The Marrying Game (37 page)

Remembering the scene gave Polly pain. Obviously, it had been frightful. She had sat poor Berry down on the sofa, and given him a glass of brandy. She had explained – looking bravely into his shocked, vulnerable brown eyes – that her sudden rebirth was no reflection on him. She was dreadfully sorry, but this passion was bigger than both of them.

Berry had, of course, been severely upset, but (this was something Polly refused to dwell on) in a way that was somehow not quite satisfactory. He had not cried, or begged her to stay. Mostly, he had tried hard – too hard?
– to
be helpful. This was typical of his sweetness and consideration, but still. During an interval in her confession, Polly had gone to make tea. Berry had telephoned his sister to ask if he could crash out in the spare room of her flat in Clapham. And she had seen him holding the receiver away from his ear, because bloody Annabel was singing ‘Zippedee-Do-Dah’ loud enough to wake the dead. Thank God that bit was over.

Polly had gone home to Petersfield that weekend, to give Berry time to move out his belongings and to break the news to her parents. Her mother had been devastated, and inclined to be bitter about the money spent on engraved invitations, royal florists and vintage champagne. Every time she thought of the wedding presents that would have to be returned, she had gone upstairs to lie down.

Her father had seemed relieved, on the whole, mentioning more than once how glad he was that he had not shelled out for a new sporran – he had never been enthusiastic about wearing his kilt. That unpleasantness, too, was now history. Polly had spent all her time since then at Semple Farm, falling deeper and deeper into fathomless love.

Love had not affected her capability. Ran had to see his child, and pootle about at what he described as ‘work’ – for instance, taking the late plums to the farmers’ market, and digging sporadically in his onion patch. Love certainly did not blind Polly to the fact that he was a useless farmer, but his renovation would come later. Polly spent the hours without him making plans for the future.

The house was Georgian, and rather a gem. It could be made gorgeous – once Polly had provided Ran with
more
children, and the two smelly dogs were dead. This was a long-term project. Polly loved a challenge. She sang to herself as she dumped a pile of his plates on the rubbish with an almighty smash, and moved to open her box of third-best crockery.

It took her a few moments to notice the slight figure in the open doorway. She looked up, and after an awkward stretch of silence said, ‘Oh. Hello.’

Lydia, smaller and more girlish than ever in a flowered cotton dress and sandals, put one trembling hand to her mouth. The two women studied one another. Polly decided that Lydia’s disturbing prettiness was more or less cancelled out by her appalling presentation.

She carefully set down a stack of soup bowls. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed Linnet. Ran took her over to Rufa’s.’

‘I came to see you,’ Lydia said. Her voice was soft and hesitant.

‘I see,’ Polly said cautiously. The wise thing was to be as gracious as possible, she thought. ‘Well, here I am.’

‘Why – why did you break the yellow plates?’

It was an odd question, and Polly did not like to think she had been observed singing and smashing. ‘They were chipped.’

‘They came from Ran’s mother,’ Lydia said tragically. Everything she said sounded tragic.

Polly said, ‘Really? The writing on the bottom said Hotel Dinnerware Ltd. I didn’t think they could be heirlooms.’

‘She bought them when we got married.’

‘Oh.’ What on earth was she meant to say to this? Did Lydia expect sympathy, because she had failed to win custody of the Hotel Dinnerware?

‘If you’re throwing them away, could I have them?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, of course.’ Polly was nonplussed. ‘I haven’t asked Ran, but I have no intention of keeping any of that china – I rather loathe the pattern, to be honest. I’ll find a box for you.’

It was not yet clear how Lydia intended to treat her. Polly waited to see if she was hostile, or disposed to give her a hippyish welcome of peace and love. You never knew with that family.

Lydia asked, ‘Do you have to give the presents back, when you don’t get married after all?’

Polly smiled, but was furious. This woman was smarter than she looked, or she would not have touched the sorest place so quickly. ‘I’ll send some back, naturally.’ (The gravy boat from the Royal person, the canteen of cutlery from Berry’s aunt and uncle.) ‘But I’ll be writing to some people, to explain the new situation. They might want me to keep them.’

Lydia stared, digesting the part about the ‘new situation’. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to blame you. You couldn’t help falling in love with Ran. But don’t go thinking he loves you back.’

Polly now knew exactly how to handle this. Her tone was pitying and patient. ‘Sit down, Lydia. I’m afraid Ran warned me something like this might happen. He said you’d had difficulty accepting the divorce.’

Lydia clenched her fists. ‘There was no divorce.’

‘That’s just silly, isn’t it? Of course there was a divorce.’

‘There was a bit of paper, that’s all. It didn’t stop me being married to Ran. I think you should go back to London, before he breaks your heart too.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Polly snapped. ‘Nobody is
going
to break my heart. I’m afraid you’re hysterical.’

‘I am not!’

‘I’m extremely sorry for you, Lydia. I think it’s all a symptom of underlying depression, and you should see someone for it. You obviously need help. But the fact is, Ran has fallen in love with me. He’s told me he can’t face life without me.’ Polly’s voice rang with confidence. ‘He says he’d die for me.’

‘That’s what he says to everyone.’

‘Nonsense. You know this is different, or you wouldn’t be here. I suppose I should be flattered.’

‘The garden path might be longer,’ Lydia said, ‘but you’re being led up it, all the same.’

Polly had had enough of this madwoman and her gnomic utterances. ‘No, this time it truly is different, and you’d better get used to it.’ She pointed to a blue plastic bulge, hanging on one of the cupboard doors. ‘See that? It’s my wedding dress. I brought it with me because Ran and I are getting married.’

Lydia flinched, as if Polly had slapped her. ‘Did he—has he asked you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re lying!’

Polly was lying. She was outraged that she had been forced to lie. What the hell did it matter whether Ran had actually asked her? He had seen the wedding dress. Why else would she be keeping it?

‘I’ve done my best to be civil to you,’ she said, ‘since you’re the mother of Ran’s child. But I think you’d better leave now. This isn’t your house any more.’

‘No, and it’s not yours either!’ Lydia’s deep blue eyes swam with tears, but her voice was high and firm. ‘Not now, not ever!
You are not marrying Ran!
’

Chapter Two

RUFA CLOSED THE
kitchen door behind her, and punched Wendy’s number into the phone. It was answered almost immediately by Nancy, who had a sixth sense for Rufa’s calls.

‘Nance, hi. It’s me.’

‘Darling, I was hoping you’d ring. How’s it going?’

‘Fine. Really. I just wanted to talk to someone normal, who doesn’t put every word I say under a microscope.’

Nancy laughed softly. ‘Are you safe?’

‘More or less. I’m making her some coffee.’ Rufa, the receiver tucked into her shoulder, was deftly assembling old Mrs Reculver’s white and gold coffee set. Her strivings for perfection grew more relentless every day. ‘Give me a fix of ordinary, unrefined life, for pity’s sake.’

‘The headlines haven’t changed since yesterday,’ Nancy said. ‘Except that Tiger is begging Roshan to move in with him.’

‘And he won’t? Why? He’s in love with the big lummox, isn’t he?’

‘It’s the coming-out aspect,’ Nancy said. ‘He’s getting cold feet about being spread all over the papers. Tiger’s just as much of an exhibitionist when he’s sober.’

Rufa spooned coffee into the pot. ‘Tell Roshan to ring me. Preferably in the early morning, but any time’s fine,

as long as he doesn’t mind edited answers.’

Nancy said, ‘He has to edit what he says too, if Tiger’s hovering. Or the big lummox gets jealous and starts to cry.’

‘Oh dear. We can’t both talk in code. Tell him I’ll ring when Prudence has gone.’ She opened a box of posh chocolate biscuits – mostly for the look of the thing, since Prudence seldom ate anything except steamed spinach – and arranged them neatly on a china plate.

Nancy asked, ‘When’s she going?’

Rufa lowered her voice, though a corridor and two closed doors separated her from the drawing room. ‘Not till Tuesday.’

‘Why do you have to put up with her? She’s Edward’s responsibility.’

‘He’s doing his best, but he’s so busy.’ Rufa did not add that Edward was also short-tempered and secretive; or that the queenly presence of Prudence drove him into his office for hours at a time. There were all kinds of involved reasons why she could not tell Nancy about this. ‘She’s not all that bad, and Tristan’s lovely. But she makes me realize how much I miss Wendy’s. Do give them all my love.’

Nancy asked, ‘Are you really OK?’

‘I told you, I’m fine. How about you? Have you seen Berry lately? Is he visibly heartbroken?’

A heavy sigh gusted down the phone. ‘He’s gone to Frankfurt. He’s taken a posting there, and he won’t be back for months.’

‘You should follow him.’ Rufa was firmer, now that she had managed to nudge Nancy on to her favourite subject. ‘Get a job in a Bierkeller.’

‘Don’t encourage to me to make an idiot of myself,’
Nancy
said disconsolately. ‘I have to face the fact that I blew it. The first decent man ever to cross my path, and I scared him off. I’m a poor, tragic casualty of the Marrying Game.’

‘Rubbish,’ Rufa said bracingly. ‘You wait, he’ll be back. Oh, God, the kettle – I must go. Speak tomorrow?’

‘Ru, wait! What’s up? I know something’s the matter.’

All sorts of things were the matter. Glances, hints, veiled anger. Rufa could not explain it to Nancy. She could not describe something as insubstantial as an Atmosphere.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Bye.’ She hung up.

The silence of the house washed over her again. She gazed out of the window at the rolling quilt of fields and hedges, shimmering in the heat. Outwardly, everything was cordial and charming; so much so that Rufa would have felt foolish trying to put her uneasiness into words. It was all buried beneath a hard veneer of civilization.

Edward had retreated into himself, as he did when he had something on his mind. He could not sleep. He lay motionless beside Rufa, with the tension crackling round him like electricity. Last night she had felt him getting out of bed. She had waited for him for twenty minutes. Something made her want to know where he was. She got up, and found him down in the kitchen, listening to the World Service. He had whipped round almost angrily when he heard her, then he had apologized, said he was anxious.

Rufa had not been satisfied. When Edward said he was anxious, he meant he was worrying about the War Crimes business, and she had already agreed not to expect him to talk about that. But there was something else, she was sure. She felt the weight of history between
Edward
and Prudence without understanding it, as if she had arrived halfway through a film.

She carried the tray of coffee to the drawing room, and was annoyed when she caught herself wondering if she should knock. This was her own house – why was she behaving like an upper servant?

Probably, she thought suddenly, because I’m being treated like one.

Prudence, in a white linen shirt and grey linen trousers, was on the sofa, leafing through a copy of
Vogue
. She was discreetly but perfectly made up, and looked completely at ease. The face of Selena, glowing against a dark background in frosted mauve lipstick, was on the front of the magazine. The camera gave her bony, elfin features a mesmerizing, other-worldly beauty. The sight of her printed eyes, half hidden by Prudence’s thigh, added to Rufa’s sense of reality suspended by a thread.

For some reason, Prudence was annoyed that Rufa’s sister was on the cover of
Vogue
. The edition had been lying in the drawing room for two days, and she had become disagreeably personal whenever it was mentioned. Several times, when the atmosphere had thickened unbearably, Rufa had mentioned it on purpose. She did not know why there was a war, or why it involved her, but she was getting an instinct for her weapons.

Prudence was in her late forties, but her age was irrelevant. She was beautiful, and the beauty had been perfectly maintained for at least thirty years. She was taut and tanned and gleaming, and could still carry off a certain pertness; though only in the company of men. She had recently divorced her fourth very rich husband.
Edward
had explained that Pru’s upbringing had been very different from Alice’s. Their father had seduced his housekeeper, and though he never married the woman, he had lavished money and attention on their child, Prudence. If his intention was to divide the half-sisters, however, he failed. The two households, both miserable, had huddled together for warmth. They had protected each other during the frequent switches of affection, joining forces so that no-one would be in complete outer darkness. Money had shuttled between them. The sisters had spent holidays together. It had been an eccentric and painful situation, and Edward still found it distasteful to talk about. He had only sketched it for Rufa so she would understand why Prudence and Alice were so different.