The Art of Love. Elizabeth Edmondson

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СКАЧАТЬ bloody photographer, make sure of that, he won’t be taking any more spiteful shots of us or anybody else. I shall miss you, of course, but it can’t be helped.’

      Cynthia had wanted to demur at this high-handed arrangement of her affairs, but it was Walter’s way, and her husband accepted the news of her departure with some relief. ‘Best thing. You’re newsworthy, now your name’s been publicly linked with Sir Walter, and it makes me look a bit of a fool, really, I’d be glad if you felt like going.’

      Walter set to work, booking the best suite on the next boat to sail, rather to Cynthia’s dismay, and all set to despatch telegrams and letters to his numerous acquaintances and business contacts in America.

      ‘There’s absolutely no need,’ Cynthia said crossly. ‘As it happens, I have family in America, my first cousin is married to an American and lives in Virginia, I can stay with them as long as I want. And I have a friend from my schooldays who lives in Boston, and friends in New York, I shall do perfectly well, thank you, Walter. Indeed, I don’t suppose I’ll have enough time to see all the people I want. I’ll have some clothes made as well,’ she added. ‘I’ve seen some lovely designs by Mainbocher worn by American women in London, I plan to give him a try.’

      ‘You could order your wedding dress. Blue, I like you in blue.’

      That was going too far. She would choose her own dress for that ceremony, in a colour of her choosing, and it would come from Paris, not from America.

      She stirred in her seat at the sound of voices. An English family had ventured into the garden lounge, a father and mother and two young women who must be their daughters. They were laughing and talking, but then one of the girls caught sight of Cynthia. Her clear young voice floated through the air.

      ‘I say, Mummy, isn’t that Mrs Harkness? The one who…’

      Her mother sshed her.

      ‘Don’t you know them? Isn’t she some kind of relation of Daddy’s?’

      The younger girl was staring with unabashed curiosity. ‘I tell you what, she’s Harriet Harkness’s mother. Harriet was in my form at Rhindleys, but she had to leave the school last term, Mrs Youdall made her parents take her away, because of the divorce. They’ve sent her to St Monica’s.’

      And then the mother’s voice rang out, with the sharp arrogant edge that marked the self-righteous, indignant Englishwoman of her class who knew she held the moral high ground.

      ‘It’s a shocking way to behave, and her husband a war hero…’

      Cynthia remembered the woman’s name. Gardner, that was it. Rosemary Gardner. Dreadful woman. She turned her head and smiled at the little party. ‘Good evening, Mrs Gardner, isn’t it? Won’t you come and join me?’

      Without replying, the woman gave Cynthia a furious look and hustled her girls away, her husband following, after pausing briefly to give Cynthia a wry and apologetic smile.

      The cut direct, Cynthia said to herself, as she settled back in her seat. Was that what she could expect when she was back in England? In which case it wouldn’t be pleasant, either for her or for Harriet.

      Her mind floated back to thoughts of her wedding dress. How different her wedding to Walter would be from her first one. With Walter it would be the Ritz, no doubt, with lavish refreshments, and guests summoned from his parliamentary colleagues and those who had too much to gain from his acquaintance to snub him on account of his marrying a rather notorious divorcée. The fuss would die down soon enough, Cynthia was old and wise enough in the ways of society to know that. The faint stigma would remain, but as the wife of an immensely rich and successful man she need care little for that.

      As she looked out through the glass to the dark seas beyond, her mind took her back to the tiny, cold church, where she and Ronnie had plighted their troth. They had been married by special licence. She had scraped together the money for it from her Post Office savings, and told Ronnie how to set about getting the licence. He had no money at all, there was no question of a reception at the Ritz or Savoy or anywhere else. No guests to cheer the young couple — the very young couple, for they were both only sixteen — on their way to their new life. The witnesses were a friend of Ronnie’s, a tongue-tied lad, a fellow soldier, ill at ease in his boots, who looked horrified at the whole affair, and, since the other witness who had promised to come never turned up, an obliging passer-by, who had consented to act as witness for the princely sum of half a crown.

      ‘I had to tell such lies to get the licence,’ Ronnie said as they came out of the church, the priest’s unconvinced-sounding blessing ringing in their ears. No church bells, no kisses and congratulations, just a street with indifferent passers-by, never a glance for the newlyweds. Ronnie was in uniform, she had worn a grey woollen frock; she couldn’t risk wearing anything less ordinary or she would have attracted the attention of her mother or her older sister.

      They had gone straight back to Ronnie’s digs. An attic room, where they had fallen into bed, hungry again for each other’s bodies, lips, arms, hands legs entwining, desperate to lose themselves in one another.

      What had brought all this back to mind? It wasn’t just the thought of the wedding that lay ahead of her, no, there was more to it than that. These were memories that had been locked away in her mind, memories from half her lifetime ago. Why should they surface now?

      It was that man going up the gangway. The tourist-class gangway. He was hatless, and halfway up, he had pushed his hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand, a gesture that brought back with extraordinary resonance the young Ronnie, who used to smooth his hair back in exactly that way. This man was rather like Ronnie, come to think of it, very much the same type. What a wonderful body Ronnie had had. Unscarred by the battles he was going off so blithely to face.

      ‘I wouldn’t have signed up if I’d known I was going to meet you,’ he’d said. He lied about his age at the recruiting office, just as he had lied to obtain the special licence. But by that stage in the war, with a desperate need for men, and with Ronnie being big and tall and looking older than he was, no questions had been asked.

      ‘If you hadn’t been a soldier, we would never have met.’

      Cynthia had been helping Helen, her much older sister, with her voluntary work, making and serving tea to the troops. Cynthia had poured out a mug of hot strong tea, stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar and handed it down to the handsome young soldier who’d told her that he liked his tea strong and very sweet.

      Cynthia looked into a pair of the most astonishingly blue eyes, and was transfixed. The whole of her being vibrated with entirely unfamiliar sensations, and then the spell was broken, Helen sharply telling her to stop daydreaming, and another soldier jostling the blue-eyed man aside and demandingly holding out his hand for his mug of tea.

      The blue-eyed soldier was waiting for her when she had finished for the day. Helen had wanted her to wait, she was only going to be another half hour or so, seeing everything was put away, and then they could go home together. But Cynthia, who was usually the most obedient of girls, had demurred. ‘I want to get home,’ she said. ‘I’ve things to do. I can go on the Underground by myself, I’ll be perfectly all right.’

      A woman came up with news of a malfunctioning tea urn, distracting Helen’s attention, and Cynthia had slipped away.

      They walked to the Underground together, and he got on the train and sat beside her. They didn’t speak much, but laughed together as a child in the seat opposite, cuddling a shabby toy rabbit, pulled faces СКАЧАТЬ