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Authors: Snobs (V2.0)
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good-looking. No question about that. But who on earth is she?'
I smiled down at her. 'She's a great friend of mine,' I said.
'Oops,' said Lady Tenby, and we continued in silence.
I later learned that the Countess of Tenby was the widowed mother of four daughters and, as Lady Uckfield's second cousin, had always rather hoped to get Charles for one of them. It was not an unreasonable ambition. They were nice girls and quite pleasant of face. Any one of them would probably have made him happy. In the end only the eldest, Lady Daphne, married at all 'well' in their mother's opinion (and he was a younger son), two married routine Hoorays and the youngest and best-looking went to California to live with the founder of a rather sinister sect. The point being that Lady Tenby was not a nasty or an unreasonable woman. She had put in many years work on her daughters for what were to be meagre dividends and now, this evening, she had been invited to witness the triumph of an interloper, a stranger who had stolen into their camp under cover of darkness and made off with the fattest sheep of all. Of course she would smile and congratulate and kiss but then she would go home and say how marvellous Googie and Tigger had been, how nobody would have known they were disappointed, how the girl was, after all,
very
pretty and seemed
fond
of Charles. And forever Edith would be marked as a lucky outsider.
Dinner was delicious, which was a surprise. I had been expecting the usual country house fare dispensed by my parents' generation, more redolent of a girls' prep school than the kitchens of the Ivy but I was not then used to Lady Uckfield's command of detail. I had Lady Tenby on my left and I spent the first course in one of those are-you-an-actor-what-might-I-have-seen-you-in conversations, which are so disheartening, but when the plates were taken away and I was allowed to turn to my companion on my right, I found myself talking to a rather hard-faced but intriguing woman of about my own age who introduced herself as Charles's sister, Caroline.
'So you're an old friend of Edith?' she said.
'I don't know how "old". I've known her about a year and a half.'
'Longer than we have,' she said with a crisp little laugh.
'And do you think you're going to like her?' I asked.
'I don't know,' said Caroline, looking down the table to where Edith was flirting gently with her future father-in-law. 'As a matter of fact I think I might. But is she going to like Charles? That's the question.'
This was of course the question. I followed my neighbour's gaze to where Charles was sitting, his heavy, good-natured face frowning over what was in all probability a rather small intellectual problem being posed by his neighbour. I wondered if Edith had faced up to how thick he really was. Or, for that matter, to how bleak the country can be. Caroline was reading my mind. 'It's frightfully dreary down here, you know. I suppose Edith's ready for all that? Flower shows all summer, freezing pipes all winter. Does she hunt?'
'She rides so she probably could hunt.'
'I don't suppose it matters much. With the antis about to kill it off at any moment.'
'Perhaps she's an anti and doesn't approve. You never know these days.'
'Oh, I doubt Edith is anti-blood sport,' said Caroline carefully. 'She looks quite carnivorous to me.'
'What about you? Do you hunt?'
'Heavens no. I hate the country. I don't even go to Hyde Park if I can avoid it.'
'What does your husband do? Or is it common to ask?'
'It is. But I'll answer anyway. Mainly advertising but he also organises charity events.'
I have often thought how simple it must have been to live a hundred years ago when every man one knew was in the army, the navy, the Church, or owned land. These extraordinary jobs one hears about every day, that one never even knew existed, have an unsettling effect on me. Headhunting or working in futures, credit management or people skills, as explanations they all sound as if one were
I smiled down at her. 'She's a great friend of mine,' I said.
'Oops,' said Lady Tenby, and we continued in silence.
I later learned that the Countess of Tenby was the widowed mother of four daughters and, as Lady Uckfield's second cousin, had always rather hoped to get Charles for one of them. It was not an unreasonable ambition. They were nice girls and quite pleasant of face. Any one of them would probably have made him happy. In the end only the eldest, Lady Daphne, married at all 'well' in their mother's opinion (and he was a younger son), two married routine Hoorays and the youngest and best-looking went to California to live with the founder of a rather sinister sect. The point being that Lady Tenby was not a nasty or an unreasonable woman. She had put in many years work on her daughters for what were to be meagre dividends and now, this evening, she had been invited to witness the triumph of an interloper, a stranger who had stolen into their camp under cover of darkness and made off with the fattest sheep of all. Of course she would smile and congratulate and kiss but then she would go home and say how marvellous Googie and Tigger had been, how nobody would have known they were disappointed, how the girl was, after all,
very
pretty and seemed
fond
of Charles. And forever Edith would be marked as a lucky outsider.
Dinner was delicious, which was a surprise. I had been expecting the usual country house fare dispensed by my parents' generation, more redolent of a girls' prep school than the kitchens of the Ivy but I was not then used to Lady Uckfield's command of detail. I had Lady Tenby on my left and I spent the first course in one of those are-you-an-actor-what-might-I-have-seen-you-in conversations, which are so disheartening, but when the plates were taken away and I was allowed to turn to my companion on my right, I found myself talking to a rather hard-faced but intriguing woman of about my own age who introduced herself as Charles's sister, Caroline.
'So you're an old friend of Edith?' she said.
'I don't know how "old". I've known her about a year and a half.'
'Longer than we have,' she said with a crisp little laugh.
'And do you think you're going to like her?' I asked.
'I don't know,' said Caroline, looking down the table to where Edith was flirting gently with her future father-in-law. 'As a matter of fact I think I might. But is she going to like Charles? That's the question.'
This was of course the question. I followed my neighbour's gaze to where Charles was sitting, his heavy, good-natured face frowning over what was in all probability a rather small intellectual problem being posed by his neighbour. I wondered if Edith had faced up to how thick he really was. Or, for that matter, to how bleak the country can be. Caroline was reading my mind. 'It's frightfully dreary down here, you know. I suppose Edith's ready for all that? Flower shows all summer, freezing pipes all winter. Does she hunt?'
'She rides so she probably could hunt.'
'I don't suppose it matters much. With the antis about to kill it off at any moment.'
'Perhaps she's an anti and doesn't approve. You never know these days.'
'Oh, I doubt Edith is anti-blood sport,' said Caroline carefully. 'She looks quite carnivorous to me.'
'What about you? Do you hunt?'
'Heavens no. I hate the country. I don't even go to Hyde Park if I can avoid it.'
'What does your husband do? Or is it common to ask?'
'It is. But I'll answer anyway. Mainly advertising but he also organises charity events.'
I have often thought how simple it must have been to live a hundred years ago when every man one knew was in the army, the navy, the Church, or owned land. These extraordinary jobs one hears about every day, that one never even knew existed, have an unsettling effect on me. Headhunting or working in futures, credit management or people skills, as explanations they all sound as if one were
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