When I Was Otherwise Page 6

  “Sweet repose. Half the bed and all the clothes… God bless. Happy dreams.”

  “Thank you, Daisy. Sleep well.”

  “Not that there’s much chance of it—but as usual, dear, I’m grateful for the kind wish.”

  When Marsha passed her room again, some fifteen minutes later, Daisy was deeply and rhythmically snoring. Marsha was always thankful for the fact that, in this house at least, the walls were far from paper-thin.

  Part Two

  11

  When Marsha had been married for about six months—and was now actually enjoying the experience once again, no longer writing notes to Boers or thinking of divorce but freshly inspired by a conscientious will to make her life succeed and riding one of those sporadic waves that could sometimes buoy her up for weeks—during this happy, cheerful and frenetic period she received a phone call from Daisy.

  “Hello! I want to come and visit you. I want to meet your groom—properly, I mean. Didn’t have a chance to speak two words to him at the wedding.”

  Marsha, feeling skittish, having been brought up always to observe the little niceties of life, considered asking, “Who is this, please?” But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

  “Why, Daisy! Hello! Good morning! How are you?”

  She felt pleased with herself—that for once she had thought so quickly of the right retort. It was a much kinder and more subtle manner of teaching her sister-in-law a little lesson.

  “Oh, not so bad. Not so dusty. You know—considering!”

  It was a dampening and very necessary reminder; and all Marsha’s pride in her correctness vanished.

  The thing was, of course, so very much had happened in her own life during the past year that she’d forgotten how slow the same passage of time might appear to others: say, to somebody who was mourning the loss of a loved one. And although she’d never been wholly certain—well, nobody had—just how much Daisy had truly cared for Henry she now saw she’d been failing to make allowances.

  Because, after all, the real wonder had to be, didn’t it, not that Daisy had overlooked some trivial piece of etiquette but that she was still managing to function even adequately, let alone robustly, let alone with such resilience? She was a lesson to the world, a study in survival, when Marsha had supposed that she was going to be the teacher! For how could Daisy bear to come and visit newly-weds—and such very playful newly-weds as well, continuously billing and cooing—such bliss—just the way she’d always imagined it was going to be; with Andrew amusingly trying to pretend he was far too serious for all that type of thing and acting like some old curmudgeon but in fact only wanting to lead her on? (Why, take last night, for example: the way he’d given a groan when she had moved over to his side of the bed whilst asking for a cuddle! The way he had actually got out and padded round to her side, having first snatched up the bolster and shoved it down into the space between them! The way he had threatened her with separate rooms if she still hadn’t learnt to control herself; if she still couldn’t see a need for more responsible behaviour! So…? From now on it was to be on ration, was it? His favours weren’t just to be had, it seemed—not any more—as though they were merely two a penny! He was the master of the house and in future she must earn them! Well, what a lark! In the end, of course, she had certainly managed to earn them, along with his grumbles and his grudging sigh of resignation. In truth, she thought she had earned rather better than she got, yet never mind, there were some things better not mentioned, even in fun.) But, oh my, all these delightful and tantalizing and presumably quite typical carryings-on! Daisy herself had been a bride not much more than a year ago and although naturally she wouldn’t be invited up to the bedroom she must surely remember how it was. Had she simply decided then to take the bull by the horns? Yes, that was it. It would entirely fit her character.

  Marsha remembered Daisy at the funeral, such a grim-faced plucky little woman. And Daisy had also had her father’s funeral to contend with. And her mother’s only a short time before that. So… Two parents and a husband all lost within five years! Was ‘plucky’ a sufficiently good word?

  She remembered her at her own wedding, still very much in mourning—how every eye had flown straight to her, so surpassingly dramatic in black, the one stark figure in a sea of whites and pastels!—and still residually grim-faced. “So they didn’t try to get you to postpone this whole wedding palaver? Well, I should think not, indeed! And I hope you’d have put your foot down if they had! I rather doubt it.”

  As her gift she had sent them a blanket and pair of double sheets: a generous and most useful present. Then Erica had seen the blanket and inspected it more closely, and they had found a monogram on the pair of sheets. Marsha had mentioned all this to her mother, never dreaming that such revelations would get passed on. Daisy had eventually heard about it from one of her patients—who was the sister of Florence’s maid. “D.H. on the sheets!” Daisy had cried out. “D.H.? Well—naturally! Where do you think I bought the wretched things?”

  She had insisted that D. H. Evans was still D. H. Evans, wasn’t it, or had even department stores succumbed to this modern mania for change and excitement?

  “Change, change, change!” she had exclaimed. “Nobody can do without it! Well, quite right too! I’m sure I’d take a dose if everything remained the same!”

  It had still been a most useful and generous present, Marsha had contended; and she only hoped to heaven Daisy wouldn’t make any mention of it now.

  “Yes, of course you may come and visit us!” she cried down the telephone, gaily. “Good gracious! Surely you don’t have to ask!”

  “Well, I didn’t know if you were ever going to,” replied Daisy with her characteristic laugh.

  “But you’re one of the very first people we’ve been meaning to get in touch with. In fact,” said Marsha, “you’re right at the top of our list!”

  “Oh, well done me!” said Daisy. “Then I hadn’t been totally forgotten? Hurray and hallelujah!”

  Marsha had to admit to herself she had perhaps been a little neglectful. Between the funeral and the wedding she had only once been to see Daisy—there had been so very much else to attend to—and although she had indeed tried to telephone her (twice or even three times) Daisy had consistently been out.

  “The merry widow,” Erica had christened her.

  “Oh, Erica,” said Marsha with a chirrup. “I don’t think that’s very kind!”

  “Kinder than before!” remarked Dan—but with a slightly strained sort of grin; he, of all of them, had always been closest to Henry.

  “Oh, what can you mean? Kinder than before?” Marsha stared at them both prettily, prepared to be appalled.

  “The merry black widow!” said Erica. The two of them giggled naughtily. It seemed immensely funny.

  “No, please don’t,” Marsha gasped at last. “You mustn’t! You know I simply can’t bear spiders. Creepy-crawlies! Ugh! I even dream about them. If I were ever to start associating Daisy with anything like that…”

  Dan said: “Oh, come off it, Marsha! There was never any woman less like a creepy-crawly than Daisy.”

  It was a smiling yet nonetheless stern rebuke; and it had the desired effect on both his wife and sister. Marsha soon began to hum melodies from The Merry Widow, not with any satirical intent but only because these were the first which came to mind and she thought, in a slightly chastened mood, that her singing might please Dan. It did. He loved to listen to his sister’s voice (Erica, unfortunately, was completely tone-deaf) and when they’d been younger he had often requested her, despite the discrepancy in their ages, to sing to him the popular songs of the moment.

  “Do you remember that time on holiday when it rained all afternoon,” she said, “and the two of us had a competition to see who could recognize the greatest number of tunes the other hummed?”

  “And you won hands down!” laughed Dan. “It cost me a whole shilling.”

  “Yes. Happy days. Ah, happy days!” />
  No, she didn’t mean that, of course. Well, she didn’t mean precisely that. It was sometimes difficult to know, even inside her own head, exactly what she did mean. Oh, how she sometimes wished she could have been born with a brain!

  She finished singing ‘Velia’ and then said, “Well—talking of The Merry Widow—The Gay Divorcée was just as delightful. Oh, I’ll never understand how you two could refuse to see it!”

  “But I thought it was called The Gay Divorce,” smiled Erica, emphasizing the last word. “Or were you meaning to provide a better balance…?”

  “No, no!” Marsha’s giggles threatened to return. “No! Film Review says… In America…”

  Erica tried to help out. “Will the film be as good as the show?”

  “Yes, it will…at least, if you’re madly in love with Fred Astaire…like I am!”

  But then she made a really determined effort and finally managed to control herself.

  “I’m afraid,” said Erica, “we may have to pass on to Andrew what you’ve just told us.” Though it hadn’t been for the first time, not by any means.

  “Oh, he already knows, that grumpy old puss!” Marsha pouted. “He doesn’t share my passion.”

  “If he’s a grumpy old puss six days before the wedding, one shudders to think what he’ll be like six years after it?” They all laughed again, for some reason. “And, anyway, if he is grumpy I’m sure it’s only nerves.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. Oh, my, is that the time? Well, I must fly. I only meant to stay a minute. And perhaps I oughtn’t to be speaking so much about merry widows or gay divorcées—perhaps it’s tempting providence. But if ever I am a gay divorcée I do pray Fred will be there waiting for me!” She arranged her veil before the mirror.

  “I never,” said Erica, “never knew anyone who talked so fast and so vivaciously as you—not when you’re talking about films or shows or somebody like Fred Astaire.”

  “I must grow up,” said Marsha, very slowly, and pausing in her flight towards Dan at the door. “I am very soon about to be a wife and a mother.”

  And then this sudden dignity was shattered when she clapped her hand to her mouth and giggled again and said, “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—”

  Erica said, “Well, don’t grow up too quickly; you’re very charming as you are,” and Marsha darted back to plant a grateful kiss upon her sister-in-law’s cheek.

  It was such a pity, she thought, that she couldn’t feel quite the same about her other sister-in-law. Then they could all have linked arms and sung ‘Three little maids from school are we’ in a very jolly and high-stepping and united trio. (Except that Erica was tone-deaf and Daisy couldn’t stand her—and Erica couldn’t stand Daisy—which somehow reduced the possibilities. It was such a shame. Never having had sisters of her own Marsha hadn’t foreseen that sisters-in-law could be anything but a sheer delight, a sort of extension of one’s schooldays that would go on forever; and she often felt it might be her own fault that she didn’t get on better with Daisy.)

  “When shall I come, then?” Daisy’s voice rasped unmusically down the telephone in just the same way it rasped unmusically when not down the telephone. Marsha still felt surprised, even now, that distance could do so little to alleviate it. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting me for Sunday lunch?”

  She added quickly: “And don’t say, ‘Mmm, yes, braised!’, because no matter how long you cooked me I’d remain tough!”

  Marsha responded feebly. “Oh—er—yes. Sunday? This one?”

  “Or arrange it for an evening if you like. I don’t care. Are you free on Saturday? Yes, this Saturday. I hate to make plans about six years in advance. By then you might even have changed your minds about wanting to have me!” The joky laughter succeeding this remark caused Marsha to jerk away the receiver. “I’m assuming you won’t object to feeding me, you see.”

  “Daisy, we shall feel utterly delighted and honoured and privileged to be able to feed you!”

  “My, my, that’s a pretty little speech! I don’t believe one word of it.”

  “But I mean it.”

  “Well, all the same, you mustn’t put yourself out, dear, not on my account. Any old potluck will do. At home I just live on a sandwich. Now and then, that is, when I remember.”

  “Oh, Daisy, you’ve got to eat properly!”

  “No, who can be bothered? And I don’t want you to bother, either. Nor your cook. Now—when am I to blight your lives forever? Are you free on Sunday?”

  “Yes, but…”

  Marsha had been thinking. If Daisy was invited to Sunday lunch she would probably stay on until bedtime. Marsha used her ingenuity.

  “I’ve just had a brainwave! Why don’t we say Saturday evening? An evening makes it more of an occasion. Otherwise it’s like going to the cinema in the afternoon and coming out when it’s still daylight. You feel it’s a bit of an anticlimax? I know I do.” Though Marsha went frequently to the cinema in the afternoons.

  “And I’m an occasion, am I?”

  “Most definitely you are!”

  The way she was handling this! Marsha thought someone should really be applauding her. (Perhaps Miss Myers, who had always been her very favourite teacher at Lausanne—such a darling!) Ten out of ten for diplomacy, old thing.

  Daisy chuckled.

  “Of course you’re an occasion,” Marsha affirmed. “It’s such a long time since we’ve seen one another. And Andy is simply dying to meet you! Didn’t I say you were right at the top of our list?”

  “Such a frenzy of anticipation?” enquired Daisy. “I’ll tell you what, then. Hold on to your hat, dear. What’s to stop me from coming to dinner on Saturday and staying to lunch on Sunday? Now wouldn’t that make a splendid little holiday? I mean, of course, for me—not you! And I’m sure you have the room.”

  She sounded so gratified at being able to present this perfect compromise, so certain she’d be giving as much pleasure as she’d be receiving, that Marsha couldn’t even think of it as cheek. Daisy, she knew, would never dream she was imposing.

  Besides, it would indeed make a little break for her.

  So, faced with all of this, what could Marsha say?

  Therefore she said it with as great an appearance of joy and willingness as she could muster. Miss Myers would truly have been proud of her. Her personality is just as charming as her face! So would Old Knick-Knacks. Even the dreaded Mrs Troop would probably have given an approving nod. Marsha felt elated by her own performance. She momentarily determined to follow the ideal of Noble Behaviour throughout the remainder of her life.

  It is quite impossible not to be enchanted by her!

  Daisy thanked her very suitably (there! a further rebuke for any want of charity at the beginning) and told her she was one in a million but that she definitely mustn’t go to all the trouble and expense of putting fresh flowers in her bedroom. She asked if she should bring her own hot-water bottle.

  Then she rang off; having provided an assurance, unsolicited, that she would present herself on the Saturday: unsinkable, sunny side up, pestering the living daylights out of them. At four o’clock, she said, in time for tea.

  12

  Despite her black dress at his wedding Andrew couldn’t remember her. He could remember very little of his own wedding, in fact. Marsha had once said, “Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely if we could go through all of it a second time, feeling blissfully relaxed?” “Heaven forbid,” he had answered. Wholly deadpan, as usual. “What a card!” she’d informed all her friends, anxiously.

  Even not remembering her, even not remembering much of what he’d heard of her (his attention was inclined to wander if the conversation wasn’t to do with business or racing or politics) he was appalled by the news which Marsha tried to break to him extremely gently when he came home from work that evening. At first, yes, she desperately attempted gentleness. Yet he was so disgusted by the mere fact of Daisy’s dining with them on Saturday that Marsha thought it better to hurry the news of
her breakfasting with them on Sunday; in addition, of course, to her lunching with them a little later in the day. Extremely gentle, then, it wasn’t; but it was quick and clean and even merciful. She mentioned neither the certainty of afternoon tea on Saturday nor the strong probability of afternoon tea on Sunday.

  Not that, by this time, either of these points would have made much difference.

  “You’ll simply have to phone her back. Right now. This minute. Tell her that you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Oh, Andy, I couldn’t. What would I say?”

  “Tell her you’d forgotten we were going out. Or going away. No. Tell her you’d forgotten we were moving.”

  But the awful thing was: that it didn’t sound like a joke.

  Nevertheless she laughed. He must be recovering. This time he wasn’t going to sulk.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “If she comes—I go.”

  “Temporarily or permanently?”

  “No, I’m perfectly serious. We don’t need to have her for the whole damned weekend.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “At least you must put her off for Sunday.”

  “I can’t. I won’t. She seemed so pleased. Oh, I’ve just remembered, Andy. I’ve got you a little present. I’ll run and fetch it!”

  It was a small peace offering which she’d prepared in advance. Indeed, she’d rushed out to get it almost as soon as she had finished speaking to Daisy. She had taken it into the kitchen to give it a wash but had then forgotten all about it. She returned to the drawing room now, ceremoniously carrying a teaplate before her.

  “What—a peach?” he asked, as though it were something he had never seen till now.

  “Not just a common-and-garden peach,” she said—proudly—knowing how very fond he was even of those. “This is an English peach. I went off to the West End for it, especially. And there’s another in the pantry—but it looked more delicate, just bringing in the one. But both of them are for you,” she added hopefully, when he merely gazed at the extended plate and said nothing. “I’m told they have the most incredible flavour.”