Sensible Life (2 page)

“The person I have found to give me piano lessons is one of them,” murmured Blanco. “She’s Armenian, really, originates from Baku. She’s an absolute knockout at bridge. I started lessons with her when I was here with my aunt last year.”

“Bridge and piano?”

“Yes. We scamper through a few scales for form’s sake, then get down to bridge. We need a fourth. Why don’t you come along this afternoon?”

“I’m no good at cards, not interested.”

“Backgammon, then?”

“Does she play?”

“Does—she—play!”

“Right, I’ll come.” Cosmo was delighted.

“You’ll have to endure a rubber or two first. I’m not giving up my bridge.” Blanco kept his voice low.

“All right. You’re on,” said Cosmo.

“What are you boys doing this afternoon?” asked Mrs. Leigh. “It’s a bit wet for tennis and doesn’t look promising for bird-watching, Cosmo. How is your poor knee?”

“Lots better, thank you, Ma. Cured.”

“What shall you do, then? You should get some fresh air.”

“We thought we’d go for a walk,” said Cosmo.

“Don’t let you walk end up in the casino,” said Mrs. Leigh.

“Oh, Ma, we are too young.”

“But I know you, and you both look older than fifteen.”

“What shall you do, Ma?” asked Cosmo.

“I’m having a fitting at that splendid little dressmaker. I want to get finished with her before your father arrives.”

“Is he not to know?”

“Know what?”

“How much you are spending on clothes.”

“Clothes here are an economy. Don’t be silly, darling.” Blanco thought his hostess looked ruffled.

“I hope you are having a wonderful dress made with a tremendous décolletage. Father would like that, he could tell his joke.”

“He can manage that without a new dress,” said Mrs. Leigh wistfully.

“Father tells this terrible old chestnut—” began Cosmo.

“Cosmo!” warned Mrs. Leigh. “Stop it.”

Cosmo laughed and bent to kiss his mother’s cheek.

“Actually, I have my piano lesson, Mrs. Leigh,” said Blanco tactfully. “If Cosmo would like to keep me company, we could walk there.”

“Mrs. Whatshername—such a difficult one—seems to have inspired you. Your mother told me your report said you had ‘neglected your ivories’. These schoolmasters are getting frivolous.”

“It’s relief at having survived the War. My teacher is frivolous, cowardly too. He screams with pain and outrage when I play wrong notes. I was hoping to give up the piano but Madame Tarasova is no screamer, so I’ll carry on through the holidays to please my mother.”

“Your mother wrote particularly to stress the importance of music—”

“My mother merely wishes to placate my cousin Chose. She is not interested in the arts.”

“Don’t call him Chose, Blanco; it’s terrible manners and it makes me laugh.”

“Thing, then.”

“Not that either. He deserves respect, remember, even though you haven’t met. He has a name.”

“Nor am I likely to. His choice, not mine. We have the same name, that’s all,” said Blanco. “I would like to drop either Wyndeatt or Whyte but my mother won’t hear of it. Never mind, music is an extra at school, and she won’t mind much if I drop it once I have grasped the rudiments.”

“And Mrs. Whatsit can help you?”

“One hopes so.”

“Was—er—was your father musical?” Mrs. Leigh hesitated to mention Blanco’s father, who was buried, she supposed, in Flanders.

“Neither the Wyndeatt part nor the Whyte part, Mrs. Leigh. He was tone deaf even before he was blown up, so I’ve heard. Bang, bang.”

“Honestly, Blanco, I—er—you—” Mrs. Leigh felt she must say something. “Wyndeatt-Whyte is a very fine name, you shouldn’t mock—”

“Sorry, Mrs. Leigh, I didn’t mean to upset you. It just seems monstrously unfair that my father, an only son, should get killed when Cousin Thing had six to spare,” said Blanco tersely.

“I thought all six were killed in one way or another. Come now, you be fair,” said Cosmo, hoping to stem Blanco’s anger and save his mother embarrassment. His own father had been a staff officer and survived without mishap, which put Mrs. Leigh in a delicate position with the widows and orphans of those who had disappeared in the front lines.

“How terrible. Six. Six sons, oh,” she murmured.

“There’s one long bathroom in my cousin Chose’s house with six baths in a row, or so I hear,” said Blanco. “Of course, I haven’t seen it myself.”

Mrs. Leigh gathered up her bag and a book she hoped to read.
“Odtaa,”
she said, looking at the title. “I have not started this yet. I wonder what it means? It’s supposed to be good.”

“What Cousin Chose said about my cousins as they got killed: one damn thing after another?” suggested Blanco.

There was something aggressive about her son’s friend. Mrs. Leigh wondered whether she had been right to invite him to stay for the whole holidays. “Well,” she said, “try to be good. I shall see you both at dinner.” Blanco stood up and pulled back her chair while Cosmo went ahead and opened the dining-room door. Other families still at lunch watched her go.

“I suspect your mother sees through us,” said Blanco, as he and Cosmo made their way down the street towards Madame Tarasova’s a little later.

“She sees what she wishes to. My father will be here tomorrow; she will stop being interested in our movements then. She’s been rather bored all these weeks on her own with me since I hurt my knee—”

“Could it not have recovered at home?”

“Of course it could. Father thought I should take the chance while
hors de combat
to learn French, and Mother took to the idea because of the shops. She adores shopping. She has been to Paris three times since we’ve been here.”

“To see your sister?”

“Officially, yes, but in truth the shops.”

“When is your sister arriving?”

“Next week. She is getting a bit old for family holidays. She’s seventeen.”

“Does she play bridge?” asked Blanco.

“Perhaps she does by now. I don’t know. Why do you want to learn?”

“Money,” said Blanco. “I’m a poor relation.”

“I am not interested in money,” said Cosmo. “I am obsessed with girls.”

“How do you get the one without the other?”

“Charm?” suggested Cosmo, grinning.

“Huh!” said Blanco. “Charm won’t hold them, but money will. What’s this story your father tells? His chestnut.”

“It’s about some woman at a grand reception who curtsys to the King of Egypt; she has this low-cut dress and her bosoms pop out and the King of Egypt says, “Mais, Madame, il ne faut pas perdre ces belles choses comme ci comme ça etcetera,” and he flicks them with his finger.”

“Eugh.”

“Mother and I feel eugh, too.”

They walked on in silence.

“I heard the manager tell the head waiter that a Dutch baroness is arriving with her five daughters, and to put them at their usual table,” said Blanco.

“Five girls?” exclaimed Cosmo. “Five?”

“That’s what he said. It may be a case of Odtaa.”

“Oh, I hope not. Five beautiful girls, ah!”

“What about your sister, Mabs?”

“She’s my sister.”

“Beautiful?”

“Passable, I’d say. She’s bringing a friend.”

“That’s one girl for you.”

“Mabs will have put her off me. I am too young to be interesting,” said Cosmo gloomily.

“Better set your sights on the Dutch five, then.”

“An embarrassment of daughters. Let’s pray they are pretty and speak English.”

“The quantity makes the quality doubtful,” said Blanco.

“Why?”

“If they are of marriageable age there would not be five arriving; some, at least, would have been snapped up. On the other hand—”

“Yes?”

“They may have no dowries, poor things.”

“Your mind runs on money; first it’s bridge and backgammon, now it’s dowries.”

“Only because I’m strapped. I plan to remedy my plight,” said Blanco cheerfully.

“There goes my mother,” said Cosmo. “Look! She really is letting rip, two hatboxes!” Further down the street Mrs. Leigh crossed with springing step and disappeared into a boutique. “Father says there has been no holding her since she had her hair shingled, but I believe it’s to do with Mabs leaving school.”

“Short skirts suit her,” said Blanco judiciously. “Seen from behind, your mother might be you in drag.”

“Have a heart,” protested Cosmo. “She has not got knobbly knees.”

“Same hair, same features—”

“My mother is beautiful,” protested Cosmo.

“You are a coarser version, that’s all, and you have those terrible spots.”

“Only two now. French food has done wonders; you have more.”

“Handicapped in the Dutch daughters stakes. When we are old and rich, shall we look back on our spots with nostalgia?”

“I am not planning to grow old. I just want to grow up and get at the girls,” said Cosmo boldly.

“You are terrified of girls.” Blanco was aware of his friend’s shyness. “Perhaps the five Dutch are tiny little girls. You could not be frightened then.”

“Oh, don’t! What is the Dutch baroness’s name?”

“It sounded like shove halfpenny. Here, turn right down this alley. We are nearly there.”

“It’s a bit smelly along here.” Cosmo looked about him.

“Madame Tarasova is poor; she brought no jewels from Baku. She teaches the piano to dolts like me to make ends meet. Here we are. She lives there, above where the horse’s head protrudes.”

“Boucherie chevaline,” Cosmo read. “I say,” he said, “how awful.” Then, seeing his friend’s expression of amusement, he flushed and said, “Sorry, I am extremely insular. Lead on.”

“For insular, read ignorant,” said Blanco angrily. “Don’t come in if you don’t want to, not if you find Madame Tarasova’s lodgings distasteful. I told you she is poor, she teaches the piano and tells fortunes, she dressmakes and alters people’s clothes to keep the wolf at bay. If you must know, I could have given up the piano ages ago, but she needs the money. She teaches, eats, works and sleeps in one small room. Why don’t you go back to the hotel?”

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel,” said Cosmo.

They stood facing each other in the mean street, Blanco white-faced and angry, Cosmo confused and pink. After an uncomfortable pause Cosmo said: “Perhaps I should have piano lessons too?” Both he and his friend doubled up with laughter.

“Here comes my pupil,” said Madame Tarasova, looking out from the window on the first floor of the house in the Rue de Rance.

The room where she prepared to meet her pupil held an upright piano, a square table covered with a red baize cloth, four upright chairs, a chaise longue, a pedal sewing machine and a bookcase stuffed with Tauchnitz paperbacks. Balanced on top of the books were piles of sheet music and a crystal ball wrapped in a black velveteen cloth. Under the table there was a dog basket and reposing in it a small Pomeranian dog, asleep.

“Time you took Prince Igor for his walk. Do not bring him back tired and wet, as last time his beautiful fur was full of sand,” she said in heavily accented French.

“Who is the pupil?” Flora peered out, following Madame Tarasova’s gaze. “Oh golly,” she said. “Is it one of those boys?”

“The one with the dark hair is Blanco. The other, the fair one, I do not know.”

“I’ll get out of the way.” Flora pulled a jersey over her head. “Come, Prince Igor, buck up.” She snapped a lead onto the little dog’s collar. “How long will the lesson last?” she asked, making her way through impeding furniture to the door.

“An hour. I wonder why Blanco brings a friend? Does he too require lessons? What do you think, child?” Madame Tarasova’s voice rose hopefully, but Flora was already catapulting out of the room and down the stairs, dragging the dog behind her. She brushed past Blanco and Cosmo on the doorstep and disappeared running.

“That’s Madame Tarasova’s only luxury,” said Blanco, prodding the bell button with his thumb.

“The little girl? I’ve seen her somewhere—I know, she was with another—”

“The nauseating Pom. Just touch the piano and it starts howling. Madame T. has to send it out whenever she gives a lesson.”

Cosmo was not listening: “She was with another animal, a great big—”

“Come on, it’s up this way.” Blanco led the way. “Bonjour, Madame, this is my friend Cosmo Leigh,” he said, as they reached the landing. “I am staying with him for the holidays.”

“In the hotel? C’est chic. And how is your maman?”

“She’s well. Cosmo would like lessons too. No, not the piano, backgammon. What’s the matter, Cosmo?” For Cosmo had crossed the room through the jungle of furniture and was peering out of the window. “He seems to be interested in dear little Igor. I apologise for his uncouth manners, Madame.”

“He is perfectly couth, he is welcome.” Madame Tarasova shook hands with Cosmo as he turned back into the room. “So you too are a player of backgammon, my national game.”

“No, but I’d like to learn,” said Cosmo, looking down at Madame Tarasova who, less than five feet tall, looked up at him. She was tiny, with miniature hands and feet, greying hair pulled severely back in a bun, a paper-pale skin, large black eyes and an enormous arrogantly hooked nose above a sweet-tempered mouth. She looked considerably older than her twenty-nine years. “Blanco tells me you play a demon game, are a great gambler,” he said, smiling.

“The wicked fellow seduces me from his scales, and the bridge too! I play as reward for his piano if he tries hard. Alors, Blanco, we make a debut?”

“If we must.” Blanco sat astride the piano stool.

“And your friend? Will he be happy waiting? After some Chopin, some bridge. Shall you be patient, Monsieur Cosmo?”

“I shall be quite happy.” Cosmo edged himself onto a chair by the window.

Blanco, sitting side by side with Madame Tarasova, embarked on his scales.

I could do better than that, thought Cosmo, watching for the reappearance of the child with the dog, wincing at Blanco’s false notes. Those heavy lidded brown eyes last seen when the child had come out of the sea, half-naked and shivering, had made him jump. Half-listening to the excruciating sounds his friend was creating, he wondered whether the child’s eyes, briefly glimpsed, were as mysterious and mischievous as they seemed. Was it perhaps the effect of enormously long lashes? Could the term voluptuous be applied to the eyes of such a small and skinny child?