Page 16 of An Invitation to the Kennedys
They had drinks called Negronis and a man played the piano and sang songs.It was a far more grown-up party than the kind Kick was used to.Serious, even muted, in comparison with the usual giddy debutantes and noisy larks.Older people – Lady Mountbatten must have been at least thirty-five, Kick thought – mostly married, moving discreetly about to form groups, then dissolving and reforming in a way that seemed idle but wasn’t.And for all that they were old, they had a humming vitality.They didn’t shriek, or rag each other, but there was purpose in everything they did.They talked gracefully and intently, not simply piling up jokes the way Kick’s friends did.
Debo disappeared and Kick walked through the two large drawing rooms, watching and trying to understand.No one was interested in her.It was a new kind of feeling.At home in America, everyone was interested.
Maybe it’s because she was here alone, she thought, watching the sky through the large windows trade shades of blue in an ever-darkening parade.No Jack, no Joe Jnr to sandwich her between them and see that she was included in everything.No one here was impressed with her family, their wealth – Kick wasn’t stupid, she knew that was part of it; the whispers about where exactly that wealth had come from – certainly not her opinions.Beyond repeating ‘ambassador’s daughter?’ as though it were a question, when she was introduced to them, no one showed any wish to talk to her.
By a round table in the centre of the second drawing room, she saw Billy.He was part of a group of older men that included Lord Mountbatten, who was thin and watchful with shrewd eyes that never followed his politely smiling mouth.Kick leaned against the back of a spindly sofa and watched.Here too she saw Billy was listened to, regarded.He was someone, and she – clearly – was not.
‘Do help yourself to anything …’ Lady Mountbatten said kindly, passing by but barely pausing.
Kick went to join the group around Billy.He greeted her warmly, taking her hand in his and pressing it, but stayed where he was.A man with a high forehead was talking: ‘… gas masks will be issued next week.’
‘Which will start to panic the country,’ a thin man with a moustache said.‘Would it not be better to wait?’
‘No.’That was Mountbatten.‘We need to get them into every home, and allow time for them to become ordinary, so that people will no more think of going out without them as without a hat or gloves.’
‘Give the panic time to subside?’said the thin man.
‘Precisely.’
‘My father says the opposite,’ Kick interjected eagerly.Thanks to Rose’s habit of cutting out a newspaper article each day that they were together at Hyannis Port, and insisting they all debate the topic over dinner, she had no fear of giving her opinion.She understood that debate was just a matter of taking opposing views and giving a convincing argument for them; a game, like touch football or tennis.‘He says that issuing gas masks now just means everyone will be sick of them and bored by them in no time.He says that sending them now is like getting down to the last out.’
‘What a great deal he says, your father, Ambassador Kennedy,’ the thin man said.
Was it the way he emphasisedsaysthat made the man with the high forehead laugh?she wondered.
‘What exactly is “last out?”’Mountbatten asked politely.
‘It’s from baseball,’ Kick said.
‘Baseball,’ he repeated, as though trying out a brand new word.Kick blushed.
‘It means you have nowhere left to go, no more chances,’ she explained.But her voice sounded thin.
‘There’s something to that …’ Billy said.But he said it kindly.And then suggested they look at the view from outside on the balcony, ushering her away.Was it because she was American?she wondered, as they walked out.Or a girl?At the dinner-table discussions at home, she had noticed that her opinions got more attention when she spoke about books or plays, far less when politics were the topic.Or was it something more, even?How was it that they seemed to see the ways in which she was different, when she saw the ways in which they were the same?
‘Was it the baseball?’she asked Billy as they leaned over the balcony railings.The sky was darker now, a deep indigo that was the colour of iodine.
‘Partly,’ he said.
‘Only partly?’
‘It’s more what the baseball represents,’ he said cautiously.
‘Which is?’
‘How far from this you actually are.You see, for us it’s all very close to home.So close that baseball metaphors seem a bit …’
‘A bit off?’
‘Exactly.’He sounded awkward.
‘In that case, thank you for walking me away.’
‘You don’t think me frightfully rude?’
‘No.I’m glad.I guess I needed it.’
‘You know, I’m half sorry I did,’ he said then, looking at her in an amused way from the corner of his eye.
