At Death's Door

by Robert Barnard

  “At least the summer seems to be improving now,” said Caroline, still on her social autopilot. “It makes such a difference if it’s a bit warm. Particularly now that we can’t go abroad anymore.”

  “Ah, yes.” The commodore looked at Roderick. “Your father.”

  “That’s right. We feel we can’t leave him with anyone else—and the cost of hiring someone full-time for two or three weeks would in any case be enormous.”

  “Sad. Because the old gentleman lived a lot abroad himself, didn’t he?” said Daisy Critchley in her metallic voice.

  “Yes, he did. Particularly after the war, when we children were grown up and he had no . . . family ties. He had a flat in Highgate, and he came back there to write. I think he did that because his books were almost always set in England and he needed to be among the physical objects and the places he was describing. But he wrote them very fast, having made masses of notes while he was apparently idling away his time in Italy or wherever. And as soon as he’d finished the book, he’d hand it over to his agent, and then he’d take off again.”

  “I sometimes think he’d be happier now,” said Caroline, “in some Mediterranean village, with some old peasant woman in black to look after him.”

  “Why don’t you investigate the possibility?” asked the commodore.

  “Because as soon as I think about it I realize that happiness just doesn’t enter into it. Neither happiness nor misery nor any other big emotion. Best let him have his last years in dignity, with faces around him that he’s used to.”

  “The feeling does you credit,” said the commodore, heartily and falsely.

  They were interrupted by the doorbell. Becky, who had been watching television in the corner with the sound turned down low, jumped up and showed interest. Caroline went over to her.

  “This will be our campers,” she said, and she and Becky followed her husband into the hall so that they could all meet their new relations away from the hard, bright eyes of the commodore’s lady.

  There was time for a brief handshake all around in the rather dismal hallway that no sort of lighting could render welcoming. Caroline got no impression more specific than that of a tall boy and a short girl, both a bit travel stained. Then they had to troop back into the sitting room.

  “This is Cordelia, Roderick’s half sister,” said Caroline brightly but casually. “And her boyfriend.”

  The commodore had sprung up and was doing his very-much-a-lady’s-man routine, but Caroline could see the calculation in his eyes. Half sister? They had met Roderick’s real sister. They probably knew that his father had been married twice, but Roderick and Isobel were children of his second marriage. And this young thing was his half sister. Then . . .

  Daisy Critchley gave her husband a barely perceptible nudge, and Roderick busied himself getting the visitors drinks. Pat sat down, quite relaxed in a remote sort of way, and asked for a beer. Cordelia said she’d just have a fruit juice. Becky sat down on the sofa beside Cordelia and seemed to be quite happy, as she often was with new arrivals, just to look at her and take her in. More covertly, Caroline was doing the same. This was her first opportunity to look at the newcomer properly.

  Her first reaction was one of shock, that Cordelia was not at all good-looking. Second glances made her revise that judgment slightly. She was dumpy, certainly—whereas Myra was tall, or had seemed so onstage. Cordelia’s was sort of puppy fat, but retained well beyond the puppy-fat stage. Nevertheless, there was a residual prettiness in the face, plump though it was, and it looked from the faintly bedraggled hair as if Cordelia simply did not care to do much about her looks.

  Pat was a beanpole boy, dark haired, with a trim beard and distant hazel eyes. It disturbed Caroline to realize that she was finally disapproving of a relationship in which the woman was the older partner. What an odd survival of popular prejudice! But Pat could hardly be more than twenty-two or -three, whereas Cordelia was certainly twenty-seven. Yet, right from this first moment, Caroline sensed in Pat a sort of stillness that made him the more mature of the two.

  The commodore was at his most avuncular. He was adept at small talk, and in situations like this he would use it to learn what he wanted to know.

  “I don’t think we’ve seen you here at Maudsley before, have we, young lady?” he asked, bending forward.

  “No, this is my first visit.”

  “Then you must see plenty of Sussex while you’re here, eh, Roderick? There are some wonderful walks in the neighborhood. Got a car, have you?”

  “Yes—we’ve got an old jalopy.”

  “Good. Plenty of lovely drives, too. Only problem at this time of year is keeping away from the tourists. Not the best time of year to choose, frankly.”

  “Pat is a teacher, in a primary school. So really we don’t have much choice.”

  “Ah yes, I see. . . . So this year you decided to visit your brother.”

  Cordelia flashed him a brilliant smile. It said: I know you are fishing, and I know what you want to find out, and I may decide to tell you, and then again I may not. When she smiled like that, Caroline thought, she was almost a beauty.

  “I’m afraid I’m making use of Roderick and Caroline,” said Cordelia, speaking tantalizingly slowly in her musical voice. “They have information, papers, that I need. . . . I’m writing a book about my mother.”

  “About your mother?”

  Pat put him out of his misery.

  “Cordelia’s mother is Myra Mason, the actress.”

  The commodore’s social manner slipped slightly. His mouth fell open. Daisy Critchley, Caroline thought, had guessed already. Now she took over, her hard social manner substituting for his well-lubricated one.

  “I think Fergus was away at sea when—when there was all the talk in the papers. You don’t mind my mentioning it, do you, my dear?”

  “Not at all. Of course not.” Caroline noticed, though, that she was fiddling with her handkerchief. Cordelia, in fact, was never still.

  “Of course there is a bit of talk in the village, about the past,” Daisy Critchley went on. “But Roderick’s father is not really a personality to the locals. Not many of them read his kind of books. And almost since he moved here he’s been . . . unwell.”

  “That’s right,” said Roderick, who had finished getting or refreshing everyone’s drinks and now sat down. “It was to be his retirement home—back in England and near us. But his mind started going almost at once, and he simply couldn’t cope. We moved in here to look after him. He’s never been close to my sister—my other sister.”

  The commodore, his avuncularity restored, leaned forward and tapped Cordelia on the knee.

  “I’ll say this, young lady: You’re the daughter of a damn fine actress. Saw her”—he looked at Daisy—“when was it? Five, maybe six years ago, at Chichester, in Private Lives. Never forgotten it. Or was it Blithe Spirit?”

  “Oh, that was Private Lives,” said Cordelia with enthusiasm. “It must have been eight years ago, actually. She was quite marvelous in that. All sorts of undercurrents, so you realized the play is really a forerunner of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I was at Kent University at the time. I went over with a group from the English Department. We were talking about it all the way home. Not often that happens with Noel Coward.”

  “We saw her in Lear,” said Caroline. “It was rather different there. She was fearsome: it was as if she were determined not to allow this appalling monster any shred of humanity.”

  “Yes. I remember she said that was the only way she could play her. She said the women’s parts were all black and white in that play and that was how they had to be done. She certainly couldn’t play Cordelia, and in fact she’s never done Lear again.”

  The commodore was beginning to get uneasy with the literary talk.

  “Well, you’ve certainly got an interesting task on your hands, my dear,” he said. “It’s to be a biography, is it?”

  “Sort of portrait,” said Cordelia.

&
nbsp; “And you’ll be here for some time, will you?” Almost automatically he ogled her. Daisy Critchley, almost as automatically, stiffened.

  “I’m not sure.” Cordelia, still nervously working at her handkerchief, turned with a smile to Roderick and Caroline. “I don’t want to be a nuisance. It will depend on how much material there is.”

  “You must stay as long as you want to or need to,” said Roderick.

  “I fear you won’t get much out of—” The commodore, unusually brutal, jerked his head at the ceiling.

  “My father? No, I quite understand the situation.”

  “Well,” said the commodore, patting his wife on the thigh, “time we were making a move. We’ll hope to see more of you, young lady, if you’re going to be here for a bit.”

  “Yes, you must both come over,” said Daisy without conviction.

  Cordelia reacted to the frosty invitation by smiling non-committally and turning to say something to Becky, who was making noises. To cover any awkwardness, Pat got up, shook hands with the commodore, and made inquiries about swimming in the area. As they moved to the door, Cordelia, perhaps thinking she’d been rude, smiled again, one of her brilliant ones, and Caroline saw Daisy Critchley realize for the first time what a good-looking girl this could be. Caroline and Roderick saw them off and into their car at the front door with the usual courtesies, and when she came back into the sitting room, Caroline said:

  “And now they’ll be off to the Red Lion to spread the news around the village.”

  “I thought they said my father was not much of a local personality,” said Cordelia, sitting down again. “Why should anyone be interested?”

  “Not so much because you’re your father’s daughter as because you’re your mother’s,” said Caroline. “Actresses are always good for village gossip. And the fact that she’s a dame will add snob appeal.”

  “Oh, yes, the damehood,” said Cordelia.

  “And the slight whiff of dated scandal will wing the story on its way,” put in Roderick. “But you must know what it’s like. You live in a village, don’t you?”

  Cordelia frowned and turned to Pat.

  “I don’t know. It’s different. I grew up there. . . . Mother’s lived there so long people sort of take her for granted. . . . Don’t they?”

  “Pretty much,” said Pat after a pause for thought that was habitual to him. “If there’s a stranger in the pub, they might boast about her. Mostly they take her in their stride.”

  “When I moved in with Pat, there was talk,” said Cordelia. “But that was basically because he teaches in the village school. ‘Can we let our innocent babes—?’ You know the kind of thing. They didn’t ask, ‘What will her mother say?’ because really my mother is hardly in a position to say anything.”

  “Now,” said Caroline, “you’re eating with us.”

  “Oh, no, please. I made it clear to your husband—”

  “Just for tonight. I’ve got a big casserole in the oven. We really must have a chance to get to know each other.”

  “Oh, dear—we didn’t want to be any trouble. We’ve got the Primus, of course, and we were going to have sausages and beans.”

  “You can have campers’ food for the rest of your stay. Tonight you’re going to eat properly.”

  Cordelia giggled.

  “We’d probably have had sausages and beans if we’d been at home. I’m a terrible cook, and we’re as poor as church mice.”

  “I noticed the second-class stamp.” Roderick, turning to Pat, laughed. “Of course, teachers’ starting pay is pretty terrible, isn’t it?”

  “Abysmal. And I have an overdraft after teachers’ college. Everyone does. It’s the only way you can afford books.”

  “And you don’t have a job?” Caroline asked Cordelia.

  “A bit of journalism. I do any Pelstock story that’s going for the local rag, and sometimes I do special features for them. I had a chance of getting into Fleet Street. Being mother’s daughter does mean I have some contacts. But by the time the chance came up, I’d moved in with Pat.”

  “Never mind. Perhaps you’ll get an advance on the book.”

  “I’ve had one.” Cordelia grinned. “We spent it on second-hand furniture for the council house we’re in. It’s a bit worrying . . . in case the book isn’t what they’d hoped for. Still, they tell me publishers never ask for an advance back.”

  “They don’t usually get it, anyhow,” said Roderick, who over the years had learned a good deal about publishers. “Well, that’s settled. You’ll eat with us.”

  “But we must put the tent up first,” said Pat, getting up. “Easier before it gets dark.”

  Becky thought they were going and began making noises of protest. Cordelia bent over with great kindness and took her by the hands.

  “But you can come with us, can’t you, Becky? And help us put up our tent?”

  “That would be kind—she’d love that,” said Caroline. “There’s a garden seat at the far end, near the new houses. If you put her on that, she’ll be quite happy just watching.”

  Pat took one hand, Cordelia the other, and then all three went out to the ancient Volkswagen in the driveway. Caroline, getting the dinner organized in the kitchen, saw Cordelia take her very tenderly down to the seat. Becky gazed entranced as Pat humped the tent down the lawn, then sleeping bags, stove, and supplies. Soon Cordelia and Pat were erecting the tent with a smooth efficiency obviously born of experience.

  “She’s a very nice girl,” said Caroline when Roderick came into the kitchen.

  “Woman. Yes, she seems charming.”

  “I can’t see anything of your father in her.”

  “Nor much of Myra, come to that. Though she is very pretty when she smiles.”

  “You noticed. She could be very attractive altogether if she slimmed and took a little trouble. Funnily enough, she reminded me of that picture of your grandmother that your father always carried around with him—probably because she was plump, too. They’re both awfully good with Becky. The boy seems to have a quiet—I don’t know—”

  “Strength. It’s a cliché, but it seems true. Whereas she—I felt on the phone, and still do—doesn’t seem quite to have grown up.”

  “No. But remember she’s had Myra Mason as a mother. Very famous, and I’d guess frightfully dominating. She probably never gave the girl space to mature, to become her own person. Children of famous people often do grow up rather inadequate.”

  “Thank you,” said Roderick. Caroline laughed and kissed him.

  “Your father was so seldom around when you were a child he didn’t have a chance to restrict you,” she said. “Too busy chasing his women.”

  Chapter 3

  THE OLD RECTORY, MAUDSLEY, was two miles outside Maudsley proper. It had originally served for the pastor to a tiny rustic church and a few agricultural cottages attached to the estate of a landed proprietor, in whose gift the living had been. Then it had been taken over to serve for Maudsley, and then, in the seventies, sold off as being too difficult to heat and maintain. Vicars, these days, were less philoprogenitive than their nineteenth-century counterparts.

  The house was rambling, ramshackle, and inconsistent. The good rooms gave out on the lawn, while those on the other side were dark and poky. Only from the upstairs could one get a view of the sea. The new houses at the bottom of the garden were an eyesore, but Caroline had several friends among the women who lived there, for architectural taste has little bearing on character or disposition. On the whole she was happy at the Rectory and did not regret the decision to move in there that had been forced upon them.

  The day after the young couple’s arrival, while she was washing up, Caroline saw Pat setting off in the direction of the cliff path down to the beach. Ten minutes later Cordelia arrived, bursting with eagerness to get started. She had in her hand a notebook, a little set of colored felt pens, and a packet of sandwiches made with sliced bread.

  “I can’t wait to get down to work,”
she said.

  Caroline took the hint and took her straight through the dismal hall to a rather inconveniently shaped room off it.

  “I thought I’d put you in here,” she said. “It was the room your father intended as his study, though I don’t think he ever in fact worked here. He liked a smallish room, with no sort of view—nothing to distract him. He certainly would have had that here.”

  Cordelia looked around. On one wall an enormous book-case contained all the editions—hardback, paperback, foreign—of Benedict Cotterel’s works. The desk was massive, with capacious drawers, and was placed up against a blank wall. The desk calendar was for 1977. Against the wall that had a window in it—a window that looked out only on shrubbery—was a series of cupboards, old and squat.

  “Now,” said Caroline briskly, for she felt a certain embarrassment at exposing a father’s secrets to a long-lost daughter, “you’ll soon find there’s very little method. I can only say that mostly you’ll find his collection of letters written to him in this cupboard here. Some pretty well known names corresponded with him, and I suppose your mother’s letters will be among them. His reviews, interviews with him, and so on, you’ll find in these two drawers. But I don’t imagine they’ll be of much interest. The manuscripts and typescripts for all the books up to 1960 were bought by a university in Texas. Those for the later books are in the cupboard over there. People have started sending back either the originals or photocopies of his own letters, assuming someone, sometime, will do a collected. These we’ve tended to put in the desk drawers, knowing he’ll never use it again. Right? That is only a rough guide. In fact, you’ll find things in all sorts of places.”

  “Right . . .” said Cordelia slowly. “I’ll spend the morning finding my way around. You said books after 1960 were all here, so that must mean you have The Vixen?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are probably things in that that didn’t get into the published text. I know my mother’s lawyers were very active before it came out.”

  “Very probably. I remember that Ben had a whale of a time and behaved quite disgracefully. That was soon after we were married, and I was very prim, and probably too easily shocked. . . . But I must say I’ve always thought that book beneath him. Naked, unworthy revenge. I read it again a few years ago, and I still felt the same. I don’t count that as part of his real fictional output.”