After the Party Read online

  ‘Well, it was dreadfully cold in the winter, foggy; especially after Argentina. But I had a nice local woman for the children, so they’re all fluent now. I feel languages are so useful.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Patricia.

  ‘Well, aren’t they? Hugh always says so. Of course I missed all of you awfully,’ Phyllis said. ‘One minds the lack of female company the most.’

  ‘I can’t imagine there was anyone very interesting for you to talk to.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Hugh?’

  ‘Well, you know. He can be difficult. But he made great friends with some very nice people, so that helped. They had us shooting, backgammon parties, bridge, that sort of thing. But one never liked to get too fond of anyone, knowing we wouldn’t be there for ever. And he’s always best when he has a scheme to be working on and the rubber people kept him pretty continuously occupied. So he was busy.’

  ‘But what now?’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Phyllis.

  ‘Is he still …?’ Patricia grinned at her sister.

  ‘Demanding, do you mean? I fear so, yes. I mean, I wouldn’t mind sometimes, but not every day.’

  ‘I think you’re jolly lucky, actually. Greville has to be coaxed like anything.’

  ‘Funny how different they all are, men. It’s a pity one can’t tell, just by looking at them.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Patricia.

  Hugh Forrester had worked for British Rubber ever since leaving the navy after the war, but in the spring the company had made it known that there would not be another posting for him. Nor was he to be offered the London directorship he had expected. For the time being, instead, Hugh would go into the head office once or twice a week, to advise. He had invested soundly over the years, so income was not the trouble. But he was a man who disliked idleness, who enjoyed having people to oversee, things to do. He had been a Commander during the war and put in charge of various important things, all very hush-hush. It was said among the family that he had been instrumental in the setting up of naval intelligence, although it was not something he himself ever mentioned. He was efficient and good at detail; he could be pedantic. He would be ill-suited to retirement, his wife thought.

  Hugh was getting on for sixty, although he looked much younger. He was still a handsome man. At the time of their marriage, people had said that Phyllis was lucky to have got such a good-looking husband, even if he was twenty-four years her senior. Hugh’s posture was very distinct, very fine. People meeting him for the first time were always struck by this and often ventured, on the strength of it, that he would be a highly competent horseman. In fact, he disliked horses – a dog was one thing, he always said, while a horse was very much another – and did not ride.

  ‘I’m sure Hugh will find plenty of things to do,’ Patricia said. ‘He’s very clever, after all.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Phyllis. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I long to know what you’ll make of Nina’s place,’ Patricia went on.

  ‘Is it awful?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘Fairly.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I liked Eric, at the wedding,’ said Phyllis. ‘And from her letters she seems very contented, I must say. They seem always to be doing things, these camps and so on.’

  ‘I don’t know when Nina turned into such a busy little person.’

  ‘What do you mean? She’s always been like it.’

  ‘I suppose. In any event, they’re always at it. Party business, I mean; these summer camps. No sign of any little mechanics, though.’

  ‘Eric’s not a mechanic! You are naughty.’

  ‘A garagist, then.’

  ‘I do hope she will have a baby before too long. She is getting on. I mean, she’s thirty-six. One wouldn’t want her to’ve left it too late.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best,’ said Patricia, deadpan. They laughed again.

  ‘I don’t know that I’ve got anything very suitable for your party tomorrow night,’ it occurred to Phyllis. ‘I didn’t put anything smart in with the things we were bringing. I think my good evening clothes are still with the carriers.’

  ‘It’s hardly a party. Just a few friends for dinner. You can borrow something of mine,’ said her sister.

  Phyllis remembered trying on both her older sisters’ clothes as a girl, when she had been too bulky to fit into them; how coolly Patricia, the eldest, had looked on as hooks and buttons refused to meet their partnering eyes and buttonholes; how Nina had tried to cover up Phyllis’s shame by draping their mother’s ostrich-feather stole theatrically over the girl’s shoulders and telling her she looked wonderful. Now Phyllis would be able to do up Patricia’s dresses with ease, although they would always be too short for her.

  In their room later Hugh sat upright against the padded bedhead while Phyllis was at the dressing table, putting on her cold cream.

  ‘Greville’s less of a fool than he seems,’ he announced.

  ‘Really? I thought you always found him rather maddening.’

  ‘Once you get him talking about anything serious he’s actually pretty sound, I’d say. Once one gets through the waffle.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Phyllis, absently. ‘He absolutely dotes on Antonia, have you noticed? He beams every time she opens her mouth.’

  ‘Knows some interesting types, too. I’m going to dine with him at his club next week, meet one or two of them.’

  ‘Patricia will keep rattling off all these names. I can’t take half of it in.’

  Hugh always fell asleep first, lapsing into a light but regular snore which punctuated the night like a metronome. Phyllis lay on her back in the dark, conscious of the silence outside. The sights of the day unspooled in her mind’s eye: the brick backs of London houses seen from the train, with their rows of washing pegged out in the early summer sun; the hedges and the fields and the tussocky pasture; the Sussex lanes shaded by elms which reached far overhead, their branches meeting like gothic arches. Outside in the velvety darkness all around lay England. In the still air and in meadows and marshes and country towns; in smooth rivers and deep woods; at the edges of pastures where cattle dozed. Near to them now in the sleeping house was the sea, quietly lapping in sheltered inlets where little boats bobbed on the black water, safe in the shallow harbours of home. Home. Even thinking the word made her chest catch with a little jolt of happiness.

  2. Sussex, June 1938

  There were only three weeks to go until the first campers arrived for the summer season and Nina’s pencil had already been sharpened and resharpened so that just a stub barely three inches long remained. It was all the lists she’d had to draw up. Extraordinary, how much there was to do. There was shin of beef for a hundred and twenty to get in for stew on the first night, as well as the sausages for breakfast the following morning. If they had sausages every morning it would cost God knows what and with a long season ahead it was important to stick to budget from the start. But you couldn’t not give people meat for breakfast, so the plan was to have bacon and egg one day, sausage and tomato the next; with black pudding once a week on Saturdays. Ninety-eight were booked in for the first week, but it was as well to over-cater, in case more turned up. If the weather was fine you always had to count on stragglers. Nina had already ordered in the vegetables and eggs for the first two or three days, along with quantities of milk and tea and sugar. Her predecessor had warned her that they always ran out of sugar, since some people took as many as three spoonfuls in their tea. She had taken the precaution of ordering in what seemed an unfeasible amount, but at least it could find other uses, in custard and pies and crumbles for pudding and so forth. She just prayed it wouldn’t be damp before the cooks found somewhere sensible to store the stuff, or it would form a rock. She was pleased with herself at having secured bread and buns for the camp at no charge, for the duration. This was thanks to Mr Pugh, who owned three bakeries in the area. He was a keen member himself, and would be attending during week three, with his
family.

  Normally the camp kitchen was overseen by Big Jim, who came from Worthing, and Little Jim, from Hornsea: they generally took charge of ordering and arranging delivery of comestibles. Nina couldn’t remember what had been done, in previous years, before such duties fell to herself. Had Big Jim – who knew what he was doing, having been in charge of an army field kitchen – come a day or two early, to sort out the orders? She rather thought he had. This time neither of the Jims were arriving until the first day, a mistake in the planning which exasperated her all the more for being her own fault. There were a significant number of children and young people this year: should they be allocated the same quantities as the grown-ups, or did children eat less? Someone had said, rather alarmingly, that the young – the teenaged contingent – ate much more than adults, their appetites stimulated by the sea air and activities. The butcher would know, perhaps. She added ‘ask butcher to advise’ to the catering list. All the lists were already too long. She’d received the 30/- subscription from most of the people who’d booked in advance, but there were always latecomers it was difficult to budget in advance for. She would have to set tasks, that’s what Eric was always telling her. It was no good offering people a choice; nothing ever got done if folk were at liberty to pick and choose for themselves. Everyone went for the easy jobs, then. There was a meeting of the Women’s Committee the following evening, which gave her time to decide which jobs to hand out to which people. It paid to be decisive.

  Jennifer Talbot Smith was a nuisance. Meddlesome. She had been in charge of the Women’s Committee when Nina first joined the local group and had been among those who had been asked to stand down from official posts, a few months back, when changes were being made from the top down. Noses were out of joint. While it was true that the woman had plenty of experience, innovation had never been her strong suit. Whenever Nina proposed something new – however small, it could be something as minor as arranging a children’s entertainer to come to camp for an afternoon – she always looked affronted, as if each idea was somehow an insult to the glorious memory of her captaincy. Nina had to tread on eggshells, with Jennifer and her clique. Now that her sister Phyllis was back, Nina hoped she’d be able to get her to come and help. It would be useful to have an extra pair of hands, especially now, in camp season. And Phyllis had a natural mildness; people were never riled by her. She would be a useful adjunct.

  It irked, slightly, that Patricia couldn’t be persuaded to do more. The trouble with Patricia – one of the troubles with Patricia – was she had too much time on her hands. She never really committed herself to anything, never rolled up her sleeves or got her hands dirty, literally or otherwise. She drifted. Same thing with Greville. They gave the odd donation and came to an occasional meeting and provided dinner and a bed to some of the most senior speakers who came down from London, usually people Greville had some connection with. But you couldn’t rely on them when it came to actual nuts and bolts.

  Phyllis came to visit after lunch on her third day. Patricia had suggested she leave Julia and Frances and Edwin at Rose Green, where Antonia could entertain them for the afternoon. Phyllis thought it more likely that it would be her three who would be required to keep their cousin amused: Antonia seemed rather a listless sort of girl.

  ‘Won’t you come, too?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘No, darling, you go alone. Nina will like having you to herself. And anyway, I’ve got no end of things to catch up with, letters to write and so on. I’ve done nothing but yak since you got here.’

  Nina’s house stood a little way along from the garage, set back from the road politely, like someone waiting to be introduced. It was constructed of the local brick, with flint detail above each window, like pale eyebrows. Before the road was made it had been a small farmhouse and there was still a duck pond to one side, which Nina referred to as ‘our puddle’. The ceilings were low; there was an inglenook fireplace and beams and doors with latches instead of porcelain knobs.

  ‘How’s Greville?’ asked Nina straight away. ‘Is he driving you potty?’

  ‘No, he’s actually being very kind. He’s taking Hugh to his club today to introduce him to some people.’

  Nina raised her eyebrows and smirked. Hers was the most expressive of the three sisters’ faces, a page on which everything was written in clear ink. She was attractive rather than pretty, the neatness of her nose and mouth shown off to especial advantage in profile. It was a face whose animation suggested humour, although she was not in truth much of a wit. When she smiled too widely the line of her gums became visible above and below her rather small teeth.

  They took a turn around the house and the garden before sitting down. Phyllis told her sister about Belgium and their house there, how the children had got on abroad and her concerns for Frances and Edwin, starting at new schools. She fretted about Edwin in particular. He was still very young to be going away from home. Although, as she said ruefully, they had no home just yet. Nina was always easier to talk to than Patricia, who seemed to have caught from her husband a habit of permanent distraction, as if she were always expecting an important telephone call and had only half an ear on what was being said.

  ‘Hugh talks of building a house. It’s something he’s always dreamed of. You know how he has such a lot of opinions about everything.’

  ‘So he’s threatening to put some of them into practice?’ said Nina, grinning.

  ‘He has strong views about which direction windows should face to encourage a house to air properly, that sort of thing.’ Phyllis sighed.

  ‘Will you stay with Patricia, then, for the duration?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure not. Heaven knows how long it might take, finding somewhere to build and then doing the drawings and all that: we’d be there for ever. No. We’ll find somewhere to rent, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ll ask about, if you like. What with my committees and Eric’s, and the garage, we know a fair number of people around here. That is, if you’re planning to settle around here?’

  ‘Oh, we are. I’d want to be near you both, of course. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you. But I’ve been gabbling and I haven’t heard nearly enough about you. You must tell me about it all, your work.’

  ‘It’s very exciting. I do want you to get involved, it’d give you such a lot to keep yourself busy with, once the children have gone back to school; and I really think one has a duty to help out. I’m just a local beaver, of course, but we get some tremendous speakers: big-wigs very often come down from London and give talks, you know. There’s so much to do, what with meetings and committees and the newsletter and various other pamphlets and what-not. Eric’s very big on all that side of things. Editing, dealing with the printers and suchlike. You know me, I like to be useful. I like the practical day-to-day stuff.’

  ‘I remember it was always you who groomed the ponies, at home. All Patricia and I wanted was the riding out. It was always you who cleaned the tack for all three of us. Daddy was livid when he found out, after he’d made such a point of us each having to learn how to do the mucky things. D’you remember that?’

  ‘He didn’t believe you should ever expect someone to do a thing for you that you couldn’t do yourself.’

  ‘No,’ said Phyllis. Privately it occurred to her that if that were the case, no one would ever ask anyone to do anything. The whole point of jobs, surely, was to get other people to do things you didn’t want to do.

  ‘I liked the smell of the saddle soap, anyway,’ said Nina.

  ‘So, what about these camping parties?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘They’re not parties! Camp is for education and practical work.’

  Phyllis looked rather crestfallen. ‘Oh. I thought you said they were such tremendous fun.’

  ‘Well, learning is fun, in itself. And there is a fair amount of larking about, obviously. There are socials in the evenings and activities for the youngsters. And sea-bathing, of course. It is fun. There’s such a spirit of co-operation;
so many bods sharing a common feeling and purpose, coming together. You’ll enjoy it, honestly.’

  A silence fell between them.

  ‘And quite honestly, Phyllis, this peace work is vitally important. I do think one has a duty to do whatever one can.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t make it sound so grave and threatening. England feels so reassuring and safe to me. I couldn’t stand the thought of another war.’

  ‘None of us can – that’s a very real part of what we’re trying to address. England’s not the nursery, you know. You can’t simply pretend that everything will turn out for the best. We face a very real peril.’

  ‘That’s what Hugh says, too. He gets rather exasperated with me. I always have this feeling that we’re a doughty island kingdom, and that everything will be all right, somehow.’

  ‘Quite frankly, you’re being bloody naïve. It’s not a fairy tale, with knights and princesses. If people like us don’t get control of things we are at real risk of being taken into war.’

  Phyllis felt her eyes prick with tears.

  ‘Well, do at least come along to the next meeting,’ Nina said, more kindly. ‘That’ll help you understand things better. You don’t need to say anything yourself. But do come along and listen.’

  ‘I will. I promise I will. And what about Eric? How are things?’

  ‘The garage is going pretty well. We’re lucky, in this part of the world, there seems to be the demand. Then he’s getting some great ideas as to the future of the industry, exciting ideas for anyone in motors. One of the more senior people in the Union – well, he was until recently – has become rather a chum of Eric’s: Alexander Raven Thomson, fascinating man. He has all these notions about roads, which is right up Eric’s street, to coin a phrase. They both detest Hore-Belisha – all the meddling – as you can imagine.’

  ‘Who on earth is whore Baleesha?’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Ex transport minister. He brought in a test that people have to pass before they’re permitted to get behind the wheel of a car! Can you imagine anything more stupid? And he made it illegal to drive more than thirty miles an hour in the towns; it’s denying people the freedom of the road. Our lot are hell-bent on defying any further restrictions on the freedoms of the motorist. Anyway. Raven Thomson’s plan for the future is to build a “ring-way”, a road with several carriageways, all the way around London, which would radiate out into other connecting roads, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Then there’d be a Southern Way spanning the south coast, from Dover to Plymouth. Including Chichester, you see. It’d be near us, very good for business. These huge roads would join up all the towns and cities in England and they’d be able to transport all sorts of things from one place to another at top speed, so they’d prosper like anything. It’s rather wonderful. Eric’s got very interested, they spend hours going over it all. They’re thinking of writing something, the two of them, to get their theories across to a wider audience.’