Sensible Life (24 page)

“We met the other day.” Felicity held out her hand.

“So we did.” Nigel stared, trying to remember.

“League of Nations,” Felicity prompted.

“Right.” Nigel pumped her hand up and down. “Right. Try him on that German chap again. Want a drink?” He released her hand.

“I’ll help myself.” Felicity poured herself a small tot of whisky. “Somebody’s been at the decanter.”

“I have,” said Nigel, nodding. “Poor old decanter.”

Felicity said: “Um,” and watched him rock on his heels. It was not for her to interfere. “Suppose you went and changed for dinner?” she said, interfering.

Nigel said “What?”, affronted and loud.

Gage the butler came in. He walked softly to the fireplace, swept ash, plumped a cushion on a sofa, came to inspect the drinks tray and pursed his lips. “Tsk, tsk. Dinner in a quarter of an hour, sir.” He picked up the whisky decanter and Nigel’s glass and left.

Nigel followed the butler.

Felicity explored the room. Admirable flower arrangements,
Vogue, Tatler, Blackwoods Magazine, Royal Geographical
and
The Field
ranged on a sofa table. Potpourri in bowls. The view from the French windows pastoral: lawn sloping to a haha, fields dipping to the river, various trees strategically planted, a cedar on the lawn to the right of the house and, further away, beech, oak and lime.

The butler returned with the replenished decanter, glanced round, went to close the French windows and left.

Felicity re-opened the French windows. There remained a sniff of Nigel. What I need, she thought, are photographs on the piano—dogs, debutantes, royalty, or a peer in coronation robes. She was unrewarded, except for a few badly focused snapshots under a paperweight: Mabs aged about twelve with a dog; Cosmo in baggy shorts, a tooth missing, both knees bandaged, with another dog; several snaps of yet more dogs. She opened a sofa table drawer. There they were: the silver frames, Edwardian ladies, hair heaped high, bulging busts over minimal waists. Angus and Milly’s pre-war wedding, Mabs in debutante feathers and train looking sulky, Angus in staff officer’s uniform with rows of medals. And, at the back of the drawer, a person she recognised as minor royalty. But no peers. Felicity shut the drawer and crossed to examine the contents of a glass-fronted bookcase.

“Pretty dull,” said Cosmo, who had come in unobserved. “My family aren’t great readers. Are you looking for something?”

Felicity said, “Yes, country house atmosphere. I am plotting a novel.”

Cosmo said, “Nothing much happens here.”

“No?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. No rows, no scandals—”

“Your father?”

“Retired generals are expected to be peppery.”

Somewhere in the house a girl shouted, “Cosmo, where are you?”

Cosmo said, “Excuse me,” and left. Felicity moved to a writing table. Someone had recently used fresh blotting paper. Above the table was a Regency mirror; she held the blotter to it. “Expect me sooner or later.” “I shall be coming your way.”

“One of the messages is in Russian,” said Hubert, as he came in. “I’m not really sure what it says. Can Flora be trusted? There are others in German, French, Italian and so on.”

“A game?” (When caught in an anti-social act, be brazen.) “I am snooping,” she said.

It was Hubert who looked embarrassed. “Sort of, a bit silly, really. I am thinking of dropping it. I don’t do it often,” he excused himself.

From upstairs Joyce shouted, “Hubert, where are you? Buck up and bring it, if you’re going to.”

“Oh, sorry, I must go. Fetching them a bottle of this.” He held up a bottle of champagne. “Joyce’s idea; it’s for the girls. I must—”

“Rush,” suggested Felicity.

“Yes.” Hubert hurried away.

Felicity replaced the blotter and strolled out onto the terrace. From open windows there came the sound of girls’ voices. “You look
wonderful,
nobody will—ah,
here’s
Blanco. What an
age.
Come on, come on, open it.” The sound of a champagne cork. “Flora first, it’s Flora’s gala. Drink up. No, no, you like it really. Oh, Nigel, what a sponge you are, there’ll be none left for—No,
no,
Flora, you
cannot
wear those, it spoils the
line,
la ligne! The whole idea is to look slinky. Stand still a minute while I—that’s better. Oh, delicious.”

Felicity sniffed the jasmine, hoped the Trevelyan child would not chatter in the car; she would plot her chapter as she drove, spend the night in Lincoln perhaps, make London the next day. She could put the girl on a train from there if she was bored with her. Had Mrs. Leigh the faintest idea what an imposition it was? She would tell the General at dinner about the Germans’ plans for new roads; he was the sort of man who would approve, as he probably did of Mussolini’s trains. Had these
anciens militaires
the remotest notion of the danger of dictators? There must be no indigestible row this evening. This sleepy atmosphere was just what she needed.

“Oh good, you have given yourself a drink,” said Milly, coming through the drawing-room onto the terrace. “What a lovely evening. May I give you a refill? It was sherry, wasn’t it?”

“Whisky, actually. Neat.”

“Oh.”

“No thanks.”

“Oh? Well, I shall have a small sherry. I must admit to enjoying the end of the summer holiday. We are off to Perthshire in a few days to rally our strength for Mabs’ wedding. Such fun. I shall put you on Angus’ right, and he can have jolly Joyce on his other side.”

Milly was looking smug, Felicity observed. “I will steer clear of controversial topics,” she said.

“Oh, that. Wasn’t he absurd?”

Felicity positioned herself near the fireplace, from where she could watch Angus come in smiling jovially, then Cosmo with Hubert, followed by Nigel and Henry who stood near the drinks table but did not drink. Hubert came up to her and began explaining a complex relationship with an elderly relation which had to do with the writing on the blotter. There was a stinginess which had turned him into a gambler. “I bolster my allowance at Oxford with bridge and backgammon. I don’t somehow trust the horses or dogs, do you?”

“I thought all country people trusted horses and dogs.” Felicity was barely listening.

“Oh, we do,” said Hubert. “But not—” Damn the woman, plain as a currant bun, not even pretending to listen.

“Is it Henry who is engaged to Mabs, or Nigel?” Felicity was watching Nigel. “They are so alike.”

“Henry is engaged to Tashie, Nigel to Mabs. They look alike because they were at the same school, work in the same merchant bank and have the same tailor and the same political opinions.”

“But one is drunk, the other sober,” said Felicity.

“They can’t be. There was only one bottle of champagne between eight of us—”

“Whisky and champagne don’t mix.”

Hubert stared at Nigel. “Oh my,” he said. “Dear, dear.”

The butler opened the drawing-room door and announced dinner.

“What can the girls be up to?” said Milly.

Angus looked at his pocket watch. “Don’t they know what time we have dinner? When have we ever had it at any time other than half-past eight?” He closed the watch with a snap.

Cosmo muttered something in his mother’s ear.

“Apparently it’s Flora’s last night,” said Milly, looking around.

“As if you didn’t know,” grumped Angus.

Milly paid no attention. “The girls are dressing her up to look especially—er—they’ve been lending her their frocks.” She turned to Felicity. “She has nothing much of her own. I wondered, Miss Green—”

“Do call me Felicity,” said Felicity.

“—Felicity,” Milly raised her voice, “whether, as you pass through London, you would stop a moment at our little dressmaker in Beauchamp Place? It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes and wouldn’t be out of your way. Angus and I want to give her a party dress of her own—”

“Do we?” said Angus. “First I’ve—”

“Yes,” said Milly, “we do.”

“Hum,” said Angus. “Blood money.”

She’s got a nerve, thought Felicity. She began counting the threads of various emotions at large in the room. The butler in the doorway, a prey to suppressed irritation; Milly, now a little fearful, obstinate, placatory; Angus suspicious; Nigel straining to appear sober; Cosmo and Hubert expectant. Expectant of what? (Cancel the peaceful country house.)

Milly, speaking in the room where talk had dwindled, said: “Ah, I think I hear them at last. We’ll go in, Gage,” she said to the butler, “as soon as they’ve made their ‘entrance.’ The girls have done all they can to give Flora a good time,” she said to Felicity. “She’s such a child.”

“If that’s a child,” said Nigel thickly, as the girls came into the room, “you could fool me.”

It was the cut of the dress which caused the effect. Long enough to cover her feet, demurely high at the neck, it had sleeves which reached the elbow. The heavy black silk clung to Flora’s body faithfully, outlining curve of breasts and buttocks, hinting at the dimple of navel and V-shaped mound above long thighs; a simple dress, its matt sheen complemented Flora’s pale skin. She wore no makeup or jewelry. It was, too, obvious that she wore nothing else. Felicity Green whispered, “La ligne,” sighing with pleasure as she looked around.

Nigel staring, Henry with mouth open as though about to shout; Angus pursing his lips in a silent whistle, Cosmo’s eyes shining, Hubert gulping with sudden emotion, Milly flushing an unkind red.

Mabs, Tashie and Joyce bustled in behind Flora, fluting through lipsticked lips:

“So sorry to be late, Mother.”

“Do forgive us, Mrs. Leigh.”

“We are
terribly
sorry, Milly, dear Milly,” in what sounded like a rehearsed chorus. They closed protectively round Flora in their red, green and blue dresses. Flora did not speak.

The “entrance” lasted a few seconds, searing itself like a car crash on Milly’s memory. “Shall we go in?” she said. “You know what cook is like when she’s made a soufflé.”

Angus offered Felicity his arm and led the way into the dining-room, seating her on his right while Joyce took the chair on his left. Nigel and Henry, Felicity observed, sequestered places on either side of Flora. Hubert and Cosmo sat opposite with Mabs and Tashie, leaving Milly slightly apart, looking forlorn.

“Shall I tell you about the master plan for roads in Germany?” Felicity helped herself to soufflé.

I wish I was as young as that lot, thought Angus; one wouldn’t have hesitated. “I thought you spoke with a stammer. Forgive me for drawing attention to it.” What the hell is Mabs up to? It never bodes good when she looks like that; she’s using the girl as a stalking horse. Somebody’s in for a tumble. Angus glanced along the table at his wife sitting with eyes downcast. Flora’s eyes were downcast too; they usually were. “Your stammer,” he said, “is rather fetching. Did you say roads?”

“My stammer is a social convenience,” said Felicity. “It gives me time to answer a question with an appropriate quip. It is not often uncontrollable.” She swallowed a feathery mouthful of soufflé.

Angus said, “Aha, I see,” helping himself to soufflé. “Hurry up with the wine,” he murmured to the butler.

He does not know how much has already flowed, surmised Felicity. “Delicious soufflé,” she said. “Your cook is a paragon.”

“A little vino loosens the conversation, does it not?” Angus beamed at Felicity.

“So long as it does not loosen too much.” No, he has no idea. Joyce, hitherto silent, snorted. “Do you want to hear about the roads or not?” Felicity asked.

“Ah yes, the German roads. Do you imagine that child is wearing knickers?” Angus lowered his voice.

“Imaginary ones, I’d say.”

“Has she the remotest idea of the electrifying shock she has dealt our male senses? She might to all intents and purposes be naked.”

“She would look less indecent,” murmured Joyce, overhearing.

“I am sure no idea—or perhaps half,” said Felicity.

“It’s my dress,” said Joyce. “Tash stripped her knickers off; you should have seen Hubert and Cosmo’s faces. The line of the knickers showing through made the dress look common.”

“C-c-common.” Felicity tried not to laugh. “Shall I keep the roads of Germany for another time? They have military potential.”

“What we require at this moment is some form of suppressant,” said Angus. “I think my daughter is about to bolt.”

“He’s given to horsey turns of phrase,” said Joyce, who seemed to be enjoying herself. “He’s right, though, the old darling. Hark, I hear a warning note.”

“Your speech impediment—” Angus strove to ignore an eruption farther down the table. Then: “Oh I
say
!” He gave up polite conversation to glare down the table at his daughter. “What?” Felicity watched with interest. In a novel, she thought, trouble would have been brewing for a long time; was it possible Flora was responsible? Were those velvety brown eyes the cause of Mabs’ raised voice? “What’s going on?” Angus asked loudly.

Mabs shouted: “I’m breaking off my engagement, Father, that’s what’s going on.”

(Quiet country atmosphere, my foot, thought Felicity.)

“During dinner?” enquired Angus, forking soufflé into his mouth.

“For ever,” shouted Mabs.

“Don’t shout, darling. We are not deaf,” said Milly.

“Why?” asked Angus, as the parlourmaid removed his plate.

(I couldn’t possibly write it down as it’s happening, thought Felicity.)

“He’s
boring,
I can’t stand his clothes, he drinks, he gambles, I can’t stand his conversation, he doesn’t
wash,
he smells of old sweat and number two.”

“Steady on, old girl,” said Nigel.

“And I can’t stand the thought of going to bed with him. He’s got short legs.”

“A long whatsit,” countered Nigel, beginning to bristle. “You wait and see.”

“Oh
dear
,” said Milly. “Stop it, Mabs, this isn’t—”

“And he’s not ‘my dear,’ nor will he ever be.” Mabs in spate seemed unable to stop. “You stopped me getting off with Felix, you—”

“Felix got off with my brother
and
his girlfriend.” Joyce, elbows on the table, leaned towards Mabs. “Felix likes everything and everyone. He’s the greatest all-rounder of all time.”