Not That Sort of Girl (29 page)

‘When I am about my business in France,’ he said, ‘on the rare occasions I allow myself to think of you, I see us as those two in the Bonnard.’ He raised himself to peer at the lithograph.

‘We have already grown older than those two,’ she murmured.

‘Not in our hearts, never that.’

‘Of course not,’ she agreed robustly.

‘She has no husband to come between them,’ he said enviously.

‘He has no job to take him away from her,’ whispered Rose. ‘Away, to get shot in the leg.’

‘All her attention is for him. She has no house to look after, no farm, no garden, no handsome Australian visitor to care for.’

‘Is he handsome?’

‘Stunning. I caught a glimpse as I was frog-marched to bed. She has no interfering in-laws and friends, no baby. If she had a baby it would be her lover’s.’

‘Oh,’ Rose turned away, ‘don’t. That
hurts.’

‘My darling, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I only beef because I am so lucky to be here at all, I love you.’

‘And I love you, but I don’t suppose,’ she too looked at the lovers in the picture, ‘that they spent all their lives he naked, she in camiknickers.’

Perhaps what held me most strongly to Rose, Mylo would think in later life, was the laughter we shared. It was a stronger tie than promises of eternal love, more lasting than jealousy, more binding than lust.

R
OSE WAS ANGRY WITH
Ned’s Uncle Archibald and Edith Malone. She had not felt the interference of relations and friends so strongly since she had been manoeuvred into marriage. Now all her resentment came flooding back. Later she would learn to frustrate her elders’ benign force, recognise and mock their divine right to know what was best for her. She would learn much from the Thornbys who, thick-skinned and selfish, yet managed to appear compliant and agreeable should it suit them, while doing the opposite of what was suggested.

The imposition of an Australian visitor, which infuriated Rose at the time since it deprived her of her privacy with Mylo, was to lead via Edith’s scheme to other visitors, French, Dutch, Polish, Canadian, Belgian, American. For the rest of the war Slepe was seldom free of guests; Mylo faded from people’s minds, was lost in the crowd. If it was hinted that she might be having an affair with one of her visitors Rose would laugh, guessing that the suggestion came from Nicholas, put about as a smokescreen for his sister, for Emily soon latched on to the hospitality scheme, offered their spare rooms and was not above poaching the more attractive and sensual of Rose and other hostesses’ visitors, leaving the more boring and boorish for hostesses less spry than herself, so that by the end of the war it was general knowledge that Emily received more CARE parcels, was better stocked with cigarettes and nylons than anyone in the county, and that, in this the period of dried egg, spam and whale steak, she learned to cook from her polyglot guests (and other less tangible arts).

But all this was to come later. Coming in from her morning’s shopping, aglow with the beneficence of the night’s love-making, her mind busy with plots to get Mylo to herself during the day as well as at night, Rose was furious to find Emily, Nicholas and baby Laura making free with her tea ration in the kitchen, talking and laughing with the Australian pilot who dandled Laura on his knee while Nicholas drew a naked lady on his plaster cast. (‘This is my sister Emily at her best.’)

Rose was even more furious to find that without telling her Mylo had telephoned London and informed Major Pye of his whereabouts and was even now closeted in the library with Victoria. When Mylo introduced them she shook hands; meeting Victoria’s remarkable eyes in her plain bun face, she felt a premonition of doom.

‘Victoria is from my outfit, come to do a spot of de-briefing,’ said Mylo.

‘It’s very good of you to have Mr Cooper to stay, you rescued him for us before we could get around to it.’ Victoria’s smile was friendly, showed more than passable teeth. (Who does she think she is? Who are ‘us’ and ‘we’? He’s mine.) Victoria re-seated herself beside Mylo and looked up at Rose. (She expects me to leave them together. I am
de trop.)

‘I have to brief Victoria with the results of my trip,’ said Mylo. He did not want her to stay, did not call her darling, was distant.

‘Then I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ said Rose, then forced herself to say, ‘I hope you can stay to lunch?’

‘I should love to, but I must get back to the office and I mustn’t impose on your rations.’ Victoria’s manners were as perfect as her eyes.

‘But you must stay, I insist,’ said Rose. ‘We have a broken-legged pilot who needs cheering up and we have masses to eat since we have a farm. Please stay.’ Perhaps, she thought wildly, this girl will succumb to the charms of the beautiful Australian.

In the event Victoria stayed and was amused by Nicholas and Emily who entertained the lunch party, telling them that their father, the bishop, refused to baptise Laura, making a good story of their parents doubting the validity of baptism when the child was of father unknown. ‘Isn’t it barbaric? Isn’t it a typical churchman’s attitude? He’s a bishop and yet so unchristian.’

‘He’s a nice old man and I bet he hasn’t refused to baptise Laura. You’ve invented the story to be snobbish and show off’ (What am I saying? I’m behaving like a child back in the nursery.) ‘that your father is a bishop.’

‘No, no, we haven’t invented. He makes all sorts of excuses. Emily doesn’t know who the father is, either. What would you do Down Under? You wouldn’t be beastly to a little Pom bastard, would you?’ Nicholas drew Rose’s guest into his net, enjoying signs of embarrassment. ‘Come on, Rose, you must help us.’

Rose backed away from what she suspected was a Thornby trap. ‘I never knew your father all that well,’ she excused herself.

‘Then can you lend us a gallon or two of petrol?’ Nicholas revealed the real reason for their visit.

‘No,’ said Rose, ‘certainly not.’

‘Oh, come on, Rose, I’m sure you can spare some. Our friendly blackmarketeer has dried up.’

‘What about your Min of Ag?’

‘They are being a little difficult.’

‘It’s still no.’

‘What must you think of us blackmarketeers with illegitimate babies?’ Nicholas turned to Victoria.

‘It happens,’ said Victoria calmly, then, ‘I must go, I’m afraid.’ She turned to Rose. ‘Many thanks for lunch.’ Mylo limped with her to her car while Rose followed. ‘Goodbye,’ said Victoria, shaking Rose’s hand, and, ‘I’ll have you fetched tomorrow,’ she said to Mylo as she got into her car. ‘Can you be ready by ten?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Mylo watched the car go down the drive. ‘Nice girl that,’ he said, ‘very capable.’

Rose felt a fierce pang of envy. ‘You can’t go tomorrow, your leg isn’t fit enough.’

‘I’ll get it checked in London.’

‘You can’t leave me, I’ve only just got you back!’

‘I must go …’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’ He was not going to argue or explain his job, was forbidden to anyway. That night they had a row.

It began, as rows do, over a matter on which normally they would have agreed, Edith Malone. Rose, smarting at being jumped into hostessing a number of strangers for an indefinite period, complained when Mylo joined her in bed of Edith Malone and Archibald Loftus’ interference. There would be a constant interruption of precious privacy, a crowd of visitors with unknown needs. The imposition was outrageous.

During the day she had fuelled her annoyance, letting her mind run over the occasions, real or imaginary, that her life had been impinged on by her elders. Forgetting that, had it not been for her mother’s persistence, she would never have met Mylo at the winter tennis, she dwelt on the meeting with Ned. If it had not been for her mother and Mrs Malone she would never have met, never have been cajoled into marriage with Ned, would not now be trapped, lassoed into this hospitable role. She would like to be at peace, to be alone with Mylo, her love, her darling, to copulate. (This word, sometimes used with effect by Nicholas and recently added to her vocabulary, she tried now on Mylo who appeared unmoved by it.) Hurrying on, she said she would be bored and bothered by the uninvited guests, foresaw much irritation from Nicholas and Emily. ‘Look how they barged in on us today,’ she grumbled. ‘It is all Edith’s fault, our day ruined.’ She dared not voice her real fears, Mylo’s imminent departure. Where to? How long for? Would he be killed next time? Might she never see him again?

And Victoria.

Since the morning she had been devoured by a jealousy so intense it upset her milk, which in turn upset Christopher who now whinged with stomach ache, drew up his legs, clenched infant fists, and either could not or would not sleep as was his usually angelic mode. If Mylo was on these terms (she could not, of course, define
what
terms) with Victoria, who might there be in France to draw him back like a magnet? One girl in particular? Many girls? All that talk of boring French girls with expressions of his love for her, Rose, was obviously all my eye. So her thoughts and fears raged as for the umpteenth time she soothed Christopher, hopefully spooned gripe water into his mouth.

‘Edith Malone is an old busybody. Since Mother went to live in London, she has appointed herself watchdog over my morals. I wish to God she would mind her own business instead of poking her nose into mine and dragging Ned’s uncle along. Why can’t they leave us alone? How on earth did she guess about you and me, we’ve been so utterly secret?’

‘I don’t think she has the remotest idea about you and me,’ said Mylo equably. (If only Rose would get that baby to be quiet, we could cuddle up in bed and listen to the night.)

‘What do you mean by that?’ snapped Rose.

‘Mrs Malone is a snob, it would not occur to her that you would sleep with her son’s tutor.’

‘What nonsense. She’s not a snob,’ (Of course he’s right, she
is
) ‘that’s nonsense,’ Rose repeated.

‘It is not. She’s kind. You have told me how kind she has been to you, how she looked after you when you were ill, sent George—by the way, what about George?’ A whisp of doubt slid across Mylo’s mind, but he went on treading the track of Edith’s kindness. ‘She was kind to me when I worked for them, she even bought me clothes when she couldn’t stand my French workmen’s blues. I never told you that, did I? She is being kind to all these homesick servicemen you are going to entertain—don’t go over the top with them, will you?—she just happened along with old Loftus in tow because he is staying with them. He possibly smelled a rat, she didn’t.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I am not. As far as your glossy reputation is concerned, it’s safe with Edith Malone, and Loftus won’t gossip; it wouldn’t be in his nephew’s interests.’

‘How wouldn’t she? Why?’ Rose, tired and already irritable, resented Mylo’s tone. She laid Christopher back in his cot.

‘As I said, I’m her son’s tutor, a servant, not someone a person like you would sleep with.’

‘How can you talk such rubbish! How can you be so ridiculous?’ Rose’s raised voice roused Christopher, who had been on the point of sleep. He rallied his strength, filled his lungs, whined, changed gear, screamed.

Sitting on the side of Rose’s bed Mylo clenched his fists in exasperation. He didn’t blame the baby, he told himself, he blamed Ned. During the lonely months in France when he dreamed of Rose, gentle, pliant, gloriously roused to passion, he forgot Ned’s existence, but now—he eyed the screaming infant with distaste. He had wanted to make love to Rose as he had the night before, he had come to her room full of erotic anticipation, he felt choked with jealousy and frustration. ‘If that were my child, I’d drown it,’ he said.

Rose grew quite pale.

‘What I meant,’ said Mylo, ‘was that I wish I could drown your husband Ned.’

‘No, you didn’t. You want to murder my innocent baby.’ She had to shout to make herself heard above Christopher’s screams. ‘And, if you must know, I love my husband,’ Rose yelled. (What devil possessed her to voice this patently obvious lie which Mylo, gorged with jealousy, chose to believe?)

There followed charges, counter-charges, tears, remorse, apologies, forgiveness, explanations and, since Christopher tired before they did and hiccoughed himself to sleep, fucking.

Next morning Rose shivered as she watched Mylo being driven away. What happened to us? she asked herself. We must never let such a thing happen again. She felt quite sick and ill as she stood on the steps and waved to Mylo; then the car turned the corner and was out of sight.

D
URING THE FOLLOWING WEEKS
Rose suffered. The words and tones of the row reverberated and echoed through her mind. They had been too shattered by their own violence to have a satisfactory love-making. Mylo, hampered by his wounded leg, climaxed too soon. Rose was too tense to have an orgasm. They lay wakeful for the rest of the night, too distraught to sleep, clinging together in silence.

When he left her bed in the morning Mylo looked sourly at the Bonnard and the ideal it represented.

Watching him drive away in the car sent to fetch him Rose felt an astonishing spasm of relief.

During the next week she attended assiduously to her Australian guest, telephoned the person in charge of the hospitality scheme to arrange for a succession of visitors, rearranged the house to make room for them. By filling her life to the brim she thought she could endure Mylo’s absence. She worked harder than ever in the garden, increased the hours spent on the farm. Attended by her dogs, she carted Christopher about with her so that for ever after he would wonder why in times of stress he would smell the scent of cow-byres and think of his mother.

When Mylo telephoned she felt their separation fiercely. Listening to his voice, she craved his physical presence. When their short conversations ended she was more lonely than before. The conversations were of necessity brief, most of the three minutes allowed by wartime restriction, in retrospect, wasted. When next he telephoned she knew by his voice that he was leaving the country.

‘You are going away again?’

‘Yes, darling, tonight.’