A Quiet Life(91)

Laura was surprised that both Kit and Joe seemed to know exactly who Professor Runcie was. Joe was talking about one of his books, which he seemed to admire, while grabbing a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing tray and putting one in Laura’s hand.

‘He sees Reds behind every bush and up every tree, nobody takes him seriously,’ Kit said.

‘A lot of what he says is pretty sensible,’ Joe demurred, but Laura could not tell whether he was genuinely disagreeing with Kit or simply arguing for the sake of conversation. He went on talking, saying that people in Washington were simply too blind to how far the Russians would go, and Kit was saying something about how it was ridiculous to exaggerate the threat, and that even Inverchapel had been happy to have a relationship with Stalin when he was ambassador in Moscow. Laura was casting about in her mind for a way to turn the conversation, but when she asked if they were likely to go to Portstone that summer as Washington was simply too miserable when it got hot, she was ignored.

‘If you want a good story about Reds,’ Kit was saying to Joe now, ‘you should go and see that friend of mine I mentioned, Carswell – not actually a friend, but I knew him at college. He used to be a communist and he says there are communists even in the State Department now, that it’s almost like a club – all nonsense, I’m sure.’

Despite another little gambit from Laura about what they thought of the party, Joe was caught by this story and was leaning towards Kit asking more about the man. But thank goodness, here was Edward walking over to them. In this crowd, he was as Laura remembered him from London parties, urbane, sure-footed, surrounded by the group, by people who thought they knew him. And here were Monica and Archie again, Monica in a puffball of a dress, Archie talking as soon as he reached them. ‘I’m going to blame you for that editorial about British diplomats,’ he was saying to Joe. ‘I saw your hand in it. “The good fellowship atmosphere of a very uppity club” indeed, “men who understand the faded diplomacy of Kipling’s age better than the aspirations of a modern government”.’

Joe came back at Archie, insisting that surely he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t on the wavelength of the American way of doing politics. And Kit was quick to back him up, quoting further from the article, as if he felt in some way responsible for Joe and how the others saw his work. Archie was about to respond, when Monica broke in.

‘For heaven’s sake, do you have to talk work here?’ It felt as if she were dragging, as couples so often do, the trail of some previous altercation into this new arena.

‘More drinks?’ Edward said in a vague voice.

‘I think they’re finishing up now,’ said Monica.

‘Tell you what,’ Joe said, following Edward’s reluctance to end the party, ‘someone at the Washington Post told me about a great little club just opened up on U Street, with a nigger band that plays the best—’

‘Or we could just go to the Shoreham – it’s kind of pretty there in the evenings.’

‘The club sounds fine,’ Laura said, and noted a rather surprised look on Monica’s face. It was not usually Laura who wanted to go on. ‘Let’s go there.’

‘I said I’d meet Suzanne later – but I can telephone from the club.’ And as they left the party, Joe was explaining to Laura that Suzanne was his new girlfriend, a fine girl he had met at the newspaper.

The air in the evening streets was already filled with the warmth of the summer ahead which intensified as they walked into the dark, crowded club. Here Laura thought they would be conspicuous, all so formally dressed from the previous party, but nobody seemed to be looking at them as they found a small table at the side of the room. The nigger band, as Joe had put it, played in a way she had never heard before, but she liked it; it seemed to mute rather than exacerbate the jagged edges of her thoughts.

Soon Joe’s girlfriend Suzanne arrived, and Laura was immediately impressed; she was still in her work clothes, but whereas some girls would have been self-conscious in that blue skirt and cropped jacket next to the other women in the club in their bright evening wear, she seemed to be bestowing the pleasure of her company on others rather than asking for their approval. In other words, Laura thought, watching her, she was a lot richer than Joe and carried her class with a kind of thoughtless confidence. Joe naturally danced with Suzanne, and Monica was swept off by some stranger, so while Edward and Kit seemed happy simply to sit and drink, Laura got up to dance with Archie. At first he tried to talk to her as they danced, but it was irritating when he put his face close to her ear and his voice buzzed, and she was glad when he gave up and was content to turn and turn to the jittery music, and it was well into the small hours when they finally found taxis to go home.

As they went up the stairs into their house, Laura thought Edward was so drunk that he was oblivious to anything, but then he spoke as they were getting into bed. ‘Poor Kit,’ he said. Why on earth, Laura wondered, did he pity Kit? ‘He’s obviously in love with Joe, isn’t he – and Joe not a bit interested in men. Poor Kit.’

Laura turned with interest to Edward, asking more; he never gossiped about people and this interpretation of Kit’s behaviour fascinated her. But Edward was already falling asleep. Laura lay awake for a while, wondering why she had not seen it herself; she remembered how she had been surprised, too, when Winifred had told her long ago about Giles’s love interests. Kit had seemed languid and disconnected from others when she first met him, but she had noticed a kind of anxiety when he was with Joe, an eagerness to ensure that Joe was happy. Was that love? Surely love was the great blooming of joy she had known with Edward … Why had her thoughts run like that, back into the past, to the kiss on Hampstead Heath? He was here, now, and they had come through so much. Soon the clouds would lift again. She turned in bed, pressing her breasts against Edward’s back and fitting her legs behind his as he slept, trying to find a point of restfulness against him.