Dreams of another day, p.20
Dreams of Another Day, page 20
‘You can’t!’ shrieked Gerry, waking the baby who began to howl. ‘See, he can’t bear it.’
‘She’s pulling your leg, Gerry,’ said Ming, watching Flixe in an amusement that was beginning to relax her.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Gerry, sounding almost tart. ‘She always loved that Georgette Heyer novel with the tyrannical old grandfather in it and I wouldn’t put it past her.’
‘D’you know I’d forgotten that he was called Sylvester,’ said Ming, ‘but it was Ludovic that Flixe adored. In any case you’re not going to call him Sylvester, are you, Flixe?’
‘Actually, no,’ she said, ‘but I can never resist teasing Gerry. She rises so easily.’
‘If you weren’t still delicate, I’d pay you back for that one,’ said Gerry, still sounding deliberately cheerful.
She well remembered the fights she and Flixe used to have when they were children. In the past Flixe had been able to drive her into paroxysms of frustrated rage, but by now she could usually control her feelings.
‘Come on, what’s the real decision?’
‘Nicholas,’ said Flixe. ‘It sounds perfectly all right in all three relevant languages, we both like it, and Peter’s favourite relation was called Nikolai, so it seemed to fit. Ming, could you take him for a moment?’
Ming obediently accepted the child. Holding him in her arms, she had a sudden vision of Mark after they had made love. He had laid his head against her breasts then. She had held him and murmured his name and felt as full of tenderness as she did with the child. How could she have been so sure that she did not love him?
‘That’s better,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m going to have to go. I’ve got a lecture to give in three-quarters of an hour, but I couldn’t resist popping in for a minute. You’re an absolute monster, Flixe, but I’m glad you’re recovering – and that Nicholas is all that he should be.’
‘Thank you. I must say that’s about the most touching compliment you’ve ever paid me,’ said Flixe, laughing at her. Gerry bent down to kiss her. ‘And thank you for the chrysanths; they’re lovely.’
‘I knew you’d have a lot,’ said Gerry, standing up and surveying them, ‘but I hadn’t expected quite such a display. Who produced those dramatic bunches?’
She was pointing to a matching pair of bouquets of wired white and red carnations, stiffly arranged against a band of dark green leaves.
‘Tibor Smith,’ said Flixe, her tired face softening. ‘He came this morning, overjoyed about the news from Hungary and said the baby ought to be properly welcomed. They’re the Hungarian national colours apparently. We’ve asked him to be one of the godfathers and David Wallington the other.’
‘So they are,’ said Gerry. ‘But is the news so good? What about the massacres and all the fighting? It sounds quite grisly to me.’
‘Haven’t you heard? Tibor said that the Russians are withdrawing from Hungary altogether.’
‘It sounds too good to be true,’ said Gerry. ‘I can’t see the Sovs allowing a satellite so much independence.’
‘And poor Tibor was so happy,’ said Flixe, convinced at once by her sister’s caution. She might tease Gerry, but she had complete faith in her political judgement. ‘I believed him.’
‘Don’t sound so sad,’ said Ming, banishing thoughts of Mark with difficulty and rejoining the conversation. ‘Gerry’s always been a bit of a pessimist. Perhaps Hungary really will free itself from Russia.’
‘One thing you can say of us is that, as pessimists, we are never disappointed. I must go or I’ll be badly late,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ll come again as soon as I can. ’Bye, both of you,’ she added and left the room.
‘Isn’t it extraordinary how things change?’ said Flixe as the door closed behind her sister. ‘When we were growing up it was always Gerry who seemed to have everything.’
‘She still has a fair bit,’ said Ming. She pulled a chair close to the bed with one hand and sat down. ‘What with Mike and all her work successes. Do you want your infant back or shall I put him in his basket? He’s getting a bit restive.’
‘I’ll have him. You’re partly right about Gerry, but she can’t ever have this,’ said Flixe, holding out her arms to take the child.
She stroked his face and held him close to her breast. After a few moments he stopped whimpering. Flixe looked up again.
‘Gerry’s never got over the fact that she can’t have children. She tries really hard not to be jealous, because we’ve learned how to be friends with each other now, but she can’t quite manage it.’
‘I know,’ said Ming, who had noticed that for herself. ‘I wondered why you were so determined to make her hold Nicholas.’
‘Because I want her to be involved with him. She’s avoided having anything to do with the others until they were past the blissful baby stage and I wanted her to have a chance to know it.’
‘I’m not sure it’s altogether wise,’ said Ming, feeling again the visceral sensation of longing that holding the child had produced in her. ‘I think it might hurt too much.’
‘Well, I’d have to defer to you on that one,’ said Flixe. ‘You must know …’
‘Golly, Flixe, I must go too,’ said Ming quickly, determined to forestall any attempt to remind her that she probably could – and definitely should – have children of her own. With her emotions so near the surface she knew that she was incapable of listening politely to anything so painful. She had got to the door of the small hospital room before Flixe’s voice stopped her.
‘Thank you for being so good to Peter the night Nicholas was born.’
Ming turned and smiled. Flixe thought that she looked particularly ravishing in her dark blue suit, with her fine blonde hair sculpted away from her face under a neat hat.
‘It was a pleasure to do anything I could. I’m very fond of you both,’ said Ming, blowing a kiss from the doorway. ‘And I’m so touched that you’ve given me a share in Nicholas like this. Thank you, Flixe.’
Ming shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. At least she had kept her miseries to herself and not spoiled Flixe’s triumph.
Flixe watched her leave and then, feeling suddenly bereft and almost lonely, fished among the cards and letters on her bedside table for the telegram that her elder son had sent her:
‘Well done we could do with more men in the family but he’ll never love you more than I do Andrew.’
It seemed to her to be remarkably sophisticated for an eight-year-old and to her already unbounded love for her favourite child was added a huge measure of pride. There was relief, too, because if he could send a telegram like that he could not be too miserable at his spartan boarding school. She held her new child more firmly and bent to kiss his crumpled forehead.
The following day saw Ming driving down to Max’s cottage. On the passenger seat of the car was not only her Paris piece but also a list of ideas that had been sparked off by the things she had seen and heard while she was staying with Natalie.
When she reached the cottage Max insisted on reading the article at once, which left Connie and Ming free to discuss Flixe’s child and all the drama of his birth. They sat in front of one of Max’s fires, while Ming’s chilled feet warmed up, drinking his excellent coffee and talking about what she might give her nephew as a christening present.
‘When’s it to be?’ asked Connie when the rival merits of a silver mug, gold cufflinks or a case of port had been weighed.
‘Not until November the thirtieth. There’s no particular urgency, and Peter wants Flixe to have plenty of time to build up her strength again. Besides, my parents …’ Before she could finish her sentence, Max had swung round in his chair to call down the long room to her.
‘Ming, this Suez stuff is terrific – quite chilling. Are you sure of your facts?’
‘What? You’re supposed to be reading about Paris,’ said Ming in surprise.
‘I’ve done that. It’s fine, but these notes were clipped to the last page and they’re much more interesting. Shocking, too.’
‘Ah,’ said Ming, ‘I hadn’t meant to bring them until I’d got more corroboration for Connie. If you’re shocked, she can’t have told you what I heard in Paris.’
‘The subject didn’t arise,’ said Connie drily.
‘I see. Max, most of those notes are a mixture of speculation and reported gossip.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Who is this minister who was seen emerging from Cabinet in tears?’
‘What?’ demanded Connie, following Ming to Max’s work table. She put out a hand for the typescript.
‘According to our fearless reporter’s sources,’ he said, ‘a certain minister, who had been excluded from the cabal’s discussions, insisted on knowing what was going on. Eden allowed him in to a particular meeting and he was so appalled that he emerged in tears,’ he said, handing her the article.
Leaning back in his chair Max lit a cigarette and watched Ming intently.
‘I don’t really want to give you a name, since it is only hearsay,’ she said. ‘I heard about it quite by chance and it’s unsupported.’
‘All right. Who told you about it? Perhaps we could check with him.’ Ming shook her blonde head.
‘Not a hope, Max. I promised everyone I talked to that I wouldn’t reveal my sources, and I think it’s easier and better all round if I don’t even tell you,’ she said.
Max acknowledged her firm stand with quirkily raised eyebrows and an exaggeratedly pursed mouth. Ming smiled, but she was not dissuaded by his implied mockery. She lifted her chin. He grinned at her.
‘Ming, do you really think that our government would do any of this?’ Connie’s doubting voice brought the others’pantomime to a close.
‘Which of their actions particularly bothers you?’ asked Ming with a touch of sarcasm. ‘Taking care not to appoint new ambassadors to the vacant posts in Canada and the United States so that they could stop news reaching those governments? Excluding selected ministers and officials from their deliberations? Or is it …?’
‘I’m still bothered by the story you brought back from Paris. Despite the Israeli attack, I just can’t believe it.’
‘I think we ought to publish this stuff, corroboration or no.’
‘We must have more evidence,’ said Connie doggedly. ‘It’s too dangerous to print anti-government stuff without evidence.’
‘All right. I’ll try and get more, but I’m not optimistic.’ Ming had a sudden memory of her elder sister and thought of the benefits of pessimism. She sat even more firmly on her fantasies about Mark.
‘People are playing their cards very close to their chests,’ she went on.
‘You could at least pump that dreadful little man you used to work for,’ said Max. ‘Will you?’
‘If I must.’ Ming could not help thinking of the last time she had spoken to Roger Sillhorne and the things he had said of Max.
‘I think you must,’ said Max. Reluctantly Ming agreed to do what she could.
When they had settled the rest of the decisions on the next issue, Connie got up to go, saying:
‘See you next week, Ming. Max, are you coming to the Dower House this evening?’
‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss your glamorous dinner party for the world,’ he said.
But when Connie had left the cottage he did confess to Ming that he felt nervous of it.
‘But, Max, why? No one Connie has to her house is going to be crass enough to say things that … might worry you.’
‘You’re probably right. I just don’t know how I’ll react. Still, I can’t stay in purdah for ever. How’s the love life coming on?’
Ming went to sit down in front of the fire, holding out her thin hands to the flames.
‘Disastrously,’ she said, watching the yellow and orange patterns the fire threw over a Portuguese needlework hearthrug. ‘I’ve completely mucked it up and the whole thing seems to be over.’ She was about to say that the ending of the affair was a relief but the words would not come out.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Nearly,’ Ming went on more realistically, ‘although I have been beginning to wonder if I couldn’t somehow pick up some of the pieces and put them together again. I just can’t quite see …’ Her voice faded into silence.
‘Like Humpty Dumpty,’ said Max as he drained his sherry glass. He got up from the table. ‘Or perhaps not. I’d better go and see about lunch before I make any more ill-advised remarks. There’s nothing ready. Would you be insulted if I offered you bread and cheese? It’s quite nice cheese, Connie got it for me from Soho and I made the bread.’
‘Bread and cheese would be fine,’ said Ming, turning to smile at him, grateful that he had not pressed her for details about Mark and trying not to think about all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
‘Something’s made you less gloomy than you were.’ Max stood, looking down at Ming as she knelt on the rug. ‘If it’s not the love life, what is it?’
The easy casualness of his question seemed to make it possible for Ming to answer simply.
‘I didn’t realise that it showed,’ she said, ‘but I do seem to have rewritten a bit of the past that used to bother me. In fact that’s what’s made me think I might be able to sort out what you call the love life.’
Max waited for more. His eyebrows arched high above his blue eyes and he looked so like a caricature of himself that Ming gave him the rest of the story.
‘That bloody man!’ Max sounded thoroughly irritated. ‘He’s completely destructive.’
‘It’s hardly his fault that I fell in love with him.’
‘I think it probably is,’ said Max, watching her carefully. ‘There are people who arouse devotion without apparently wanting it or doing anything to achieve it, but I’ve often thought that they must be so desperate to prove themselves lovable that they do everything they can to make everyone they meet worship at their shrines. I’ll go and get the cheese.’
He left the room abruptly. Ming realised that she had pins-and-needles in both legs and hobbled to one of the sofas. Sitting on it, massaging her knees, she began to think about what Max had said. It was possible that he had not been talking solely about Peter Suvarov. She started to feel acutely uncomfortable and to ask herself just what her motives were in wanting to bring Mark Sudley back into her life.
Ming was almost grateful the following day when the Suez crisis blew up into melodrama, because it distracted her completely. That night waves of RAF planes from Cyprus bombed the Egyptian airfields. Everything that Bertrand had described was happening.
As he had warned Ming, the French and British Governments delivered an ultimatum ostensibly to divide the battling Israelis and Egyptians and safeguard the Canal for international shipping. It was not particularly convincing as the Israelis were still some ninety miles away from the Canal when the demands were made.
Radio Cyprus broadcast statements warning the people of Egypt to stay away from military targets in order to avoid being killed, and there were apparently very few civilian casualties. It was only later that Ming discovered that at the same time leaflets in Arabic, which had been printed weeks in advance, had been dropped to explain that the bombardment was a punishment for the Egyptians’ having supported Nasser.
Convinced by the bombing that Allied warships would try to shoot their way through the Canal, Nasser had it blocked with sunken ships, preventing all the traffic that the ultimatum had been designed to protect.
Chapter Fifteen
Obediently if pessimistically following Max’s instructions, Ming decided to drop into Roger Sillhorne’s office at Westminster and, if he was there, talk to him as though they had met often in the past few months. As she walked through the gates to the great arched doorway, it occurred to Ming that at the same time she could have a friendly word with his new secretary and perhaps defuse some of the anger that Diana Frontwell had described.
When Ming put her head round the door the first person she saw was Roger himself.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘How good to see you, Roger.’
He looked up from the letter he was reading and saw Ming’s face framed in a small mink hat. Dropping the letter on his secretary’s desk, he beamed at Ming and held out his hand.
‘What a charming surprise.’
There was enough sarcasm in his voice to make her say quickly:
‘What a debate that must have been yesterday! Did you speak?’
‘Weren’t you in the gallery?’ he asked, diverted at once by the thought of his own triumph. ‘You ought to have let me know if you were having trouble getting a place. I’d have seen you got a seat.’
‘Alas, I missed it. I was in Sussex. But I’ve been reading the reports. I’d love to know what you think of it all.’
‘I’d be delighted to tell you,’ he said with the familiar self-satisfied smile. ‘Why don’t you come and have a cup of tea with me now? We’ve just time before this afternoon’s debate.’
‘You really ought to get these letters done.’ The secretary’s voice was slightly harsh and had overtones of complaint that made it unattractive. Roger turned to Ming and raised his eyebrows in an expression of theatrically exaggerated patience, then he looked back at his secretary and shook his head.
Ming turned deliberately and smiled at her replacement.
‘I’m awfully sorry for coming to distract him,’ she said. ‘I remember how infuriating it always was. My name’s Mary Alderbrook,’ she added and walked over to the desk with her hand outstretched.
‘I know,’ said the woman shortly and gave Ming’s hand a brief, limp squeeze. Ming saw that she was quite pretty with a rosy complexion and softly curling brown hair. Her plain grey jacket and skirt looked thoroughly appropriate for the office and fitted well enough, although something about her made Ming feel uncomfortable.
‘Come on, Ming,’ said Roger, grabbing her arm. ‘Veronica can manage. She always does.’
Ming looked at the girl with what she hoped was a friendly, commiserating smile and allowed Roger to usher her out of the office. His willingness to talk seemed to present an opportunity that she would be silly to ignore, even if it increased his secretary’s animosity. As they were walking down the long, dark corridors towards the tea room, Ming asked why he had disliked Veronica so much when she first went to work for him.
