Not That Sort of Girl (10 page)

‘I still have not touched you. I am putting it off,’ murmured Mylo.

Rose shivered. ‘Do you think I’ll explode, disappear?’

‘You might. This whole thing frightens me,’ said Mylo. ‘Let’s get some tea. I have so much to tell you. I feel faint with love.’

‘If you’ve had no lunch your faintness may be due to hunger,’ said Rose, reaching for the mundane.

From the warmth of the Malones’ kitchen they had brought a tray laden with teapot, buttery crumpets, bread and butter, strawberry jam, wedges of Christmas cake and mince pies. In the light from the log fire and the frosty starlight of the winter’s evening, they ate sitting side by side on the sofa.

It did not seem necessary to talk—the whole of the rest of their lives stretched ahead.

When they had finished Mylo took the tray back to the kitchen. Rose sat waiting for his return, listening to the distant sound of the house party, no longer playing tennis but fooling and flirting in the drawing-room at the other end of the house. Emily and Nicholas had knit themselves into the company, making their mark with the girls from London, consolidating themselves with the Malones, forgetting her. Waiting for Mylo, Rose felt an elation and trepidation which was entirely new to her, scary.

Mylo, coming back, switched on a lamp, bringing light to pry into dark corners and illuminate Rose’s eyes and mouth. He knelt beside her on the hearth rug.
‘Elle est belle à la chandelle,’
he quoted.

‘Mais le grand tour gâte tout,’
she carried on.

‘So you know Molière?’ He was surprised.

‘A little. Nicholas taunted me with those lines when I was fifteen …’

‘I was not going to quote further than the first line. Shall I get even with him for you?’

‘I think life will do that. Tell me about you.’

‘Where to start?’

‘Your parents, perhaps. People always seem to docket one by one’s family—it is not always fair.’

‘They are dead,’ said Mylo.

Rose said nothing.

‘I will try and bring them alive for you. While you played tennis I was thinking of them. They once, when I was small, tried to tell me about love. I will tell you what they said some day, but not now.’

‘They warned you?’

‘They could not warn me against something they cherished so …’

‘Oh, fortunate people,’ Rose exclaimed.

Mylo stared at Rose. ‘Yes. My father was clever, rash, impetuous. A burster of bubbles, a reporter of uncomfortable facts. He loved ideas. He was traveller, linguist, lover. He adored my mother, and she him. My mother was Jewish, beautiful, French, determined; she built around us a barrier of love. They had great ups and downs,’ said Mylo, ‘because my father would not compromise, nor would my mother have allowed him to.’

‘And they made you happy?’

‘Very happy. You would have loved them, and they you.’

‘Thank you for telling me about them.’

Mylo put logs on the fire, stacking them in the glowing ash so that the draught would reach them and they would flare up. ‘And you?’ he asked gently. ‘Shall you tell me about your parents?’

Rose drew a long breath. ‘My father is dying of cancer, at least he thinks he is; I find it hard to believe, but that’s the general idea. He is a solicitor, not successful, I don’t know why. Yes, I do, I must be honest. He is unsuccessful because he is all things to all men, and people don’t really like it. He tries to please people when they want plain facts, even nasty ones, so they do not trust him (and nor do I, she whispered). Then he is a snob. It matters very much to him who people are, how much money they have. Why are you laughing?’

‘I am not laughing,’ said Mylo, who had gasped at the pain in Rose’s voice.

‘My mother is much the same,’ Rose went on, ‘but she is shy and awkward. When she has people to the house, she infects them with her embarrassment. I have never spoken of my parents like this before. She is desperately anxious that I should get married to a man with money. She forced me to come to this tennis today; she thought I would meet someone suitable. You
are
laughing.’

‘You have met
me.’

‘In her eyes or my father’s you would be a calamity,’ cried Rose in anguish, ‘and awful though I have made them sound, I suppose I love them but,’ she cried, ‘they do not love each other. The idea of cancer is a plot to escape each other.’

‘Oh, my love.’ Mylo put his arms round Rose. ‘There,’ he said, kissing her, ‘there, I have touched you at last.’ Locking her in his arms, consoling her. ‘Oh, my love.’ He did not know whether he consoled her for her parents or for his love.

‘Mylo, Mylo, Mylo,’ Rose loved his name, her arms round his neck, her face against his.

‘Listen …’ he said.

Trooping from the drawing-room through the hall they heard the house party in high-pitched badinage, George’s laugh, Richard shouting some fool joke, Nicholas sniggering, the girls answering with coos and yelps, abrupt screams. ‘They are going up to change. There is to be a dance.’

‘Not for us,’ said Rose smugly.

‘Shall I drive you home? Fetch your coat and meet me in the back drive by Mrs Malone’s car.’

‘I must say goodbye and thank her. I’ll be quick.’ She could not bear to part with him.

‘Goodbye,’ she said to Mrs Malone, sitting tiredly in the drawing-room, ‘and thank you for a lovely day.’

‘Pretty boring, I’m afraid, you did not play much tennis. You must come again.’ Mrs Malone’s head ached; she planned a drink of stiffish whisky while she had her bath. The Freeling girl seemed anxious to leave. And I don’t blame her, thought Mrs Malone. All the boys do is work the girls up until they become noisy and shriek, high time they got married, this one seems quiet enough.

Rose fled through the house to join Mylo. ‘You will have to remember the names of the suitable people you played tennis with,’ he said.

‘Tomorrow. Not now.’ She slammed the car door shut, sat beside him.

Mylo kissed her, holding her face in his hands. ‘Who else have you kissed, Rose?’

‘The only person who kissed me did it for a laugh under the mistletoe. He had a wet mouth and a moustache; it was horrible.’

‘I can’t be jealous of him.’

‘There will never be anyone for you to be jealous of …’

‘Oh, Rose …’

How innocent we were, thought Rose half a century on, lying in the hotel bed. Pathetic in a comical way. Embarking on the rapids which crashed us together, tore us apart. In the stillness of the night, from the woods across the creek, there was the sudden shriek of a vixen calling for a dog fox, the blood-chilling scream which has terrified many a city dweller into fits (somebody is getting murdered out there). Rose stiffened in sharp recollection. The vixen screamed again as her ancestress had screamed the night she first met Mylo. Rose lay back, straining her ears. Who am I listening for? Ned? Mylo? Poor Ned, gone. Ned, cremated, dust, dust.

‘I won’t come in with you,’ said Mylo as they drove, ‘I will come and see you as soon as I can escape my tutorial duties.’

‘It would be better not,’ Rose agreed. ‘They will not like you,’ she said. ‘I don’t want this day ruined.’ My mother, she thought, or my father could sully Mylo with one derogatory glance. I shall feel stronger tomorrow.

‘You can regale them with your exploits at tennis.’

‘I broke my father’s racquet and can’t remember who I played with.’

‘You will remember by the morning. Shall you tell them about me?’

‘Oh, no, they would try and spoil you, you don’t know them. I will tell them nothing. I know it is best so.’

‘I could shout my joy from the housetops.’

‘Better not. When you meet them, you will understand. You could have told your family. I cannot tell mine. They are destructive.’

‘Then we shall be secret to one another.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ said Mylo who, young as he was, knew the dissipating power of gossip. ‘It may not be for very long,’ he said, ‘but I shall keep mum.’

‘Stop here,’ said Rose. ‘There is a short cut through the wood.’

They got out, leaving the car by the side of the road and walked up a grass ride, their feet crunching on the brittle frozen grass. They held hands, walking in silence, then a full moon dodged suddenly from behind a cloud, lighting the bare branches of the trees, exposing their faces to each other so that they stood and stared and examined each line and hollow, every curve of lip and cheek, taking note for their future. Then Mylo held her close and hugged her, and Rose discovered the joy of pressing against him, warming her cold nose against his neck as he nuzzled and kissed her. It was then the vixen screamed. Clinging together, they whispered, ‘Hush, listen, will he answer?’ And again the vixen screamed.

‘Oh, Mylo,’ said Rose, ‘I hope I never call for you and get no answer.’

‘Only death would stop me, although,’ said Mylo, laughing now, ‘in the nature of things I might get delayed, my love, but I will come, I won’t be long.’

How long is fifty years? Rose asked herself, lying sleepless in the hotel bed. How does one calculate the passage of time and retain one’s sanity?

M
RS FREELING WOKE EARLY,
as was her habit, and heaved herself up on one elbow. Two yards away, her husband slept on his back, his mouth open, his breath going in-out-in-out in lugubrious rhythm.

At this hour before she had collected them, her thoughts wandered stumbling along the route beyond the noticeboard which said, No trespassing. The first unformulated thought said: I wish, if he is going to die, that he would, not hang about like this.

The second said: At least in London we can have separate rooms that will lead without quibble to separate rooms here. Then, if he should die, I could sell this house and move into something smaller, easier to run. Or a flat.

And next: If Rose would only get married, I could live alone.

Then she thought: I did not hear her come in last night; I wonder whether she got to know any new people at the party? She’s pretty, it should not be too hard to marry her off to someone suitable. I really must do something about it. I wonder how one begins? I’m so bad at that sort of thing.

Here Mrs Freeling permitted her dream to present her with a son-in-law who, besides taking Rose on, would gratuitously produce a rent-free house or cottage for his mother-in-law. But that was going too far, too fast. Just let Rose marry.

Mrs Freeling sank back on her pillows and breathed deeply and slowly from her stomach in-out-in-out thirty-six times which should, she had read somewhere, induce beautiful thoughts and peace of mind. Perhaps, she thought, marriage would be all right for Rose; perhaps she would not mind the physical part—so messy at best, so painful at worst. There were women who did not seem to mind. It must be terrible to be raped, thought Mrs Freeling, thrusting into her unconscious the belief that her husband had raped her on their wedding night (and subsequently), and that Rose’s birth, another agonising incident, was its direct consequence.

Time to get up.

Mrs Freeling swung her legs over the side of the bed and felt for her slippers. I was stupid, she told herself, getting into her dressing gown, to put up with a double bed all those years. It’s been much better since we had twin beds. If Rose marries, I shall advise twin beds from the start.

Mrs Freeling set off to the bathroom.

As she cleaned her teeth, Mrs Freeling thought, Rose should be able to find a husband; if she were ten years older, it would be another story, she would be up against the shortage of men since the last war. There had been ‘ten million surplus women, ten million surplus wives’ in the words of the music hall song. They didn’t know their luck, thought Mrs Freeling, spitting into the basin, rinsing her toothbrush under the tap.

As she dressed, Mrs Freeling shed her waking thoughts, resumed with vest, knickers, suspender belt, stockings, shoes, tweed skirt, blouse and cardigan, her proper persona. Then she knelt briefly by her bed to say her morning prayers, Our Father forgive us our trespasses, before trotting briskly downstairs to see whether the maids had her husband’s breakfast tray ready.

‘Morning, girls.’

‘Morning, madam.’

‘I will take it up to him,’ she said, supervising the lightly boiled egg, toast, butter, marmalade and china tea, ‘he likes me to be there as he wakes. I like to see him.’

‘Yes, madam,’ said cook.

The house parlourmaid said nothing; she had had a letter from her mother in Wales and felt homesick.

Mrs Freeling carried the tray upstairs. As she passed Rose’s bedroom door she rapped on it smartly. ‘Time to get up,’ she called, ‘breakfast is ready.’

Rose groaned, a groan she had perfected during adolescence, knowing the groan was expected. On no account could she let out the shout of, ‘I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love,’ which welled up. Damp it down, treasure it, keep it secret.

‘Here we are, darling, here’s your breakfast. How did you sleep? Let me plump up your pillows. Wait a sec, here are your teeth—how do you feel this morning, my poor darling? Is that all you need? Yes, I’ll ask her at breakfast and get her to come up and tell you all about it. Oh, you’ll be up? That’s good. Feeling better today? How wonderful. Soon be in London and get started on the treatment. Sooner the better. I’ll just open the window a crack, it’s a bit fuggy in here. I’ll get you a shawl to put round your shoulders …’

‘Don’t fuss me. Leave the window as it is.’

‘Oh, very well. I’ll send Rose up for the tray presently …’

‘I’m getting up. Why don’t you listen?’

‘Of course you are, sorry. It’s a lovely morning. I can’t wait to hear how Rose got on.’

‘I can. She broke my racquet.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘Couldn’t sleep. Got up and went downstairs to read for a bit. Saw it on the hall table. Brand new Slazenger.’

‘Oh, dear, I wonder how it happened?’

‘Broke it over some young fool’s head.’

‘Nonsense, darling, Rose would never …’

‘Where’s
The Times?’

‘Oh, sorry, I forgot to put it on the tray. I’ll send Rose up with it, then you …’

‘Don’t bother, can’t read the paper properly in bed, uncomfortable.’