Tim Binding - Island Madness

Ned opened the doors to the wardrobe. Below a shelf of hats and scarves ran a long rack of clothes. Though he had seen them before, indeed had been surprised when out of their folds Isobel had sprung once, dressed in a lion’s costume taken from the amateur dramatics, throwing a great flurry of muslin over his head before pushing him down onto the bed, her growls turning to giggles, he had never appreciated how many different outfits she possessed: loose summer skirts, tweedy winter ones; demure frocks for church, patterned frocks for gardens, bold frocks for parties; a black cocktail dress that seemed to have a loose body already shimmering inside; cord trousers; wool jackets; and finally a blue satin ball gown with a sequinned bow and a ready-made bust jutting out. He never seen so many clothes gathered together in one place except in a shop, and that was what they looked like here, the contents of some mainland fashion store, with matching shoes and boots ranged underneath. It was only now that he understood the requirements of Isobel’s position, and her natural and disguised vanity. He had only seen her wearing one or two things, the inevitable hacking jacket with the flapping back and tight buttons, the loose cord trousers with those deep, erotic pockets into which, standing behind her, he used to ease his hands, the white blouse, the white ribbed jumper, the green skirt she favoured, with buttons at the front. He pushed the clothes back and forth on their hangers. For the most part they looked unused. It had never struck him before what a woman of substance might imagine she needed, what she might come back from town with, hang in her wardrobe and not wear. Isobel had never seemed interested in clothes, and yet here were all these, racked up for future, unplayed games. His mother had, what, two good dresses to his knowledge, one for church, one for best outings, and after that, in the top two drawers of his parents’ chest of drawers, lay the skirts and blouses which, like the days of the week, came out in strict rotation. He had never supposed that his mother had given a moment’s thought to what she wore, and Isobel too had appeared to harbour the same indifference. Yet one had been conceived on the bed of necessity, the other inherited through the flirtatious pleasure born of wealth. When his mother was young, had she ever wanted dresses such as these? And did she, even now? It was hard for him to imagine it.

A set of brass-handled drawers ran down one side. He pulled open the first one. Underwear. He felt around quickly, uneasy at the intimate proximity. Nothing else. He pulled open the drawer below. Brassieres, mostly white, some black and one a lurid red; lace, cotton, strapless, wired; sedate, modest, daring. He stirred the contents, feeling for anything at the back. As he pulled them aside he recognized a sturdy white one, bordered by a patterned frill. She had gone swimming in it one afternoon as a dare, and it had become quite transparent when she re-emerged. Against his better judgement he picked it out and held it to the light, remembering the smooth dampness of it and the dark rose of her flesh blossoming through. A noise at the door made him look up. Lentsch stood at the door with a glass of brandy in his hand.

“Is that strictly necessary?”

“I was looking for her hat and coat.”

It was the first thing that came into his head, but in saying it he realized that they were nowhere to be seen. “You must remember them. She wore them everywhere.”

Lentsch nodded. “Downstairs, perhaps?”

Ned shook his head. “I looked when we came in.” He replaced the brassiere back with the others. One of the straps got caught as he tried to close the drawer. He pushed it back in.

“Never feel very comfortable doing this sort of thing,” Ned admitted. “When I was a boy my mother used to take me with her when she went on her yearly shopping expedition. I’d have to stand in amongst the petticoats and foundation garments while she disappeared into the changing room. Not right, a young boy having to spend a morning surrounded by ladies’ smalls.”

“Smalls?”

“Underwear.”

“Ah. Smalls.”

“God, I hated it. Why do mothers do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t yours?”

“No. People would come to her, I believe, for fittings.”

“I see.”

Lentsch tried to explain. “My mother is a sort of Mrs Hallivand of our town. Only not so formidable.”

“Just as well,” Ned replied. “Unlucky the man that gets on the wrong side of Mrs Hallivand.” He took another look around the room.

“You know Mrs Hallivand well?” Lentsch asked.

“Off and on. Uncle Albert would bring us stuff from the vegetable garden. Sometimes I’d come over and help him with the gardening, mowing, raking the leaves in the autumn. If she were about she’d take me to the kitchen, make sure I had a slice of cake, put a bag of runner beans in my hand. My mum used to say that the reason I never caught a cold was because of Mrs Hallivand’s greens. It’s Mum that needs them now.”

“Your mother is sick?”

“She’s lost a lot of weight since Dad died.”

“Does Albert give you anything from the garden now?”

Ned was anxious not to get his uncle into trouble. “Oh, no. He’s a stickler for doing things by the book. If so much as one of his gooseberries goes missing…” He stopped, remembering an earlier conversation about thieves and loganberries. Lentsch broke the silence.

“This was her room, then. I never saw it before.”

“No.”

“You have, I think.”

“Once or twice, a couple of summers ago. Before…”

“Quite. I did not know of your former attachment. If I had, I would not have summoned you so harshly.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was all over between us, like her father said. Did you hear him down there, what I asked him?”

Lentsch nodded. Another pause. He fingered the light switch, turning it off and on.

“It wasn’t true then, what he said, that you wanted her back?” he said. “That was not why you were here last night?”

Ned couldn’t bring himself to tell him the truth.

“I don’t know. I found myself outside her house that was all, walking back home. It was stupid, but it’s what you do, isn’t it? Walk where you hope she might walk, look up at a window, hoping to see a light. Even in the blackout.”

Lentsch nodded. Below they could hear van Dielen moving about. Ned walked out onto the balcony and looked down. Van Dielen was coming out of his study with rolls of transparent paper under his arm.

“I did love her, you know,” Lentsch said with a suddenness that embarrassed him. “It is important that you realize this.”

Ned leant against the balustrade and looked at this man, holding his military cap in his hands like a beggar on a street.

“Does it shock you so very much?” Lentsch asked. “That I should feel like this?”

“Of course not.”

“But that she should feel for me in this manner, perhaps. Is that it?”

“Not exactly.”

“But it is part of it.”

“It’s not you or her, is it, Major? It’s the circumstance.” He walked back into the bedroom. “Three years ago it wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other. Just one man losing out against another. But now it’s all muddled up with nations and honour and serving one’s country.”

“She was betraying England, that is what you thought?”

“No, but many people did.”

“She was a brave girl, braver than all of you, fighting for what she believed in, fighting for what she loved.”

“I don’t follow.”

Lentsch took a deep breath. “She found it difficult sometimes, feeling for me, our countries at war, of what others might think of her. I felt that while I was away something had happened that upset her more than usual.”