Another Kind of Cinderella and Other Stories Read online

  At some moment, it might have been an hour after they set off, Jacques announced they had arrived. Isabel, rousing herself, saw they had tied up at the bank beside an enormous willow tree.

  ‘I’d say that was pretty good for someone who’s never done it before,’ she said, sitting up.

  ‘Thanks. But you were asleep most of the time.’

  ‘Half asleep.’

  They lifted out the rug, cushions and a small wicker hamper. This made Isabel laugh.

  ‘Most undergraduate picnics travel in plastic bags,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t like plastic bags.’ Jacques’ shirt was dark with sweat. ‘If you’re going to take a picnic at all, you might as well bother, no? What do you think of this place? Do you like it?’

  Isabel looked across the river. The meadows were that bright green of early May with a pointillist covering of cow parsley. Distant woods of new, transparent leaves made delicate fans against the sky.

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘And the willow? You like this old tree? It’s famous. Lots of people come here. We’re lucky to have it to ourselves.’

  ‘You’ve been here before, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, often. But never by punt. I’ve always walked.’ He answered lightly. A sudden positioning of shadow on his face reminded Isabel of last night’s brief illusion of cruelty. He was smiling. Remembering? Who had he come with? With what intent? Questions leapt in Isabel’s mind, but they were empty. She wondered slightly at her lack of curiosity.

  Jacques parted the thickly-leaved branches of the willow. Isabel followed him into the ribboned vault beneath it. Grass was scant here, worn away by previous visitors. There were other signs of the popularity of the hiding place, too. An empty crisp bag, a scrunched-up beer can.

  ‘Bastards,’ said Jacques. He picked up the rubbish, went back through the branches to bury it. Alone for a moment in this place of gently shifting leaf shadow, Isabel clutched herself with crossed arms. She felt a distant chill. The heat of the sun could not penetrate the walls of the greenery, though it made a million fireflies among the leaves, points of lights that dazzled as they moved with the slight breeze. Isabel wondered if she should suggest they should eat outside.

  Jacques returned.

  ‘So hot. This is wonderful, no? The cool.’

  They laid out the rug and cushions. The hamper was unpacked. Jacques had bothered: there was proper French bread, and millefeuilles from the Maison Blanc; pâtés, tiny cheeses in oiled paper tied with twine. Black misted grapes, a bottle of white wine, red gingham napkins and china plates.

  ‘Is all right? Enough?’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s wonderful. You’ve gone to such trouble.’

  They ate slowly, almost in silence. Isabel revelled in the delicious food, and the way Jacques handed her a piece of baguette with small yellow tomatoes balancing on a wedge of pâté de campagne. But she still wished they were outside on the riverbank, despite the heat. The chill beneath the tree continued to strike: the bleak chill of milk bottles on a cold winter doorstep, the dank chill of turgid water – she could not quite place the exact kind of coldness, but it made goose pimples on her bare arms. Isabel pulled on her cardigan. Two glasses of wine had made her sleepy again. She longed to lie back on the cushions, but feared this would look like an untoward invitation. Then, eyes on Jacques’ serious profile – he was eating a millefeuille with his fingers, forks being the only thing he had forgotten – she realised that no such thought would occur to him. She felt confident of that, though could not explain to herself why . . .

  So she lay back, let her eyes trail among the long streamers of leaf that dangled from the branches above her. Focussing more sharply, she could see each one as an individual, with its just visible webbing of veins, its fragile whiplash of spine. There was grey in the various greens, through which the fireflies of sunlight splattered lemony freckles. A sudden gust of breeze made chaotic shadows dance on Jacques’ blue shirt.

  ‘Strobe shadows,’ said Isabel, more to herself than to him.

  Jacques turned to her, one side of curious mouth, awash with crème patissière, lifted in agreement.

  ‘Strobe shadows,’ he said.

  Isabel was grateful for his instant understanding. She fell asleep.

  She was woken by laughter. It took her a moment to reorient herself. Willow tree: picnic: Jacques: that was it. Where was he? The picnic things had been cleared away, the wicker hamper closed and buckled. The neatness pleased her, but she was still cold. The shade under the tree was more intense.

  Isabel sat up, looked at her watch. Five o’clock. She must have slept for at least an hour. A waste, really. But also agreeable. To be able to fall asleep in the presence of a little-known acquaintance who has taken such trouble with a picnic, she was thinking, when she heard the laughter again. A man’s, a young woman’s. Clashing, chiming. People outside. People seeking shade, perhaps. They would come in, blasting her solitude. There would be awkwardness, embarrassment. Please don’t let us disturb you . . . No, no, not at all. . . do come in. Well, how lucky she and Jacques had been for a few hours, Isabel thought. To have had such a popular place to themselves was obviously a piece of good fortune.

  She stood up, brushed an insect from her skirt. Head bowed, concentrating, she did not see Jacques return through the branches. When she looked up and saw him before her, she felt surprise. His face, reddened by the sun, was shredded by the straggling shadows of the willow leaves.

  ‘I went for a walk along the tow-path,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry I slept so long.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. But time to go now. The slow journey back.’ He gave a smile that flickered with moving shadow. ‘Perhaps I’ll do better.’

  ‘Others have arrived, anyway,’ said Isabel.

  ‘Didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘I heard laughter. Not a moment ago.’

  ‘There was no one out there.’

  ‘Maybe they were just walking by.’

  ‘Well, never mind. We must go.’

  Jacques bent to pick up the hamper. A distinct peal of laughter came from behind Isabel. She jumped round. No one. Nothing.

  ‘There,’ she said.

  ‘People playing silly games,’ said Jacques. ‘Can you manage the rug and the cushions? We’ll leave it to them. They can come in now.’

  ‘But the laughter was in here.’

  ‘You’re imagining things. People queue up for this place. It’s no longer a secret, unfortunately. They come in here to – well, have their fun.’

  He led the way through the branches. As Isabel followed him, the long leaves tickled her face with a disagreeable touch. Out on the bank again, she felt relief. A still-hot sun gushed over her: gratifying, comforting warmth that made her shiver pleasantly. The brown water of the river spread taut beneath the waiting punt. A lark sang high above them.

  On the way back, Jacques said, ‘There’s a punting party in a few weeks’ time. A whole crowd of us. Would you like to come? It’s fancy dress, I’m afraid. Dressing up in Edwardian gear – some silly idea. An awful bother, I think.’

  ‘Nostalgia’s so fashionable,’ said Isabel. ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘You’ll have to find something – some old dress, some fancy hat, put your hair up.’

  ‘I’ll rather enjoy that.’

  ‘We’ll go together, then.’

  By the time they tied up at Magdalen Bridge, the sky was a deep denim blue behind the tower. Crowds of punters were laughing, drinking, eating ice-creams. Isabel found a second-hand shop near the station. She was trying to make her choice. It was dreadfully hot, stuffy. There was a smell of mothballs, old garments, dead starch. The walls were hung with dresses whose heyday was several decades ago, their gold embroidery and lace panels a little battered, but their spirits not extinguished. There was nothing suitable for the punting picnic, the kind of Edwardian tea-gown Isabel had in mind.

  ‘Just got a new bundle in,’ said the woman in cha
rge, dumping a pile of twisted clothes on the counter. ‘You can see if there’s anything you like if you want to look through these.’

  Isabel began to rummage through them. They were pale, faded colours, summery stuffs, torn and frayed, some of them, and very crumpled. Within moments, her eyes lighted on a piece of creamy muslin dotted with faint forget-me-nots: she pulled it from the pile. It was exactly what she was after, demure and pretty with small lace Vs that protruded from the long sleeves to cover the back of the hand. All it needed was a sash of palest blue moiré . . . Isabel felt reckless with excitement: the dress was more than she had intended to spend, but she did not care. A picture was beginning to form in her mind – a little hazy, but something to do with seduction, at last, in this dress. Something to do with possibility, and Jacques.

  Back in her room, she shook out the dress and studied it more carefully: the hand-sewn hems of tiny stitches, the coarse hooks and eyes of the day, the enchanting fabric itself. She hung it over her chair, skirt spread out so that it touched the floor. Then she hurried off to Browns where, for the third time since their expedition on the punt, she was to have tea with Jacques. To date, there had been no invitations for anything later in the day. Things were progressing at just the pace so appreciated by Isabel. With each formal date – snippets of information accumulating – anticipation fizzed a little more: there was reason, Isabel began to think, for hope.

  When she returned to her room at about six-thirty in the evening, her immediate impression was of the lack of air. It had been a very hot day, but she had left the window shut, being on the ground floor, for security: it was not unknown for undergraduates to rob each other these days.

  On her way to the window Isabel’s eyes fell on the dress – of which she had made no mention to Jacques. It was to be a surprise. It was not as she had left it. Slumped considerably to one side, so small a part of the bodice was now propped up against the back of the chair that the slightest movement would have caused it to fall completely.

  This was strange. How could this have happened? There was no breath of air in the room. The door had been locked: no one had been in. Isabel’s mind raced uneasily before quickly she found an explanation. Someone must have been running in the passage outside . . . the vibration of feet on old boards. All the same, her heart quickened. In the stifling room, the dress looked so desolate she felt a moment’s chill. Goose pimples stood up on her bare arms, just as they had when she heard the laughter in the willows.

  Scoffing at herself, Isabel picked up the dress with some distaste. She put it on a hanger. The muslin skirt, so soft and dry in the shop, felt slimy against her hands. Almost damp. Isabel hung it on the outside of the wardrobe. To check that she had been imagining the inexplicable dampness, she forced herself to screw up the frill on the hem with both hands. Obviously, her imagination had been playing tricks. The material was warm, dry, smelling faintly of musty flowers. Cowslips, Isabel thought. She opened the window, took out her books. She sat down at her desk, her back to the dress, wanting to put it from her mind.

  But in the next few weeks before the punting party, it caused her some disturbance. She washed it, ironed it, skilfully mended a couple of small tears. All these jobs she found disagreeable: the silly thought came to her that by restoring it to its pristine condition she was somehow intruding. She bought a long blue moiré ribbon which she tied round the waist, a beautiful sash. Then, fearful of crushing it in the crowded wardrobe, she left the dress hanging outside. Each time she returned to her room she was greeted by its hanging presence – a presence more potent than an ordinary piece of clothing on a hanger. Always, she could swear, its position was fractionally changed – she made sure to straighten it before she left, and when she came back it had invariably shifted a little to one side or the other. This change was almost imperceptible, but Isabel’s conviction that it was a change grew stronger every day. In her alarmed state, she began to imagine that in her absence the garment put up some kind of a struggle. Others, coming to her room, admired it, of course. Handsome symbol of another age, they said: imagine wearing something that prissy today.

  Gradually, Isabel herself began to dread coming back to her room. The greeting from the still dress that moved when she was out became harder to ignore by concentrating on her work. She could not bring herself to try it on: she knew instinctively it would fit. And once the punting party was over, she began to think, she would resell the dress, throwing in the expensive sash as an added bonus.

  Every few days, Jacques and Isabel met for the same teas – scones and cream and strawberry jam – in Browns, and Jacques unbent a little. One afternoon, he went so far as to suggest Isabel might like to visit his father’s house in the Luberon in the vacation. Perhaps, Isabel replied. What she meant was, perhaps the time was coming for things to speed up a little.

  ‘You would like,’ he said.

  ‘I expect I would.’

  Their conversations were not marked by vitality. Rather, they shifted at a gentle pace, as does the talk of two people, bound by affection, who have known each other well for many years. Isabel found this comforting.

  On the day before the punting party, they did not meet. Isabel spent many hours, in her disciplined way, getting ahead with work: she did not want the thought of an essay on Anna Comnena hanging over her as the gathering of punts drifted down the Cherwell. . . Tired by the evening, the essay accomplished, books neatly stacked, she went to bed soon after nine and slept at once.

  She woke at three a.m. A thin spear of moonlight through the window had lighted on the waiting dress (re-ironed two days ago), bleaching its creamy colour to a milky whiteness, giving it a cloudy volume as if invisible thighs shifted beneath it. She distinctly saw it move.

  Cold, Isabel sat up. Now, as her eyes grew accustomed to the fragile darkness, she could see the bodice and the long limp sleeves that seemed not as limp as the sleeves of an empty dress should be. It was the dress that had woken her, she was quite sure of that, with its sudden, living presence.

  Terrified, Isabel switched on the light. At once she saw how foolish she had been: the dress was ordinary again, beautifully ironed, waiting, unmoving. The illusion of moments before must have been the tail-end of a nightmare. She smiled at herself, heart thumping: by now, she thought, she knew Jacques well enough to tell him of the strange experience, and of the odd feelings she had about the dress. Maybe there would be a chance tomorrow. Calmer, but not liking to put out the light, she picked up a book and read till dawn.

  The following evening, when the time came to change, Isabel opened her door on to the corridor. In some amorphous way, she wanted the reassurance of others nearby: the scurrying down the corridor, the heads looking in to check on progress. Now Isabel was seen by her friends to be ‘in a relationship’ too, they treated her with less polite kindness. This evening, finally in the dress, sash bow perfectly tied, muslin underskirt soft against her legs, she was grateful for their crude comments concerning virgin spinsters, and their coarse admiration of her finished appearance. She had piled up her hair in an Edwardian bun: on top of this she put her mother’s wedding hat, a period concoction of silk roses clambering over creamy straw, with a tiny veil that half hid her eyes. A velvet ribbon she wore around her throat, to which she had pinned a small star. She was ready.

  ‘You look much more the part than any of us,’ said one of her friends. ‘But then you’ve never been of this age.’

  Isabel, arranging the Vs of lace over the backs of her hands, blushed. She felt intensely happy. All the misgivings about the dress, the absurd feelings of unease it had caused her, had vanished. She knew it suited her, that she looked well in it. And this was the sort of occasion she had been waiting for so hopelessly for five terms. This was the Oxford of her most extravagant imaginings.

  It was seven p.m. when she joined a group of girls in long floating dresses to walk to Magdalen Bridge where Jacques, and other dates, would be waiting. Isabel’s normal modesty was taxed: she could no
t help feeling she was the belle dame of the group. The others had strived, but somehow failed, in their attempts at Edwardian gear. They wore long shabby dresses with Doc Marten boots beneath. Some of them had piled up their hair, though nothing would disguise the contemporary haughtiness of their expressions, and their language would have been almost incomprehensible to those of the Edwardian era. But they were in high spirits, looking forward to a night of drink and music and love beneath the stars, when their fancy dresses would be ruined on the damp banks of the Cherwell.

  At the meeting place there was a huge gathering of yet more girls in long dresses and men, transformed in appearance by striped blazers, cream trousers and boaters stuck with flowers. They bore no resemblance to the seedy, be-jeaned lot of normal day. There was much shrieking and incredulous laughter as food and bottles and ghetto blasters were handed into the punts.

  ‘I thought of bringing my gramophone,’ said Jacques, suddenly at Isabel’s side, ‘but I didn’t think it would be appreciated.’ His eyes moved politely up and down her dress. He made no comment, but gave her shoulder the briefest squeeze. All around them, others were already greeting each other with greedy kisses on the lips. Jacques had wisely not volunteered to be a punter. This meant he and Isabel could sit side by side, idle passengers, their attention free for the delights of the journey downriver.

  By the time the convoy of punts set off, the sky was a deep blue-green, tipped with such refulgent clouds that Isabel imagined a giant peacock, standing on the horizon, had simply raised its fan-shaped tail to the heavens . . . As Magdalen Tower disappeared, and a tunnel of greenery loomed, she found herself sipping pink champagne, Jacques’ arm about her. She could feel the boniness of his side. They had never been so close before. Nor had Isabel ever felt such irresponsible deliquescence: no matter what he asked her, tonight, she would agree. They had waited long enough.