Imogen

Chapter Two

Imogen sat clutching a cup of black coffee at breakfast. The vicar, mopping up egg yolk with fried bread, was deep in the sports pages of the Sunday Times, while Juliet, who was eating toast and marmalade, peered across at the headlines.

‘What a dreadful world,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t think I shall ever live to see twenty-one.’

‘What are we having for lunch?’ asked Imogen.

‘Macaroni cheese, plum tart and custard and then, I suppose more cheese,’ said her mother vaguely.

‘But we can’t give him that!’ said Juliet aghast. ‘I mean he’s famous. Can’t we have a joint?’

‘I’m afraid the shops aren’t open on Sunday,’ said her mother. ‘I’ll try and persuade Daddy to open a bottle of wine.’

Imogen wondered how on earth she could last through the morning. But in the end there seemed to be lots to do, frantic hoovering and dusting, bashing lilac stems and arranging them with irises in a big bowl in the drawing-room, laying the table, trying and failing to find matching wine glasses, making a crumble top to liven up the plums, mixing a dressing for the salad, and praying that the vicar, who disapproved of frivolous culinary refinements, wouldn’t notice the addition of garlic. Then she had to go to Matins. It was a beautiful day. The cuckoo was calling from the beech wood beyond the churchyard, and the trees were putting out acid green leaves against a heavy navy blue sky, which promised rain later.

‘Defend us with thy mighty power, and grant that this day we run into no sin,’ prayed the vicar, addressing the congregation in a ringing voice.

Juliet grinned and nudged Imogen, who went pink and gazed straight in front of her. She had already prayed fervently to God to grant her Nicky, but only, she added hastily, if He thought it was all right.

Her father was getting to his feet. A hymn and a sermon and another hymn, thought Imogen thankfully, and they would be out in the sunshine again. She mustn’t forget to pick up the cream for the crumble from the farm.

Then she gave a gasp of horror, for she saw that her father, with what seemed a suspiciously malicious glance at their pew, was walking over to the Litany desk.

‘Oh, no,’ groaned Juliet. ‘We had the Litany last week. Beresford will have come and gone by the time we get out of here.’

‘And what about my pie in the oven?’ muttered Mrs Connolly, their daily woman, who was sitting in the pew behind. The congregation knelt down sulkily.

Never had Imogen found it more difficult to concentrate on her imperfections.

‘From fornication, and all other deadly sin; and from all the deceits of the world, the flesh and the devil,’ intoned the vicar.

‘Good Lord, deliver us,’ Imogen chorused listlessly with the rest of the congregation. Oh, why hadn’t she had a bath beforehand?

‘From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence and. .’

The sun was shining outside the church, but inside it was freezing. The vicar, who never felt the cold, insisted on turning off the radiators in April. It was twenty past twelve by the time she got home, and Nicky was due at a quarter to one. To warm herself up, she had far too hot a bath.

Having tried on every dress in her wardrobe, and hating them all, she settled for a black sweater and skirt which at least slimmed her down a bit. Her legs looked red and fat through her pale stockings. If only she’d got out of the bath sooner. There was no doubt, she thought sadly, if there was less of you, people thought more of you.

Going out of her room, she nearly fell over Juliet who was lying on the floor in the passage pulling up the zip on her jeans.

‘How do I look?’ said Juliet, scrambling to her feet.

‘Familiar,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s my shirt.’

Juliet looked her over critically.

‘You look nice, but I think you should tone down some of that rouge.’

‘It’s not rouge,’ sighed Imogen, ‘it’s me.’

It was five to one. Imogen checked that everything was all right in the kitchen and went into the drawing-room to wait. She picked up the colour magazine. There was a long piece on Katherine Mansfield, which she vowed to read later, but knew she never would. She had read the report of a tournament in Hamburg three times at breakfast, particularly the bit about ‘The British contribution being severely weakened by the absence of Beresford, who was playing at Pikely, where he triumphed in the singles, doubles and mixed doubles, as was to be expected.’ Nicky was so illustrious, it was as though the sun was coming to lunch. Once more she got her compact out of her bag, and powdered her pink cheeks with more energy than success. Oh, to have been born pale and interesting.

It was five past one now. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all, perhaps after all that winning he’d forgotten or met someone at the party last night. She put down the magazine and wandered nervously round the room rearranging the lilac, plumping cushions, straightening Juliet’s music which was littered over the top of the piano.

The clock that had dawdled all morning suddenly started to gallop; it was edging towards a quarter past one now. Her father always kicked up a fuss if lunch was late. It was quite obvious Nicky wasn’t coming. I can’t bear it, she thought in anguish. Then suddenly she heard the rattle of a car on the sheep track and Homer barking.

Next minute her hands went to her face in terror and excitement, then frantically she smoothed her hair, pulled down her sweater and put on more scent, most of which went over the carpet. In a panic, she rushed into the hall and locked herself into the downstairs lavatory. Next moment Juliet was shaking the door.

‘Come out quickly. Nicky’s just rolled up in a Porsche looking too fantastic for words. Go and let him in.’

‘I can’t,’ squeaked Imogen. ‘You go.’

‘I’m putting on the broccoli, and Mummy’s still tarting up. Go on, he’s your lover.’

Imogen came out wiping her sweating hands on her skirt. She could see a man’s figure through the bubbly glass panel of the front door. The bell rang.

‘Anyone for tennis players?’ cried Juliet.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Imogen.

‘Go on. He’ll think we’ve forgotten and go away.’

With a trembling hand Imogen opened the door. Nicky was bending down to pat Homer, who was wagging his blond plumy tail and carrying a stick.

‘You’re not much of a watchdog,’ said Nicky, rubbing his ears. ‘Hullo, angel.’ He straightened up and smiled at her. ‘Sorry I’m late. I took a wrong turning and got stuck behind a convoy of Sunday motorists.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s lovely to see you,’ said Imogen.

She had wondered if he’d look less glamorous out of tennis things, like sailors out of uniform, but he looked even better, wearing a scarlet shirt which set off his suntan, and jeans which clung to his lean muscular hips even more tightly than Juliet’s.

‘Come in here,’ she muttered, going towards the drawing-room. Nicky stepped forward to open the door for her, reaching the handle the same time as she did, letting his hand linger on hers far longer than necessary.

‘Would you like a glass of sherry?’ she said. ‘It’s quite dry.’

‘I’d prefer beer, if you’ve got some. I’m supposed to be in training.’

‘I’ll go and get it. Won’t be a second.’

‘Don’t be, I’ll miss you,’ said Nicky, picking up the paper and turning to the sports page.

Imogen rushed into the kitchen. Fortunately there were six Long Life in the fridge.

‘How’s it going?’ said Juliet, dropping broccoli spears into boiling water.

‘I don’t know,’ said Imogen rushing out, nearly falling over Homer. ‘Promise you won’t leave me alone with him too long.’

‘What I like about this house is its relaxed atmosphere,’ said Juliet.

‘Nastase won at Hamburg,’ said Nicky, putting down the paper and taking the can and a glass from Imogen.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Yes, he’s a great mate of mine.’

He walked over to the french windows.

‘This is a lovely house.’

‘It’s a bit scruffy,’ said Imogen, acutely aware of the worn carpets, the cat-shredded armchairs and the faded red cutains, which had shrunk in the wash and hung three inches above the window ledge.

Nicky, however, used to the impersonality of hotel bedrooms, only noticed the booklined walls, the friendly dog, the fat tabby cat asleep on the piles of music on top of the piano, the Church Times scrumpled up under the logs in the fireplace, waiting to be lit on a cold night, and the apple trees snowed under with blossom at the end of the garden.

‘It’s a family house,’ he said. ‘My father was in the army so I spent my childhood being humped from one married quarter to another. I always longed for a real home.’

He glanced across at Imogen, gazing at him with such compassion. He had also seen how deeply moved and delighted she’d been when he arrived. He was touched. He liked this solemn little girl with the huge eyes.

‘You smell marvellous,’ he said, moving towards her.

‘It’s not me, it’s the carpet,’ confessed Imogen.

There was a pause. What could she say next? If only she had the badinage and ready-made phrases like Juliet or Gloria.

‘Lunch won’t be long,’ she stammered, as Nicky sat down on the sofa. ‘Would you like some peanuts?’

‘No thank you,’ said Nicky softly, ‘I want five minutes alone with you. Come and sit beside me.’ He patted the sofa.

Imogen sat down. There was another pause. She stared at her hands, aware that he was watching her. Then they both jumped out of their skin as the large tabby cat leapt off the Beethoven Sonatas on to the treble keys of the piano, and proceeded to plink plonk his way down to the bass clef, and walk with dignity out of the french windows.

They both burst out laughing. It broke the ice.

‘Was it a nice party, last night?’ asked Imogen.

‘How could it be? You weren’t there,’ said Nicky. ‘I drank too much cheap wine, and nearly came and broke up your whist drive.’

‘I wish you had,’ said Imogen wistfully. ‘When d’you go to Rome?’

‘Tonight. I’m driving straight to Heathrow from here. Might reach the quarter finals this year. I’ve got an easy draw.’

And a friend of Nastase’s too, thought Imogen.

‘Doesn’t it frighten you, so much success so early?’ she asked.

Nicky laughed softly with pleasure. She’d fed him the right cue.

‘I don’t frighten easily,’ he said, taking her hand and spreading the fingers out on his thigh.

She heard a step outside and, terrified it might be her father, snatched her hand away, but it was only her mother in a crumpled flowered dress, smelling faintly of mothballs, which she’d obviously just got out of the drawer. There was also too much powder on one side of her nose.

‘Mr Beresford, how nice to see you,’ she said, teetering forward on uncomfortable and unfamiliar high heels. ‘Has Imogen given you a drink? She’s awfully forgetful.’

Oh God, thought Imogen, I do hope she’s not going to be too embarrassing.

‘She’s looked after me beautifully,’ said Nicky, as Mrs Brocklehurst helped herself to a glass of sherry, ‘and I love your house.’

She was followed by Juliet, who sat on the piano stool, patting Homer and grinning at Nicky.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘That’s a nice dog,’ said Nicky. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Homer,’ said Juliet. ‘Short for Homersexual. He’s always mounting male dogs.’

‘Really darling, that’s not true,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst mildly.

‘Who plays the piano?’ asked Nicky.

‘I do,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m thinking of taking up the cello as my second instrument.’ And next moment she was bombarding Nicky with questions about tennis stars. Was Nastase as difficult as everyone made out, and Stan Smith as dead-pan as he looked, and did Borg have lots of girls?

To have a better look at Nicky, Mrs Brocklehurst removed her spectacles, leaving a red mark on the bridge of her nose. Goodness, she thought, he really is a very good looking young man, and he seems nice too.

‘What’s Connors like?’ said Juliet.

‘Darling, poor Nicky,’ remonstrated her mother. ‘Give him a chance and go and mash the potatoes. Daddy’ll be in in a minute. When did you first decide to become a tennis player?’ she said to Nicky.

‘When I was a child I used to go down to the courts at seven o’clock in the morning, hanging around hoping for a chance to play. Every time I seemed to get a rapport with a coach my father was posted somewhere else. I used to spend hours playing imaginary matches with myself hitting a ball against the garage door.’

‘How splendid! I suppose if one wants to do anything badly enough in life, one usually does.’

‘I like to think so,’ said Nicky, shooting an unashamedly undressing glance in Imogen’s direction, and rubbing his foot against hers behind the safety of an occasional table.

The vicar came in, rubbing his hands and looking quite benevolent, spectacles on his nose.

‘Ah, good morning Nicholas. Lunch not ready yet? Preaching’s thirsty work, you know.’

‘It won’t be a minute,’ said his wife soothingly. ‘Juliet’s just doing the potatoes.’

‘Is there time for a quick look round the garden?’ asked Nicky.

‘Of course,’ said the vicar with alacrity. ‘Bring your drink out.’

‘What a nice young man,’ said her mother.

‘Unbelievable,’ sighed Imogen.

There was an embarrassing moment before lunch.

‘I expect you’d like a wash,’ said the vicar, pointing to the door of the downstairs lavatory. He always liked male visitors in particular to go in there so they could admire his old England and Harlequin rugger groups hanging on the wall.

‘I’m not sure there’s any loo paper,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.

‘There wasn’t,’ said Juliet, crossing the hall with the macaroni cheese, ‘so I tore some pages out of the parish mag.’

Lunch, however, was a success. Nicky had two helpings of macaroni cheese which pleased Mrs Brocklehurst, talked at length to the vicar about the British Lions and regaled them with gossip about tennis players and the various celebrities he’d bumped into on the circuit.

‘I’m afraid I’m talking too much,’ he said.

‘No, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst eagerly. ‘We lead such sheltered lives in Pikely. Fancy Virginia Wade reading Henry James between matches!’

‘Have you really met Rod Stewart!’ sighed Juliet.

The vicar surprisingly opened a second bottle of wine.

‘I wish we could have wine at the Mothers’ Union,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst. ‘It would make things so much less sticky.’

‘What about hash rock cakes?’ said Juliet, taking a slug of wine.

‘Eat up, Imogen,’ snapped the vicar. She was still struggling with her first helping. The food seemed to choke her.

‘Picking away like a sparrow,’ went on the vicar, his voice taking on a bullying tone, ‘or more like a crow in that colour. I do wish young people wouldn’t wear black.’

Imogen bit her lip.

‘Bastard,’ thought Nicky. He turned to the vicar. ‘How d’you think England’ll do against the West Indies?’ That should keep the old bugger gassing for a few minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he examined Imogen, mentally undressing her. He would take her later in the heather, and be very gentle and reassuring. He was certain she was a virgin.

‘They ought to bring back Dexter,’ the vicar was saying.

‘Don’t bother to finish, Imogen,’ whispered her mother. ‘I should clear if I were you.’

Thankfully Imogen gathered up the macaroni cheese and the plates. As she took Nicky’s he stroked the back of her leg, the one farthest away from the vicar.

She went into the kitchen and, licking macaroni cheese off her fingers, dumped the plates in the sink. She picked up a drying-up cloth, bent down and opened the oven door. As she was just easing out the plum crumble, she heard a step behind her.

‘Isn’t he the most utterly fantastic man you’ve ever seen?’ she murmured from the depths of the oven.

‘Glad you think so,’ said a husky voice behind her. Appalled, she swung round. Nicky, holding a vegetable dish in each hand, was standing, laughing, in the doorway. The crumble was burning her through the drying-up cloth. She shoved it down on the kitchen table. Nicky put down the dishes and ran a finger caressingly down her cheek.

‘Sweetheart, you must learn not to blush. It’s terribly pretty, but it’ll give you away to your unspeakable father.’

Imogen, terrified he’d try and kiss her when she tasted of macaroni cheese, hastily handed him the plates.

‘We must go back.’

But Nicky waited in the doorway, holding the plates and still grinning at her. Imogen stared fixedly at the door hinge, where generations had cracked the paint screwing off the tops of refractory bottles.

‘It’ll get cold,’ she stammered.

‘I won’t though,’ said Nicky, and brushed her cheek with his lips as she scuttled past him.

‘You’ve forgotten the plates,’ snapped her father.

‘I’ve got them,’ said Nicky. ‘Must say, I’m dying to sample Imogen’s — er — pudding.’ He winked at Juliet who giggled.

‘Don’t you get nervous before a big match?’ she said.

‘No.’ He shot a glance in Imogen’s direction. ‘The suspense turns me on.’

‘What’s Goolagong like?’ asked Juliet.

‘Sweet; much prettier in the flesh.’ Nicky poured cream thickly over his crumble. ‘Always humming to herself and laughing if she does a good shot. She never knows what the score is.’

He then told them a story about one of the linesmen falling asleep in a big match. ‘He’d had too good a lunch,’ he went on. ‘The crowd were quite hysterical with laughter.’

His eyes are as dark as pansies now, thought Imogen, trying to memorise every feature of his face. His hands were beautiful too, so brown and long-fingered. She suddenly felt quite weak with longing. Then she felt a gentle pressure against her ankle. It must be Homer rubbing against her, but he only begged during the meat courses. He was now stretched out in the sun under the window, twitching fluffy yellow paws in his sleep.

Nicky continued to talk quite calmly to her father, but the pressure against her ankle became more insistent.

‘Good congregation?’ he asked, draining his wine glass.

‘Pretty good,’ said the vicar.

He looks sensational in those jeans, thought Imogen. In spite of their tightness and, although he was sitting down, not an ounce of spare flesh billowed over the top. Her mind misted over; she didn’t even hear Nicky asking her father what he had preached his sermon about, or her father replying:

‘Ask Imogen, she was there.’

‘What was it about?’ asked Nicky, smiling wickedly at Imogen.

‘What, sorry,’ she said, startled.

‘Wake up,’ said her father.

‘I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else.’

‘Nicky wants to know what my — er — sermon was about.’ There was a distinct edge to the vicar’s voice.

She felt the blood rushing to her face; they were all looking at her now.

‘Nicodemus,’ muttered Juliet.

‘Oh, yes,’ stammered Imogen gratefully. ‘The wind blowing where it listeth, and people who believe in God having everlasting life.’

With a shaking hand, she reached out for her wine, praying the storm was over.

Nicky looked at his watch.

‘Good God, it’s nearly quarter to three.’

‘I’ve missed Gardener’s Question Time,’ said the vicar.

‘I hope I haven’t gone on too much,’ said Nicky modestly, in the sure knowledge that he hadn’t. ‘If you care about something, you tend to bang on about it.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst. ‘It’s been fascinating, hasn’t it, Stephen? We shall all enjoy Wimbledon so much more, having met you.’

‘I must drive back to London soon,’ said Nicky. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a walk on the moor first.’ He increased the pressure of his foot on Imogen’s ankle.

‘I must write my Evensong sermon,’ said the vicar regretfully, ‘and someone’s coming at four to borrow a dog collar for the Dramatic Society’s play.’

‘I must bath Homer,’ said Juliet.

‘Imogen will take you,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.

‘That’s what I hoped,’ said Nicky, smiling at Imogen.

‘Why has Imogen painted her eyelids bright green to go walking on the moors?’ asked the vicar, as he helped his wife with the washing-up.

‘I’m afraid she’s fallen in love,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.

‘She’s for the moors and martyrdom,’ muttered Juliet.

The wind had dropped since yesterday and, as they climbed up the moor, the hot sun had set the larks singing and was drawing them up the sky. The bracken uncurled pale green fingers. Lambs ran races and bleated for their mothers.

‘Bit of a sod to you, your pa, isn’t he?’ said Nicky.

‘He was disappointed I wasn’t a boy,’ said Imogen.

‘Jesus, I’m bloody glad you’re not.’

He slid an arm round her about six inches above the waist.

‘Very, very glad,’ he repeated, as his fingers encountered the underside of her breast. Imogen leapt away; they could still be seen from the house.

‘Don’t know if you’re more frightened of me or him,’ said Nicky.

‘Oh, I don’t feel at all the same way about you,’ protested Imogen. ‘It’s just that I’ve never met a famous person before.’

Nicky laughed, ‘I’ll introduce you to lots more if you promise not to fancy them.’

Imogen, not nearly as fit as Nicky, was soon puffing. Fortunately, he did most of the talking. ‘It’s a lonely life being a tennis player. Here today, gone tomorrow — thousands of acquaintances, very few friends. Never in one place long enough to establish a proper relationship.’ He gave a deep sigh.

Imogen, her perceptions a little blunted by wine at lunch, did not smile. She looked at him sympathetically.

‘Will you think of me occasionally when you’re beavering away in your little library?’

‘Oh yes, all the time.’

‘That’s nice,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her down beside him in the heather. Close to, she smelt of toothpaste and clean shining hair — rather like his little nieces when they came downstairs after their baths to say goodnight, thought Nicky sentimentally. He raised Imogen’s hand to his lips.

Across the valley, the khaki hillside was latticed with stone walls, the fells glowed a misty violet. You could just see the mill chimneys, a dingy shadow in the distance.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Imogen, desperately trying to remain calm.

‘Not nearly as beautiful as you are,’ said Nicky. ‘And your pulse, my darling,’ he added, feeling her wrist, ‘is going like the Charge of the Light Brigade. Do you believe in love at first sight?’

‘I don’t know,’ stammered Imogen truthfully.

‘Well, I do. The moment I saw you yesterday — pow — it happened, as though I’d been struck by a thunderbolt. I don’t know what it is about you. But it’s something indefinable, quite apart from being beautiful.’ He put his arm round her, holding her tightly so she couldn’t wriggle free. After a minute she ceased to resist and lay back.

All the sky seemed concentrated in those blue eyes and, as he kissed her, she felt the stalks of the heather sticking into her back. It was all so smooth, so practised, so different from the grabbing and fumbling of the few local boys who had made passes at her, that it was a few seconds before Imogen realised what was happening. Suddenly his hand had crept under her sweater and snapped open her bra, and her left breast fell warm and heavy into his other hand.

‘No, no, Nicky! We mustn’t.’

‘Why not, sweetheart? Don’t you like it?’

‘Oh, yes! Yes, I do. But. .’

‘Well, hush then.’

He was kissing her again, and his free hand was inching up her thigh. Paralysis seemed to have set into her limbs. She was powerless to fight against him. Then suddenly a tremendous crashing in the bracken made them jump out of their skins. Rescue had appeared in the form of a large black labrador, which stood lolling its pink tongue, its tail beating frantically.

‘Heavens,’ said Imogen in a strangled voice. ‘It’s Dorothy!’

‘Who’s Dorothy?’

‘The churchwarden’s dog.’

‘Which means the churchwarden must be in the vicinity,’ said Nicky, smoothing his hair. The dog charged back into the bracken.

Horrified, Imogen wriggled back into her bra, which had ridden up, giving her four bosoms like a cow, and went and sat on a moss-covered rock a few yards away, gazing down into the valley. Beneath them, the churchwarden was taking his afternoon stroll. Far below she could see her father walking back and forth in the orchard memorising his sermon.

‘I must be crazy,’ she said, and buried her face in her hands. Nicky came over and put his arms round her.

‘It’s all right, love. All my fault. I just want you too much, and you want me, don’t you?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘But not in front of the whole parish, eh? We’ll have to find somewhere more secluded next time.’ He looked at his watch, ‘I must go now.’

‘You will write to me, won’t you?’ he said as he slid into his sleek silver car.

Imogen didn’t know if she could bear so much happiness and unhappiness in one day. Against the joy of his wanting her was the utter misery of his going away. Look thy last on all things lovely, she thought, her eyes filling with tears. Nicky rummaged about in the glove compartment. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He handed her a small box and watched her bowed head and the incredulous smile on her pale lips as she opened it. She took out a red enamel bracelet, painted with yellow, blue and green flowers.

‘But it’s beautiful,’ she gasped, sliding it on to her wrist. ‘You shouldn’t — I can’t believe — no one’s ever given me — I’ll never take it off except in the bath. It’s like a gipsy caravan,’ she added, moving her wrist so the painted flowers flashed in the sunshine.

‘That’s because it’s a present from a gipsy,’ said Nicky, turning on the ignition. ‘See you when I get back from Paris.’ And, kissing her lightly on the lips, he drove off with a roar of exhaust which set the cat leaping in horror out of its comfortable bed of catmint on the edge of the drive.

Imogen, Nicky reflected without a flicker of conscience as he headed for the A1, had been far more delighted with the bracelet than his Mexican beauty, who, after a few shrieks of pleasure, had asked Nicky to keep the trinket for her, in case her husband noticed it and kicked up a fuss.