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‘You’ve had a bad time?’
‘It was my own fault. One must expect to take the consequences if one behaves stupidly. But that’s all in the past. Don’t let’s even think about it.’
‘I wish you’d trust me.’
‘It isn’t that.’ I stared hard at a picture of Christ standing on a hectic, crimson cloud. ‘I don’t want to tell you because …’ I paused. ‘The truth is I’m ashamed.’
‘That sounds intriguing.’ When I did not say anything he added, ‘But I’m not to know why?’
I shook my head.
The waiter brought us a plate of sliced bread, already buttered, and my glass of water. Despite the glass being chipped and smeary I smiled and thanked him. He clapped his hand to his waistcoat pocket, roughly where his heart was. ‘O-ho! She’s a dazzler!’ He gave Kit another wink. ‘Yer t’e lucky man now,’ he whispered mockconspiratorially. ‘They’re saying in t’e kitchen t’e two of ye must be on yer honeymoon.’
‘I wish we were,’ said Kit.
‘Arrah!’ The waiter’s voice was warmly sympathetic as he rested his hand on Kit’s shoulder. ‘She’s keeping ye waiting, toying with ye like a cat wit’ a mouse, but ye’ll appreciate it all the more when she gives t’e green light. Bless ye both.’ He hurried away.
I drank some of the water which was warm and swimming with specks of rust. I hoped it was rust. ‘I’ve heard of Irish charm but I didn’t expect to be flattered into a state of mild hysteria.’
‘He’s laying it on a bit thick.’ Kit laughed. ‘It’s a national game, playing the stage Irishman to tourists: the rollicking, red-nosed loveable rogue; the lazy, boozy, belligerent, professional Celt. And there’s something true in it as well. As a race the Irish are friendly, hospitable, good crack – that means company – and on the whole they do like to talk and get drunk. They prefer to say what they think will please, which I rather like. But there’s often a degree of self-parody beneath all that passion and melancholy that can catch you unawares.’
‘So I’m to disbelieve the flannel but take it as a gesture of goodwill?’
‘It’s a game but it’s quite good fun to play it.’ Kit’s eyes held mine expectantly. ‘Though nothing’s much fun for you at the moment, is it? I know I’m in danger of seeming offensively inquisitive but I wish you’d tell me what the problem is.’
‘Oh, please, let’s not talk about me. I’m heartily sick of the subject. And you’d be horribly bored, I promise you.’
Kit’s expression became regretful. ‘I’ve a confession to make,’ he said. ‘I hoped you’d trust me so I wouldn’t have to. But I hate the feeling that I’m deceiving you. After I’d telephoned Phelim O’Rahilly – who, by the way, is raring to see me so you needn’t feel guilty about my change of plan – I went into the village shop to buy a bar of chocolate to sustain us during this afternoon’s drive. The English papers had just arrived. Even upside down I could see it was a good likeness.’
I suppose I must have developed something of a phobia about newspapers because I felt the blood drain from my face at the mere mention of the horrible things. My fragile pretence of lightheartedness crumbled. ‘Oh,’ I said, pressing my lips together to prevent them trembling.
‘So, Miss Roberta Pickford-Norton, all hope of concealment is at an end. However, you are under no obligation to say anything.’
‘But anything I do say may be used in evidence against me?’
Kit shook his head. ‘Despite the inflammatory nature of the reporting, it hasn’t changed my view of you by one tittle or jot. I know what journalists are. And politicians.’
‘Is it bad?’
Kit raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes.
Some instinct made me say, ‘You bought it, didn’t you? Let me see it.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘Hand it over.’
Kit drew the paper from under a cushion. It was one of the less reputable newspapers, though the distinction is fine.
The headline was: Labour Backbenchers Demand Resignation of New Minister for Culture. In smaller print was the caption: War hero’s daughter in love scandal. The photograph beneath was of me driving out of the front gates of Cutham. I was looking straight at the camera, my eyes staring and my lips drawn back in a snarl. There was a caption beneath the photograph. Roberta Pickford-Norton, 26, leaves ancestral home for Belgravia party. Next to it was a studio photograph of a woman in a striped shirt and pearls, who leaned her chin on her hand and smiled into the lens. Beneath it, it said Lady Anna Latimer, 35, daughter of the Earl of Bellinter. I read the article.
Lady Anna, the minister’s wife, has assured friends she will stand by her husband despite being devastated to discover he has been engaged in a year-long relationship with blonde bombshell, Pickford-Norton, whose father was decorated for bravery for his part in the battle for Tobruk in 1942. Slim, green-eyed, convent-educated siren, Pickford-Norton, is well-known in aristocratic circles for her wild behaviour and outspoken views. She told reporters, ‘Who gives a **** about his wife? She’s middle-aged and past it and anyway fidelity is a naff, middle-class thing.’ The Labour Party is united in calling for Latimer’s resignation but the Prime Minister, Margot Holland, who was clearly angry to find herself embroiled in scandal barely seven weeks after taking office, said in her statement yesterday, ‘Burgo Latimer is a gifted, hard-working and conscientious member of the team, who has a great deal to contribute to the future of both the party and the country. This is muck-raking by the Opposition of the most discreditable kind.’ Sources close to Pickford-Norton have denied she is pregnant by Latimer. Lady Anna, who is childless, is believed to have recently undergone the latest treatment for infertility: in-vitro fertilization. Continued Page Two.
I opened the paper to see a photograph of Burgo, striding along the pavement towards 10 Downing Street, looking preoccupied. I felt such a sense of loss, such a longing for him that I almost burst into tears.
‘I don’t want to read any more.’
I stood up and thrust the paper on to the fire. It burned brightly, then fell into the grate. Kit went to work with the poker to avert the burning down of the inn.
‘Sorry,’ I said dully. ‘It was your paper. I ought to have asked.’
‘You did the right thing. That’s all it was fit for.’
‘Most of it isn’t true. I’ve never in my life said anything about Burgo’s wife, even to him. What could I possibly say? I’ve never met Anna and Burgo hardly ever talked about her. I’m not remotely aristocratic. My father comes from a long line of undistinguished army officers and clergymen. Nor was I going to a party in Belgravia. I was going to the surgery to get some Valium. Not at all glamorous.’ I tried, unsuccessfully, to laugh. ‘My father wasn’t decorated, nor was he a hero. I went to a Church of England school. Nothing’s true. Except – except that I did have a love affair with Burgo. And I suppose that’s all that matters.’
‘Millions of people have affairs. Why should you be ashamed? My mother’s had more lovers than birthdays and I don’t believe my father minds a bit as long as nothing gets in the way of his own philandering.’
‘Yes. Well, as you say, adultery is commonplace. But when you see your name in every newspaper, from broadsheet to gutter press, and you know that people the length and breadth of Britain are calling you a heartless, scheming whore, you feel profoundly hurt. It seems I’ve done something so terrible that anyone feels justified in saying the vilest things about me. Yesterday a well-known female columnist wrote an article deploring women who let down the sisterhood. She mentioned me by name, saying that in a few years my lifestyle would show on my face. Lying and cheating and fornicating would plough deep fissures from brow to chin, my body would become diseased from sexual excess and my hair would fall out from over-bleaching. While Lady Anna would deepen in beauty like a fading rose … It was rubbish from beginning to end but I can remember it almost word for word. Hatred was in every line. I’m frightened by so much hostility. I couldn’t recognize myself in the woman she condemned. I feel I don’t know who I am any more.’
To my dismay, my eyes filled with tears. Kit took my hand. It is wise to be wary when men offer brotherly comfort. It is generally a prelude to something far from brotherly. But Kit’s grasp was warm and consoling. He neither squeezed nor stroked, he simply held my hand in his while I worked hard at being sensible, grown-up and self-controlled.
‘Surely you don’t plough fissures,’ said Kit, after a while. ‘You plough furrows, or lines perhaps, but fissures occur from hard surfaces splitting from weakness in their composition—’ I may have looked reproachful for he interrupted himself to say, ‘Sorry. It’s the job, you see. You have to weigh every semicolon for sense and fitness. Something those journalists couldn’t begin to do, even if they wanted to.’
‘Probably it’s just my pride that’s been wounded.’ I slid my hand away and tried to speak lightly. ‘As a child I desperately wanted to be good, above all things. I spent hours on my knees begging God to make me heroic and saintly: a cross between Gladys Aylward and Thérèse de Lisieux. I longed to radiate seraphic purity.’
‘I must say you don’t strike me as being especially prim and proper. There’s a light in your eye that I’d say was a warning to the faint-hearted.’
‘Wholly misleading, in that case. I like to be in control of things, not luxuriating in sensuality.’
‘Hm. Pity. Are you sure? When I look at this slender hand’ – he picked up mine again and turned it over – ‘I see the nails painted dark red, the skin smooth and white.’ He tapped my ring. ‘Emerald and diamonds, aren’t they? Now my aunts – my father’s sisters – whom I always think of as the embodiment of virtuous women, corseted by self-discipline, have strong square callused hands with nails cut savagely short, a little dirty from washing the dogs and digging up the herbaceous borders. They are strangers to hand cream. Ditto rings. Your hands are much more like my mother’s, of whom, naturally, they strongly disapprove.’
I retrieved my hand. ‘The ring belonged to my grandmother. I like beautiful things, perhaps more than I ought, but I’m not a hedonist. I don’t believe that the pursuit of pleasure is the highest good.’
‘What is, then?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose … behaving in a way which causes the least harm. One shouldn’t be indifferent to the effect one’s behaviour has on other people. It’s impossible to talk of these things without sounding like a prig. What do you think?’
‘I’m not so high-minded as you. I think if you enjoy yourself then you’re less likely to be a burden and a nuisance and more likely to be amusing. If that’s hedonism, then I approve of it.’
‘I’m not high-minded at all. As I’ve demonstrated rather publicly.’
‘So now you feel you’re forever disqualified from sainthood?’
‘It seems so.’
‘So what’s the real story? I don’t believe you dragged a protesting, happily married man from the arms of his miserable, barren wife.’
‘Apparently she’s determined not to have children. One of the few things Burgo told me about her was that she dislikes them and is afraid of getting fat.’
‘And do you think that’s true?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be? It’s not a particularly attractive attitude but it’s perfectly rational.’
‘Are men generally truthful when discussing their wives with their mistresses, do you think?’
‘I suppose not. But Burgo’s not quite like other men. Oh, I know people always say that when they think they’re in love,’ I added when I saw scepticism in Kit’s blue eyes.
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Who knows what love is? Mutual need? Desire? Vanity? Illusion? I wish I knew.’
‘What’s he like, then?’
What was Burgo really like? I wondered.
The landlord appeared at that moment with our food. The chicken had been boiled to an unappetizing grey, a match for the overcooked cabbage. I knew if I did not eat I would get a headache and feel faint by the evening but the newspaper article had killed my appetite.
‘It’s bad, but not that bad,’ Kit said when I put my knife and fork together, having managed less than a quarter of what was on my plate. ‘Surely you can get those potatoes down? Come along, I’ll butter them for you and they’ll taste better.’ He unwrapped a square of butter, which had come in a foil packet with the rolls, and spread it over the vegetables as though I were a child. To please him I forced down a few more forkfuls. ‘That’s a good girl. Now eat that bit of chicken breast just to show you forgive me for upsetting you. I’m an ass and I’m really sorry.’
‘You’ve been my absolute salvation.’ I ate the chicken. ‘I’m sorry to be so pathetic.’
‘All right, so we’re both thoroughly remorseful. Now, Scheherazade. If you wish to avoid strangulation, carry on with your tale.’
I began to tell Kit about Burgo.
SIX (#ulink_895bdcc6-0b5b-5c77-8372-36c3ef6f636a)
‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Oliver had asked on the evening of the Conservative lunch at the Carlton House Hotel.
We were in the kitchen. I was wearing my mac buttoned to the neck while I washed up my mother’s supper tray.
‘I’m going out to dinner and I don’t want to splash my dress. It’s silk and even water marks it like crazy.’
‘What’s for supper?’
‘It’s called a navarin, but you’d better tell Father it’s lamb stew or he won’t eat it. It’s a classic French dish. It’s got peas and beans and turnips in it. It’s delicious, honestly.’
‘It doesn’t sound it.’
‘There’s Brown Betty with gooseberries for pudding.’
‘Oh, good. Custard or cream?’
‘Cream.’
‘Where’re you going?’
I took off the mac and examined my reflection in the mirror by the back door. My hair is naturally wavy and resists all attempts to tame it. I had fastened it back from my face with two combs. My eyelashes are dark, luckily, but I had thickened them with mascara. I had painted my lips with a colour called Black Pansy which I had found in the village shop. The deep red made my mouth look sulky but was effective, I thought, with my skin, which is pale. I fished the pink plastic case from my bag and applied a little more for good measure.
All the time I had been washing my hair and putting varnish on my nails I had been conscious that my blood was circulating a little faster. It was a measure of how miserable being at home was making me, I told myself, if going out to dinner with a man I knew nothing about, except that he had a job I rather despised and was married, could lift my spirits so dramatically. Not that the last was relevant. A Member of Parliament taking a single woman out to dinner in his own constituency could not afford the least breath of scandal. He would not dare to flirt with me. And even if he did, I was immune to his charms. Sarah and I had so often listed the reasons why it was certifiable madness to have anything to do with married men that we could have given public lectures on the subject.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who’s taking you?’
‘A man called Burgo Latimer. Our new MP.’
‘Really? That sounds grim. What’s he like?’
‘He’s a Conservative but he’s not what you’d expect.’
‘What’s different about him?’
‘I don’t know, really. He isn’t dull, anyway. There’s the doorbell. Don’t tell Father anything about it. He won’t approve.’
‘What shall I say? He’s bound to give me the third degree if he thinks there’s a mystery.’
‘You’re the novelist. Make it up.’
Burgo was standing with his back to me when I opened the door. I had forgotten how tall he was.
‘Some good trees,’ he said, turning, ‘but if there’s one plant I can’t stand it’s the spotted laurel. It makes me think of a dread contagion. And you’ve got so much of it.’
After his telephone call I had tried to remember his face but could only be sure about his eyes which I knew were dark brown and his hair which was straight and of that extreme fairness – a sort of white-blond – that generally one sees on small children. It had the same juvenile texture, soft and untidy, and was, I guessed, worn a fraction too long for the conventional tastes of his female acolytes. His nose was finely shaped with arched nostrils, his mouth full. It might have been considered a slightly effeminate face but for the eyes. They were sharp, amused, combative.
‘We’ve practically got the National Collection of dingy shrubbery,’ I said.
I followed him down the steps to where an enormous black car stood on the gravel.
I was relieved he hadn’t expected to be invited in for drinks with my family. It seemed this was an opportunity to soft-soap the voters that he was willing to write off. Or perhaps he knew that even if he had snubbed my father, made a pass at my mother and taken an axe to the furniture, Cutham Hall would always be a staunchly Conservative household.
‘You can starve a laurel,’ I continued, ‘leave it unpruned for years then hack it to the ground, but it’s almost impossible to kill it. It’s difficult to love something that can be thoroughly abused and taken for granted. You need a little uncertainty. The feeling that you have to nurse the guttering flame.’
‘And this is so true of love between humans.’
A man in a real chauffeur’s uniform, grey piped with blue, which would have made Brough horribly jealous, had rushed round the car to hold open the rear door nearest the steps. Burgo went round to the other side and slid in beside me.
‘This is Simon,’ said Burgo, when the driver returned to his seat. ‘He drives me when I’m in Sussex. Miss Pickford-Norton.’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I don’t use the hyphen. I call myself Roberta Norton. Or, more often, Bobbie.’
‘How democratic,’ said Burgo.
‘Pickford is my mother’s maiden name. My father added it on when they married. It’s a bit of a tongue-twister.’
Also I thought, but did not say, that it was an embarrassing piece of social climbing on my father’s part. He liked to talk of the Pickfords of Cutham Hall as though they had lived there for centuries instead of barely a hundred years. And he kept quiet about the pickling.
‘I like Roberta, though. Pretty and old-fashioned. Bobbie doesn’t suit you at all. Step on it, Simon. We don’t want to be late.’
