The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

‘The point was to make them think I was stylish,’ I reminded her.

  ‘True. But anyway,’ she said, ‘who cares about you? I want to know about them, the decadent artistic crowd – are they as bad as you feared?’

  ‘No,’ I replied cautiously. ‘Not yet.’

  Louise hooted with laughter. ‘There’s no pleasing you, is there? You were scared to death they were going to be dope-fiends or white-slavers or whatever, and now they turn out to be model citizens—’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  I did my best to describe the atmosphere at Crompton Terrace, and the character of its occupants, but it was hard to convey the exact tenor of the place. The amusingly chaotic aspects of the household were easy enough, but I was unable – and perhaps unwilling – to express my sense of an undertow, the presence of something darker beneath the surface. Or maybe I was unwilling to try, because already I felt that whatever the secret was, I was now part of it. One of them, as Christopher had said.

  ‘I should so love,’ said Louise, ‘to be a fly on the wall.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’s all quite ordinary, really.’

  When I arrived for work on Monday it was to find that a second house guest had arrived. There was no question of missing this one: as I came through the front door he was emerging from the kitchen, in pyjamas and unlaced brogues, with a slice of toast in his hand.

  ‘Morning!’ he said gruffly. ‘Sorry to affront public decency like this, two seconds later and I’d have been out of the way.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said.

  Hearing our voices, Christopher Jarvis came out of the office, pretending to be outraged.

  ‘For God’s sake, Rintoul, cover youself up, there are ladies present!’

  ‘I’ve already apologised.’

  ‘He has,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but just the same it’s disgraceful . . . Rintoul, this is my sine qua non Mrs Pamela Griffe. Mrs Griffe, may I present Edward Rintoul.’

  We said ‘how do you do’ and Rintoul added: ‘I shan’t shake you by the hand – marmalade.’ He was a bear of a man, barrel-chested and, as his imperfectly fastened pyjamas revealed, impressively hirsute.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll stop embarrassing everyone and run along.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Jarvis, rolling his eyes at me in a ‘did you ever?’ expression as Rintoul went up the stairs. When we were in the office, he said: ‘Hard though it may be to believe, he’s one of the most gifted miniaturists working today.’

  I wasn’t completely comfortable with him talking like this about his friends. He wasn’t to know that when it came to creative people I could believe anything. I took the opportunity to mention my visit to the Sumpter Gallery.

  ‘You did? Excellent! What did you think of us?’

  I realised that since my opinion counted for less than nothing, I might as well be truthful.

  ‘I thought it was quite wonderful. I was bowled over.’

  ‘No! You were?’ He beamed with delight. I might have been the art critic of the London Times. ‘Have you seen much contemporary art?’

  ‘Almost none,’ I said. ‘Only here, really.’

  ‘You see?’ He seemed to be addressing the world at large, through me. ‘People aren’t stupid, nor necessarily conservative by nature. We have an inbuilt artistic sensibility, Mrs Griffe – you have it, I have it. Experience and training add knowledge, which is an aid to appreciation, but not its basis. So tell me, what did you make of our Stannisford?’

  I said a private thank-you to my fellow visitor for having pointed this out to me. At least I could now say, honestly: ‘Not much.’ Jarvis looked rather crestfallen, and I reminded myself that I was referring to the most valuable painting at the gallery. ‘I mean, it wasn’t my favourite. There were others that I preferred.’

  ‘And which were those?’

  I mentioned one or two of the abstract works that had impressed me, and then added: ‘I particularly liked the Murchie,’ congratulating myself on this casual use of the artist’s surname.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘ “Nobody”.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jarvis’s tone and expression became more searching. ‘Could you say why?’

  ‘Yes – it was dramatic. It seemed to be part of a story, but it was impossible to say what the story might be – or at least I could guess at lots of things, it could have been any of them. And it was very bleak and sad.’

  ‘But you liked it for that?’

  ‘Yes.’ I considered how to explain why. ‘I sort of – respected it. The picture was its own world, not concerned with mine. Or anyone else’s. It turned its back on me but drew me in at the same time.’

  There was a short pause. ‘My goodness, Mrs Griffe,’ said Jarvis very quietly. ‘You’re quite a critic. That was an impeccably articulated response.’

  I was not aware of ever having blushed before, but I believe I did then. ‘It was how I felt.’

  ‘I can tell.’ His eyes continued to rest on me, admiringly, so that I wanted to turn his attention to something else.

  ‘Do his pictures sell?’ I asked.

  He smiled, probably at my naïvety. ‘The artist’s very young, there isn’t a big enough body of work yet for a market value to have been established. Anyway,’ he went on, sitting down at his desk.

  ‘Had we better make a start?’

  It was still only early summer, but the day was hot. Although we had the windows open the atmosphere in the office was stifling. The task he allotted me was to check on transport arrangements for the exhibition due to begin in August, for which many canvases were coming a considerable distance. These arrangements were made no easier by the uncertain temperaments of those I was dealing with. I had to place several telephone calls to iron out details. Mr Jarvis retreated to the drawing room, with the intention of writing catalogue copy for the same exhibition, but his concentration must have been affected by the heat because he kept coming in and out to ‘see how I was getting on’. At eleven thirty, when he was on the third such visit, there was a tap on the door and Dorothy appeared with a jug of lemon squash.

  ‘Mrs Jarvis thought you might appreciate this, sir.’

  ‘What an extremely happy thought. Pour us both a glass, would you, Dorothy?’

  Dorothy put the tray down on a side table. As she poured she sent me an elaborately meaningful glance whose message was completely lost on me. I frowned, both to discourage her and to signal my incomprehension. But on the way out she gave me another look, accompanied this time by a minute twitch of the head, and a roll of the eyes upwards. What was the girl on about?

  At the door she seemed to have a brainwave, and turned to ask: ‘Sir, Chef asked me to check how many for lunch?’

  ‘Oh, heavens, don’t ask me . . . Just Mrs Jarvis, myself and Mr Rintoul I believe – but you’d better ask my wife.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Before she closed the door I was aware of her grimacing once more in my direction.

  At midday I was quite sticky with the heat, and left the office to go upstairs to the bathroom on the first floor. I couldn’t help but glimpse Christopher Jarvis’s feet on the arm of the sofa in the drawing room, and hear his deep, slow breathing, the only sound in the house. There was no sign of his wife anywhere, and I couldn’t see anyone in the garden. I imagined that Dorothy and Chef would be having a cigarette outside the back door as they often did late morning, she sitting on the step, he leaning up against the wall.

  I went quietly up the stairs. After I’d used the lavatory I went into the bathroom, washed my hands and splashed my face with cold water. The house was well equipped with bathrooms. Apparently Amanda had spent some time in America as a young girl, and learned to appreciate the benefits of transatlantic plumbing and the superior facilities it provided. Apart from this, the guest bathroom, there was an outside lavatory beyond the kitchen, and Mr and Mrs Jarvis had their own bathroom, connected to their bedr
oom. A pity, I often thought, that all this convenient modernity didn’t extend to the kitchen.

  I came out on to the landing. The silence up here had something secretive about it. Suddenly, I understood Dorothy’s speaking looks. Those present for lunch had not included Suzannah, the girl from the top floor. She must have gone out. Now was my opportunity to take a peek.

  The struggle with my conscience was shamefully brief. After all, I only intended to pop my head round the door for a second. There was a door in the corner of the landing that gave on to the back, the servants’, stairs, but I went boldly up the main ones so as not to appear furtive, so that I could say to anyone who asked: ‘I was just looking for Suzannah.’

  There were three bedrooms on the first floor: the Jarvises’ and two others, of which one was occupied by Rintoul, the other empty. Hers, the only bedroom at the top of the house, was, as Amanda had indicated, the maid’s room. The door was closed. Sticking to my resolution, I walked briskly over and tapped on it. No reply came, and I pushed it open.

  Whatever the room had looked like before, it was now nothing more nor less than an artist’s studio, containing a bed with a dust sheet thrown over it. A carpet had been rolled up against the wall beneath the window, the small wardrobe and washstand had been pushed together in the far corner, and a large, battered suitcase spewed clothes and shoes. The centre of the room was taken up with a trestle, on which clustered tubes and saucers of paint, a bottle of turpentine, brushes in jars, stained rags and one or two used mugs. There was also an easel bearing a canvas with a few preliminary charcoal lines. Sheets from a sketchpad littered the floorboards. Opposite the easel a full-length mirror with freckled glass stood propped against the redundant wardrobe, alongside a couple of large folders tied with tape.

  But it was the wall beyond the easel, facing the door, that caught my attention. To my astonishment, the artist had begun painting on the wall. No wonder Dorothy had been by the ears!

  I hadn’t intended to go further than the door, but now I went in, treading softly this time in case the floorboards creaked. There could be no doubt now that I was snooping.

  The painting was on the left-hand side of the wall, nearest the window. But I noticed she had removed a framed picture from the centre, signalling her intention to do more. So far she had completed two portraits, of Amanda Jarvis and Dorothy. To my untutored eye the style was free – ‘loose’ was the term I’d heard used – but it was most effective: both women were instantly recognisable. She had brought out a certain likeness between them, a surprising similarity between Mrs Jarvis’s vague, distracted prettiness and Dorothy’s slightly blowsy charm, but I couldn’t have said whether or not this was deliberately subversive.

  I gazed at the painting for a minute or so and then hurried out. I was shocked at myself, but quite thrilled, too. On the first-floor landing I encountered Rintoul, coming out of his room, fully dressed this time in a flannel shirt, balding corduroy trousers and the same brogues, now with socks.

  ‘Hello there!’

  ‘Hello,’ I said, reddening. ‘I was just checking that the lady upstairs – um, Suzannah? – wasn’t in for lunch.’ I had no need to make an excuse to him of all people, but I was flustered.

  ‘She’s gone off somewhere,’ he said. ‘What about you, will you be joining us?’

  I shook my head rather too vigorously. ‘No, I prefer to go out and get some fresh air.’

  ‘Call this fresh?’ He wiped his brow. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

  ‘Well, to get some sunshine, anyway.’

  I heard the phone ring, and began to go down the stairs. Rintoul fell in behind me. ‘Don’t care for it myself,’ he said. ‘My mother always said if it was sunny I should go out and enjoy it instead of sitting around indoors doing the things I preferred doing. It’s only weather for God’s sake. It’s what goes on in the great outdoors.’

  We reached the hall and I headed for the office. Rintoul followed.

  ‘Lord and master in there?’

  I hesitated, not sure how Jarvis would feel about being literally caught napping. ‘He was in the drawing room . . .’

  Rintoul glanced in. ‘Nope.’ He entered the office ahead of me. Jarvis was on the telephone. When he saw Rintoul he made a welcoming face and gestured to him to sit down. Since they were obviously to have a private conversation, and it was almost lunchtime anyway, I picked up my bag, and the lemonade tray, and excused myself.

  The tray was my pretext for leaving via the kitchen. When I went in there, Chef was arranging slices of cold pie on a platter. The back door was open and I could see Dorothy perched on the step in the sun, a tendril of smoke hovering above her head.

  ‘Going out then?’ asked Chef. He was the first to complain of the heat, but he still managed to sound resentful.

  ‘For a while, anyway – until it gets too much for me.’

  At the sound of my voice Dorothy had twisted round, and now she stubbed out her cigarette, scrambled to her feet and hurried in, her face split by a gleeful grin.

  ‘Well?’

  I couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you go and look?’

  I wasn’t sure if Chef was in on the secret, but she noticed my expression and linked her arm flirtatiously through his. ‘Don’t mind him, I tell him everything, don’t I?’

  ‘Maybe you do,’ he said. ‘And maybe you don’t.’

  ‘He knows all about it,’ she insisted. ‘So what do you reckon?’

  I decided against expressing any shock. ‘It’s very good of you.’ She shrieked with laughter, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘D’you think so?’

  I nodded, and she nudged Chef, who dropped a tomato and sighed heavily. ‘Hear that? I’ve had my portrait done and it’s a good likeness! Pity it’s on a ruddy wall, eh, or it might be worth something!’

  ‘Dorothy,’ I said more seriously. ‘Do you think Mr and Mrs Jarvis know about it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I dunno. Who cares? I’m not telling on her, anyway.’ She glanced at me suspiciously. ‘You’re not going to, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You won’t, will you, Chef?’ She tilted her head to look into his face.

  ‘Do what?’

  She grinned again. ‘He won’t.’

  Chef returned to his slicing. As I left the kitchen Dorothy followed me into the hall and pulled the door to behind her.

  ‘Oy . . .!’

  ‘What is it, Dorothy?’

  ‘Did you get a chance to look in theirs?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Their bedroom.’

  ‘Of course not!’ I pretended to be outraged at the suggestion – I could scarcely admit to my undignified curiosity, but Dorothy took that as read.

  ‘I suppose she was in there, was she – taking a nap?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘There’s two beds for show, but he sleeps in the dressing room.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this, Dorothy. The Jarvises’ sleeping arrangements are of no interest to me whatsoever.’

  ‘Really?’ She gave me her infernally knowing grin. ‘You’re the only one, then.’

  I suppose I was being hypocritical, but not entirely so. Any suspicions I’d harboured about the Jarvises’ marriage had their origins in Max Darblay’s vicious gossip, and not in my own observations. What I had seen since coming to Crompton Terrace was a wholly benign partnership based on mutual understanding and affection. Whether or not there was also a spark of passion I couldn’t tell, and had no real wish to know. Even if everything Darblay had said was true, the Jarvises’ was a relationship far closer and more harmonious than many more conventional marriages, and what didn’t hurt either of them was not for me to judge.

  I determined to be led into no more gossip with Dorothy.

  It was almost unprecedented for Barbara and me to meet more than once a month these days, but her calm, laconic company offered
a welcome change from the rather too colourful circumstances of Seven Crompton Terrace.

  The warm weather continued, and the evenings were long and light. We met up at the Albert Memorial and set off around the perimeter of the park in the direction of Kensington Palace. Almost at once she said: ‘You look different.’

  ‘Do I? In what way?’

  She pulled her head back the better to assess me. ‘Happier.’

  ‘Well I am, much.’

  ‘And something else . . .’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s good. More alive.’

  I knew she was right; that my few weeks with the Jarvises had changed me. I could feel it. The very air I breathed, which had been stale and unrefreshing, now hummed with possibilities and mysteries and unknown quantities.

  ‘I’m glad it’s suiting you so well,’ she went on. ‘Especially after all the grim forebodings.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I didn’t take him too seriously.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I was a bit doubtful myself.’

  ‘Me too. To be honest I was frightened to death.’

  ‘I bet,’ she said, ‘that it’s the things you’re a little afraid of which are making it exciting.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I agreed.

  That night in bed I thought of Matthew, and realised how long it was since I’d done so. I said ‘sorry’ to him, but he seemed to be smiling even as he drifted away.

  Chapter Six

  ‘They’ve got people coming for a lunch party on Thursday,’ Dorothy told me. ‘Chef’s in a terrible two and eight ’cause they haven’t said how many.’

  ‘Perhaps they don’t know yet,’ I said. ‘It’s only Monday. I’m sure they’ll tell him by then.’

  She pulled a face. ‘You’re an optimist, intcha?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I am.’

  It was true I was in high spirits. My meeting with Barbara had proved to me what in a way I had known but been too cautious to admit – that I was enjoying myself. That each day I woke up with a sense of pleasurable anticipation and excitement about whatever lay ahead. I seemed to be witnessing the emergence of a different me, one submerged for a long, long time. No wonder that in my half-waking dream Matthew had smiled at me: he must have been pleased at the return of the bright, curious, slightly mischievous girl he’d once known.