‘It’s Dorothy you want to be careful of,’ I said.
‘Yes, I saw she’d been in and changed the bed. You’re right, she has a mouth like a torn pocket. But I suspect she likes a secret, too.’
This remark displayed a pretty shrewd understanding of our resident gossip. But now the subject changed again.
‘Talking of secrets, where did you find it – the hairslide?’
‘At the end of the garden.’
‘I hope you walked carefully.’
She was sounding me out. She wasn’t going to mention this second secret to someone who didn’t already know.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I was so close I almost trod on her, but I saw her in time.’
‘Good.’ Something in those pale eyes told me that she was pleased we had established a small bond. ‘Have you heard her sing?’
‘No. But then I’m not here at night.’
‘You should stay one evening. It’s worth it.’
I was trying, and failing, to imagine how this private concert might be arranged, when she said: ‘I believe I’ll see you on Thursday.’
‘That’s right.’
‘ ’Bye for now, then.’
She made to go in, but just before closing the door she paused and pointed up at the swallows’ nest. ‘Nothing shy about them, is there? But then they don’t sing.’
I waited a moment or two before following. Jarvis was no longer in the office; the room was tranquil. There were two tumblers on the desk, one containing water, and the other a sprig of the fragrant white shrub in the back garden, the one the butterflies liked so much.
I sipped the cool water and breathed in the flowery scent. My bad moment about Matthew had passed, and was never to be mentioned again.
‘You met her then,’ said Dorothy the next morning.
Chef had not yet arrived when I went into the kitchen to make coffee. I wondered what it would take to keep something private in this house.
‘M-hm . . .’ I murmured as absently as I could, as I filled the kettle and busied myself assembling cups and saucers. ‘I found something of hers and returned it.’
‘She’s a funny one, isn’t she?’
‘She seemed very nice,’ I said, ‘but she was only thanking me, we didn’t speak for long.’
‘Did she mention about painting all over the walls?’
Just for once, I was not going to give in. ‘No.’
Dorothy gave me a sceptical look. ‘And you wouldn’t tell me anyway.’
‘No, Dorothy, as a matter of fact I wouldn’t.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She opened the broom cupboard with a clatter and took out the basket caddy containing polish and dusters. ‘Better get going, I suppose, people coming tomorrow. Know who they are yet?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’re a proper old Chinaman this morning, you are,’ she said, cheekily but without the least rancour. I couldn’t be bothered to remonstrate. I’d made my point, and wanted to remain friends.
On the day of the lunch party it was hotter still. And the sky was low and leaden, stifling the least breath of air. The caretaker, the newsvendor, the bus conductor and assorted passengers all volunteered the opinion that the sooner it thundered the better. One man put our minds at rest by claiming to have suffered all night from the particular headache that presaged storms.
Mr Jarvis’s car wasn’t outside when I arrived, and I thought he must be out, until I saw it parked for some reason a little further down the street. In the porch I stood on tiptoe to peep at the swallows’ nest, and could make out nothing at first; then I caught sight of a fluffy head and realised there must be one non-flier, a late developer, still in residence.
As I closed the front door Mr Jarvis came out of the drawing room.
‘Morning – any more of this and the nation will grind to a halt. I’ve ordered ice.’
‘What a good idea.’
‘May I say how pretty you’re looking today?’
‘Oh—’ I glanced down at myself as though I hadn’t got up early and spent an hour deciding what to wear. ‘Thank you, I wasn’t sure . . .’
‘You’ll be the smartest person at the table,’ he assured me. ‘With the possible exception of my wife, of course, who always looks charming. And by the way,’ he added, ‘I’ve left a short list on your desk – after that, I think your assistance on the domestic front would be appreciated.’
Dorothy was in the office, flicking the bookshelves with a feather duster.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’m off now. Just taking the opportunity.’ The way she said this implied that she was constantly on the lookout for extra work.
‘How’s Chef?’ I enquired. ‘All quiet out there?’
She shook the duster out of the window. ‘More or less. He’s a lot better now he knows it’s for eight, and all cold.’
I did a quick mental calculation: apart from those of us already here, and assuming Edward Rintoul was included, there would be three guests. It crossed my mind that Dorothy might well know their identity, but I buttoned my lip. I’d know soon enough, and what’s more by this time tomorrow I would actually be in possession of information not available to her.
‘That’s a nice dress,’ she commented disarmingly as she went out. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be able to hold your head up.’
By eleven I’d completed Mr Jarvis’s list, and spent the next hour helping his wife to lay the table, arrange flowers (something I’d never done, and for which I had no real aptitude), and liaise with Chef. Mr Jarvis kept his head down in the office; Dorothy was set to putting a high shine on the drawing room. At midday Amanda went upstairs to change, and I found myself at a loose end. I wasn’t quite sure where I ought best to be when the others arrived. To wait in the drawing room would look presumptuous. Should I open the door to them? Remain in the office until summoned? Loiter self-effacingly in the background? I opted for the latter and went into the garden, where I could give the appearance of usefulness while being available for introduction when required.
My labours of a week ago might never have taken place. The weeds were back, the terrace was dusty and littered with petals, and there was a fresh crop of cigarette ends on the grass. I was too smartly dressed for weeding, but I picked up the cigarette butts, and then fetched the broom to sweep the bricks. Within seconds I was pink and perspiring.
Edward Rintoul came out just as I’d swept the rubbish into a corner. He was wearing the same loose, shabby clothes he’d had on when I met him on the stairs, but with sandals. His feet were not a pretty sight.
‘You’re so busy,’ he exclaimed plaintively. ‘Why must you be so busy? It’s not the weather for so much activity.’
‘I’ve finished now,’ I said.
‘Thank God for that.’ He seemed to take my activity as a personal affront. But he was right, it was too hot. I put the broom back in the shed while he kept up his litany of complaints.
‘It’s hotter than hell up there in Suzannah’s attic – I’m sitting for her, you understand.’ I nodded non-committally. ‘She doesn’t seem to feel it, the girl’s in a world of her own, but I’m melting. I’ve suggested I take my clothes off and make it a life study, but for some reason she didn’t go for the idea, why would that be?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
He guffawed. ‘Nor me.’
I thought to myself that I must seek out and study some of Rintoul’s miniatures, and they had better be good, because he was an awful man. Thank heavens at that moment Mr Jarvis came down, and he went in to talk to him. In spite of the heat I preferred to remain in the garden for the time being, and occupied myself in arranging the chairs, and dusting them off with a shammy leather I found in the shed. I saw the parasol Amanda had mentioned, leaning up in the corner between the house and the garden wall, and considered trying to put it up, but then I remembered she had described it as ‘tricky’, and since no one else had attempted it I left well alone.
By the time Dorot
hy answered the door to the first guest I was little more than a grease-spot, and felt relieved when Amanda called me in, and it became obvious the party would convene in the drawing room.
I passed Dorothy in the hall and she gave me a look as much as to say ‘How about them?’ I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t a little nervous, and her cheerful assumption that we were co-conspirators made me smile.
The Jarvises and Rintoul were present – but not, I noticed, Suzannah – and two of the guests had arrived together, but coincidentally, I gathered, from light-hearted remarks being bandied about. The moment I walked in Amanda greeted me warmly and introduced me to them.
‘This is Pamela Griffe, our wonderful Pamela. In a few short weeks she’s made herself completely indispensable, hasn’t she, Chris?’
‘Certainly has,’ agreed Jarvis. He offered me a champagne cocktail, which I declined, but fortunately there was lemonade as well which I accepted gratefully. I almost never drank alcohol, from lack of opportunity more than anything else, and wanted to stay clearheaded.
The two guests were Christopher’s god-daughter Georgina Fullerton, a very pretty, nice, unaffected girl of about eighteen; and Paul Marriott, the neat, drab little man who painted the Sumpter’s most eye-catching abstracts. I’d seen him before once or twice about the place, but we’d never been introduced. He shook my hand briefly and at once continued talking to Rintoul. He seemed gauche rather than rude, and I didn’t take offence, especially as Georgina went out of her way to be pleasant.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ she said. ‘Amanda thinks you’re the best thing ever.’
‘It’s very kind of her to say so. I just do whatever I can.’ I thought this might sound rather Uriah Heep-like, and added: ‘This is a lovely place to work.’
‘Oh, it must be!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I love it here so much, it’s one of my favourite places in the world.’ I wondered how much of the world she had seen – more than me, I was sure, but that wasn’t saying a great deal. As if reading my mind, she said: ‘I’ve just got back from Switzerland – l’Auberge des Colombes, have you heard of it?’
I admitted that I hadn’t. ‘It’s a finishing school,’ she explained. ‘So now I’m finished, can’t you tell? I can speak French, I know which cutlery to use and how to address bishops and members of the aristocracy, how to write and answer invitations and how to get in and out of a sports car without showing my knickers. I’m ready for anything!’
I laughed. ‘It sounds like it.’
‘Honestly, a terrible waste of Daddy’s money, but it made him happy and I had lots of fun. The other girls were a very jolly crowd, and all different nationalities, we were an absolute Tower of Babel at mealtimes – I mean obviously we were supposed to speak French but we were always breaking down. It was quite strict, mind you, no boys or anything like that, so I’ve got some ground to make up.’
Christopher Jarvis had joined us during this last effusion and gazed affectionately at his god-daughter. He must have been listening to the conversation, for he said:
‘You know you can come here whenever you like, Georgie. You won’t meet many aristocrats or bishops but you can be free as a bird.’
‘Oh Uncle Chris!’ She linked her arm through his and squeezed it. ‘You’re so sweet. I shall definitely take you up on that.’
‘And what about the Season?’ he asked in a mock-serious tone. She grimaced extravagantly. ‘Don’t say that word! I won’t have anything to do with that ghastly business.’
‘I think it’s a frightfully good idea,’ he teased her. ‘I’ve told your parents I’ll chip in so you can do it in style.’
‘Aaah!’ She buried her face in his sleeve. ‘Please, no! I couldn’t stand it!’
Jarvis sent me a look that was near enough a wink. It was obvious they understood one another and that the Season was as much anathema to him as to her.
Just then Suzannah came into the room, and the group opened out again to welcome her. She had put on a dress for the occasion, ankle-length, long-sleeved and rather shapeless but in a vibrant deep violet, and her hair was loose, held back with the strawberry hairslide. On her feet were flat, moss-green grosgrain pumps, like ballet slippers. She was nobody’s idea of a beauty, and certainly not interested in fashion, but today her pale, fairy strangeness was spellbinding.
This time it was Christopher who performed the introductions, and while he fetched her a cocktail Suzannah fell into quiet conversation with Marriott. Georgina began talking to Edward Rintoul. Amanda murmured something about Chef and slipped out of the room. I was left momentarily on the sidelines, and just as well, because three words were ringing in my head:
Suzannah Rose Murchie.
S.R. Murchie! The strange, reclusive young woman from the top floor was none other than the artist behind ‘Nobody’, and ‘The Garden’ and ‘Summer 1927’, those pictures which had so attracted and disturbed me when I first saw them, and which still haunted me.
My astonishment must have been plain to see, because Christopher Jarvis came over and said: ‘Surprised?’
‘Yes, I am.’ I was a little put out at having been strung along, and couldn’t help sounding it. ‘You said the artist would be here. But I had no idea it would be her.’
‘I admit it was rather naughty of me not to tell you before,’ he said, ‘but you were so passionately articulate in your praise of her work that I couldn’t resist the treat of seeing your face when you found out.’
I was mollified, as he knew I would be. Although I did my best to hide it I was quite shamefully susceptible to his flattery. To disguise it, because I was still a little on my dignity, I muttered something about going to help Mrs Jarvis, and excused myself. His light hand on my arm told me the excuse was accepted, if not believed. As I left the room I told myself that I must make an effort to rebuild and maintain my outer shell of composure, which had already cracked more than once and was in danger of disintegrating altogether. No matter what my employers’ kindness, I still felt that this was a household in which it was unwise to drop one’s guard altogether.
I was in the hall when the doorbell rang. A second later Dorothy emerged from the kitchen looking distinctly warm, poor girl.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll answer it.’
The new arrival was standing in the porch with his back to the door, gazing up at the swallows’ nest. He must have heard the door open, but he didn’t immediately turn round. Instead, he reached up a hand as if to touch it.
‘Don’t!’ I cried, before I could stop myself. The hand paused, and was withdrawn. He turned slowly to face me. Already embarrassed by my outburst, I had to bite down hard on another exclamation, this time of horror.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘But there’s still a young one in there. You couldn’t have known.’
‘No,’ he agreed. He didn’t, thank heavens, seem in the least put out. ‘Am I allowed to come in?’
‘Yes of course – please, do.’
Thank goodness my miserable discomfiture was ended by Amanda, who came flying along the corridor, exclaiming in delight.
‘Ashe, how lovely! Thank you, Pamela. Ashe, let me introduce Pamela Griffe. Pamela, this is one of our oldest and dearest friends, John Ashe. Come through and have a drink, we’re not in the garden because of the heat . . .’
She led him into the drawing room, and I heard Christopher Jarvis’s welcoming cry of ‘Ashe!’ I went in the direction of the kitchen, my heart pounding. Before going in I paused to get a grip on myself, but the door opened and Dorothy appeared, saying over her shoulder: ‘So I’ll tell her we’re ready, shall I?’ She turned and almost bumped into me. ‘Oops! What are you doing there? You know what they say, you won’t hear any good of yourself.’
‘I was coming to see if there was anything I could do.’
‘Too late, I’m afraid. Who was that at the door?’
When I hesitated, she gave me one of her keenest and most knowing looks.
‘Met him the
n, did you? Our Mr Ashe?’
I could only thank God I wasn’t sitting next to him at lunch. Not even the Jarvises, with their rather playful attitude to my sensibilities, would have subjected me to that on a first meeting. I was placed between Suzannah and Paul Marriott, on the side of the table by the garden windows. Directly opposite me was Edward Rintoul – I never imagined I could be so pleased to see him – with Ashe and Georgina on either side of him. Amanda Jarvis sat at the head of the table nearest the kitchen door, flanked by Ashe and Marriott, and her husband had his god-daughter on his right, and Suzannah on his left.
I could only think that the others must either have met John Ashe before, or be remarkably unshockable. I had never seen such a terribly disfigured face. Or, at least, half-face, for the right-hand side was perfectly unmarked. It was a real effort not to stare; my eyes kept involuntarily returning, in horrified fascination, to what they least wanted to see.
He seemed to have been slashed by giant claws. The left-hand corner of his mouth was dragged upwards towards the corner of his eye, which was similarly pulled down. The web of skin which was left, or had been constructed, so as partly to conceal the skull-like gape of his mouth, served to make it even more grotesque. What was visible of his damaged eye was milky and vacant like that of a dead animal. The skin around this devastation was pitted and scaly, the grain not uniform, as though pieces had been randomly stitched together.
Amanda Jarvis served the chilled, snow-white artichoke soup from a tureen on the sideboard. But bile sat at the back of my throat and when my bowl was put in front of me I could scarcely bear to look at it, let alone take a mouthful. For the second time that day I found myself thinking: Why did nobody warn me? Why wasn’t I prepared? What possible pleasure or advantage could there be for them, or me, or this unfortunate man, in giving me such a shock?
Except, I supposed, that in the case of Ashe himself, he must have become used to it. Every day of his life he must suffer the horrified stares, the shaken whispers, the pointing and unguarded remarks of children. What, in God’s name, must that be like? How could he bear it? And yet he was so calm. More than calm: still. His presence at the table would have been formidable without the scars; with them it was remarkable. He was doing more listening than talking and when he turned towards Rintoul on his left, and consequently towards me, displaying the clean half of his face, his dark eye was unblinking, his expression quietly attentive. He must once have been a handsome man, black-haired, olive-skinned with high, wide cheekbones like a Tartar. He wasn’t tall – scarcely more than my height – but he was powerfully built, his broad shoulders slightly incongruous, like a prizefighter’s, in an expensive dark suit.
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