“They’re tight-fisted,” Graham explained. “It’s how the rich stay rich – by never spending more than they have to.”
There was a pause while we contemplated the sparseness of the bathroom and then I asked, “Noblesse oblige? What was all that about then?”
“It’s a French term. Means the nobility have an obligation to be generous to the lower orders. That’s us. But from what I’ve read, Jennifer is the first Strudwick to have heard of the concept.”
“If she’s a Strudwick, why’s she called Jennifer Thomas?”
Graham looked at me like I’d asked the most idiotic question in the world. “Because she married Mr Thomas.”
“Oh. I didn’t think women changed their names these days.”
“They’re an old family. I suppose they stick to tradition.”
“OK, so she’s Lydia’s cousin. Who’s Uncle Lawrence then, Lydia’s dad?”
Graham – ever resourceful – breathed on the mirror and drew me a family tree.
I was fascinated. “Wow… So what happened to Lawrence’s wife then?”
“She died last year.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Nothing suspicious. It was cancer, apparently.”
“Fair enough. So Jennifer’s dad is the guy that disappeared?” I asked. Graham nodded. “Interesting. Jennifer and Julian are pretty much orphans then. Have been for ages. Who brought them up?”
“They were sent to boarding school along with their cousins.”
“What about the holidays?”
“They came back here, I presume,” Graham said.
“I wonder what it was like? Jennifer and Lydia don’t exactly seem close. They don’t all still live here together, do they?”
“No, only Lawrence and Lydia. The rest of the family are just here for the christening. Lawrence is pretty ill, I think. Lydia must look after him.”
“Poor man! She doesn’t seem to have much of a bedside manner.” I surveyed the diagram again. “How do you find out all this stuff, Graham?”
He shrugged as he wiped the mirror clean. “Who’s Who. Debrett’s Peerage. Wikipedia. It was easy.”
“Well, Jennifer seems nice at any rate. And her brother looked OK. Maybe they missed out on the cruel gene.”
Or maybe not.
When Jennifer came back – minus the baby – she was carrying two outfits for us to change into. She dumped them in our arms and scurried off to prepare Marmaduke. The clothes had clearly been stuffed into a wardrobe sometime in the 1970s and hadn’t seen the light of day since. For a start, they stank of mothballs. And Graham and I aren’t exactly fashion conscious, but even we knew we looked ridiculous. When we emerged from the rooms we’d got changed in, I was in a frilly pink nylon blouse, white tank top and maroon miniskirt. Graham sported a purple paisley shirt, orange cardigan and lime-green pantaloons. We looked at each other and it occurred to me that maybe Jennifer hadn’t missed out on the cruel gene at all.
No … in her case it seemed particularly warped.
HAPPY FAMILIES
GRAHAM and I were still staring at each other when I glimpsed a movement outside the window. The tramp we had nearly run over earlier was crossing the courtyard below. “Graham, look!”
He had a sheet of newspaper crumpled in one hand and was heading purposefully towards the kitchen.
“Crikey!” said Graham. “If he bumps into Mum again I wouldn’t rate his chances of survival.”
But we weren’t the only people to have spotted him. Before we could move, a man in a dark suit came from the house and intercepted the tramp on the cobblestones. The man was about the same height as Julian and Gethin but he had his back to us and was holding an umbrella so we couldn’t tell if it was one of them or someone else. When I tried to open the window I found it was painted shut. From the man’s body language and the tramp’s response it looked as if he was offering help.
The tramp shook his piece of newspaper in the man’s face. Was he upset? Angry? His face was hidden by that big hat so we couldn’t read his features.
The dark-suited man made a placating gesture and the tramp carefully folded up the tattered sheet, or tried to. It was so wet it came to pieces in his hand, and eventually he gave up and let the rain wash the fragments away. Then, arms outstretched as if begging or pleading, he hung his head.
As we watched, the man in the dark suit pulled out his wallet and handed something to the tramp, who pocketed it. Then Mr Dark Suit shooed him around the corner and presumably off the premises.
We set off to find our own way back to the kitchen but soon got a little bit lost. It was a very big house with an awful lot of stairs and corridors and we didn’t know our way around. We didn’t mean to end up in the family’s private quarters. But it was very interesting when we did.
After taking a few wrong turns and running into several dead ends we found ourselves in a grand corridor guarded by suits of armour. A collection of lethal-looking spears was mounted on the wall at the end.
“I suppose we ought to go back the way we came,” said Graham.
We were about to do just that when we heard a man exclaim, “He’s dead!”
The voice had come from a room halfway down the corridor whose door was ajar. As one, Graham and I tiptoed towards it while the unseen man continued to rant. “Dead as a doornail. Dead as a dodo. Let’s face it, James has been a stiff for years! We all know that. I don’t understand why the old man won’t accept it!”
“Because he’s a sentimental old fool,” a woman answered coolly. Lydia? Jennifer? Couldn’t tell. “He’s like an ostrich with its head in the sand – as long as he keeps his eyes shut, he doesn’t need to face the truth. He never gives a thought to how difficult it makes things for us.”
The man said bitterly, “If he had his way, we’d all be playing happy families for ever!”
“But frankly, my dear, he’s not long for this world, is he? He’s barely alive. Quite honestly, if he was a dog you’d have had him put down months ago.”
The man laughed. “As soon as he’s safely ensconced in the family vault I’ll start the legal proceedings. With a good lawyer it shouldn’t take long to clear up this stupid mess.”
There was a slight pause and then the woman asked more softly, “You haven’t forgotten…?”
“The codicil? How could I? What a manipulative old sod Grandfather was! Still, at least it takes our beloved cousin out of the equation.”
“Why?”
“He’s married some foreigner. Frightfully sneaky of him! But it makes everything easier for me. I shall do what I have to. Eventually.”
The woman’s tone became mildly teasing. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
“One or two irons in the fire, as they say. Jolly nice British girls. Good families, you know? Grandfather would have approved.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
There was another pause and then the man asked, “How about you? Do you have plans?”
“Well, as a matter of fact…” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. Graham and I leaned forward but neither of us could catch what she said – which was a pity, because it was clearly something sensational.
“I’d never have believed it!” the man exclaimed.
“You’ll see what I mean later.”
“And he’s keen, is he?”
She giggled. “Not especially. But you know how I adore a challenge. I simply can’t resist him. I’m quite determined. And you know I always get my own way.”
“The fellow won’t know what’s hit him!” The man gave a short laugh and added, “Until Lawrence is dead we’d better grin and bear it. If everything goes according to plan, it won’t be long before we can kiss both of them goodbye for ever.” The floorboards creaked. He was coming towards the door! Graham and I darted along the corridor and pressed ourselves into a recess in the nick of time. The man headed in the opposite direction and we caught only the briefest glimpse of his back before he disappeared around the corner.
<
br /> “Who were they?” I said, at exactly the same moment as Graham demanded, “What are they up to?”
And then we both looked at each other in mystified silence. They were questions that neither of us could answer.
BABY LOVE
BY the time we found our way back to the kitchen, Sally had transformed her wrecked pavlovas into something she told us was called “Eton mess”. She’d dished the whole lot into individual glass bowls and was now putting the finishing touches to her blinis. She was a little startled by our outfits but dug out a couple of spare chef’s jackets from the van. They were too big and we had to roll up the sleeves, but at least they covered the worst of the nylon. Then she instructed me and Graham to carry fifty messes into the drawing-room and set them out on the sideboard along with the rest of the desserts. We did as we were told.
Once we’d finished we headed back towards the kitchen to help Sally with the quiches and canapés. But we had reckoned without Marmaduke.
As we were crossing the entrance hall, Jennifer – who had changed into a too-tight beige trouser suit and a fascinator that made her look as if a chicken was roosting on her head – bustled down the main staircase with Marmaduke in her arms. The baby was now wide awake and bawling his head off. Given the ornate lacy frock he was dressed in, I could hardly blame him.
“Can’t you shut that thing up?” asked Lydia as she followed her cousin down the stairs. “He’ll deafen the vicar at this rate. We’ll probably get sued by the Church of England.”
Marmaduke’s snot and tears pooled into a damp patch that spread over his mother’s shoulder, and the more Jennifer tried to shush him, the more he cried. His father decided to intervene, striding across the hall, plucking his baby from his wife’s arms and swinging him in the air.
“C’mon, Marmite,” he said in his strong Welsh accent. “Cheer up, old son! You’ve got a big day ahead.”
Marmaduke fixed his father with his pale blue eyes and promptly puked all down the front of his suit. Then the baby continued screaming. “He’s got a good pair of lungs on him, I’ll say that,” commented Gethin good-naturedly, handing the baby back so he could clean himself up. “We’ll have him singing ‘Land of My Fathers’ in no time.”
Graham and I were trying to keep a low profile by sticking close to the wall, sidling discreetly kitchenwards when Marmaduke stopped to draw breath. There was a glorious silence for about a millisecond and then he threw back his head, inhaled deeply and opened his mouth to bawl again.
It was then that his eyes fell on Graham, and his rigid little body – until then so full of fury that his mother could barely hold him – suddenly relaxed. Jennifer cuddled him to her but he wriggled away. He wanted to stare at Graham.
It may have been the attractive paisley shirt – the way the huge collar poked out over the chef’s jacket. Or maybe it was the lime-green pantaloons, or Graham’s deodorant or the smell of his toothpaste. Whatever it was, Marmaduke loved it.
He broke into a toothless grin and then launched himself at Graham, arms outstretched, kicking back against his mother as if trying to swim through the air to reach his new-found friend. Marmaduke wriggled so vigorously that Jennifer almost dropped him. There was nothing she could do but cross the hall and place the baby in Graham’s arms.
Graham smiled uncertainly. I’d never seen him look quite so awkward. But Marmaduke didn’t seem to mind. He raised one of his pudgy little hands and grabbed Graham’s lower lip. Graham squealed, more in surprise than pain. Marmaduke chuckled.
“He’s taken a shine to you!” Gethin grinned.
“He’s never done that before,” said Jennifer as her baby blew little salivary bubbles in Graham’s face.
Graham was speechless; I was stunned; Gethin, surprised; Jennifer, extremely taken aback.
But nothing like as taken aback as she was two seconds later when there was a slight creaking of floorboards overhead and what appeared to be a walking skeleton appeared at the top of the staircase.
SHOCK HORROR!
“GOOD heavens!” Jennifer gasped.
I guessed the man at the top of the stairs must be Lawrence Strudwick because he looked terrible: as if he was standing on Death’s doorstep, leaning on the bell. And as if any second now the Grim Reaper was going to open the door and welcome him in.
Marmaduke took one look at his great-uncle and buried his face under Graham’s paisley collar.
The old man swayed unsteadily. It was like something out of an Indiana Jones film – I half expected him to tumble down the staircase and then crumble into dust at our feet.
But Gethin was a fantastically quick mover. He leapt up the stairs three at a time, caught Lawrence by the shoulders and said gently, “Steady as it goes. We don’t want any accidents today, do we, sir?”
Jennifer’s mouth had dropped wide open. Lydia’s sneer had temporarily vanished.
“I thought he was too ill to get up!” Jennifer hissed in an accusing whisper. She glared at Lydia. “No visitors, you told me. You wouldn’t even let Lancelot see him!”
“I’m as surprised as you are, cuz.” Lydia was rapidly regaining her composure. She threw a fake smile at Jennifer and called up to her father, “How simply marvellous to see you. Are you coming to watch Jen’s son and heir christened?”
The old man was concentrating on getting safely down the stairs and didn’t answer. His sense of balance seemed to be all over the place and his breath was coming in horrible wheezy gasps. He was hanging grimly onto the banister rail like a sailor in heavy seas whose ship is about to sink. While Gethin watched over him, ready to intervene if his uncle-in-law stumbled, another blonde, blue-eyed Strudwick came bounding out of the drawing-room and hurtled along the corridor towards us.
It was Lancelot, Lydia’s brother.
He took in the situation in an instant and suddenly there was a whole lot of whispering between the cousins about whether Lawrence should be persuaded to return to his bed.
“If Dad wants to see the christening, why shouldn’t he?” Lancelot’s chin was thrust forward, challenging anyone to disagree with him. “He gets precious little fun, after all.”
“Quite,” agreed Lydia crisply. “Let him come along.”
“Uncle’s not well enough,” protested Jennifer. “Anyone can see that.”
Julian backed his sister. “It would be irresponsible to let him come. Especially in this weather.”
The scene made interesting viewing. They were all so alike physically – carbon copies of each other, almost – but personality-wise? That was where the differences lay. Whereas Lydia and Lancelot were edgy and sharp, Jennifer and Julian were like soft-focus versions. It was as if one brother–sister set was made from steel, and the other from Fuzzy Felt. I tried to work out which of them we’d overheard talking upstairs. I suspected it had been Lydia and Lancelot but I couldn’t be 100 per cent sure – their voices were just too similar. It was dead frustrating.
Just as Lawrence and Gethin reached the bottom of the stairs there was a crunch of wheels on gravel followed by the sonorous clanging of an ancient doorbell – a proper bell, I noticed, mounted high on the wall and operated by some sort of pulley system.
“Heavens!” cried Jennifer. “The cars are here already! My goodness, look at the time! We must get going!”
Julian crossed the entrance hall, opened the front door and told the suited chauffeur waiting on the step, “Won’t be a minute.” The wind gusted in, making all the portraits bang angrily against the oak panelling.
Lawrence visibly recoiled from the sudden chill. “Cold,” he muttered faintly. “Cold.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Jennifer decided to take control. “He’ll catch his death if we take him to church in this weather.” She smiled soothingly at the old man and said brightly, “Let’s find you a nice chair somewhere warm, shall we? We shan’t be long. Then you can stay downstairs and enjoy the party. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Not to be outdone in the care-for-the
-elderly-relative stakes, Lydia took his free arm. But her nose wrinkled as she did so. “Phew! You’ve overdone the aftershave a bit, old thing. Used the whole bottle, did you? Never mind. You’ll cover up the pong when Marmaduke fills his nappy. We must be grateful for small mercies.” Lydia laughed at her own joke but Lawrence Strudwick didn’t join in.
He looked at his daughter and niece as if they seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place them. Then he smiled at me and Graham. Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure he really knew where – or even who – he was. Maybe it was the effect of painkillers, or whatever drugs he was being given for his illness. Or maybe he was suffering from dementia.
Keeping up a steady stream of cheerful chatter, the two women guided Lawrence into the drawing-room and settled him down in a comfy armchair in front of the open fire.
That done, there was a frantic search for coats and umbrellas. When all the adults were ready, Jennifer tried to prise her baby away from Graham to wrap him in a shawl, but Marmaduke simply refused to be handed back. Every time Jennifer attempted to take him, the baby’s lower lip trembled and an angry wail erupted from his determined little mouth. What’s more, he’d got hold of my hair, wrapping several strands right around his fingers, and was now holding me captive too.
The doorbell clanged again. The chauffeurs were getting restless. “We’re terribly late!” fretted Jennifer. “Everyone will be waiting.”
“You’ll have to cut him loose,” said Lydia, looking at me with a wicked grin on her face. “Don’t mind losing a bit of hair, do you, kiddo?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Looks like we’ve got no choice, cuz. Shall I fetch the scissors?”
Gethin intervened before the situation turned nasty.
The Will To Live Page 2
