Out of the Blue Read Online Free PDF Page A

sorry, Venetia,” she said sweetly. “I forgot that
you wore dentures.” Afterwards, I found her in the grounds, rocking with
laughter. And she looked at me gleefully and whispered, “Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord. I will repay!” And she did.
    She’s still calling in her debts to this day.
    “I had Camilla Fanshawe on the phone this morning,” she said to
me with a snicker as she spooned up her guacamole. “She’s marrying some squitty
banker and she was begging me, Faith, begging me to
cover her wedding in “I Spy”. But she was only saying that because Letty
Brocklebank got hers into Tatler . And Camilla was
practically blubbing and saying how she always liked me so much at school and how she knew I’d
be a success because I was so clever, and what about
it? Old school tie and all that? And I let her go on and on and then I said,
very sweetly, ‘Well I’m terribly sorry, Camilla—I’m
afraid we don’t cover small, provincial weddings in Moi! ’”
    Yes, Lily’s had the last laugh, all right. She’s outsmarted
them all—in every way. Intellectually, of course, though that was easy
enough—but she outsmarted them socially, too. Her mind was like a radar, and she
quickly cracked the code. Her table manners changed, her deportment improved and
within two years her voice was transformed. Gone was her rich, Caribbean
inflection and in its place was cut glass. Peter says she has “irritable vowel
syndrome”, but, as I say, he’s not really a fan.
    Mimi, clearly fascinated by Lily, was asking us about St
Bede’s. So we explained that there was Mass every morning, benediction on
Wednesdays, the rosary on Thursdays, confession on Saturdays, and sung Latin
Mass on Sundays.
    “Was there time for any lessons with all that?” Mike
enquired.
    “Oh yes,” I said tipsily, “and Lily was jolly good at them! She
got twelve ‘O’ levels, four A-grade A levels, and an exhibition to Cambridge at
seventeen.”
    “What about sports?”
    “We had hockey and netball.”
    “I was useless ,” said Lily with a
laugh. “All that running and jumping—such a bore—I really couldn’t be fagged. I
was no good at music, either,” she giggled. I kept quiet; it was perfectly true.
In fact she had a voice like a corncrake and standing next to her during “Faith
of Our Fathers” was not a musically rewarding experience. “As for dancing,” she
went on. “I was appalling at that! I had two left
feet—I still have.”
    “There was lots of drama,” I went on enthusiastically. “It was
great. Especially the annual school play…” Suddenly I saw the smile slide off
Lily’s face and she gave me a censuring stare. And then I remembered. Drama’s a
sore point. We don’t talk about that. You see, Lily wasn’t very good at acting,
and without sounding conceited, I was. The awful thing was that she loved it,
but she was always so over the top. I mean, she couldn’t even make the sign of
the cross without looking as though she was directing traffic. So acting was not
her forté and this spoiled our friendship for a while. When we were in the Lower
Sixth, Reverend Mother was casting the school play. She decided to do Othello and, as the only non-white girl at St Bede’s,
Lily presumed the title role would be hers. She prepared hard for the part, and
I helped her to go through her lines. But when, after auditions, the list went
up, the lead had gone not to Lily, but to me. She didn’t take it well, I’m
afraid. In fact she stormed into Reverend Mother’s office—I was there at the
time—and shouted, “It’s because I’m black , isn’t
it?”
    “No, Lily,” said Reverend Mother calmly. “It’s because you are
not a good enough actress. You have many gifts,” she went on calmly. “I know you
are going to be a huge success in life. But I confidently predict that your
future triumphs will not take place on the stage.” There was silence. Then Lily
left. She wouldn’t speak to me for a month. But what