Hill Manse ... Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Richard didn’t know what to think. It was mid-morning on Saturday and he sat at the kitchen table drinking terrible tasting coffee … his mother hadn’t got the gist of coffee making, yet. He slid the vile swill aside and propped both elbows on the table and held his head in his hands.

Walking into her now very familiar kitchen, Mrs. Hamblin gazed on a forlorn sight. “For heaven’s sake, Richard, what is the matter with you? Didn’t you enjoy your date with Daisy last night?”

“It was an epic disaster … a Titanic disaster. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course you don’t, dear. Now … tell me what happened.”

Mrs. Hamblin poured herself a cup of the pale brew and scowled. I must ask Daisy how to properly make this stuff. Yesterday it was black as pitch and tasted worse. She sat opposite her son at the scrubbed pine table.

“I probably did something wrong but I can’t quite put my finger on what it was.”

“I’m sure you did, dear. Did Daisy think the evening was a disaster?”

“I don’t know what Daisy thinks. I just know I didn’t come out of it smelling like a rose.”

“Of course you didn’t. Now … start from the beginning, Richard.”

“It started off well enough. I, a debonair man of the evening, escorted Daisy, a very lovely young woman, to the Continental Ballroom … so far so good. The music was first-class, we got a table close to the dance floor, I ordered a bottle of champagne and as we were toasting one another, Fiona and her insipid looking date appeared at our table. They just stood there and waited to be asked to join us. I had no intention of doing any such thing. Can you imagine how gauche the whole situation was? But Daisy’s hostess manners kicked in and she invited them to sit down. I pinched her.”

“Richard! You pinched her? How could you do such a cruel thing to our Daisy!”

“Oh, Mum, really … she’ll live. It was a tiny pinch inside the elbow, not a knife slash to the jugular. I’ve apologized to her. She’s fine.”

Mrs. Hamblin got up from the table to retrieve a blank pad and pencil from a desk drawer and sat down again. “I’m taking notes, Son, in order to help you ‘put your finger on’ what it was that made the evening go wrong. Continue …”

Pulling a face at her, he continued. “It was Daisy’s plan that we should all spend the evening together ‘like civilized people’ she said. So, that’s what we did. It wasn’t easy, Mum. Fi was wearing this slithery green gown that showed off every curve. I could feel my face go red every time I looked at her. Daisy and I danced a couple times, but I was so distracted by the way Fi was dancing with that Sinclair fellow she came with that I kept trouncing on Daisy’s toes. Then I danced a fox trot and a couple two steps with Fiona and Daisy took a turn with Fi’s date. Daisy asked if we could leave at half past ten, so I took her home. Then I thought I’d go to a club by myself for a couple hours to wind down.”

Scribbling furiously, Mrs. Hamblin muttered. “You’ve not told me everything. Spill it!”

“Okay, I didn’t go to a club … I changed my mind and went to Fiona’s flat. I wanted to apologize to her for calling her a ‘tart’. But, as she pointed out, I said she acted like a ‘tart’, not that she was a tart.”

“My hand is getting tired”, Mrs. Hamblin sighed, “is there more?”

“Not much. Apparently it was my fault she looked and acted like a … well, you know. I’d been ignoring her, she said, mixing with other birds, so she decided to get me to notice her again by flirting and teasing me, in public. And, once I understood why she did it, I asked her to be my girl again. She said, no. She said she was feeling good about herself, again, and seeing other blokes. Said she was not so needy anymore … whatever that means. She wasn’t making much sense.

I apologized to her, I forgave her, I asked her to come back to me and she told me to leave. I don’t know what else I could have done. Mum, I think I might even be in love with Fi and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“I believe you, Son. I believe you have no idea what went wrong and that saddens me.” Mrs. Hamblin took their coffee cups to the sink, emptied and rinsed them out. “I’d hoped you hadn’t the inclinations of your father, but, I’m afraid you do have a few. Your male ego disallows any true regard for a female. You are charming and mannerly, you smile and play ‘nice’ when it suits you, but you have no genuine respect for women. The value you’ve placed on me is only in consideration of my being your mother. You and Gwen weren’t married long enough to test how you valued a wife. But dear Fiona has found you out and will not allow you to pet her for a while and then ignore her again. And, as for Daisy … with her you have no chance at all.”

He didn’t move. He licked his lips, as they’d gone dry, but his eyes were moist with hurt. Richard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You can’t think that badly of me, Mum. I like women, I truly do.”

“Of course you like women … you’re a man.” Mrs. Hamblin resumed her seat at the table near Richard and laid her hand over his. “You pursue them all the time, but you don’t really esteem them. You’re willing to play seriously with one girl for a while, like you did with Fiona, but will date others while expecting Fi to remain true to you, and then you find an excuse to drop her so you can pursue another one. Some men are meant to be bachelors. I think it best that you don’t ‘fall in love’ and get married ... I really don’t want grandchildren that badly.”

“I’m not like Father. I won’t be like him.” Richard said furiously as he pushed back from the table and stomped from the kitchen. He was angry … with his mother, with Fiona, with Daisy, with women in general.

They expect too damn much of a man. I like my life just as it is. I don’t need to kowtow to the ‘little woman’ when I get home from work. I don’t want to answer for my where-a bouts each time I leave the house. I want to date girls, dance with girls, sleep with girls, but I don’t want to live with one. Mum’s right about one thing, though, I should probably remain a bachelor … a ‘swinging’ bachelor. That’s what that fornicator that fathered me should have done.

He revved up the Topo and headed for a rugger game he’d been looking forward to between two teams that were well matched.

There are plenty of birds about that just want a good time and aren’t out to snag a husband. Fi was that way once. Even though she never mentioned ‘marriage’, she wanted me to wake up in the morning at her place. She wanted to cook for me. Gawd … I could feel the noose tightening around my neck. But, she was good in bed and really liked going to games with me and knew nearly as much about team statistics and individual players as I did. She was smart, fun and sexy. So … there are lots of smart, fun and sexy fish in the sea. Fish that don’t try to hold on to you when it’s time to leave. Mum was right about that, too. But that doesn’t make me like my father. I never made Fiona any promises. I never broke any vows. If she expected more from me, that was her problem … not mine.

----

Once again breakfast was groaning on the sideboard and once again Alistair and Duff were the first ones down in the dining room piling kippers, eggs and sausages onto their plates and pouring out the first of several cups of coffee. Conversation never seemed to wane between father and son. One would think that after thirty-five years, everything of note would already have been talked to death. Not so … they enjoyed each other’s company immensely.

In due course, Daisy joined the gentlemen and smiled. She smiled at the scrambled eggs, smiled at the rashers of bacon and links of sausages; she even smiled at the kippers that glistened grossly in their warming pan. She couldn’t have stopped smiling even if Morris had come in the room screaming ‘FIRE!’ Of course, Morris would never scream ‘FIRE! He would merely say in his slow precise way, “Beg pardon, sirs, I suggest we make haste. It appears that there is fire roaring through the Manse.”

If the two Gregor’s noticed Daisy’s euphoric countenance, they made no mention of it. They continued to eat as if there would be no luncheon served today.

Not long after Daisy’s appearance at the breakfast table, Jackson Portchier entered the dining room … smiling.

“Thought I heard that motor of yours growling up the drive.” Duff poured more coffee into his cup. “Have some kippers before getting back to those sad batches of dry statistics.”

“As regards those statistics, sir, Daisy and I have some good news. We’ve put together some chapters on personal histories that bring the plight of several British veterans into an approachable form. Hopefully, you will find the writing compassionate rather than maudlin; informative but not lecturing or sermonizing.” Jackson ignored the kippers and kept to eggs, toast, jam, sausages and black coffee. As he filled his plate, his eyes sought Daisy and found her looking at him. He grinned and winked at her, pulled out the chair on her left and sat down. Reaching over, he took her hand, squeezed it and placed it on his knee. He wanted to be, needed to be close to her … touching her.

Daisy’s cheeks grew warm, but then her whole body had heated up as soon as he walked into the room. This man made her feel deliciously appealing. She knew she could trust him; knew she would love him, probably loved him already. And, she was going to marry him.

Looking up at Jackson, Daisy cocked her head toward the Gregor’s. “Are you going to tell them now?”

“Uh huh.” He raised her fingers to his lips. “Uh … Duff, Mr. Gregor … I have an announcement to make. Miss Daisy Clair Landis, here, has agreed to be my wife ... to marry me ... here in London and I would ask you to help us get married, as soon as possible, so as not to give this pretty woman a chance to change her mind.”

Alistair stared at them in amazement, but Duff stood up and rounded the table to congratulate the pair of Americans he’d hired a few weeks ago. “Good show, Portchier, good show … awfully pleased for you both. Does Cara know, Daisy? No? Let’s call her down and tell her the good news. Morris! I say there, Morris? Please ask Mrs. McNally to come down as soon as she’s dressed. Good chap.”

It took Cara less than ten minutes to join the group in the dining room. She was surprised at the suddenness of their engagement but not the suddenness of the romance. The way Daisy had warmly described Jackson Portchier the day she’d found him at the London Times, led Cara to think that he would likely figure largely in the lady’s life.

Duff immediately called his solicitor to find out what his American friends had to do to get married in England.

“According to Ashe, there will be a ream of paperwork to fill out and sign and copies made of both of your travel visas before you can even ‘post the banns’, which is to say, your legal notice of the intent to marry. Fifteen days after this notice has been filed, the wedding can take place. Ashe-Davenport will gather all the documentation necessary and courier it over here tomorrow morning.” Duff pulled out a chair for Cara to sit on. “You two go and have your coffee in the library. Father and I will be in at half past to read the juicy manuscripts you’ve miraculously wrung from an arid desert.”

“Well, Sweetheart,” Jackson murmured as they walked across the hall, “we’re on our way to being wed. It’s the end of May. If all runs smoothly, maybe you’ll be a June bride.” Closing the door behind them, he drew her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. “Good morning, Darlin.”

Blushing, Daisy’s eyes dropped to her left hand. “If it could be arranged, I’d like to wear a simple white suit, carry a bouquet of flowers and stand before a preacher rather than a judge. Also, I think we should both have wedding bands.”

“Daisy, Darlin, we are going to have us a proper wedding. We’ll plan it together and, this afternoon, we’ll select our rings.” Moving her toward her desk, he pulled out her chair, picked up her glasses and placed them on her nose, put the stems over her ears, and lightly brushed his lips across hers. “We’d better at least look like we’re working … the bosses will be in shortly.”

The telephone rang at quarter past noon and Morris came to advise Daisy that Mr. Hamblin was on the line … did she wish to take the call or should he take a message? Morris was aware that Miss Daisy and Mr. Jackson were readying themselves to leave for the day, motoring to a jewelry shop recommended by Mr. Duff. Though his demeanor remained faultlessly impassive, he noted the look, the roll of the eyes, the silent conversation that passed between the two young people. The staff at Hill Manse didn’t miss much that went on in the house.

“Thank you, Morris. I’ll take the call in here.” Daisy reached for the handset while resting her trim derriere on the edge of Jackson’s desk, keeping her back to him, she took a deep breath. He, in the meantime, leaned back in his chair, rested his long narrow booted feet on top of the leather blotter, laced his fingers behind his head and listened.

“Hello … yes, hello … Richard, how are you?”

“Daisy? Oh, thank God you’re still speaking to me. Dear girl, I must apologize. I treated you appallingly the other night. Mum was ashamed of my behavior, and I was, too, of course. She may set bowls of unseasoned hash in front of me the rest of my livelong days.” He huffed a slight laugh at his little joke. “Do forgive me, Daisy, please.”

“Of course, I forgive you. Have you patched things up with Fiona?”

“Uh … why would you think that? Fi and I are a fling of the past. No patching up necessary.”

“But, Richard, I was sure you meant to go see her after leaving me at the door. You’re saying that you didn’t go to her flat?” Daisy wasn’t going to let him off his petard so easily.

“Well, yes I did, actually. How does she know what I did? Thought I should apologize for the ‘tart’ remark I’d made to her. The air is clear between us, now … all that matters, you see. We’ve both gotten on with our lives … just as it should be, don’t you know.”

“I hope things went the way you wanted them to go. You’ve been a good friend to me, Richard. I want you to be happy.”

“Well, I hope I’m more than a good friend, as there’s another reason for my call. I must make it up to you, Daisy. Please let me take you to dinner one night this week. Whichever night that’s convenient for you … I’ll clear my diary and write in Daisy.” That gesture should please her,

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, even though you mean it as an act of contrition. You see, my fiancé would most likely object … unless, of course, you wish to invite him as well.” Daisy turned round to gauge Jackson’s reaction to the conversation. He was hugely enjoying it.

“Fiancé … dear girl, what are you talking at? You haven’t thrown yourself into the arms of some innocent bystander because of my insufferable behavior … have you?”

“This may be hard for you to believe, Richard, but the gentleman I speak of pulled me into his arms voluntarily ... I did not throw myself at him ... well, not at first, anyway. He seems to like me very much. He says he loves me … and I believe him. We will fill out the paperwork tomorrow and hopefully be married sometime in late June.”

Jackson lifted his legs off the desk, stood up and pulled the back of Daisy up against the front of him, folded his arms around her and nuzzled her neck.

Richard bristled, “I’m confused here, Daisy. Who’s the chappie you’re talking about? Did Patrick Chaynes come back? That’s it, isn’t it, I’m not sure you’d be doing the right thing, old girl … marrying him after all this time.”

“No, that isn’t it … Pat’s in Hawaii, as far as I know.”

“Well, dammit, who are you talking about, then?”

“Really, Richard, you needn’t swear at me.”

“Stop stalling … who’s the bloke that stole you from me.” She’s got to be joking. She doesn’t have a fiancé. She couldn’t have … not in the space of a weekend.

“No one stole me from you, silly man. I was footloose and fancy free when Jackson Portchier swept me off my feet, literally.”

“The Virginian! Good gawd, Daisy, you just met the guy a few weeks ago. You’ve known me nearly three months and we’ve hardly dated at all. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I want you to be happy for me, Richard. I must hang-up now. Jackson and I are heading to town to choose our wedding rings. Please tell your mother that I plan to come by and see her sometime this week and let her in on all my wedding plans. Goodbye, my very good friend.” She returned the phone to its cradle and twisted round to bury her happy face into the curve of Jackson’s neck.

----

After Daisy had hung up, it took Richard a full ten seconds to realize he was still holding a buzzing headset to his ear. Slamming it down he said, “Mum, you are not going to believe what I have to tell you. It is too ridiculous to take seriously, although I suppose I must until I hear differently.” He expounded these remarks as he strode into the drawing room and planted himself in front of the cold hearth. Hands clasped behind his back he huffed, “A person with any sense at all wouldn’t do such a crazy thing.”

“I thought you were never going to speak to me again, dear.” Charlotte Hamblin was concentrating on a rather difficult needlepoint configuration and didn’t appreciate the abrupt interruption.

“What? Oh … I forgive you, Mum. You may even have been right about a couple of points but … to infer I take after Father was really too much and far wide of the mark. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

Putting down her needlework, she sighed, “Of whom are you speaking now, Richard. A footballer, your editor, dear Fiona, one of your club mates or is it Daisy, again?”

“She’s engaged! Can you believe it … engaged … to a fellow she’s known less than a month? They are going to fill out the paperwork tomorrow so they can be married right away.”

“Well … this is happy news, isn’t it? A friend of yours is getting married. Do I know her? Mrs. Hamblin sat forward on her flower-patterned chair cocking her head like a little dickybird perched on a lilac branch.

“It’s Daisy, Mum. She told me less than three minutes ago that she’s engaged to be married.” He plopped into a chair opposite his astonished though obviously pleased mother.

“Daisy getting married … how lovely. It must be Mr. Portchier, of course. His name would pop up in our conversations quite often. She spoke most highly of him. Oh, I must call and congratulate the dear girl. Although it is not really proper to congratulate the girl, I understand … it is the man who should be congratulated. One gives their best wishes to the girl. Isn’t that right, Darling?”

Richard was growing numb with his mother’s prattling about who was and who wasn’t to be congratulated.

“She shouldn’t be marrying Portchier. She doesn’t know him. He could be anything … a felon … a rapist … a murderer, even.”

Clutching at her chest, Mrs. Hamblin stood. “What a terrible, terrible thing to say. Neither Alistair nor Duff Gregor would ever allow anyone of that ilk to enter their home ... as you well know! I’m shocked you could make such an accusation. I think, Richard, you should go to your room and contemplate your attitude!”

“Mother … I’m too old to be sent to my room. And, I am sorry for what I said about Portchier. He’s a decent bloke to be sure, but still … Daisy marrying him … I can’t take it in.”

“Richard, you’ve said yourself that Daisy is intelligent, independent and a woman that definitely knows her own mind. Why would you think she has not thought this through and made a prudent decision?”

“I’m seven years older than she is and consider myself a rather sophisticated fellow, experienced in handling the opposite sex. But, I can’t seem to get my head around the possibility of getting married again. It seems that Daisy can, though. She has enough confidence in herself and trust in Portchier that the thought of marriage is not daunting. You’re right, Mum. She’s sensible … she would have thought it through.

----

Holding tightly to Jack’s hand as he led her behind him, stepping cautiously over scuffed boots, dirty trainers, and empty drink containers, they at last found their places. Fiona plopped down beside him; happy their seats were good ones … not too near the press box. She glanced at the empty field and the blank scoreboard then over the multitudes swarming the bleachers. She sighed happily and smiled, wriggling in anticipation of the game to be played. The British Lions were playing the All Blacks and the crowds had come to cheer their favorite team to victory. The majority were rooting for the Lions, as were Fiona and her date, Jack Forrester.

She’d met Jack several months ago during a lunch gap at the Court of King’s Bench. He was a junior solicitor in a small legal firm in London and Fiona was a court stenographer. Jack was attracted to Fiona the first time he spotted her in the courtroom, and had tried several times, when he was at King’s Bench, to engage her in conversation. She was friendly enough but was with Richard at the time so she didn’t encourage his interest in her. Three weeks ago she saw him eating alone at a cafe she usually patronized and asked if she could join him. He jumped up, pulled out a chair and told her he’d wanted to take her to lunch for weeks but was not sure he should approach her again.

“Well”, she said, “you’re not taking me to lunch today, Mr. Forrester. I’m just sharing your table.” Things proceeded very well from there. She’d met him for lunch several times.

Also recently, Fiona had been introduced to Aubrey Sinclair, a neighbor who rented a flat near where she lived. Aubrey worked in a bank and liked to dance. Last evening at the Continental Ballroom was their first date. When he took her home, he did not ask her for a second one. She really didn’t expect him to, even though she’d apologized whole-heartedly for her outrageous behavior. She knew she’d embarrassed him as well as herself.

Whatever had possessed her to ‘crash’ Richard’s little party with the prim but really nice, Daisy, surprised even her. Catching sight of the simpering bastard, slurping champagne with a woman dressed so classy had provoked her. She wanted to stuff her slinky lime green evening gown down his throat. It had been the first time since they’d broken up that she’s worn anything sexy at all. When he’d asked her to dance, she’d teased him by pressing herself against him until he could hardly breathe and then teased him some more … brushing her lips lightly along his neck. When, later, he showed up at her flat, she wasn’t totally surprised. Richard was pretty predictable. He said he realized he was partly to blame for her behavior that made him jealous, since she was trying to get him to notice her again, and he wanted to resume their ‘relationship’, but she would have none of it.

Fi liked Jack; a kind, fun, good-looking guy that enjoyed being with her, talking with her, and who made an effort to please her. She wanted to know this man better. She wasn’t an ingénue anymore, Richard had been her one and only lover, nevertheless, she was a good, thoughtful, loving, affectionate woman that would make the man she loved, and who loved her, a fantastic wife. Her dream was to be a fantastic wife and mother someday.

Richard settled onto his usual stool in the press box, greeted the other reporters that jockeyed their way into the narrow space, joked, slapped one another’s backs and positioned themselves onto benches and stools as he had. He placed binoculars, writing pad and pencils on the makeshift counter pushed against the open-air window that served to set apart the game’s play-by-play announcer and the press from the public.

Adjusting his binoculars, he looked over the noisy crowd below him where die-hard rugger fans milled about looking for their seat numbers. He saw, in a row near the front, in the bleachers to the right of him, an extremely familiar red head whose brilliant mane had turned to fire in the sunshine. She sat next to a bloke who was whispering something in her ear and holding her hand. This wasn’t Fi’s light-on-his-feet date from Friday night, but a guy who, from what Richard could see, looked to be able to hold his own if pushed.

She sure hadn’t wasted anytime sulking after I’d sent her on her way. Maybe this guy’s the marrying kind. Maybe this guy’s the reason she wasn’t acting herself last night. Richard didn’t know where that notion came from but he didn’t like it much. I might be ‘in love’ with Fi and I could probably win her back if I wanted to. But, am I ready to settle down, support a wife and family, make mortgage payments and, hell on fire, drive a bloody American station wagon? He thought back to the conversation with his mother. No … If Mum’s right, I shouldn’t try to do that.