Sensible Life (14 page)

The conductor, working his way along the tram, swinging in and out of the compartments—“Alors, messieurs, mesdames, vos billets, s’il vous plaît”—had nearly caught her; she had no money. She moved ahead of him along the train. Since the carriages had no sides it was possible to swing out, clinging to a rail as the conductor did, and back into the next carriage; then, when you reached the carriage behind the engine, to drop off, let the train go by (it never went faster than five or six miles an hour) and rejoin it behind the conductor. Flora had watched bold boys do this but, afraid of getting crushed, had never attempted the prank herself. That day, emboldened by grief and despair, she had carried out the risky manoeuvre to the amusement of fellow passengers and the irritation of the conductor. I wish I still had that agility, she would think in age. Arrived at St. Briac she had loped across the headland, tiring a bit from the feeling that her heart had dropped in her chest and, turning to lead, lodged across her solar plexus. Her tweed skirt was soaking and its friction rubbed sore patches behind her knees.

The tide had erased yesterday’s footprints, smoothed flat the battlemented castles, filled in the moats. The stream from the valley reached across the sand with watery fingers to where the waves cracked onto the beach with a smack and a hiss as the tide turned to come in.

She walked the long distance towards the water and, as she walked, tried to bring back the feel of Felix’s warm hand when they had walked up the street, the taste of Blanco’s blood when she bit him, and Cosmo’s smile when he bought her an ice in St. Malo; but memory was evasive and cold.

She crouched by the water’s edge and wrote in the sand, spelling out the names with her forefinger: Felix, Cosmo, Blanco. When I am seventeen, she had thought, I could marry Felix. He will be twenty-seven when I am seventeen. I could marry Blanco and Cosmo; they will be twenty-two. But the sea rushed in, smoothing away the names, filling her shoes with frothy, sandy water. She had stood up and screamed into the wind, “I shall, I shall, I shall.” Then the sea, egged on by the wind and the rising tide, began chivvying her along so that she took off her waterlogged shoes and stockings and ran ahead of it until she reached the high watermark. Clambering up the dune she found the remnants of the picnic and bonfire, a circle of black bits, made cold by the rain. She had crouched by the charred embers for a long time so absorbed in her grief that she did not notice the dog Tonton come and join her, nudge her with his nose before departing, puzzled, back over the cliff. In age she would not remember him that day, nor how she found her way back to the Marjolaine; there was a gap in memory; she would suppose she got back in the tram.

“I FOUND IT IMPOSSIBLE
to like Mrs. Trevelyan,” exclaimed Milly.

“Who was Mrs. Trevelyan?”

Milly and Rosa, meeting for tea at Gunters, had their memories of the Easter holiday of 1926 sparked by the recent discovery by Mabs and Tashie—it did not matter which, since the two friends were as close as sisters—that the little dressmaker Madame Tarasova, patronised by the ladies from the Hôtel Marjolaine in her cramped room above the boucherie chevaline, had set up in business in rooms above an antique shop in Beauchamp Place SW3.

“Of course she charges a great deal more than she did in those days,” said Milly, apropos Madame Tarasova, “but the girls say she is extremely good value.”

“I had heard she had moved to London. One of my girls, Dolly I think it was, heard it from Felix. Or it might have been Anne heard it from Felix, but more likely Dolly; she is the most interested in clothes. Felix would have told her.”

“Why should Felix—?” Milly raised her eyebrows.

Rosa said: “Felix took an interest in refugees about that time. The little Russian was one of those who only had a Nansen passport; he would have given her an introduction to my brother-in-law, who was concerned in such matters, when she wanted to come to England. It must have been something like that. I wasn’t suggesting that he was having dresses made.” Rosa laughed cheerfully.

Milly joined in Rosa’s laughter. “Of course! It was Mrs. Trevelyan who had the dresses made. There is the connection of thought, why I said I found it impossible to like her. I have not thought of her for years. She spent the whole summer having clothes made to take back to India; she monopolised the woman. None of us liked her at the time, did we? I wonder why. I remember her as pretty, almost beautiful.”

“Too preoccupied with her husband? There was something abnormal there. Neglectful of her child? You must remember the child. She left her in the hotel when she went back to England with her husband; you and I were supposed to keep an eye on her. I should like some more cakes, if I may. I don’t torment myself about my figure as you do, Milly.” Rosa signalled to a waitress. “Have an éclair, they are delicious. We should get you on a visit to Holland and plump you up.”

“No, thank you. I don’t remember doing much for the child. How awful, Rosa. It just strikes me. Should we have done more? I can’t remember doing anything.”

“As far as I remember,” said Rosa, as she studied the display of cakes offered by the waitress, “the child had lessons with the Tarasova woman. I suppose she got paid for it. And wasn’t she learning Italian? Something of that sort. There had been a French governess, I believe. I’ll have one of those”—Rosa pointed at the cakes—“and one of those. Thank you. I remember the child was no bother; she kept herself occupied, took people’s dogs for walks.”

“I remember now, I asked her mother whether she wouldn’t like to eat at my table,” said Milly. “But she refused. I don’t know where or when she ate; it is awful to be so vague.”

“She would have had some plot with the hotel servants. Children are good at that sort of thing.”

“Oh, Rosa! I should have done more. I do feel guilty.”

“Retrospective guilt is a pretty useless emotion.” Rosa bit into a cream cake.

Milly thought, She is greedy. I am paying for all these cakes. I invited her.

She wondered why she liked Rosa, whether the only reason she kept up with her was because she suspected Angus had once flirted with her, or even been in love? She felt reassured when she met Rosa on the rare occasions she visited England and saw her for what she was: fat, un-glamorous, grey-haired, in her fifties. Come to think of it, she had been pretty unglamorous in 1926 and so had her five daughters, in spite of their tremendous niceness.

She said: “Of course I was worried sick about Cosmo going back to school and Angus driving up through England on his own. He really thought there might be a revolution or riots. I only found out recently that he had armed himself with a revolver. He was convinced the situation was serious. He insisted that I stay safe in France. Mabs, of course, was at her finishing school in Paris; it was the General Strike, if you remember.”

“I seem to recollect it only lasted a couple of days,” said Rosa drily. “Dear Angus is such a romantic.”

Milly wondered what form this romanticism had taken with Rosa; was retrospective jealousy as useless an emotion as retrospective guilt? “How is Felix?” she asked at an angle.

“Still unmarried.”

“How the girls chased him that holiday!”

Rosa grinned: “There was an embarras de choix, the most choice your lovely Mabs and her friend.”

“Tashie?”

“Yes.”

“He put Cosmo and Hubert’s noses out of joint; they were at the age when boys—”

“Lust,” said Rosa.

“I wouldn’t put it that way exactly. I would say awaken.”

“I agree it sounds prettier. Are you sure you won’t have another cake? Have an ice.”

“No, thank you.” Milly watched Rosa enjoy her cakes. No wonder she was fat and all five daughters huge. “Rosa,” she said, “is Felix your husband Jef’s son?”

Munching, Rosa looked slantwise at Milly and as she munched she smiled. Conscious of the enormity of her question Milly flushed salmon pink.

“No,” said Rosa, munching. “He is not.”

And she is not going to tell me who the father is. It can’t be Angus. Angus is heavily built and fair; Felix is slight and dark. What on earth possessed me? It just popped out! The question has been lurking for years. Oh my God and I am not even drunk!

“The Trevelyans’ child had the makings of a beauty,” said Rosa. “A wonderful mass of dark hair, generous mouth, sexy observant eyes and what eyelashes! How old was she?”

“About ten.” Milly gratefully seized on the switch of subject. “She would be fifteen or so now. I suppose she is still at school. I believe she was to go to school.”

“I can get you her address, if you like. You could invite her to stay in the holidays. It would be a kindness.”

“Well—” Milly sensed a trap, attempted to reverse.

“Shed some retrospective guilt.” Rosa sipped her China tea. “One wondered, seeing her parents, who her father was; they were both so fair. The man was almost an albino, was he not? Mr. Trevelyan.”

“But they were utterly devoted. I mean one wondered how they ever managed to get out of bed. They—well!” Milly protested, laughing. “You must remember that.”

“I do. Elizabeth thought they even did it during the famous picnic. The garde champêtre might have had a genuine case to arrest, instead of accusing poor Freddy of indecent exposure!” Both women laughed in reminiscence at Freddy’s discomfiture. Rosa wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “I will send you the child’s address,” she said. “Felix went to see her at her school a couple of years ago when he was in England. He took her out to lunch. He said she was very shy, hardly uttered. I will ask him for the address.”

“Felix?”

“Got her address from la Tarasova; they apparently keep in touch. She has no family in England, it seems.”

“That was kind of him.”

“Now you will be kind, too.” Rosa snapped her bag shut. “She was in love with your Cosmo, with his friend Hubert, and Felix, ça va sans dire.”

“In love? At ten years old! Ridiculous!”

“I must go,” said Rosa, rising. “My love to Angus and the children. Next time the tea is on me. I hear Rumplemeyers is still very good.” She kissed Milly on both cheeks. “I will send you that address.”

“I don’t even remember her Christian name.” Milly made a last feeble protest.

“Oh yes you do,” said Rosa.

Watching Rosa go, Milly thought angrily, She punished my tactlessness along with my retrospective jealousy. Oh damn, she thought, damn, damn and blast. She asked for the bill. Then, walking down towards Piccadilly, she thought, If she is fifteen she will be fat and spotty, fifteen is a terrible age for schoolgirls, and cheered up.

T
HE SURPRISE, WHEN THE
headmistress sent for her and told her that she was to be taken out by a friend of her parents, a Baron Something, was so great that Flora’s heart had given a mad jolt and not settled to its normal rhythm for several minutes. She had nodded in mute obedience when told to be ready, wearing her best uniform, at eleven-thirty on the following Sunday. She would be allowed to miss church but must be in by six. The headmistress did not show her Felix’s letter, but said kindly: “I am glad you have somebody to take you out. This friend of your parents appears to be Dutch, such an interesting responsible people. Perhaps you remember him?”

She had murmured that she did.

The headmistress looked at the envelope in her hand with interested disappointment. In recollection Flora realised that the envelope had been plain. The woman would have appreciated a crest; one of the girls had as guardian a minor peer who, when writing about his ward, wrote from the House of Lords, using its facilities of free writing paper and postage. These letters were always put on top of other correspondence in the headmistress’s study. The headmistress opined that the outing would make a nice change for Flora; Flora nodded.

“It will give you something fresh to write to your parents about.”

Flora nodded again; she particularly detested this weekly chore.

In the intervening days Flora walked on air, or lay awake in her dormitory rehearsing the things she would tell Felix. She would make him laugh about compulsory games, the boredom of obligatory church, about the other girls’ inexplicable joy when they received their parents’ letters from Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta, Lahore, Peshawar, Hyderabad or Simla; how they counted the days until they came home on leave and when they had been, how inconsolably they wept at the renewed parting. Perhaps she could make her schoolmates interesting?

Then she thought, Perhaps I can tell him about Pietro, the stud groom my mother arranged I should visit in the afternoons that summer before I came to school, so that I could converse in Italian with him and his sister, keep up my Italian. No, she thought, Felix might ask what the man actually did. He might not understand that he frightened me; that he was like the man Cosmo bought the revolver from, although he did not actually smell, or that I let my mother send him money for my visits when I had only been there once. If I could not tell my mother how the man had disgusted me, I could not tell Felix. Perhaps, Flora thought, I just feel guilty at letting my mother pay the man money for nothing. Then she thought, How clever of Felix to say that he was a friend of my parents. In all her recollections of Felix there were none of him exchanging a single word with them, though he must have done, out of common politeness. Had he searched long and hard for her? Her heart swelled with excitement; the dream she had cherished since Dinard was about to come true; she was going to see Felix.

By the Saturday evening she had started a cold. By Sunday morning she was running a temperature. She was ready waiting in the hall before eleven; he might come earlier than he had said. Her stomach was a ball of nervous excitement; she alternated between bouts of shivering and feeling too hot. By eleven-forty she despaired of his coming. When he arrived at a quarter past twelve her handkerchiefs were soaked, her nose raw, her head aching. Felix was much shorter than she remembered. He had had his hair cut so that it was unruffled and neat. She remembered his smile.