Part 16 (1/2)
”Not very long. I met him in May.”
”Love at first sight, hm?”
”I don't know. I suppose so.”
”How old are you?”
”Eighteen.”
”That's awfully young to settle down. Not that I can see that Anthony settling down too much for a few years yet.”
”He'll have to,” Virginia told her. ”You see, we're going to live in Scotland. Anthony's been left this estate, Kirkton . . . it used to belong to an uncle who was a bachelor. And we're going to go and live there.”
”You mean, you think Anthony will spend all his time tramping around in a tweed suit with mud on his boots?”
”Not exactly. But I can't believe that living in Scotland is going to be quite the same as living in London.”
”It won't,” said Janey, who had been there.
”But don't expect the simple life, or you'll be disappointed.”
But Virginia did expect the simple life. She had never seen Kirkton, never been to Scotland for that matter, but she had once spent an Easter holiday with a schoolfriend who lived in Northumberland and somehow she imagined that Scotland would be rather like that, and that Kirkton would be a low-ceilinged, rambling, stone farmhouse, with flagged floors, and worn Turkey carpets, and a dining-room with a great log lire and hunting prints on the walls.
Instead, she was presented with a tall, square, elegantly proportioned Adam house, with sash windows full of reflected suns.h.i.+ne, and a flight of stone stairs which led, from the carriage sweep, up to the front door.
Beyond the gravel was gra.s.s, and then a haha wall, and then the park, landscaped with giant beeches, sloping down to the distant silver curve of the river.
Overwhelmed, silent, Virginia had followed Anthony up the steps and through the door. The house was empty, old-fas.h.i.+oned and unfurnished. Between them they were going to do it up. To Virginia the task seemed daunting, but when she said as much Anthony overrode her.
”We'll get Philip Sayer on to it, he's this interior decorator my mother got to do the house in London for her. Otherwise we'll make the most ghastly mistakes and the place will be a mess.”
Virginia privately thought she preferred her own ghastly mistakes to somebody else's impeccable taste-it was more homely; but she said nothing.
”And this is the drawing-room, and then the library beyond. And the dining-room, and there are kitchens and stuff downstairs.”
The room soared and echoed, the icy prisms of crystal chandeliers glinted, dependent from ornately decorated ceilings. There was panelling and marvelous cornices over the tall windows. There was dust and a distinct feeling of chill.
They mounted to the first floor up a curved stairway, airy and elegant, and their steps echoed on the polished treads and through the empty house. Upstairs, there were bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, dressing-rooms, linen rooms, housemaid's cupboards, even a boudoir.
”What would I do with a boudoir?” Virginia wanted to know.
”You can come and boud in it, and if you don't know what that means, it's French for sulk. Oh, come on, take that horrified expression off your face and look as though you're enjoying yourself.”
”It's just so big.”
”You talk as though it were Buckingham Palace.'
”I've never been in such a big house. I certainly never thought I would live in one.”
”Well, you're going to, so you'd better get used to it.”
Eventually they were outside again, standing by the car, staring up at the elegant front elevation, regularly s.p.a.ced with windows. Virginia put her hands deep in the pockets of her coat and said, ”Where's the garden?”
”What do you mean?”
”I mean flower-beds and stuff. Flowers. You know. A garden.”
But the garden was a half-mile away, enclosed in a wall. They drove there and went inside and found a gardener and rows of fruit and vegetables like soldiers, waiting to be picked off.
”This is the garden,” said Anthony.
”Oh,” said Virginia.
”What's that meant to mean?”
”Nothing. Just oh.”
The interior decorator duly arrived. Hard on his heels came vans and lorries, builders, plasterers, painters, men with carpets, men with curtains, men in pan-technicons which spilled out furniture like cornucopias, endlessly, as though they would never run out.
Virginia let it all happen. ”Yes,” she would say, agreeing to whatever shade of velvet Philip Sayer was suggesting. Or ”Yes” when he thought of Victorian bra.s.s bedsteads in the spare room, and thick white crochet bedcovers. ”Terribly Osborne, my dear, you know, Victorian Country Life.”
The only time that she had raised her voice with an independent idea was over the kitchen. She wanted it like the one she remembered, the marvellous room at Penfolda with its air of stability, the suggestion in the air of good things cooking, the cat in the chair and the geraniums crowded on the window-sill.
”A farmhouse kitchen! That's what I want. A farmhouse kitchen's like a living-room.”
”Well, I'm not going to live in any kitchen, I'll tell you that.”
And she had let Anthony have his way because, after all, it was not her house, and it was not her money which paid for the stainless steel sinks, and the black and white floor and the patent self-cleaning cooking unit with eye-level grill, and a spit for broiling chickens.
It was finished and Virginia was pregnant.
”How marvellous for Nanny!” said Lady Keile.
”Why?”
”Well, darling, she's in London, doing temporary work, but she's longing, but longing for a new baby. Of course she won't be all that keen on leaving London, but she's bound to make friends, you know what this Nanny's network's like, better than the English Speaking Union I always say. And that top floor is meant to be a nursery, you can tell by the gate at the top of the stairs, and the bars on the windows. Gorgeously sunny. I think pale blue, don't you? For carpets, I mean, and then French chintz curtains . . .”
Virginia tried to stand up for herself. To say, No. I will look after my own baby. But she was so sick carrying Cara, so weak and unwell, that by the time she once again felt strong enough to cope with the situation and stand on her own two feet, the nursery had been decorated and Nanny was there, established, rigid, immovable.
I'll let her stay. Just until the baby's born and I'm on my feet again. She can stay for a month or two, and then I'll tell her that she can go back to London because I want to look after my baby for myself.
But by then, there were further complications. Virginia's mother, in London, complained of pains and tiredness; she thought she was losing weight. Virginia at once went south to see her, and after that, her loyalties were torn between her baby in Scotland and her mother in London. Travelling up and down in the train it became very clear that it would be madness to get rid of Nanny until Mrs. Parsons had recovered. But of course, she didn't recover and, by the time the whole ghastly nightmare was over, Nicholas had arrived and, with two babies in the nursery, Nanny was dug in for good.
At Kirkton they were surrounded, within a radius of ten miles or so, by a number of entertaining neighbours. Young couples with time and money to spare, some with young children like the Keiles', all with interests which matched Anthony's.
For appearances' sake, he put in a certain amount of time on the farm, talking to McGregor, the grieve, finding out what McGregor thought should be done, and then telling McGregor to do it. The rest of the day was his own, and he used it to the full, doing exactly what he wanted. Scotland is a country geared to the pleasures of menfolk, and there was always shooting to be got, grouse in the summer, and partridges and pheasants in the autumn and winter. There were rivers to be fished and golf courses and a social life which was even gayer than the one he had left behind in London.
Virginia did not fish or play golf and Anthony would not have invited her to join him even if she had wanted to. He preferred the company of his men-friends, and she was expected to be present only when they had been invited specifically as a couple. To a dinner or a dance, or perhaps to lunch before a point-to-point, when she would go through agonies trying to decide what to put on, and inevitably turn up in what everybody had been wearing last year.
She was still shy. And she didn't drink so there seemed no artificial way of getting over this terrible defect. The men, Anthony's friends, obviously thought her a bore. And their wives, though kind and friendly, terrified her with their private jokes and their incomprehensible references to places and persons and events known only to them. They were like a lot of girls who had all been to the same school.