The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Read online

  ‘Arms up,’ Lydia said, and she felt the dress slide over her head. Lydia stepped back to scrutinise the result. ‘Good enough.’

  The sandshoes turned out to fit quite well too – there was no need for cottonwool.

  30

  A SHORT TIME LATER, EMILY found herself helping Lydia harness Dapple to the gig, after which they set off for the McDougalls’ with their tennis clothes in a bag. They did not want to arrive in dusty tennis whites. At least Lydia didn’t; Emily did not want to arrive at all. She knew her serve was hopeless and that humiliation awaited.

  The McDougalls’ property, Rose Park, was four miles down the road. It was a balmy day, not too hot and, according to Lydia, ‘Perfect for a game of tennis.’ On their arrival, a tiny man with a wrinkled walnut of a face helped them down from the gig. Emily tried not to stare.

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ Lydia said.

  As Jack led Dapple away, Lydia met her puzzled gaze. ‘Jockey. Not anymore of course. Now he looks after the horses.’

  Emily nodded.

  ‘Racehorses,’ Lydia added.

  The house was two-storied and grand, built from great blocks of pale stone. A young woman in a pinafore greeted them at the front door.

  ‘Good afternoon, Iris,’ Lydia said, as they stepped into the entry hall.

  Emily felt her eyes widen at the sight of the expanse of tiled mosaic floor and the magnificent cedar staircase, curving up to unknown realms. Halfway up there was a landing where the stairs changed direction and behind it light slanted through a tall stained-glass window.

  ‘Shall I take your bag, Miss?’

  Overawed by the opulence around her, she was scarcely aware of relinquishing the bag to Iris. Mount Prospect was suddenly reduced to a rambling farmhouse filled with shabby Persian rugs and faded upholstery. Even the billiard room with its spacious dimensions, the walls decorated with racing prints and oil paintings from the ‘artistic side of the family’, was nothing compared to the grandeur of the McDougalls’ entry hall. She felt a squirming embarrassment remembering her boastful accounts of Mount Prospect to Dorothy, and then secret relief as she reminded herself that they had only ever taken place in her imagination. Thank goodness too that she hadn’t sent the letter, for it contained further fanciful descriptions of the homestead. Why on earth had she mentioned a turret?

  She was still gazing up at the stained-glass window in which the figure of a bold young woman was striding forth with a hunting bow in one hand and a great staghound by her side, when a not-quite-so-young woman in a tennis dress, carrying a racquet, bounded down the stairs. Reaching the landing, she passed in front of the window and Emily had the peculiar sensation that the huntress had stepped out of the window and was now leaping down the stairs towards them.

  ‘Lydia, you’re here at last.’

  The woman gave Lydia a quick kiss on the cheek leaving behind a smudge of her dark red lipstick. ‘And you must be Emily. I’m Ruth. Come on then. Let’s get you both changed. Betty’s here already, practising her serve.’

  They hurried after Ruth as she whisked them back upstairs – with Emily wondering if Betty was the same Betty who’d failed the rabbiting test – and into an enormous guest bedroom where, magically, Iris had already laid out their tennis dresses on the bed.

  Ruth lounged against the chest of drawers, twirling her tennis racquet, radiating an unnerving vitality as Emily wondered how she was going to survive the coming ordeal. She was sure Ruth would show no mercy to a weak serve. Even more pressing than the thought of her serve was the problem of undressing in front of a stranger. If only she could follow Lydia’s example and shrug off her clothes without a hint of embarrassment. As she fiddled with the buttons on her blouse, she hoped that Ruth would at least look in another direction. But it was not to be.

  ‘Are you enjoying your holiday, Emily?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘What a fibber,’ Lydia said with a laugh. She had already changed into her tennis dress and was pulling on her sandshoes. ‘She tried to escape on her very first day.’

  A whoosh of prickly heat enveloped her. How ghastly that Lydia had known all this time and never said a word. Claudio must have told her, which made it even worse. She attempted a casual laugh that stuck in her throat.

  ‘Come on, slowcoach. Hurry up.’ Lydia picked up the tennis dress and held it out for her, while at the same time she mouthed something to Ruth.

  ‘Ah,’ Ruth said. ‘I think I’ll go and see how Betty’s getting on. You know the way, Lydia.’

  She experienced a wave of embarrassed gratitude towards both women, for she understood that a message had been given. At least undressing in front of Lydia was tolerable; it would be the second time she had done so today.

  Once suitably attired for tennis, she followed Lydia into the garden and along a walkway covered by a wrought-iron rose arbour heavy with summer blooms. They passed clipped shrubs and winding paths edged with hedges of lavender, and grand beds filled with delphiniums, foxgloves and many other flowers, whose names she did not know. Further away, huge trees with capacious canopies soared skyward. The limits of the garden were not visible.

  A gardener was at work trimming the edges of a green expanse of a lawn. It was all quite magnificent, and she couldn’t avoid a surge of dislike for Rose Park. In the face of its splendour, the status she’d accorded Mount Prospect was collapsing. She was beginning to feel quite dejected and so it was a relief to be distracted by the sound of someone hitting tennis balls. They emerged from the rose arbour to see Ruth and Betty warming up on the reddish-brown en tout cas court.

  It was soon decided that Ruth, as the best player, would partner Emily. The foursome gathered at the net to decide who should serve first. Ruth tossed a coin: it was Betty to serve.

  ‘Just don’t faint on me,’ Lydia said to Betty with a mocking smile, confirming Emily’s suspicion that Betty was indeed the Rabbiting Fainter.

  The game began. Most of the time Ruth shouted ‘mine’, and it was Emily’s job to scuttle out of the way. But there was no avoiding her service game. She trudged to the baseline and turned to face Betty, who was bouncing on her toes at the other end of the court in an annoyingly confident way, swiping her racquet through the air with swishy practice shots. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and it too swished up and down as she bounced.

  On her first attempt to serve, she missed the ball altogether and had to pretend that the sun had got in her eyes. On the second go the ball plopped over the net with all the power of a half-deflated balloon. Caught unawares, Betty could not reach it in time, and the ball dribbled to a stop before she arrived at the net.

  ‘Well done,’ Betty said, dripping with irony, and took up her position inside the service box ready for Emily to serve to Lydia. It did not escape Emily’s notice that Betty no longer bothered to bounce at all.

  The game proceeded and was quickly lost fifteen-forty when Emily double-faulted on the rest of the points. Tears of rage and shame pricked her eyes as she walked to the deuce court.

  Ruth jogged over and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Buck up, it’s only a game,’ she whispered. ‘And don’t worry about Betty – poor thing’s got thick ankles.’

  Even in the depths of her despair, she couldn’t help a smile.

  Ruth smiled back. ‘C’mon, kid,’ she said in a Humphrey Bogart voice.

  She decided that despite the ostentation of Rose Park, she quite liked Ruth. They lost three sets to love. Lydia and Betty were both good players, and not even Ruth could overcome the handicap of having her for a partner.

  At that juncture Iris arrived with homemade lemonade and ginger biscuits, and the four tennis players retired to a rug on the lawn beside the tennis court. It wasn’t long before they began to talk about the war and the men who had joined up from the district.

  ‘Pity Orm’s too old to serve,’ Ruth said, lying back on the rug. ‘He likes killing things.’

  Lydia laughed. Betty, on the othe
r hand, looked shocked. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ruth blinked at Betty in a seemingly innocent way. Emily watched with interest, wondering how Betty would respond, for she thought that Ruth’s question was not really innocent at all, but concealed a challenge. Betty must have thought so too, for she shrugged and refused to answer.

  Ruth turned to Emily. ‘I don’t think you’ve met my husband,’ she said, and went on to explain that Orm was quite a bit older than her.

  ‘Where is he, anyway?’ Betty asked, clearly trying to inveigle her way back into the conversation.

  ‘Mucking about with the horses, I expect,’ Ruth said. ‘Anything to avoid tennis.’

  Emily wondered how old Ruth was. She had noticed some wrinkles on her neck and felt sure she must be at least thirty.

  ‘Has anyone got a cigarette?’ Lydia asked.

  Ruth reached for a packet of Craven A on the edge of the rug. She put two in her mouth and lit them both before handing one to Lydia.

  The conversation rambled on in a desultory way, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves of the trees above. They spoke about people Emily had not met, and after a while she drifted off into her own thoughts. At first it was annoying to find Dorothy intruding until she was able to picture her nemesis waiting to be invited onto the rug. Now Emily was the one with the ability to give or withhold, and she was in no hurry to beckon Dorothy forwards. No, it was Dorothy’s turn to experience what it was like, loitering on the outer, waiting for the invitation that never came.

  Perhaps in a minute, she might deign to look up …

  ‘How’s William getting along?’ Betty’s voice jolted her from the daydream.

  ‘Alright, I suppose,’ Lydia replied. ‘Better off asking Emily. They’re thick as thieves.’

  Betty gave her a questioning look. ‘Emily?’

  All eyes were on her as she tried to collect her thoughts, still recovering from the secret rush of gratification at being elevated to the position of the one in the know. Lydia had handed it to her, just like that. She couldn’t respond with any old thing. How was William? But she discovered that she did not know what to say. How was he? Bitter, furious and unhappy? Interesting and marvellously well-read? Could she say that he was probably an alcoholic? She could hardly tell them of his drunken cursing, of his despair that his life was no longer worth living. That no woman would want him. That he’d never again feel the shape of a woman’s breast in the palm of his hand. She tried to blink away a sudden vision of Claudio’s hand enclosing her breast, and the imagined feel of his palm against her nipple.

  ‘Emily?’ It was Lydia’s voice.

  ‘Look at her – she’s away with the fairies.’ Ruth reached across and grabbed the toe of her sandshoe, giving it a tug.

  ‘He’s quite well, thank you …’ was all she finally managed, aware that her response was hopelessly inadequate.

  ‘What a fund of information you are,’ Ruth said in a teasing way.

  She could feel her lips moving, scrambling for something impressive that would hold their attention. But it was too late; Betty had already moved on.

  ‘Any news of Harry?’ Betty said, turning back to Lydia.

  ‘No.’ Lydia’s answer was sharp, but the Rabbiting Fainter was not so easily put off.

  ‘You’d better hope the Japs don’t get a hold of him. I’ve heard they don’t take prisoners.’

  Lydia scrambled to her feet and, without saying another word, rushed away towards the house.

  ‘Talk about putting your foot in it.’ Ruth glared at Betty, who had the good grace to look slightly chastened.

  ‘Should I …?’ Betty half rose, but Ruth shook her head.

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ she said, and hurried away.

  ‘I don’t know why Lydia had to run off like that,’ Betty said in a patently insincere tone. ‘I didn’t mean to upset her.’

  Anyone could see that she was more than satisfied with the effect she’d had. Emily, for her part, nursed a secret feeling of superiority, for she knew things that Betty did not. She knew that Lydia had rushed away not out of love for Harry but the very absence of it. If Harry had been captured by the Japs and murdered, then it was all Lydia’s fault, for her lack of love had left him vulnerable. Of course it wasn’t her fault, she reminded herself; that was just Lydia’s theory. And Harry hadn’t been captured. Although perhaps he had. It was impossible to know for sure.

  Now, with only the two of them left, she couldn’t think of anything to say. Betty was silent too, and after a while her feelings of superiority were replaced by the exact opposite. She felt quite inadequate, being of so little interest that her companion couldn’t be bothered making conversation. It was almost a relief when Betty suggested a return to the tennis court.

  It was a one-sided affair and, after a couple of love games, Betty called a stop to it.

  ‘I’ll teach you how to serve instead,’ she offered, much to Emily’s disappointment, as she had begun to hope that they could adjourn to the house – the mansion – where she might have the opportunity to explore. Ruth had mentioned something about a ballroom with a chandelier that had been imported from France in the 1920s. Orm, so she had discovered from the conversation on the rug, was fabulously rich.

  ‘You can’t go through life with a serve like that. You’ll be a social pariah.’

  Emily wanted to point out that at least she didn’t faint at the sight of a dead rabbit. Nor did she have ankles the size of a heifer. Naturally she couldn’t actually say either of those things and gave in to Betty’s urgings to practise her swing.

  ‘You’re doing it all wrong.’

  She would have liked to swing the racquet down on the Fainter’s blonde head. That she was doing it all wrong was hardly news. Betty stood behind her and together they held the racquet and swung it through the service action. They did it a few more times, and she could feel Betty’s breasts against her back, which was both distracting and horrible, and at the same time sort of exciting. It did not seem all that long ago that she had never thought about her body at all and now, whatever she did or thought, it was always intruding.

  She gripped the handle of the racquet more tightly and tried to concentrate on her service action and Betty’s instructions.

  ‘Your body has to remember it – like a dance step; it’s there in the muscles and all you have to do is let the body do the work.’

  After a few more swings with Betty holding on too and her breasts squishing against Emily’s back, the movement began to feel quite fluid. It was time to put it into action. For the first time since she had stepped on the court, she thwacked the ball in the centre of her racquet and watched in amazement as it whizzed over the net and into the corner of the service box.

  ‘Bravo, well done,’ Betty shouted. Tennis was rather boring, but she couldn’t help feeling a burst of pride, along with a sudden liking for her coach, whose ankles were really not that fat.

  She kept practising and was soon managing to get the ball over the net and into the service box more often than not. She even won a service game, although she suspected that her opponent had not really tried.

  The afternoon was giving way to early evening by the time they had finished the set and decided to stop. It was only then that Emily became conscious of Lydia and Ruth’s continued absence.

  ‘I hope Lydia’s alright,’ she said as they gathered up the balls.

  ‘Of course she is,’ Betty replied. ‘She’s just being dramatic. You know people are talking about her and the Italian.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They say he was fighting over her after church.’

  She could hardly believe what Betty was saying. ‘No, he wasn’t. He was fighting another Italian. They were fighting about politics.’

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s only what I heard. Lydia had her arm around him apparently.’

  ‘He was bleeding. She was trying to help.’

  ‘Ugh. Wouldn’t catch me.’ Betty sh
ook her head as if touching an Italian was a repulsive thought. ‘Anyway, I suppose you’d know if …’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If there was anything going on. I mean, Harry’s been gone a long time. She wouldn’t be the first.’

  The camaraderie that she’d been feeling towards Betty evaporated. Claudio had not been fighting over Lydia that day after church. She was certain of that. But Betty was right: Harry had been gone a long time, and what she knew but others didn’t was that Lydia no longer loved him. The conclusion that Emily had been resisting for so long could no longer be denied – and now everyone else was talking about it too. Claudio and Lydia. She felt a surge of violence towards the bearer of this unwanted information and wished she had the courage to say the word that was on the tip of her tongue. Bitch. Or something even worse. But she could not do it.

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘And if it’s alright with you, I’m going to find Lydia.’ With those words, she stalked towards the tennis court gate.

  ‘But what about the court? The bagging? Who’s going to help me?’ Betty wailed.

  She didn’t reply and marched off in the direction of the house. What a ghastly gossip the Fainter had turned out to be, she thought self-righteously, choosing to forget the hours she had spent in the kitchen trying to winkle information from Della about any and all goings-on.

  The further away from the tennis court she got, the more her self-righteousness waned to be replaced by a flat, dull feeling, almost as if the air itself had become heavy and was weighing her down.

  Back at the house, the front door was open and she slipped inside. She remembered about the ballroom and wondered whether she should go in search of it, but the thought of getting lost put her off. Anyway, she’d come to find Lydia. But did she have the right to go upstairs on her own? The house was cool, almost cold, and she gave a little shiver. The door had been open, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was an intruder and wished that Iris would come. Iris or one of the other servants, as Ruth had made vague reference to the staff, of whom Emily was sure there were many, unlike Mount Prospect.