She nodded. ‘He’s outside with the children. He always loves fireworks. ’ Behind her, the anteroom was suddenly filling up again, as some of the contents of the drawing room beyond spilled out to take advantage of another way outside. Serena started towards them. I fell into step beside her as we passed through the open French windows and in a moment we were enveloped in the sudden chill of the now dark, night air. Further along to the right, the rest of the house’s guests were emerging from the doors of the Tapestry Drawing Room itself and the wide terrace was already becoming quite crowded. Another rocket, another bang, another twinkling shower, another ooh. ‘Andrew, look who’s here.’
It is still an offence to me that, of all people on earth, she should have married Andrew Summersby. How could my goddess have married this clottish beast of burden willingly? At least Shakespeare’s Titania chose Bottom when she was on drugs. My Titania picked her Bottom when stone-cold sober and with her eyes wide open. Obviously, we all knew that Lady Claremont had propelled her daughter towards it, as in those days she did not question the accepted wisdom that a mother’s job was to promote a suitable marriage, and a husband of equal rank and fortune trumped every trick. And obviously we all knew that Lady Belton was pushing from the other side until her shoulder must have been out of joint. But even so, it was hard to understand at the time, and harder still now, looking back. I wondered silently if Lady Claremont, with the different values and awarenesses of the modern world, would have promoted the match quite so furiously today. I rather thought not. But what good are such contemplations? If my grandmother had had wheels, she would have been a trolley car.
Andrew’s stupid, bovine face, wider and flatter and redder and, if possible, even more repulsive than when I knew him, turned blankly towards me, with a solemn, self-inflating nod. ‘Hello,’ he said, without any question or courtesy to mark the gap since we last met.
Bridget had now found her way to us through the crowd and she chose this moment to curl her arm through mine in a deliberately possessive manner, advertising ownership, smiling smugly at Serena as she did so, all of which I found incredibly irritating but I did not show it. ‘May I present Bridget FitzGerald?’ I nodded towards my companions. ‘Andrew and Serena Summers-’ I corrected myself. This was wrong. Andrew’s father was dead, which I knew. I just wasn’t thinking. ‘Sorry. Andrew and Serena Belton.’ Serena smiled and shook Bridget’s hand, but Andrew for some reason looked rather insulted and raised his glance back towards the fireworks. I thought at the time it was because I had got his name wrong, but I have a horrible suspicion, knowing his absolute lack of brain or imagination, that he had objected to being introduced to a stranger of lower rank as anything other than ‘Lord Belton.’ You may find this suggestion hard to believe, but I can assure you he was not alone among perfectly genuine toffs in this brand of foolishness, which takes the form of imitating the clothes and customs of their fathers from half a century ago and more. This is in the mistaken belief that it is an indicator of their good breeding, as opposed to absolute proof of their idiocy,
Serena continued blithely on, as if his rudeness were quite normal, which I suppose to her it was. ‘This is my daughter, Mary. And my son, Peniston.’ The introduction was for Bridget’s benefit. I smiled and said hello, which greeting was returned by Mary pleasantly, as I willingly concede, and Peniston also held out his hand. They clearly knew who I was, which was pathetically gratifying. Serena smiled too, enjoying the presence of her children. ‘When did you last see them?’
‘In another lifetime, I’m afraid.’ I smiled and shook the young man’s hand in my turn. ‘I won’t mention the girl in sulks over having to wear some party dress she hated, or the boy in blue rompers, peddling his first tricycle round the kitchen.’
‘That’s a relief,’ said Peniston.
‘I remember that dress,’ said Mary. ‘Granny sent it and it was covered in the most hideous smocking, like an illustration from a Jack and Jill reader in the Fifties. I screamed the place down rather than wear it and I would do the same today.’ We laughed, and I found myself revising my opinion of Mary, even if her resemblance to Andrew was very off-putting. Through all this, Bridget looked blank and Andrew once again assumed the expression of affront that I could already tell had become habitual. There was no obvious reason for this, although it might have been because the reference to his daughter’s tantrums or his heir’s rompers, or perhaps to his wife’s kitchen, was some piece of iniquitous lese majeste on my part. I neither knew nor cared.
But the young siblings eased the touchy moment by chatting away about mundane things and Andrew’s gaucheness was soon forgotten. Presumably Peniston and his sister often had to perform this service to cover the tracks of their tiresome Papa. I was not, in truth, much disposed to like the new Viscount Summersby, as he now was, since his very name still made me shudder, but even I had to admit he seemed a nice fellow. I can’t pretend he was exactly attractive, being overweight and shortish, and if his face was pleasant, it was not good-looking. But then again, my impression of him may be suspect. Most men, or women too for aught I know, have ambivalent feelings towards the children of those they once loved. Particularly if it was not their choice to end the relationship. In a way these boys and girls, symbols of some horrible misjudgement by the gods, should never have been born if things had gone right. Yet it’s not their fault, is it? As one usually comes to see in the end. So it was for me, with Mary Wintour and Peniston Summersby. The news of their impending births had cut me like a knife from fore to aft, but of course, presented with this nice man, this agreeable woman, it was quite a different matter, and even I could see it wasn’t fair to hate them because their father was a blockhead and their mother broke my heart. There wasn’t much of Serena in either of them, to be honest, and even less as they had grown. As a little girl, Mary had been a miniature of Andrew, far more than her brother, but on that night he too looked more like his father, if he looked at all like either. Happily for them and for their prospects, neither seemed to resemble Andrew in charm.
Peniston smiled. ‘Granny was frightfully excited when she spotted you. She’s terribly proud to know a real novelist. She’s read everything you’ve ever written.’›
‘I’m flattered.’ I was. And astonished. Suddenly it was less extraordinary that I’d been found among the crowd.
‘She just loves knowing a writer. Most of her friends have the greatest difficulty reading to the end of a restaurant bill.’ A pretty woman in her early thirties had joined us. ‘This is my wife, Anne.’
‘What he says is quite true. Roo’s thrilled you’re here. She’s got all your books, you know. I expect she’s lining them up for you to sign.’
‘She has only to ask.’ Since Lady Claremont’s interest in my work presumably implied an albeit slight interest in me, I was amused that in forty years she had never invited me to a single gathering either here at Gresham or in London, nor made the smallest attempt to reestablish contact. Why was that, if her fascination with my career was so great? At the time, my paranoia immediately attributed the cause to the Estoril evening, but I am fairly sure now that I was wrong. Occasionally one does come across this curious diffidence on the part of the posh and there is nothing sinister or deflating in it. I suppose it is the flip side of their tendency to patronise. They are still marking the absolute divide between their world and yours, but in this case it is demonstrated by a kind of modesty, a tacit recognition that their muscular, social powers may not always impress those who have other choices.
‘You’re missing everything.’ Andrew’s voice cut across our merriment, and we obediently turned our attention back to the fireworks. Fizz, bang, ooh. Fizz, bang, ooh. The display ended with what should have been a very impressive showing of the Gresham crest, a rearing lion holding a flag of some sort. In the event it didn’t quite work, as most of the lion’s head failed to ignite, rendering the image faintly macabre, but even so it delivered a reasonably big finish. And then it was over, and time for the guests, inside and out, those not staying the night
