The Beautiful Visit (11 page)

After the meal we were finally inspected by Nanny, Deb again powdered her nose, and we stood in the drawing-room, at one end of which the orchestra was now grouped, surrounded with hothouse
ferns. There were sounds of the first people arriving. Lucy waltzed me across the room to the entrance where Mrs Lancing stood, with Deb frowning at us. The first announcement sounded absurd in the
empty room when everyone could see who the arrivals were. Two plain girls wearing queer short dresses of peacock blue and hair tied back with enormous bows of the same colour, advanced nervously to
be introduced.

‘Their mother believes in Freedom of Movement,’ muttered Lucy viciously in my ear. Rupert came in announcing himself in a loud unnatural voice which made the footmen shuffle
sheepishly.

Then scores of guests arrived: girls in white and pink, and blue; boys in Eton suits; men, very young in evening dress; mothers, in lace and pearls; fathers, military men, with stiff legs and
walking sticks; red-faced men curiously light on shiny black feet, good riders, sportsmen, all prepared for a festivity that would become the ladies, the objects of their chivalry, tolerance and
affection; thin spare men of uncertain age laughing with nervous goodwill and rubbing their hands. (Surely men couldn’t be shy?) Amid the hum of conversation Gerald handed out programmes with
tiny pencils and tassels. I was introduced to a number of men who booked dances. I wondered when I should dance with Rupert and whether Roland had arrived: yes that must be Roland, tall and fair
and close to Deb. I left four dances free for Rupert. He would of course forget to book them; would see me standing, and assume that we had planned those dances. He would put his arm round me; we
should glide away in silence, and perhaps look at each other a moment later to acknowledge our understanding.

Upstairs, Nanny would be hovering with pins and combs and a needle, ready for any feminine emergency. And elsewhere supper was prepared; the slices of lemon floating sideways in the jugs of cup;
the trifles quivering on their plates: everything was ready. The first dance. And the second. Learning the things one said; the general form of the conversation; dancing with good dancers and with
bad, abandoning oneself to the delight of the movement, or admiration, tentative and clumsy (‘those roses are ripping’): or the choking flood of panic when one could not interest
one’s partner with any of the opening remarks so newly learned – the floor, the orchestra, skating, Christmas, the hospitality of the Lancings. Dreary little pools of silence, broken by
an apology (‘So sorry.’ ‘My fault.’). The fifth dance. Rupert dancing with Deb, then with Mrs Lancing herself. Elspeth being sent to bed with a jelly. Rupert, his arms
folded, leaning against the wall talking to another man. Dancing with Roland, and Deb smiling her approval. An uneasy little conversation on Deb’s beauties. The sixth dance.

I went upstairs to tidy my hair. One could not walk into the room and say ‘Rupert take me in to supper,’ as Deb had done. Lucy was standing impatiently while Nanny whipped up a frill
on her skirt. ‘Who’s taking you in to supper?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh.’

Poor Lucy was so kind that she was easily unhappy.

‘It’s all right,’ I said carefully.

‘You’ve had lots of partners haven’t you?’ said Lucy with an eager reassuring smile.

‘Oh
yes
. I’m having a lovely time. Are you?’

‘Of course.’ she said simply. ‘It’s a dance.

‘Down you go,’ said Nanny. We went.

‘I think Roland is rather unhappy,’ whispered Lucy. ‘I shall talk to him.’ and she sped away, her coffee-coloured skirts flying round her neat ankles. Why was not Deb
having supper with Roland? Why had it not been I who had smiled up at Rupert so affectionately, and commanded him to take me in to supper? Only a third of the evening gone.

Mrs Lancing introduced me to a sturdy young man in spectacles. Mr Fielding. ‘You both like music,’ she said firmly and left us.

‘What sort of music do you like?’

‘Oh, different things. What do you like?’

‘Oh, any music really.’

‘What about a little supper?’

‘That would be lovely.’

We had supper. Gerald was hilarious with several men friends and a girl in yellow who giggled at everything he said and ate a great deal. Mr Fielding politely supplied me with food. Music died a
natural death between us and we had nothing further to say to one another. Deb and Rupert were not there. How strange. Lucy and Roland were discussing the feeding of ponies for hunting. The cup was
very cool and a little bitter, and I was desperately thirsty. A clock struck eleven. Mr Fielding was joining in the general conversation. I murmured something about a handkerchief and left him. In
the hall I paused. My face was burning hot and I longed to cool it. I opened a door leading on to the garden and slipped out. There was a watery moon galloping across the sky. I heard footsteps, a
low laugh, a murmured protesting denial, and then silence. The moon slipped thinly behind a feathery cloud and out the other side, rakish and gleaming. I stood a moment uncertain, then shut myself
into the house again, and after wandering round the hall, seated myself half-way up the stairs.

They came in by the same door, as I had known they would, he holding it for her, she with his coat round her shoulders. All exactly as she had told me.

I was above them and they did not see me, but Lucy and Roland came out of the supper-room facing me.

‘Hullo,’ said Lucy, but Roland saw Deb.

‘I was looking for you,’ he said and moved forward uncertainly.

‘Were you?’ said Deb. ‘Well here I am, come and give me a drink.’ She sounded sharp and a little nervous. As she moved to Roland she saw me, through the banisters and
tilted her head. I saw a spot of colour on her cheekbones, her eyes narrowed, sparkling through the black fringe of lashes, and a tendril of hair curling down her neck. ‘You there,
too?’

‘I was having a rest.’

She nodded, and went away with Roland. I could feel Rupert watching me and rose to my feet. He met me at the bottom of the stairs.

‘May I have the honour of dancing with you?’

Dust and ashes; I swallowed.

‘There isn’t any dancing, they’re having a rest too,’ said Lucy cheerfully. ‘But I expect they’ll start soon,’ she added kindly. ‘I’m going
to have an ice,’ and she went.

‘Would you like an ice?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Would you like to go on resting here? Hullo, you’ve got Deb’s turquoise heart.’

My fingers clutched the heart, there was an ache in my throat. I nodded.

‘Does that mean you
would
like to sit here?’

I shook my head and turned away. He caught my wrist and a large tear fell on his hand.

‘I cannot allow you to turn away from me in tears,’ he said, and pulled me back.

He looked hard at me for a second and fumbled in his pockets. ‘Damn, I never have one.’ He smoothed my cheeks with his fingers and then licked them, and seeing my surprise he said
seriously, ‘I like your tears very much. Now, I’ll decide what to do, since you can do nothing but cry.’

We went to the dance room. It was almost empty. The orchestra were sitting waiting their appointed time to start again. Rupert left me and talked to them.

‘We are going to dance by ourselves. Now, if you’ve a handkerchief I think you’d better use it.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘You people who weep never have,’ he said.

We danced in silence and alone. He was a very much better dancer than I, which afforded me a peculiar delight. People joined us in the end and when it was over Rupert said he was starving and I
must come and watch him eat. ‘I shall sup off cold chicken and tears.’ He piled a plate and said, ‘Now we sit on the stairs. Take this, and I’ll join you.’ He returned
with a pink ice. ‘For you. Now, are you happy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You shouldn’t say that. When people ask you whether you’re happy, they don’t require a serious answer. Unless you are a person who takes happiness very
seriously.’

‘I do.’

‘I’ll ask you in five years whether you meant that.’

I spooned my ice in silence.

‘But I think you meant yourself,’ he added, ‘which is a very different thing.’

I wanted to change the subject. ‘Doesn’t Deb look beautiful tonight?’

‘Now, now, none of that,’ he said sharply. ‘I’ve given you every chance to recover gracefully from your tears.’

Again I had the naked sensation of having my mind laid bare for his understanding.

‘You see,’ he said. ‘If one is unhappy for a good reason one does not mind exposure so much. But if one suffers because one is young and absurd, silence and secrecy are
preferable, and should be supported.’

‘Am I young and absurd?’

‘You are young and absurd.’

I stared ahead of me, my hands in my lap, finding it easier now that he said that. A wave of gratitude to him loosened my tongue.

‘It was silly of me to mind.’ He was silent. ‘You see I went into the garden and I knew it was you. It was silly of me to mind,’ I repeated.

‘It was very silly of you.’

‘I should have realized that it didn’t make any difference.’

‘To what?’

‘To, to what you said on the walk,’ I said weakly.

‘I cannot understand how a moment’s moonlight dallying in the garden with Deb is connected with anything I said to you on a walk.’

‘I thought you didn’t care.’

‘Care?’

‘About me,’ I faltered. This was getting worse every moment.

‘But I don’t.’ He sounded thoroughly startled. ‘Listen. We had a very nice walk, and I enjoyed your company. You are not only young and absurd, which is enjoyable but
commonplace; you are other things. Deb is other things too and she is enjoyable in a different way.’ I could see he laughed at his own choice of words. ‘But neither of these minor,
these very minor events deserve the complications with which you would honour them. You are both charming and I enjoy you both, and perhaps you enjoy me which makes it better still, but we none of
us need to make things larger than they are. In fact you must not be a creator of situations.’

‘You didn’t mean what you said?’

‘Of course I did. I was, if I remember, extremely earnest, and dictatorial. But I am a talker. I talk like that all the time. You mustn’t let the idea of a young girl going into a
garden getting kissed under a moon and instantly becoming engaged to be married get too strong a hold on you. You’ve been reading the wrong sort of books. And as you cannot prevent Deb being
more beautiful than you, you must accept it and not damage yourself by jealousy in so ridiculous a manner. And now if you dare to cry I shall shake you and be so unkind that you’re irritated
into stopping.’

There was a pause while I struggled with my feelings: shame, astonishment and chagrin, but strangely no resentment towards him. He had, I suppose, an innate understanding for what was bearable
and what was not, and the gift of saying brutal things with a mixture of honesty and ease that took the sting out of them.

‘You liked being kissed didn’t you?’

I nodded.

‘Good, that was honest. Some things can be very nice when they happen once. It isn’t necessary to ensure that they are repeated indefinitely before one can begin to value
them.’ I recognized this gentle piece of mocking and felt calmer.

‘Do you know how old I am?’

I didn’t know.

‘I’m twenty-three.’

I had not imagined him as any particular age, but had felt sure he was more. I took a deep breath. ‘Remarkable,’ I said ironically.

‘I always planned to be remarkable at twenty-three,’ he answered. ‘So you can laugh. Come and do it in front of a lot of people. I am sure they would be surprised.’ And
we went back to the dance.

People began to go at twelve o’clock and by half past the dance was finished. We were left supping warm milk, and exclaiming contentedly over the success of the evening.

Upstairs, Deb drew me into her room.

‘I shall not marry Roland after all. It would be the greatest mistake. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow if you like. Sleep well.’

CHAPTER NINE

I don’t know why I should have expected life to be different at home, but I did. I had imagined so strongly that it would be, without any clear idea what form the change
would take, that for a few days I lived in my imagination, the food tasted new, and even my father’s pupils were more interesting. Gradually, the exhilaration of my holidays ebbed away. I had
written a stilted little letter to Mrs Lancing, expressing my gratitude, which set the seal on the visit, and finally finished it in my mind. My sister showed no curiosity about my adventures, and
to my mother I remained unduly silent. One of my brothers began teaching at a preparatory school in Kent and the other was at a Training College. They were shadows. I knew they thought us very dull
and they avoided bringing their friends to the house.

I determined to educate myself, and joined a library. The young lady who attended to my needs overawed me. I had approached her with a tentative inquiry hoping that she would assign me some
particular book, and thus relieve me of the responsibility of choosing. But she flung out her arms in different directions and said Travel, Fiction, Biography and Religious with a detached
generosity which it was impossible to refuse. I thanked her and walked away. Travel, I thought; I should know about other countries; it would widen and improve my mind. I selected
Ten Weeks in
Northern Italy
by May something or other, illustrated by the author. I returned to the assistant and laid it uncertainly on the counter.

‘You’re allowed three books you know,’ she said.

I hastened away. A biography. I searched until my neck ached and the names of the books before me had no separate meaning. In the end I chose the Memoirs by a lady-in-waiting at some obscure
Ducal court in Germany. I chose it because it was bound in crimson leather with gold lettering and the colour pleased me. And then in a nervous little rush I seized
Wuthering Heights
, the
first book that caught my eye from the rows of fiction. With these, I returned to my assistant, not a little pleased with myself. While she was writing my name and address, I asked her stupidly
whether the books were good.