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Authors: R. F. Delderfield
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cornfields’ she added gaily, ‘I’ll warrant Paul and Claire and the rest of them back in the Valley go to bed on something more substantial than powdered egg and mousetrap cheese.’
‘Claire and others might,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I can’t see the Old Man using the black market. He’s too damned self-righteous for that!’
‘I like him,’ Margaret said, unexpectedly, ‘I always have, from the moment Andy first took me there. Did you know that?’
‘No,’ he said, pleased with the admission, ‘I don’t think I did. I suppose I thought you took the Old Man for granted like the rest of us. What is it you like about him?’
She considered. ‘His honesty and singlemindedness. That place of his, that funny little Valley, it’s the whole of him and always has been, and I can understand how a man would feel about land he owns. That’s the Celt in me I suppose, even though I’m South-Walesian and that isn’t the same anymore. But my Granfer came from Merionethshire, and that’s about as far Welsh as you can get. Not a soul speaks English up there and they still look on you ruffians as invaders.’ She paused a moment and looked down at her empty plate, so that he thought she was remembering Wales but she wasn’t for when she looked up and smiled she said, ‘He knows exactly where he’s going and so does Claire and that’s rare these days, Stevie.’
It was strange hearing her talk like this about his mother and father, for he rarely gave either one of them a thought, except as a couple of affectionate, sporting old stick-in-the muds, nose-deep in the remote provinces and surrounded by a horde of chawbacons who used a lingo that was standard dialogue between a comedian and his bucolic feed posing as one of the audience. He said, suddenly, ‘Why don’t you go back there, Margy? They’d be delighted to have you for the duration!’ but she shook her head, saying ‘Ah, no! No, no! You and Andy and Monica spoiled me for that kind of thing. There’s no going back, man!’ and before he could question this curious pronouncement she asked if she could have a cognac and he watched her sip it, remembering that in pre-war days she had had to be coaxed to take a second gin and Italian. She said briskly, ‘How about that Coward show? Gaspard could get tickets. Over the odds, of course. Are you flush?’
He asked her if they would take a cheque and she said this was easily arranged, Gaspard, the waiter, padding away like a Mediterranean pimp and returning ten minutes later with the promise of two rear stalls for Blithe Spirit that had been drawing London for months. ‘You’ve got the hang of things at last, Margy,’ he said, ‘and Andy would be proud of you.’ Then, realising that it was after seven o’ clock and that he had yet to book in at an Officers’ Club in Piccadilly, he said, ‘I haven’t told you a damned thing about Monica’s blitzkrieg!’
‘It’ll keep,’ she said, lightly, ‘we’re here to relax and you don’t have to trail around finding a bed. I’ve got a perfectly comfortable couch in the flat I share with Henrietta, who works at the Yank Embassy, and you can use it whenever you’re in town. Now give me a minute to fix myself and ask Gaspard to find a taxi. There’s no sense in walking when you can ride. One of Andy’s dictums, remember?’
As he sat waiting for her to rejoin him he began to wonder about her again, pondering her sudden switches from brittle small talk to flashes of nostalgia in which Andy, his parents, and even the Shallowford Valley were involved, almost as though she was putting up a front to prevent her real mood showing through. There was not much doubt in his mind that she was on edge, or that prolonged separation from Andy was having its effect upon nerves already frayed by the Battle of Britain. When she reappeared, however, he thought she looked prettier and saucier than ever and her lively mood persisted right through the comedy and
‘Claire and others might,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I can’t see the Old Man using the black market. He’s too damned self-righteous for that!’
‘I like him,’ Margaret said, unexpectedly, ‘I always have, from the moment Andy first took me there. Did you know that?’
‘No,’ he said, pleased with the admission, ‘I don’t think I did. I suppose I thought you took the Old Man for granted like the rest of us. What is it you like about him?’
She considered. ‘His honesty and singlemindedness. That place of his, that funny little Valley, it’s the whole of him and always has been, and I can understand how a man would feel about land he owns. That’s the Celt in me I suppose, even though I’m South-Walesian and that isn’t the same anymore. But my Granfer came from Merionethshire, and that’s about as far Welsh as you can get. Not a soul speaks English up there and they still look on you ruffians as invaders.’ She paused a moment and looked down at her empty plate, so that he thought she was remembering Wales but she wasn’t for when she looked up and smiled she said, ‘He knows exactly where he’s going and so does Claire and that’s rare these days, Stevie.’
It was strange hearing her talk like this about his mother and father, for he rarely gave either one of them a thought, except as a couple of affectionate, sporting old stick-in-the muds, nose-deep in the remote provinces and surrounded by a horde of chawbacons who used a lingo that was standard dialogue between a comedian and his bucolic feed posing as one of the audience. He said, suddenly, ‘Why don’t you go back there, Margy? They’d be delighted to have you for the duration!’ but she shook her head, saying ‘Ah, no! No, no! You and Andy and Monica spoiled me for that kind of thing. There’s no going back, man!’ and before he could question this curious pronouncement she asked if she could have a cognac and he watched her sip it, remembering that in pre-war days she had had to be coaxed to take a second gin and Italian. She said briskly, ‘How about that Coward show? Gaspard could get tickets. Over the odds, of course. Are you flush?’
He asked her if they would take a cheque and she said this was easily arranged, Gaspard, the waiter, padding away like a Mediterranean pimp and returning ten minutes later with the promise of two rear stalls for Blithe Spirit that had been drawing London for months. ‘You’ve got the hang of things at last, Margy,’ he said, ‘and Andy would be proud of you.’ Then, realising that it was after seven o’ clock and that he had yet to book in at an Officers’ Club in Piccadilly, he said, ‘I haven’t told you a damned thing about Monica’s blitzkrieg!’
‘It’ll keep,’ she said, lightly, ‘we’re here to relax and you don’t have to trail around finding a bed. I’ve got a perfectly comfortable couch in the flat I share with Henrietta, who works at the Yank Embassy, and you can use it whenever you’re in town. Now give me a minute to fix myself and ask Gaspard to find a taxi. There’s no sense in walking when you can ride. One of Andy’s dictums, remember?’
As he sat waiting for her to rejoin him he began to wonder about her again, pondering her sudden switches from brittle small talk to flashes of nostalgia in which Andy, his parents, and even the Shallowford Valley were involved, almost as though she was putting up a front to prevent her real mood showing through. There was not much doubt in his mind that she was on edge, or that prolonged separation from Andy was having its effect upon nerves already frayed by the Battle of Britain. When she reappeared, however, he thought she looked prettier and saucier than ever and her lively mood persisted right through the comedy and
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