Corduroy Mansions

19. Unknown Boys

After their truncated conversation about mothers, Caroline and James moved into the kitchen to start baking biscuits. The maternal conversation had been brief, and indeed only covered the mother of one of them. Had the conversation developed more fully, then it might have progressed to deal with Caroline’s own mother, Frances Jarvis, about whom Caroline had a considerable amount to say. Had James merely asked, ‘What about your own mother, Caroline?’ there would have been a brief pause, as if to underline the significance of what was to follow, and then Caroline would have said, ‘My mother? Oh, James, where does one start?’

James would have smiled. ‘It’s never a simple question, is it? You never get people saying, “Oh yes, my mother. A very normal, integrated person. Nothing to say, really.” You don’t get that, do you?’

And Caroline would have agreed. ‘Never. But since you’ve asked about my mother, let me tell you.

‘Ever since I can remember - right back - my mother has had ambitions for me. Some mothers, I suppose, bring up their sons and daughters to do great things - to play the piano well, or to become tremendously good at some stupid sport, or to get the most fantastic exam results, or whatever. With my mother, all of that energy was focused on one thing - to make sure that I met the right sort of boys.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. Right from the beginning, when I was at nursery school, she spent a lot of time choosing my friends. They had to be nice. That was the word she used. They had to be nice. And if somebody wasn’t nice, then he was not allowed. That’s what she said: “Not very nice. Not allowed.”’

James would have sighed. ‘But all parents are like that. They have very clear ideas about who their children’s friends ought to be.’

Caroline would have conceded that point, but her mother, she felt, was in a different league from most parents. Her determination that Caroline should eventually marry a boy of whom she approved was single-minded and all-consuming. The teenage Caroline’s social programme was strictly vetted for suitability. Invitations to parties at the houses of boys who met maternal criteria were accepted with alacrity - by Frances, on behalf of Caroline - and those from dubious boys - unknown boys, as Frances called them, the sons of unknown parents - were turned down, again by Frances on behalf of her daughter.

‘I’m sorry, dear, we don’t know much about that boy. In fact, we know nothing about him at all. There’ll be plenty of other invitations.’

‘But I do know him! He’s not unknown at all. He’s really nice.’

‘He may well be, dear, but we don’t know that, do we? And unknown boys - well, we don’t really have to go into that, do we?’

Caroline would have indeed preferred to be able to go into all that. What exactly was the problem with unknown boys? What did unknown boys do, if anything, that known boys did not do? In her mind one thing at least was clear: the moment maternal authority was weakened and she was in a position to run her own life, she would seek out the company, without any delay, of the most unknown, the most obscure of boys.

Of course the motives behind her mother’s concern were transparent. Her ambition for Caroline was simple: marriage to a suitable boy. Anything else, in her mind, was merely preparatory to that objective. Caroline, however, thought differently. She might have sprung from a background in which a woman’s ideal destiny was to marry and settle down to the task of raising children, but this was not what she wanted to do. She wanted to study the history of art. She wanted to travel. She wanted to think for herself. She wanted to move among people who stimulated her - who had something to say. The sorts of boys thrown in her path by her mother were the antithesis of all that: they were dim, rather sporty boys from boarding schools with a reputation for rugby. Not what she wanted. She wanted a boy with style, a boy with a whiff of danger about him, a witty, artistically literate boy, a boy a bit like . . . James, come to think of it.

And now, standing with James in the kitchen as he paged through How to be a Domestic Goddess for a suitable recipe, she found herself thinking: perhaps it’s been obvious all along. Perhaps the reason why James is thinking of redefining himself is that he really wants me. Not girls in the abstract, but me.

It was an intriguing idea. And even more intriguing was the idea of explaining the situation to her mother. Frances had views on such matters. ‘Such boys, Caroline, are fine - in their place. Which is playing the piano, like Noël Coward or somebody like that.’ That is what Frances thought.

She glanced at James. He would probably make her breakfast in bed. He would even come shopping with her. They would go to lunch at Daylesford Organic round the corner and chat about the day’s events. There was a lot to be said for it. But what did he feel about her? It is all very well, she thought, from my perspective, but what does he feel about me?

James had found a suitable recipe in Nigella’s book. ‘Lemon gems,’ he said. ‘Look.’

Caroline examined the large photograph of lemon biscuits sitting on a cooling rack and nodded. ‘Just what we need,’ she agreed. ‘And we’ve got everything, including the ground almonds.’

‘Heaven,’ said James.

Once again, Caroline thought that this was a bit of an exaggeration. But then it occurred to her that in saying heaven, James was referring not only to the biscuits, with what Nigella herself described as their lemoniness, but also to the heavenliness of being there, with her, about to do some baking together.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she suddenly asked.

He looked at her with surprise. ‘Immensely. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I was just wondering. The two of us . . . baking together. It just seems . . . very right.’

He looked away, out of the window. The London afternoon light was attenuated, soft. There would be rain, he noted.

He reached out and touched her hand, gently, brushing against it.

‘Festina lente,’ he said, and smiled.

Festina Lente, thought Caroline, would be a good name for a cookery writer. Almost as good as Delia, or even Nigella.