A Conspiracy of Friends (6 page)

Caroline said nothing.

“I knew a man like that,” Frances continued. “He was a cousin of Betty Pargeter’s. Remember Betty? Anyway, she had this cousin called Harold, if I remember correctly. And we all thought that he was just perfect. He was terribly handsome, even for those days.”

Caroline frowned. “Even for those days? Did men look different in your day?”

“They can pay more attention to their grooming today,” said her mother. “When I was your age, men were much less—how should I put it?—individual. And they all wore such dull clothing. Yes, men look rather different now, I can tell you.”

“I don’t see what this has got to do with James,” said Caroline.

“It’s just an observation, dear. If you don’t want me to make any observations, then I’m quite happy to sit here in silence.”

Caroline relented. “No, sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Thank you. Well, as I was saying, you have to remind yourself that those men are a waste of time—from the woman’s point of view. What you have to do is find a man who
needs
you. No, don’t smile. I don’t mean it in any crude sense. I mean needs you in a practical sense. He has to need you to look after him, to make him comfortable, to give him a home.”

Caroline shrugged. “I know all that. I really do.”

Frances looked at her sharply. “Do you? I wonder.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that your generation of young women have lost the place when it comes to men. You’ve befriended men. You treat men in the same way as you treat your girlfriends. And what happens then? Men are quite happy to think of themselves as one of your friends, and not as anything else. The result? Men don’t see the point of settling down with one particular woman because they have all these women friends. They’ve stopped treating women as something special—they’re just the same as their other friends. Nothing special.”

Caroline stared at her mother. Did she really think that? She sighed.

“It’s no good sighing,” said her mother. “Sighing doesn’t change the truth.”

Caroline tried to explain. “I really don’t see it,” she said. “I’m not sure if I understand what you’re driving at.”

“Well, let me explain,” said Frances. “You know Peggy Warden. Do you remember her son, Ronald? He’s more or less exactly your age. Well, Peggy told me that Ronald brought home this very nice girl whom he’d met at university in Exeter. Peggy said that she really was charming, and of course her hopes, as Ronald’s mother, were raised. But she said nothing, and off they went. Then Ronald brought her home again a few weeks later and Peggy had the chance to speak to him privately. She said that she asked him about this girl and he said that they were just good friends. So she said that this could change and she told him how much she liked her. But apparently he just shook his head and said that he couldn’t possibly make a romance out of it precisely because they were friends. Peggy said to me that he then said, ‘You don’t sleep with your friends.’ Those were his exact words. So you see what I mean?”

Again, Caroline shrugged. “Just because Ronald says—”

Her mother interrupted her. “The point is, Caroline, that men and women can’t be friends. We have to keep up these … these psychological barriers between us because if we don’t then we’re never going to get men to agree to marriage—or even partnership, if you will. That’s why there are so many people living on their own. That’s why so many women find it difficult to get a man these days.”

Caroline looked out of the window again. “Is it very difficult? Are there all that many women looking for men they’re not going to be able to find?”

“Yes, there are. Thousands in this country alone. Millions. And it’s their own fault, much of the time. They’ve let men get what they want without giving anything in return. Men—our friends? We think they are but let me tell you, dear, they most definitely aren’t!”

Caroline closed her eyes briefly; she found that it helped to close
her eyes when talking to her mother, or indeed when participating in any argument. The closing of the eyes somehow equalised things. And while her eyes were closed, she thought: Of course men and women can be friends—it was ridiculous to assert otherwise. Of course they could. There were so many examples of such friendships, and she told her mother so, forcefully, and with a conviction that perhaps matched that shown by her mother.

But Frances was not convinced. “Give me an instance,” she said provocatively. “If you’re so sure about that—give me an instance.”

F
RANCES HAD CHANGED
the focus of the conversation, as she often did. She had started talking about the difficulty of moving from a relationship of friendship to something more. Now the topic seemed to have broadened to that of friendship between the sexes—and its apparent impossibility. Caroline was sure that her mother was wrong about both: she saw no reason why a friend should not become a lover, just as she saw no reason why a man and a woman should not have a firm and uncomplicated friendship.

It was tempting simply to agree with her mother. Parents can be so wrong, Caroline thought—about virtually everything—and it was therefore best just to steer clear of matters of disagreement and concentrate instead on keeping relations uncontroversial and consequently affable.

She gave in to the temptation. “No, you’re right,” she said quietly. “I don’t suppose that …”

She did not finish. “You’re being evasive, Caroline,” said Frances. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”

Caroline sighed. “I’m not. All I’m saying is … Well, what I mean is, why argue?”

Frances laughed. This discussion was taking place in the kitchen, where the two of them were seated at the kitchen table, shelling peas.

“Why argue?” Her mother’s voice rose perceptibly. “I was not aware that we were arguing. I was under the impression that we were having a perfectly reasonable discussion. But if you think that you can’t
discuss
anything with me, then …”

Caroline put down the pod she had been stripping. She turned away.

“Caroline?”

She said nothing. Her mother, pushing aside the bowl of shelled peas, reached out across the table for her daughter’s hand. “Darling. Darling.”

Caroline looked up. “I’m sorry.” She wiped away a tear. “I’m just …”

“Oh, darling. Of course you are. We all get upset from time to time. The world …” She shrugged. “The world can be so hard, so difficult, can’t it? And things are never quite right, are they? Is it … is it a boy? Is that the trouble?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes.”

Frances fished a tissue out of her pocket and passed it to her daughter. “Well, darling, you can talk to me, you know. It’s obviously not going well but these things can change, can’t they? Tell me about him. Who is he?”

Caroline blew her nose. “My nose runs when I cry,” she said. “Stupid nose.”

“Everybody’s does. But tell me about him, darling. Who is he?” There was an edge to Frances’s question; the sympathetic mother could be the inquisitive mother too—the same mother who had talked about boys being suitable and who had, ever since
her daughter had started taking an interest in boys, sought to bring her into contact with the right sort of boy, a
nice
boy.

“You know him already.”

This answer piqued her mother’s curiosity. “Oh I do, do I? So he’s local …”

Caroline shook her head. “London.”

Frances frowned. “So …”

“It’s James, Mummy. James!”

“Oh, darling!” Frances shook her head. “No, darling, no! We’ve been through that. Surely you see—do I have to spell it out to you? And you said, anyway, that there was nothing between you and him—you said it just a few moments ago.”

“There’s nothing between us at the moment,” said Caroline stubbornly. “But that doesn’t stop me wanting him, does it?” That was precisely the problem; she still yearned for James. She had recently met another boy—one who seemed completely suitable—but it had not worked out. Her feelings had been hurt, and she had thought: James would never have done this to me.

Her mother sighed. “There are bags of people, bags of them, who go through life wanting what they can’t have. And what does it bring them? Nothing. It’s a complete waste of time.”

“That implies that there can never be anything between James and me.”

“Well, that’s the case, isn’t it?”

Caroline looked up. “Why? Why do you say that?”

“Because I don’t think he’s interested. Don’t you see that?”

Caroline shook her head. “No, I don’t. James is just not sure at the moment. He … he may be a little bit that way, but not everybody is one hundred per cent one way or the other. You can be a bit of both. Look at …” She searched for an example. “Shakespeare. Yes, look at Shakespeare.”

Frances picked a handful of pods out of the colander and began
to shell them aggressively. “Shakespeare was happily married,” she said.

Caroline remembered the sonnets, which she had studied in one of her university courses. “The twentieth sonnet?” she challenged.

Her mother was unimpressed. “I don’t care what he wrote,” she said. “It’s what he did that counts. And he got married.”

Caroline reached for some peas. “The point is, Mummy, that I think that James and I are perfect for one another. I used to think it wouldn’t work, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m never happier than when I’m in his company. When I’m not with him, I wonder what he’s doing. And when we do meet up, we get on so well. We talk about everything. He bares his soul to me. He’s my friend, Mummy, my best, best friend.”

“Then keep him as a friend, if you must. Not that I think men and women can be real friends, as I’ve just said …”

“No.”

Frances stared at her daughter. “Are you setting out—deliberately—to make yourself unhappy? Do you want to be one of those women who spend their lives hankering after some man they can’t have because he’s gone off with somebody else or never looked at them in the first place? Is that what you want?”

“No. I don’t want that. I want James.”

Frances sighed. “Are you going to see him?”

“Yes. We’re going to meet up next week. We’re going to have dinner.”

“And the approach came from him?”

Caroline hesitated. Her mother was watching her. “Not exactly …”

Her mother smiled. “I thought not.”

Caroline ignored the provocation. “I phoned him. I said that we hadn’t seen one another for a while and did he want to have dinner.”

“And?”

“And he said he’d like that very much. He’s coming to Corduroy Mansions next week. He’s going to cook.”

“What’s he going to cook?”

“Risotto. He makes lovely risotto.”

Frances rolled her eyes. “Oh, darling, can’t you see? A man who goes round cooking risotto … It’s just not going to work.”

“I
DESPAIR
,” F
RANCES
said to her husband later that evening. “She sat there, shelling peas, talking about that young man she brought here—remember him?—and completely refusing to accept that she’s barking up the wrong tree. Why do young people do it? Why can’t they see that some boys are possible and others don’t even get close to the starting line?”

Frances was alone with her husband in their drawing room, Caroline having gone out for the evening with a couple of school friends who remained in Cheltenham. Rufus Jarvis was only half listening, being absorbed in watching a game of golf on the television. A player had just sliced a ball into the rough, giving rise to a groan from the Greek chorus of spectators.

“You tell me,” he mumbled.

“Tell you what? Why young women can’t see things that are staring them in the face?”

“Yes. You’re always telling me that men and women are equally competent. Now you’re telling me that women have a problem in sorting out the sheep from the goats, so to speak.”

Frances gave her husband a disparaging look. “In emotional matters it’s different.”

Rufus fiddled with the remote control. “She needs to meet a decent boy,” he said. “Isn’t there anybody?”

“You know what it’s like,” said Frances. “There are so many completely unsuitable young men …” She paused. Her conversation with Caroline had moved on from James to more mundane issues, and Caroline had told her that she was looking for new flatmates to replace two of the girls. That peculiar vitamin girl, Dee, had moved on now that she had sold her business, and the Australian girl had gone too, at least for a few months. So that meant two rooms needed to be filled.

Now it came back to her: Peggy Warden had said that her son Ronald was going off to London to take up a new job in a firm of architects and was looking for somewhere to live. He had made some sort of arrangement with a friend who owned a flat, but the friend had fallen behind with his mortgage payments and was having to sell up. “He’s rather worried,” Peggy had said. “He thinks he may have to commute for a few weeks before he finds anywhere. It’s not easy, you know.”

Frances had been unable to give any advice. Caroline had been lucky in finding her room in the Corduroy Mansions flat, but presumably not everybody had such luck. Now, as she remembered the conversation, an idea came to her.

She looked at her husband. “If only she were to get to know some suitable boys a bit better,” she said. “Ronald, for example; Peggy and Tufty’s boy. What do you think of him?”

Rufus was non-committal. “All right. A bit conscious of being bright, I suppose.”

Frances knew what he meant. Ronald was intelligent and probably knew it. And if he made a bit much of it, it might be a reaction to being the son of such dim parents. Peggy, bless her, was not exactly an intellectual; she had once said something which revealed that she thought Stravinsky was a
place
in Russia. “I’ve never
been to Stravinsky,” she said. “But I do hope to go there one day. St. Petersburg too.” Frances had wondered to herself, Should I tell her that Stravinsky’s a
writer
? but had said nothing; one does not like to embarrass others by revealing their ignorance. Poor Peggy!

“Ronald’s rather nice, I think,” she said. “I wonder whether he might not take an interest in Caroline …”