The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets.

by Catherine Gaskin

  His chair scraped the floor as he rose. I watched as he went and brought the brandy bottle to the table. Then he brought two glasses and poured some neat, and carried both to the window where I stood.

  ‘Here, drink this, and then go back and get some sleep. And try to forget all this nonsense I’ve talked. It gets too much at times – times when I’m tired and I realise the boys are growing up, aren’t babies any more. I’ve seen her stand there where you’ve been standing – she didn’t look like you, though. She was fair, but she didn’t look at all like you, and she didn’t act like you. She was a nice little girl, unsophisticated, unspoiled, and given to dreaming. I suppose most people would have said she was sweet, and let it go at that. But she was generous as well. Oh, hell, what’s the use of trying to describe someone you’ve loved. I remember she used to stand there at that window and look down at Thirlbeck – “many-towered Camelot” she used to call it. And I knew that Tolson was getting to her, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.’

  He moved away from me, back to his seat at the table, and poured more brandy.

  ‘I wonder if I’m getting drunk?’ he said. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be sober enough when I go to pick up the boys. Setting a good example, Tolson always calls it. God, you’re right. I do let them run my affairs. And sometimes when I begin to realise just how much they run my affairs, I think I’ll never get out from under the whole load of them. Tolson, all the sons and wives, their calm assumption that I’ll take it all over when the time comes. None of them wish Askew dead, but he isn’t part of their world any more, and won’t be. His time is past. I’m the future, and they’ve saddled me with the future, and I haven’t – God, I haven’t got the strength to think for myself.’ He cupped the glass between both hands. ‘I’m smothering under it. They cook my food, and do my laundry, and clean my house. They try to make it seem as if Patsy hadn’t died. But they can’t give her back to me. And there’s Jessica ... God, I am drunk …’

  I put down my glass, and gathered up the cigarette case and my bag.

  ‘I’d better go now.’

  He didn’t hear me. I had grown cold again at the mention of Jessica’s name, as if the sun and the brandy hadn’t touched me. For a moment I stood and looked at him, and remembered some of the things that had spilled from me in that half hour when he had kept me sitting by the range, and had listened to the jumble of things that had poured out. I had lived through an extraordinary night in my life, and he had lived through a routine night and morning, and now he sat and talked of the loneliness, and the pressing sense of the future being shaped in a way he didn’t want it shaped. Would we be able to forgive each other for the things we had spoken and told? Would we despise each other for the weaknesses confessed, the anguish of death still with both of us? Strangers who have talked too much were often better never to meet again.

  ‘Goodbye, Nat.’

  I don’t think he even looked up as I went. Outside the first cloud had appeared at the ridge of Great Birkeld. The radiance of the morning died slowly as I drove down once again to the gate of Thirlbeck.

  CHAPTER 5

  I

  I fell into the routine of the next days and weeks with strange ease, as if I had somehow been waiting for this pause in my life, as I had waited, without knowing of it, for that journey to Mexico. The phone calls were made to Hardy’s; the managing director, Anthony Gower, asked me to stay on at Thirlbeck. He had already, he said, been contacted by Lord Askew, who had asked the same thing. I was to do anything I could to make Gerald comfortable, and to telephone daily reports to Hardy’s. There was a slight note of alarm in the director’s voice; for him, also, the Lake District seemed far enough away to be in another country, and he had the Londoner’s feeling that nothing at the hospital here could be good enough for Gerald. He had talked to Dr Murray, he said, and been reassured, but it was my task to make certain Gerald had every attention he needed. And I was to think of coming back only when Gerald himself could return. My time, he implied, was of far less importance than Gerald’s comfort.

  Then, from a public telephone box in Kesmere, I talked again with Mr Gower. This time, his correct, pleasant voice had taken on a faint note of excitement, as much as a man who has handled sales of some of the most important art objects known would ever permit himself. I told him what Gerald and I had seen in the few rooms of Thirlbeck which were open to us, and that it was Askew’s intention, Gerald judged, that it should all go to auction at Hardy’s. But Askew was not to be hurried. He had insisted that nothing be done until Gerald was completely recovered, that no appraisers from Hardy’s should come at this time, lest Gerald should become involved, and overstrain himself. Judging Gerald’s mood myself, I said nothing, for the moment, about the Rembrandt.

  I also telephoned Gerald’s manservant, Jeffries. I had a difficult five minutes calming his first panic. Jeffries had been with Gerald more than thirty years; he and his wife had entered Gerald’s service when Gerald’s wife had been living. In the deaths of those two women they had grown closer, the remains of what had once been a family unit. ‘He really is all right, Jeffries. No, it isn’t advisable for him to travel yet – he needs rest. Mr Stanton would like you to come up here. I’d be grateful if you could drive my car up. Then you could take over the Daimler. Lord Askew would like you to stay on here until Mr Stanton is able to leave, so you should pack suitable clothes for you both.’ I described where to find my car, and asked him to go to my flat and bring some extra clothes for me also; I would telephone the owner of the ground-floor flat, who had a key. Jeffries was the one man I could have asked this favour of, but Jeffries was the sort of man who could have bought an entire wardrobe for a woman, once given her size. He also knew that I was somewhat neater in my habits than Vanessa; he had been fond of Vanessa, but disapproving of her style. I gave him the number of the car, and said I would telephone the garage. ‘You remember it, Jeffries? It’s a Mini.’

  ‘A Mini?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now that you mention it, Miss Roswell, I do seem to recall it.’ He didn’t recall it with any pleasure. It would be a severe test of his loyalty to Gerald and myself to drive it all the way to Thirlbeck.

  ‘I’ll expect you late tomorrow then?’

  ‘I’ll be there first thing in the morning, Miss Roswell. You surely don’t expect me to sit here all today.’

  I went then to visit Gerald, thinking about Jeffries, a man past sixty, driving all night up the motorway in a car which rattled when it was pushed past fifty miles an hour. It would have been useless trying to dissuade him; he wouldn’t have any rest until he saw Gerald for himself.

  I was only allowed to see Gerald for a few minutes the first day, but Dr Murray told Askew and myself that he would be out of the intensive care unit within forty-eight hours, if there was no further trouble. The Condesa came with Askew, and blew Gerald an airy kiss through the glass of the unit which separated them, and I realised I was jealous because Gerald looked so pleased. He was washed and shaven, and was wearing a pair of Askew’s red silk pyjamas. The colour of life had returned to his face, and his eyes were bright. Then I was suddenly able to laugh at my own jealousy, and exalt in the feeling of something won back from death.

  I had arranged to meet Jeffries in Kesmere the next morning. He pulled his long length from my red Mini as the post office clock was pointing to ten, and his grey-suited figure was already registering disapproval of everything he saw. He was yet another who couldn’t see anything of any merit outside London.

  ‘How is Mr Stanton?’ was his greeting.

  ‘I’ve telephoned the hospital. Doing very well, they say.’

  ‘We’ll go at once, then.’

  ‘Jeffries, I don’t think you should. You look tired yourself and you probably need breakfast – even just some coffee. I know you’d like to freshen up. It won’t,’ I added as he started to shake his head, ‘do any good for Mr Stanton to see you looking tired after such a long drive. He’ll start to worry about
you.’

  He submitted, reluctantly, and we went and ordered bacon and eggs in a café that looked as if it did a large trade with fell walkers. Jeffries was supremely out of place here, and seemed happy that he so obviously was. He had a highly developed sense of snob values which only long service to a rich man could bring about, and yet he had remained kind. He said nothing about the Mini, just asked if the Daimler was running well. I thought of his night on the motorway, and laughed. ‘Beautifully. Not a rattle in her.’

  Jeffries looked hurt. ‘I trust not. Not the Daimler.’

  He relaxed a little after he had eaten, and even asked if I minded if he smoked a cigarette. ‘What sort of people are they – who takes care of Lord Askew? I’ll be staying there, I presume?’

  ‘The Tolsons – good people, Jeffries. But not ...’ I didn’t know how to express it; very few people had servants these days, though Jeffries always himself used the term. I hardly knew how to say it. ‘Well, Mr Tolson has been a kind of steward for the estate, and all his family work for it, as well as for themselves. They’re not actually help. It’s more their home than it is Lord Askew’s.’

  ‘Most irregular,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find it at all irregular when you meet them, Jeffries.’

  Nor did he; he made a point of our driving round to the stable yard, which now housed only farm machinery, and entering through the back door. Before unloading Gerald’s and his own bags, he first carried in the large red fibreglass suitcase he had packed for me. Its inexpensiveness, the very mass-produced look it had, must have pained him as much as driving the Mini; he was eminently a man for leather luggage. Tolson and Jeffries confronted each other in the kitchen – Mrs Tolson was seated at the table mixing a batter with an electric beater, and Jessica came in from an adjoining pantry. Jeffries took one swift look at the spotless, old-fashioned kitchen, smelled the bread baking, his glance going quickly from Tolson to his wife, in her white apron, using her arthritic hands skilfully, to Jessica in her neat blouse and skirt, and his approval was instant.

  ‘My name is Jeffries,’ he announced. ‘I am Mr Stanton’s man. I expect to take care of him while he’s here, and of course to take over any of the extra duties which Mr Stanton’s and Miss Roswell’s presence may involve. I am used to cooking, polishing and dusting, cleaning silver and valeting. I also drive Mr Stanton and clean his car. Anything I can do for Lord Askew in that direction I shall be happy to do. I’ll take up Miss Roswell’s bag first, and then if you’d be good enough to show me where my quarters are, and if I might locate an ironing board ... I understand Lord Askew doesn’t travel with a valet ...’

  There was a tradition of service which made these people instantly recognisable to each other, as disparate as they were. This was not an age of servants, and yet each of them chose to give service to some ideal of how the world should be ordered. It was not my generation or time, and so I turned away, and found myself walking back through the kitchen door, to the stable yard, where the Mini and the Daimler were parked. I knew what was going on between these people, but I was not part of it. Jessica in her way, out of her time, understood and knew, and she partook, just as much as pleased her. Then, for the first time since Gerald became ill, I found I was brushing tears away from my eyes. The Mini, which I remembered as perpetually dirty, only garaged because I could not take the time to feed parking meters, nor to find any permanent free place to park it, was transformed. It had been washed and polished, and even the dirt of the motorway didn’t obscure that; it had been vacuumed inside, the ashtrays emptied, the shelf which usually held half a year’s accumulated rubbish had been tidied, but only the obvious things discarded. It was the innate reaction of an extremely tidy man to a car which he would drive, for however short a time. I felt somehow shamed as I looked at it. Other people’s standards were higher than mine – and if they were old-fashioned standards, it did not make them invalid. I drove the Mini to a place in the outbuildings next to the Mercedes, and left it there. If I was to stay on at Thirlbeck, the Mini couldn’t stand always beside the front door. I wasn’t a passing guest any longer.

  II

  There was Harry Peers on the phone from London. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, you idiot? I’d have come up. Listen, do those hicks up there know how to take care of him?’

  ‘He’s all right, Harry. He really is all right.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. He’ll probably be thrown out with the bath water and find himself in one of those bloody lakes. Don’t trust that lot myself. They know how to look after animals better than people.’

  ‘He’s being very well looked after, Harry.’ I was beginning to grow tired of making that statement.

  ‘Are you being well looked after, luv?’

  ‘How well is that supposed to be?’

  ‘As well as your Harry would look after you. I’m waiting for you to come back, Jo. Don’t make it too long.’

  And then there was the vacant dial tone on the telephone after he had hung up. I suppose it was part of Harry – that habit of never letting anyone else finish a conversation.

  I gave a thought to Harry and how he would have disapproved of the idea as I took Nat Birkett’s advice the next day about fitting myself out with walking boots and an anorak. I had been to see Gerald quite early, and although he had made a marked improvement, I knew it would be weeks, not days, that I would stay at Thirlbeck. I felt self-conscious in the shop, not really knowing what to ask for; they were unpacking new stock ready for the arrival of the tourists – stock that seemed to range all the way from fashionable raincoats to the most professional kind of camping equipment. I was looking without much conviction through the racks when Nat Birkett touched me on the shoulder. ‘Saw you through the window. You’re in the wrong place, you know.’

  ‘But they said this was the best shop.’

  ‘It’s all right. I just meant you’re looking at the wrong stuff. Those things might look all right in Bond Street, but they won’t keep the cold out up on the fells.’

  ‘I wasn’t really planning ...’

  ‘While you’re here you might as well use your time. And that means walking. So ... you get a padded anorak with hood and zips, like this – plenty of pockets. Here – this your size?’ He jerked down a bright yellow one from a hanger. ‘It’ll get dirty, but it’s easy to see if someone has to go and bring you down off the fells.’ He surveyed it critically. ‘Yes – that’ll do. Have you got a heavy sweater – really heavy? Well, that can wait a bit. But you’ll need boots ...’ I found myself, under his supervision, trying walking boots that laced firmly about the ankles, worn over two pairs of heavy socks.

  ‘Am I supposed to walk in these?’

  ‘You will, once you hit the right stride. They could save you breaking an ankle.’ We were outside, Nat carrying the package of heavy boots, and I wearing the anorak rather self-consciously. It was new, stiff, and the yellow was very bright.

  ‘We’ll break it in, shall we?’ Nat said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Take some sandwiches and go to the coast. That’ll get some mustard on it, and put some sand in the pockets ...’ We were walking towards the small town square and the car park. Nat’s Bentley was a conspicuous anachronism among all the other cars. ‘I’ll just telephone the farm. I really should go out there and collect binoculars and vacuum flasks and a compass, and really get you initiated, but as sure as I do something will have blown up, and I’ll get nailed. Suddenly, I feel like a holiday … We’ll make do with wine instead of sensible hot coffee and soup.’

  I sat in the high passenger seat of the Bentley, and stared down at those who stared at me. I thought that some people, not tourists, looked at me with more than ordinary curiosity. To the regulars of Kesmere, Nat’s Bentley was a familiar thing, but mine was not a familiar face. I was glad when he came back, his arms loaded with paper packages.

  ‘I’ve been causing some gossip, I think,’ I said to him. ‘People have been wondering what Nat
Birkett picked up in a bright yellow anorak.’

  ‘Let them. Do them good. That’s the trouble with these little places – everyone knows your business. Of course, when you’re in trouble, it helps not to be surrounded by strangers.’ He was going through all the routine movements, unfamiliar to me, of manoeuvring the ancient car out of the parking space. It made a lot of noise, and a kind of ominous shuddering went through the body. ‘Needs a bit of work done on her,’ Nat shouted. ‘Damn thing takes more time than she’s worth ... don’t know why I bother.’ The top was full of holes, he said, and so it stayed down, permanently. I found myself zipping up the anorak as we passed beyond the outskirts of the town, and the pace increased to more than twenty-five miles an hour. ‘That’s about all she’ll do, safely,’ Nat roared at me. ‘Cold?’

  ‘No.’ But I was. At the same time there was a kind of exhilaration about riding so high in the world, of feeling the stream of air flowing about my face, of being able to see over the stone walls and hedges. I got used to the stares of the motorists who passed us. All at once I pitied them because they weren’t bowling along as if there were hours and hours of time to travel a few miles.

  We headed west, over a series of passes through the mountains. The Bentley laboured a little on the steep grades. ‘Really does need work on her ...’ But then after an hour the scent of the salt wind came to us, and we stopped at the gate of a farm and a dirt track leading towards the dunes. I got out and opened the gate; closed it carefully; I didn’t want Nat to stop the engine in case it wouldn’t start again. He seemed to have no such worry himself. He drove down the dirt track as far as an empty shed, almost roofless, and stopped.