Invitation to the Married Life Page 11

  But Ursula was fed up with thinking about the animal, now. She would not give it a moment’s more time. Hurrying, late, she set off for Iffley, pleased with herself for so skilfully concealing from Martin the piercing drama of the pigeon.

  * * *

  On Monday, after breakfast, Frances went straight to her desk in the morning room. It was a large piece of dark oak furniture whose familiar landscape gave her unaccountable pleasure. An agreeable clutter of things furnished its top: photographs in leather frames, a wonky clay mug for pens made by Fiona, a brass inkwell of Indian design on whose sides, later on, the sun would make small flames. High piles of papers, concerning the business of the party, were reassuring evidence of all there was to do.

  Much earlier, Frances had woken to find Toby had not slept in the bed at all. He had spent the whole night in the woods, badger watching. Tonight, he had said at breakfast, he would be taking a flask of coffee.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Well, the thing is, they’ll soon get used to me. Are you complaining?’

  ‘No. Just imagining.’

  ‘You know there’s an open invitation any night you like to join me.’

  ‘Thanks, Tobes. Sweet of you.’

  He had gone off to his computers as if nothing whatever was amiss. After a single flat moment, Frances had hurried to her desk where there would be no more time for imagining. She had to ring the marquee man at once. She lifted the receiver.

  ‘Mr Bush? Mrs Farthingoe speaking. The Old Rectory, Sulworth –’

  ‘I’ll just get him for you, Mrs Farthingoe.’

  Unstinted sharing is the way to happy marriage, Frances’s mother had said. It had worked for her. Not an entirely sound theory, married to Toby. I tried in the beginning, didn’t I? Hid nothing from him. Result? He was bored out of his mind by my entirety. All he wanted was selected parts. There was that day, not a year after the wedding, he actually said I had a trivial mind and he would be grateful if I would spare him its workings. I sobbed and sulked for several days, I remember -

  ‘Ah, Mrs Farthingoe. Mr Bush of Cockerell and Bush here. On the subject of the marquee for the September ball, no doubt?’

  ‘That’s right. Colour.’

  - And then he gave me a scarlet sports car but never actually apologised. After that I tried to keep my thoughts to myself -

  ‘Since we last spoke, you’ll be pleased to hear we’ve made up our minds exactly what we want.’

  ‘You mentioned it was a pink and white stripe you might be after, and I think I’ve managed to locate one. Just the job. It would be a question of sub-contraction, of course.’

  ‘Pink and white? Oh dear, I hope you haven’t taken too much trouble. Because what we actually want is dove-grey and white.’

  – I tried to win his approbation through the smooth running of the house, being a good wife and lover, a conscientious mother, wearing the clothes he liked, giving parties, going on his kind of holidays without complaint –

  ‘A grey and white?’ Mr Bush cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think we could come up with a grey and white, in all honesty, Mrs Farthingoe.’

  – I could never understand how, on the one hand, the slightest attention I paid to another man caused such searing jealousy, while on the other, he was so resistant to my giving of myself, sharing everything as I had believed –

  ‘I mean, put it like this, it’s not a regular request, a grey and white. People like, more, a splash of colour on their party walls, as it were. As I was telling you last week, the red and white is our most popular, though some people are partial to the blue. But I have to admit, there’s an increasing call for our yellow – canary, we call it. But grey – no. No requests at all for grey, I’m afraid.’

  – Still, it’s an irregular thing, married love, and how dull if it wasn’t. After all, besides all the wonderful obvious advantages of being married to Toby, I do love him profoundly. Always have. Probably always will. Pro-foundly –

  ‘Well, it’s grey we want, and grey we must somehow find.’

  ‘Put it like this, Mrs Farthingoe. . . .’

  – Put it like this: the fact that I was in love with Ralph Cotterman every day of my marriage (right up to last night) made no difference whatsoever to the profundity of my love for Toby –

  ‘ . . . I wouldn’t advise a grey. Grey’s not – what shall I say? A life-enhancing colour. Take it from me. I deal with a lot of stylish clients, and none of them in all my experience has ever asked for a grey and white. It’s my belief you’d be better off with a red or a blue or a canary, and if I can’t persuade you there, then, as I said, I can probably locate this pink – a salmon, I’m told – sub-contraction. But not a grey, Mrs Farthingoe.’

  – My insane love for Ralph was the only secret, I suppose, I never confessed to Toby –

  ‘Mr Bush, it’s grey or nothing.’

  – Guilt is the only thing you should not share, Mother said, and I never did. Though there was little to be guilty about, once I was married. Before: oh, those afternoons, those ‘picnics’ as Ralph called them. Rain, snow, wind, sand. We were creatures of the earth, he said – or perhaps I said. Yes, he would have scoffed at anything so sentimental, he never touched me again –

  ‘Then I’m not sure I could satisfy you there, Mrs Farthingoe.’

  – Despite all my . . . encouragement –

  ‘I mean, you appreciate, I couldn’t go and get a whole lot of lining stuff specially striped up in a grey for you just for the one occasion, now, could I? Then have it, like, on my hands?’

  - Ralph never knew my passion for him did nothing to deter my constant desire for Toby. The night before last – Ralph gone, leaving me quite free of him, at last – where was Toby when I wanted him? Off with his badgers -

  ‘However, here’s an idea just come. Let me put it to you: green, Mrs Farthingoe. It’s fairly new to us, the green, but very popular, I must say, in a short space of time. We used it for a Rotary Club dance not three months ago. Comments were very favourable, concerning the green. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I myself, above all others, prefer the green.’

  - Do you, Mr Bush? You prefer the green. Toby prefers sleeping out in the woods with the badgers -

  ‘We don’t like green, actually, thank you, Mr Bush.’

  - Well, I don’t like it. Toby’s always had a thing about green socks -

  ‘To tell the truth, it is more of an aqua.’

  - He was wearing his green socks in the woods last night, all night. He’ll be wearing green socks out there again tonight. All night -

  ‘Look here, Mr Bush. I don’t think there’s any point in beating any further about the . . . wasting your time and mine. If you can’t supply grey and white stripes, that’s fine, I quite understand. But I must get on to someone else.’

  ‘Ah: there I think you’ll run into a bit of difficulty, Mrs Farthingoe. You’ll be bound to come across the same problem. No one in marquees goes in for grey. You can take my word for it.’

  ‘I tell you what: I’ll order the lining.’

  - What will happen to Ralph now? To Toby? To me, once the lining has come down and the party’s over? -

  ‘You order the lining?’

  ‘Leave it to me. I’ve friends in the theatre. It’d be the sort of thing that wouldn’t faze them at all. You just let me know precisely how much we need, and I’ll provide it.’

  ‘That’s putting you to a lot of trouble, Mrs Farthingoe. . . .’

  - Is it worth it, the trouble I take? -

  ‘. . . and I look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible. Goodbye.’

  Instinctively, she longed, then, to ring Toby’s room, to tell him about the uncooperative Mr Bush and her inspiration about the lining. Perhaps to make him laugh. But then she remembered Toby would hate any such interruption, so she dialled her friend in the theatre instead. The sad thing was, by dinner her story of the battle with Mr Bush would have died. It would no longer be worth telling. Toby would
return to the woods for his night with the badgers, innocent of a small triumph in his wife’s day, and she would spend another night fighting the resentment caused by that innocence.

  ‘Eliza? It’s Frances. Can you help? This ball we’re giving. I need hundreds of yards of grey and white striped muslin.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too hard,’ said Eliza.

  Toby and the badgers were mercifully obliterated for the space of another telephone call.

  * * *

  After a sleepless night, Thomas left London at dawn and found himself in Nottingham long before The Gallery was due to open. He had no intention of going to the office until later, but was keen to hide his conspicuous car so that the nosey interfering Doug would not be inspired to ask awkward questions. He drove to a safe place a mile from the Centre, walked slowly back, collar chafing his prickling neck. His plan, once he had mopped his brow and generally calmed down, was quietly to enter The Gallery and come upon Miss Amber Hair, his beloved girl, wonderfully unawares. She would be sitting at the desk, curled into her ridiculous cardigan, just as before. Once he had slipped inside the door, he would make a grand gesture with one arm, indicating every single Cotterman left on the walls, and announce that he would take the lot.

  That, Thomas reckoned, would be the sort of unlikely gesture early on a Monday morning that any girl worth her salt would respond to. He would be rewarded by a smile of sheer disbelief, and then at least two hours’ delight while she carefully wrapped up each picture. Next would be the writing of the astonishingly large cheque, which would earn him another smile of appreciation. Following that, the most normal thing in the world, Thomas would suggest a celebration lunch. After all, he would explain, there would be nothing to hurry back for in the afternoon, would there? Nothing but bare walls left. As a precaution, Thomas had booked a double room in his usual hotel in the unlikely (likely?) event of Miss Amber Hair being so fascinated by his conversation about the Norwich School at lunch that she would urge him to continue. In truth, Thomas’s vision of the latter part of the afternoon was wavy in his mind. He didn’t really care to think about it, for fear of disappointment. The first part of the plan, though, was sure fire (oh Lord, Gillian again) flawless, top ho. Thomas felt himself bouncing, heard himself humming: ‘But the pavement’s always been beneath my feet before.’

  He checked his watch. Five-past ten precisely. Perfect. Absolutely bang on. Miss A.H. would have had time to take off her coat, settle herself at the desk. Unknown to her, she was now experiencing the last few seconds before her life was to be radically changed, seized by a passion she could never have envisaged, a desire that Thomas, with all the weight of his maturity, could –

  – He stepped out of hiding in a nearby doorway, made a dash, despite himself, for the doorway of The Gallery. In a timeless flash he found himself. pressed up against the locked glass door. The vision of Miss Amber Hair, pressed equally close on the other side, flamed in his astonished vision. For a moment, they were as one – flattened shapes, with only the wretched plate glass dividing them – eye to eye, mouth to mouth (she was a tallish girl) bent arm to bent arm. Oh no! She was late opening up, the plan was dashed. Bliss it was to be alive, for that second, so near and yet so cruelly divided – and not at all what he had planned. Now it was goggle eye to goggle eye, open mouth to open mouth, still the chilly glass between them, flattening his nose (making his face ridiculous?). ‘Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss (through this bloody glass) Though winning near the goal -’ But ah! The door was backing away, the girl was fading, the picture lurched. Thomas was stumbling in, dignity all awry, while the object of his desire was laughing. Laughing!

  ‘Oh, my God, was I pushing? I’m sorry. Good morning.’ His breath was coming so damn fast, a rhythmic owlish noise above the silent carpet.

  ‘Sorry. I was a bit late, then that ruddy lock, so stiff. I can never do it.’

  ‘No. No, I don’t suppose you can.’

  Thomas could not move, marooned on the acres of haircord, shoulders jibbering, chest heaving, sweat running down the backs of his legs. Would it had been a film they could have cut – gone straight to Take Two, Man Walks in to Surprise Girl at Desk, got it right. But it was no bloody film, just a right old cockup if ever there was one. . . . And what now?

  Miss Amber Hair was sliding into her place behind the desk, incident over as far as she was concerned: no big item as the children would say. Nothing for it but to carry on with part two of the grand plan. With a great effort, Thomas raised his arm, cast his eyes round the walls ... to see a collection of abstract paintings, garish things hurtful to the eye, incomprehensible rubbish that had the effrontery to call itself Art. . . . Not a Cotterman in sight.

  ‘The Cottermans?’ he asked weakly. His arm flapped down at his side.

  ‘The exhibition finished Friday.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’d come to buy the lot. . . .’

  ‘Sorry. Not one left.’

  Thomas moved nearer the desk. The Times was folded in front of his beautiful keeper of The Gallery, crossword puzzle the object of her attention. She had no pity.

  ‘I love Cotterman,’ he said.

  ‘They’re good.’

  ‘It’s a disappointment, I must say.’

  ‘Must be.’

  ‘Still. . . .’ He watched the small mouse of her hand peer from a long sleeve of the cardigan, snuffle at the paper with a pencil as she quickly filled in a word. ‘I wonder. . . .’ He wondered if she could hear the wail of his breathing. ‘I wonder ... I mean, if by any chance you happen to know the artist? Know where I could track him down?’

  Another word was added to the puzzle, then the girl looked up.

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact.’ Pause. ‘She’s my mum.’

  ‘Your . . . er . . . mum?’ It was a word Thomas could hardly bring himself to say. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘That’s right. Rosie Cotterman.’

  The girl looked at him squarely now. Impatient, defensive. She wanted the old crasher to leave so that she could get on with her puzzle in peace.

  ‘I’d always thought . . . I’d always imagined, R. Cotterman as an oldish man, beard, pipe perhaps. . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s Rosie Cotterman. My mum.’

  ‘The idea takes getting used to.’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you her card. She lives in Norfolk. You could buzz on down there, couldn’t you? She’s got a lot of stuff in her cottage. Daresay you could persuade her to sell it. She wouldn’t say no to the money.’

  ‘Eh, quite.’

  Rosie Cotterman’s daughter handed him a small card. His hand touched the mouse nose of her fingers for half a second. It was icy.

  ‘Thanks most awfully,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to see if I can get down there sometime.’ Tomorrow, for instance.

  ‘I could give her a call, warn her you were coming, if you like.’

  For a transient moment, the girl’s face flared with a sort of kindness. His heart pounded. Stage three of his plan might still. . . .

  ‘Thanks very much. And well, this tracking down of my favourite artist at last. . . . I can’t help feeling it calls for some kind of celebration.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Would you like to have lunch with me?’

  ‘No thanks. I can’t leave. I have my apple here.’

  ‘Just a drink, then. Champagne.’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t drink.’

  ‘How about dinner? I don’t go back to London till after dinner.’ (Surely that would reassure her.) ‘You must be hungry by dinner time? Anywhere you like. . . .’

  ‘Look, thanks very much, but I don’t want anything with you, so you might as well stop your invitations and get on down to see my mother.’

  Thomas took a step backwards. ‘Well. Yes. I quite see your point. Strange man and all that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ She was bent over the puzzle again. ‘Any good on quotes
, are you? We look before and after and blank for what is not.’

  Thomas was back at the door. The small card bearing R. Cotterman’s address cut into his palm.

  ‘I think pine might be the word you’re looking for,’ he said.

  ‘What a daft idea,’ she said.

  How right she was, Thomas thought, gently closing the door on the scene of his defeat. What a daft idea.

  * * *

  Ursula sat in a traffic jam in the road that ran past the College of Further Education. She wondered, as she always did when contemplating the desecration of Oxford, who were the anonymous men who had been inspired to design such terrible buildings? Where was the man who had woken up one morning and decreed that blocks of vile red brick should be trimmed with eye-scorching blue? Had the man no sensibilities, no love of pleasing colour and fine proportion? Was he immune to the offence of ugliness? The preposterous new city buildings now far outnumbered the old and beautiful ones – a disaster that no-one had managed to stop in time and, even as lovers of the old city protested, more and more monsters rose to shatter the dreams of the original spires. It was outrageous, tragic. Why should contemporary architecture, for the most part (and oh, what a pleasure were the exceptions), mean ugly? The shocking answer must be that the population is either unobservant or so used to ugliness that it has become impervious. The mass threshold of the pain of ugliness must have lowered. How much farther would it go? In the next decade it might well be that ugliness is the norm, beauty so unusual that future generations may rarely witness it.

  Ursula lurched forward a few feet. She had worked herself up into one of her Oxford furies. The place made her angry every day. Martin’s insistence that they had to stay added terrible unhappiness to that anger. She was afraid any longer to speak of her feelings – his customary reaction of bewildered incomprehension further exacerbated her frustration. The trouble was, as she now kept all such blackness to herself, he probably thought she had come round at last – seen sense, grown fond of bloody Oxford. Little did he know! What blindness stopped him from recognising her daily longing to leave? His work – the priority, of course, above everything – meant they could not do so. The complications would be impractical, impossible. But still, Ursula reflected as the heat of her fury began to wane, they were lucky to have only one major chasm in an otherwise pretty good marriage. Somehow, one day, it would be resolved, bridged, whatever. And what was Martin doing now? Ursula imagined him in his room, reading in the old armchair by the window, utterly absorbed in a world of figures which meant nothing to her. There would be silence. If he looked up, through the window he would see tulips in a sixteenth-century quad of dun-coloured stone. In his privileged position as a member of the university, he was, naturally, protected from the realities of the city. It was no wonder he found Ursula’s multiple complaints hard to understand. The mental picture of him in a place so different from the ugly road calmed Ursula, and the traffic at last began to move.