The Forget-Me-Not Sonata(14)

‘Fine for a flirt but not for life,’ Cynthia added. ‘One wants a man who’s reliable and solid, like an oak tree. My Ernie was an oak tree if ever there was one.’

‘An oak tree!’ Charlo exclaimed. ‘More like a twig. After you’d whipped him into shape there was precious little left of the man.’

‘Really, Charlo, sometimes you go too far,’ Diana chided.

‘Don’t bother getting into the ring, Diana,’ said Cynthia with a smile, ‘I’m more than capable of defending myself and Ernie, God rest his soul. Charlo, not one of your three husbands was an oak tree.’

‘Well, you’re right about that,’ she agreed, dipping her brush into the paint and resuming her work. ‘Perhaps I’ll have better luck with the fourth,’ she added provocatively.

Cynthia raised her eyebrows. ‘Ah,’ she sighed, unable to resist the bait. ‘Colonel Blythe is more of an oak tree. Fourth time lucky, perhaps.’ Charlo’s pale face smarted with embarrassment beneath her sunhat.

‘Colonel Blythe?’ exclaimed Diana and Phyllida in unison, rising to peer over the top of their easels as quickly as their old legs could lift them.

Cynthia was triumphant. ‘How many times has he asked you to marry him?’ she demanded. ‘Come on!’ Charlo stiffened on her stool and lifted her chin in an effort to maintain her composure. She had no intention of marrying the colonel. He only asked her for sport. He enjoyed the game, that was all.

‘Twice,’ she replied nonchalantly. Phyllida and Diana stared at each other in amazement.

‘And what did you tell him?’ Cynthia continued.

‘Oh, really, this is all very childish,’ Charlo protested, putting down her brush and standing up.

‘Well, Charlo, what did you tell him?’ Diana insisted, then turned to Cynthia, ‘What did she tell him?’

‘I told him,’ said Charlo, articulating her words with emphasis, ‘that I have a nasty habit of burying my husbands. I don’t think he’ll ask me again.’

‘Poor Colonel Blythe,’ Phyllida sighed, sitting down again. ‘What has an old man like him got to look forward to?’

Charlo rolled her eyes and strode into the house.

Audrey had spent those six weeks by the sea in a wistful, romantic vapour, placing herself among the whimsical heroines of the novels she read. She had lain on the sand, silently playing out scenes in her imagination where Louis loved her, acting out each moment of their courtship in exhaustive detail until her desires had penetrated her dreams and she had longed to stay in bed in the mornings to make them last. No one had noticed the faraway look in her eyes because she had always been distracted, ever since she was a child. Her mother put it down to the romantic novels she consumed while Aunt Hilda complained that she shouldn’t read such rubbish for it was turning her mind into cotton wool. ‘Love never did anything for anyone,’ she commented sourly. ‘Look at Romeo and Juliet.’

Audrey had returned to Hurlingham full of anticipation. Excited and nervous at the prospect of seeing Louis again she was thrilled to be back in the same city as he, breathing the same air. But Audrey was to be bitterly disappointed. When she heard from her mother and Aunt Edna that Louis was fast disgracing himself at the Club she hid her mortification behind a determined smile then cried later when she was alone in the garden. She sat on her mother’s rose bench and sobbed with frustration. Her dreams were felled before they had even had time to grow. A romance with Louis was impossible and there was precious little she could do about it. The first she heard of her mother’s hopes for her and Cecil was when she overheard her talking with her sisters beneath the leafy vine which now reminded her of Louis like everything else in the garden.

‘But he’s only just arrived,’ Rose protested, shaking her head and frowning. ‘I believe everyone deserves a chance. After all, appearances can be deceptive.’

‘Sometimes appearances are a true reflection of the person’s character,’ Aunt Hilda insisted, pursing her thin lips together in disapproval. ‘In Louis’s case he’s as sloppy as those funny trousers he wears. You can imagine what the Crocodiles are saying.’

With agitated fingers Aunt Edna tapped the string of round amber beads that dripped over her bosom like shiny pebbles and snorted in irritation. ‘Those Crocodiles are so malicious,’ she declared. ‘It’s because he didn’t fight in the war. I’m sure he had good reason.’

‘Does he look like he has a legitimate reason? A limp, one hand?’ Aunt Hilda interjected briskly. ‘No excuse.’