Corduroy Mansions

30. Rye

Berthea Snark was not the only person to head out of London that weekend in search of the peace that the English countryside, and at least some of the towns that nestle in its folding hills, can bring. Oedipus Snark MP, the son whose distinctly non-hagiographical biography Berthea had begun to pen, was also in the country, although at a different end of it, in his case, in Rye.

The idea of going to Rye for the weekend had not been his, but had been suggested by his lover, Barbara Ragg, the literary agent and author of the moderately successful Ragg’s Guide to the Year’s Best Reads.

‘Rye,’ she had said, a few weeks earlier. ‘If the weather holds, it could be gorgeous.’

Oedipus Snark, who disliked being trapped with Barbara for a whole weekend, searched his mind quickly for an excuse. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a constituency do, see? A long-term commitment, I’m afraid. You go by yourself. Send me a postcard.’

Barbara was prepared for this. ‘But I checked with Jenny,’ she said. ‘She confirmed that both Saturday and Sunday are completely clear. She looked in both of your diaries and there’s nothing. Friday night too. We could go down late on Friday afternoon.’

He frowned. That girl. She had no business telling any person who asked whether or not he had anything on. She was getting above herself. Going on about the LSE and the books she had read. Glorified secretary. She would need taking down a peg or two. Maybe a written warning; one had to be so careful with employment tribunals now. Best to give a written warning or two before you show somebody the door.

‘She sometimes misses things,’ he said. ‘She’s far from papal in her infallibility. Hah!’

‘Not this time,’ said Barbara. ‘I asked her to double-check. She said that there had been something in the diary for Saturday - something to do with a development charity - but you had begged off. So, she said, it was quite free.’

Oedipus Snark fiddled with his tie. It was, his mother had once pointed out, a displacement activity, an Übersprungbewegung, and it occurred when he felt cornered.

‘Why Rye?’ he asked peevishly. ‘What’s so special about Rye?’

‘There’s a lovely old hotel there,’ said Barbara. ‘The Mermaid Inn. On Mermaid Street, not surprisingly. I went there years ago and loved it. Low ceilings and four-poster beds, and tremendously ancient into the bargain.’

‘Well, we can’t sit in the hotel all day,’ said Oedipus, ‘however ancient it may be.’

‘We won’t have to. There’s a lot to see. There’s Henry James’s house, which was also lived in by E. F. Benson - you know, the Mapp and Lucia man - and they’re having a concert in one of the churches. A young Canadian pianist. We could go to that.’ She fixed Oedipus with a steely look. ‘There’s plenty to do.’

Oedipus had been out-manoeuvred by the combined forces of Jenny and Barbara Ragg and had no choice but to agree. So it was that they checked in to the Mermaid Inn shortly before dinner on Friday evening, having driven down in Barbara’s open-topped MG in British Racing Green. The evening was warm, one of long shadows and no breeze to speak of. The air was heavy, and had that quality to it that comes at the end of the day - a comfortable, used quality.

Oedipus, who had been grumpy at the beginning of the journey, was positively ebullient by the time they arrived at the Mermaid Inn and immediately ordered them large gin and tonics in the bar.

‘Not a bad choice,’ he said, looking about appreciatively.

He paid her so few compliments that for a few moments Barbara was quite taken aback. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted him to stop rushing around and looking anxious, and instead have some time for her, to talk about her day, her concerns - just now and then. She wanted to marry Oedipus Snark and make him happy, not just over the occasional weekend, but for years. That is what Barbara Ragg wanted.

She was realistic, of course. One did not get where she had got in a difficult and competitive field without being astute. And she knew full well that Oedipus had no intention of settling down - at least not for the time being. That meant that she could either try to trap him into matrimony, by getting him to believe, for example, that it would help his political career to get married, a conclusion that often strikes politicians when they are just on the verge of achieving high office. Or she could simply enjoy what she already had: a relationship of convenience (for him) where they spent some time together, but not very much, and where certain subjects of conversation (marriage, children, joint establishments and so on) were no-go areas, fenced about with electricity and warning bells.

Her friends, hostile almost without exception to Oedipus and, in the case of one or two of them, even given to shuddering involuntarily when his name was mentioned, spoke with one voice on the subject, even if their exact words varied.

‘Give him up.’

‘Show him the door.’

‘Find a decent man, for heaven’s sake.’

All of this was sage advice, intended to be helpful, and Barbara might have acted upon it if she felt that there was the slightest chance of getting somebody to replace her unsatisfactory political lover. But there was not. For some reason, possibly one connected with her manner, which was somewhat overpowering from the male point of view, men steered well clear of her. She was one of those women who inhibited men because of what some people described as her briskness. And she knew this. She knew it because she had once heard the nickname that some spiteful person had pinned on her and which had acquired wide currency. The Head Prefect.

I am not like that, she said to herself. I am not.

But in the eyes of others, she must have been. And when she attempted to be more feminine and to eschew any sign of high-handedness, it did not help at all. Then somebody made matters worse by coining a new nickname, again one which stuck, and travelled. Mrs Thatcher.

Who among us wants anything more than to be appreciated by some and loved, we hope, by a few? Why is the world so constructed that some find this modest goal easy to achieve and others find that it for ever eludes them? The essential unfairness of the world? Yes. Its heartlessness? Yes. Its unkindness to a certain sort of brisk and competent woman? Yes again.