A Desirable Husband (4 page)

Alice and Constance referred to each other as ‘that woman’ and though this distressed Gerard, it amused him too. It had been obvious from the start that they would not like each other, but he did not consider either woman capable of real and deliberate malice. Each denied being a snob, and each said she only disliked the other for being such a bad, careless
and
interfering parent.

‘I do
like
your parents, Finola,’ Gerard said suddenly as their taxi drew up in Egerton Gardens.

She looked at him and smiled. ‘Really, darling?’

Gerard handed her out of the cab. Finola knew that her husband would always help her to do such things, even when she was old, because they had been married so long already. He had never preceded her through a door since she was in the Wrens and he was a Commander in the Navy, and they had met formally on duty and had the worst conversation of their life. He had asked her to marry him the next time he saw her.

Gerard paid off the taxi while Finola went in, still thinking it was remarkable that their two families dealt together at all. He had been fascinated by Alice and Anatole ever since he had taken Finola out to dinner in Portsmouth during the war, and she had spoken about them first tentatively, then with amusement, and a kind of remote affection, surprising herself as she went on, for she had never mentioned her family and upbringing to a man before. He had been very nervous when she had first taken him to meet them, but he had discovered that her picture had been
almost accurate: they were only a little brisker and more efficient than he had imagined. A little later he discovered that they were also less socialist than he had expected; and so he thought that Finola, who had described them as very left-wing indeed to give him an agreeable surprise, was innocent in some ways. He had told his own parents that Finola’s were very bohemian, but not really avant garde, Hugh and Constance had told him that this was a contradiction in terms, but they had both been curious to meet them. Gerard had not argued with them about the contradiction, because he never did argue, and he had known ever since he won his scholarship to Cambridge that some people’s minds were in a rut.

The hall at Egerton Gardens was lit by one pale bulb, and on the table there was a note, which Finola read.

‘Carlotta’s cold has turned to critical pneumonia, and she’s staying in bed tomorrow,’ she said, putting it down again. ‘Do you think it
can
be a touch of flu? It’s rather late in the year. Perhaps I’d better go up and see her.’

‘No don’t,’ he said. ‘I expect she’s fast asleep.’

‘Got the cooking brandy with her, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Finola, who sometimes talked like Alice. She was relieved that he did not wish her to go and see the cook tonight; she always took notice of his wishes. ‘And she says she’s done some macaroni thing we can heat up tomorrow, so she can’t be all that bad. Gerard,’ she said, and hesitated, ‘you said that about Alice, but I do wish sometimes, myself, she wouldn’t talk about Constance like that, in front of you. She’s always been so …’

‘I like it,’ he said. ‘I like the contrast –’ he thought, in a way which was usual with him, that this was a stupid way of expressing himself – ‘I don’t believe either of them is really malicious. My mother can be a little uncharitable, but …’ He added: ‘I’m beginning to think my mother may have said something really to hurt Alice last time.’ The two women had not met for eighteen months. ‘I don’t mean her usual sort of talk about her way of life.’

‘I hope not,’ said Finola, who had never been able to
understand why Constance seemed to dislike her, for Gerard would not say that she was simply jealous of her influence with Hugh.

‘Alice is very amusing about her!’ said Gerard.

‘Yes,’ said Finola. Both thought of their childhoods.

It was eleven o’clock, but they felt they could not go to bed yet because they kept quite late hours. They went to sit in their drawing-room on the first floor, where Finola read
Love
in
a
Cold
Climate
and Gerard, who seldom used his study, attended to some papers. The room was cold and a little shabby, quite conventionally decorated and made untidy by Gerard. When they had bought the house before Gerard was demobilised, they had been able to borrow old furniture and curtains from his parents and from Alice, but they had had to buy some Utility lamps, carpets and chairs, and these they had not yet been able to replace. Recently Finola had bought some new drawing-room curtains, but they were not a success. The stripes were too narrow. She dressed prettily, but was inclined to make mistakes in decoration, and her house never looked as Alice’s did, as though there had been no attempt made at decoration at all.

‘Aren’t you in court tomorrow?’ said Finola.

‘No, Wednesday,’ said Gerard, who was very rarely in court because no one gave him briefs. He was a criminal barrister and he refused, though too subtly to make him feel he had obeyed his conscience, to defend anyone whom he believed to be guilty. Constance said he should indeed defend such people, because if he did so they would probably be convicted as he thought they should be. Gerard and Finola lived on an income of about four thousand a year, most of which was a legacy from his father’s mother, Lady Anne Parnell.

It was very quiet. They knew that rain was falling because the wheels of the occasional car could be heard spinning in the wet. Suddenly they were disturbed by a childish moan from upstairs, which was followed by footsteps.

‘Oh dear,’ said Finola, looking up. ‘Do you suppose Eleanor’s fallen out of bed? I really think she’s too young
not to sleep in a cot, whatever Nanny says.’

‘Nanny will know what to do,’ said Gerard. ‘Don’t worry, darling.’

‘I never worry about the children,’ she said, and smiled. ‘I didn’t know children
could
really be so normal.’

‘Darling.’ Gerard got up and put aside his papers, and went to sit beside her on the sofa, where he took hold of her hands. ‘You are very dear, you know.’ He touched her lips with his, and smoothed her forehead: these things always pleased her, and he loved to be gentle. Gerard liked his wife’s being almost plain, however charming; he had never been attracted by women as lovely as himself.

The telephone rang and Finola leant across him to pick it up.

‘Knightsbridge 3054?’ she said, still stretching. ‘Constance – here, Gerard.’

‘Mother – yes, good evening. Oh my God – he’s
not –
no, of course not – yes, we were out to dinner – I don’t know if I
can
come down, do you need me? Does he? – No – I apologise, mother – But you did say there was no danger?’ He was pressing his hand to his tall forehead, and his voice was rising. Presently he put the telephone down, and told Finola who had gathered it already that Hugh had had another heart attack, a worse one than last time, but not fatal yet.

*

Hugh and Gerard had just finished discussing Darcy’s divorce. Two months ago the newspapers had made the court evidence sound more interesting than it was, and now it was nearly over, after all. Darcy was to receive his decree nisi in two or three weeks, and Gerard had been explaining this, for his father had been upset by the accounts in the press. Hugh had been angry and tired while Gerard was talking. ‘When is Darcy coming down?’ he finished.

‘Tomorrow I think, Father.’

Hugh was in bed in his dark tidy dressing-room, with his arms placed outside the sheets and a metal trolley with medicines on it placed out of his reach. A nurse was looking after him.

‘Are you going to sell this place when I’m gone?’ he said, watching Gerard. He had asked this before, but not so directly.

‘No, of course not!’

‘Income tax, death duties, maintenance costs, it’s nothing but worry for a person like you.’

‘That is hardly the point, is it? I shall manage somehow.’

‘Why don’t you sell it?’ said Hugh, pushing back into his pillows and still looking at his son. ‘This is the modern world. You’ve hardly been here since you went up to Cambridge; you and Darcy both despise the country. The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable. I know.’

‘That’s not true, Father.’ Gerard smiled. He was always pleased to discover that his father was intelligent.

‘Is it your Christian duty to keep the place up, then, Gerard?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t see it myself. Can’t see what it has to do with Christ. But then I’ve never been religious.’

‘I wish – I know this is embarrassing – but you might find some comfort –’

‘I suppose you’ll sell the horses, anyway? No point in keeping them, you can’t ride.’ Gerard could ride, but he rode sedately.

‘I hadn’t thought – Father, surely we needn’t talk about this? We’ve been into it before – I
know
what you want me to do, I’ll do all I can!’

‘I always used to prefer you to your brother, the trouble is you should have been girls, both of you.’ Hugh had a vision of his two pretty daughters, who would be dressed in the bustles and Alexandra fringes of his childhood. They would sit over tambour frames in the drawing-room, listening with lowered eyes to their elders’ conversation. They would call their Father Papa, and cry when he reproved them, but smile most of the time. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘You must not try to make me angry, Father,’ said Gerard, who had never been told before that he was preferred to Darcy, though he had suspected it.

‘Hm.’ Hugh said: ‘Why didn’t you bring Finola?’ Gerard had come down in the end on the day after his court case, and had been at Combe Chalcot for two days. He had been asked this before.

‘Mother asked me to come alone.’

‘So you said.’

‘We’ll both come next time.’

Hugh paused, but decided not to say that he might be dead before then. ‘Sweet girl, Finola.’ This was another opinion which Hugh had not put into words in Gerard’s hearing before.

‘I’ve always rather wondered why you liked her so much,’ said Gerard, who was sometimes unconventionally courageous.

‘Wondered? Oh, I know why you’ve wondered. Like your mother.’ Suddenly the conversation became very agreeable. ‘No, I don’t mind her not being out of the top drawer. And her grandmother was as grand as anybody. Grander than Constance. Did I ever tell you I knew Diana Blentham, her grandmother that is? Before she ran off with the Fenian. One of the best scandals of the Jubilee year – no, before that, must have been, ’95 or ’96, I’d just come down from Oxford. She was a corker.’ He paused. He had only told this story to his wife. ‘Finola’s got a look of her, nice hair. Charlie Windlesham set Diana up somewhere in St John’s Wood, after the Fenian died I believe – splendid woman. Old Lady Blentham was a regular tartar, wouldn’t hear her daughter’s name mentioned, very old-fashioned she was even in those days. Where’s my snuff-box?’

‘Here, Father.’

Hugh took a pinch and carried on, and some colour came back into his dull-veined face as he talked. ‘And then, I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but I knew your mother-in-law when she was living down here as a girl, with that clergyman uncle of hers she talks about. She can’t have been more than sixteen – seventeen – ugly little flapper, she hasn’t changed a bit.’

His eyes closed, and he smiled. Gerard, who had been
marvelling, suddenly noticed his father’s position: towards the end of Hugh’s talk he had been looking away, not at him. He hesitated, whispering, before he got up and bent over him. Gerard made sure that he had not died, then blushing, he thanked God and left the room, and longed to be outside.

*

Gerard and the dogs went out for a walk, and returned at five o’clock. They had been through the small park as far as the Manor, an ugly Jacobean house where the Parnells had lived before 1879. Gerard’s grandfather, who had feared that he would be ruined by the agricultural depression, had sold it to a rich American with literary tastes, the grandfather of the present Lord Van Leyden, who was not nearly so rich as Hugh Parnell. Gerard’s grandfather had not been ruined by the depression in the end, but Gerard knew that he himself would be ruined one day. It was only his faith in Christ which kept him from believing all the time, instead of most of it, that in 1984 the world would be exactly as described in Orwell’s novel.

The Cedar House where the family now lived had been built as a kind of folly in 1780 by a Parnell who had married an heiress and detested the Manor. It was built of warm grey stone, and had a front of five windows above and four windows and a pedimented door below. The ground-floor windows were long, and arched, and gave to the building the impression of an orangery, a well-proportioned miniature it would be delightful to live in. The house was set next to the old kitchen garden, and a continuation of the kitchen-garden wall quite surrounded it. This enclosure had been built when, during the Regency, the widowed mother of the Parnell of the time had had to have a keeper living with her, owing to her passion for running about the park with no clothes on.

It was now late April, and in the shelter of the wall the daffodils and the red japonica were just past their best. Gerard paused in the garden, thinking as he had often done before that the wall which so spoilt the view of rich country
ought to be knocked down. He imagined balls on iron chains, swinging at it and breaking it with noise, and crushed stone lying on the flowerbeds. Quickly he walked on, and entered the house by the gun-room door.

The gun-room, which was always cold, seemed to him the most typical part of the house. There were rows of musty mackintoshes, and gumboots, and flower-vases in chipped yellow cupbords. On the darkest wall, where there were no guns, there hung a family tree which said that the Parnells had been settled in North Dorset since Edward the Confessor, but Gerard used to say that this was very doubtful.

‘Dirty paws, Trumpy, bad dog!’ he said, and patted him. ‘Wipe.’ Amelia had been a well-trained gun-dog in her youth, but Trumpy was gun-shy, and rather spoilt.

He went to visit his mother in her sitting-room, and found her on the telephone, talking with Sir William Warren who had been in love with her for many years, though she had never encouraged him. When he rang she had been in the middle of attending to her photograph album, and Gerard sat down to look through it. It was very neat, and each photograph had a label such as ‘Self with Dogs in Garden’.