came Maggie Baird, although no one, not even Alison, recognised her at first.
She was svelte and beautiful with golden hair in a soft, clever style and a wardrobe of clothes by Jean Muir. She had high cheekbones and her eyes were large and very blue. She walked into the kitchen where Alison was having coffee with Mrs. Todd and stood for a moment, relishing the dawning surprise on both faces.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said triumphantly, if ungrammatically,
“It can’t be,” breathed Alison. “I wouldn’t have known you. What have you done to yourself?”
“Best health farm and best plastic surgeon,” said Maggie, who had also acquired a new husky voice. “Gosh, it’s good to be back in Peasantville. Take my coat, Mrs. Todd. I’m expecting four guests tomorrow so I want you to get the beds ready. Hang that coat up and come back and I’ll tell you about it.”
Alison looked at the beautiful Maggie in a dazed way. Maggie, she reflected, was like a highly coloured butterfly that had emerged from a chrysalis of fat. Then sharp anguish struck Alison around the region of the midriff. The car! What would happen to her driving?
“Who are these four guests?” she asked instead.
“They are four fellows I used to know,” said Maggie, stretching and yawning. “I’ve decided the single state doesn’t suit me so I went through my old lists and came up with four who are likely to propose. There’s Peter Jenkins, he’s an advertising executive, Crispin Witherington who owns a car salesroom in Finchley, James Frame who runs a gambling club, and that pop singer, Steel Ironside.”
“I thought he was dead,” said Alison.
“Who?”
“Steel Ironside. He hasn’t made a record in years.”
“He’s alive, all right.”
“And you expect one of them to propose to you just like that?”
Maggie smiled slowly while Alison studied her aunt’s new face for wrinkles and couldn’t find one. “I expect all of them to propose. Oh, I don’t rate my charms all that much. They all need money and whichever one marries me will get it and so I’ll tell ‘em. Cuts you out, of course.”
“How does it cut me out?” asked Alison.
“Oh, I’d made my will out in your favour but I’ll change it as soon as I’ve made my choice.”
“How’s your heart?” asked Alison and then blushed.
“Hoping I’ll pop off before I change my will? Hard luck, sweetie.”
Mrs. Todd came back and Maggie began to tell her briskly what to do about preparing for the guests. If only Maggie
She longed for Hamish. In fact the only thing to lighten her misery at Maggie’s return was that it gave her a good excuse to visit Hamish. But, oh, that dreadfully long, long walk along the coast now that she could not use the car.
“Have you finished typing that manuscript for me?” Alison suddenly realised Maggie was speaking to her.
“Yes, it’s all typed up,” said Alison, quickly averting her eyes so that Maggie should not see the disgust in them. The manuscript had become increasingly pornographic as it went along. Until she had read Maggie’s book, Alison, who read a great deal, had thought that she knew every sexual kink and aberration there was, but Maggie’s writing had introduced her to a whole new and disgusting world of sleaze. Then Alison decided to take the plunge. Better to ask Maggie about the car, this new and relaxed Maggie, and to ask her while Mrs. Todd was present.
“I’ve a surprise for you, Maggie,” she said in a breathless rush. “I passed my driving test while you were away.” The words began to tumble out. It wasn’t Mrs. Todd’s fault. She, Alison, had told her that she had had Maggie’s permission to use the car, but Alison knew that dear Maggie wouldn’t really mind because…
Her voice trailed away before the glacial expression in Maggie’s now beautiful and large blue eyes.
“That is
She strode out, tottering slightly on her very high heels.
A few minutes later, there came the harsh sound of revving from the garage. Alison crossed to the kitchen window and looked out.
Maggie drove out of the garage. The entrance to the bungalow garden was narrow and flanked by two gateposts. As Alison watched, Maggie scraped the car along one of the gateposts on her way out. Alison let out a whimper of pain as if the car were a pet dog which was being tormented.
Mrs. Todd’s calm Scottish voice sounded behind her. “I think we’d better be getting on with our work, Miss Kerr. I do not need the help but it would be as well to keep herself happy on her first day back.”
Alison moved through the housework, feeling as though she were one mass of pain. That precious car that she had polished and waxed and oiled! Tears began to run down her face. She prayed to all the gods to strike Maggie Baird down.
“Come on now, lassie,” said Mrs. Todd. “If I was you, I would be getting the local papers and looking for a wee job. Take ye out o’ the house until you get on your feet.”
“How can I take a local job when I haven’t a car?” sobbed Alison.
“If ye’re that desperate,” said Mrs. Todd grimly, “ye’ll walk. It’s only fifteen miles to the village.”
But fifteen miles to town-bred Alison seemed impossible. She had done it once to go to ask Hamish about driving lessons. But to do it every day!
¦
It comes as quite a shock to the respectable female to find that quite ordinary and decent-looking men frequent tarts. When Alison first met Maggie’s four guests she was surprised to find that, with the exception of the failed pop singer, they all looked normal and ordinary. The fact that Maggie, in the old days, had been what would have been called a high flyer or good-time girl did not cut any ice with Alison. She had read Maggie’s manuscript and knew what she had got up to between the sheets – or in the woods, or up against walls, or on yachts – and did not realise that Maggie’s less-exotic liaisons had all been pretty normal and regular.
Crispin Witherington, the owner of the car sales room, was middle-aged, like the others. He had that glossy artificial look which comes from a lot of gin and saunas. He was slightly balding, with black restless eyes, a small button of a nose, and a prim little mouth. He was expensively if tastelessly dressed, his double-breasted blazer with some impossible crest draped across his stomach and the flowered handkerchief in his breast pocket matching his flowered tie.
James Frame, from the gambling club, was tall and willowy and rabbity looking. He had a strangulated voice and appeared to cultivate a ‘silly ass’ manner which he fondly imagined to be upper class. He had patent leather hair and smelled strongly of expensive aftershave.
The pop singer remained frozen in the age of Sergeant Pepper. He had grey shoulder-length hair, small half- moon glasses, a denim jacket and jeans, a flowered waistcoat with watch chain, and red leather shoes. He spoke with a strong Liverpudlian accent, nasal and irritating to the ear and somehow slightly phony as if he had adopted it during the Beatles era.
Finally, the advertising man, Peter Jenkins, was tall and fair with a thin, clever, rather weak face and a drawling voice. In normal circumstances, Alison would have been impressed by him, but as it was, Maggie’s bedroom antics came between her and her assessment of the four men although not one of them had featured in the memoirs.
The men all talked about their surprise at getting Maggie’s invitation and how marvellous she looked, while Maggie fluted and cajoled and flattered, exuding that air of maternal warmth that she seemed able to turn on at will. They all, with the exception of Maggie who had a salad and Alison who was too distressed to feel hungry, ate their way through an enormous meal.
It was when they were sitting over coffee after dinner that Maggie casually announced that she wanted to get married again and that any husband of hers would find himself a very rich man, “and probably sooner than he thinks,” said Maggie, one hand fluttering to her bosom. “Got this terrible dicky heart.”
It was all very neat, thought Alison, sensing the sudden stillness in the room. Maggie had said it all. She was rich and she hadn’t long to live. Then the conversation became general as the men began to reminisce about old
