The tea-party was over. Dennis’s review copy lay unregarded in his deckchair. Helen was dabbing her eyes.
“Don’t worry, darling,” said Dennis, putting his arm around her. “We’ll stop him.”
“We can’t stop him. We’ve always brought our children up to make their own decisions.”
“Probably the revolt will fizzle out in a week or two, or be crushed. I must telephone the chairman of the League of Nations Union . . .”
And the little party began trailing back towards the house, Dennis moving with his characteristic slight limp.
“Oh dear, Sarah,” said Helen. “What must you think of us? And on your first day!”
A swallow swooped in front of Bounce, but he declined to pursue it. Over the lawn the shadows had lengthened, and nippy breezes came up from the river. Sarah wished she had brought her cardigan.
CHAPTER 2
By the next day Sarah found it was assumed among the Hallams that she would be going with them to Cousin Mostyn’s. She would have preferred to stay behind, but it would have seemed ungrateful and unadventurous to say so. That Cousin Mostyn lived so close, she gathered, was not due to any family or property reasons, still less to any pull of affection; it was due merely to the fact that he was MP for the Oxfordshire constituency in which they all lived. Mostyn’s “place” was called Cabbot Hall, and he had bought it when he had been elected, in 1931. “A dull house,” said Dennis Hallam. He did not add, because he didn’t need to: “and eminently suitable.”
Sarah wondered what she was to do with little Chloe. “She can come with us, or stay with Mrs. Munday,” said Helen. At first Sarah thought this a little unfair on Mrs. Munday, who no doubt had her own duties to do, and a dinner to cook, but when she saw the pair together she retracted her opinion: they clearly doted on each other.
Chloe was a sprite of a girl: fair-haired, lithe, active, she radiated glee and physical well-being. Forward for her six years, as was to be expected, she was also independent: she only demanded to “know” things when she had failed to work them out for herself. Standing with Helen, watching her as she played around the stables which were her great joy, Sarah was only conscious of an aura of gold, of dancing delight, of a joyous relish for life.
“She was an afterthought, of course,” said Helen. “Or rather a lack of forethought.”
Sarah blushed. Such frankness would have been unthinkable at the vicarage.
“But not the less loved for that,” added Helen, seeing her embarrassment. “She is a love of a child.”
Chloe debated long and seriously whether to go to Cabbot Hall or stay with Mrs. Munday. In the end she decided to stay, on the grounds that Bounce would otherwise be lonely. The family’s sense of social responsibility clearly had descended to her. Sarah had her own debate, on what to wear, being very unsure what kind of occasion this was to be. By now she was friendly enough with Elizabeth to call her in, and she gave her opinion gravely, though both girls were conscious that Sarah’s wardrobe hardly presented an infinity of choice.
The family’s dilemma was over which car to take. The Wolseley was more comfortable, but the Austin Seven was more loved. Cousin Mostyn would be displeased, Dennis said, to see them arrive in so plebeian a car, especially as it was very dirty, and had had REDS scrawled in its dust by some village lout, presumably in mistaken reference to their politics. When Chloe decided to stay at Hallam, and since Oliver was claiming his desperate need to revise eighteenth-century history, the choice of the Austin Seven became inevitable, in spite of the crush.
All the day’s arguing and playfulness cloaked, as Sarah was well aware, the subject that was really preoccupying everybody. Will had gone to London by the first train. Who he would see there, what he would do, nobody quite knew, for he had been busy packing and telephoning the night before. They did not expect to get a postcard from Madrid or Barcelona in the next few days, but on the other hand they knew Will’s fiery nature, knew that he might commit himself impulsively to some course of action, from which he would later find it impossible to back down. Oliver had phoned one or two of his friends in London who he guessed might be involved in any activity going on, but he got the impression that, until the news from Spain became more definite, until they knew that the government could put up a real resistance to the leaders of the revolt, much was being mooted but little was being done. That, at any rate, was comfort. Oliver emphasized to all these friends that his brother was very young, was to go up to Oxford in October, and that any decision he made to go and fight would be very disturbing to his parents. He came back from these talks with a conviction that there was a new, more aggressive spirit abroad among the young, but he did not communicate this to his elders.
The gathering at Cousin Mostyn’s, Sarah had discovered, was “drinks.” Just drinks. They would be coming home for dinner. Cousin Mostyn threw these modest parties periodically, according to Dennis to butter up his middle-class constituents. He liked the Hallams to come along, partly because they had both local and national prestige, partly because their presence demonstrated his broad-mindedness. “Which is no doubt why he also invites Major Coffey,” said Dennis dourly. “I at least pay Mostyn the compliment of doubting that he is a Fascist.” So Major Coffey, apparently, was.
They left Hallam at about a quarter to six. Elizabeth and Sarah climbed into the back seat, Sarah being very careful not to crease her dress, and the older Hallams sat in the front, Dennis driving with a nonchalant expertise. Sarah decided it was a delightful little car—which was odd, because they had an Austin Seven at home, and she had never considered it in any other light than a means of getting from here to there. This car, however, which was called “Bumps,” contained hidden delights: Will’s cricket pads on the floor, a Jerusalem newspaper brought back by Oliver and stuffed down the side of the seat, items of make-up scattered by Helen, and at least three books sent to Dennis for review. It was a car, too, that seemed made to cruise through the country lanes, whereas the Wolseley would undoubtedly have seemed over-assertive, a Blenheim Palace among cars. Most of the countrymen they passed were too late realizing who the driver was to tip their caps to him. It was like being an ordinary family, out on a joy-ride.
When Helen pointed out Cabbot Hall in the middle distance Sarah saw what they meant when they described it as a dull house. A fine position, on a gentle rise, but a dull house. The architect had been handed an opportunity, and muffed it. It had been built in the 1790s, and it demonstrated only the tired clichés of the late Georgian style. It was quite modest in size, but then Cousin Mostyn was apparently quite modestly off, and he and his wife had no children.
Sarah was conscious, in making these judgements, that if she had had a friend in Derbyshire who lived in a house like this, she would have thought it quite tremendously grand.
They were by no means the first to arrive at Cabbot Hall, and Bumps was niftily inserted between cars both grander and cleaner. Sarah got out carefully, and was pleased to find her dress had not suffered greatly from the squash, though she was upset to see a woman going up the steps of the house who seemed to have dressed for a Buckingham Palace garden party.
“She’s the butcher’s wife,” murmured Helen. “So it doesn’t seem too unkind to talk about mutton dressed up as lamb.”
Inside, in the big, dull entrance hall, Mostyn Hallam and his wife were greeting their guests. Mostyn, Sarah had by now found out, was something very lowly in Mr. Hore Belisha’s Ministry of Transport. One of the family jokes was that his nose had inspired the famous Belisha Beacons. It was indeed a very red nose, but it was in a very red face, suggesting high blood pressure, and a delight in the pleasures of the table. He was portly, affable, his voice slightly over-loud as he shook hands all round. The overdressed lady and her beefy but otherwise inconspicuous husband were just ahead of them.
“Ah, Mr. Fowler. Good to see you here again. And your lovely lady wife. You look younger every time I see you, my dear. You know everyone? I’m sure everyone knows you
. Fowler sells the best meat in Oxfordshire, so I always say.”
It seemed safe to assume that Mr. Fowler was the only butcher invited to that particular shindig.
Cousin Mostyn was clearly pleased to see the other Hallams. When Helen introduced Sarah she watched him for any signs of displeasure that they had brought along the nursery governess, but even her over-sensitivity could discern nothing—mere friendliness, albeit of an avuncular kind.
“Ah—Sarah Causeley, come to look after little Chloe, is that it? Bit of a handful, eh?”
“A very delightful handful, anyway,” said Sarah.
“Oh, absolutely. Charming child.”
At the mention of Chloe Sarah had seen a look of pain pass over Mrs. Mostyn Hallam’s face. She was a well-groomed, well-dressed woman, who nevertheless contrived to present a vaguely washed-out appearance. It was easy to guess that the late arrival of Chloe, to the senior Hallams who already had three children, had been to her a matter of pain and reproach.
“Winifred, my wife,” said Mostyn, waving. Sarah smiled, shook hands, and then they all moved on.
Sarah soon found that, if there were anomalies in her position at the gathering, there were anomalies in the occasion as a whole—as perhaps was inevitable, given that its purpose was political rather than social. People were forced into proximity whose normal contacts were no more than the transmitting of orders and the fulfilling of them. One could hardly use this opportunity to complain about the lamb Mr. Fowler had sent up last week, or the quality of the last batch of shirt-collars some other worthy tradesman had supplied. Instead there was a great deal of heartiness, of kind inquiries about health or children, and the weather was much mulled over.
Sarah felt no kinship with gentry or tradespeople. She thought that even a clergyman would be welcome, but there was none in sight. She felt closer to a young waiter, clearly hired for the occasion and not yet quite sure of the tricks of his trade, who approached her with a tray.
“A drink, miss?”
He was a chunky young man with a slight Oxfordshire burr and an amused eye.
“Yes, I think I would like one. But I’m not sure what to have.”
“I think you’ll find sherry quite a safe choice, miss.”
He inclined the side of the tray with the sherries. She smiled and he smiled. Then he was summoned by a horsey voice, and he moved off, his face impassive.
Everyone of importance seemed to have arrived, and Mostyn and Winifred Hallam began moving among their guests. Winifred was diligent in her inquiries after health and children, but she seemed to do it with more concern and more previous knowledge than most of her guests. This was no doubt a consequence of being a politician’s wife. Mostyn was doling out “Trade’s picking up” to the commercial interests, and “Weather’s no good in your line” to the farmers—this last a safe bet, since even Sarah was aware that weather, for farmers, was invariably of the wrong sort.
At one point, as Mostyn passed regally by, Dennis Hallam took him by the arm and said in a friendly way:
“Some time, when the crush thins out, I’d like to have a word with you about Spain.”
“Spain? Thinking of going there on holiday? Frightfully hot this time of year.”
“Mostyn, civil war is breaking out there.”
“Civil war? Oh no, I don’t think so. Comic opera stuff. They go in for that kind of thing down there. Over in a week, you mark my words. Bang-bang, wave a few flags, and it’s all over.” He lowered his voice to something lower than a bellow, and assumed a conspiratorial stance that did indeed seem to derive from comic opera. “But I’ll tell you something that will interest you . . .”
Everyone in the vicinity pricked up their ears, but Cousin Mostyn was sublimely unaware that he was being listened to.
“What’s that?”
“The King’s going on holiday. To the Aegean. And he’s taking with him that American woman.”
Dennis shrugged.
“I don’t expect he’ll send me a postcard.”
“But you can’t take it that lightly, old man! It’s getting to be quite frightful. You’ve no idea what the American newspapers are saying.”
“I can imagine.”
“The Duff Coopers will be with them. But I never thought Duff entirely sound. And his ways with women . . .”
“I was at Oxford with Duff. I know all about his ways with women. But I thought the danger with the King was that he might want to marry this American woman.”
“It is, old man, it is.”
“If he follows Duff’s example he’ll go in quite the opposite direction.”
“Well, let’s damned well hope so . . .”
“But getting back to Spain—”
Sarah saw Elizabeth raising an eyebrow at her, and nodding in the direction of the garden. The two girls slipped through the morning-room towards the French windows. As they scurried along they heard one of the guests say, in a broad country accent:
“That weren’t our King they was talkin’ about, were it? Our King i’n’t got no woman.”
The fresh air was invigorating. The two girls sipped at their drinks and grinned at each other.
“Daddy is butting his head against a brick wall,” said Elizabeth. “I sometimes think he prefers it that way. First Cousin Mostyn will say that there isn’t going to be a war in Spain, then he’ll say it’s best left to the Spaniards—don’t want to get involved with their squabbles, what? Then he’ll say anyway the government was a bit red, wasn’t it, far as he’d heard, and it might well be good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what a lot of fellers are saying around Westminster. It’s much more difficult to argue with stupid people than with intelligent ones, and after all these years at meetings and discussion groups and study groups, Daddy has never realized that. Or rather, he treats everybody as if they were intelligent.”
“Well, it’s a nice trait,” said Sarah. Then she added, in an unusual burst of confidence. “My father treats everyone as if they were fools.”
“Oh dear. I wouldn’t like that. Including you?”
“Much of the time. We’re very used to it—Mummy and me, I mean . . . perhaps his problem is more with himself than with other people.”
It was a piece of understanding of her father that came to her like a gift from the air. She felt she would never have realized it if she had not met the Hallams.
“Well, at least Daddy’s fault is on the right side,” said Elizabeth. “But one doesn’t want to hear him battle it out with Cousin Mostyn, because one knows so well he will get nowhere . . . Oh golly, there’s Fiona Macauley. She’s going to ask me if I’m going to do the Season next year, and I really can’t decide . . .”
“Why not?”
“Well, it will probably be a frightful bore, but there are all those gorgeous and unreliable chaps, and if one doesn’t get to know all the bounders early on, one probably falls victim to them in middle age, and really they might be quite fun . . .”
“You go and talk to her. I’m quite happy roaming around in the garden. I love gardens more than anything in the world.”
And Sarah wandered off. She liked Elizabeth, but found her somehow unformed. It was exciting in a way: she might turn out to be any number of different things—a campaigner, like her parents, a social butterfly, a perfectly ordinary wife and mother. Perhaps the same is true of me, Sarah thought, and then decided it was probably not. She, at any rate, had no desire to “do the Season,” and thought it would probably be a crushing bore to anyone as intelligent as Elizabeth, and the young men much less fun than she wistfully imagined. But talk of it merely emphasized that there were areas where their lives were so different as barely to touch. Besides, Sarah was a girl who preferred the company of men: she knew that her life would centre on men, not in any courtesan way, but in a companionate one—they being the people with the interesting lives. Sarah intended that her life should be interesting in a male way.
The garden of Cabbot Hall was more enticing than the h
ouse. Sarah wondered whether it had been thus when the Mostyn Hallams bought it, or whether it was here that Winifred Hallam exercised her imagination. It was a random garden, full of rough patches, chance flowers or shrubs in unpredictable places; rich corners where you had expected nothing. She enjoyed her ramble, and she only turned back towards the house because she was uncertain how long “drinks” were supposed to last. It was as she was going through a well-stocked kitchen garden, at the corner of the house, that she was unexpectedly addressed.
“Good evening, young lady. You must be the new acquisition in the neighbourhood.”
Sarah jumped. She was nervous anyway, being in a strange environment, and among strangers. But there was something about the voice too . . . It was soft, slightly sibilant, but with reserves of power and harshness, as if the man could very easily play the bully. With the insight that seemed to have taken charge of her that day, Sarah said:
“Major Coffey?”
The man’s smile was crooked, yet complacent.
“I have been pointed out to you.”
He had not, but Sarah did not correct him. Perhaps her moment of insight had not been so surprising. The man’s back had a parade-ground straightness that made him stand out among all these gentlemen-farmers and tradespeople. He was tall, thin, his face sunken and sallow, with a military moustache and bright, piercing eyes. He looked very fit for his age, which must have been over fifty, but at the same time he impressed Sarah vividly as a very uncomfortable man—not in himself, but for others. He had been standing in shadow, under an apple tree. Was he shunned by the other guests? Had he been waiting for her? Already Sarah wanted very much to get away.
“And you are the new nursemaid at Hallam.”
“Yes,” said Sarah shortly. She did not elaborate on Chloe’s being at the stage of emerging from the nursery.
“A remarkable family you have come into. Clan, I almost called them. They keep very close. Very close indeed.”
The Skeleton in the Grass Page 2
