Not That Sort of Girl (25 page)

There is no need, thought Rose, watching him eat, to tell him what we were laughing at. If I told him we were laughing at my poor mother’s horror of sex and particularly of pregnancy, her revulsion at the recollection of me in her womb heaving (Rose suppressed a giggle), it might put him off me in bed. ‘Let’s get to bed as quickly as we can,’ she said.

T
HEY WOULD REMEMBER FOUR
perfect days, four nights spent loving by the light of the fire. Falling asleep. Waking to make love again, then to lie close, each telling tirelessly, gently, of the immensity of love felt now, experienced now, to be cherished for ever.

Mylo would slip out of bed, put coal on the fire, balance another log on the coals, pat Comrade’s head as she lay in her basket, puppies’ noses pressed against her belly, stroke the cats purring in a ball on the hearthrug, return to hold Rose, lie listening to the breeze whispering round the house, to a restive cow lowing in the meadow, the shriek of a far-off train, the distant drone of a bomber. (The war stayed far away, did not impinge.) Time, though not standing still, passed with enchanted slowness. They loved, they slept, they woke to breakfast in the kitchen under Mrs Farthing’s unsurprised eye.

‘What have you told her?’

‘She seems incurious so I say nothing, explanations can bog one down.’ Indeed Farthing, Mrs Farthing, the evacuee waifs treated Mylo as a natural phenomenon, no odder than Ned’s visiting friends or the Malone family when they came to care for Rose in her illness, treating him with reserve, a reserve more stringently applied to the Ministry of Information people, should they come round from their offices at the back of the house confessing that they had forgotten to order milk for their mid-morning cuppas, or, worse, had run out of sugar. (We will pay you back tomorrow when we get our ration). They were given sugar, made to feel they had stepped out of line, should have organised their sugar from their billets in the village.

On the fifth morning Mylo woke to hear rain smacking at the windows, rattling the leaves of the magnolia, wind whingeing and whining round the house, Comrade whimpering restless at the door asking to go out, and the knowledge that today he must telephone London.

Wrapped in a blanket, he went barefoot down to let the dog out, waited holding the door while she hurried out to squat, ears back, eyes slitted disgustedly at the rain, then finished, to scamper back into the dry, shake and patter fast up the stairs to her puppies. Creeping back into bed Mylo woke Rose.

‘What is it? Your feet are cold. Where have you been? Why didn’t you borrow Ned’s dressing gown?’

‘I don’t want his fucking dressing gown. I have to telephone London, report in.’

‘Oh, God! So soon. Oh, must you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I must.’

‘It’s raining. Oh, Mylo, does this mean … ?’

‘No, no, three more days. Keep calm …’

‘How can I possibly?’

‘You must, my darling, we must.’

But the spell, if spell it was, was broken.

‘If I drive you to wherever you have to go we can be together a little longer,’ catching, snatching at time as it meanly accelerated. ‘There’s a hoard of petrol made by Ned for use in dire emergency. This is dire all right, of course it’s dire. I can fill the tank, drive you to wherever, be with you a little longer.’

‘It won’t work. I am not allowed to tell anyone where I go.’

‘Not even me?’

‘Not even you.’

‘Damn, damn, damn. Go and telephone, then,’ she cried in fury.

Mylo telephoned, shutting the library door so that she could not overhear.

Returning, he said, ‘We are all right until Saturday, three more days.’

‘Two and a half.’

‘I shall go up by train.’

‘Can’t I drive you to London?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t be silly, you know perfectly well that what I do, where I go, is secret. I have told you.’

‘You haven’t.’

‘I am telling you now, then.’

‘It’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s the war. Come on,’ he said, ‘cheer up. Don’t let’s spoil our last days.’

‘Could have been more happily put,’ Rose said.

Mylo laughed, but the days were spoiled. Each tried to hide from the other that they counted time passing. Rose found herself comparing Mylo unfavourably with Ned. Ned had made no mystery about his doings, had been quite open about his posting to North Africa, why else would he need to stop in London en route for the north to buy lightweight uniforms? He wrote regularly, true, boringly, but he wrote. Mylo made it plain that there would be no communication once he was gone, no letter, no telephone, silence.

‘How shall I bear it?’ Rose wailed in petulant grief. Almost she enjoyed this grief, voiced it without let.

‘You bore it before.’ Here Mylo let the irritation up to now suppressed by the days of joy and love surface. Rose had changed since their last parting, grown assured. She was no longer the shy uncertain girl he had met at the winter tennis, she was mistress of Slepe, people responded to her, did what she asked, she took part in the farm, the gardens, village life. He had listened to her talk on the telephone, give orders disguised as suggestions, heard her gossip with Edith Malone, enquire after George and Richard, call Edith by her Christian name. He had seen her with the Farthings and the Hadleys; she had the strength and confidence given her by Slepe, she was happy in her environment, she had been happy without him.

When he arrived secretly to surprise her, she had been happy. She would laugh and be happy when he was gone. ‘Don’t spoil our three days,’ he said harshly.

‘I won’t, I won’t,’ she cried passionately. ‘How could I? They are ours, let’s treasure them.’

But that night when they made love, she said, ‘Don’t do that, it hurts when you do that.’

He stopped kissing her breast, saying, ‘What hurts? This?’ and nibbled.

‘It is because I am pregnant, my breasts are quite sore.’

He flung away from her, turning his back. And she not knowing what to say or do said, sniffing, ‘I wish the baby was yours.’

‘But it’s not mine, it’s bloody Ned’s. Since you wouldn’t leave Ned and come to me, you have his baby, not mine.’

‘You’ve made it pretty clear I can’t be with you. Don’t be illogical,’ she shouted in unhappy exasperation.

‘I am not illogical, I am half French.’

‘Besides,’ Rose cried, desperate now, ‘I promised Ned. I promised not to leave him. I can’t break my promise, I’m funny that way.’

‘You should have promised me, then there would not be this fuss.’

‘You never asked me, you never asked for my promise.’

‘There was no need. I assumed we loved each other. Ned only extracted your promise because he was unsure of you, he obviously felt he must pin you down.’ Mylo was shouting now.

‘Why are we quarrelling?’ she remembered asking.

‘Because we love each other.’ Mylo pressed his face between her breasts, listening to her heart.

‘We have got ourselves trapped, haven’t we?’ She held his head in her hands, kissing his dark hair. ‘Perhaps we shall live to get out of the trap. I cannot wish Ned dead, though.’

‘Ah, never.’

‘Perhaps you will stop loving me, it’s possible, people do fall out of love, wake to wonder what it was all about.’

‘What about you?’

‘I shall not change.’ (But she has changed.)

‘And nor shall I.’

‘We are stuck, then,’ she said with satisfaction.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What about a little fuck?’

‘What, now?’ She pretended surprise. ‘Oh, Mylo.’

Later she said, as the fire flared up and outlined his profile, ‘When I am alone and miserably missing you, I watch your picture and remember your voice and the feel of you. I get terribly randy.’

‘Thinking of me?’

‘Of course, who else?’

‘Ned. It would be reasonable for you to think of Ned.’

‘He doesn’t make me randy.’

‘Some other lover you haven’t told me about?’

‘There is nobody but you.’

‘… m-m-m.’

‘Have you lain between other girls’ thighs?’

‘Silly girl.’

‘Did I tell you about Ned’s present just before he went overseas?’

‘His sperm? Yes.’

‘Not that.’

‘What then?’

‘He chose and had me sent six pairs of camiknickers from the White House.’

‘What’s the White House?’

‘A grand shop in Bond Street.’

‘So?’

‘Mylo! Don’t be dense. Camiknickers like the shift the girl wears in the picture. Do you think he noticed your picture is like me? Of course, I haven’t worn them.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the picture is you, yours.’

‘Let me see those things.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

Rose hopped out of bed, opened a drawer and brought the satin garments to Mylo in the bed. (Would he leap jealously out and cast them onto the fire? The smell would be awful.)

Mylo felt the silk, slid it through his fingers.

‘Lovely. Put one on, let me see you in it.’

She stepped into the garment.

‘Exactly like.’ Mylo smiled at his love by the light of the fire. ‘I didn’t know your husband had brains,’ he said.

‘Of course he has brains.’

‘And imagination.’

‘I’m not so sure of that. Shall I wear them, then?’

‘Yes, why not. Come into bed, keep it on. I want to compare the texture with the real thing.’

So, curiously, from his distance, Ned healed the rift between his wife and her lover, eased their last days, made the parting less agonising.

‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Don’t ask, I don’t know.’

‘All right, I’ll be good.’

‘Take care of yourself and Ned’s baby.’

I shall have yours next, she thought. ‘If you send for me, I will come at once,’ she said. ‘You can promise me that much.’

‘I shall come back,’ he said with more confidence than he felt. ‘I won’t need to send for you.’

‘Don’t ever again creep away without telling me, that’s all.’

‘Don’t nag.’

‘I’m not …’

‘Even if it spoils it for us, knowing the parting has to come?’ he asked.

‘Yes. This I can bear.’

‘All right, all right, all right.’ He rocked her in his arms. ‘If I find a decent corkscrew in London, I will send it to you for Ned.’

‘What a strange idea, has this some esoteric Freudian connotation?’

‘It is just that he has no decent corkscrew. If I send him one, it will even out the camiknickers.’

‘I love your jokes,’ she said. She found the impending parting so painful she wished it was over so that she could apply herself to grieving, stop pretending to be cheerful.

W
HEN MYLO WENT AWAY
she had made herself busy, Rose remembered, as she stood on the hill letting her eye follow a flight of rooks as they wheeled and cawed down the valley. That was the trick, keep busy, keep occupied. Rose Peel working at the farm and garden, answering Ned’s letters, caring for his friends on leave, learning to cook, clean, take an interest in the war, bear his child. That had become the norm. It used up time, energy and thought that might have been spent on Mylo, protected her from missing him physically, mentally, emotionally for long periods while she concentrated on her work, her child. It had not been possible, she thought, drawing her coat about her, turning away from the chill wind, to pine away. Just as well since the gaps between seeing him, being with him, were so varied, so long; and now she thought bleakly I have, in age, to think. It’s hard to remember when I saw him last.

I used, she thought, letting her eye follow the distant birds, to believe we would always be in love, but now I don’t know, I really don’t.

Watching the rooks, blinking as the wind made her eyes water, she was reminded of her row with the Ministry of Agriculture, who had in spite of Emily’s assurance arrived in a car armed with guns to shoot the Slepe rooks. She had hurried out, heavy with unborn Christopher, shouted at the men, ordered them away, made a considerable scene. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed embarrassing those men in a strident, authoritative voice, planting herself under the rookery, bulging with Christopher, born a fortnight later, ordering the men to ‘get off my property’, Ned’s in fact, Christopher’s now.

She had written in triumph to Ned, desk-bound by then in Cairo. He had replied, ‘I can’t see what the fuss is about; rooks do a lot of damage, you shouldn’t interfere with the Min of Ag’s work.’ (She tore the letter up.) Nicholas and Emily had boasted around the neighbourhood of Rose’s prowess. So unlike her mother, they said. ‘Rose behaved like an old county warhorse, you’d never guess now she is mistress of Slepe that she is not true
hochgeboren.’
(Nicholas in the war liked to annoy by airing a meagre knowledge of German, reverting to the odd French expression on VE day.) ‘Our Rose’s vowels are perfect, unlike her Ma’s which betray her lesser origins.’ It was at this time, Emily being also pregnant, that the Thornbys cultivating Rose took to visiting her even without an ulterior motive. Emily’s infant of unknown parenthood borrowed respectability from its mother’s proximity to Rose, ponderously great with the child who would be heir to Slepe.

When Laura, a neat little baby, was born a week before Christopher it was natural that the mothers should be assumed to be friends as previously the same thing had been assumed of their mothers, although in actuality the only catty remarks ever uttered by Mrs Thornby when she was the rector’s wife had been directed at Mrs Freeling; while Mrs Freeling, grown bold in widowhood, often lamented the tedium of hours passed in the company of Mrs Thornby. Lucky, thought Rose, watching the rooks disappear, that nothing came of Christopher and Laura’s teenage scamper when they had thought for a day that they were in love and boasted of consummating their passion. Too soon the story had altered, their mood soured, Laura found Christopher boring, Christopher said Laura smelt!

Christopher takes after his father, thought Rose, yet he was such a darling little boy. She turned her back on the view and walked on. He had been a good and lovely baby; she had enjoyed his babyhood, enjoyed watching him grow into a delightful little boy. Had Ned been a charming infant, an adorable child? There had been no one to tell her, just a few photographs discovered by Aunt Flora at the back of a drawer when she was moving house, of Ned simpering beside his mother, of Ned looking sulky in baggy shorts aged about ten off to his prep school.