Coral Glynn (24 page)

“Oh, no,” said Coral. “No. You did help me. You did. If it weren’t for you, I might have…”

“What? What might you have done?”

“I might have behaved foolishly,” said Coral. “For a second time.”

Madame Paszkowska got up from her sofa and came to Coral, and held her in her arms. Then she stood back and touched Coral’s cheek. “I do not accept this. You must think. Don’t worry about proper notice or anything like that. We decide nothing now. You stay here as long as you want. It is your home. Promise me you will think.”

“I have thought,” said Coral. “I am sure. I will leave at month’s end.”

*   *   *

Clement and Coral’s marriage was legally and amicably terminated in 1954, on the basis of three years’ desertion.

PART FIVE

They had left London early and had driven all morning, travelling north along the smooth new motorway. Lazlo had bought special gloves, which revealed a square of bare flesh on the back of each of his hands, and special shoes, whose supple leather soles were stippled with bumps, for their trip, as if they were going on a safari or some special expedition, not simply driving to Yorkshire. But his vanity was good-natured and enjoyable. It was one of the many things Coral loved about him.

He was also a very good driver, and Coral liked that as well. Lazlo drove fast, deftly weaving in and out of the traffic, passing almost every car they encountered, as if they alone had a future.

Coral did not think about stopping in Harrington—indeed, she did not know they would be passing by Harrington—until she saw the sign proclaiming its distance from them.

“Harrington,” she said.

Neither of them had spoken in over an hour. He took one of his hands off the steering wheel, reached over, and grasped her hand.

“What silly gloves,” she said.

“I like them,” he said. “What did you say?”

“Harrington,” she repeated. She touched the skin in the window of his glove.

“What is Harrington?”

“We just passed a sign. It is a town, ahead of us. Twenty miles. I lived there once.”

“In your nursing days?”

“Yes,” said Coral. “In my nursing days.”

“Who was your patient?”

“An old lady, dying of cancer.”

“Sounds very cheery,” said Lazlo.

Coral turned and looked out the window. “It was nearly fifteen years ago,” she said. “Imagine that. The spring of 1950. A very wet spring.”

“All springs are wet,” said Lazlo.

“That spring was especially wet.”

“Does it have a decent restaurant? It is about time we stopped for lunch.”

“It’s where I met Clement,” said Coral.

“My God!” said Lazlo. “No wonder you remember it. The famous Clement. My predecessor.”

“No,” said Coral. “He wasn’t that.”

“Then what was he?”

“I don’t know,” said Coral. “I don’t think I shall ever know what he was. You are the one with a proper predecessor. Or rather, I am: Yvonne.”

“Less said, best forgotten,” said Lazlo, which is what he always said when Yvonne was mentioned. “Shall we stop? Perhaps we shall find your Clement. I should very much like to see him.”

“There is a place for lunch,” said Coral. “At least, there was.”

“Then of course there still is,” said Lazlo. “These provincial towns never change.”

*   *   *

They drove along the High Street. The flower shop was still there, but Dalrymple’s Better Dresses had become a greengrocer’s. The Black Swan remained The Black Swan, and very little about it seemed to have changed, including the menu. It being summer, melon was in season.

“A dismal lunch,” Lazlo announced as their table was cleared. “We shall do much better at Hatton Hall.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Coral.

“Really, Coral, how can you doubt it? Ye of little faith.”

“It’s not your abilities I doubt,” said Coral. “I know you can do better than this, but the place isn’t ours yet.”

“Formalities,” said Lazlo. “Simply a matter of formalities. I know it shall be.”

“Formalities and money,” said Coral. She stood. “I’m returning to the ladies’.”

“I’ll meet you outside, then. I want to look around for your corporal.”

“He was a major,” said Coral.

“An old duffer with a gamey leg, at any rate,” said Lazlo. “He should be easy enough to spot.”

Coral leant down and kissed him. “Don’t make fun,” she said.

Lazlo watched her walk across the dining room and disappear into the lounge. He paid the bill and then went through the lounge and out into the little garden that stood between the Swan and the street. It was overcrowded with hollyhocks and lilies and all the other tiresome flowers expected in an English garden. If it were his, he would tear them all out and do something very modern and elegant: a lawn and miniature privet with a white gravel border. Perhaps some topiary. He lit a cigarette and strolled up the walkway and stood in the sun on the sidewalk along the High Street.

A large woman in a flowered dress whose pattern echoed the garden he had just passed through stood behind a little table in front of the tobacconist’s next door. “Come here and buy a flower,” she called to him, holding out a tin filled with different-coloured tissue-paper poppies. “It’s for a very good cause.”

Lazlo ambled over to her. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said. “Will you buy a flower? Or several? A half crown each. They make very nice boutonnieres, and I can’t help noticing that you are without one.”

“What’s it for?”

“Spastic children. St Hilda’s Hospital. We’re building a new ward.”

“What colour?” asked Lazlo.

“Red, I think.” She picked a red posy from the can and held it against Lazlo’s lapel. “Or pink, perhaps. I don’t know.” She repeated the procedure with a pink flower. “What do you think?”

“The pink, I’d say.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “The red is too bold. The pink suits you perfectly.” She tucked the flower into his buttonhole. “There,” she said. “And one for the lady as well?”

Lazlo turned to find that Coral was standing beside him. “Do you like my flower?” he asked. “It’s for a children’s hospital.”

“Very pretty,” said Coral. “I’ll have the red one, please.”

“Lovely,” said the woman. She handed Coral the red flower.

“Dolly?” Coral asked. “It is you! I thought it was.”

“Coral!” said Dolly. “My stars! Can you imagine—Coral!”

“I take it you two know one another,” said Lazlo.

“Yes,” laughed Coral. “This is Dolly Lofting. And, Dolly, this is my husband, Lazlo Paszkowski.”

“How do you do,” said Dolly.

“Very pleased to meet you,” said Lazlo.

“Dolly and her husband were close friends of Clement’s,” said Coral.

“We stood with you at your wedding,” said Dolly. “Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” said Coral. “How is Robin?”

“I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. Our marriage ended. He has moved away from here.”

“That’s right—to Australia, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no,” said Dolly. “That was just one of his fancies. He got only as far as Brighton. He runs an antique store there called The Gilded Age, with a gentleman friend. The contents of Eustacia Villa comprise the lion’s share of their inventory.”

Coral turned to Lazlo. “Dolly and Robin had the most wonderful house, full of beautiful things.”

“Most of it was junk, I’m afraid,” said Dolly, “but I suppose most so-called antiques are. And of course you never know what’s what in Brighton.”

“But don’t you miss all your lovely things?” asked Coral.

“Not at all,” said Dolly. “I have never been sentimental about objects. It seems such a waste of feeling to me.”

“But you had such unusual furniture,” said Coral. “I remember your house so well. It must seem quite empty without it.”

“Oh, Coral,” said Dolly. “Didn’t you know? I was sure you did.”

“Know what?”

“How funny, how odd, life is: I live at Hart House now. I’m married to Clement. I imagined you knew, but of course how could you, as we’ve lost touch.”

“Dolly—are you really? Married to Clement?”

“It’s been several years—since ’56. It just suddenly made sense you know, in the most wonderful way possible. We have been very happy together.”

“I’m so happy for you, Dolly—and for Clement as well,” said Coral.

“I feel somehow we are all related,” said Lazlo. “How jolly it is.”

“You are too charming,” said Dolly, adjusting his pink boutonniere. “But what on earth are you doing here, in Harrington? Are you here to see Clement? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” said Coral. “Not at all. We are just motoring north from London and thought we would stop here for luncheon. I didn’t realise the motorway passed so near to Harrington.”

“That blasted motorway!” said Dolly. “It will change everything, they say. They’re about to drain the water meadows and build modern villas. Who shall live in them, no one knows. Can you imagine—Hart House surrounded by semidetached villas? They wanted to buy our land, too, but of course Clement wouldn’t allow it. We’ve put in a new kitchen—it’s no longer in the basement—and also refitted the lavs. So we’re no longer in the Dark Ages, although there’s still lots to do. Nothing had been done in that house forever, as you know.” Dolly turned to Lazlo. “A mausoleum,” she said, “an absolute mausoleum. But you must come and see it. You must. And Clement, too, of course.”

“Oh, no,” said Coral. “We haven’t time, I’m afraid. We need to be in Yorkshire this evening. We’re hoping to a buy a property there, a country house. For a hotel. Lazlo manages hotels.”

“I adore hotels,” said Dolly. “I would live in one if I could. I shall come and stay immediately you’re open. But, Coral darling, you simply can’t just pop off after appearing like this! I forbid it. You must come and have tea with us. And stay the night if you can. Surely you can arrive in Yorkshire in the morning! Nothing will happen to your country house overnight.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Coral, “but we must be there this evening.”

“Well, what about on your way home? Surely you could stop with us then?”

“Perhaps,” said Coral. “We’ll see.”

“Well, I hope you shall. Oh, Coral, I’m overcome, really I am, to see you. I must embrace you, I must.”

Dolly leant forwards and pulled Coral into her embrace, and when she released her, Coral saw that there were tears in Dolly’s eyes. “I’ve always been so fond of you, really I have, you were such a dear, darling thing. You seemed so lost and afraid, and I wanted to help you, really I did.”

“And you did,” said Coral. “You were very kind to me, Dolly. And I am so happy to know that you and Clement are married. Very happy indeed.”

“Are you?” asked Dolly. “I do adore him, you know. But I would never want you to think—”

Coral reached out and touched Dolly’s arm. “I’m very happy for you both,” she said. “And now, really, we must be getting along. Mustn’t we, darling?” She transferred her hand to Lazlo’s arm.

“‘Mustn’t’—what a horrid little word,” Lazlo said. “But I suppose we should be on our way. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hart. The best of luck with your hospital.”

“But promise me you’ll stop with us on your return,” said Dolly.

“Yes, of course,” said Coral. “I promise.”

*   *   *

Coral and Lazlo did not speak until they had returned to the motorway and driven for quite some time. Perhaps because of the distance they had travelled from London—or perhaps because it was later in the day, and so many people’s destinations had been achieved—there were far fewer cars on the road, and sometimes, for long stretches, they were the only automobile in sight. The lack of traffic gave Lazlo less opportunity to drive dramatically, and there was something melancholy and wearing about their constant progress.

Coral was just falling asleep when she heard Lazlo speak. “So you did not want to see him?” he asked. She opened her eyes and looked over to see that he had both his hands on the steering wheel. His driving gloves lay crumpled upon the backseat, and his hands looked surprisingly naked and vulnerable without them.

“We didn’t have time,” said Coral.

“Of course we did,” said Lazlo, “if you’d wanted to.”

“I suppose I didn’t want to, then. It would have been pointless.”

“Pointless? What does that mean?”

Coral shrugged. She was looking out the window. The world went by very fast. It was all a blur if you looked straight sideways at it; the only way to see it was to look ahead and to see what was coming. By the time it came, it was gone.

“I don’t know. No, I suppose I didn’t want to see him.”

“Then why did we stop there?”

“It was your idea to stop,” she said.

He did not refute this fact, and after a moment he said, “She seemed very jolly.”

“Dolly?”

“Yes. Very friendly, she was.”

“Yes,” said Coral. “She is strange that way.”

“You think it is strange to be friendly?”

“Not usually,” said Coral. “But yes, in the way that Dolly is friendly. I never understood it.”

“You’re a dark horse.”

“What’s a dark horse?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s you.”

She wanted him to touch her, but both his hands still clutched the steering wheel. She thought that by staring at them she might convey her desire, but she did not succeed. So she reached out and placed her hand upon his leg.

“Don’t excite the driver,” Lazlo said, but he smiled.

*   *   *

Like so many things that are altered over time, Dolly’s philosophy concerning separate bedrooms for married couples was not applied to her second marriage. She looked forward to, and very much enjoyed, the moment when, from opposite sides, she and Clement assumed the great canopied bed that had once belonged to the elderly Mrs Hart. Dolly liked to chatter in the dark. It seemed a good, companionable way to end the day. The idea of drifting into sleep silently frightened her. Talk brightened the darkness; it was a way of reaffirming your existence before succumbing to the void of sleep. Clement was, as always, taciturn, and often fell asleep in the midst of Dolly’s monologue, but this in no way bothered her. In fact, she loved the moment when she felt his body slacken and release its burden of consciousness; it was a curious sort of triumph to be awake while he slept, as if he had somehow been humbled or vanquished.