A Rather English Marriage (36 page)

Why should I become Reginald's unpaid nursemaid now, just because I went to bed with him once? He fancied me and I gave in. It isn't
my
fault that he had a stroke next day. He'd been looking apoplectic for months, smoking like a chimney, drinking far too much: his blood pressure must have been way over the top. Someone else can do the sweetness-and-light number for poor old Reginald. Liz knew she was being ungenerous, but her own disappointment – just when she seemed to have solved her problems – was such that she felt no sympathy towards Reggie, only indignation. She blamed him for her current predicament.

The other course of action, then, was to do what the bank insisted was unavoidable in any case, and sell the business. The bank manager had taken to asking for the shop's weekly accounts and not even a suicidal end-of-season sale brought in enough customers to cheer up the books. There was perilously little to show on the credit side and her ninety days' grace was running out. Meanwhile Lissy had rung twice asking for money. Each time, Liz had taken a couple of large notes from the till and put them quickly in to an envelope, posting it off before prudence could get the better of her; but one hundred pounds was over a third of last week's profit.

She looked up as a woman she recognized entered the shop. ‘Can I help you? Are you looking for something special, or just browsing?'

‘Hello,' said the woman. ‘Don't I know you? Hang on, wherever from? Gosh, how rude. I am sorry: I work in the library, and I meet so many people there I can never – my name's Constance Liddell.'

‘I'm Liz Franks. Don't we both go to Jenny's aerobics classes twice a week?'

‘Of
course
. That's right!' the woman said. ‘Though
I
don't manage to get there every week, I'm afraid. Please don't worry about me. I'm not really sure what I'm looking for. It's mainly to kill time in my lunch hour.'

‘Is it something for the evening?' Liz asked. ‘A wedding? Or what?'

‘Oh, just something halfway decent to go out to dinner in. Suddenly everything I possess looks old and tired.'

‘You couldn't've come at a better time,' Liz told her. ‘All the stock is down by 50 per cent, sometimes more, and there's a huge selection. Now, let me see. You're dark with green eyes. You're what they call an autumn. All the spicy browns and reds and yellows suit you.'

‘Do they?' Constance asked. ‘I mainly wear beige and olive sort of colours. Sludge. Practical, washable and invisible. And red or black at night.'

‘
No
one should wear red at night,' said Liz, ‘unless they're very young and very blonde. It drains all the colour from the face and deposits it around the hips. No, try
this.'
She held up a long, narrow dress of rust-coloured crêpe. ‘Is it for dinner in or dinner out?'

‘Out,' said Constance, and she smiled. ‘To tell you the truth, it's a new bloke. I've only just met him and he invited me out to dinner. Amazing that he ever spotted me. I thought my protective colouring was almost perfect. Anyway I decided something new would boost my morale, if not make me into a dazzling conversational genius. Or whatever it is he's looking for.'

‘Course it will!' said Liz. ‘Lucky you!
I
could do with a new bloke!'

Constance smiled sympathetically. ‘Isn't it ridiculous? Here we are – well, I don't know about you, but I've got grown-up children, grandchildren as well for that matter, and yet I still get in a total tizz when some attractive male asks me out for the first time.'

‘You
don't look old enough to be a grandmother,' Liz said automatically, since every woman expected to be told that. ‘Anyway, what difference does age make, in the battle of the sexes?'

‘Oh dear,' said Constance. ‘Do you really think it's a battle? I do
try
and tell myself it's a bit more civilized than that.'

‘Don't you believe it,' Liz told her bitterly. ‘Sex or war – that's all that interests men. Did you
listen
to them earlier on this year, during the Gulf War? They were revelling in it.
Loved
it.'

Constance Liddell agreed that autumn colours suited her and promised that she would bear it in mind, especially if her dinner went well. Liz tucked her cheque under the tray in the till and folded the dress carefully into a glossy Chic-to-Chic carrier bag.

‘Good luck!' she said. ‘Let me know how it goes.'

There's always hope, Liz reflected as the bell jangled merrily. Look at her: must be my age, hasn't even taken as good care of herself as I have, and yet
some
man, somewhere, thinks she's worth buying dinner for. Why have I been behaving as though Reginald were the last man in the world? What's to stop me selling up – shop, house, the lot – and starting again in, say, Italy or France in one of those elegant little shops in some warm provincial town catering for smart local women and their gorgeously sexy foreign husbands? Calm down, Liz, she told herself soberly. You have a daughter who is five months pregnant, which is one very good reason why you can't decamp.

I can't avoid it any longer, she concluded. I must, I shall have to, go and see Reginald. Oh God, poor old heffalump.
Poor old me. Still, I might as well know the worst. She closed the shop punctually at five-thirty, bought a small bunch of flowers and a miniature bottle of Glenmorangie, didn't bother to change, ran her hands through her hair, gave herself a blast of scent behind the ears and headed up Mount Pleasant Road towards the hospital.

Reginald's GP had taken a week to muster enough time and initiative to consult an outdated
Who's Who
and look up his patient's relatives. From it he learned that Reginald's nephew Vivian was Lord Blythgowrie (3rd Baron), a member of the Reform Club and the Ski Club of Great Britain; that his hobbies were skiing, fishing and opera; and that he was group chairman of Jervis Developments plc. Sounds pretty fly to me, thought Dr Duncan. With any luck he'll be able to lay out a few quid towards a decent private nursing home, since, unless I'm way off beam, that's where poor old Conynghame-Jervis will be spending the next few months. He picked up the telephone and dialled a City number.

Roy was standing in the kitchen peeling potatoes for a shepherd's pie. June, who was meant to be chopping onions, had put down her knife and was telling Roy alarming stories from her colourful childhood. The boys were out playing in the recreation ground up the road. Despite his efforts to maintain order and keep the place in a condition that Grace would approve, the kitchen was already showing signs of wear and tear. The lino was badly scuffed round the back door, there was mud by the sink where the boys would wash their hands (under protest) before meals, and the larder door showed the prints of grubby fingers.

‘Junie …' said Roy. ‘I hate to bother you, love, but could you get a cloth and mop up round the sink and by the door? The boys've left marks again. Don't know why. I put the doormat outside the back; they've only to wipe their feet, doesn't take a minute.'

‘Oh never mind, Dad. What's the point?' June asked. ‘If I
do it now, they'll only make it mucky again in ten minutes, and I hate moaning on at them. Boys will be boys.'

‘They've got to learn,' Roy insisted. ‘When Grace was alive she was that house-proud, the whole place shone. The Queen could have come for tea any day, needn't have given warning, we could have entertained her just as we was.'

‘It was easier with just the two of you,' June said wearily. ‘Kids always make a mess. Doesn't do no good to keep on at 'em'.

‘Sorry I spoke,' said Roy, and wringing out the floorcloth that was kept under the sink, he bent down and swabbed the muddy footprints himself. June picked up the knife and chopped the onions vigorously into tiny transparent squares.

‘I hope they'll eat it,' she said dubiously. ‘Your shepherd's pie. They like hamburgers best.'

‘Make a change, then, won't it?' said Roy. ‘I'll just get it going in the oven, and then I thought I'd nip up the road and look in on the Squadron Leader. Must be days since I saw him. He'll have made great progress. He's got a wonderful spirit. One look at him and you can see why we won the Battle of Britain.'

‘You do that, Dad,' June said.

They worked in silence. June would have preferred to get on and prepare the supper alone. She was irritated by his old-womanish ways, knew she owed him respect and gratitude, and already resented this. Roy was appalled by the slovenliness all three had revealed in their first weeks under his roof, and convinced that this was a golden opportunity to instruct the boys in good manners and proper behaviour. Start as you mean to go on, he thought. Once let them get into bad habits and it'll be too late. He mashed the potatoes, added butter and milk and pounded them to a rich smoothness.

‘If you'd lay the table for four while I'm away?' he suggested.

‘Not worth the bother,' June pointed out. ‘They'll only take their plates next door to watch telly. Might as well let them eat it on their laps.'

‘Suit yourself,' said Roy. ‘You're their mother. Don't mind me.'

‘Look, Dad,' said June, her voice on edge. ‘You've done a wonderful thing, opening your house to us, making us welcome, and I'm really really grateful, don't think I'm not. But you can't turn two south London boys from Balham into nice Tunbridge Wells lads in a week. Give 'em time. Let them settle down, find their feet. No good nagging at 'em: you'll just make 'em fret for what they've left behind. They miss their friends as it is. They're worried about this new school. It's a lot of changes for them to digest. Give it time.'

‘You know best,' said Roy. He hung up Grace's apron, put on his jacket and cap, and headed for the front door.

Roy stopped off at the newsagent to buy the
Telegraph
for the Squadron Leader and, after a moment's hesitation, a packet of Benson & Hedges. I know he's not allowed them, he thought, but I bet he's not half longing for a smoke! I remember during the war how you'd kill for a fag at times. I can slip them in his locker.

Roy was surprised, when he reached the ward, to see a visitor there already. Sister was standing beside Reginald's bed, looking both deferential and somehow defensive. The Squadron Leader lay on top of the bed, his hospital dressing-gown wrapped inadequately around his middle. Roy could see that he had lost weight. He tucked his cap into one pocket and approached tentatively.

‘Ah, Souvgay!' Reginald said. ‘Vair oo ah! Ow goo' ov oo-oo come! Vivian, viv iv my ma', Sou'gay. My nevew, Lor' Blyvgowie.'

‘Pleased to meet you, sir,' said Roy.

‘How do you do? Gather you're the one who found him,' said Vivian Blythgowrie. ‘Sorry nobody got in touch with me sooner.'

‘I didn't know who you were, sir,' said Roy, flustered. ‘Or where you lived or who to inform. My first thought was to get the Squadron Leader into hospital.'

‘Of course. But after that … Couldn't be helped, I dare say. Rather unfortunate, though. Fortnight passed before anyone thought to contact me. Nearest relative and so on. Pretty obvious.'

Sister intervened nervously. ‘Isn't he doing
well?'
she asked Roy. ‘
You
must see the improvement?'

‘You've done wonders,' said Roy. ‘I wouldn't never have believed it, not after the way he was when he come in. Well
done
, sir!' he added to Reggie.

‘Can I av a vigrett ven plea'?' Reginald asked the Sister.

‘You may certainly
not,'
she replied. ‘Fewer cigarettes in the first place and you probably wouldn't be here now!'

Roy caught Reginald's eye and winked heavily. ‘I've brought you your
Telegraph
, sir,' he said. ‘I'll just slip it into the locker. For
later,'
he added meaningfully.

‘Goo' ma',' said Reginald gratefully.

‘Now look here,' Vivian began. ‘We ought to do some advance planning. Lot to talk about. May be a week or more before I can get down again.'

Roy was just about to take his leave when Reginald's eyes widened and a deep blush suffused his face. Roy turned to follow his gaze, and saw Liz entering the ward dressed in narrow trousers, high heels and a vivid shirt.

‘'Ood ‘od!' said Reggie involuntarily.

‘Mrs Franks!' said Roy.

‘Who's
that?'
asked Vivian.

‘Ith my veeanthay, Mith Fwank,' said Reginald, struggling to lever himself upright. Roy put an arm under one side, and he and Sister manoeuvred him into a sitting position. They exchanged a knowing, conspiratorial grin.

‘I must be getting on,' Sister said, ‘if you'll excuse me.' She walked rapidly away, her crêpe-soled shoes squeaking.

‘Darling! How are you?' said Liz, bending to kiss Reginald. Retaining one of her hands in his own puffy one, Reginald explained as best as he could to his nephew that he and Liz were engaged.

‘Lord Blythgowrie!' Liz said charmingly. ‘I am delighted to
meet you at last. Sorry that it should be around his hospital bed, of course, poor Reggie … Such
rotten
luck.'

She cursed herself for not having changed or at least put lipstick on, and for what she now saw was a miserably stingy bunch of flowers, but Reginald beamed at her proudly and his eyes shone.

‘Well,' said Roy, though he longed to stay and see what happened next, ‘I'll be off home. Time to give the boys their tea. Supper.'

‘Vanks
vair mu'
vor comin',' said Reggie significantly.

‘I'll look in again soon. Honoured to have met you, my Lord. Goodbye, Mrs Franks.'

He settled his cap back on his head and left the ward.

‘Reginald didn't tell me he was
engaged,'
said Vivian accusingly.