A Rather English Marriage (8 page)

‘Yes,' Mandy Hope replied. ‘A gin, please. But don't tell the director of Social Services!'

Half an hour later she had gone, after just one pink gin and without agreeing to have dinner with him. No joy. Bloody difficult these modern girls, Reggie reflected, as he poked around in the rustling paper of the chocolates he had bought for her. Milk Tray, according to the advertisements, would make any girl swoon into your arms. Precious little swooning he'd got from Mandy Hope. Wouldn't even take the chocs.

‘I've broken enough rules as it is,' she had said. ‘Drinking with a client! Whatever would my team leader say?'

‘Same as my old station commander I dare say - station master, we used to call him. Go for the bluebird. Make the most of it. Enjoy yourself.'

‘You belong in one of those black-and-white Forties films, you know, or at any rate your language does!' she had said, and then, seeing his hurt expression, ‘I don't mean to be rude. I'm sure an evening with you would be terrific fun. It's just that the guidelines are fairly strict. Positively
no
socializing with clients. And no accepting gifts, either.'

‘So that's what I am, eh? A client? One of your poor old boys who can't cope on his own.'

Mandy had patted his arm and given him one of her glorious smiles. ‘Don't you worry, Squadron Leader, I'm scheming and plotting. Now, you think about my idea and we'll discuss it next time. I've really
got
to go. I'll see you in two weeks. Five o'clock as usual suit you?'

Reggie munched his way through the box of sweet, sticky chocolates until only his least favourite ones were left. Toffee-covered nougat was hard on the teeth. Those things with the violet centres were revolting and he'd always hated coconut. Never mind, they'd all taste the same washed down with a stiff gin.

He never used to buy Mary chocolates, but then it was a long time since he'd had to woo her. Nearly fifty years: half a century, over half a lifetime. No wonder he was brassed off living on his own. She had moved in and out of the rooms and mealtimes of his life, her pleated Gorray skirts swishing round her trim calves, smiling gently, saying less and less as time went on but always
there
, modest and serviceable in pastel twin sets, until she had seemed as inevitable as his reflection. She had always been the quiet type and that had appealed to him at the beginning. The raucous, laughing girls - nattercans, they'd called them behind their backs - whose chatter chatter would soon turn to nag nag were all very well at a party, but a chap didn't want to wake up to it for the rest of his life. Mary's shyness had seemed touching after the Waafs, with their defiantly bad language and hard, knowing eyes. He preferred innocence in a girl. He could teach her all she needed to know. Virginity had suddenly become old hat in
the war, but not to him. A fellow wanted to be the first, was only natural.

Reggie eased himself down into the armchair to give his belly room to expand comfortably and thought of the time when they'd met. It had been in 1940, when he was going through Operational Training Unit. He'd pranged the Spit in a stupidly daredevil manoeuvre and pranged himself too – no bones broken, but bad enough to put him in hospital for a week.

Mary had been a Red Cross nurse, more of an orderly, really; very earnest about doing her bit. She used to stand meekly to one side of his bed while the old termagant of a Sister – Sister Girdlestone, that was her name, funny how things came back to you after all these years - Sister Girdlestone had ordered the nurses and patients about.

‘Come along now, Nurse Bagnal! Hold the bowl steady! Don't know what some of you girls think you're doing here. Never be any use if you can't stand the sight of blood.'

Mary's hand trembled as she held the enamel bowl into which his soiled and bloody dressings were deposited. Reginald had winked at her to show he was on her side, and as she caught his eye a deep blush suffused her transparent skin.

‘Sorry, Sister,' she'd whispered, hardly audible.

After that he had made a point of looking out for her. She seemed too frail for the long hours she worked, and her paleness took on the pearly quality of complete exhaustion. She moved with the robotic steps of a sleepwalker, but she always came on duty punctually and often left late. On his last day before being discharged he had called her over.

‘Would you mind drawing the curtains round my bed Nurse Bagnal, please?'

She looked startled. ‘Is there anything wrong? Shall I get a doctor? Are you in pain?'

‘If you'd just draw the curtains for a moment…?'

Trained to obedience, she had done so.

As soon as they were alone in brief, swaying privacy, he had said urgently, ‘I know you're off duty tomorrow night,
I've looked at the roster. Will you meet me in the Star and Garter at eight?'

‘Oh, I couldn't,' she said immediately. ‘I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly.'

‘Why not? Already fixed up with another chap?'

‘No!
'

‘Well, then. I'll be there, waiting for you. Eight o'clock. I won't leave till you come.'

She drew the curtains back so quickly that he thought he'd offended her. Shouldn't have tried to rush her into it. Tea would have been better. Blast!

Nevertheless, the following evening she arrived. Not at eight: he'd been waiting for nearly an hour, watching the door, when suddenly he spotted her slight, apprehensive figure. She was wearing the sort of frock girls wore then: wide, flat shoulders, cut in a fashion that somehow made the rest of her look shapeless. Reggie didn't mind that. He always looked first at a girl's legs, and knew already that Mary's were lean and finely muscled. Her mouth was shiny with fuchsia lipstick. He took her elbow and guided her through the crowded pub to a secluded corner.

‘I had to stay for dinner at home,' she said. ‘Mummy and Daddy would never have let me get away otherwise.'

‘Couldn't matter less,' he reassured her. ‘I'd wait for you till the cows came home. Now then, what'll it be?'

‘Lemonade, please.'

‘Drop of gin to cheer it up?'

‘Oh, honestly, no, thank you, just plain lemonade. I'm not used to drinking, it makes my head go all funny.'

When he brought back their drinks, she said, 'I don't know why I'm here. I told a fib and said I had to fetch something from the hospital that I'd forgotten. Daddy would be furious if he knew I was meeting a strange man in a public house.'

‘I am
not
a strange man. I am Pilot Officer Conynghame-Jervis, known to his friends as Reggie, one of the long-haired boys. Now tell
me your
name, Nurse Bagnal.'

‘Mary. Mary Elizabeth.'

‘Like the Royal Family.'

‘Well, not really. I mean, I'm named after my mother. To tell you the truth, she's called Marigold and I am too, but I make everyone call me Mary. The other name comes from Granny Bagnal, Daddy's mother.'

‘Mine's Reginald.'

‘Yes, I know,' she admitted, and he thought, So she looked me up, did she? Promising.

‘Reginald Vivian, I'm afraid. That's a family name as well. They're a bind, aren't they?' he added, but she didn't follow it up.

Instead she asked, ‘What are the long-haired boys?'

‘Chaps training for the RAF who were at university. In my case Oxford.'

‘Gosh!' she said. ‘You don't look old enough to have a degree.'

‘Quite right. I'm not. I was sent down, Nurse Bagnal, another code word meaning that the authorities in their wisdom required me to vacate my ancient college before I had completed my studies. Not, I may say, a decision greatly regretted by yours truly.'

‘Does it mean you did something wrong?'

‘I made a thorough nuisance of myself. Tormented the proctors and bulldogs mercilessly.'

‘They set
dogs
on you?'

He roared a young man's laugh, and she looked disconcerted and blushed again.

‘The “bulldogs”, in the coded language of the university, were burly fellows whose job it was to overpower objectionable young men like me who were determined to disobey the rules and all those set in authority over them.'

‘Oh!' she said, and he could see he'd assumed heroic stature in her eyes. It was too easy.

Her London Season had taught Mary how to make polite small talk, and when she found they had acquaintances in common she relaxed and became quite giggly. He got the barman to put a dash of gin into her second glass of lemonade
and, when she didn't notice, a larger amount into the third. Soon her cheeks were bright with colour and her eyes shining. She was a good listener, laughing at his jokes and concentrating when he told her about his training with the University Air Squadron.

He wanted her to trust him, so after an hour he said, ‘Your parents will be worrying about you. I'll run you home – I get a petrol ration: we count as operational pilots at OTU - but first…'

‘What?' she said, wide-eyed.

‘First you promise to see me again.'

‘I … it isn't that simple … I'm supposed to be on nights soon.' Her mother had instructed her that young men didn't like girls who were too easy; she must make them think she had other commitments if she didn't want to be thought ‘fast'. This was difficult for Mary, who had fallen in love with Reginald already, for the first time, and for ever. Luckily Reginald was not easily discouraged.

‘Then you can meet me for tea, like a good girl. We'll have sandwiches and buttered scones at the Cadena, and a nice pot of Earl Grey.'

‘You are funny,' she said. ‘I can't imagine you in the Cadena.'

‘You don't have to. You'll soon be able to see the real thing. How about next Thursday at four?'

‘Well, all right, then, I will if I can. How do I get in touch with you, if I can't get the time off?'

‘You can leave a message for me at the OTU. But it's an order, Nurse Bagnal. Tea with the patient, Cadena, sharp at four.' To soften it he added, ‘Don't let me down, Mary. I very much want to see you again.' That blush, that schoolgirl's blush …

Three weeks later she invited him home to meet her parents. Acre Lodge was exactly what its name suggested: a small Georgian house that had once stood at the entrance to a large estate but was now surrounded by an acre of carefully tended garden. ‘Do praise the roses,' she'd said. ‘They're Mummy's pride and joy.' So he had noticed the roses.

‘Caroline Testout!' he said. ‘Lovely old-fashioned rose. You don't often see those nowadays.' As her mother glowed, he caught the resemblance between them.

Her parents had questioned him discreetly about his background, but Reginald knew better than to be specific at this early stage. He'd been modestly evasive, knowing they would read between the lines. There was a
Debrett
on the bookshelf; they would look him up and put two and two together. Place in Roxburghshire; father's old school: must be Blythgowrie's younger boy. They'd be more than satisfied. Such a
suitable
young man for dear Mary. He would make up for the disappointment of her Season, when they'd spent money lavishly on her coming-out dance in the hope that she'd be married before war broke out. If only … But the sentence would be left unfinished. It was bad form to mention death.

The Southgate home in Thomas Street was a semi-detached house of the kind built in the first decade of the century and again between the wars on ribbon developments stretching from south London to the coast. An arch of bricks surmounted the porch, and the front door - set back by a yard of red-tiled doorstep – was inset with a small window decorated with stained glass in a design of indeterminate petals and leaves. A bay window reflected in one of its five black glass facets whoever was ringing the door chimes. Entering the house, a flight of stairs led directly up to three bedrooms and a small bathroom, in which Roy had lately installed a kingfisher-blue basin and bath. Next to it was a separate toilet, still white.

The entrance hall was hardly more than a corridor; there was just enough room for a coatstand, a mirror with a wavy bevelled edge, and a small table for the telephone. Two doors opened off to the left: the first into the dining-room, now Grace's shrine; the second into the lounge. A triangular sloping cupboard under the stairs held Roy's workbench, his tools neatly arranged on battens fixed to the wall above it, while under the bench were stacked tins of paint, tubes and bottles of white spirit, Araldite, wood fixative and the DIY paraphernalia
with which he kept the house in good repair. A glazed door at the end of the hallway opened into the kitchen. When it was closed, the bubbles in its ornamental glass reduced anyone moving around the kitchen to a pattern of brightly coloured changing shapes, suggestive yet imprecise, as if seen through a kaleidoscope.

In this small house, bought with pride after the war with Roy's demob pay and a great-aunt's legacy, they had watched their children turn over from their backs on to their tummies, then lever themselves into a sitting position, from which, next, they dropped forward on to all fours. When crawling became too slow and cumbersome for their burgeoning energy, they had turned into toddlers, lurched forward and walked. Being securely upright freed concentration from the limbs and focused it upon the urgent problem of communication. ‘Da-da,' Grace had instructed. ‘Look, there he is. Say it. Da-da.
Hel-lo
, Dada.' Roy had beamed into the infant faces and enunciated clearly through rolled-in lips, ‘Ma-ma. Ma-ma.' The first few words came slowly, weeks apart, but, once mastered, they were followed by a lava flow of speech, as words multiplied and joined up into sentences. The process was infinitely gratifying. ‘Say ta' became, ‘Say, thank you, God, for my good dinner. May I get down?'

Grace was gentle, orderly, spotlessly clean. The children wore fresh clothes every day, lovingly hand-washed in the evenings before yesterday's batch was ironed, folded and tidied away, everything in its proper place. The house ran like clockwork to their mutual satisfaction, and their rosy children promised nothing less. This, Roy used to think, was why people were born: to bring up children and teach them to be good; to cherish and protect one another; to work hard and honestly; and to retreat at the end of each day into their snug and individual paradise. He was perfectly content; he asked for nothing more.