A Quiet Life(41)

Laura felt Edward’s sudden discomfort. He reached out a hand and broke off a thin branch from a bush of white flowers next to them. ‘I’ll see you at lunch,’ he said, turning away. In the church Laura sat in rainbow lozenges of light that fell from the stained-glass window above, and all of a sudden, in the middle of a hymn, she imagined Edward as a little boy in the pew, turning his face to the windows and feeling faith rise in him.

Sunday lunch was another long, tasteless meal, this time with other neighbours to join them. Afterwards a kind of languor descended on everyone. Edward sat down at the piano and began to play something with only the slightest melody; repetitive chains of notes that rose and fell on disciplined lines, but the music seemed to irritate rather than calm the room. Sybil suggested cards and a game of bridge began. Laura, who did not play, got up and wandered around the room, looking at the photographs in tarnished silver frames that sat on the small tables. One she thought was Edward, that arctic blondness and indifferent expression, but when she lifted it up to look, she realised it was not him but a slighter man, older, without the broad shoulders and with a more delicate cast to his mouth and chin.

‘He’s terribly like Edward, isn’t he?’

It was Toby, standing near to Laura, the game of cards having finished.

‘Yes – exactly like, who is—?’

‘My father.’

‘He was a politician like you, wasn’t he?’

‘Not at all like me. He was one of the inner circle. Mother—’

And then Mrs Last spoke. ‘I don’t know why we are all stuffing in here – the sun’s shining at last. Sybil, why don’t you take our American visitor and show her the gardens?’

Sybil rose and opened the French windows, and she and Laura stepped out onto the wide terrace. It was not particularly warm, but feeling that they should go on, they walked down a path towards the pond. Soon it became too muddy. ‘The rose garden was wonderful last year,’ Sybil said, but of course they were just stumps right now, frilled with the beginnings of their new leaves. Laura could see how even this part of the garden was already ragged – the grass unkempt, the borders beginning to spurt with spring weeds – and beyond this formal part were now beds of vegetables. The two of them stood for a while by a large stone fountain, dry now and green with lichen, looking up at the hills. All this weekend Sybil had been absolutely reserved, only polite, and nothing more. Why had she invited Laura if she had not even wanted to talk to her?

‘It was sweet of you to invite me to join you this weekend,’ Laura said, hoping to break through the reserve.

‘Toby remembered how you hadn’t been out of London at all. I think the boys felt sorry for you – they believe country life lifts the spirits. These Sundays in the country …’ It did not sound as if she agreed with the boys’ opinion of a weekend at Sutton. ‘You mustn’t mind if Mrs Last isn’t very friendly. She bullied me rather, when I first visited.’

Laura was unnerved by this criticism of Edward’s mother. Was it allowed, then, to speak about how cold she was, and how her sons seemed to be unable to relax in her presence? That would go against all Laura’s instincts, which were to act as though such an uncomfortable family life was merely normal. And so she said something formal about how it must have been hard for Mrs Last since her husband died.

Sybil said nothing for a few moments. ‘Yes, it must have been hard,’ she said finally.

‘And for the boys,’ Laura said.

‘Yes, Toby took it hard. It was quite unexpected, quite recent, you know.’ She said nothing about Edward. ‘Your parents are both alive, aren’t they? They must miss you so much.’

‘I’m not really sure that they do,’ Laura said. For some reason, her words came out in a kind of imitation of Sybil’s, and the rather regal judgement that had dominated Sybil’s tone when she spoke about Mrs Last crept into Laura’s own voice. It surprised her. She had never spoken like that about her parents, however resentful she had felt about them. But she felt it was the right thing to do in that moment.

‘I know,’ Sybil agreed with her. ‘I haven’t seen my father since the war began and, frankly, I don’t think he cares.’ The two women stood there, looking up at the grandeur of the Malvern Hills, and Laura realised that her pale imitation of Sybil had brought them back into sympathy with one another.

‘But the boys love it here, don’t they?’ Laura said, wanting Sybil to go on talking about Edward.

‘They do. It’s the bond, isn’t it? Hard to break.’

Not long after, they all left, squashed into the Daimler to the station. Laura had been told by Winifred that she should tip the servants, but when it came to it she could not meet the eye of the little girl who closed her case or the old man who took it to the car, and she preferred to pretend she did not know about this convention. The train was crowded again and they could not sit together. In the end Sybil and Laura took seats in a carriage with a large family who were prepared to squash up, and Edward and Toby stood in the corridor, smoking and talking. Laura didn’t mind sitting apart from him. She felt that she was moving tentatively, but with growing confidence, through a new medium, like a child who has just learnt to swim, buoyed up by the memory of sensual pleasure.





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