The Sweet Dove Died (16 page)
XXV
When it came to the point, James and Ned parted amicably enough after the terrible scene they had had, saying unforgivable things to each other and throwing objects, such as the fur cushions and at one point a heavy Venetian glass paperweight which had narrowly missed not only Ned, for whom it had been intended, but the huge mirror which filled one wall. Ned’s eyes had sparkled – obviously he was enjoying the whole thing enormously. Such a scene was, of course, only one of many in which he had been a protagonist. James, hurt by Ned’s infidelities and wounded by the things he had said, had enjoyed it less, especially as it had been his jealousy and hurt pride that had started it off. Afterwards, when it was all over, Ned seemed to be almost his old self again, so that James had been made to feel rather a fool. ‘My dear Jimmie, that’s
life
– you mustn’t take things so
hard…’
If Ned had stayed, James thought – but he had to go back to his mother who, if she wasn’t exactly at death’s door, really did need him, and nothing would make him change his mind. It had been amusing choosing the dress lengths for his female relatives in Liberty’s, not to mention the leather hippopotamus – 'Aunt Hetty will
die
when she opens the package’ – but in the end parting had come with the inevitability of the last scene of a well-constructed play.
Now James was on his way to see Leonora. It seemed the only thing left to do and he had the feeling that she would be expecting him. One of the last things Ned had done was to urge him to go and see Leonora. ‘Jimmie, she
needs
you,’ he had said, and James felt that he was probably right, as usual. However badly one had behaved – and James was prepared to admit that he had undoubtedly managed things clumsily and in a way that had hurt her – Leonora would always be there, like some familiar landmark, like one’s mother, even.
It seemed not quite in the best of taste to take her a present or a bunch of flowers. James hoped it would be enough to have brought just himself.
‘Why, James … and what an elegant new car –
white
…’ Although she had been anticipating this moment Leonora was surprised when she opened the door and saw him standing there.
Should he kiss her? he wondered. They had always kissed in the past but she made no movement towards him, so he followed her into the sitting-room where everything looked different. He made the usual remark about her having rearranged it.
‘I suppose Ned’s gone now,’ she said. ‘I expect you miss him.’
How understanding she was; though James found himself thinking, as he so often had before, that it would have been easier if she had been just a little angry. He hadn’t really come here to talk about Ned.
‘Yes, I did miss him at first,’ he said, ‘but towards the end things went wrong, somehow. Ned is rather …’ He had been going to say ‘fickle’ but the adjective seemed too naive and old-fashioned.
‘Poor James, one had realised that, of course. I mean, how Ned was.’
Leonora was leaning back in the velvet-covered chair, perfectly relaxed. The evening sun showed up the fine lines on her skin and she looked older than James had remembered, yet still beautiful in her way.
‘Oh, Leonora, I knew you’d understand. You were always so …’ James fumbled for the word that would sum up Leonora’s behaviour over Phoebe, and of course over the much more serious matter of Ned.
‘Poor James.’ She sounded genuinely concerned. ‘Time is a great healer,’ she added, in a slightly mocking tone, ‘but you’re still
much
too young to know about that.’
‘Don’t make fun of me.’
‘I’m not,’ she protested. ‘I imagine you and Ned parted on good terms?’
‘Yes, in a way. But we had a terrible scene before he went.’
As she listened to James describing that last quarrel Leonora found herself tempted to laugh. It occurred to her now that Ned was in many ways a comic character but the realisation had come too late. And would it have made any difference if she had seen him as such when he first came into their lives?
‘But, Leonora, in the end he
wanted
to go back – he just didn’t care about me anymore.’
Leonora was less relaxed now, aware that with this confidence she was receiving more from him than she ever had before, but unable to respond in the way that he obviously expected. She and James had both been hurt, but it hardly seemed to make a bond between them – it was more like a barrier or a wedge driving them apart.
‘People do change,’ she said. ‘One sees it all the time.’
‘But not
us,
Leonora. I’ m sorry if I hurt you. Won’t you forgive me?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I forgive you,’ she repeated, as if she were not quite sure. One did forgive James, of course; one was, or saw oneself as being, that kind of person. Why, then, did one not make some generous gesture, some impulsive movements towards him, so that all could be forgotten in the closeness of an embrace? Evidently James expected it, for he stood up and came towards her, then hesitated when she did not respond.
‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘where do we go from here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Leonora.
She wondered how many times Meg must have enacted this kind of scene with Colin, always receiving him back so that as time went on it became easier and no explanation was needed. The bottle of Yugoslav Riesling – his favourite wine, always in the fridge-would be broached, and by the time it was finished all would be well again. Meg would in due course, or perhaps immediately, buy another bottle and keep it there, ready for the next time. But there was something humiliating about the idea of wooing James in this way, like an animal being enticed back into its cage. Even if he had had a favourite wine, Leonora did not think she could have brought herself to produce it. Yet the sherry they were drinking now seemed actively hostile in its dryness, inhibiting speech and even feeling.
If she had chosen something with a more festive air, something sweet or sparkling or warm – even a late cup of tea – would it have made any difference?
James stood up, as if to go. He did not know what to do now. Hopefully he glanced over to the table where the little Victorian flower book used to lie, open at a different page every day, but it was not there. Had she put it away when she changed the room?
‘Humphrey is taking me out to dinner,’ she said. ‘Some new place he’s discovered.’
Was it worth trying again? James wondered, not knowing how to take his leave. What would Ned have advised? He moved over towards the window and saw his uncle’s car draw up in the road. Humphrey got out of it, encumbered by a large bunch, sheaf, perhaps, of peonies. There was something slightly ridiculous about the exuberance of the flowers and the way Humphrey, doggedly clutching them, went round fussily trying each door of the car to make sure it was locked.
‘Goodbye, James,’ Leonora was saying. ‘It was sweet of you to come.’
The sight of Humphrey with the peonies reminded her that he was taking her to the Chelsea Flower Show tomorrow. It was the kind of thing one liked to go to, and the sight of such large and faultless blooms, so exquisite in colour, so absolutely correct in all their finer points, was a comfort and satisfaction to one who loved perfection as she did. Yet, when one came to think of it, the only flowers that were really perfect were those, like the peonies that went so well with one’s charming room, that possessed the added grace of having been presented to oneself.