by Joan Aiken
“Why, since young Lucy seems to have taken such a fancy to the old girl, soon as she finds out what’s going on, she’ll sell all the pictures she can lay hands on to raise cash to pay the old folk’s home fees.”
Wilbie turned a dark slate-red. His opaque eyes clouded and bulged.
“But that would be fraudulent!” he said sharply.
“Depends how she came by them.”
“By God, if she did that, I’d—I’d—”
“You really do set store by those pictures, don’t you?” said Russ coolly. “I know we reckoned they’d fetch something pretty handsome, properly handled, but are they really going to be worth maybe quite a lot of your time and energy when you ought to be keeping your mind on the Dinky Yank takeover—?”
Wilbie was paying no attention, however. With a set, fanatical expression he was staring out of the window, in a vaguely easterly direction.
“If I thought she’d do that,” he muttered, “I’d damn well make the trip myself—I discovered those pictures and nobody else—certainly not that puny, ungrateful, two-timing little bag of bones—is going to get the credit. People are going to see that I know something about art—”
“Go to England?” Russ was astonished.
“I’m not going to have that cold-blooded, scheming little hypocrite pull a fast one on me.”
“What would you do—go to this Appleby place and have a grand confrontation?”
Wilbie turned suddenly cautious.
“No, I guess there wouldn’t be time for that,” he said quickly. “But I could go to York—look in on Pugwash Pharmaceuticals while I was there and get that deal clinched, see—and I could tell Lucy to bring the old girl over to see me in York. That’d shake her fast enough—she’d soon climb down then, I bet.”
“You’re pretty certain it really is the wrong one claiming the money, then? What makes you so sure?”
“Oh—” Wilbie waved his pink, furry hand, “lots of little things. It all seems to add up.”
“You’d better take me with you,” Russ said. “If you’re so sure. Then, while you’re seeing Pugwash, I’ll run over to Appleby and get things settled there.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Wilbie said shortly. “How could you go? If I went—which I haven’t decided—I’d need you to stay here and cover the Dinky Yank deal.”
“You’d far better take me.”
“I’ve just told you, Russ, I—”
“You see, when I was up in your attic that time I found out an interesting thing,” Russ went on calmly.
Wilbie went cod-fillet white, under the healthy tan acquired from golfing, spear-fishing, skiing, duck-shooting, and client-watching.
“Found out—how d’you—What the hell are you thinking about?” he demanded.
“When I was dumping the pictures back upstairs for you that day Lucy brought them down: the attic was all tidy and shipshape, someone’d been straightening it up, I guess. I’ve always wanted to have a look round up there, it seemed a good chance. I found a bundle of envelopes marked Kernahan. So I stuck a couple of them in my pocket; Kernahan was my mother’s maiden name, as you may recall.”
Wilbie was silent, staring at Russ open-mouthed, as if a golf club in his hand had suddenly started transmitting messages from outer space.
“I always thought that tale Mom used to spin about my father having died in a freeway crash hadn’t enough detail about it,” Russ said meditatively. Then he grinned. “And I know now too why you got so mad at the idea of my marrying Corale—apart from the fact that it’s got to be a Rockefeller, I mean. My marrying her would have a kind of classic touch, wouldn’t it—the old Oedipus stuff, just about?”
Wilbie unclamped his rigid jaw and massaged his palate with a sticky tongue.
“Anyway, I’m not sorry about that,” Russ went on easily. “Marrying Corale wouldn’t have been an intellectual feast; if that girl ever had two ideas she probably tried rubbing them together to light a fire. The way things are suits me much better.”
Wilbie had found his voice again.
“And do you mean to say”—he sounded really injured—”that you’ve been keeping all this under your hat ever since before Lucy went to England? Well, I am surprised at you, Russ—and sorry too! After all I’ve done for you! I wouldn’t have expected you to be so ungrateful—”
“No doubt you’d planned to tell me all about it one day—in your own good time?”
“Sure—naturally I did! Didn’t I fetch you in—haven’t I been training you up for a key position in the firm?”
“Well, the day’s come a bit sooner than you planned, that’s all,” Russ said kindly. “From now on I really am going to be your right-hand man, dear old Dad!”
“Russ—look here—for God’s sake have a bit of discretion—”
Wilbie glanced agonizedly at the TV set, as if it might be listening to and recording their words.
“Oh, I’ll be discreet,” Russ said. “What did you send me to business college for, if not to learn how to manage the guy at the top? You play along with me, I’ll be as discreet as the queen’s chiropodist. And I’ll come to England and handle this Auntie Fennel business for you. After all, she’s my great-aunt too! And Lord knows little Miss Lucy Head-in-Air’s snubbed me often enough—it’d be a pleasure to make her jump.”
There was a longish pause. Then Wilbie nodded reflectively.
“Maybe there’d be something to it,” he said. He seemed to have calmed down a good deal.
Russ, not usually analytical of people, was faintly surprised that Wilbie had taken the exposure with so little fuss. He seemed almost relieved—as if the revelation were not what he had expected, and, indeed, much less disastrous than it might have been.
Thoughtfully taking his leave, Russ determined to get back into the attic at the earliest possible opportunity.
Mrs. Marsham’s office was small and tidy, furnished with desk, filing cabinet, and, as a minimal concession to visitors, two scrawny little fireside chairs by which the unfortunate sitter’s knees were thrust up on a level with his breast-bone.
Mrs. Marsham entered the room warily, like the newcomer to the jungle, not certain yet if his role is that of hunter or prey. But a glance at the two pairs of eyes raised to hers gave reassurance. The girl she recognised as the same shabbily unimpressive, mousy, fair-haired, quiet-spoken little thing, who had called last week with some pointless inquiry about vacancies; tiresome, persistent creature, why had she come back when told plainly enough that there was no accommodation available at present? And the old lady with her must be the aunt, grandmother, great-aunt, or what-have-you; nothing out of the common about her, either, decided Mrs. Marsham, running an experienced eye over the shabby coat and hat, the various dangling scarves and bulging receptacles; old ladies of her sort are two a penny in every street. She would be the easy kind to keep in order if she were admitted, but of course there was no question of that.
“Yes?” she began briskly, shutting the door behind her. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time coming back here. I thought I made it quite plain when you came before that we had no vacancy, that it was quite impossible for us to accommodate anyone else at present.”
She gave the girl a chill smile and her glance again brushed the old lady sitting so meekly with her knobbed feet in their medium black lace-ups pointing straight ahead, and the old-fashioned linen hat jammed down over her wispy bun.
“You didn’t say you had no vacancy,” Lucy replied, “you told me you had beds but were short-handed because one of your staff had just left.”
“No beds, no staff, it comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Marsham’s smile became more irritated. She glanced at her watch. “So in the circumstances I’m afraid there’s no point in our discussing the matter any more. At some time in the future, perhaps—but I can’t hold out any promises. And now
if you’ll excuse me I’m really very busy—”
“So, as you seemed to be having such difficulties,” pursued Lucy calmly, “I thought maybe you’d be interested in hiring me? In exchange for taking my aunt, as it were. I’m strong, I’m sensible, I did first aid and domestic economy at school—”
Mrs. Marsham’s jaw dropped. For once she seemed completely nonplussed and gazed at Lucy blankly.
At this point the old lady, apparently perplexed by the silence, ventured to speak up for the first time.
“What is it, dearie?” she asked timidly. “Don’t they have a vacancy? I couldn’t quite catch. Can’t they take me in?” She turned up the volume of her hearing aid until it rattled and whistled, glancing myopically meanwhile from Lucy to the matron and back.
“We aren’t sure yet,” Lucy answered slowly and clearly, giving her great-aunt a reassuring smile. “Maybe we’ll be able to get something fixed up—don’t you worry.”
“Really, Miss-”
“Culpepper—”
“I don’t think—”
“No, but do think!” Lucy urged her. “Think now. Think it over. I bet you’ve hired a lot worse help than me out in these backwoods; I cook okay, I’ve even worked as a stewardess. There’s nothing you can tell me about taking basins to old ladies.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Mrs. Marsham began. She was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door, which flew open. Everybody jumped, Mrs. Marsham not least.
The cook, Nora, surged in, wiping her hands on her damp, greasy apron.
“Mis’ Marsham, I can’t stop,” she announced without preamble. “Nellie’s just been in to say our Annie’s terrible poorly with the measles. Raging fever she’s got and can’t hardly see out of her eyes. So I’m off home right away, I just come to tell you. Can’t say when I’ll be back.”
“Off home? But you can’t go off just like that!” Mrs. Marsham was outraged. “What about the lunch?”
“Very sorry,” Nora said doggedly. “But my own flesh and blood gotta come first, hasn’t it? Reckon you’ll have to finish the lunch yourself. The taties is on, I’d done ‘em when Nellie came. She feels queer, too, she said; shouldn’t wonder if she’d took the measles too, she’s all red-up and gummy-eyed. Meat’s in the fridge. Here’s the shopping-list what’s wanted. I’ll be getting along now then. I’ll send a message when I can come back.”
She left, pulling the door to behind her.
“Oh, good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Marsham furiously. “And that miserable child’s been up here every day after school hanging about in the kitchen breathing germs everywhere—I wonder how many of the residents haven’t had measles—”
She was speaking mainly to herself, staring out of the window at Nora’s broad departing back, receding down the drive on an aged bicycle.
“You’re in quite a spot, aren’t you?” said Lucy calmly. “I heard them talking at the post office about measles in your cook’s family; that was what gave me the idea of proposing myself for the job. Measles lasts a good two weeks. And I had it when I was fourteen, so you don’t have to worry about me. What about you, Aunt Fen? Have you had measles? Measles?” she repeated, slightly louder; Aunt Fennel seemed to be afflicted by one of her extra-deaf spells today.
“Eh? Oh, yes, dear. Measles? Yes, long ago, when I was quite a child.” Miss Culpepper looked bewildered.
“That’s okay, then,” said Lucy. “We’ll go back to Kirby, pack up Aunt Fennel’s things, give Mrs. Tilney a week’s money in lieu, and come back tomorrow afternoon. Will you be able to manage till then? I’d make it today, but unfortunately Aunt Fennel has a dental appointment tomorrow at two and she oughtn’t to skip it. Will that be all right?”
“Well—” Mrs. Marsham said slowly. She bit her lip, annoyed and indecisive.
“If that kid’s been wafting germs about every day,” Lucy went on, “such of your old folks as haven’t had measles are due to come out in a rash any minute now. If I were you, I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Well, you must understand that this is a purely temporary measure. I can’t offer anything permanent, either for you or your aunt—”
“Sure, sure. We can go into all that later. We mightn’t suit each other—it cuts all ways. Anyhow I’m not looking for a permanent job—just thought if I offered to tide you over till you got somebody else in, it might persuade you to take Aunt Fennel! Now we’d better be off; you’ve got a lot on your hands.”
Lucy grinned crookedly through her forelock at Mrs. Marsham as she helped Aunt Fennel up out of the awkward little chair.
When Mrs. Marsham opened the door, angry words could be heard from the hallway beyond.
“I’ll tell matron on you.”
“Just you dare, you two-faced bitch, I’ll tell her about the time you pinched the cheese off the supper trolley—”
“Ill-treating a poor dumb beast—”
“Poor? That animal’s better fed than you or I, and as for dumb—”
“Dumb, I wish some of you were dumb,” exclaimed Mrs. Marsham irritably, brushing past Lucy and Miss Culpepper. “What’s the matter now?”
“She kicked the cat!” breathlessly burst out one old woman, hanging on to the wall rail while she pointed accusingly at a second. “Kicked your poor puss-cat, matron, that never did her any harm!”
“I did not, then. Tripped over it, that’s quite another matter. Can’t be expected to see it pushing round my feet, can I, everybody knows how bad my eyes are. I’ve said plenty of times that it’s dangerous to have an animal like that around in a house where there’s elderly people. But as for going for to kick it—”
“And that’s a lie! And haven’t I heard you with my own ears saying you couldn’t abide the scruffy overfed thing, that you wouldn’t mind giving it a good clump—”
“Who’s telling lies now? I never said any such thing!”
“You did, then!”
“Ladies, ladies, be quiet, please! What will the visitors think? What’s all this about?” Mrs. Marsham said sharply. “What happened? Where is the cat?”
“He ran into the kitchen,” said the accuser importantly. She was a small, beady-eyed woman, almost totally bald, clad in a long maroon-coloured knitted dress and bedroom slippers; she gestured vehemently with one hand while continuing to cling to the rail with the other. “Mrs. Crabtree was coming down the stairs and the cat ran past as she got to the bottom so she gave it a great kick, poor thing! And she went for to hit it with her stick too, but she nearly toppled herself over and it ran off before she could get her balance.”
“There isn’t a word of truth in what Emma Chiddock says from beginning to end! Got a spite against me, she has, because I saw her at the cheese. Anyway,” said Mrs. Crabtree, fatally weakening her case, “the cat was going upstairs, and that’s not allowed.”
Mrs. Crabtree was a stocky woman with the high colour that denotes temper, thick-lensed pebble glasses, a shock of untidy white hair, and a white stick. She peered defensively in the matron’s direction. “But I never went for to kick it,” she repeated.
“Mrs. Crabtree, you’re getting over-excited, it looks to me as if you might have a temperature,” the matron said. “I think you’d better go and lie down on your bed and take out your dentures. Remember what the doctor said, you’ll have to go back on the pills again if you get worked up.”
These words were calmly spoken, but they had a quelling effect on Mrs. Crabtree, who turned without any reply and hobbled off upstairs at top speed.
“She did kick your cat, you know, matron,” Emma Chiddock said importantly as soon as her opponent was out of earshot. “Right in the stomach too!”
“All right, all right, I don’t suppose she hurt him, he can look out for himself,” Mrs. Marsham said irritably. “Now for goodness’ sake don’t worry me with any more tales; you can go and set the tables in t
he dining-room if you want to make yourself useful. Let yourselves out, will you?” she said to Lucy and Miss Culpepper. “I’ll expect you back about tea-time tomorrow, then. Now I must see to the lunches.” And she hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Gone to see how her precious cat is, more likely,” said Emma Chiddock with considerable malice. “She worships every whisker on that fat thing. Bet she does make Alice Crabtree take the pills. Alice don’t like pills—give her bad dreams, she says.”
Chuckling a little, she turned and groped her way along the wall to the dining-room.
Lucy was somewhat dismayed.
“Are you sure you want to come here, Aunt Fen?” she said, piloting Aunt Fennel out to the car. “They seem rather a quarrelsome lot.”
“Oh, old people always quarrel, dearie,” Aunt Fennel replied placidly. “It’s the same in any home, however it’s run. Quarrelling’s what keeps them alive, you know.”
Lucy was impressed, as so often, by the old woman’s sudden flashes of insight.
Just the same, something troubled her about the atmosphere of Wildfell Hall; something intangible and hard to pin down. It was not the feud between the old ladies; not their attitude, half defensive, half propitiating, towards the matron; it was not the faint threat implicit in Mrs. Marsham’s disciplinary suggestion, but a combination of all three things and something else besides which seemed to give the place a faint sour flavour, like the anonymous, chemical, vaguely disquieting smell of a laboratory. I’m probably imagining it, decided Lucy. Old people’s homes are always full of ornery old cusses missing the families they used to boss about. It would take a saint not to get mad at them at times, and plainly Mrs. Marsham’s no saint. Still, she seems sensible enough. Anyway, if I’m there for a week or so there’ll be time to get the feel of the place, and then if it really doesn’t seem right I can easily whistle Aunt Fen out of it, take her down south maybe, and find something near where I’m studying with Max.
But Aunt Fennel certainly seems quite pleased with Wildfell Hall.
“Alice Crabtree,” Aunt Fennel said meditatively. “She always was headstrong and wilful, even as a girl. I remember the time Lenny Thorpe—no, what am I thinking of, it’ll have been Lenny Thorpe’s father, of course, Sam Thorpe—he dared her to go in to Galloway’s field where the bull was kept. How they ever got her out alive! It took five men to keep that bull at bay and one of them had his leg broke—”
