by Burke, John
“It was purely on impulse. Someone I know had recommended the place.”
“Nice of them. But we’re closed.”
“So I discovered. As I said, it was on impulse.”
“And coming on here. That was impulse, too?”
“Not exactly. I’ve got to cover the whole area. That’s why I thought I ought to follow up Fiona’s recommendation and...”
“Fiona?”
“Fiona Freeman. She’s the one” – Ellen babbled unhappily on – “who’d been there and said I ought to try your Welsh lamb.”
“Nice of her.” David Parr took his pipe from between his teeth and inspected the bowl. It had gone out. He looked thankful rather than upset. He produced a pack of cigarettes and held it out to Ellen. Gratefully she accepted one. Myfanwy fidgeted. “Fiona,” said David Parr. “Mm. How is she these days?”
“Oh...you know.” Not a very bright remark, but really she didn’t know Fiona all that well and didn’t know how well Parr knew her. As a friend, a cherished guest at the Hall, or a perfect pest? It wouldn’t do to say that Fiona was the same as she had always been, chattering on like a malicious budgerigar.
Myfanwy, twitching jealously and tired of being ignored, demanded: “What are you doing here, anyway? Got to cover the whole area – that’s what you said.”
It was safer ground. “I’m working on the Grubby...that is, I’m investigating hotels and restaurants in connection with a new food guide for women.”
David Parr’s thoughts seemed to be far away. Then the focus sharpened again and he was looking again at her throat. For an alarming moment she was sure he was going to reach out and touch her. Then the brief hunger – for that was how it struck her – faded.
“Interesting,” he said. “A woman’s guide to good wittles, hey?”
“I’m only sorry I can’t include Bryncroeso Hall in my researches.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“It’s closed,” she reminded him.
“I can reopen it, can’t I? For one special occasion? It’s my house, isn’t it?”
She wondered why he sounded so defiant about it. Before she could speak, he went on: “Come and have dinner with me.” It was a command, not an invitation. “Tomorrow evening.”
“That’s not quite how I operate.” She kept it cool. “I like to put in an unbiased report. It’s not fair to judge a specially prepared meal. Not that I’m implying you’d try to cheat in any way.”
“Should damn well hope not.” It was the curt, over-confident Commander Parr she had seen and heard in the classroom. “Come and see for yourself. Make your own assessment. Scribble rude words on the walls, if you like. Get some idea of the atmosphere. And I’ll cook one of my specialities for you. Tomorrow. Give me time to prepare everything.”
Ellen snatched mentally at two or three valid excuses. The first and best, surely, was that no girl on her own ought to go up to that lonely Hall to have dinner with this nervy, blustering man. There must be a politer way of expressing it, of course, but any man who didn’t see the point wasn’t the sort of man she ought to be having dinner with anyway.
And as soon as she began to think along these lines, she had to slap herself down. Wasn’t this the whole object of the exercise? Freedom of women to eat where they liked, alone or with whom they liked, confident of their ability to carry off any situation with aplomb.
“Seven-thirty,” he was saying, “for eight. Right?”
From the corner of her eye Ellen was aware of Myfanwy’s face working. She carefully did not look at her, and carefully said:
“You’ll leave the gates open?”
“Sound your horn and I’ll come down to let you in.”
Chapter Four
A dolphin stood on its green, eroded head in the bowl of a dilapidated fountain. The plash of the jets was no more than a reedy soprano against the bass murmur of a stream and waterfall somewhere beyond the trees.
The lawn around the fountain had been recently mown. A hedge along the terrace of the house was neatly trimmed. Lawn, terrace and house were sheltered by a high stockade of spruces.
The upper storeys of the Hall itself were half-timbered as stiffly and unconvincingly as a slice of stockbroker’s Tudor in Surrey, but their hard-edged black and white blended happily enough with the grey and yellow stone of the main fabric. The chimneys which Ellen had glimpsed from the road looked even more pretentious at this range. Yet there was a brash air of confidence about this Victorian amalgam of unrelated imitations, imposing shape and proportion on the luxuriantly wooded setting. It was a sprightly attempt at something, whatever that something might be.
David Parr was silent as he led her into the entrance hall, bright with new creamy, embossed wallpaper. She wondered if he was repenting his invitation.
Everything appeared to be ready for visitors. A leatherbound register lay on the desk beside a polished brass bell which one would ring for attention. Framed on the wall was a printed notice of times for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
A broad staircase led up from one end of the hall, its treads and banisters newly painted. Four doors, all gleaming white, led off in different directions. At this time of year the old stables, converted into garages, ought to have been full. There ought to have been tables and gaudy umbrellas on the terrace. The doors from the hall ought not to look so irrevocably shut.
Ellen stopped on an Indian rug in the middle of the floor. She tried to think of something to say which would be both flattering and non-committal.
David Parr took her arm. Through her sleeve she felt the bony strength of his hand. He steered her towards the nearest door and leaned forward to open it.
Terrace, hedge, lawn and fountain fell into new perspective, landscaped through a long stretch of picture window. Small dining tables and chairs were arrayed across the room, but only one table was laid for a meal. It was the one commanding the best view from the window.
“It keeps their minds off what’s on their plates,” said David Parr. He kept his smile in place just long enough to indicate that she was expected to return it.
Ellen managed a smile.
“Try the chair in the corner,” he said. “And what’ll you drink?”
At one end there was a step down, guarded by a mahogany rail. Two wicker chairs faced out over the garden with a low table between them. Ellen sat down; and he bent over her.
“I have a good sherry. Not too dry. Wouldn’t want to dehydrate your palate.”
“Thank you.”
He poured two glasses and creaked down into the wicker chair beside her. “Ah, that’s better.”
“This must be a wonderful place to stay.” A conventional remark but a true one. The outlook was soothing and full of riches.
“Do my best. Old biddies or newlyweds, bring ’em on. Geared for kids, too. Baby alarm, so Mum and Dad can have dinner without scrabbling up and down in a flap every other minute. Loudspeaker linked to the nursery. The table by the old chimney breast.” He waved down the room. “Catering for every guest.”
“Mr Parr – sorry, Commander Parr...”
“It’s easier to say David.”
She wasn’t at all sure it was, but volunteered: “I’m Ellen. Ellen Sawyer.”
“I’m sorry it took you so long to get here, Ellen. Glad you finally made it.”
“You must get hordes of folk here during the season.” She wondered if he felt the bite of the question. “You don’t find it a drag...your own home...?”
“No choice. Can’t give the place up. Family would never forgive me.”
“Your family?”
“All dead.”
“Pm sorry.”
“Can’t trust ’em. Come back to haunt me.” He made a curt joke of it but it wasn’t funny to him. “Got to keep it going. Make it pay for itself. Let ’em come, let ’em all come. I like cooking,” he added. “Got a knack. Can’t imagine where it came from.”
“I’d heard the food was exceptional.”
&n
bsp; “You had?”
“From Fiona. You remember.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. What’s she doing with herself these days?”
It was differently phrased, this question, this time. Ellen was not sure whether he really cared if he got an answer or not.
She said: “She’s a receptionist – a sort of super receptionist, actually – in our building. Got the whole business at her fingertips.”
“I can see that. Yes, I can see it.” He glanced at his watch and put his glass down. “Don’t mind if I keep popping out, do you? Want the grub to be absolutely spot-on.”
“Commander Parr...”
“David.”
“David,” she said. “Is it going to be the sort of dish you can guarantee to offer a restaurant full of visitors as part of your ordinary menu?”
“Cross my heart. That’s why I want you to sample it. That’s the idea, isn’t it? You recommend the place, people come trampling in from every bloody side...” He stopped himself and got up abruptly. “But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Making ’em welcome.”
He went out.
Looking round the room more frankly than when he had been here, Ellen saw that it, too, had been newly decorated. Myfanwy had said that everything had been done, finished, weeks ago. Yet still the Hall was not open to the public.
The sun was poised on a western hilltop between two ranks of firs. Ellen took her glass to the window and found that one of the sections was fitted into a slot. She pulled at the ridge in the metal frame, and the large pane slid along. The silence of the room sucked in whispers from the outer evening.
“Another ten minutes and we’re all set.” David’s voice made her jump.
He came and stood beside her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
“How did you come to meet Myfanwy?”
“Chance. I was just wandering about. I believe she thought I was snooping.” Ellen tried to laugh away the uneasiness of the memory.
“She’s a sweet kid. I’ve known her – through her father, of course – since she was only twelve or so.” He stared straight ahead. His hand was motionless on her shoulder. He was not tense; but he was attentive. “What did she have to say about me?”
“Nothing. I mean, nothing except that you weren’t in your cottage. She...she seemed very fond of you. Not that I ought to make snap judgments like that, of course.”
“A sweet kid,” he repeated.
In the distance the snarl of an accelerating lorry resonated from the wall of the valley.
“And Fiona?” said David. “Did she have anything to say about me?”
“Only about the food. A chance remark, and – well, here I am.”
Now his fingers tightened. Ellen stared out at the hypnotic view, sure that if she turned her head something stupid would happen.
“I’m grateful to her.”
The noise of the lorry boomed again, this time much closer. She could have sworn it was coming up the drive.
David’s grip slackened. He said: “Won’t be a tick.”
He hurried away.
As the door closed behind him, a large truck swung out of the trees and up the last stretch of drive. It slowed as though to turn round the side of the building, then stopped below the terrace. On the canvas side were the words: MORGAN JONES, DECORATOR HEATING ENGINEER.
The cab door opened. Instinctively Ellen moved back from the window.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel and came up the side steps of the terrace. The driver came to the open window and walked in. Then he stopped.
“Who the hell are you?”
David was calling outside. The newcomer turned and stamped out, leaving Ellen with a frozen impression of a lean, hatchet face and of thin lips pulled tautly back over the teeth – an impression fading like the Cheshire cat’s smile. Only this had been no smile.
She heard the two of them meet. “What’s that girl doing in there?”
“I invited her to dinner.”
“Have you gone out of your mind?”
“If I want to invite a guest to dinner...”
“You know what we agreed. You know perfectly well what we...”
“It’s still my house.”
“You’re being paid.”
“Look, I happened to want to ask her in for a meal. She’ll be on her way and we’ll never see her again. I asked her in for a meal, and she’s going to have a meal.”
“She’s not staying the night, Or anything like that?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Well, get rid of her fast. There’s been too much snooping.”
“She’s not a snooper.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s simply...”
“Nobody’s simply anything. I have an idea we weren’t alone on the road tonight. And I’m telling you...”
“You’re telling the whole of Merioneth. Come round here...”
Their voices drifted away. A minute later the driver returned and drove the truck round the back of the Hall.
The sun dipped below the ridge. Although the sky remained golden, twilight poured down the slopes and lapped across the terrace. With a shiver Ellen slid the window shut.
At once she felt imprisoned.
Dare she make a dash for it: run to her car and drive away?
David Parr said from the door: “I’m sorry. That intrusion. Some of these locals think they own the place.” His cheeks were mottled as though scorched by a sun-lamp.
The man’s accent hadn’t struck Ellen as being a local one. She said:
“Perhaps I’d better go. I really oughtn’t to have put you to all this trouble anyway.”
“You’re staying.” He snapped it out, then made a quivering effort to relax. “Notebook at the ready. Grub’ll be on the table in two minutes ten seconds from now.”
He pulled out a chair from the table in the window. Ellen had to sit down. With a flourish he whipped open a napkin and laid it across her knees. His hand rested on her right knee just a fraction too long. With a mock bow he turned and went out again.
The fountain shimmered in the dusk. She wondered why he had been so anxious – so airily, offhandedly anxious – to know what those two very different women might have said about him. Would he ask others, later, what Ellen might say about him? What was there for women to say about him, then?
The first course was a ham mousse within a slim cornet of ham, decked with asparagus and a few slices of red pepper. She could not fault it. But she didn’t enjoy it.
He watched her. She had to make some response. She ventured: “You said you liked cooking. You also like presentation, I can see.”
“Good layout makes for a good appetite,” he said.
“Some of the places I’ve been, they don’t want to stimulate your appetite.”
“Top marks so far, then?”
“Top marks.”
There was a muffled thud from the back of the house as though the flap of the truck had been thumped down, or as though something heavy were being shifted. David began to talk angrily. He seemed to want to argue somebody down; or perhaps to prevent her from listening to what might be going on elsewhere.
“Just as well,” he said. “Just as well, isn’t it? Got to keep up the standards. Otherwise I’d have been slung out of house and home. Can’t keep up the stately old mansion on a pension. Not even full pension. And I don’t get that. Nothing like it.”
“You were in the Navy.”
It was usually a safe gambit. Men loved to talk about their military careers, even if they had got no further than being a storekeeper in the Orkneys.
“At the end of the war,” he said. “When there wasn’t any point in being in it any longer.”
“Then why...?”
“Had to do something, hadn’t I? Tradition. I told you.” He slashed through the end of the ham cornet like a destructive child prepared to let his ice-cream leak away just for the sake of displaying temper. “My brother was kill
ed during the war.”
“Yes.” She nodded sympathetically, and regretted it. If he asked how she knew this, and she admitted to gossiping with the landlord of the pub, he would surely then go on to ask what it had got to do with her and why she was prying. And there wasn’t any answer.
Snooping, the driver of the truck had said.
But David accepted it merely as a punctuation mark in the conversation, and went on:
“Killed. And not very prettily. Filthy...horrible. We heard all about it afterwards. He was in S.O.E. Got picked up by the Germans in Liege. They kept him alive a long time before calling it a day. And that killed my father, and then my mother. And the death duties nearly killed me.” He pushed his plate away. “George was the one they meant to take the place over. He’s the one who ought to be in charge here. That’s what they felt – and it’s what they told me. But George died. George was pulled apart by those butchers – and now look! Look,” he grated, “where the Germans are today – right back on top!”
She tried to quiet him. “And you went into the Navy.”
“At the end of the war,” he repeated. “And I was in for just long enough to be made unfit for any other job of work. Just long enough to learn how to be redundant. That was the word: redundant. A copper handshake, and thanks very much, and dismiss.”
“But you’re managing. You’re making a success of this place.”
Her plate was empty. David got up and piled it on top of his own. He went out. When he came back it was with a huge silver serving salver.
They had what must have started out as a healthy free-range chicken which had then been grilled, breadcrumbed, basted and lovingly devilled. At the last moment David added a touch of melted butter and lemon juice, slightly flavoured with a herbal blend which Ellen could not identify. The bottle of Sancerre sparkled with a faint trickle of cold dew.
As he offered her a dish of small baked tomatoes, David said tersely: “My wife couldn’t stand it here. Fine when I was in the Navy, but after that, nothing doing. Glamorous uniform, away half the time, whooping it up when I came home – fine. Marvellous. We had a flat in Brighton once. Then she wanted to live in London. Then it was Pompey, then back to London. But she didn’t fancy Wales. Even with me doing all the cooking and half the rest of the work, she didn’t fancy it here. So she went.”
