Snow and Roses Read online

  “Flora! I thought you’d gone away.”

  “I did but I got tired of staying in other people’s houses. I’m back at the cottage.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, at the moment.”

  “What are you doing in this deserted city?”

  “Shopping.”

  “If you’re not meeting anyone for lunch come and have lunch with me in my rooms? I’m going back to All Souls now. I’ll order some lunch for us about one. Come in as soon as you’ve finished your shopping and we’ll have a drink.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’d love to.” She added, “I had a letter from Lalage this morning. The tycoon has suddenly decided to take his family off on a yacht, so Lal will be coming down to me next week.”

  “Oh will she? I shall be off before then. Well, come in when you like.”

  Flora had always believed that he was not as indifferent to Lalage as he was careful to make out, but Lal was worth something better than he could give, though perhaps not likely to get it, because not geared somehow for happiness. She always said that I was. Flora suddenly remembered that this was the day she had promised to lunch with Walter in London. Leaving Isobel so much earlier than she had expected she had allowed the whole thing to slip from her mind. How rude of me. Too late now to send a telegram. I must write this evening.

  She had always so far been to Martin’s rooms with Lalage. They were the scene for her of infrequent but pleasant little dinner parties, where the talk, the food and the wine were all good. Once not long ago the Challens had been there, and she remembered Hugh’s sparkling gaiety, less cramped than at most mixed parties because Martin who was a good host had exerted himself to break down Cecily’s wilting shyness. As she sat in Martin’s room with a glass of sherry in her hand she realized that she was playing over the reel of this party, and roused herself.

  “Have you finished your book?”

  “Ten days ago. I’m waiting for the typescript to come back from the only woman in England who can read my writing. As soon as I’ve turned the book in I shall be off.”

  “Are you pleased with it?”

  “I don’t know. I feel empty, relieved and bereaved at the same time. How’s your book?”

  “I haven’t touched it since Easter. At the moment I’ve ceased to believe in it.”

  “That doesn’t matter: it will wait for you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Thinking about Hugh’s unfinished book, she forgot Martin again until he said with what she at once recognized as justifiable impatience,

  “Well, come and eat.”

  When they were back again in his sitting room drinking their coffee, Martin suddenly said,

  “Flora, you’re not doing yourself any good moping alone in that cottage. It’s the last place you ought to be. You’ve got to cut your losses. Why don’t you make a complete break and go out and stay with my sister?”

  “Your sister? But where? Why?” Then the full implications of what he had said broke through.

  “What do you mean? How did you know? You do know, don’t you? About Hugh and me?”

  “Yes, my dear. I was very sorry about it.”

  “But how did you know?”

  He did not answer. She hesitated on the brink of a frightful possibility.

  “It couldn’t be Lalage? She can’t have told you? Did she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course! When I’ve always told her everything because I was sure I could trust her!”

  “A secret told to another person seldom remains a secret, you know.”

  “Oh that’s not true of everybody. I could never have believed it true of Lalage. She’s my closest friend.”

  “Oh grow up, Flora. You’re not a schoolgirl now.”

  “She did tell you. Why did she?”

  Flora hated his half smile.

  “Well, she likes to entertain me, you know. And she’s very well aware that I love gossip.”

  “Gossip!”

  “Wrong word, perhaps. But I like to be told things about people.”

  “You’re horrible, both of you.”

  His voice sharpened.

  “Don’t couple us together in that way. I may be horrible, it doesn’t matter if you think so, but you’ll be extremely silly if you break up your friendship with Lalage. She’s very fond of you.”

  “She can’t be.”

  “Oh, yes she can. She is. Don’t you understand yet that what matters most about friends is that they should be congenial, not that they should be ideal characters? No use being a perfectionist about people. About one’s own work so far as one can, yes, but to be perfectionist about human beings is simply letting oneself in for unnecessary shocks. You’ve gone quite white. I’ll give you some armagnac.”

  “I don’t want it. Martin, do other people know?”

  He shrugged. “What’s the use of going on about it? Everybody knew that Cecily was a pain in the neck.”

  “She doesn’t know, surely?”

  “Oh, good God no! I’m sure she doesn’t. People like Cecily who are professionals at being upset manage to surround themselves with an aura that makes anyone shy of upsetting them; just like hanging out a ‘Don’t disturb’ placard on the door of a hotel room. No, I’m perfectly sure that Cecily doesn’t know. As for anyone else who does, nobody would think less of Hugh or you; rather otherwise.”

  “Hugh would have minded so much.”

  “But he doesn’t know. And that impossible woman won’t be coming back to Oxford. She can’t bear to see the place again. She’s already arranged with Margaret Ellick to pack up her things and see the furniture out of the house. Trust Cecily to put her weight on someone else. Hadn’t you heard about that?”

  “No. I’ve been with decent people who don’t spend their whole time gossiping.”

  “No wonder you’re depressed.”

  “You’re cruel!”

  “Sometimes. Oddly enough not just now. I’m trying in a disinterested way to perform a small surgical operation. I think you’ll feel better if you get things clear. Hugh was a charming fellow whom everybody liked.”

  “I suppose that made you jealous.”

  “Possibly. Though I am inclined to think that there is something wrong with somebody whom everybody likes, something to do with being a bit soft in the middle. Hugh was a charmer but he was an idealist and a sacrificer, and they always end by sacrificing other people. You were one of the victims.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He was my great happiness.”

  “While he was putting another woman first all the time?”

  “Yes, he had to. I accepted that.”

  “But you must really have been angry with him.” “You don’t know anything about women.” She said it to hurt, but he showed no sign of discomposure.

  “One does see a good deal of the game from the sidelines, you know.”

  “I don’t want to hear about what you see. You are very clever in your own way, but there are ways in which you are not as clever as you think you are. You’ve done one thing anyhow. I’m never going to see Lalage again. I’ve finished with her. I shall write and tell her not to come to the cottage, and why, and how I found out.”

  “I’ve no doubt at the moment you’d like to make a bit of mischief between Lalage and me if you could, but she wouldn’t let you.”

  “You’re abominably conceited.”

  “I’m a realist, that’s all.”

  “I’m not interested in what you are. I’m thinking about myself. There’s Lalage coming down to the cottage next week. I shall stop her.”

  “The best thing would be to let her come, and have a good row with her, and then both cry and then sit down and have a drink together. But if you can’t manage that, better give it a rest till next term. I repeat—why don’t you go and stay with my sister in Italy?”

  “I don’t want to if she’s anything like you.”

  “She is and she isn’t. It’s a pi
ty you can’t face Lalage and get it over, but if you can’t, go and stay with Miranda.”

  “It’s a crazy idea. Where is she anyhow? Why should she want to have me? Somebody she doesn’t know at all. I’m not even a friend of yours.”

  “You know you look better already than when you came into this room. Miranda loves having a lot of people about. She likes getting to know new people; she enjoys her own effect on them. She’s got a rambling villa in the Chianti hills where she goes for holidays. It’s a lovely place and even though there aren’t any servants in Italy now she manages to have some. You’d be very comfortable. All sorts of people go and stay there, friends of hers bring their friends. I’ve sent one or two people there. Miranda welcomes everybody so long as they don’t bore her.”

  “I should think as I feel now I should certainly do that.”

  “If I thought so I shouldn’t have suggested it. And it’s not a life sentence, you can always leave if you don’t like it. Come now, you want to leave Lalage alone till you’ve had the stitches out. You haven’t any other plans. You need something new. Miranda will leave you in peace if you want to work, she doesn’t mind what anybody does. I shall be coming out but I shall have a friend with me and we shall be going to Greece. You won’t see much of me.”

  “That’s certainly an inducement.”

  “You should have talked like that to Hugh.”

  “He never needed it.”

  “You were a couple of babes in the wood, weren’t you?”

  “This is the most outrageous conversation.”

  “It isn’t. It’s just a conversation.”

  “I suppose you mean to be kind in your way.”

  “I mean to be sensible. Now look. I’ve got to catch the 4.5 to London. I’ll get Miranda on the telephone now if I can and we’ll fix the whole thing up. If I can’t get through to her—God knows the telephone service there is an obstacle race—I shall ring her up tonight and let you know, but it will be much simpler if we can settle it at once.”

  “I can’t land myself on a complete stranger.”

  “Then what are you going to do? Stay on at the cottage alone or quarrelling with Lalage?”

  “No, no.” To her own displeasure and unmistakably to his she began to cry. Martin jerked himself out of his chair, walked twice up and down the room, opened a low cupboard and fished out the bottle of armagnac and some glasses. He poured some of the brandy into a glass and pushed it towards her without looking at her. He flung himself into his chair, and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

  Flora, busy getting herself in hand, was aware that he dialled, swore, dialled again, then rang International and asked for a number. To someone at the other end he spoke in Italian asking for the Signora.

  “In her bedroom? Then ask her to come quickly, it is her brother speaking from England.”

  Holding the receiver to his ear, he was frowning impatiently, then smiled at Flora with unusual sweetness.

  “You’ll like her, you know. She’s quite a girl.”

  His smile broadened.

  “Miranda! There you are! Yes, Martin. Well you shouldn’t have started your siesta so early. I’m tired but well—you? Good. Now, listen, I haven’t got a spare minute, I’ve got to pack a bag and catch a train. I want to send a friend out to stay with you. Her name is Flora James. She is a lecturer in English at St Frideswide’s here. No silly, not a bit like that, she’s young and pretty. She had a bad knock lately, she needs a change, and good company. No, she’s not what you call one of mine. I am for once thinking of somebody quite unconnected with myself. I can’t help it if you don’t believe it. Sweetheart, don’t make me miss my train. Flora’s here. I’ll put her on to you.”

  Flora, slightly dazed, took the receiver.

  The voice from the other end of the line was both resonant and caressing.

  “Flora, hulloa. I’m so glad you are coming. When will you come, tomorrow? Well as soon as you can. You fly to Pisa and then take the train to Florence. I’ll meet you there. Only don’t send me an English telegram, they can’t translate them in the village. Ring up. Martin will give you the number. He’s got time, he always starts fussing about a journey an hour before he need. My dear, of course it will be convenient, it will be a pleasure. I shall love to see you. So that’s settled. Goodbye for now. To our first meeting!”

  Part III

  “Flora? Are you asleep?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I’m coming out now.”

  Miranda snatched off her bathing cap. Rising out of the water with the sun on her burnished hair, she climbed the steps from the swimming pool, and threw herself down by Flora’s side in the shade of the tall ilex.

  “I more than half wish the others weren’t arriving today. It’s been such fun on our own, hasn’t it?”

  “It has indeed.”

  “Clever of Martin it was to send you.”

  “It was extremely kind of him to think of it. I’m most grateful to him.”

  “Me too. Martin can be kind when he likes. He brings a lot of people out here, men he’s having affairs with and women who are in love with him. I wish he wouldn’t bring those; they do go on about it so to me, and there’s nothing I can do for them. Martin is cruel to them very often, but they must surely know what they are letting themselves in for. I wouldn’t get myself into a situation which would make me unhappy, or if I did I’d get out of it again double quick. Wouldn’t you?”

  Flora did not answer. Miranda rolled over and flung a damp arm across her flat body.

  “Oh darling, I am sorry, that was the most bloody clumsy thing to say to you. What happened to you was sheer bad luck. Forgive?”

  “Da niente.”

  “Actually I took quite a long time to get out of being married to Dennis. There we were and there was Dulcie, and it just seemed to be my life, until I suddenly woke up and realized it didn’t need to be. I fell in love with Paul Greville, he pulled me out of it. Funny how things work, I don’t even know his address now. But of course it was seven years ago.”

  Could seven years possibly make Hugh a casual memory? Flora did not imagine it.

  “How old is Dulcie now?”

  “Thirteen. Oh no, she must be fourteen now, her birthday is in June. Damn! That means I forgot it. Never mind, I’ll apologize humbly and take her to buy something pretty in Florence.”

  “Is she like you?”

  “Not in the least. She’s supposed to be like Dennis’s family. They console themselves with that thought. You can’t tell what she’s like at the moment, she’s just skinny, and long-legged with hair all over her face. I haven’t the least idea what she’s like as a person. I never did have. How do people know anything about children? They seem to me as strange as giraffes or dolphins. I can’t imagine how they think or feel.”

  “But after all you were one.”

  “I don’t often think about the past. There’s always so much going on in the present. I do remember being a child when I look back, of course. I knew I was a pretty little girl, I liked showing off, but Martin used to put a check on that by jeering at me. He and I quarrelled a lot. We used to fight, we rolled on the floor and hit and scratched and bit one another. It was very painful for me because Martin was a year older and had no chivalrous feelings about not hurting girls. Chivalry has never been his line. But I was always furious if any grown-up tried to interrupt our fights. I remember one of our uncles getting hold of Martin by the scruff of his neck, and pulling him off me and saying, ‘Stop that. How dare you be so rough with your little sister?’ I landed Uncle George such a kick on the shin that I should think it was Martin he was sorry for after that.”

  “It sounds to me as though you do know quite a lot about children.”

  “Only about one child; the one I was really interested in.”

  Flora laughed. Miranda might like to present herself as a self-absorbed egotist, but she had treated her during these last ten days with a healing kindness that had been like a co
ol dressing laid on a wound. The wound was still cruelly painful, but now, after ten days of Miranda’s charming company, of a new beautiful place, of sunlight, mountain air, delicious food and wine, Flora had begun to sleep as deeply as if she was drowning. Waking in the morning was still the worst moment, but when she woke in the morning at Le Rondini it was to see Miranda, coffee cup in hand, strolling along the balcony that opened off both their bedrooms.

  Did Miranda guess that Flora felt most forlorn at the moment of waking, or was it just her instinct for being in the right place at the right time, for saying the right thing? The best of all that she had done, something that Lalage had tried so hard but failed to do, was to cut down that last quarrel with Hugh to something nearer its right size.

  “But darling Flora, it was only a lovers’ quarrel, another way of making love, that’s all. Hugh would have known that before he’d driven half a mile away. He was probably smiling at it before he turned into the main road. He couldn’t turn round and come back at once, of course he couldn’t because if he was too late Cecily would have started worrying: besides men don’t do those things in the way we do. I remember once having a terrible quarrel with a young man I was having an affair with, I lay awake all night crying, and rang him up first thing in the morning … at least I thought it was first thing but he had got up early and gone out fishing.

  “Hugh knew you loved him, he died knowing that, I’m quite sure. You would have laughed about the quarrel afterwards, if it hadn’t by the devil’s own luck been your last meeting. But don’t, darling Flora, let yourself think that it could outweigh five years of love. That would be unfair to Hugh as well as to yourself, wouldn’t it?”

  They did not talk about this again, but what Miranda said sank in. Always after that conversation there was added comfort in the sight of her, just as there was always pleasure in the sight. One look at Miranda made Flora want to get rid of all her own clothes which she had thought pretty; she had chosen them for Hugh’s eye and liked them because they pleased him. But Miranda’s most casual garments were not so much clothes as emanations from her personality, partly, Flora realized, because they were beautiful and individual, but also because Miranda had a flair for wearing them. If she threw a scarf carelessly round her shoulders it looked like part of a design. Miranda did work, intermittently, at designing clothes for a boutique run by a friend called Pauline who owned a shop called by her name. She was expected to arrive at Le Rondini some time soon.