years: any group that could discard its language in so careless a manner had abandoned civilisation.

Lottie Rosten went her own way and when she returned to the carpark at the end of the day having backed several winners she was well pleased. As many were. Gold and Black won ‘because my outfit brought him luck,’ Paulé said. Adrian had had a big win and was intent on inviting everyone back to the car for drinks; the entire carpark was filled with the sounds of frivolity. Elizabeth watched Adrian as he made his way through the crowd, bottle of champagne in one hand a glass in the other, pouring drinks for old friends and new. When he disappeared from view she turned her attention back to Lauren Warneke who had joined her just before the second-last race.

Elizabeth had not seen Lauren since the mothers’ group disbanded back in 1972. She had worn badly. Her voice scratched with tar and nicotine, skin dragged on her bones, she was sad and drunk. For nearly two hours she had been talking and crying, drinking and smoking, and although Elizabeth, with problems of her own, would have preferred not to be the sump for another’s despair, she had never been able to refuse someone in distress and could not now. Lauren’s slurred and serpentine talk was of Sherrie, the daughter she had given up four years before, and whom she had not seen since. Stewart had pronounced that period of their lives closed – why open old wounds? he said, why visit past mistakes? – and Lauren had tried to comply.

When Sherrie had first left the family home, she had gone to live at a large institution; two years ago she and four other children had moved from the institution into an ordinary house. Lauren had known all about the move, indeed, her consent had been required for it, but while a day never passed without her daughter playing on her mind, Lauren had stayed away, until a few weeks ago.

‘I’ve lived in fear of the day when Sherrie would turn up and accuse me of dumping her. I thought it’d be better if I made the first contact – because it’s true I did dump her. But either she had to go, or I’d lose my marriage and the boys. Stewart was quite
clear about that.’ She gulped the last of her champagne and poured some more. ‘No choice at all.’

Among the crowds returning to the carpark was Stewart Warneke. Elizabeth had noticed him soon after the last race, wandering among the cars obviously in search of his wife. Lauren had been so upset that Elizabeth had deliberately shielded them from view. Now Stewart appeared and a glance at his wife told the whole story. He nodded to Elizabeth, a curt cold recognition, and led his wife away.

‘There’s a museum of misery,’ Kate said, occupying the space just vacated by Lauren. ‘I have to confess I saw her hours ago, long before she came and sat with you, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak to her. What a sad waste of a life.’

‘Lauren made her choices.’ Elizabeth spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘She said she had no choice, but she did.’

Kate looked at Elizabeth, usually so sympathetic, the person who never refused a shoulder or a receptive ear, the person they said was too soft, too easily moved.

Elizabeth responded to the gaze. ‘There’s always choice,’ she said. ‘It may be that none of the options is particularly appealing, but there’s always choice.’ She leaned closer, the firm, deliberate voice again. ‘
You
know that, Kate.’

And Kate did: her choice had been Walter. ‘Not that he’s ever prevented me from doing what I wanted.’

Elizabeth smiled, it was true enough. Kate had travelled widely, there had been a roster of lovers, and she had studied – the MA had been finished just over a year ago after six years of none-too-dedicated attention, and now she was enrolled for a PhD. ‘But you’ve always put Walter first. Besides, who’s to say that without him you wouldn’t have realised your wish to live in Scotland, who’s to know if without him there might not have been a permanent relationship?’ Kate grimaced, she was allergic to permanence. ‘No, Kate, it’s not as simple as that, you don’t know how your life might have been if you’d not chosen to keep Walter, and while you might be happy enough with the way things have turned out, you would also have to admit how much easier it would have been without him.’

‘Easier yes, but soulless.’ Kate’s face assumed a wry smile. ‘Did I tell you he threw one of my Waterfords into the bath last week? My fault, I should have had them well out of his reach – I’m only grateful it wasn’t the piece Lottie and Martin gave me. Have you ever broken good crystal?’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘The splinters can look very pretty against pink enamel but what a mess! More like the demise of an entire cabinet rather than one single tumbler. And Walter was in the midst of it ravaged by a dreadful rage and I was so worried he’d cut himself and yet nothing would calm him. The problem was I didn’t know what started him off. In the end I put him in his room and shut the door. It must have been an hour or so later when he came out and found me on the balcony with my herbs, and his little arms were around me and we were the best of friends.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, you’re right, life would be easier without him but very dreary.’

‘Exactly. And you love him.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘We all have choices.’

‘What’s the matter with the two of you.’ Lydia peeled off from the huge crowd now gathered about the cars and stood in front of them, a platter of sandwiches in one hand, her glass in the other. ‘Now girls, listen to Lydia: you’re not allowed to be serious today, I insist on everyone having a good time.’ She offered the sandwiches, ‘Have one of these, they’re delicious, I made them myself. And your drinks! Where are you drinks? What a deplorable state of affairs!’ She turned her back on them and peered into the rabble. ‘Adrian! There you are. Over here with that bottle.’

‘Are you sure that’s all you want?’ Adrian, large and jovial, stood before them.

Lydia giggled. ‘Adrian, you’re awful. Now stop neglecting these girls and pour them a drink.’

Adrian obliged with a flourish. He chatted while he poured: were they all having a good time? he certainly was. Splendid crowd, better than last year, but then only those who could swim stayed on last year. Backed any winners? He’d had a most successful day. With the glasses filled he stood over them, his legs
splayed, arms unfurled, a large man who occupied a lot of space. He chatted some more, then, with a squeeze to his wife’s shoulder, a kiss and the usual ‘Too bad you’re not interested in men’ to Kate and a pat to Lydia’s bottom he left the ladies in order to attend to other empty glasses. Through it all Elizabeth had sat immobile, silent jaws pulsing.

‘Move over, Kate, and give me some of your chair, I simply have to take the weight off my feet.’

Elizabeth stood up. Take mine, Lydia, I’ve been sitting for hours. Besides I want to meet Vivienne’s friend and it looks as if they’re about to leave.’ She walked away and was shortly observed in animated conversation with Vivienne and Line.

That’s better, thought Kate.

Lydia stretched and sighed. ‘What a wonderful day and haven’t we been lucky with the weather? The clouds just blew over; God must have decided to look after us after last year’s deluge.’

‘Yes,’ said Kate, ‘that’s just the sort of thing to occupy God.’

But the sarcasm passed over Lydia. ‘And what a marvellous crowd.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You’ll never guess who I saw.’ Kate raised her eyebrows. ‘A lesser, very drunk member of the royal family. You know the one I mean?’ Kate nodded, everyone did. ‘And look, there, with Adrian! Isn’t that – ?’ Kate nodded again, it was. ‘They say he’ll be prime minister one day, I wonder whether he’ll drink with us then.’ Kate was sure he would, this was a man who drank with anybody. ‘I love all this,’ Lydia was rhapsodic. ‘Love it.’

‘And how much have you had to drink?’

‘Not much. I’m not a big drinker, you know that, Kate. It’s elation you’re seeing not intoxication – I’m high on the spirit of the day.’ She looked at the crowd, in fact while she and Kate had been talking her eyes had never left it. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to attend to my duties as hostess.’ She stood up. ‘Now, Kate, I want you to try very hard and have fun.’

‘I am, Lydia, stop worrying.’

‘Good.’ And with that she flounced off, flitting from guest to guest, firstly with sandwiches, then salmon patties – now quite defrosted – flirting and nattering, the princess of the party.

Kate looked at her watch. It was six o’clock and now even the serious punters had joined the party. The air was seething with prattling, waving, nodding plumage. The queue at the ladies’ toilets was so long that those on the end found themselves included in the parties of strangers. Although that was incorrect, there were no strangers today: if you were here, in the members’ carpark then you were, or possessed the credentials to be, a friend. And if you season that assumption with copious amounts of alcohol and a determination to have fun, you find that the edges of one party become the centre of another, that a very drunk royal is confiding in you as he would his old nanny, and a future prime minister is kneading as many parts of your anatomy as he can reach. Finally Kate whispered in his ear that she was a lesbian; he released her buttocks and she moved away. Minutes later he returned to her buttocks. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘You don’t look like one, don’t feel like one either.’ She assured him it was true. ‘Do you by any chance do threesomes?’

No strangers, no barriers, people swirling in a trough of smells. The air oozed with alcohol and cold savouries, and as you moved through the crowds there were short bursts of perfume and aftershave – it was the year of Madame Rochas and English Leather, Kate was to say later – hairspray and perspiration, canvas and new cars. You’d linger in vaguely familiar odours, hoping to capture vagrant memories from long ago.

Odours of age and odours of youth. Here was a cloud of eager girls, a dozen of them with a few fresh-faced lads. But neither so eager nor so fresh-faced, one of the girls explained; they were celebrating two twenty-first birthdays, the two Jennys, friends since primary school, whose birthdays fell a day apart.

‘We’ve been going at this for nearly twenty-four hours,’ the girl confessed. ‘We began with a Cup Eve party, what a night!’ A hand clapped the smooth forehead in an ancient pose. ‘And aren’t we all suffering for it. Then a birthday breakfast here at eleven.’ She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Kate. ‘Confidentially, none of us is much interested in the gee-gees, so we haven’t moved from the carpark all day. And now it’s nearly six and we weren’t brought up to do this sort of thing.’ She giggled, ‘Or maybe we
were and I misunderstood. And there’s going to be a birthday cake any moment, oodles of cream and chocolate, and while you can’t be impolite, the thought of it turns my stomach.’

Of course it would, Kate agreed, and moved away to replace youthful baying with more mature bellowing – laughter and exclamations – loud, empty and frenzied; the clamour of people having a good time, with no engagement, but in a very particular sense, together. Even the non-drinkers entered into the spirit of the day, putting on performances that often surpassed those of their less sober companions. The talk revolved like dancers on a floor: the races, sex, other people. It seemed half the people had backed Gold and Black for a fortune and the other half had intended to but someone had made them change their mind at the last minute.

‘Of course I backed Gold and Black,’ Paulé Warby was saying, ‘but I also had a sentimental bet on Van der Hum. I won on him last year.’

‘But Paulé darling,’ Sir Hugh Nethercott said, his non-drinking arm draped across her shoulders, his hand dangling over her left breast, ‘last year wasn’t a horse race, the track was a quagmire. I thought even you would have noticed the difference.’

‘Don’t be so mean, Hugh,’ she said, placing a jocular but nonetheless sharp elbow in his paunch and reclaiming her breast.

‘Temper, temper Paulé darling. Come back and let old Uncle Hugh kiss it better.’

And back she sidles because Hugh Nethercott isn’t such a bad fellow after all and who else will she talk to?

Sex, horses and other people.

‘I thought Reckless had it won.’ ‘Alex! you didn’t put your money on Reckless. Hasn’t anyone ever told you sentiment is no friend of the punter?’ ‘Too right, Roy. And what did you think of Salamander?’ ‘Still running.’ ‘It’s a mug’s game.’

‘Drinks anyone? Roy? Tony? Alex? Not slowing up are we?’

David, dark and muscled as a wombat, filled their glasses and moved on.

‘Some people should. If Paulé Warby wasn’t holding him up, I doubt if Hugh Nethercott could stand.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Hugh’s an old hand.’ The one called Tony pulled out his wallet. ‘I’ll tell you what, Roy, I bet you twenty Hugh’s still standing when the party’s over.’

‘Make it fifty and you’re on, give me a chance to win back a bit of what I lost today. I had a shocker.’

Lydia approached the three men.

‘Any of you men like some caviar?’

‘No thanks, but if you’re offering anything else . . . Eh boys?’

‘You fellows are incorrigible.’

‘Who is she?’ Roy asked as Lydia moved off to the next group.

‘That’s Lydia Branch,’ Tony said. ‘But forget it, she’s well and truly occupied.’

‘Not with her husband surely!’

Tony laughed and shook his head.

‘Well, who then?’

‘Adrian Dadswell.’

‘Adrian! And you say she’s fully occupied? I’d dispute that. I saw Adrian twice last week, both times at bars, both times with a woman neither his wife nor Lydia Branch.’