Odd Girl Out (34 page)

‘Dancing’s a marvellous idea!’ Anne said. ‘The radio’s far too unpredictable: find the old records, Edmund, the ones we always used to dance to.’

‘It’s too late,’ Edmund said, ‘and I’m too drunk. I got used to drinking up to all hours in Greece, and this, I’m afraid, is what you get for it.’

‘Where is Ariadne?’ asked Arabella.

‘I let her out. She can always get in again through her door, but she likes to hunt at night.’

‘I think I’m going to bed.’

‘We must all go to bed,’ Edmund said – a shade too heartily.

The radio and lights were turned off, and they trooped upstairs.

‘Good night, Arabella: sleep well,’ Anne said, and then, as though it was an afterthought, stretched up and kissed Arabella’s face. Edmund looked as though he would do
likewise, but Arabella held out her hand – in so royal and commanding a manner, that he could do nothing but bend with the courtliness of one half drunk, and kiss it. They parted.

Arabella, who had badly wanted Ariadne for company, opened her windows wide: Ariadne had been known to climb up and down the wistaria when so inclined. She took off her clothes as quickly as
possible, and sat for a long time in a patch of moonlight on the floor: frozen with fear and the expectation of despair. It was like approaching rapids with two people who thought that a
rowing-boat would do all three of them quite nicely.

Anne and Edmund entered their bedroom with the same mixed feelings. Neither wanted the other, but neither wanted not to be wanted. Usually, if Edmund had ever been away (and he
had certainly never been away for so long before) their reunion was something that the whole evening built up towards: their mutual hunger and knowledge of each other had always made something
particularly good, and not always in the same way. Sometimes, Edmund wanted her so badly that she had not had time for herself: sometimes he had been able to prolong everything for both of them
until Anne could be satisfied as much as he. This was the first time in their lives that things were not the same, and neither was able or willing to say why not. So their lies to each other
– she had been ill and must not be over-tired – he had been travelling all day and was clearly drunk – were eagerly accepted by each of them. Behind the acceptance lay a small,
anxious seed of doubt, that germinated in the dark, as each pretended to fall instantly asleep. If he was simply drunk, Anne thought, then he would have taken me clumsily and too fast, but it would
have happened. If she was really feeling too tired because she has been ill, she would have put her arms round me and explained all that, Edmund thought, and then thought, that those times had
often ended in his having her in spite, or because, of the explanations. The morning, each of them thought, and decided that they would rather sleep than think of it. The morning was sure to be
different.

The morning was naturally not the same as the evening before it, but the ways in which it was different eluded all three of them. Edmund woke with a terrible hangover: in
Greece he had seemed able to drink an unlimited amount of what he liked or was available: in England, Martinis, wine, whisky and brandy were taking their toll. The thought of getting up and making
breakfast for himself and Anne actually nauseated him, and he was greatly relieved when she said that she would make some coffee and then go back to bed, as she had been doing, she explained,
throughout her recent illness. So he cut himself shaving because his hands shook and he felt too awful to try, and drank a lot of coffee after a long, hot shower, and dressed, and felt sorry for
himself about the impending day – lunch with Sir William an absolute certainty, and no time or privacy to resolve anything that really mattered. Anne making him coffee and being about the
house meant that he had no chance at all to see Arabella as he had hoped and planned to do. If she would only come to London for one day, they could have a proper talk and sort things out.
(Whenever this possibility diminished, he felt it to be the only solution; had it loomed, he would have been panic-stricken at the prospect.) But he did not see Arabella, and got wearily into his
car, having snapped at Anne and stumbled over a blasted kitten, which hurt him, he was sure, far more than it hurt the little beast.

The moment that she was sure he was really gone, Anne flew to Arabella’s room. Arabella was fast asleep. Anne, who had brought her grapefruit juice and tea, woke her up.

‘He’s gone. It’s me,’ she said.

‘Did you tell him?’

‘Of course not. Anyway, he didn’t ask,’ she added, knowing this fitted with Arabella’s moral code. ‘I didn’t tell lies,’ she lied, because the kind she
had told were not the kind that one could explain to anyone else. And some pride in her also wanted not to tell Arabella that the asexual night she had just spent had been by mutual agreement. In a
way, she wanted Arabella to think that Edmund had wanted her, and that she had – very kindly and intelligently – got out of it. This state of affairs could not continue, she knew, with
Edmund, but it would be better if Arabella was eased into it. She wanted it to be all right for both of them, with both of them wanting her. Because I love them, she thought.

Arabella drank her fruit juice and tea quickly and then said, ‘Could I borrow the car?’

‘Darling, you know you can always drive the car. I thought we might do a shop together: we’re going to need it.’

‘In that case, I’ll take a taxi. I’ve got to go to London.’

‘
London?
’

‘Yes – London. Just for the day.’

‘What on earth for? I mean, why today – particularly?’

‘I’ll explain when I get back if you don’t mind. Can I call a taxi?’

Anne, deeply hurt and disappointed at not having Arabella to discuss Edmund with – no, to
be
with all day, said stiffly, ‘I’ll drive you to the station. And if you call
me when you are coming back, I’ll meet you.’

Which was what she did. Arabella put on her yellow suit and all its accessories and Anne drove her – silently – to the station. When they got there, she said, ‘I wish
you’d trust me. I wish you’d tell me why you want to go to London today.’

‘You’ll have to trust me,’ was all she got in reply.

‘We’ll have a celebration
lunch
,’ Sir William shouted, so loudly and so near to Edmund’s ear that he nearly jumped.

‘Good,’ he said weakly.

‘Food? Of course we’ll have food. And drink. That’s what lunches are for. I expect you’re fed up with all that foreign messed about stuff they give you. I’ve been
eating cold game pie for a week,’ he continued at full volume wistfulness.

‘Why for a week?’ Edmund yelled – or so it seemed to him – it certainly made his head ache.

‘Had a touch of indigestion last Tuesday from it. Won’t be beaten by trifles like that. Eaten it every day since: if you give in to your digestion at my age you’re done for.
Might have a day off with you, though. See you at a quarter to one.’ He stumped out of Edmund’s office. Edmund sent Miss Hathaway out for some Alka-Seltzer and put on his dark
glasses.

‘There is only one problem that I can see, my darling one.’

‘My dear Vani, problems have never been your métier. I’m surprised that you can rise to
one.
’

‘The English sarcasm is completely and utterly wasted on me.’

They were sitting on the terrace of the large hotel that looked out on to the sea, confronted by a line of middle-aged and wind-weary palms, the smell of petrol fumes and two champagne cocktails
that had been made with very indifferent champagne. They had officially left the villa, and were due to board the yacht that evening. So they were lunching and spending the afternoon in the hotel
that Clara usually frequented at such times. Clara had had her hair done that morning, her legs waxed and her nails on hands and feet painted.

The Prince had read some of the
New York Times,
been shaved and bored. He was now – with no gambling in sight – spoiling for some intrigue, however small and removed from his
real interest.

‘The problem,’ he reverted portentously, for him, ‘and this, my dear one, is a secret in some ways, although naturally, like most secrets, far from complete, is that poor
Ludwig – I fear that Ludwig is not – he is many years older than might appear – it has never been satisfactory for him – ’

‘For God’s sake, Vani, don’t beat about the bush. You mean he’s sterile, or impotent or something. There’s nothing new about that.’

‘You have hit upon it. But that is not the major factor. It would not be of the least interest to speak of his bed life, excepting that he needs an heir. An heir,’ he repeated
dreamily: the last thing he would ever want to be saddled with. He considered it extremely open-minded of him to contemplate such differences between one man and another.

‘If he begets not an heir, his truly unspeakable cousin inherits all. This he would shoot himself to avoid. He has said so many times. He has only the one way. He must marry, and his wife
must have a child.
Now
you are comprehending me.’

‘You mean, Arabella must get married to him and then find someone who’ll get her pregnant. Well really – I don’t see much difficulty in that. We all know that she is
capable of pregnancy, and I should think anyone married to Ludwig would welcome a change. Or anything,’ she added.

‘You do not regard this as an insuperable problem then?’

‘Why should I?’

‘I think Ludwig would – reasonably enough – wish to have some say-so in who it might be. He would hardly care for it to be his head gardener, or some unstable, displaced
person.’

‘I am tired – really absolutely
sick
of trying to plan that girl’s future. If she marries Ludwig, I shall be delighted: she will be off my hands; she will then have
enough money for me to stop worrying about her ever.’

‘But she has the money surely, yes?’

‘Unmarried, she has five hundred a year, and anything I feel like giving her. Married, she gets everything her father left, which is in a trust for her. It is in his Will – nothing
to do with me, but naturally I shall not tell her this unless she agrees to marry Ludwig. Then she will have quite enough to restore his castle and pay anyone to go to bed with her.’

‘I do not think she would have to spend money on that.’

‘Don’t you? That is really rather ungallant of you, Vani. A mistake.’ She finished her cocktail. ‘She does not know about the money. If you tell her, it will be the end
of you and me.’

It was going to be the end, anyway, but she wanted as many excuses as possible.

The Prince tried to smile. ‘I would never on my life tell her,’ he said.

Henry had certainly gone to Oswestry, and had done, in fact, four days’ filming. But he had not returned. Janet had, by now, finished her Post Office Savings money. She
did not know where Henry was: their telephone had been cut off because the bill was simply unpayable, and she was down to her watch and her wedding ring. Lack of proper food or anybody sensible to
talk to, and the children’s ceaseless needs – most of which it was becoming impossible to fulfil – had so sapped her energy and intelligence that she now behaved like any
starving, unloved, despairing person might behave. She had lived for nearly ten days now from her hand to the children’s mouths. She felt dizzy, stupid, omnipotent and sick, by turns. She
made one effort to find and see some sort of Welfare person, but she chose the worst time of day, when nearly everybody (who wasn’t on holiday) was out to lunch. She couldn’t face going
any distance with both children, and she couldn’t leave them for long. She knew how to make a public call-box work without money, and used it to try and trace Henry’s agent, but he,
too, was on holiday. Back at home, she faced the milk bill – unpaid for too many weeks for the milkman to put up with it any longer – the half-loaf of stale bread, the greasing
margarine, the fish paste that she thought might have gone off and dared not give to them. She no longer cared what happened to her: it was what she should do about the children. Leave them on the
doorstep of some hospital? Or police station? Leave the poor little buggers to a fate of institutions and fostering? Finish
them
off too? She no longer knew what she felt about them: they
had become such a chronic, enormous, and insuperable problem in her life that she thought of them almost as she thought of the telephone bill or the milkman. I could just leave them here and go to
the Town Hall and ask them, she thought. But the idea of the long, uphill climb of walking in the heat to that place seemed too much of an effort. Almost any effort made her sweat and feel cold as
though she was going to faint. But people were supposed to be kind to each other. Supposing she called the police, and said what her difficulties were. But if a telephone didn’t work, it
didn’t work. I could go to a call-box, she thought. 999 calls did not cost a thing. ‘My husband seems to have left me, and now I have no money and can’t buy food for the children,
and I don’t know what to do.’ Even if I knew, could I bear to do it? She had a dim, spasmodic feeling that possibly her mind was failing her. Surely this was an idiotic situation to
have got into? All round her were houses and flats and they were full of people, couldn’t she just ring a bell and tell someone and they would help her? But she had begun to be afraid that
nobody would believe her, and she did not feel that she could take not being believed. Also, she was afraid of utterly breaking down while she told them, and she had been taught that breaking down
– about anything – was a very bad thing to do. They might simply think she was mad.

Every now and then, in a spasm of energy, she would search her worn handbag with its broken handles, in case she had overlooked some money. Or pockets of clothes. Or pockets of the few clothes
that Henry possessed. Once, a week ago, this search had yielded a shilling, and so she kept on feeling that some more cash might turn up. But it hadn’t and didn’t. She didn’t feel
in the least hungry any more, but she would have given anything for a smoke: or someone who
knew
her to talk to so that she wouldn’t have to explain everything. Every day, she wondered
whether Henry would come back, because if he did that, he would
have
to do something. His returns always coincided with pubs shutting, so she had two periods in each twenty-four hours when
it was worth hoping. But after three weeks – no, three weeks and four days – there didn’t seem much point in that. When he hadn’t come back by four in the afternoon,
she’d had enough. She wrote two letters which she put in one envelope. She had to use Samantha’s drawing pad to write them, which meant writing over her faint scribbles. Samantha was
nearly three, and spent most of her time talking crossly and bossily to a rabbit that she had had since she was a baby. Luke sat on the floor sucking his left thumb and pulling his left ear with
his right hand. He did this for hours, so that his thumb was swollen and his left earlobe a different shape, but any attempt to stop him made him howl. The people immediately above her were away on
holiday, but the old woman on the top floor, whose husband had a bad rheumatic condition that had affected his heart, was at daggers drawn with Janet about the noise that her children made.
Samantha kept asking her what she was doing, and Janet had to tell her dozens of times that she was writing a letter, be quiet because I’ve got to think, I’m writing a letter. She wrote
one to her family in Australia, and one to the police with the address for the Australian letter to be sent to. She found it difficult to write either letter, and both were full of apologies.
‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,’ she found she had written three times. It took her hours – until long after the pubs were open again for the evening. She put the letters,
folded, into the envelope, which she then put out of Samantha’s reach. Then she went to look at the fish paste. It smelled all right: if she scraped the top off, she could fry some of the
bread (the electricity bill hadn’t come in again yet) in the marge and put the paste on it for the children’s supper. She didn’t want to give them food poisoning, poor little
sods, but there really wasn’t anything else. She washed them, and put them into their night things, Luke still wore a kind of spaceman’s suit to sleep in, but he had grown out of it, so
that she had to cut off the feet. She cleaned their teeth with their toothbrush and cold water. Luke had eaten the remains of the toothpaste yesterday. She made their suppers, frying the bread very
carefully, as there wasn’t really enough marge, and spreading the paste thinly on each fried and hot slice. Samantha loved it, but Luke turned his head away and said no, one of his few
much-used words. In the end, Samantha ate both slices. Then she gave them each a glass of water into which she had put a Disprin – saved for the occasion. She wanted them to sleep well. They
had bunk beds, one above the other, Samantha on top, Luke below. He climbed into his, while she lifted Samantha, clutching her rabbit, into the top bunk. She tucked them up, as usual, and read them
one of the much-read and tattered books.
Peter Rabbit
was Samantha’s choice, and as Luke didn’t have any literary preferences, she was always allowed to choose. When she had
finished, she kissed them: Samantha hugged her and gave her a very loud, and rather wet kiss. ‘
I
love you, but
he
doesn’t like you at all.’ This was the rabbit.
‘Never mind,’ Janet said, ‘perhaps when he’s had a good night’s sleep, he’ll wake up in a better temper.’ ‘He won’t. He can’t. He hates
good tempers.’ ‘Well, it’s very kind of you to look after him.’