Sensible Life (17 page)

Irena removed the pins from her mouth. “I will mend it for you presently. If you had joined the house party, you would have found Flora Trevelyan staying there.”

“Oh?”

“Your mother persuaded Mrs. Leigh to invite her, I heard from Mabs and Tashie. I make some of their dresses. Were you thinking of taking her out from school again?”

“No-o-o.”

“Was it a solitary impulse?”

“It was not a successful outing.”

“From what you told me she was unwell.”

“A disgusting cold.”

“She writes to me, too. I understand it developed into measles.”

“My God, I might have caught it. I have never had measles,” said Felix, shocked.

“Give me the sock.”

Felix leaned forward and removed the sock. “My elegant toes poke through all my socks.” He handed the sock to Irena, then lay back contemplating his feet. I have very white skin, he thought, for a man with dark hair. He arched his instep, admiring a blue vein. Sunlight, slanting through the green taffeta Irena was working and reflecting onto his skin, made his foot appear drowning in an arctic sea.

“You should wear yellow socks.” Irena searched for a matching colour to the sock.

“Yellow? A little outré, dear Irena.”

“Narcissi are frequently yellow.” Irena stuffed her fist into the sock, preparing to darn.

Felix stood up and wandered round the room, placing his feet with care to avoid pins lurking invisibly in the blue carpet, fingering the texture of materials, draping a length of velvet over the headless, armless, legless dressmaker’s dummy which Irena used for her work, letting his fingers trail across the cold wheel of her sewing machine. Then he stood at the window, staring at the backs of the houses in the parallel street.

“Don’t stand in my light,” said Irena, darning. Felix returned to the chaise longue.

“They were amusing as adolescents five years ago, and the child had a curious quality.”

“Love.”

“Love?” Felix frowned.

Irena’s needle darned intricately across the hole in the sock. “Silk socks are all very well,” she said, “but not strong.”

“Did the beautiful officers and noble nobles of St. Petersburg and Moscow not wear silk socks?” Who was it at Dinard who had—

“I know nothing about their socks.” Irena was unsmiling. “But I hear King George wears wool, the finest wool.”

“Of course,” said Felix, “it would be the finest. They go into almost instant holes, but it would not matter for the King, would it? How d’you learn these fascinating details?” He was laughing.

Irena smiled. “People talk. He is, after all, cousin to the murdered Tsar, and I hope to become English.” Then, since memories of five years ago still came haunting, she said, “You must know that each of those girls dreamed of marrying you.”

“Ah,” said Felix sombrely. “Marriage. I get a surplus of hints from my mother. Don’t you start. In any case, the Misses Leigh and Quayle are bespoke. Is that the right word?” Of course, he thought, it was Flora who had told him about Irena’s father being the court tailor; he remembered the little girl skipping up the street, her hand in his. “Do you write to the Trevelyan child?” he asked.

“When I have time. Every few months perhaps.”

“And you have not much time?”

Irena shrugged: “Less than you. She writes to me about her school, the dressmaking class; I shudder to think what the clothes the poor child makes must be like.” Some day, thought Irena, the child might become a client, as Mabs and Tashie had done. The occasional letter was not only a kindness but an investment; she must write again.

“You should visit her,” said Felix. “I did.”

“It would take me a whole day,” Irena prevaricated.

Irena is just as selfish as I, thought Felix, watching, but why not take her down to that awful boring place in the car, take the child out to lunch? With Irena there things would go well. But no. He lay back, relieved. She is staying with the Leighs so the question does not arise.

“She must be fifteen by now,” said Irena. “She might suit you very well in two or three years’ time.”

“Ach.”

“No dot, of course, there is that disadvantage.” Irena had finished the darn. She cut the thread, replaced the needle, poking it into a cushion and handed the sock to Felix. “Voila! How hard does your mother press?”

“Hard enough; gentle, remorseless, systematic. I am twenty-five, the correct age, apparently, for matrimony.”

“Aie!”

“Thank you, that is a beautiful darn.” Felix put the sock on. “I wish I could make as good a job of my nature.” He glanced at Irena sitting now, looking down at hands loosely clasped in her lap, unresponsive. “It must be nice working with all these lovely materials.” He picked up a length of velvet and, throwing it across his shoulder, admired himself in the cheval glass. I wonder, he thought, whether I am like my father?

Catching his eye in the glass, Irena said, “Mrs. Leigh asked your mother whether her husband Jef was your father; they were having tea at Gunters. Your mother said no. I could see what you are thinking,” she said.

“How do you know?” asked Felix, staring at Irena’s reflection, “that Mrs. Leigh—”

“Women sometimes develop an intimacy with their dressmakers, as they do with their hairdresser. It is like talking to animals. English women tell everything to their dogs, and quite a lot to their dressmakers. Mrs. Leigh was appalled at what she had asked your mother. She said it ‘just popped out’. Apparently,” Irena was smiling now, “Mrs. Leigh was paying for the tea and your mother kept offering her cakes as though she was the hostess; it is these little things which create chaos in life.”

“Yes.” Felix was amused. “I can see the scene. Do you believe my mother was being truthful or did she only wish to épater?”

“If Mrs. Leigh had irritated her she might have been truthful. Who knows? She would not have expected to be believed. On the other hand it is well known that extremely masculine men breed only daughters; your mother may have acted for the best, after bearing five girls. I have heard that in Holy Russia this was often done.”

Felix was intrigued. “Did the husbands connive at these surrogate fathers?”

“Probably.”

“My mother is a woman of courage; I wish I could believe I had inherited it.”

“You have, my dear.” She was serious.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I—”

“It was after Mrs. Leigh’s gaffe that your mother suggested—it sounded quite a strong suggestion—that Mrs. Leigh should invite Flora to stay.”

“Aha.”

“I had this from Mabs and Tashie; they were delighted, because they’d guessed Mrs. Leigh was consoling herself with the thought that the girl would have grown fat and spotty, as most English schoolgirls do. No threat to Cosmo.”

“She was neither fat nor spotty when I took her out to lunch, but the waif-like appeal was drowned in mucus.”

“You are disgusting. You must go now, I have to work out the measurements for some new clients; fat schoolgirls who have turned into Grenadiers. Look at this, nearly six feet tall, and this one has hips which are forty-eight inches and a bust of thirty-two.” Irena tapped a looseleaf notebook. “So unfashionable.”

“You should have come to Holland, where everything bulges in proportion. But you must know that, you work for my sisters.”

“In a year or two I shall be British. The Home Office moves like a snail, but the idea of British citizenship gives me patience.”

“All bureaucracies do. It’s getting late, Irena, why don’t you leave your work and come out to dinner? We could go on talking about Dinard and the girls, if you must. Come on, join us.”

“Thank you. I do not care for dinner a trois.”

“He would not mind,” said Felix.

“No?”

“Well, perhaps.” Felix hesitated. “Do come, we could talk about me. I came to see you to talk about myself. And you too, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And we have wasted the afternoon talking about girls of no particular—”

“A particular trio.”

Felix, hesitating, said: “Ah.”

“Go away, Felix, I must work. I have to contrive a dress for a Miss Hippisley-Smith who has a thirty-one-inch bust and forty-six-inch hips. She wants it for a ball, this poor unbalanced girl. Go away, you distract me. She is coming tomorrow for a fitting and I have not even started.”

“Irena. I ask for help, please.”

“Yes?” Was that fear in his voice?

Standing with his back to the light, Felix raised his hands distractedly, dropped them, shouted very loud: “I like girls, too.”

Quickly, she said: “I know you do.” Then, catching his eye, she burst out laughing as she remembered an afternoon five years before, their shoes ranged side by side on the floor of the room above the boucherie chevaline in the Rue de Tours in Dinard. “She was so innocent,” she said, chuckling, “and you so clever. Now, off you go, you have kept him waiting long enough. Any longer and he will turn sour.”

“All right.” Calm again, Felix shrugged into his coat, bent to kiss first one cheek then the other. “So I am to sort out my ambivalence on my own?”

“Teach yourself to be ambidextrous.” She edged him towards the door. “How well we foreigners speak English.” She gave him a little push, using the tips of her fingers, and waited to hear his steps diminish and the street door slam.

“I SUGGEST WE HAVE
swum far enough.” Cosmo turned towards his friend. “Ready to give in?”

“I certainly am.” Hubert followed Cosmo towards the bank. “Do you do this often?”

“I’ve never swum so far up river.” Cosmo pulled himself out of the water and collapsed, panting, on the grass. “I wanted to see,” he gasped, “how far we’d have to swim before you gave in. Then my legs gave out; they are trembling.”

“Mine, too.” Hubert stretched out beside his friend. “My heart, my heart goes bang, bang, bang. Oh, lovely England, hot sun, sweet fresh water, it’s surprisingly warm by the way, soft grass, the sound of grasshoppers—paradise.”

“It doesn’t happen often.”

“The more wonderful when it does.” Hubert closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the country. “That was quite a test,” he murmured, “the current is deceptive.”

“It’s the depth of the river: going back, the current will carry us down.”

“That will be nice.” Hubert listened to the hum of insects, a woodpecker tapping somewhere near, and stretched his legs. “We must not forget to collect our bathers as we go. Mustn’t shock your mother’s house party.”

“That would never do.” Eyes shut against the sun, Cosmo yawned and ran his hand down his naked body, wiping away surplus water. “This is the only way to swim.” They had shed their swimming trunks further downstream.

“It’s nice to be on our own for a bit. Your future brother-in-law rather holds forth.”

“Um, yes, he’ll meet his match in Mabs.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s what one has been brought up to expect.”

Hubert said: “Ah,” keeping his eyes closed; then, “Is she in love with Nigel?”

“I suppose so. Why? Doesn’t she seem to be?”

“Well—not quite enough.”

“Oh?”

“I may be wrong, of course.”

“I hope you are, Blanco.”

“Do call me Hubert.”

“What d’you mean by ‘not quite enough’, Hubert?” Cosmo raised himself on his elbow. “I’ve always been led to believe that
l’appétit vient en mangeant,
or words to that effect. What d’you mean?” He stared down at his friend.

“She’s such a sexy little thing.”

“And Nigel isn’t?”

“Keeps it pretty dark if he is.”

“What makes you think Mabs—”

“I’ve danced with her.”

“So have I.”

“You’re her brother.”

“Of course I am, and she’s known you such a long time you’re a sort of surrogate. What’s this about, Hubert?” Cosmo stared curiously at Hubert. “What’s this element of doubt?”

Hubert, pretending to be asleep, let his head fall away from his friend, kept his eyes closed and decided it would do harm if he told Cosmo that, dancing with him the night before, she had let her hand stray with inquisitive fingers across his flies; that she had been knowingly amused when he slapped the hand away. He turned on his side. Cosmo contemplated Hubert’s back, watched a horsefly settle, waited for it to bite, then smacked hard: “Killed it.”

“Bugger you!” Hubert rolled over towards him.

“It bit you. I have your blood on my hand, blood and squashed fly.” He wiped his hand on the grass. “What’s this doubt?”

Hubert, eyes open now, said, “This isn’t quite such a paradise after all.” Then, “I’ve danced with Tashie too; she hasn’t quite the sexy rhythm of your sister.” He said this hoping Cosmo, who had a nicer nature than his, would not observe his guile. He sat up, hugging his knees, contemplating the view. “Nice cows,” he said, watching two stately ruminants sashay through the long grass across the river and sway lazily down to drink.

“I think Tash is pretty good. Light on her feet.” Cosmo, too, watched the cows’ ponderous progress. “I think both Nigel and Henry are lucky,” he said.

“So do I,” agreed Hubert. “Nice chaps both, good prospects, good jobs, houses in the country to inherit, plenty of money, suitable.” He made the word sound ludicrous and Cosmo laughed with him albeit reluctantly, feeling that he was in some way betraying someone or something.

“In half a minute you will be onto Cousin Thing and Pengappah Abbey.”

“I don’t believe it’s an abbey,” said Hubert, pretending to rise to the bait. “At most a manor, more likely a plain house, don’t you think?” he joked, not wishing to suggest that his friend’s sister might be marrying for money or be putting Nigel’s worldly goods before love. “Should we not go back?” he said. “Were not Mabs and Tashie meeting Flora at the station? Why didn’t they let us go?”

“
They
wanted to be the first to see what she’s
like.”
Cosmo stressed words in the manner of his sister and her friend’s affectation. “Whether she will be worth taking
up
.”

It was Hubert’s turn to be surprised: “Oh?”

“That’s how people
are
,” said Cosmo, “even Mabs and Tash.”

Particularly Mabs and Tash, thought Hubert.