Once a Land Girl (38 page)

Gerald kissed his aunt, moved to shake hands with Prue – she quickly withdrew her proffered cheek, hoping he had not noticed her intention. Again, Gerald was sartorially perfect, in a grey
suit and a blue spotted tie of silk so thick Prue wondered how he could tie the knot with such skill. She was keen to know if Ivy’s prediction about the night’s plan was right. They had
not sped a mile down narrow lanes when she asked, diffidently, what the arrangement was to be.

‘We’ll stay at the Savoy, of course,’ said Gerald. ‘Why would we want to go anywhere else?’ Prue, snubbed, fell silent for the rest of the journey. She brightened
as they passed Buckingham Palace, but judged that her memories of tea with the King and Queen might not be of interest to the surly – was he surly, or just concentrating on the driving?
– Gerald. She carried on silently imagining the magnificence of the room overlooking the Thames that she and Gerald would share.

As they drew up at the hotel entrance, huge men in top hats and coats with two rows of buttons, like pre-war children’s coats, surged forward to take the small cases and the car key, and
to push open the vast glass doors. Prue felt her red shoes dipping into inches of carpet as she followed Gerald to the reception desk. There, uniformed men gave the impression of knowing him well,
though she could not hear the exchanges between them. A pageboy wearing a pillbox hat, exactly as she had seen in a Christmas production of
Aladdin
, appeared beside them. He had a bright,
eager face and a chunk of fair hair flopped over one eye. If things had been different, Prue would not have minded going to a pub with him for a drink. She smiled at him. The pageboy glanced at
Gerald’s back view, flashed a wicked grin in return.

They followed him to a lift. For a moment there was an illusion that a dozen people were crammed into the small space, as their reflections crowded together, eyes not meeting. They came out into
a long passage of extravagant carpet, followed the pageboy to one of the doors. He unlocked it with a show-off flourish, gave a bow (a secret signal, perhaps) as they entered the room. In a trice
Prue took it all in: satin-covered bed, glossy cupboards, a great deal of glass, pleated lampshades, a marble bathroom visible through a half-open door.

‘All right?’

‘Amazing.’ He turned to the pageboy. ‘I’m one floor up, I believe,’ he said.

‘You are, sir.’ He fiddled with another key.

One floor up? Prue considered this odd state of affairs. So who was to visit whose room? Why on earth had Gerald not booked a double? Was he afraid for his reputation? In a moment of fury, Prue
gave the pageboy another smile, as Gerald pulled back a net curtain to look at the view. The pageboy blushed and did not smile back.

‘Afraid this isn’t actually overlooking the Thames,’ said Gerald, who did not sound remorseful. He turned back to Prue, looked her up and down in his cool, auctioneer manner.
‘Plan is, you have a bath and change, why not? I’ll collect you at seven and we’ll go down to the bar for a drink before dinner.’

‘Fine.’ Prue gave a small toss of her head. She was determined he should know she was put out by the room arrangements, but supposed it must be for good reason, so would go along
with it.

‘See you later, then.’ He and the pageboy left the room.

Prue stood looking at her suitcase, the enthusiasm to unpack the glorious dress suddenly vanished. She went to the window, pulled back the curtain to see a roofscape of dark and gloomy stone.
The oppressive silence of the room made a heaviness about her: hundreds of people must have spent nights there, but none had left an impression. She supposed that was the thing about hotel rooms.
For all their grandeur, they were impersonal, bland. This was another disappointment. She had expected to feel the excitement of an unknown room – but then she had expected to see Gerald
laying out silver (or ivory?) brushes on the chest of drawers, and hanging his suit in one of the cavernous cupboards . . .

When she looked back on her night in London with Gerald Wickham, Prue remembered the hour after he had left her alone to change as lonely in an icy way she had never before
experienced. Describing it to Stella and Ag, she had not mentioned that part, for she felt it was feeble and unreasonable to sense disappointment on an occasion that would commonly be considered a
luxurious privilege. But in her imaginings she had seen Gerald zipping up the back of the velvet dress, then fastening the necklace of paste sapphires that Ivy had lent her. As it was she had had
to struggle alone with these things. Also, there was no sign of a gardenia and she hadn’t, on Ivy’s advice, brought a bow. Without her normal prop she felt uneasy. She looked at herself
in a long mirror and thought the dress had lost some of its appeal in the dull electric light. The quality of magic that had been so powerful on that thundery afternoon seemed to have vanished.

She was ready long before the hour was up, wishing she had brought
Bleak House
with her. Having decided against a bath, she explored the bathroom, touched the slabs of marble which were
tepid, not cold, and looked into the huge cupboards, wondering if there were some guests whose clothes would fill them, use all the hangers. She longed to be transported to a bedroom in a familiar
place. Which one? Certainly not her room in her mother’s house, or at The Larches, or Johnny’s soulless cottage. The attic at Hallows Farm: that was the bedroom she had most loved. She
shut her eyes, remembering every detail, wanting to be there, scoffing at her childish feelings.

Promptly at seven there was a knock on the door. Gerald stood there. He wore a dinner jacket and smelt strongly of a cologne that Prue did not recognize.

‘Everything all right?’ He stayed where he was in the passage, looking at her, as he always did, assessing, silently judging.

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Let’s go down to the bar, then.’ They moved towards the lift. Their progress over the silent carpet gave the short journey a dream-like quality. ‘The Grill, of course,
is the place to eat, but I thought that as you’d like to dance we might as well be in the restaurant.’

‘Fine,’ Prue said again. She had no idea what he was talking about.

In the bar, settled into a dark and comfortable corner, Gerald suggested they should drink White Ladies. ‘Not quite the fashionable cocktails they once were, but beguiling. Like to try
one?’

Prue, realizing she had already said ‘fine’ twice, and unable to think of another word of agreement, nodded. Her head spun with the jumble of new experiences, new references. The
Grill: she’d thought that was part of an oven. White Ladies – at least she knew and liked them . . . But ‘beguiling’. She would have to look that up in the dictionary when
they got back. But, determined to seem at home in this unknown world, she tipped back her head, fluttered her eyelashes – a gesture that usually eased the way to whatever the next level might
be. On Gerald Wickham it made no impression at all. He was attending to his cigarette with a gold lighter, his initials engraved in one corner.

The waiter appeared with two glasses, shallow, wide Vs of the most delicate glass – aristocratic, haughty, perhaps made to intimidate, Prue thought with a smile. She raised her glass.
Gerald raised his. Prue waited for him to mutter some witty toast, or perhaps to say ‘Cheers’. He remained silent. She did likewise, not wanting to say the wrong thing. So many lessons
this evening: no wonder her usual cool was disturbed. They drank.

‘What do you think? Like it?’

Prue, determined not to be outdone, was suddenly inspired. ‘Very
beguiling
,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right.’ Her flash of well-chosen praise went some way to
melting the upright Gerald.

‘I must say, you’re looking extraordinarily pretty,’ he said, after a while. Like Rudolph, he was unhurried in his responses.

‘Thanks.’ That was better. Possibly a beginning.

‘Wondrous dress.’

‘Your aunt lent it to me. And the necklace.’

‘She’ll have enjoyed that, reliving her youth a little. She was always beautifully dressed, turned heads wherever she went. Are you liking working for her?’

‘I am. Though you could hardly call it working.’

‘I think she fancies the idea of someone just being in the house from time to time, helping her out in the greenhouse or whatever.’

‘I spend a lot of time reading Dickens.’

‘Well, as long as you don’t mind doing so little, it sounds like a good idea for both of you.’ There was a sneer so faint in his voice that it was barely distinguishable, but
it was there.

‘It is.’

‘What does your boyfriend think?’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘I thought you lived with a man called Johnny who’s going to make new stable doors.’

‘I do. But I’m just his lodger.’

‘Ah.’ He gave a sigh of smug understanding. ‘Shall we have another?’ He beckoned the waiter with a wave of his cigarette. Prue noticed his fingernails: perfectly
matching, their crescent shapes. She was cross to think he imagined Johnny was her boyfriend. Better relieve him of that impression fast.

‘I’m trying to find somewhere to buy, be on my own,’ she said, eyelashes a-flutter again. Two more White Ladies were put on the table.

‘Be alone, a young girl like you, in the country? Whatever for? Sounds a crazy idea.’

‘Whatever for?’ So that you, Gerald Wickham, she said to herself, can call on me, bring me White Ladies, make love to me all night until your stuffiness is beaten out of you and we
can laugh and walk and drink and sleep . . . ‘You’ll never guess.’ She aimed to sound mysterious but the words tipped up, slid a little. ‘You may think it’s a crazy
idea, but I want my own farm. Friesians, sheep. Acres of wheat and corn.’

By now Gerald had a constant half-smile. Whether it was teasing or scornful, Prue could not judge. But she thought he was beginning to unbend.

‘You know what?’ he said. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever talked about farming in the Savoy bar. Rather refreshing.’

‘But we haven’t actually talked about it,’ said Prue. ‘I could tell you all my plans about the size of the herd and so on, if you like.’

‘Another time,’ said Gerald, retreating again. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

They left the bar and moved over acres of purplish carpet whose waves rose up to greet them. They arrived at a long stretch of shallow steps. Gerald glanced at Prue. He put a hand on her elbow.
‘Can be lethal, White Ladies,’ he said.

Prue tossed her head. Tipsy, did he think? She’d show him she could deal with a couple of fancy cocktails. She tested the edge of each stair with a foot before lowering it to the next one,
and made an effort to dislodge Gerald’s hand. He gripped her more firmly.

‘This,’ said Prue, measuring her words as she looked ahead at the pink glow of the huge restaurant, ‘is like walking into an indoor sunset.’ She had had no time to think
of something witty to deflect his opinion that the White Ladies had unsteadied her, but her spontaneous thought seemed to appeal to him.

‘That’s a funny idea,’ he said. ‘I see what you mean. I like that.’ He gave her a warm smile, the first of the evening.

They were led to a table near the dance-floor. Its brilliant white cloth, starched creases sharp as knives, made her think of Barry’s favourite hotel in Manchester. But here everything was
somehow better. The single rose in a silver flute was just beginning to unfurl. There were four long-stemmed glasses at each place, in whose sides smoky pink reflections wound like ribbons. The
waiters, constantly on the move between the tables, were younger and better-looking. The other diners were similar, if only in age, to those in Manchester. Prue looked over to the band for a
further comparison.

The musicians, in blue jackets, were on a platform thumping quietly through ‘Tea For Two’. Prue’s bottom squirmed in time to the music on the seat of her chair.
‘Blimey,’ she said, before she could stop herself.

They were handed menus the size of posters. The waiter gave Prue a look of such undisguised lust, she liked to think, that she felt herself blush.

‘Quite an effect, you have, don’t you?’ Gerald sounded faintly weary, but he was still smiling. ‘What’ll you have to eat? They don’t do badly, considering the
shortages.’

Prue glanced at the menu and saw she couldn’t understand a word: it was all in French. ‘You decide. You know best.’ She heard Gerald giving instructions: whatever it was
sounded exotic in the foreign language, so Prue was surprised when their first course, a few mushrooms on fried bread, was put before them.

Although Prue tried to convince herself that the effect of the White Ladies had worn off, she could not deny that after two quick glasses of red wine the entire sunset scene started to quiver,
to roll at the edges. Ask questions, she told herself. Listen.

But questioning Gerald about his life brought little reward. He talked of his army life, his love of golf, and of some scandal at his local golf club – a tediously long story. Prue
detected occasional moments of warmth in his answers, but still he seemed at arm’s length, distant, though always polite. Maybe, she thought, dancing would unbend him. There was something
about him she failed to understand, but she was determined to keep trying. The band struck up with ‘Dancing On The Ceiling’. She glanced at the floor, thick with lumbering elderly
couples, the men with heads thrown back looking down on the grey permanent waves of the women, most of whom had chosen to expose their unsteady arms.

‘Let’s go,’ said Gerald.

They got up, moved to the dance-floor. Prue, wavering a little, took the precaution of clutching Gerald’s arm. For a second, just as they stepped onto the floor, Gerald looked down at her.
She was convinced his look was one of pride.

He put out his arms, held her in the accustomed manner of those about to quickstep. Prue manoeuvred her whole body close to his, looked up with another flutter of her lashes. No smile. No
returning look. The evening in Norfolk flashed through her mind: the moment Rudolph had strode across the dance hall, whisked her into his arms and they had instantly welded into one body, one
spirit, one flare of mutual desire.