A Rather English Marriage (14 page)

‘Isn't it a darling?' she said. ‘It's been in my room ever since I was little. My godmother gave it to me. She said, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, Marigold's the fairest of them all.”' She had blushed. ‘Only joking. I'm not vain really. It must be - oh, I don't know - walnut, do you think? The number of times I have peered into that glass to look for pimples, or see if it was true that if you told a fib you got spots on your tongue. Oh Reggie, we're going to be so happy! I just know it! Look at us. Look at us both smiling. Oh, I
love
being married!'

Mary, he thought, Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Why did you have to go?

He closed the door and went downstairs.

‘Can we get one thing straight?' he said to his new cleaner. ‘You may call me Squadron Leader, or you may call me by my name, which is Mr Conynghame-Jervis, or - which would
be easiest for you - you may call me “sir”. But you will
not
address me as Mr Squadron Leader, or Mr Jervis. Is that clear?'

She turned to look at him.

‘That's better,' she beamed. ‘Very smart. And my name is Agnes Odejayi and you may call me Aggie like everyone else does since none of 'em can manage to hold on to a name like Odejayi and you're no exception. But you may
not
call me Mrs Owsyerfather. Is that clear? Now hurry up and drink your tea.'

Reggie smiled because he couldn't help it and lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.

As the vicar's car entered Nevill Park past the sign saying PRIVATE ROAD, Roy's apprehension almost overwhelmed him. Sitting upright and gazing straight ahead, he could hear the thudding of his heart beneath the vicar's cheery banalities. Grace, Grace, Grace, Grace …

‘Have a look at that view over there, to your left,' the Reverend Morris was saying. ‘Marvellous, isn't it?' Roy turned politely to have a look.

The road was bordered with lichened walls beyond which a field sloped away steeply into the valley. On its far side in the distance stood white Victorian houses and behind them the boxy rows of a post-war housing development. The big houses to his right were set well back behind tall hedges and even taller trees. Massive, solemn, separate, their symmetrical sandstone façades could be glimpsed through the branches of pines and cedars. The car bumped along the road, past a nursing home, past a letter-box set into a wooden gatepost, and slowed to turn up a narrow drive leading to a porticoed entrance.

It stopped, and the vicar turned to Roy.

‘Here we are!' he said. ‘Can you manage that seat-belt? Fiddly things. Let me get your case out of the boot.'

Before the vicar could reach the bell the door was flung open and a beaming black woman stood at the top of the steps. ‘Well here you are!' she boomed, as though they had
been the first arrivals at a weekend house party. ‘Come on in. Good morning, Reverend and welcome to you Mr…?' ‘Southgate,' said Roy.

‘Southgate! Southgate? Why of course –
I
know who you are - you must be Grace's husband.” Before she could explain, Reggie emerged from behind her.

‘Take his case upstairs, Aggie! – Morning, vicar, Southgate. Coffee? Yes? - and then bring us all some coffee.'

As Reggie and the vicar exchanged small talk, Roy looked around the drawing room. Everything gleamed with age and polish; even the fabric covering the sofas and chairs had a faint sheen. A fire danced in the wide grate, and the pictures on the walls reflected its points of light. Roy looked for a portrait of the Squadron Leader's wife, but there wasn't one. He understood. The memories evoked by wedding photographs were too painful to have constantly before one's eyes. It was that pain which had brought them together and, however intimidating this great house, however unfamiliar this huge room, he'd be all right as long as he remembered that.

‘Right. Jolly good. Now then. I'd better take you upstairs,' began Reggie, just as the vicar started to say, ‘Well, time I was making tracks …' They both stopped and looked at Roy.

‘I'm much obliged to you both,' he said. ‘I'll do my best.' The coffee tasted bitter in his mouth. ‘I know it's hard. We all know that …' and his voice trailed away.

‘Good man!' said Reginald. ‘That's the spirit! Another cup, vicar? No peace for the wicked! Look in any time, see how the new boy's settling down, won't you?'

‘Righty-ho,' said the vicar, wondering what he'd let them in for and what on earth they would say once they were left alone together.

‘All the best. God bless you both.' Roy and Reggie stood up and he shook their hands before Reggie escorted him to the front door.

When he came back, Roy who had sat down again, said, ‘It's five months to the day, and next weekend's Remembrance Sunday. Will you be going to church?'

‘Since they died?' said Reginald. ‘Yes. Hadn't clocked that, but you're right. Well, I don't usually. Like the hymns, though. Jolly good tunes. What about you?'

‘Brings it all back. The war. Don't really like to think about it.'

‘Well then,' said Reggie with relief. ‘We'll agree to give it a miss. Now. Your room …'

Before he could turn away, Roy said formally, ‘I'm willing to give this a try. I know how you feel, because I'm feeling it myself. We've got that in common. The loneliness, missing them …'

The door opened and Aggie came in, wearing her coat and a red hat. ‘Still sitting here?' she said. ‘What sort of a welcome is that? Come on Squadron Leader, you and me'll show Mr Southgate his room. It's all ready for you; just needs your bits and pieces to make it nice and homely. Got time to take you upstairs and then I must be off to the hospital. My shift starts at twelve-thirty.'

She works at the hospital, thought Roy. So that's how she knows Grace. Well, there was something to talk about next time. A new person, with new memories. He could look forward to that.

‘When will you be coming again?' he asked.

‘Monday,' said Aggie. ‘Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I do. Not that it's enough, great big house like this. And now there'll be two of you.'

‘Oh, I look after myself. I won't give you any trouble.'

‘It's not you I worry about,' she said meaningfully.

‘Off you go, Mrs Owsyerfather,' Reginald interrupted.

‘What did I tell you? Odejayi. Your manners needs attending to, Squadron Leader. My name's no more hard to remember than yours. And
you
can show your guest his room.' After a pause she added, ‘Working for free, then, am I, this week?'

‘Ah. Yes. Your money. How much did we …?'

‘Twenty-five pounds,' stated Aggie firmly. ‘Thank you, Mr Conynghame-Jervis.' She winked at Roy and left the room.

Reggie waited until he heard the front door close behind her and then he said, ‘Doesn't do to be too familiar with them. “It is the duty of the wealthy man/To give employment to the artisan,” I say. She's paid to work, let her get on with it. She'll do your room, laundry, all that sort of thing. You can chip in to her wages.'

‘If it's all the same to you, I'd rather look after my own things,' said Roy. It hadn't occurred to him that living with the Squadron Leader could prove expensive, and he only had his pension, plus a bit extra from Unigate.

Reggie was about to expostulate, but Roy's set face looked surprisingly determined. Little chap could become tiresome, he thought, and muttered, ‘Let's not argue about it now. Want a wash and brush up?' He indicated the way upstairs.

‘… and you've got your own bathroom, of course - down the corridor, last door on the left. Right. Time for a snifter. I'll be downstairs, and when you're ready we'll talk about lunch.'

Left to himself, Roy drew a deep breath and looked around. He didn't think he'd ever in all his life slept in such a large bedroom, let alone
alone
. The single bed was covered with a faded sprigged cover which matched the faded flowered trellis on the wallpaper. A bedside lampshade was covered in the same material. On the walls were pastel portraits of two smiling girls, so alike that they must be sisters. He peered closer. They were signed John Ward and dated 1979. The beige carpet was recently hoovered, and his footsteps left imprints in its deep pile. A white-painted bookcase held a few books and an assortment of glass animals. He crossed the room and lifted one side of the heavy lace curtain draped diagonally across the sash window. It faced west and, Roy thought, must get the afternoon sun.

His room was the last of three in a side wing of the house. The window overlooked a high brick wall covered with climbing roses - darkened stems by now, bearing a few rosehips and faded blooms. Beyond the wall lay the spacious grounds of the neighbouring property. He raised the sash window to let some
fresh air into the stuffy centrally heated room, and found it stiff from long disuse. He wondered who had last slept in the bed: one of the smiling girls, perhaps?

His suitcase stood beside the tall dark chest of drawers, and he lifted it on to the bed and with a heavy heart began to unpack.

‘Everything hunky-dory?' inquired Reggie bluffly as Roy entered the drawing room. ‘Found the bathroom all right?' Beside him on the table stood a large tumbler of whisky, and the warm room was filled with cigarette smoke. ‘Drinks on the side. Help yourself.'

‘Thanks ever so much, but I'm not allowed. The doctor prescribed a glass of Guinness sometimes to keep my strength up, and when I'm at home I have a pint at the local some nights, but that's all.'

Reginald looked at the little man, an incongruous figure amid the lordly proportions of the room and its ample furniture. Sooner he buckles down to his duties the better, he thought.

‘Righto, then, how about a spot of lunch …?' he began, at the same time as Roy turned towards the French windows and said, ‘Lovely garden you've got. Must keep you busy.'

‘Got a chap who comes in for one and a half days a week …' Reggie started to say, just as Roy asked, ‘Which way is the kitchen?'

‘Look here, Southgate,' said Reginald in his I-give-the-orders voice. ‘I'll show you the layout and you can get cracking. Mrs Thing's sorted out the kitchen, I've filled the fridge, far as I'm concerned from now on that's your department. If I've got other plans, I'll let you know. Been eating at the local mostly, Broker's Arms, sick of it. You can cook, you said? Good plain food's all I ask.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Roy, and the sarcasm went unnoticed. Reggie nodded.

‘Good man,' he said. ‘This way.'

*

Mr Dear Vera
, Roy wrote:

How are you all, Stan and the children, keeping well I hope? As you can see from the new address I'm now moved in with the Squadron Leader. It's been a week so far, too early to tell, but it seems to be going OK. You remember the big houses up past the cricket ground I expect, well if you turn down the road opposite the Spa Hotel that's where I am now. Never thought to see your dad so posh did you ha ha. The Squadron Leader is a decent bloke, lonely like me though he doesn't talk about his wife so I don't talk about Mum but I expect we'll get round to it, after all that's why I'm here. A very nice black lady comes in to do three times a week and being as she knew Mum at the hospital we have some good chats. I miss your Mum a lot she was everything to me RIP. Next week I'm visiting Alan, I'll send him your love. Well no more for now, must get back to my duties!

Ever your loving Dad
.

He hadn't told Vera the truth. No point in upsetting her. Things might be going OK as far as the Squadron Leader was concerned, but he, Roy, felt lonelier than ever. It was easy enough to get the hang of the kitchen, though he still couldn't see the use of a dishwasher when there was just the two of them. Less bother to do it by hand. But he missed the sense of Grace's dear shadow that lingered in every corner of their home and hated being in a place she'd never entered. She was slipping from his grasp, leaving him behind. Like Tinkerbell, her voice was fading and her light grew dimmer. He struggled to believe that she must be somewhere, not just boxed in under the tidy plot in the cemetery but waiting for him in corporeal glory. His imagination tried to give her continuing life, but already it was harder and harder to make-believe that she was beside him in everything he did.

Sometimes, especially at night, he still felt her watching him, and although he couldn't imagine making love to her in that chaste, single bed, he could picture her in his bedroom, exclaiming at the drawings of the two girls, sitting on the bed
to make sure that it was comfortable for him, opening and shutting the chest of drawers, running a businesslike finger along the bookshelves to check for dust. During the day the solid, rumbustious figure of the Squadron Leader seemed to crowd out her frail presence, and when he tried to talk to her there was so much explaining to do.

He addressed the airletter and stuck down its three sides. Time to get back to his duties.

‘There you are, Southgate!' boomed Reggie, as he came in to the drawing room. ‘Everything under control? Jolly good. I'm out for dinner tonight. Don't wait up.'

Roy knew already that he couldn't say, ‘I wasn't going to,' so he merely answered, ‘Very good,
sir
,' but once again the sarcasm was lost on Reginald.

It had been strange for them at first: two men sharing the house, emitting masculine noises and smells, after half a lifetime of living beside a woman. Reginald had been briefly uncertain about the etiquette of this odd new relationship foisted upon them both. Should he say ‘Good morning' and ‘Good night'? Should he inquire, as with an acquaintance, after Roy's health, or his family? Chap obviously expected to commiserate about Mary and wanted to talk about his own wife, but Reggie knew that wasn't on: two blokes blubbing away together.

The answer, he discovered, was simple. He reverted to the status and authority of the war, which put Roy firmly in the category of ‘other ranks'. Once he'd seen it that way, there was no more problem. Didn't do to get too pally with other ranks, just as his mother had told him it only confused the servants if he tried to be friendly. ‘They know their place, Reggie, dear,' she had said gently, after Nanny had reported that he was spending too much time watching Cook in the kitchen. ‘It's up to you to know yours. They prefer it that way, and I think you'll soon find you do too.' From then on Reggie, aged eight but already at prep school, had been banished from the warm exciting smells of the kitchen, the roaring
range, the bowls to be licked and sauces to be tasted, and sent firmly back up to the schoolroom, where Gerald, his clever older brother who had gone to Eton and left Reginald far behind, ragged him for not being able to read Greek or remember his Latin verbs. Then they would settle down to a game of L'Attaque! and he would realize how wise Mother was - this sort of soldierly activity was far more fun for chaps.