entered into with care and consideration, was off to a good start. Uncle Archibald was a wise old bird. ‘We will choose a nice puppy,’ he said, ‘if you promise to be careful of the rugs.’
‘Rugs?’ She pretended not to understand.
‘When I take you on a tour of inspection, Mrs Peel, I will show you the rugs, some of them are very valuable, they should really be hung on a wall.’
Rose wondered how long it would amuse Ned to call her Mrs Peel. ‘I’ve read,’ she said, ‘that in Turkey they pen geese on new rugs to make them look old, then, when they’ve been thoroughly shat on, they are washed in the Bosphorus.’
‘I don’t like you using that word,’ said Ned.
‘All right,’ said Rose, ‘I won’t. I’m going to get up now. There’s no hurry about the dog. I think I’ll have a bitch. A dog might lift his leg against the Chippendale chairs. Don’t look like that, Ned, I’m only teasing. Here, take the tray.’ She thrust the tray towards him. ‘Let me have a bath and then I want to be shown round the house, introduced to every stick of furniture, every picture, every rug.’ She laughed, pushing the bedclothes back, exposing her legs. Her nightdress had ridden up her thighs; Ned could see her dark bush as she kicked clear of the bedclothes. ‘Give me half an hour, I’ll meet you in the garden.’
Ned would have liked to catch hold of her but his hands held the tray; he watched her skip into the bathroom and close the door, shutting him out.
Carrying the tray downstairs, Ned told himself that Rose was very young, malleable, that loving him she would also love his possessions. He put the tray on the kitchen table where Mrs Farthing would find it, then walked through the house and out into the garden.
While delighting in his inheritance, Ned did not feel passionately about the garden. Flowers were insubstantial, they faded, got eaten by slugs, died. It was natural to feel strongly about pictures, furniture, silver and rugs. Ned winced at the memory of Rose’s vulgar use of English. The garden, while aesthetically beautiful, was of no intrinsic worth apart, of course, from its value at so much an acre. Ned had a sneaking feeling that here he was lacking in sensitivity, that he ought to feel as passionately about the garden as he did for the house and its contents. Sitting on a stone seat in the sun, he tried to puzzle out this lack in himself, to pin it down. He picked up a stick and swished at a late wasp buzzing near some Japanese anemones. The wasp put on a burst of speed. Ned watched it go. Putting a value on his garden, he ruminated, was as slippery—slippery being the unwelcome word which came to mind—as setting a price on Rose. But surely not, he thought, kicking at a pebble on the path at his feet. He had picked Rose, chosen her with care, taken advice, used his judgement, his wits. I kept my wits about me, thought Ned, sitting in the warmth of late September watching butterflies swoop and hover over a clump of michaelmas daisies. I decided to have her, I picked her out of the crowd at that party, I made up my mind.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rose joined him sitting at the end of the stone seat, turning towards him: ‘You look so serious.’
‘I was thinking of the Malones’ winter tennis party where I first met you and …’
‘And?’
‘And I fell in love with you.’
‘Ah,’ said Rose disbelieving, and then, ‘I remember, I remember it well.’ She let out her breath in a sigh.
They had sat, the newly married pair, each remembering the winter tennis party.
9
N ED REMEMBERED UNCLE ARCHIBALD had said, ‘You have to start somewhere,’ holding out the invitation to the Malones’ tennis party. ‘There may be some possible girls. I know the Malones, they are old friends, they built that indoor court just after the war. Their winter tennis party is an event. They get people down from London and mix them with the local talent. It’s an annual do not to be missed,
‘Rugs?’ She pretended not to understand.
‘When I take you on a tour of inspection, Mrs Peel, I will show you the rugs, some of them are very valuable, they should really be hung on a wall.’
Rose wondered how long it would amuse Ned to call her Mrs Peel. ‘I’ve read,’ she said, ‘that in Turkey they pen geese on new rugs to make them look old, then, when they’ve been thoroughly shat on, they are washed in the Bosphorus.’
‘I don’t like you using that word,’ said Ned.
‘All right,’ said Rose, ‘I won’t. I’m going to get up now. There’s no hurry about the dog. I think I’ll have a bitch. A dog might lift his leg against the Chippendale chairs. Don’t look like that, Ned, I’m only teasing. Here, take the tray.’ She thrust the tray towards him. ‘Let me have a bath and then I want to be shown round the house, introduced to every stick of furniture, every picture, every rug.’ She laughed, pushing the bedclothes back, exposing her legs. Her nightdress had ridden up her thighs; Ned could see her dark bush as she kicked clear of the bedclothes. ‘Give me half an hour, I’ll meet you in the garden.’
Ned would have liked to catch hold of her but his hands held the tray; he watched her skip into the bathroom and close the door, shutting him out.
Carrying the tray downstairs, Ned told himself that Rose was very young, malleable, that loving him she would also love his possessions. He put the tray on the kitchen table where Mrs Farthing would find it, then walked through the house and out into the garden.
While delighting in his inheritance, Ned did not feel passionately about the garden. Flowers were insubstantial, they faded, got eaten by slugs, died. It was natural to feel strongly about pictures, furniture, silver and rugs. Ned winced at the memory of Rose’s vulgar use of English. The garden, while aesthetically beautiful, was of no intrinsic worth apart, of course, from its value at so much an acre. Ned had a sneaking feeling that here he was lacking in sensitivity, that he ought to feel as passionately about the garden as he did for the house and its contents. Sitting on a stone seat in the sun, he tried to puzzle out this lack in himself, to pin it down. He picked up a stick and swished at a late wasp buzzing near some Japanese anemones. The wasp put on a burst of speed. Ned watched it go. Putting a value on his garden, he ruminated, was as slippery—slippery being the unwelcome word which came to mind—as setting a price on Rose. But surely not, he thought, kicking at a pebble on the path at his feet. He had picked Rose, chosen her with care, taken advice, used his judgement, his wits. I kept my wits about me, thought Ned, sitting in the warmth of late September watching butterflies swoop and hover over a clump of michaelmas daisies. I decided to have her, I picked her out of the crowd at that party, I made up my mind.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rose joined him sitting at the end of the stone seat, turning towards him: ‘You look so serious.’
‘I was thinking of the Malones’ winter tennis party where I first met you and …’
‘And?’
‘And I fell in love with you.’
‘Ah,’ said Rose disbelieving, and then, ‘I remember, I remember it well.’ She let out her breath in a sigh.
They had sat, the newly married pair, each remembering the winter tennis party.
9
N ED REMEMBERED UNCLE ARCHIBALD had said, ‘You have to start somewhere,’ holding out the invitation to the Malones’ tennis party. ‘There may be some possible girls. I know the Malones, they are old friends, they built that indoor court just after the war. Their winter tennis party is an event. They get people down from London and mix them with the local talent. It’s an annual do not to be missed,
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