Chapter Six
‘He’s a journalist?’
‘From the Daily Times?’
‘And he wants to interview us?’
As I walk into the wood-panelled dining room a commotion greets me.
A medley of voices, each one rising higher and higher up the scale as they shout questions over one another.
I pick out Rose’s distinctive tones, but the loudest voice is coming from a tiny Indian lady called Rupinda, who’s asking, ‘Questions? What questions?’
Curious as to what’s going on, I look for a place to sit, but as I’m late they all seem to be taken already. I hover awkwardly, feeling like a child on her first day at school, when Rose rescues me.
‘Em-i-lee, darling, over here,’ she booms, waving me over to the table nearest the fireplace with those huge glittering rocks of hers on her fingers.
I smile gratefully and, squeezing myself in between the tables, plop myself down next to her. Immediately a waiter swoops on me with a silver tureen of soup and begins ladling it into my bowl.
‘Cream of cauliflower. Lukewarm and rather hideous,’ Rose criticises, seemingly unaware of the waiter at her elbow as she takes a large slurp from her own bowl.
She’s applied even more make-up, and despite it being only lunchtime, I notice she’s changed into a black chiffon top, the beaded sleeves of which are trailing in the aforementioned soup.
However, she seems not to notice and so I don’t mention anything.
To be honest, I’m rather afraid to. Despite her seventy-something years, Rose is more than a little intimidating.
‘So, what do you think of all this interview nonsense?’ she asks, breaking off to butter a bread roll.
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ I reply, watching with fascination as she cuts thick, creamy slices of butter, lays them on top of the bread as if they’re pieces of cheese and then, picking up the silver salt-shaker, sprinkles them with a dusting of salt. ‘Why, what’s going on?’
‘They’re writing an article about us,’ whispers Maeve, looking worried. ‘Apparently, we have to give interviews.’
‘When I was in the theatre, I was always having articles written about me,’ says Rose. ‘I have scrapbooks filled with press cuttings.’
‘You were an actress?’ I ask interestedly.
‘Not just an actress. A leading lady,’ she corrects mindfully. ‘I played opposite them all, Gielgud, Olivier, McKellen . . .’ Taking a mouthful of bread, she waves her arm flamboyantly. ‘I had the pick of the crop.’
‘So you’re famous?’ gasps Maeve in a hushed voice, visibly impressed.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ refutes Rose, lowering her eyelashes and batting them in an attempt at a modicum of modesty.
‘But in my youth the stage door would be crowded with autograph-hunters.’ She pauses for effect, puffed up by Maeve’s wide-eyed admiration.
‘But time passes, and I’m afraid the public have a terrible memory,’ she adds.
‘I doubt anyone remembers me now. C’est la vie.
’ She laughs carelessly and dives for another bread roll, but I get the distinct impression that although Rose might no longer be on the stage, she’s still very much acting.
‘So who’s writing an article about us?’ I ask, changing the subject.
Taking a hungry bite, Rose gestures with the piece of leftover crust. ‘Ask that young chap, he knows.’
As soon as she says ‘young chap’ I feel a clunk of inevitability. In fact, to tell the truth, as soon as I walked in and heard the word ‘he’ I had a feeling who they meant. My eyes flick towards the end of the table, where Rose is pointing.
‘So he’s a journalist, huh?’ I shrug, disinterested. Whoopy-doo. Like I care.
I continue eating my soup. I can hear him talking, feel everyone’s eyes upon him, but I’m just going to ignore him. He can’t exactly be here to report anything very interesting anyway, can he?
OK, so I can hear snippets of what he’s saying and it does sound vaguely interesting, but I’m not going to listen.
He’s so arrogant I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Besides, I’m too busy focusing on my soup.
My lovely cauliflower soup. Despite what Rose thinks, it’s actually rather delicious, sort of spicy with a hint of—
Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, talk about my lady doth protest too much. Quit the excuses and listen.
‘. . . and so I think our readers will be interested in hearing what you’ve got to say.’ Sleeves rolled up to reveal his hairy forearms, he’s dragging heavily on a cigarette as he fields questions from the women clustering round him.
‘But why us?’ exclaims one in a lilac turtle-neck, clutching her ribbed woollen chest and looking at him beseechingly. If she was thirty years younger, I’d swear she was flirting. On second thoughts, she is flirting, I realise, feeling vaguely shocked.
‘Who better equipped to answer my questions?’ he fires back unwaveringly.
Folding one leg across the other, he hugs his ankle and eyes his captive audience.
‘Recently a poll asked nearly two thousand women over three generations who their dream date would be . . .’ taking a breath, he drags on his cigarette ‘. . . and one man got more votes than any other . . .’
Well, I know who gets my vote, I think dreamily.
‘. . . Mr Darcy.’
I feel a jolt of surprise. Did he just say what I think he said? I lean forward in my seat to try to hear better. Just curious of course.
‘And so my paper thought it would make a great idea for a story if I came along on this tour and spent a week with die-hard fans to discover just why this fictional hero has such a hold over women today. What is it about Mr Darcy that women love so much?’
‘He’s enigmatic,’ calls out a smartly dressed woman with a Hermès silk scarf knotted round her neck.
‘And noble,’ announces another, pausing from sipping her soup to stare wistfully into the middle distance.
‘He’s honourable,’ adds Maeve timidly, seeming almost scared of her own voice. ‘In those days men knew how to treat a woman.’
There’s a lot of murmuring and nodding of heads.
‘Enigmatic? Noble? Honourable?’ mocks Rose, throwing down her napkin.
‘Ladies, please! I can appreciate his finer qualities, but did nobody see the BBC adaptation?’ Her dark eyes are flashing and her shiny black bob swings backwards and forwards.
‘The one when he came out of the lake in that white shirt looking devastatingly handsome,’ she continues pointedly, looking around the room for a reaction.
Immediately there’s a rowdy response of agreement and a lecherous cry of ‘Phwoar’, which, when I turn round, I am taken aback to see came from Maeve.
‘Mmm, I love Colin Firth,’ yells out someone.
‘Oooh, me too,’ agrees another.
‘But he was just playing Mr Darcy, ladies,’ interrupts Miss Steane, entering the room, clipboard in hand. ‘Remember, Mr Firth was just an actor, he is not the real Mr Darcy.’
‘And who is the real Mr Darcy?’
All eyes turn to the journalist. He’s looking at Miss Steane, his thick blond eyebrows pitched with interest. He stubs out his cigarette on the side plate he’s been using as an ashtray, leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head.
‘That’s for you to find out, Mr Hargreaves,’ she replies curtly.
‘Please call me Spike,’ he replies in deference, but she’s already addressing the dining room.
‘Now, just to remind everyone, we’ll be departing promptly after lunch.’ Turning to leave, she glances at Spike and nods her head. ‘Mr Hargreaves,’ she says politely but firmly, and strides off across the swirly carpet.
Watching from across the other side of the room, I’m absorbing this information. So Spike’s here to write a story about us, huh?
‘Your soup’s going cold.’ Abruptly I turn to see Rose gesturing to my bowl and grumbling, ‘Best eat that up, my dear. The main course is bound to be even more dreadful.’
Well, if he thinks I’m going to answer his stupid questions, he can think again. And turning my attention back to my soup, I take a hungry mouthful.
Thirty minutes later lunch is over and we’re back on the coach driving through country lanes on our way to the first stop on our itinerary.
I, however, am engrossed in the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.
With my book open on my lap, I’m at the bit where they first meet and Mr Darcy sees Elizabeth.
‘Which do you mean?’ and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, ‘She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me.’
God, imagine being described as ‘tolerable’. How insulting. I’d die.
I turn the page and suddenly my bladder twinges. I try ignoring it. I love this part.
Crossing my legs tightly, I focus back on the page.
Like an insistent child, my bladder twinges again.
It’s no good, I’m going to have to go for a pee.
Turning over the corner of my page, I tuck the book down the side of my seat and stand up.
‘The first stop on our tour is informally known as Chawton Cottage,’ announces our tour guide, standing at the front of the coach, microphone in one hand, clipboard in the other. ‘Home to Jane Austen in the latter part of her life and now a museum . . .’
The microphone fizzes and whines with interference, making it difficult for us to hear, but instead of abandoning her speech, Miss Steane simply ups the vocal ante and firmly proceeds.
I have a feeling that nothing would stop our tour guide, short of a ten-ton truck, and then she would probably emerge victorious with only a few hairs out of place, and perhaps a small snag in her thick woollen tights.
‘. . . where she wrote and revised many of her novels, including everybody’s favourite, Pride and Prejudice.’