‘I’d shut up if I were you,’ Henry said.
She glared at him, her face an ugly red. ‘Mind your own business. I can do what I like in my own house. I’ve a right to find out what she knows.’
‘You never will if you tell her what to say.’
‘What?’ Mandy received this belligerently; then, thinking it over, accepted it with a grudging, ‘Oh, no ... I see what you mean.’
Leonora, meanwhile, had taken off her spectacles, cleaned them with a dingy handkerchief and put them on again. Her helpless air, her slow withdrawal into innocent gravity indicated that not only had she no means of combating unpleasantness, she preferred not to notice it at all: if she pretended it wasn’t happening it would go away.
Mandy glared at her, her candy-flossed head quivering with suppressed rage. ‘I’ve had enough of you for the time being. I’m going.’ She turned to Cass and tilted her face upwards, indicating Augustus’s apartment.
‘You’re not going to tell him,’ Cass breathed.
‘Oh, what do you take me for? What’s to tell, anyway, except a lot of shit —’ she stamped out.
Henry followed her swiftly, closing the door on Leonora’s polite: ‘Is there someone else here, Cass, as well as us?’
13
He found himself in a hall furnished with baronial ponder; there were several doors opening off it and Mandy had paused at one of them, looking back at him. Her stance was aggressive, but there was an off-balance fluster about it. Self-control was the smallest ingredient of her nature, under stress it would disappear entirely; Henry calculated that if she had anything to conceal she was least likely to do so at that moment — which was why he had followed her. She said,
‘I could swear that silly cow isn’t all there. What’s she up to?’
‘I thought at first you might know, but you don’t. Someone must, though, she hasn’t done this on her own.’
‘No, she hasn’t the wit.’
‘Why won’t Wynter see her?’
‘He sees no one except me. Cass and Evelyn occasionally.’
‘But hasn’t he been waiting for her?’
‘Nother.’
‘Could he tell the difference?’
‘He could tell. He’s not lost his marbles. Come in here.’
They went into a large kitchen crammed with labour-saving equipment; frantically patterned blinds at the windows partially concealed a view of dank bushes. Mandy began crashing about with plates. ‘He’s been very upset by all this. Very. He can’t bear strangers in the house, he can sense them, even if they don’t go anywhere near him. And I have to cope. I have to see to everything. I’ve been trying to hold this mausoleum together for years, trying to get staff, keep that jungle out there under control, attend to Augustus — you don’t know the time that takes up. Not that I’m complaining; but I’m the one who has to cope, and things are getting worse, not better. He’s becoming unreliable, in himself. You know. His workings. You know.’
She had worked down the scale of her rage to a rancorous self-pity; all the time she talked she was busy preparing some slop-like food, setting out a tray, working with a distracted efficiency that spoke of long practice.
For the first time Henry thought of the physical condition of Wynter, whose once demonic vitality conferred nothing on his mortal body — he crept towards the slow dismantling of death, just like any other man. And he did it in the care of this woman, who for all her ridiculous bedizening still had vigour and purpose. If she was stifled by a routine that daily fettered her to airless rooms and invalid foods, to the decay of age and sickness, the smell of incontinence — she would not give in. Her lack of sensitivity and her physical hardness would see her through; Henry, looking at the thick body, the solidly fleshed arms and strong hands, recalled that Cass had told him how Mandy kept herself fit. In Wynter’s shuttered world she did what she had to do, her energy undiminished, her optimism persistent; when the time came she would project herself into life with the resilience and speed of a very hard rubber ball.
He said, ‘It must be difficult for you.’
‘Difficult. It’s getting to be a nightmare. And your precious lady friend’s useless. I say useless — at least she’s here so I can have a day off once in a while. Still, where else has she got to go? She’s made such a mess of her life, expensive tastes and no wherewithal. She gets everything she wants here, and plenty when Augustus passes on. So do I, I make no bones about it, I’ve earned it. I suppose I should have regularised things years ago, married him when he was keen for me.’ This undoubted fiction she uttered with immovable certainty; if Wynter had not given her the status she coveted she could at least claim the intention had been there, he was scarcely likely to argue publicly about it now. ‘Oh, yes. I deserve my share, Cass and Evelyn won’t deny me that. I’ve spent twenty-five years of my life in this place, and I won’t stay a minute longer than necessary. When he goes, I go, quick as shit. I’ve got a life to live, I know how to enjoy myself, and I’ll see I do.’
Henry said, ‘A woman like you, you wouldn’t involve yourself in an affair like last night just to humour an old man. You’ve done all sorts of things, over the years, with him, for him. He trusts you.’
‘Of course he does. Why shouldn’t he? I’m closer to him than anyone. Iknow. Humour him. Huh. That’s just the sort of thing people think, people say because they’ve no idea, they’re too ordinary to give themselves up to his greatness. He’s a great psychic, he has control of forces outside the laws of nature, his powers are incredible. Of course, you wouldn’t understand these things, you’re not the type ... and someone like Evelyn, or your precious Cass, too bloody educated to believe in anything except themselves — but they’re afraid of him. Oh, yes, they don’t like to admit it, but they are. I’m not, it’s my privilege to enter into his spirit.’
Repelled, Henry saw that her eyes had blinded to the dazzled look of the possessed, her painted-doll features seeming to fall away around them, disintegrating into fanaticism. ‘Yes, I can tell you’re an extraordinary person,’ he said carefully. ‘Whatever had happened last night you’d have been safe.’
‘Oh, I would. I always will be as long as Augustus is alive. It might be dangerous when he’s gone, the force could get loose. It was pressing last night, you could feel it in the air, the pressure was intense. That’s why he’s so exhausted today, it took so much of his strength. He has to be very careful, he needs to protect himself.’
‘It’s the force that keeps the real Helen away, prevents her from getting through, I suppose,’ Henry said, speaking at random, collecting his thoughts, shaken by the revelation of a mad dimension to this woman’s personality. Long ago an idea had been applied to her and it had hardened like glue: the idea that Wynter was more than a man. It was true that self-interest played its part, but so did superstition and ignorance; her credulity was of the simplest order and therefore immutable, at some primitive level she had received the mystic in Wynter and allied herself to it.
‘... there should have been a manifestation, everything was exactly right this time. For a moment, when I saw that figure walking out of the trees, I thought ... But she spoiled everything, whoever she is, the stupid bitch. And just when the vibrations were at their strongest ...’
‘Tell me,’ Henry asked. ‘When Wynter expected Helen to appear — manifest herself, whatever — did he really think she would be in the form he last saw her — as a ten-year-old child?’
With obtuse concentration Mandy ignored the question. ‘... I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t think he knows, either. He’s confused, upset. He said: she’s betrayed me. I think he means your aunt, he must mean her. Although I don’t see how, she hadn’t the power. You never knew her, of course, but take my word for it, she had no charisma. And she wasn’t equal to the privilege of serving him. Perhaps she did manage to work something, in her tin-pot way, revenging herself from beyond the grave.’
Henry made no outward response; it was the flinching of
his spirit that reacted with defensive contempt as he considered the credulous, impoverished mind, the cheap vocabulary, the total vulgarity of the woman who stood before him. It would have been futile to protest:what has my aunt to do with you? Because whatever happened, whatever presently engaged the occupants of this repulsive place, the shade of that enigmatic woman stood always to one side of every event, connected by filaments too fine to be discerned, too strong to be broken.
‘... she was under his control, make no mistake about it. He entered into her mind. He was in telepathic communication with her.’
‘And something a great deal more solid. You, for instance.’
‘Why not? He could trust me to carry his power to her.’
‘It didn’t get you very far. She wouldn’t read the tarot for you.’
‘Not when we first approached her.’
‘Don’t tell me she ever did. I can’t see she’d even let you in the house more than once, or twice, maybe.’
‘No, that was proof enough. I told you, she wasn’t equal to him, she could feel his power transmitted through me. Hiding behind her curtains, pretending she wasn’t in. Pathetic. It did her no good. She did read the cards, though, before she went into that hospital. He saw them, up here —’ She pointed to her forehead; her eyes were naked as stones, shining wet and awe-struck. ‘He had an expansion of consciousness. He received a picture of her, sitting there with the cards spread out. She knew he was suddenly present, she put up her hands to ward him off —’
Anger and distaste made Henry turn away. He went to the door and opened it. Her voice followed him, gloating on melodramatic images. She saw that he was waiting and picked up the tray, collecting herself with a noisy sigh. But in her manner there was no awareness that he might consider what she had said to be in any way unusual, her conceit encompassed his acceptance. The disclosure of her fanaticism had had a revivifying effect on her, her features firmed, she looked satisfied.
Henry said, ‘It’s a pity that when Wynter received his telepathic messages he didn’t get them right.’
She was unperturbed; carrying the tray she went past him with her thrusting step. ‘He’s never wrong. It was her, other people, fate, intervening. Hecan’t be wrong.’ In the hall again he looked about, the geography of what was virtually a house within a house was confusing. Beyond a half-open door a flick of movement caught his eye, he followed it and found Cass, busily searching for something. ‘So this is your room ...’
It was as over-furnished as the sitting room, so gaudily inappropriate to her personal elegance he wondered how she could stand it — she must have developed a remarkable capacity for ignoring her surroundings, living always in other people’s houses like a hermit crab in discarded shells. It was an enormous room, littered with paints and sketchblocks, tapestries, half finished seed-pictures and decorated boxes, wildly untidy with the evidences of the enthusiasms that occupied her clever, restless hands for a while before being discarded.
He said, ‘Did you know that Mandy thinks Wynter is God? And that she is his handmaid?’
‘Yes, of course, I told you.’
‘But the subject unhinges her.’
Cass looked resigned, then indifferent. Just as she could ignore a room that insulted her good taste, so she could refuse to consider any circumstance that threatened her peace of mind. ‘You know how she’s survived Augustus’s talent for destruction? Stupidity. When there’s nothing there, you can’t get through to it, and she’s impenetrable. Anyway, darling, most people are barmy in one area or another. Except you, of course.’
‘That’s more or less what she said. It’s getting very boring the way none of you credits me with comprehending anything that isn’t three-dimensional and gift wrapped. Cass, what are youdoing?’
‘Looking for some Wellington boots.’ She spoke from the depths of a gigantic cupboard. ‘I know I’ve gota spare pair. For Leonora, she wants to come to the stable and her shoes aren’t fit for it. They’re not fit for anything much, really. I wonder which of my dresses will fit her? She’s my height, a trifle more ample.’
So Leonora was a new enthusiasm, a toy for her to play with. Instead of me? he thought bleakly. He went to her, half in and half out of the cupboard, put his arms round her and held her. She was busy reaching up to a rack of clothes, forward to shelves holding an assortment of objects; she said ‘Ah-ha’ and wriggled her bottom against him, more as a matter of habit than encouragement. When he did not release her she said rather absently, ‘I’mdoing something.’
‘Well stop it, do something with me. I can lock your door.’
‘No, Henry, there isn’t time. Anyway, not here, I never have, I couldn’t, it’s not the place.’
Perhaps she was right. The ugliness was oppressive, it seemed to weigh on his body; and more than that, the striving people it contained, the accumulation of their malice, their concealments, their needs produced a contentious air. But, perversely, he thought: why not here? Why not a little spontaneous affection, some passion, some sharing — wouldn’t they lighten the dark place, just briefly? He said something of the sort to her, trying to reach her through her preoccupation. She answered inattentively,
‘I’ll come to your house later.’
‘When?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She emerged, triumphant, with the boots.
‘Decide.’
‘Oh ... this afternoon.’ Looking at him as he turned away. ‘Henry, you will go to those places tomorrow? For Leonora?’
‘If it’s necessary. Of course, I said I would.’
She slipped behind him and hugged her arms round him, pressing herself against his back, rubbing her head between his shoulder blades, her laughter muffled. ‘Beastie. Gorgeous, sexy beastie.’ She moved her body sinuously, unreachable to him, one arm tightly round his chest, one hand moving down in an impudent caress, too expert and too welcome to be resisted.
‘Cass, either stop playing around or come across.’
‘Can’t,’ she whispered, pleased to feel him hard beneath her hand. ‘Just hang on to it for a couple of hours.’ She gave a soft giggle and slid away too quickly for him to turn and catch her. She picked up the boots and went out, glancing over her shoulder as he followed, pausing at the sitting room door. ‘I hope you’re decent.’
He told her it was her bloody fault if he wasn’t and quietly, explicitly, called her a name. She looked shocked and demure, as if none of it was anything to do with her.
The sitting room was empty. ‘Perhaps she’s waiting outside,’ Cass suggested. But outside there was no one in sight; they stood in the porch, Cass frowning. ‘Oh, if she’s wandered off ... It’s your fault, keeping me so long.’
‘She knows her way about, remember?’ Henry said dryly. On an impulse he turned back into the house, bypassing the flat and going straight down the corridor that opened on to the hall.
She was there, and the way that she stood, the way that she looked, made him pause and catch his breath and stare, uneasy, baffled.
She stood in the middle of the hall, gazing up at the gallery, her hands were gracefully folded, her features blank, and stillness was centred in her, made absolute. She was not Leonora; in her poise and her silence she was a creature unknown and uncanny, her fatal gaze possessed of the very spirit of stillness that by its power could wait and summon and draw all things to her.
He was mesmerised; some instinct, purely primitive, kept him from approaching her. He had never seen a woman so concentrated by force of will, at once alluring and inaccessible, waiting, contained by a remoteness of spirit no sound could reach, no human presence stir. He heard Cass come up quietly behind him, heard her faltered step, the intake of her breath, felt her hand timidly reach to his for reassurance. She whispered, ‘Henry, that’s how she looked last night, sostrange ...’
‘What are you doing, Leonora?’ Level and matter-of-fact as his voice was, he felt it defeated by the silence, the stone, the stillness. Until she turned, gainly and without haste, h
er thick hair moving densely on her shoulders, her features bewilderingly forming expressions that melted untraceably, one into the other, before the sombre light glanced upon her owlish spectacles and made her face untenanted. ‘I’m not doing anything. I’m just standing here,’ she said, in her sweet, clear voice. ‘Just standing here.’
*
When Henry had finished his calls he drove out of the village by way of the church. Behind a sweep of green, in the seclusion of their gardens, stood tall Victorian houses, very like his own in their spacious solidity, their unpretentious charm. He slowed the car, looking curiously, wondering which house was Evelyn’s. By the chance of things he saw her emerge from a driveway, unexpectedly accompanied by a dog, and walk slowly along the green to where it widened, criss-crossed by paths, to merge into the distant fringe of the wood.
He drew up and got out. She was preoccupied and did not notice his approach, the fatigue of the night showed in her face. The dog turned and peered at him shortsightedly; it was small and very old and looked as if it had been knitted out of dirty wool. ‘Hallo, is he yours?’ Henry said.
Slightly taken aback, Evelyn glanced towards her house, then, with equal lack of enthusiasm, at Henry and down at the dog. ‘No, my neighbours’. They’re away for the day, I promised to give him his walk, can’t leave the poor beast shut up all day.’
‘No, of course not. He’s getting on, isn’t he? Nice old thing. I like dogs, my neighbour has the most aristocratic little creature ...’ He chatted easily, aware of the surge of impatience that threatened Evelyn’s composure. She wanted to remove him from the vicinity of her house, her stronghold of respectability; she would have given anything to make some excuse to get rid of him; but as he had caught her setting out on her walk — and she was too conscientious to abandon it — she had no choice but to respond to his offer to accompany her round the green with a lukewarm, ‘Thank you’.
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