Dance to Your Daddy

(4)

Binnie, whose boneheadedness was almost equalled by her kindness of heart, had left Rosamund a slip, a woollen frock and a cardigan. She informed Dame Beatrice of this loan during the few moments they had together before Romilly took the married couple to Wareham to catch their train.

'Too bad she shouldn't have proper clothes,' said Binnie. 'Humphrey doesn't know I've lent them to her, so you won't say anything, will you? He's always saying I'm stupid, and so I am. If he finds out about the dress and things, I shall say I did it to spite Uncle Romilly. He hates him, you see. If anybody does murder Uncle Romilly, it's almost sure to be Humphrey. I shouldn't really mind if Humphrey went to prison for a good long time. Could you get me a job as a model? I would prefer clothes, but artists or photographers would be all right. If it was an artist, I might be his mistress, mightn't I? I'd like to be somebody's mistress. I wouldn't mind if he beat me and we had to live on bread and cheese and beer. I'd like him to be tempestuous, like some of those people in the Wednesday plays. And we'd make love all night and scratch each other's eyes out all day (except when he'd be painting, of course), and my picture would be in all the picture galleries and the Academy, and all that, and everybody would say, 'Isn't she wonderful?' I'd love it, wouldn't I?'

'Yes, it would be very nice,' said Dame Beatrice. 'I think I hear them calling to you that the car is at the door. Thank you very much for lending Rosamund the clothes. It is most kind and thoughtful of you. If you'd care to give me your address, I will keep in touch with you.' Kitty Trevelyan, Laura's friend, she reflected, had her own salon (the foster-child, incidentally, of a prosperous hair-dressing establishment) and might be willing to give Binnie a trial. 'What are your-let me see now...'

'My statistics?' prompted Binnie. 'I'm classical.'

'By that you infer?'

'I don't infer. I know, Thirty-five, twenty-three, thirty-five-but Humphrey wouldn't like me to give you our address. He's ashamed of our little semi-detached.'

Dame Beatrice made a note.

'I will keep those figures in mind,' she said, 'but, of course, I make no promises. Goodbye, Mrs Provost.'

'Goodbye. I do like you,' said Binnie.

'Your kind words are reciprocated,' Dame Beatrice replied.

(5)

Once clear of Galliard Hall, Dame Beatrice stopped at a public telephone kiosk and rang up the Stone House in her own village of Wandles Parva. Laura answered, and was warned to expect her employer and a companion at some time during the afternoon, probably later rather than earlier.

The Wareham road took them past Sleeping Green and Winterborne Zelston to Blandford Forum, bland indeed in its eighteenth century elegance. This was the result of a fire which, in 1731, had destroyed most of the old town and caused it to be rebuilt in a fortunate style of architecture and with a unity of design unsurpassed except, perhaps, in parts of Dublin and Bath.

From Blandford the road ran due north, and a string of villages with their delightful Dorset names- Steepleton Iwerne, Iwerne Courtney, Iwerne Minster, Fontmell Magna, Melbury Abbas-came and went, along a road almost free of traffic.

The journey had begun with Tancred seated in front beside George, and Dame Beatrice beside Rosamund at the back, but after Dame Beatrice had made her telephone call she suggested that Rosamund might care to have Tancred beside her.

'Would he,' asked Rosamund, 'recite to me some more of his poetry?' So the change-over was effected and from time to time the poet's voice broke in on Dame Beatrice's thoughts. His work, she thought, was largely derivative. It was not difficult to pick out what he had been reading at the time of each short composition, and this, in so young a man, and one who fell short of possessing any very striking talent, did not surprise her. What she did find interesting was his obvious lack of interest in anything much later than the 1930s.

'Oh, were my love the sleeping fields,

And I the all-embracing snow,' intoned Tancred in the snuffing voice of a man reciting his own poetry,

'I would enfold her dreaming peace

And veil her lovely brow.'

There was rhyme, rhythm and a certain artlessness about the stuff which had its own attraction, Dame Beatrice decided. She listened to the rest of the short lyric. Later on-with Rosamund saying never a word of praise or criticism-one of the poems showed an even clearer derivation.

'Greatest Lover, ere my youth be gone,

Give me lovely things to muse upon-

Poets' griefs and songs, and lovers' joys,

Girls and sleeping babes and laughing boys;

Pools where the lazy fish serenely lie,

And ploughland furrows mounting to the sky;

Rounded hills where dream the older gods;

Goatfoot prints of Pan on country roads.'

The sestet which followed, to complete the sonnet, was less derivative and therefore less successful, Dame Beatrice thought. Tancred was seated directly behind her, so that it was easy enough-although she did it only once-to turn her head and glance at Rosamund, leaning back in her corner behind George with closed eyes and a slight smile. Rosamund, there could be no doubt of it, was thoroughly happy. There was a pause-dramatic effect, no doubt-and then Tancred began again. This was meant to be the words of a song, he explained.