Dreams of another day, p.8
Dreams of Another Day, page 8
Ming smiled and said nothing as she preceded him into the sage-green drawing room where her mother was waiting.
It was from Fanny Alderbrook that her daughters had inherited their delicate, fair good looks and remarkable eyes, but her face was so marked by discontent that the prettiness was disguised. Her hair had lost its brightness years earlier and was thinning as it grew white. Beside her large, bluff husband, she looked very slight and delicate. Ming had often noticed that the strength of her mother’s character came as a shock to the unwary.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said, getting out of her chair to kiss her youngest daughter. ‘You look awful, really pale again, and there are dreadful bruises under your eyes. You really shouldn’t be working so hard, you know. Thank you,’ she added as she accepted a glass of sherry from her husband.
Ming took one too, and tried to explain why she was so absorbed in her ill-paid job for Constance Wroughton. Neither of her parents seemed convinced by her explanations and she went on trying to get them to understand what she wanted to do with her life. Eventually she gave that up and instead talked about the pleasure she found simply talking with Connie and Max.
‘They’re so interesting, you see,’ she finished, ‘and have done so many things beyond my own experience.’
‘I’d really rather not hear about it,’ said her father, pouring his wife some more sherry.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Ming asked, startled out of her traditional submissiveness. ‘What’s wrong with Connie? Or is it the magazine itself?’
The general threw another log on the unnecessary fire with such force that it sent a mass of orange sparks spurting up the chimney.
‘I don’t like its tone, I must say.’
‘Why on earth not?’ Ming was as much surprised as angry. ‘What’s the matter with it?’
‘Spiteful,’ said the general shortly. He kicked one of the dogs out of his way and went back to sit in his chair.
Ming saw her mother’s shoulders tauten in their Wedgewood-blue twinset.
‘I don’t read it any more,’ the general went on, moving in his chair and sticking his legs out. ‘But the bits I looked at all seemed to be trying to make people discontented with their lot, criticising the accepted ways of doing things.’
‘Daddy, you can’t really mind that so much.’ Ming’s protest was half drowned in the bark of the dog he had kicked for the second time. ‘What is it that really bothers you?’
‘If you must have it, it’s that man,’ he said burying his nose in his whisky glass. He looked up at her again and she was surprised by the earnestness of his expression. ‘I hate the idea of your being … forced into contact with a man like that. And I’d rather no one else knew about it.’
‘Are you talking about Max Hillary?’ Ming asked, her own drink forgotten.
Even the general could hear the perplexity in her voice.
‘What on earth is the matter with him? Connie told me that people do disapprove of him, but why? What has he ever done to you?’
‘Darling, please don’t,’ said her mother from the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘We’d so much rather you didn’t.’
‘I’m sorry if I’m being very stupid, but I just don’t understand.’
‘Better not to talk about it then,’ said the general in a softer voice. ‘I’m glad you don’t understand.’
‘But why?’ asked Ming, determined not to be left frustrated.
‘Darling, don’t.’ The minatory note in her mother’s voice was enough to make Ming want to change the subject. She fell back on one of her favourite techniques for dealing with her father’s anger.
‘What do you think is going to happen in the Middle East now that the last of our forces have left Egypt, Daddy?’ she asked and was rewarded when her mother turned to smile at her in approval.
‘It’s disastrous. The Prime Minister may say that in the event of trouble there he can send in troops from Cyprus,’ said the general, sounding both relieved and irritable, ‘but that’s simply not practical. The Canal is our lifeline and without the security of our chaps actually there in the Canal Zone, who knows what will happen? Nasser wants control of the whole area and I don’t trust him an inch.’
‘But surely he won’t get control. It’s owned by an international company.’
‘I’m not sure. He’s already started putting himself up against us by getting poor Glubb dismissed.’
‘I thought General Glubb was commander of the Jordanian forces,’ protested Ming. ‘Nothing whatever to do with Nasser – or the Canal.’
‘Nasser was behind the sacking, and we haven’t been able to do a thing about it. Glubb’s given everything to the Arab Legion and to be thrown out like that at no notice … it’s an outrage. And it’ll get worse and worse.’
‘Let’s go and have dinner,’ said his wife pacifically. ‘It should be ready.’
They went into the dining room and spent the meal discussing Flixe’s children and the sadness of Gerry’s inability to have any. When she had done the washing up, Ming pleaded exhaustion and went up to her room, feeling much less delight than when she had arrived four hours earlier.
A bed had been made up for her in the room she had had as a child, and she was depressed to see that all of her old books and even a once-loved doll were still ranged about the room as though she had never left home. She was dismayed by her urge to burn the lot to show her parents that she was no longer the sweet, dutiful creature who once used all her energy to make peace between them and her sisters.
Reminding herself that she was a guest in their house, and that she had come there for sanctuary, she piled the toys and books in the bottom drawer of the big white-painted chest and resolved to behave as compliantly as she could.
With that in mind she set her travelling alarm clock so that she was up and dressed in time to lay the breakfast table while her mother made fishcakes from the previous evening’s left-over haddock and potatoes. Ming even ironed the Daily Telegraph so that she could refold it in the shape her father preferred.
When he came down from his dressing room and saw what she was doing, he patted her shoulder.
‘You’re a good girl, Ming,’ he said cheerfully. He had obviously decided to ignore their inconclusive discussion about the magazine. ‘Neither of your sisters bother with that these days. What’s for breakfast?’
‘Fishcakes, I think.’
‘Jolly good.’ He sat down and picked up the paper. ‘Your mother’s fishcakes have improved a lot. Good and crisp. Any coffee yet?’
‘I’ll go and fetch it,’ said Ming with a smile.
Her good resolutions lasted all through breakfast and persuaded her to offer to arrange the church flowers, a task which her mother loathed but dutifully did whenever it was her turn.
‘That would be lovely. And perhaps while you’re picking them, you could get some for the house too. There are plenty of roses. Could you do a big vase for the drawing room and something small and low for in here?’
‘Yes, if you like,’ said Ming, a little puzzled. ‘Are we having people to lunch?’
Looking self-conscious, Fanny Alderbrook said lightly:
‘Only the Adamsons and poor Jack Hazeldene. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Ming coolly. ‘I thought he was in Cyprus.’
‘They’re very pleased with him there,’ said her father. ‘He’s a good chap. It’s a bad business.’ He coughed and rattled his newspaper.
‘Why? Has he left the army?’ asked Ming.
‘No, darling. Of course not,’ said her mother. ‘He’s just brought the children back to his parents.’
‘It must be awful for them, to lose their mother and then be sent away from their father, too.’
Ming looked at her mother as she spoke and was surprised to see a faintly satisfied expression on her face. Ming’s own face began to stiffen.
‘His mother will bring them up well,’ said Mrs Alderbrook quickly fussing with the coffee pot. ‘So long as she’s able. But she’s in despair about what will happen to them if she gets ill – or worse. He’ll have to marry again, don’t you think? More coffee?’
‘Thank you, Fanny,’ said the general, pushing his cup forward. Ming decided to say nothing more about Jack Hazeldene’s predicament and talked brightly about the garden.
When he had finished his breakfast the general dropped his napkin on top of the newspaper and left Ming alone with her mother.
‘I’ve often thought,’ Fanny began as soon as he had shut the door, ‘that you and poor old Jack got on awfully well.’
‘Yes, I always liked him,’ said Ming pleasantly, adding as though to send her mother a warning, ‘and Caroline, too. She was very sweet. I’m not surprised that he adored her so. It’s horrible that this should have happened to them.’
Mrs Alderbrook was silenced for a few minutes. Then she poured herself another cup of coffee, which she obviously did not want since she merely stirred it round and round without drinking any of it.
‘Yes, awful,’ she agreed, ‘for Jack and for those children. It would be so wonderful if …’
‘Mother,’ said Ming at last, ‘please don’t say it.’
‘What, Ming?’
‘Don’t tell me that it would be a good idea for me to marry Jack.’
‘But, darling,’ said her mother, holding out one small perfect hand, palm upwards. ‘It’s just that he would be so terribly suitable for you. And you could do so much for them all. And time is getting on, you know: you are over thirty now.’
As a child Ming had been frightened of her mother and, in doing her best to satisfy all her demands, had never questioned her motives. For once she began to look at Fanny Alderbrook as one adult to another and did not like everything that she saw.
‘Don’t you think it’s indecent to try to thrust me into the arms of a man whose wife is hardly cold in her grave?’ Ming was rather surprised to hear how chilly her own voice sounded.
‘Darling, really! What a thing to say. I only want what’s best for you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for any of you girls; that you should marry suitably and be happy.’
There was a great deal that Ming wanted to say then, but she saw what appeared to be bewildered distress in her mother’s face.
‘Never mind,’ Ming said gently, not certain whether the expression was genuine but not prepared to test it. ‘I’ll go and do the flowers.’
An hour later she was standing in front of the altar of the small grey-stone church with a wide trug of flowers at her feet. The green altar cloth had already been covered with a fine white linen cloth and the heavy silver vases polished and filled with water by one of the other ladies of the parish. All Ming had to do was achieve two perfectly matching flower arrangements that would satisfy her mother.
Feeling as though she had reverted to the dutiful schoolgirl she had once been, Ming took some sprays of silvery pittosporum leaves from the basket. She quickly built up a framework into which she inserted pink and white roses and a few sprays of honeysuckle to add scent and a hint of informality.
She heard the west door open and felt a draught on the back of her neck.
‘I won’t be much longer,’ she called over her shoulder without properly turning round, assuming that the newcomer was another of the parish ladies, there to set out the hymn books or replace a worn hassock. There was silence until a man’s voice said hesitantly:
‘Ming?’
Then she did turn. Standing in the aisle, with the old military banners hanging in colourful mockery either side of him, stood Jack Hazeldene. From where Ming was standing, he looked like a man defeated. His thick hair was streaked with grey and looked dried out, and there were lines around his mouth and eyes that made Ming wince. His shoulders were as straight as ever but he seemed diminished and desperately thin. He looked much older than his thirty-three years.
‘Ming?’ he said again. ‘It is you, isn’t it? I didn’t realise you were down here.’
She walked down the chancel steps, both hands held out. He came towards her and took them.
‘Jack,’ she said, trying to find words that would not add to his burdens. ‘I am so sorry about Caroline.’
Still gripping her hands he tried to speak, shook his head and then coughed.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m no good at being graceful and saying things that let people off. Thank you for your letter. It was one of the few that said something real. I’m sorry I haven’t answered it yet.’
‘It didn’t need an answer,’ Ming said at once. ‘I’ll clear up later and get out of your way.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ he said, at last finding a smile. ‘It’s good to see you. I didn’t come here to … well, er, pray or anything like that.’
‘Just to be alone for a bit, I expect.’ Ming smiled. ‘That’s why I want to get out of your way.’ She pulled her hands out of his and moved towards the door.
‘Ming, don’t go,’ he called. ‘Not unless you have to, I mean. It wasn’t solitude I wanted; just to get away from the endless well-meant but impossible advice people pour over me all the time.’ He smiled again and added: ‘You never bossed me, not even when we were children.’
‘I was too little to do that,’ she said with a smile, ‘and you were much too strong. Besides, Annie did all the bossing for both of us.’
‘She did, didn’t she?’ he said more easily. ‘I’d forgotten. I’m sorry. It’s too easy to think that no one has ever felt anything like this before. Look, why don’t I help with the clearing up while you finish the vases? Then we could go for a walk together.’
Ming came back to him, pleased that he had understood what she had meant to tell him.
‘All right. That would be lovely if you don’t mind the thorns.’
She slid the rest of her flowers into the gaps between the branches while he picked up the dropped leaves and discarded stalks that lay in a half circle round the altar.
‘There,’ she said at last, putting her secateurs on top of the rubbish in the trug. ‘That’ll do. It’s not up to my mother’s standards, but she can always explain that she didn’t do them herself. I’ll chuck this lot on the compost heap and then I’d better go and see if she needs any help with lunch.’
‘Do you know who’s coming?’ he asked, picking up the basket and going to open the church door for her. ‘I thought it was just going to be your parents. I’m not sure I can cope with a party.’
‘You won’t have to. It’s only the Adamsons and me,’ said Ming. There had been enough desperation in his voice to make her add, more frankly than she planned, ‘And I’m no danger to you, Jack.’
He looked at her carefully as she stood in the stone archway of the porch. Her dark blue eyes were clear and kind and very honest.
For almost the first time since he had returned to England he felt able to speak his thoughts aloud:
‘They don’t see how unbearable it is to be told all the time and sometimes in as many words – that I must marry again.’
‘I know,’ said Ming with a vivid memory of her mother’s campaign that morning. ‘It’s all done with the best of motives but that doesn’t unfortunately stop one wanting to scream and yell and hit them.’
‘My God,’ said Jack Hazeldene staring at her, ‘you really do understand.’
‘Yes, I do. They do it to me, too, and for quite different reasons I find it just as hard.’
They set off through the churchyard past the horrible pink granite of the modern graves to the old ones with their lopsided, lichened stones and indecipherable lettering. There was a seat there backed by yew trees. As they sat down he gestured to all the graves.
‘It’s not as though it’s never happened to anyone else before,’ he said. ‘I could just about cope with having lost her, even with thinking about the last weeks when she was so afraid and in such pain, if they’d just leave me alone for a bit. But they can’t. They’re sorry she’s dead, but they’re too embarrassed by me to talk about it, and they’re trying to find a successor as though she was just part of a machine that can be replaced when it’s worn out. It’s … grotesque.’
Ming sat beside him in silence, thinking that what he most needed was to be able, at last, to let out some of his desperation. He talked, with the words pouring out of him like poison from a lanced boil, about Caroline’s illness and his children, about the unendurable thought that if the vaccine had been discovered even a year earlier she would not have died, and about his terrifying loneliness. At one moment he said bitterly that he wished he had never even known Caroline, let alone loved her.
Ming listened without interrupting or trying to comfort him until at last he fell silent. Then, dredging her own experience, she tried to help. Jack wept a little and clung to her hands with a grip that was so tight it hurt her, but slowly he grew calm again.
They were very late for lunch and it shocked Ming to see the delighted approval on the faces of her parents.
Chapter Seven
When Ming got back to the flat, hot and tired a week later, it was to find another anonymous typewritten letter amongst her post. Once again she read it to learn that the writer thought her jealous, incompetent, snobbish and at risk of offending beyond bearing. The writer did not spell out what would be done to Ming if that happened, but there was an implicit threat behind almost every word.
Ming’s effort to ignore the loathing was particularly difficult when she was tired, but she worked at it and told herself that the letter-writer was probably inadequate and unhappy, and should be pitied rather than feared. At least, she told herself briskly, the anonymous malice was of minor importance compared with what Jack Hazeldene was suffering. She added the letter to the pile in the bottom drawer of her desk and tried to forget it.
Among the remaining letters was one from Mark Sudley, saying that he had been unable to get her on the telephone, wondered whether she was going to the Attingers’later in the month and if so whether she would like to dine with him first. The Attingers were distant relations of her mother and had indeed invited her to their dance, which was to be a combined celebration of their silver wedding, their eldest son’s twenty-first birthday and their daughter’s coming-out. Ming had accepted the invitation out of a sense of family duty, but she had not been looking forward to it and had even considered having a diplomatic migraine.
