Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (25 page)

“Tony!”

“Hello, Alistair.”

“My dear man, what are you doing here?”

“Come to stay. Didn’t you see my name in the book?”

“Yes, of course I did. Talbot. But I had no idea it was you. The receptionist took the booking…” He gave Tony a friendly bang on the shoulder. “What a marvellous surprise.”

Eleanor was standing a little behind Tony. Now he moved aside and put out a hand to draw her forward. “This is Eleanor Crane.”

“Hello, Eleanor.”

“Hello.” They shook hands across the polished counter.

“Alistair and I did our training together when we were mere lads. In Switzerland.”

“Did you know he was working here?” Eleanor wanted to know.

“Yes, of course I did. One of the reasons we came.”

“You’re in London, aren’t you?” said Alistair.

“That’s right. The Crown, in St. James. But I’ve been given a few days off, so I thought I’d come back and see what sort of a job you’re making of this place.” He looked about him in a deprecating sort of fashion. “Doesn’t look too bad. No stained table-cloths, no dirty ashtrays, no piped music. Doing well, are you?”

“Booked to the hilt for most of the year.”

“Brisk trade in the honeymoon suite?”

“Well, it’s certainly been taken this weekend.” A grin crept into Alistair’s face. “Why? Did you have designs on it?”

“Heavens, no. None of that sort of rubbish for Eleanor and me.”

Alistair laughed and rang the bell. “I’ll get the porter to bring your stuff in.” He lifted the flap of the counter and came out to join them. “What would you like in the way of refreshment?”

“I’d love a cup of tea,” Eleanor told him.

“I’ll have it sent up.”

*   *   *

It was, Eleanor decided, exactly like staying in the very nicest sort of private house, except that one knew one was not going to have to help with the washing-up. All those years ago, when the family who had lived in and loved this house, had finally, sadly, had to leave, they had left behind not only their beautiful furniture, but, as well, a sort of ambience that was hard to define. It was as though they had all gone away for a little while, but would soon be back. So cleverly had the house been altered, adapted, and redecorated that the modern improvements did nothing to detract from this atmosphere, but rather added to it.

The bedrooms were wallpapered in designs that might have been created especially for the small, oddly shaped rooms. Crisp cotton curtains framed the deep-silled, leaded windows, and although now each room had its own modern bathroom, there were still the original bathrooms to be found down the crooked passages, with marvellous mahogany-encased tubs and great brass taps.

Downstairs, the same inspired touch was evident. The lounge had once been the drawing-room of the old house, with French windows that led down a flight of steps to a terrace and then onto the lawns of the garden. The dining-room had been the great hall, with an oriel window that reached to the ceiling, and the bar discreetly had been contrived within some smaller downstairs apartment, perhaps a sewing-room or a morning-room, and in no way detracted from the dignified and yet homely feel of the rest of the hotel.

That evening, Tony was bathed and changed for dinner before Eleanor had even made up her face. Waiting, he came to sit on the edge of her bed, looking impatient, but as well looking tall and suave and exactly right in a dark blazer and a fresh shirt and tie.

She said, “You smell delicious. I do like men who smell delicious. All clean and spicy.”

“I smell delicious, but I’m in need of a drink.”

“Go down and get yourself one, and I’ll join you later. In the bar. I shan’t be more than ten minutes.”

So he got to his feet and left her, and she was alone. She began to brush her long pale hair and then met her own eyes in the mirror, and slowly, the long strokes ceased. She gazed at herself—not admiring the reflection that gazed back at her, but almost despising it. Despising the girl who sat there, in the loose frilled gown, its neckline open to her waist, exposing the curve of her breast, the lacy edge of her bra.

What do you want? she asked that girl, with her pale, unpainted face, her long hair a silky curve from the crown of her head to her shoulders. What do you really want?

To know, was the answer. To know that I can give myself to this relationship and yet not be submerged by it. To be loved and not overwhelmed. To give love, but to keep something back for myself.

You want everything. You can’t have your cake and eat it.

I know that.

You have to make up your mind. You’re not being fair to Tony.

I know that too.

I wish, she thought, I could find someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t Tony. Someone who would understand. Slowly, she began to brush her hair again, to cream her face, reach for her eye-shadow. Behind her, the little bedroom, flower-dappled and fresh with white paint, appeared secure as a Victorian nursery. It would be nice to have been a child in this house. Children had been happy in this house. It would be nice, perhaps, to be a child again. With everything arranged for one and no decisions to make.

But she was not a child. She was Eleanor Crane, Editor of Children’s Books with the publishing firm of Parker and Passmore, twenty-eight years old, successful and efficient. She was Eleanor Crane—and far beyond the age of being sentimentally nostalgic for long-gone days. Briskly, she finished her face, sprayed on some scent, stepped out of her dressing-gown, and zipped herself into a brilliantly casual but sophisticated dress. She slid her feet into soft leather pumps, picked up her handbag, turned off the lights, and went from the room without so much as a backward glance towards the girl reflected in the mirror.

*   *   *

She found Tony in the bar, sitting at a table near the fire, with a whisky and soda and a dish of nuts in front of him. When she joined him he went to get her the glass of wine that she asked for, and then settled himself once more and picked up his glass.

The bar was busy, all the little tables occupied by various residents, attired in various degrees of formality. Some had obviously come for a weekend of golf. There were one or two elderly single ladies, a party of Americans. As well, some younger people, perhaps just dinner guests, treating themselves to a night out.

When they had finished their drinks, Tony and Eleanor stood up and went down the thickly carpeted passage to the dining-room, where three-quarters of the tables were already occupied and dinner was in full swing.

“Do they ever,” Eleanor wanted to know, when they had ordered from the menu and were waiting for the wine list, “have a time when they aren’t full up?”

“No, not really. There are only twenty bedrooms, and it’s not the sort of place that is affected by the seasons. I mean, even if you don’t play golf, there’s always something to do or to look at, at all times of the year. People make pilgrimages to Stratford, or to Wells and Bath. They go to Broadway, and explore the Cotswolds. Then there’s always a dinner dance on Saturday nights, and special festivities at Christmas and Easter.”

“Christmas must be perfect. It’s a house made for Christmas.”

The wine list was produced. Tony put on his horn-rimmed spectacles, inspected it, and ordered a bottle. When the waiter had gone, he took off his glasses and leaned across the table on folded arms.

“I’ll play a guessing game with you. Which, of all the people in this room, are shacked up in the honeymoon suite?”

His eyes were dancing with amusement. What was so funny? Eleanor, puzzled, looked casually around the room. The young couple, perhaps, in the corner? No, they didn’t look nearly opulent enough. The tall, bored-looking pair over by the window? The woman was gazing into space, like a highly bred horse, and the man wore an expression of agonized boredom. One somehow couldn’t imagine them having got to the lengths of getting married, let alone going on a honeymoon. Or was it the young golfing Americans, she with her tan, and he immaculate in his maroon blazer and tartan trousers…?

Her eyes came back to Tony’s face. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

He gave a tiny inclination of his hand. “The couple by the fireplace.”

Eleanor looked over his shoulder. Saw them, old enough to be her parents, or even her grandparents. The woman was silvery-headed, her shining white hair swept up into a casual knot at the back of her head; the man quite portly, moustached and balding. She wore an unexciting, comfortable-looking dress, and he was in a dark suit and a formal tie. Just an ordinary elderly couple. And yet they weren’t ordinary, because they were having such a good time, chatting and laughing away together, with eyes for no one but each other.

Amazed, Eleanor looked back at Tony. “Are you
sure?
”

“Yes. Sure. Mr. and Mrs. Renwick. Honeymoon suite.”

“You mean they’ve just got married?”

“They must have. That’s what honeymoons are all about.”

Cautiously, Eleanor looked at them again. The woman was talking, the man listening, sitting there, holding his glass of wine. Perhaps she was telling him a joke, because he suddenly let out a great guffaw of laughter. It was fascinating.

“Perhaps,” said Eleanor, “they’ve been friends for years, and then her husband died, and his wife died, and they decided to marry each other.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or perhaps she never married, and when his wife died, he was able to confess to her that he’d secretly loved her all his life.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or perhaps they met on a cruise, and his fancy was caught by the fetching figure she cut playing shuffleboard.”

“It’s possible.”

“Can’t you find out? I long to know.”

“I thought they would intrigue you.”

The honeymoon suite. She looked at them again, charmed by their obvious delight in each other. Mr. and Mrs. Renwick.

“Do you think,” asked Tony, “that seeing them will help you change your mind, or make up your mind, or whatever it is you’re trying to do? About us, I mean.”

Eleanor looked down at the table-cloth. Carefully, as though it mattered, she altered the position of her knife. She said, “You promised. You mustn’t break your promise.”

*   *   *

Their wine arrived; was poured, tasted, the bottle left upon the table.

“Who shall we drink to?” Tony asked.

“Not you and me.”

“The newly-weds, perhaps. And a long and happy life to them.”

“Why not?” They drank. Over the rim of her glass, their eyes met. I love him, Eleanor told herself. I have faith in him. Why can’t I have faith in myself?

*   *   *

In the morning, after a late breakfast, they went out for a walk. The weather, obligingly, was perfect. Eleanor wore white jeans and a pullover over her shirt, and when they had explored the gardens and looked at the massive tithe barn which stood a little way from the house, they wandered down to the lake and found a sheltered hollow by the reedy bank where the wind could not reach them. The grass was thick and green, starred with the first daisies, and they lay and watched random clouds sail across the pristine blueness of the sky, and were so still and quiet that a couple of inquisitive swans slid across the lake to inspect these strangers to their remote and watery world.

“How wonderful it must have been,” said Eleanor, “to own all this. To be a child here, and take it all for granted. To be a man, and know that it was part of you. Part of your life and the person you were.”

“But there were responsibilities, too,” Tony pointed out. “People to work for you, yes, but people to take care of, too. When a man or a woman grew old, you had to watch out for them, see they had a roof over their heads, coal for their fire, food in the larder. The land was their responsibility as well; there were buildings to keep up, and the church to sustain. These old boys were great churchmen. Whether or not they believed in God was never totally certain, but they were always fairly sure that God believed in them.”

“They must have been nice, the family who lived here. The house is fairly buzzing with good vibes. Benevolent. Did you like working here?”

“Yes,” said Tony, “but after a bit I felt I was becoming drowned in some gorgeous backwater. Not enough stimulation.”

“Aren’t people enough stimulation?”

“For me, not entirely.”

She said, “If we got married, do you think we should begin to feel we were becoming drowned in some gorgeous backwater?”

Tony opened his eyes, and raised his head and looked at her in some surprise. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about getting married.”

“We seem to be talking about it all the time, without actually saying anything. Perhaps it would be better if we forgot about promises and brought it all out into the open. It’s just that I don’t want to start an argument.”

“We don’t have to argue. There’s nothing to argue about. I want to get married and you don’t. It’s as simple as that.”

“That makes me sound cold and heartless.”

“I know you’re not, so it doesn’t matter how it sounds. Look…” He raised himself up on an elbow. “Look, my darling Eleanor, we’ve known each other for two years. We’ve proved, to ourselves and the rest of the world, that this is a good thing we’re on to. It isn’t just some wild infatuation, a fly-by-night affair that’s going to turn sour the moment we commit ourselves.” He grinned. Even when they were at odds with each other, he never lost his good humour. “After all, we’re neither of us in what you might call the first flush of careless youth. I don’t want to be like Mr. and Mrs. Renwick and miss all the fun of growing old together.”

“Nor I, Tony. But I don’t want it to go wrong.”

“You mean, like my parents.”

His mother and father had had a rancorous divorce when Tony was fifteen, and then gone their separate ways. He never spoke about this traumatic experience, and Eleanor had not met his parents. He went on, “No marriage can be perfect. And mistakes don’t have to be inherited. Besides, your parents were happy. They lasted the course.”

“Yes, they were happy.” She turned away from him, pulling absently at a tuft of grass. “But my mother was only fifty when my father died.”