Sensible Life (16 page)

She did not want kindness.

He had looked bored, eating his pheasant, sticking his fork into the brussels sprouts, and relieved as he drove away.

“Oh.” Flora tossed and turned. “Ach!” She was miserable and sweaty. He only said that about Cosmo thinking me pretty as a sop, she thought. “A sop!” she cried out loud, yelling in the school sanatorium. “A sop. Nothing but a sop.”

Eventually asleep, she had nightmares and screamed because Matron, of all people, had turned into a marble bust which yet incomprehensibly and terrifyingly had arms, hands which held her in a throttling grip, shaking her awake. “You stupid girl, look what you’ve done to your bedclothes, all tangled up and all over the floor. No wonder you are shivering.”

“Sorry, Matron, I was—”

“I’ll get you a hot drink. Doctor will be here in the morning.”

“Is he marble?”

“What d’you mean, marble? Been dreaming you dwelt in marble halls?” Matron straightened the sheets and blankets.

“Marble arms—”

“Not arms, halls. I dreamt I dwelt in marble
halls
, is how it goes. I’m not totally uneducated, my girl.”

“And I am not your girl.”

F
LORA STOOD ON THE
platform, her suitcase at her feet, gripping her tennis racquet and the book she had not read in the train. All round the small station were green fields and rolling hills. The letter in her bag said, “Get out at Coppermalt Halt”. This name was written large in black letters on a white board; she had obeyed instructions.

The train which had deposited her responded to the guard’s whistle and started chuntering noisily off. The guard tucked his flag under his arm, swung himself into the van and slammed the door. Far down the platform a porter rolled milk-churns out of the sun into the shade. The train, dwindling down the track, shrieked as it sighted a tunnel in the side of a hill. The platform was long and empty, the afternoon hot; Flora wished fervently that she was still on the train.

“There she is.” Mabs appeared, running through the gate marked Exit. She was wearing a pale green cotton dress; Flora could see shadowy legs scissoring under the thin skirt as she ran. Behind her a figure in pink followed at a canter. They came to a halt beside Flora. “
There
you are! It
is
Flora, isn’t it?” Mabs was flushed with running. “Gosh, how you’ve grown! Look, Tash, she’s as tall as us. Is this all you’ve brought? You do travel light. I saw you get out of the train as we came over the bridge, then stand alone and forlorn on the platform as we jostled past Mr. Ticket Collector and here we are. I bet you were wishing you’d stayed on the train, never got out, never got in, perhaps?” Mabs wore a large smile. She was hatless, beautiful, elegant, confident. “You
were
thinking better of it,” she said.

Flora found herself smiling.

“She
was
thinking better of it, she
was
,” exclaimed Tashie, smiling too. “I can see it, look, she’s blushing. We’ve caught you out, you are a recalcitrant visitor. We shall have to cure your recalcitrance, shan’t we? We’ll make her enjoy herself, won’t we, Mabs?” Mabs and Tashie stood beaming at Flora.

The porter, advancing with leisurely tread, picked up Flora’s suitcase. “In the back of the car, Missie?” he addressed Mabs.

“Yes, please,” said Mabs. “Got your ticket, Flora? He’s ticket collector, too. We can’t get out of here unless you surrender your ticket. He’s dreadfully strict.”

Flora, walking between Mabs and Tashie, followed the porter down the platform and into the station yard. As she walked she felt in her purse for a shilling. The porter put the suitcase onto the back seat of an open tourer. Flora handed him her ticket, which he punched and returned with a grin. As Flora got ready with her shilling he said, “You got platform tickets, Miss and Miss?”

“How strict you are, what a bully.” Mabs handed him a shilling. “No, Flora, no, I’ve done it. You haven’t seen us, Mr. Ticket Collector,” she said.

“Then I can’t give you the box the General was expecting off the train, can I?” said the porter, straight-faced. “That will be fourpence each.”

“What a tease you are.” Mabs produced the money. “There. Father would skin me alive if I forgot it; it’s his port. Is that it over there?” She gestured towards a wooden case. “Can we get it onto the back seat, I wonder?”

“Put that away.” Tashie indicated the shilling Flora was holding. “One of Mrs. Leigh’s rules is that
no
visitors are allowed to tip.” Then, as Flora looked doubtful, “Really, it’s true.”

Flora stood with Tashie watching the porter manoeuvre the box onto the back seat of the car, while Mabs re-stacked a collection of parcels.

“Right we are,” said Mabs. “There’s room for us all on the front seat. In you get, girls. I say, Tash, look at her narrow, narrow hips. Aren’t you lucky, Flora, with your gorgeous figure. Off we go then.” She started the engine and put the car in gear. “With Father’s port in the back I mustn’t drive too fast or I’ll joggle it, so easy does it, no Brands Hatchery.”

“It’s five years, isn’t it? We worked it out at dinner last night.” Tashie sat sideways so that she could look at Flora. “I recognised you at once. Bet you thought we never noticed anybody except ourselves,” she said, “and it’s more or less true but we remembered
you.
We saw you watching us buy hats in St. Malo, little sly boots. We thought they were terrific, cloche hats worn low over our noses—”

“D’you know how we found you?” asked Mabs. “Felix, of all people, told Mother where you are at school. He found you via la Tarasova; she said you kept in touch, that you wrote. You know she’s in London now? She makes my clothes and Tashie’s. We’ve told all our friends about her, she’s marvellous. She made this frock. D’you like it? No, I’m wrong, Felix told
his
mother, who told mine, so
that’s
how Mother was able to invite you to stay. I can’t tell you how pleased we all are. What did you think when you got her letter? Father has never forgotten the langoustes you produced for the picnic and Cosmo and Hubert are absolutely delighted that you are coming, as you will see presently. We don’t call Hubert Blanco quite as much as we did now he’s at Oxford, and only occasionally Lord Fauntleroy, your clever name for him. Have you seen Madame Tarasova since she came to London?” Flora shook her head. “Well, you must, she’s dying to see you like everyone else. By the way, have you brought your bathing suit? When we’ve deposited our junk, we are joining the others; they’ve gone ahead with the picnic tea to the river. It’s so hot, we thought swimming—you can swim, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Flora.

“Golly, she can speak!” exclaimed Tashie. “She’s got a word in, Mabs. Well done, Flora, that’s quite a feat.” Tashie and Mabs laughed joyfully.

“Isn’t this fun,” said Tashie. “Isn’t Mabs a rattle?”

Mabs and Tashie then began to speak about two people called Nigel and Henry. Flora gathered that Mabs and Tashie were engaged to these two, Mabs to Nigel, Tashie to Henry (later she would know them as Nigel Foukes and Henry March). The conversation was about clothes for both girls’ trousseaux, some of which would be made by Madame Tarasova. She would meet these two characters shortly, Tashie said. They had gone ahead to swim with Cosmo and Hubert. Stunned by the volume of talk, Flora would have been content to remain silent but neither Mabs nor Tashie allowed this; they interrupted their discussion of clothes to shoot questions at her. Did she like their engagement rings? They held out their hands for her to admire diamond and sapphire clusters. Did she like school? Was she happy there? Was this the first time she had been away in the holidays? Had she seen Felix again? Was she fond of tennis? Could she ride? Did she still like dancing? They remembered that she had danced at the picnic. Did she still love dogs? They remembered that comical dog on the beach. Did she like the way they had their hair cut now? It was better than the shingle of five years ago, wasn’t it? Softer than a shingle. Hers, they exclaimed, was looking wonderful, so thick, they said enviously, it made theirs look positively scrappy. Would she have recognised them if they hadn’t shouted her name? Did she think she would know Cosmo and Hubert? Had she recognised Felix that time he came and took her out? They had been quite jealous when they heard about it; it was before Nigel and Henry, of course. Several years ago, two at least.

While they chatted and questioned they exchanged amused looks as Flora answered, “Yes” and “No.” She was not to know that, remembering that if she spoke at all it was in monosyllables, someone at dinner the night before, probably Cosmo, had proposed a competition to make Flora talk freely. Tashie and Mabs had betted that they would turn her into a chatterer like themselves. General Leigh had said, “God forbid. Two of you is more than enough.”

“I have counted eight yesses and three no’s. I am keeping score,” cried Tashie exultantly.

“We are having a party; have you brought your party dress?” asked Mabs.

“No,” shouted Flora, “I have not.”

“Stop the car,” exclaimed Tashie, “she’s crying!”

Mabs jammed on the brakes.

“I haven’t got a party dress. I’ve never needed one. I’d like to go back to school. Please take me back to the station,” Flora screamed. She felt she would choke. Her nose had begun to run with her tears. She wished herself back at school. However boring and horrible, she could cope with its drear familiarity.

Mabs drew up beside the road and pulled on the handbrake. The road stretched ahead, swerving gently up a hill through fields bounded by stone walls. In the crevasses of the walls there were ferns and cushions of pink and yellow stonecrop; in the grass verge beside the road pink campion and blue scabious and the loud sound of grasshoppers.

Mabs said conversationally: “What a wonderful opportunity, Tashie. If you will let us, Flora, we would like to lend you a dress. You could choose, We are the same size as you. We would so love it if you would borrow a dress or two, wouldn’t we, Tash?”

“Absolutely,” said Tashie. “It would be doing us a kindness.” Mabs and Tashie’s voices had dropped an octave; they were quiet now, sitting on either side of her, serious.

“I couldn’t,” said Flora through gritted teeth, “possibly.” She sat with her hands clenched in her lap, enraged as tears plopped off her cheeks onto her chest.

“Of course you may not like our frocks,” said Tashie. “It isn’t everybody who approves of our taste.”

“Well, I don’t know, she might find something,” said Mabs hopefully, “which would pass muster.”

Flora made a sound between a grunt and a hiccough.

“Mabs and I swap clothes the whole time,” said Tashie. “It’s between friends.”

“And you
are
our friend,” said Mabs reasonably, “so—”

“I am not,” said Flora.

“Then please be, start at once.” Mabs was brisk.

“Absolutely,” said Tashie, equally brisk. “Give it a try.”

“Oh.” Flora looked from one to the other.

“I do wish I had your eyes.” Mabs produced a handkerchief.

“I would be content with her mouth or her nose.” Tashie took the handkerchief and dabbed at Flora’s cheeks. “The trouble is, Mabs, she will look far better in our things than we ever shall.”

“Can’t be helped,” said Mabs. “We shall have to put up with it, won’t we?” Then she said, “I think your mother is the most Goddam awful, selfish, thoughtless
bitch
I have ever heard of.”

“And I,” said Tashie, “can’t wait for something really mean, humiliating and awful, something really
sordid
to happen to her, the bloody cow.”

“There!” said Mabs and Tashie. They had grown red in the face and looked much younger than they were. They sat staring at Flora, gulping their breath as they prepared to apologise.

Thinking of that moment in later years, Flora would remember the sensation of coming out of a long, lonely, foggy tunnel into an atmosphere of affectionate delight, but at the time, sitting on the front seat of the car beside an empty country road between the two girls, all she could do was burst into delighted laughter.

W
HILE FLORA, IN A
state of anguished delight, was trying on Mabs’ and Tashie’s frocks, Felix in London lay on the chaise longue in Irena Tarasova’s workroom in Beauchamp Place. It was a hot afternoon; he had taken off his shoes and his jacket hung over the back of a chair. The rooms, reached up an early Victorian staircase with a mahogany rail, the treads carpeted in powder blue, were agreeably cool, the decor elegant. The contrast between this new establishment and the small stuffy room over the horse butcher in Dinard was sharp. Both the back room, where she worked, and the front room overlooking the street, where she received her clients, had plain white walls, blue and white striped curtains matching the covers of the chaise and the small sofa and armchairs in the fitting room. There was a vase of roses on a low table, a copy of
Vogue,
a bolt of yellow silk on an upright chair.

In the back room Irena sat with her back to the light tacking a sleeve into the armhole of a taffeta dress. The taffeta rustled as it received the pricking needle, hissed as she pulled the thread through; out of sight pigeons chortled and cooed on the roof. Sun, slanting through the open window, lit the colours on bolts of silks and velvets stacked on shelves along one wall and highlighted the white strands in Irena’s hair. She stitched, her mouth full of pins, lips pursed in concentration.

“I am only in London for three days,” said Felix, answering a question. “I was invited, but it is too big a rush to travel up north for one night. I am not sufficiently interested. I have been once. The girls have changed. They are grown up, both engaged to be married, did you know?”

Irena said, “M-m-m—” nodding, “and Cosmo?” letting the name Cosmo escape through a gap in the pins.

Felix ignored the reference to Cosmo. “Is this the chaise you had in Dinard?”

“I bought it in the Portobello Road.”

“I thought it was more comfortable.” Felix stretched, arching his back. “And Alexis? Your husband, still in Paris?” Irena nodded, her eyes on her work. “I have a hole in my sock.” Felix spied along the length of his leg at the sock.