Tea At Gunter's Page 11

  Upstairs I laid my shabby tweed onto a bed already covered with coats, then went over to the glass for reassurance. I thought I’d be flushed, but I was pale, pinched with cold: I slapped my cheeks a few times. The thought of actually going down there was so terrifying that when after a moment or two there was no sound of anyone coming up, I went over and sat down in the basket chair by the gas fire.

  It was a comfortable, shabby room, which had obviously been cleared for the party – on the dressing table there was only a bottle of Guerlain ‘Mitsouko’; but there were books everywhere, crammed in the shelves, stacked under the table desk, newspapers and magazines in a toppling pile by the window; a small leather-framed snapshot of Quentin stood by the bed. Nell’s room, surely? I would have liked to stay, secure in the warmth and casual disorder, but sounds on the stairs sent me hurrying back to the glass, pretending to fiddle with my hair, as two girls, loud-voiced and confident in the way that I dreaded, came crashing into the room. Both were in evening dress.

  They flung fur coats onto the bed; then one of them came alongside me at the glass. ‘God, I look a mess,’ she said, peering closely, pulling the skin down under her eyes, ‘Awful.’

  ‘Look Caro – when I bend, can you see anything?’ said the second girl, standing in the middle of the room, ‘I mean honestly?’

  ‘It’s my skin,’ said the first one, ‘it’s ghastly. All sort of muddy. Oh God.’

  The second girl was bent right over, her head twisted awkwardly. ‘Damn, you know you can see, Caro.’

  ‘It’s no sleep,’ said the first girl, ‘it’s murder. God – I need an early night.’

  I slipped out.

  Halfway down the stairs I saw a door open and Quentin in dinner jacket and scarlet cummerbund come across the hall. He was carrying a tray of glasses and saw me at once.

  ‘Lucy Locket, how dear.’ He put down the tray, ‘And what a lovely dress!’ I’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and taking my hand – he was frowning slightly now, looking at me closely – ‘A lovely dress. I just wonder –?’

  But he left the sentence unfinished. My face flaming, I felt certain that my being in cocktail length was a matter so terrible that probably the best thing would be for me to run off home. But Quentin had me by the arm now, and was saying, ‘let’s get you a drink’, handing me a glass of something warm and faintly medicinal, taking me straight into the crowded room, and over to a group standing near the door. The noise was deafening, but looking around I saw to my immense relief two, three then four girls in cocktail dresses.

  ‘This is Lucy,’ Quentin was saying, ‘she’s a barmaid at the White Rose. Full time.’

  The group who’d been deep in conversation looked mildly annoyed I thought, as Quentin introduced me. Then as he moved away, a plump girl in a frilly yellow off-the-shoulder dress said,

  ‘Honestly don’t you think Quentin gets worse and worse? Sort of terribly unfunny?’

  A bearded man at the edge of the group, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke, said ‘I would hazard a g-guess he’s been t-testing the punch.’

  Some of them laughed. A fair-haired girl, very thin and intense, said did Quentin mean that I went to that terrible secretarial place, because her sister’d been there two years ago and wasn’t it true that the principal was quite out of another age but really the training was awfully good and if you were clever you could get a jolly good job after it, and what sort of job would I like? The bearded man said, didn’t all g-girls want c-cushy jobs as c-confidential secretaries with all day to sit around f-filing their nails and telephoning boy-friends?

  ‘It’s an absolutely ghastly place to go to though,’ said the plump girl.

  ‘You might s-say then that the White Rose has thorns?’ ventured the bearded man. He laughed at his own joke. Creakingly the conversation got going again – they all seemed to know each other well and although they didn’t deliberately exclude me they didn’t try to draw me in, so that after a while I began looking around, trying to see if Juliet had come. No sign of her at all. I sipped frequently at my drink – it was soothing, and mysterious passing hands kept filling my glass. The talk moved on to hunting: the thin girl’s horse was lame, ‘And I hadn’t been out once …’ Behind me, a loud conversation was going on about cricket:

  ‘It’ll depend you see on what happens in Durban.’ Compton, Hutton, Simpson, Washbrook: the names floated across.

  ‘364 not out,’ someone said. ‘Just before Hitler’s do, that was. The Oval, in ’38.’

  A girl with a very penetrating voice said,

  ‘Personally I think Len is rather ducky.’

  ‘I go for Bedser,’ said another girl.

  ‘You go for what?’

  A man said, ‘You heard, oaf’ and the girl with the penetrating voice replied, ‘Oh smart Alec, well.’ Another man’s voice said reproachfully,

  ‘You’re laughing at us, girls.’

  They moved away. A moment later, Richard, taller and bonier than I remembered, came into the room. He clapped his hands for silence.

  ‘Dancing’s begun next door. Cabaret in here,’ he announced, as Quentin sat down at the piano. There were a few cheers and mock groans. Quentin began singing in French, in a light assured voice.

  ‘Monsieur Trenet I presume,’ said the bearded man. Our group drifted over to the piano. Several people were already leaning against it; someone was holding a glass to Quentin’s lips. ‘Hutch, now,’ he said and broke into ‘Smoke gets in your eyes’.

  ‘Can’t someone get him up to date?’ said a girl. ‘Where’s Nell?’

  We stood, pressed up against the piano. I’d just finished my drink when a man tapped me on the shoulder. Would I care to dance?

  In the room next door several couples were already moving round to the radiogram. My partner was elderly, with thin grey hair and an abstracted expression; at intervals he would murmur, ‘Ah, yes.’ I never discovered his name because he tended to swallow his words, and just as he was introducing himself someone turned up the radiogram. We waltzed stiffly around. Still no sign of Juliet. My partner’s hand round my waist felt like a steel grasp: I thought that I wasn’t doing well, and to make conversation, I asked hesitantly, ‘Do you know the Inglesons well?’

  ‘A great many years,’ he replied, flatly. Silence again.

  We passed the doorway, and at that moment Richard came in. He was partnering a generously built, ash-blonde girl, who resembled him just enough for me to guess it was Nell. They began to dance, and after a moment, bumped into us. Richard turned to apologize.

  ‘Why, hello.’ He smiled. Then hesitating, he looked at me curiously for a second, frowning almost. As they moved off again he said something to his sister, and a little later I saw her turn round and glance at me quickly.

  ‘An attractive girl, Nell,’ said my partner, into the back of his throat. But I was in confusion. What had I done wrong? Perhaps they’d never meant to ask me and this was all some joke? Miserable, I heard the record come to an end, and a voice call out, ‘Gentlemen’s excuse me’.

  ‘I trust some young man won’t whisk you away,’ said my partner – not very feelingly.

  A few turns later, I was surprised to see Richard beside us. Bowing slightly, he said the formula. But although his manner was polite as we moved off, his face, slightly averted, was set, and he seemed to be embarrassed. It was a slow foxtrot; we were out of rhythm, our knees knocking every few steps, and without thinking, remembering the hours of thumping round with Elizabeth in her Victor Sylvester craze (‘You be the man, Lu. I need the practice.’) I said out loud, ‘Slow slow quick-quick slow.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry.’ He flushed, ‘I don’t seem to have got this right at all.’

  I had coloured too. Tensely, we circled once more; then he said, very suddenly,

  ‘Look. Could I – may I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He was very flushed now. ‘It’s rather personal, I’m afraid.’ We bu
mped clumsily into a couple alongside – I felt menaced by the word ‘personal’, and wondered why I’d ever come to the party at all.

  ‘Your dress –’ he began; then after a pause: ‘Look, I know this sounds frightfully silly – I’m muddling this terribly – but it’s just that I, we, wondered – whereabouts you got it?’

  Relieved (so that was all!) the words coming out in a rush: ‘From Juliet,’ I said. ‘It’s a cast-off of hers. I hadn’t anything to wear and she says it doesn’t fit and I can keep it.’

  I looked at his face, expecting to see on it warm pleasure at his beloved’s kindness. But I saw that on the contrary he was upset, his face working: puzzled, I floundered about – only making it worse.

  ‘It’s real silk,’ I was saying desperately, when we were interrupted: a small, plump man, clasping me to him at once, said, ‘My excuse me.’ And to Richard:

  ‘Your Juliet’s here you know, old man. Just arrived.’

  Dark with curly hair, snub kind features, and a reassuring Yorkshire accent, he seemed to me a saviour. ‘Real conversation stoppers, these excuse me’s,’ he remarked, as we moved off to an easy rhythm. I saw Richard walk out of the room. ‘Bob’s the name’ he told me, ‘Bob Turner. I’m in the antique business.’

  The record changed, and to the tune of ‘Buttons and Bows’, he began to show off a little, doing neat side steps and patterns. ‘Know anyone here?’ he asked, tightening his grip.

  I explained about Juliet.

  ‘“East is east and west is west and the wrong one I have chose”,’ he sang. ‘She’s stinking rich, you know, love. Blackett’s. The only child.’ He tightened his hold again. ‘“Let’s vamoose where women keep wearing those silks and satins –” Our host looked pretty browned off, didn’t you think?’

  I nodded, still smarting from a few, moments back.

  ‘He’s welcome to her,’ said Bob. Nell, leading Quentin by the hand came into the room. ‘The lady of the house. No prizes for guessing that happy ending.’ He side-stepped expertly, ‘“and I’m all yours in Buttons and Bows –” Quentin’s a good bloke though, I like Quentin. He’s in my line, in the junk trade. Know his shop, love?’

  Two, three dances later, we were still together. ‘I like you, love,’ he said, giving me a squeeze.

  We sat out the next one, drinking the punch: ‘This is my lovely day!’ he sang to the record; with surprise I realized that I was beginning to enjoy the evening. He talked without stopping: about his work, his friends, his war. ‘The Liberation. Going through Brussels,’ he said, ‘best thing ever, that.’ At intervals, he squeezed me, saying again, ‘I like you, love.’

  When, a little later, supper was announced he took it for granted we should stay together. ‘Don’t dally, love. Eats look good,’ he said, as I went off to the lavatory; and when I got back he was already waiting with two plates of chicken and salad: ‘There you are, love! I thought you’d gone down the what’sit –’ He’d bagged us an easy chair and he sat on the arm of it, chatting. We drank some more punch; it was very hot in the room and my head a little wuzzy. Bob seemed to know everybody – a succession of strange faces stopped, spoke, laughed, passed on.

  Juliet, in long, strapless, caramel-coloured velvet, floated by, Richard in tow. It was the first time I’d seen her that evening. She didn’t see me; smiling her satisfied cat smile, she looked very contented. Richard, less so.

  ‘Whew,’ exclaimed Bob under his breath; then draining his glass, he added confidentially, ‘too much money, that’s her trouble – and don’t you wish it was yours, love?’

  Soon after that, we went back to dance. The lighting was low, the air full of cigarette smoke, wine. Quentin and Nell, cheek to cheek, arms round each other’s waists, waltzed by. I was relaxed: if I’d nothing to tell my mother – so what? Her concerns seemed very far away.

  With renewed energy Bob turned Latin American: ‘Take back your tango ay, your rumba ay, your samba ay ay ay …’ he sang above the voice of Edmundo Ros; hips swaying, feet like quicksilver: ‘South America, take it away!’

  At the end, ‘That’s good, love. You’re good,’ he said. He collapsed into a chair, mopping his brow. Then getting up again: ‘I’m dried out, love. Let’s go see if they’ve laid on any beer.’

  Out in the hall, we blinked at the bright lights. Saying, ‘Follow me, love,’ he crossed over to a green baize door by the staircase. Just as he was opening it I felt my arm gripped suddenly.

  ‘Ah! Lucy Locket,’ said Quentin from behind me. ‘My excuse me, I think.’

  He was swaying slightly; but still holding me firmly he pulled me along into what appeared to be a small study. It was cold, and musty-smelling; leaving the door ajar, he switched on the desk lamp, then from behind the pool of light he looked at me angrily:

  ‘Did Juliet put you up to this?’

  Down the corridor, the radiogram was playing ‘Buttons and Bows’: for the fifth time. Gusts of sound, thumping of feet came to us.

  ‘Up to what?’ I asked, in a shaky voice.

  Very slowly and deliberately, as if he were talking to a fool: ‘Your dress,’ he said. ‘Or rather I should say, Juliet’s dress – the one you so charmingly described as a “cast-off”.’

  ‘I don’t understand –’ I said. My legs felt weak and I sat down on a chair stacked with journals: it made me feel awkward, unnaturally raised. I’d begun to shiver too.

  ‘Richard bought it for her,’ he explained, in a very precise tone: I realized that it was probably because he was tight. ‘Last spring. Unaided. Quite a feat – if you know that sort of Englishman. A real labour of love. Now you walk in with it.’

  I was shivering uncontrollably now; in the shadowed light, his face looked menacing. Someone turned up the radiogram: ‘I love you in buckskin, and the clothes that you’ve homespun …’

  ‘She’s never worn it,’ he said, ‘of course. No doubt you’re in it together – one of her little games? Cock-teasers of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your –’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then hiccuping: ‘Idle little b,’ he said angrily, ‘nothing to do but play the coquette. I thought her sort went out with antimacassars and flutterings in the conservatory.’ He hiccuped again. ‘I shall sell her,’ he announced, ‘marked down of course. For people interested in shoddy Victoriana –’

  ‘I’m sorry –’ I said; my voice was thick with tears.

  Nell appeared in the doorway. She too was swaying slightly.

  ‘I heard you, Q,’ she said. ‘You’re mischief-making. Don’t be so bloody.’ Pushing the door to, she leant back against it. ‘Poor love – you’re Lucy, aren’t you? I’ve heard all about it, Quentin’s being absolutely bloody. Forget it, poppet – it doesn’t matter –’

  ‘It suits her,’ Quentin said, rather sadly. ‘The dress suits her.’ Nell came round and took his hand. ‘You’re being bloody,’ she said, ‘I’m very angry with you. You’re absolutely bloody, but I love you.’ She pressed her head against his shoulder. ‘I do love you, don’t I?’

  ‘You do,’ he said heavily, ‘you do. All over Europe.’ She kissed him. ‘Paris, Milan –’

  ‘Fool,’ she said.

  ‘Rome. Leeds. In and out the Appian Way. Up and down the Headrow –’

  ‘Fool,’ she said again, nuzzling up against him.

  It was as if I weren’t there. Out in the hall there was no one about, and I ran straight upstairs, searching blunderingly for Nell’s room and wondering if I was going to cry. I rummaged among the pile of furs and long coats for my old tweed, dragging it on and buttoning it up to hide the now hateful dress.

  Bob, looking very concerned, was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Where ever did you get to this time, love?’

  There’d been a misunderstanding, I explained feebly: I’d been talking to someone. My voice was still shaky. ‘I want to – have to go home, please.’

  ‘I’ll take you, love.’ He disappeared, coming back a moment later wrap
ped in an enormous teddy bear coat.

  On the way back, he drove carefully, with the heavy breathing of concentration. He didn’t notice that I wasn’t talking. ‘Cigareets and whusky and wild wild women,’ he sang, as we came over the bridge into Bratherton. ‘That was a good evening,’ he said. ‘You made that evening, love.’ Before opening the car door, he kissed me beerily. It was comforting, and for a moment I buried my face in his furry coat. Then he wrote my telephone number in a little notebook, held upside down:

  ‘You’ll be hearing from me – no, I mean it, love.’

  In the house there was no sign of life. I got straight into bed, and lay there washed by waves of enormous fatigue, but sleep wouldn’t come. My throbbing head was full of insistent rhythms – tango into foxtrot into samba; my legs, aching, seemed still to be dancing.

  After a while I got up out of bed. The curtains weren’t drawn and in the moonlight I could see the dress where I’d thrown it on the floor. I picked it up, and crushing the silk into a heap, stuffed it angrily to the back of my wardrobe.

  Chapter Nine

  On the Monday morning Juliet came into the typing room just as we were leaving for lunch. She was wearing a pencil skirt so tight she could barely walk; hobbling, she crossed over to her desk and began tidying it out.

  ‘I shall leave today. Poor Juliet is not being given the magic diploma,’ she said, smiling.

  But I had had a miserable weekend. Surprising myself with my courage, I accused her directly of making mischief.

  ‘But darling –’ she began. I noticed with satisfaction the rush of blood to her delicate skin. ‘It was only to give Juliet a little amusement. And I was hardly there, you know; I only stayed an hour or so – I had the curse and felt fearfully fragile. Juliet knew nothing about Quentin’s dramatics.’

  Lifting two lipsticks out of her drawer, she tried them on her wrist, then dropped them together with an empty scent bottle into the wastepaper basket. I felt frantic. I would never see her again; wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to, but my anger, which had been smouldering all weekend, flared up.