It seems to Lillian as though his voice is coming from the end of a long tunnel, fading away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs.
‘Get up,’ he is telling her, but she cannot move.
‘You disgust me,’ he says and with one last, half-hearted kick, he turns away from her, breathing heavily. She hears him wrestling with the door on the overturned drinks trolley. There is a clinking sound as he takes up one of the unbroken bottles of spirits, then the crunching of his shoes on broken glass as he leaves the drawing room, closing the door behind him. Lillian leans back against the mantelpiece and allows the darkness to take her.
‘Lillian? Can you hear me?’
It feels like being dragged up from the murkiest depths, like being hauled from the bottom of a deep well. As she comes round, every bone in her body aches, every muscle protests as she fights against the reality of consciousness. She doesn’t want to wake up but someone’s desperate voice is bringing her round. ‘Lillian. You have to wake up. Please! I can’t get you upstairs on my own.’
‘Jack?’ she says, her voice little more than a croak.
‘No, it’s me. Albie. You have to get up. Before anyone sees you.’
Lillian feels Albie tugging at her arm, but she slumps back against the hearth.
‘Lillian?’ Albie’s hands shake her gently, until she moans in pain. ‘Can you hear me?’ The boy sounds close to tears, but still she can’t rouse herself.
‘Go back to bed,’ she mumbles. ‘Leave me. If he finds you here—’
‘Shhhh . . . it’s all right. He’s in his study. He’s already passed out. I checked.’
‘I can manage,’ she says, but only half-heartedly. She knows there is no way she can make it up the stairs by herself; and if she stays where she is, come morning she will be discovered by the servants, or worse, one of their guests.
‘Wait here. I’ll be back,’ says Albie.
She doesn’t know how long she lies there, but after a while she becomes aware of another presence in the room. Strong hands grasp her underneath her arms and lift her gently. She feels strangely disconnected, airborne, floating weightless like a feather. ‘This way,’ she hears Albie say. ‘Hurry.’
A series of familiar faces float in and out of focus as she is carried up the stairs, painted eyes leering at her out of the dimly lit stairwell. When they reach her room, she is laid upon the covers of her bed. She hears Albie speak again. ‘Thank you. You may go. And please, don’t tell anyone.’ The tall, dark figure, little more than a blur, leaves the bedroom.
‘Jack?’ she croaks.
‘No, I told you. It’s me. Albie.’
The boy carefully removes her shoes and places a pillow behind her throbbing head, then she feels him gently wipe a trickle of blood from her nose with a damp towel. He pulls the sheets back from underneath her. ‘Can you get under the covers?’ he asks.
She nods and somehow stands and shrugs off her dress, but even the soft mattress and the brush of the sheets against her skin as she lies back down make her gasp in pain.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asks.
Lillian reaches out to stroke his cheek. ‘Please don’t cry. I’ll be fine.’
Albie burrows his head in his arms and sits for a moment, overcome. ‘I hate him,’ he mutters into the bedcovers. ‘I hate him so much.’ When he looks up, he grips her hand tightly. ‘I know Father can be beastly, but I couldn’t bear it here without you.’
She nods. ‘I know. Go to bed. It’s late.’
She waits for him to leave, listening for the sound of the door clicking shut behind him before she allows herself to slip away once more into a mercifully deep sleep.
She dreams of peacock screams, fists and smashing glass and when she wakes, a triangle of daylight has hit the centre of the ceiling rose above her bed. A fly that has been buzzing agitatedly at the windowpane, pulling her every now and then from sleep, falls silent at last. Lillian’s head throbs and her ribs ache every time she moves but she wriggles herself up from under the covers and props herself into a sitting position. She squints around at the room, noting the ruined gold dress strewn across the chair, her shoes lying discarded on the floor. Slowly, she reaches up and touches her face, tenderly assessing the damage. Her lip feels cracked and dry and there is a nasty, throbbing lump at the back of her skull, a crust of dried blood around her nostrils. But her face, thank goodness, seems relatively unmarked.
She lies there for a very long time. Listening to the fly. Watching the sunlight moving across the ceiling of the room, drifting in and out of full consciousness until the door to her room opens and she sees him standing framed in the doorway, a tray in his hands. She looks at him for a long moment before turning her face away.
Charles clears his throat then crosses the room, laying the tray on the stool at the end of her bed. ‘Mrs Hill was sorry to hear you’re under the weather. She’s made you a little porridge.’
Lillian doesn’t say a word. It’s always the same. Pretence followed by remorse, apologies and pleading promises that it will never happen again. That he never meant to hurt her. She knows the pattern well.
He moves across to the window and lifts the catch, propping it open to let a little air into the room. When he turns back to her, she feels him inspecting her with a tentative, sideways look. She lifts her face to him and he has the good grace, at least, to wince before looking away. ‘About last night . . . I was . . . I was very upset. I’m sorry.’
He waits but Lillian doesn’t say anything.
‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure. I’ve lost a lot of money. It’s been difficult.’
He approaches the bed and reaches for her hand. She withdraws it.
She doesn’t want his excuses. ‘What’s the time?’ she asks, the words thick on her tongue.
He glances at his watch. ‘A quarter to twelve. You’ve slept most of the morning; but you don’t need to worry about that. The guests have been well looked after. They left after breakfast. I’m here for you; me . . . Albie . . . the staff. You don’t need to leave this room, not until you’re feeling stronger. We all just want you well again.’
Not until I’m feeling stronger, she thinks. She turns away from Charles and looks out of the window.
‘Would you like me to call Doctor May?’
She shudders at the man’s name, remembering the last time he inspected her. Remembering his cool hands roaming over her stomach, pressing and prodding. His stern face as he turned to her and told her that she had lost the baby. In his cold manner had been the suggestion she had been nothing more than careless, when really it was plain to both of them that the wounds and bruises on her body that had caused the miscarriage could in no way have been self-inflicted. ‘There’s no need,’ she says, coldly.
That’s the miracle in all of this, she thinks. Her body and its amazing process of renewal; each cell and bone and strip of flesh regenerating, closing up, healing, making her physically well. It’s a betrayal, her body perfecting itself again and again – on the outside at least – hiding the truth of their marriage to the outside world, readying her to take Charles’s brutality again and again.
‘You should eat something,’ Charles says.
‘I’m not hungry.’
Somewhere down on the terrace she hears a door open and close. She imagines Jack, stepping out into the bright day, making his way across the terrace and onto the lawn, heading into the woods to wait for her in the clearing.
‘There, there,’ says Charles, moving back to the bed and patting her leg over the covers. ‘Don’t cry. Everything is going to be fine. I saw Parker and Molesworth before they left. They were most impressed by dinner last night. They were sorry not to be able to thank you in person . . .’ Charles clears his throat. ‘It’s good news, actually. They’ve offered to lend me the money I need for the business. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s quite a weight off my mind.’
The steady beat in her temple increases in intensity. If she could reach the tray she w
ould tip it up and send its contents crashing to the floor, but instead she turns her face back to the wall.
‘I haven’t been myself of late,’ Charles continues. ‘The disappointment of losing the child, the pressures of the business. But with a little investment, I really think this could be a turning point for Oberon & Son . . . for us.’
Charles continues with his self-pitying monologue but Lillian isn’t listening. She is imagining Jack, striding through the wildflower meadow, tiny insects fluttering up from the grass all around him. She wonders how long he will wait for her in the clearing. How long will he give her before he assumes she isn’t coming and returns to the house? Will he think she doesn’t care enough to come? That she has changed her mind?
And then, despair truly rises; for even if she had made it, what good would it have done them? A few snatched moments here and there, until the room is finished and he leaves Cloudesley forever. In two weeks she will be nothing but a memory, perhaps a figment in his dreams, a shadow on one of his canvases. She thinks of Jack out in the world living his life while she remains trapped at Cloudesley, entombed like the fading butterflies encased in glass boxes, or the hunting trophies hanging upon the walls.
Another tear slides down her cheek. She used to think she could stomach this life. When the fairy tale had turned to nightmare, she’d told herself that a life with Charles could be tolerated. For Albie. For Helena. Besides, she had nothing but what Charles had given her and knew nothing of love but what he had taught her. Where else could she go?
But one summer has changed her. She knows now about love and desire. Jack has opened her eyes to a different kind of love. He has brought dreams of a different kind of life, and the knowledge that he will now leave her makes the thought of remaining in this one unbearable.
‘So you see,’ continues Charles, his voice cutting through her thoughts, ‘nothing at all has changed. Not really.’ He reaches down and tentatively strokes her hair. ‘Everything is going to be fine. We will get you better and everything will carry on as normal.’
Nothing has changed. Carry on as normal.
How little Charles understands.
Externally, perhaps, nothing has changed. The cuts and bruises will heal, in time. But her heart is another matter. Her heart is rearranged, alive, beating, wide open. Her heart is a bird, ready to soar. Yet here it must remain, locked away at Cloudesley, just another curiosity in Charles’s collection of dead things, trapped and gathering dust.
Chapter 22
Maggie slams her laptop closed and lays her head on her grandfather’s desk. Even with her eyes closed, scarily large numbers dance before her eyes. Whichever way she arranges her budget, the bottom line remains a depressing reality. They simply cannot afford for Lillian to live at Cloudesley. And in the meantime, the house continues to fall into disrepair just as fast as they are able to patch it up. Only that morning she’d put her foot through a step on the back staircase, the wood crumbling perilously beneath her, the tiny holes visible in the timber a sure sign that they might have the added problem of beetles to contend with.
With a sigh, Maggie opens her eyes and stares out across the surface of the desk. This close, she can see in infinite detail the furry layer of dust clinging to the wood. It can’t be good for any of them, least of all Lillian. Lillian is still adamant that Cloudesley is the only place she wants to be, but Maggie can’t help wondering if a nursing home, with clean carpets and warm radiators and caring staff, mightn’t be a better place for her grandmother’s ailing health. But how to tell Lillian? It would break her heart.
Giving up on her sums, Maggie leaves the study and enters the kitchen. She makes up a lunch tray for Lillian and carries it through to the drawing room where her grandmother lies dozing in bed. She places the tray on a side table, only noticing Albie seated in the shadows, his head in his hands, as he shifts in the chair. ‘Hello,’ she murmurs, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘How is she doing?’ Albie glances up and Maggie is surprised to see that he looks as if he has been crying.
‘Oh fine. Fine.’ He rubs his face and straightens his shoulders. ‘She’s been sleeping.’
‘And you?’
‘Me? I’m all right.’
She eyes him carefully. ‘Sure?’
He nods. ‘Just taking a trip down memory lane. You know how it is. This old place hums with ghosts. You can’t avoid them for long.’
Maggie doesn’t know what to say. She feels as if she’s intruded on a private moment.
‘Well,’ says Albie, straightening up and fixing a smile onto his face, ‘I said I’d give Will a hand. Best get on.’
Maggie waits for Albie to leave, then pulls up a chair beside Lillian. As her grandmother begins to stir, she reaches for her hand. Lillian frowns then turns to stare out of the window.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Weary.’
Maggie gives her a moment, tidying a newspaper that has spilled onto the floor and straightening the bedcovers.
‘What’s the time?’ Lillian asks, still gazing out of the window.
Maggie checks her watch. ‘It’s just gone twelve.’
‘He’ll be waiting for me.’
Maggie frowns. ‘Who’ll be waiting?’ When Lillian doesn’t answer she tries again. ‘Gran, who’s waiting?’
Silence. Maggie, realising how stuffy the room has grown, opens a window before fetching a cushion from the settee and placing it behind her grandmother’s back. ‘Let’s make you a bit more comfortable, shall we?’
Lillian allows Maggie to adjust her sitting position, but still gazes vacantly at the garden. ‘Gran, I’ve brought you lunch. Are you hungry?’
Maggie reaches for the lunch tray and fusses with the cutlery and napkin. ‘It’s Jane’s watercress soup,’ she says encouragingly. She dips the spoon into the thin green liquid.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Lillian murmurs.
‘Won’t you try a little, for me?’
But Lillian shakes her head. ‘Leave me be.’
Maggie sighs and returns the spoon to the bowl. She looks out to the gardens. It’s going to be one of those days.
After a while, Lillian closes her eyes and begins to doze again. Maggie, realising there is little more she can do, leaves the room and steps out onto the terrace. Down on the lawn, Will is attempting to revive the browning grass with a hose and sprinkler. Albie is standing beside him, his crumpled linen shirt now unbuttoned to his navel revealing a paunch covered in grey hair, a roll-up cigarette dangling from his lips. As Maggie approaches, he shares a joke with Will, flexing his muscles in a parody of a strong man, making Will laugh. The intensity of her father’s mood just moments earlier seems to have lifted. ‘Ah good,’ says Albie, as she draws closer, ‘come and join us. You know what they say, all work and no play . . .’
‘Some of us are still working,’ says Will, pointedly, but if Albie hears him he doesn’t respond.
‘Why the frown?’ Albie asks, settling himself on the edge of the retaining wall.
‘I’m worried about Lillian. She seems a little off, a little vacant. I was wondering if perhaps I should call the GP. Get her checked out.’
‘She’s doing remarkably well for eighty-six, if you ask me.’ Maggie isn’t convinced, but Albie is already moving on. ‘Is there anything else bothering you?’
She sighs and lowers herself beside him. ‘Where do I start? I’m getting nowhere with plans for the house.’
Albie reaches out and stubs his roll-up on the stone wall before flicking it into the meadow below. ‘You worry too much, Mags. The house is chock-full of valuable antiques. Sell some.’
Maggie notices Will’s eyebrows shoot skywards before he tactfully turns and busies himself with coiling the hose and moving the sprinkler a short distance away.
‘It seems you’ve done a pretty good job of selling a lot of them already,’ she says.
Albie shrugs, nonplussed. ‘No point them just sitting here collecting dust.’
‘So yo
u’d have us sell all the furniture and let Lillian rattle around in an empty house?’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to run the place into the ground. I had hoped to protect Lillian’s home, so that she could stay here as long as she wants to – as long as she needs to.’
Albie frowns. ‘I don’t know why she’s so insistent. I’d have thought she’d have got shot of the place as soon as Father died.’
‘She’s lived here almost all her life. Surely you can see how emotionally attached she is to Cloudesley. It’s her home.’
Albie gives a bitter laugh. ‘It’s certainly an unusual phenomenon: the caged bird so conditioned to a life behind bars that when the door is finally unlocked, the poor creature won’t fly away.’
Maggie frowns. ‘A cage? I’m not sure Lillian sees Cloudesley the same way you do. This is our history. This house is our home. Everything that Charles and Lillian worked so hard for, we’re just going to throw it away?’
Albie shrugs. ‘It might be easier than the alternative.’
Maggie shakes her head with frustration. Always the easy way for Albie. ‘Perhaps you know some investors who might be able to help us?’
Albie lies back and smiles benignly up at the sky. ‘I doubt I know an investor alive who would think me worth a punt. I’m afraid I’ve burned too many bridges over the years.’
Silence falls over them. From somewhere down in the wildflower meadow a skylark sings. Maggie feels the sun beating onto her shoulders. She gazes across at the browning lawn and imagines Todd Hamilton strutting around the gardens, ushering his bulldozers up the drive. There’s got to be another way.
‘What are you doing here, Mags?’
Albie’s question cuts clean through her thoughts.
‘What do you mean? You know why I’m here. For Lillian.’
‘You’re young. You should be off meeting people, having fun, building your career. Not nursing an old lady and watching this place disintegrate around you. Why aren’t you painting? Why aren’t you off living your life? You’re as bad as Lillian, trapped in this cage. Fly away.’ He flaps his hands at her. ‘Go on, fly!’
The Peacock Summer Page 25
