Gently with Passion, page 3
For the rest of the day she attended to the duties of settling in, but her solitude was buoyed by the idea of the book she was going to write. Her morbid broodings over Justin were given a new and healthier turn: they were now the raw material from which she was shaping the pages ahead. On the second day she took her typewriter and gear to the summerhouse and, using a pen, began work on a synopsis of the novel. The scenery was perhaps a little distracting to one who was used to a Kensington skyline, but she was a professional, she had learned the knack of establishing a routine. She worked doggedly, to the clock. She had more trouble than she expected. Despite the metamorphosis she was experiencing, her material gave her pain. There were times when she stared at the notebook while silent tears rolled down her cheeks and, despite her best intentions, she couldn’t get on with the job. It would be a cruel book to write, but she felt incapable of writing anything else.
By the end of the week she had advanced to the writing and then at last she was more at peace. There was a power to soothe in the steady creation and the familiar exercise of her skill. Also, she was pleased by her unviolated solitude, for, except tradesmen, nobody called at the cottage. She had made one excursion into Alderford to arrange her supplies, but after that her only communication had been by phone. In fact she had seen but one other person, a rather picturesque figure who had rowed in from the Broad. He gave the name of Sam Fulcher and wanted to do some gardening for her, a service which he assured her he had done for her predecessor. She’d been amused by the fellow.
‘Who had the cottage here before me?’
‘Oh, one of them actress women – Miss Lorraine, she called herself.’
He had remained sitting in his boat, an ancient, patched double-ender, and had paddled away with slow dignity after she’d told him she would think about it. He seemed as natural a phenomenon as a coot or a water-hen and his rough clothes and leisurely motions exactly suited the spirit of the place.
Another denizen of the Broad, but one who kept his distance, was a fisherman who occupied a white-painted houseboat. It was moored out in the rush islands, just visible from her veranda, and she often saw him sitting there and sometimes caught the flash of a fish in his landing net. There were passing sails also, white, tan, blue or dark red, and throbbing motor-cruisers which held their course in the distance. She had just a window on the world, it went its way to confirm her privacy. Her troubled soul had found a haven in which to rest and calm itself.
Then, on Sunday, the phone rang:
‘Stella, dear—?’
She’d forgotten Simon. In a fluttering panic she remembered that he was due to be down there, too. At the same moment, by the tone of his voice, she realized that something was expected of her: she was not going to be allowed to remain in her desired oblivion.
‘You have settled in, have you?’
‘Yes . . . yes. It’s beautiful.’
‘Good.’ He gave a little, complacent chuckle. ‘I thought you might be surprised. I rather pique myself on the cottage, I planned the conversion myself. It was a terrible drum when I bought the property. Somebody’s gamekeeper used to live in it.’
‘I like it very much.’
‘Good. Then I’ve got myself a tenant. But I really rang up to ask if you’ll come over for supper. There’s only one or two of us, so you don’t have to fuss. I’ll pick you up at half-past six. It’ll give us time for a drink.’
She made an attempt to excuse herself. She was furious at her weakness; she knew she ought to be able to say no without stooping to hypocrisy.
‘But, my dear, it’s only a meal, and you can leave as soon as you like.’
She found herself stumbling into an acceptance and then was furious all over again.
Damn! Damn! Damn! She sat cursing silently after he’d rung off. For want of that simple, easy negative she had let him trample on her privacy. Having done it once he would do it again, there would be no end to the intrusions; she had visions of her life plagued by a steady round of invitations and visits. And this, after only a week, a single week of blissful solitude, at the end of which she had only just established the necessary rhythm of her daily life . . .
She had a mind to pack her things and leave, and nothing but the effort required prevented her from doing it.
SIX
BUT SHE WAS ready when Simon arrived, and she had consciously chosen a dress which became her (‘Stella Rushton, you’re a fool, you’re a fool, Stella Rushton’). She was waiting for him in the garden, thoughtfully posed on its rustic bench, and she let him get out of the car and come up the path in search of her. Simon gave her his warming smile.
‘You’re looking a picture, Stella my sweet.’
She smiled back with wan acceptance (‘I’m only showing you I’m not dead yet’).
He lingered for a few moments to run a fond eye over his property, then picking up her wrap, he escorted her to his car. It was a powder-blue Jaguar with cream leather upholstery, and boasted an array of auxiliary lamps and several badges on the front. Simon drove it slowly and caressingly. He was obviously very proud of it. He had perhaps driven something less imposing before the affluent era of The Golden Girl.
‘This is Iriston, you see – you are not far from Lazy Waters. Don’t look for a village, because there isn’t one here. We get our supplies from Alderford – Iriston is just a name. There’s the church and three cottages, two bungalows, and me.’
They had driven a short distance along the by-road from Alderford, which was flanked on one side by fields of wheat and on the other by plantations and carrs; now the road came to an end by the tower of a flint church, and beyond lay the narrow river that flowed from the Broad. Simon took a turn to the left along a springy cinder track. It was bordered by pollard willows and riotous marsh vegetation. Soon, towering among taller willows, one saw high roofs of crisp thatch, and there appeared two wrought-iron gates into the design of which was woven: Lazy Waters.
‘The finest house on the Broads, my dear.’
Simon grinned at her boyishly. He knew his vanity, he seemed to say, and you are welcome to smile at it. He parked the Jaguar on the drive in a position that was decorative, then helped Stella out, closing the doors with care. She looked about her with interest. The house was truly a fine one; built of the same materials as her summerhouse, it showed how strikingly they could be used. The plan was in the shape of a cross, which gave the house interest and mass, and also provided a classic foundation for a display of the thatcher’s craft. This had been lavished on it with splendour; one looked first at the beautiful roofs. They had wonderfully carved and scalloped ridges and were moulded sweetly over semi-circular attic windows. A spacious veranda ran entirely round the building, having four separate flights of steps to the drive and lawns below. The windows were large, timber-framed and latticed. A golden weather-vane swung elegantly above the thatch. Standing among tall, natural willows, fenced by azaleas and rhododendrons, it had the air of a summer pavilion of some legendary prince of Cathay.
Simon led her round the house to admire the front lawn and the gardens. The former had the shaven carpet-like perfection reserved for lawns grown over peat. It had sidebeds vivid with begonias and a great variety of roses, and was bordered by weeping willows and screens of dumpy dwarf azaleas. Beyond the lawn, past more tall willows, one saw the river with its traffic of pleasure boats, and to the right a spacious wet boathouse with matching thatch and a kindred weather-vane.
‘It was built by a stockbroker with more taste than most.’
Simon kept close beside her, his hand on her elbow. Once or twice she caught him looking at her, half-anxiously, half-thoughtfully; she couldn’t define the look or decide what it signified. He was being careful to steer clear of any reference to her troubles.
‘There’s a bit of land that goes with it, though it’s mostly fen. It takes in the bottom end of the Broad as far as the cottage. The cottage is additional. It was going for a song. I thought it would round off the property nicely and make it easy to oblige a friend.’
‘Did the stockbroker build my summerhouse?’
‘Oh yes. You can see, it’s in the same style as the house. It’s a pleasant spot for a picnic and to keep a boat for fishing, and I believe there used to be a path from it to the house. But now it’s all grown up. The place was neglected when I bought it.’
‘It doesn’t look neglected.’
‘I had a golden wand, my dear.’
Beside the waterfront, along which ran an immaculate piled heading, they came to a seat where it was pleasant to sit watching the passing boats. His guests, Simon explained, had gone for a trip on the Broad, and he brooded thoughtfully for a moment, his handsome eyes fixed on the water.
‘We’re not a large party this time. In fact, there are only five of us. Plus Jill, of course. And my nephew, Keith.’
‘Do I know any of them?’
‘No, I don’t think so, so I’ll put you in the picture while we’re sinking a drink.’
He ushered her back to the house and through French windows into a lounge, a large, restful room panelled with silver-grained wood. He sat her down on a settee and chose a bottle from a cabinet. Then he poured them sherries in two smoky glasses and brought them over and sat down beside her.
‘Now, there’s Woody, the one and only, who you will like as a matter of course. He’s taller than a church steeple and makes me feel quite a mannikin. He has a large, haggard face set in a sort of Slav melancholy, but in fact he comes from Melbourne and his parents hailed from Cornwall. Then there’s Jeff, Jeff Simpson, our tame choreographer. You’ll place him up Bradford way the moment he opens his mouth. And Dawn le Fay, née Molly Jimpson, who played Lulu in the Girl. She’s a rising young thing with all the right statistics. And then there’s Glynda.’
Simon broke off to inspect her, quizzically. Stella received the impression that he wanted to say something which he found difficult to put into words. At last he shrugged elegant shoulders:
‘You’re another writer and I’m going to be frank. It would be a pity if you and I couldn’t talk without hypocrisy. I’m a bachelor, you know, and I prefer it that way. And bachelors are like other men. I sometimes think they are more so.’
‘You mean that Glynda—’
‘She’s my very good friend. She’s an actress who had a part in my play, The Stars. She admits to thirty, and she isn’t near the top of her profession. Between ourselves, she is much better suited to being someone’s friend.’
It was frank indeed, and Simon was watching every reaction. In a way Stella felt flattered to be the recipient of such a confidence. He had wanted to tell her while not finding it easy; he seemed to be appealing to her to accept his moral obliquity.
‘I think I may have heard her name.’
‘Glynda Davis. She was mostly in rep. A brown-eyed brunette with a wide mouth and an oval chin. Played character parts, second leads and the like.’
‘And you’re – fond of each other?’
Simon appeared to relax. He took a long sip from his glass and grinned at her with a flash of wickedness.
‘I’m not in love with her, if that’s what you mean. I’m an egoist to the core. I was spoiled as a boy. But I’m fond of her, yes, and she’s fond of me too. Then one day we’ll get bored and I shall use my influence to find her a part. I’m a bachelor pure and simple, and one has to face facts.’
‘That is quite heartless, you know.’
‘I do know. I am heartless. It’s a relief now and then to be able to admit it. In the common way I’m a hypocrite, like everybody else. But I try to be generous to make up for my other failings.’
She found herself smiling and shrugging her assent – it was fair: he didn’t pretend to have virtues he lacked. She could imagine Simon’s mistresses departing without rancour. They had not been duped . . . unlike herself.
‘Well, I hope you’re good to her.’
‘Yes,’ Simon was serious. ‘One has to arrange a certain order in one’s life, don’t you agree? One is compounded of a set of elements and it is no use fighting them. The true art is to strike a harmony, to accept with grace what we can’t alter.’
‘And Glynda represents one of your acceptances.’
‘Exactly. I accept the need that Glynda supplies. I don’t call it love or anything exalted, but it’s there, and necessary to be taken care of. And I make the best concession that my nature allows. I would not be a better person if I tried to fight it. I would be irritable and bearish and my work would probably suffer, and I would likely be the victim of all sorts of odd delusions. And so I have my Glynda, and all goes well.’
Was it a sermon? Stella tried to read his smiling, frank eyes. If it was, he had succeeded in putting it over very cleverly. Only the reference to ‘odd delusions’ had touched a chord that was possibly personal, and it had fitted quite naturally into the context of what he was saying. She couldn’t be certain. She had a lot to learn about Simon.
‘Just a minute, my dear. I must have a word with Ruby.’
A maid in an overall had come to the door, and Simon rose to attend to her. Stella sank into a dreamy brooding over the glass in her hand. A minute or so later Simon returned, accompanied by a tall young man wearing shorts. Simon was saying:
‘This is Keith, my dear. He’s my nephew from Cambridge.’
SEVEN
AND AFTER ALL it wasn’t quite such an ordeal as she had expected, she neither burst into tears nor ran away directly after the meal. On the contrary, she was surprised to find herself taking a normal interest in things, amused to meet new people and ready to observe and speculate about them. Everyone seemed pleased to meet her in their various ways. There were no impertinent queries about herself and Justin. Indeed, she came soon to realize that they probably knew nothing about it – they were theatre people, an airtight society; they knew nothing and cared less about what went on behind the footlights. She didn’t know whether she was a little hurt to be so thoroughly unimportant.
As Simon had predicted, she took at once to Woody Woolmancott, a big gangling man with a mop of straggly grey hair. He had twinkling green eyes to offset the gaunt lines of his face, and a careless, lazy way of speaking, as though words dragged far behind his thoughts. Jeff Simpson she thought she liked too though he was more difficult to understand. About forty, he had narrow, sallow features and eyes that were tense and unsmiling. She saw that he was much struck by Dawn Le Fay (née Molly Jimpson). She also saw that Dawn was determined to be discouraging. Dawn was a doll-faced blonde who went in for cleavages to her navel; her talk was inane but she was far from simple, and she undoubtedly knew where she was going.
With Glynda, Stella had to admit herself disappointed: she had imagined that Simon’s mistress would be more exotic, more interesting. Instead she was introduced to a rather drab-faced woman, voluptuous certainly, but not otherwise distinguished. The chin was square rather than oval and a sulky expression hinted at temper. Glynda made a smile for Stella and shook hands perfunctorily, then glanced quickly back at Simon to see which of them his eyes were on.
‘It was charming on the Broad, darling. A pity we had to go without you.’
‘I was quite busy, darling. But there will be other days.’
Simon smiled at her sincerely. He kissed her tenderly on the cheek.
These people, along with Jill Shore, who had learned the art of conforming, made a circle of similar tastes and of fairly harmonious temperaments. They had their all-absorbing subject which had never been known to flag, they had comparable interests in it, they responded to one another. They had their moral tone in common. They adored exchanging smutty gossip. In some ways amusingly naïve, they were in others cynically sophisticated. To them it was a matter of course that Simon and Glynda should sleep together but they would probably have been honestly shocked to learn of Stella’s indifference to the theatre. The one was a commonplace of the profession, the other would have made them blush for her.
But there was an odd man out: Keith was neither of them nor with them. A nervous stranger, he hovered anonymously on the periphery of the circle. During supper he was seated by Stella and at first she scarcely noticed him; he was silent, apparently abstracted, and had no more conversation than his chair. She did her best:
‘Did you get through your exams all right?’
He flushed under his tan, his eyes meeting hers uneasily. He had fair, reddish hair and a nose that tended to a button. His eyes were a smoky hazel. He had a small, ripe mouth.
‘I think so. The results are not through yet.’
‘What are you going into?’
‘Oh . . . industry, I expect.’
‘You’re not attracted by research?’
‘No . . . I don’t know.’
‘It’s more interesting, I should think.’
‘Yes, but . . . nothing’s settled, yet.’
He was trembling, the poor lamb, and he was blushing to his ears. She felt a little thrill of pleasure and amusement tempered. Surely he hadn’t fallen for her, and at such short notice – with the Le Fay in the offing to supply competition? She looked him over thoughtfully: he certainly seemed agitated.
‘Anyway, you’ve got a nice long vacation now.’
‘Yes. Till October.’
‘Will you spend part of it abroad?’
‘Yes . . . I don’t know. Perhaps Paris.’
‘It’s the wrong time for Paris.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know.’
She was conscious suddenly of Simon watching the pair of them and of a stab of displeasure at being thus observed. She turned away from Keith abruptly and gave her attention to her plate. From the corner of her eye she thought she could see Simon give a faint shrug.
