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

by Catherine Gaskin

  We looked at each other, and there was knowledge in the look, and a kindliness, a shared awareness of Vanessa and each other. ‘And now,’ I said, ‘you know that she did love you. She must have loved you, even if she never said so. That was why she was willing to do so much for Thirlbeck, and kept so quiet about it. It was something she wanted to tell no one. I wonder ... I wonder if my father knew she loved you.’

  Askew sighed. ‘I don’t know. I probably was blindly selfish about that, too. She and Jonathan were married during the war. He was captured soon after; and was in a P.O.W. camp right until the surrender. They’d spent so little time together. Renting the Lodge here was some sort of effort to get to know each other again. War does more than take time out of your life. It had taken Jonathan’s health, and his sureness about being able to paint. He wanted to get both back again, and Vanessa as well. They tried terribly hard, both of them, but they should never have come to a place like this. The quietness suited Jonathan, but the climate didn’t help him at all. Vanessa tried to bear it – the quietness was hell for her. She kept us all laughing, I remember, but I had the feeling that she was afraid to stop laughing because of what she might hear. So, when I went to the address in London, and they were not there, I decided that I should leave them alone. Without me hanging on, they might have a chance.’

  ‘They really didn’t have much of a chance,’ I said. ‘They stayed together until I was born, and then my father went to Mexico. Vanessa could never have survived there. There seemed to be no bitterness. It was a marriage that went wrong, and they both knew it. As soon as he started selling some paintings, he always sent money. Vanessa tried to refuse it at first, and he was hurt – so she let him put money in the business. Investing, he called it, but they both understood that it was a non-repayable loan. He kept arguing in letters that living in Mexico was very cheap, there wasn’t anything to spend money on – except his hobby of collecting some vintage cars after he began selling really well. He wanted the money to be put to work. I suppose it was a polite fiction they had. When I got old enough Vanessa used to show me his letters. He sounded nice. When I finally did meet him, he turned out to be nice – rather more than just nice. But I couldn’t picture him married to Vanessa. She was a bit too much for most people, except in small doses. Gerald, for instance. In his fashion he adored Vanessa, but I don’t think he could have spent a solid week in her company. Perhaps she knew that about herself. Perhaps that was why she went away and never saw you again. Do you think that might have been the reason ... do you?’

  He sighed. ‘If it was, then she was wiser at her age than I guessed. Perhaps I pressed her a little before they left ... pressed her too much. She used to say she couldn’t compete with a ghost. I suppose she meant my wife ...’

  I didn’t try to answer him. It could have been that Vanessa had meant rather more than the vague image of Askew’s young wife who had died even before she had reached Thirlbeck. But who knew now what she had meant? – the spirit of the little Spanish girl that I sensed here was to me a friend. But who could tell what Vanessa had experienced at Thirlbeck – who knew what ghosts, friendly or not, had waited in other rooms, other places? Or had she used that phrase only as an excuse so that the independence she had always fought for so fiercely would still remain hers. In my time of growing-up, Vanessa had always been supremely her own woman; even that young, still-seeking woman must have known this was how it had to be for her. For this reason, probably, she and my father had parted. They both had been rare spirits, and neither could have long remained subordinate to another. Askew himself had probably given this same kind of heartbreak to some of the women who had loved him; and whom he had not married in all these years. In a sense, they had been three of a kind, Vanessa, my father, and Askew. He had said it in his own fashion ... ‘At times it seemed as if we were the only three people alive in the world.’

  I rose from my chair and walked the few yards to the crumbling stone balustrade which separated this part of the garden from a lower terrace which led down to the lake. The surface of the water was golden-bright in the sun, the green marshy places near the crumbling jetty seemed deceptively firm. I watched the long grass blow about that tall thin slab of stone which recorded the Spanish Woman’s name.

  ‘There are all sorts of ghosts, aren’t there? Do you think she thought at all about the Spanish Woman? Do you think that’s why she called me Joanna?’

  ‘Who knows what ghosts anyone sees? They’re different for us all, aren’t they? Joanna’s a good name, even if it wasn’t taken from the Spanish Woman. Vanessa was highly imaginative, but was she fanciful?’

  ‘Fanciful? No, I don’t think so.’ I turned back towards him, and as I did so the whole pack of hounds started a joyful rush along the cleared avenue between the trees. Even the older ones ran like puppies, but still at the head of the pack, and still keeping the younger ones in their place. It was only when they came close to us that I was aware again of the formidable size of them, the long tongues that lolled over the big teeth, those wise, wistful eyes that seemed to look at me from my own level. They fanned out equally between myself and Askew, the sea of moving tails reminding me of the long rushes that swayed down in the shallows of the tarn.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it, how they’ve taken to you?’ Askew said. ‘They’ve always been very gentle, but all the hounds I can remember from my childhood – the ancestors of this lot – have always been a bit reserved. This lot seemed just like them, until you came along. I know it infuriated Tolson. He’s always believed he had a quite invincible force of watchdogs whom no one could cajole or tempt away from their first duty. But if they were the sort who rolled over to have their tummies scratched, I do think for you they’d roll over like spaniels.’

  ‘I didn’t think so the first time I saw them. I was terrified – frozen. If you hadn’t come, I couldn’t have moved from the car. And especially after what happened up there at the birch woods.’

  ‘At the birch woods?’ Askew straightened himself and leaned forward. ‘What happened at the birch woods?’

  ‘Nothing – that’s it. I always feel foolish whenever I think of it. You remember we came over by Brantwick that first evening? Well, I thought I saw one of the dogs. In fact I was certain I saw him. He ran right in front of the car – seemed to leap over the wall and spring out of nowhere. I slammed on the brakes, and we went into a bad skid. Well, I got the car under control, and looked back and just saw the last of the dog going through the trees towards the larch plantation. I could hardly see him – it was dusk, and he was just a whitish shape. That wouldn’t have been so strange except that Gerald didn’t see him. He didn’t see him, Lord Askew. He wondered why on earth I’d braked like that, and risked a crash. Then he pretended he had dozed off, but we both knew he was wide awake. And then when we got down to the house you said all the dogs were with you at that time – and there were no other wolfhounds around.’ I reached out and patted a great head that was upthrust to my face. ‘It wasn’t you, Thor, was it? A ghost of one of your ancestors, perhaps? They must have run all over this valley hunting deer at one time ... I hadn’t thought I was fanciful either, but now every time I see one of these, I remember that dog. Sort of ... oh, well, like something out of a dream.’

  Askew reached out and jerked the edge of my sleeve. His face, to which some colour had seemed to return as we sat in the sun, and on which the tension had appeared to ease as we had talked of Vanessa, was once more grey and strained.

  ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain you saw a white hound up there at the birch copse?’

  ‘Yes ... but I tell you Gerald didn’t see it. He saw nothing at all. I could have killed us that evening – ’

  Askew slumped back in the chair. ‘And I did,’ he said. The perspiration once again beaded his upper lip. I had to bend towards him to hear the next words. ‘I did kill my wife and my son. There – at the same place. The day I came back from Spain to take over at Thirlbeck – the day before my fathe
r’s funeral. That white hound – straight in front of the car. Completely real to me – but it never existed. When I pulled myself out of the wreck and ran down to the house for help they told me that all the dogs had been there, in the house, at that time. No one believed me, you see. No one. I’d been drinking – yes, I’d had some drinks before I could face Thirlbeck again. But I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t! I couldn’t stand up in court and say that a phantom hound had caused the crash – but because of it my wife and little son were dead. I couldn’t say that so many times in the Birketts’ history strange things had happened at that place, there where the birches begin. There are tales that the Spanish Woman used to go to that point in her walks, waiting always for news from Spain. I wonder if one of the hounds was her companion ...’

  He brushed a hand that trembled across his mouth. ‘Well, that’s no defence in a court of law, is it? You just can’t say those things, and I had had a few drinks. But my wife – I never knew if she saw the hound, because she never spoke again. But you – you saw it. It is something that happens to Birketts – and sometimes to those who threaten them in some way. “Who Seizes, Beware.” But you – you’d never been here in your life, never knew that Vanessa had.’ His hands tightly gripped the arms of the chair. ‘Jo – you’re Vanessa’s child. Are you mine?’

  We looked at each other for a long time, face examining face, eyes suddenly familiar, which each recognised in the other. A terrible weakness struck me – and the beginning of joy.

  ‘I wonder ...’ I said softly. There would be no way to prove it, but that didn’t matter. I thought that we both knew. Then above us there was a far off, but powerful, thrust of wings. I thought I could almost feel the motion of the air as they moved. All the dogs and I raised our faces, and across the sun came the shape of an eagle – one of Nat Birkett’s golden eagles in that soaring, swooping flight that was heart-stopping in its wild wonder and beauty. For an instant the shadow of the great wings seemed to cross us, but it couldn’t have been; the bird was far distant, and leaving us farther behind with every second. I knew I wanted to cry out to it not to leave us; the moment of grace was precious, and soon gone.

  I looked down at the man beside me. He had collapsed in the chair, and a stain of bright red blood had trickled from his mouth and already spread evilly across his shirt and jacket.

  CHAPTER 8

  I

  We didn’t wait for the ambulance or for Dr Murray. Askew had vomited blood once more before we got him stretched on the back seat of Gerald’s Daimler. The Condesa was driving, and I took the seat beside her, unbidden. Jeffries thrust a pile of towels into my arms, and I knelt on the seat and took the soiled ones away as they were used. The elegant leather upholstery was stained with the bright red blood, and there was blood on the grey carpet. Tolson had been on the telephone almost at the moment I had reached the house, calling the hospital to tell that Askew was on the way, calling about to try to locate Dr Murray on his rounds. Gerald stayed behind, ‘I might be of more use here. I’ll follow in a bit, Jo. Take care of him. God, how awful ...’

  I didn’t want Gerald to look at Askew any longer. His own face had taken on that terrible look of strain and fear I had remembered from the night I had found him half fallen from his bed.

  Tolson had telephoned ahead to the South Lodge, and the gates stood open. Jessica’s mother was there, giving a half-fearful salute as we went through. The Condesa drove quickly, and yet with great skill, seeing, almost before they appeared, bumps in the road, avoiding them, speeding up on the straight, smooth stretches. At each junction she managed to get us through without stopping – even at the outskirts of Kesmere, where the traffic had begun to thicken with holiday crowds. The delicate tap on the horn, and something that was an inspired blend between a command, and a message of pleading urgency in her signals – and perhaps most of all the anguish of her face – got us round the lorries, and the caravans, and the usually selfish driver. In the narrow streets of Kesmere, at one bottleneck, I left my seat and went to the head of the line of traffic; I didn’t know what gave me the courage to stand there at the junction and wave the Condesa on against the traffic, holding up the other lane myself. At one set of traffic lights we waited three minutes; kneeling on the front seat and bending towards him, I saw Askew’s body give a convulsive shudder, and there was more blood.

  ‘What ...?’ I whispered to the Condesa. ‘What is happening to him?’

  Her reply was almost savage. ‘You saw it happen to him before. But not like this. He has been warned it could happen. The duodenal ulcer. Too much drink, too much smoking – the wrong food, or not enough food. And now the massive haemorrhage. The upset of these last days ... that Tolson man – I could kill him! Why not to leave well enough alone? Why not to do what Roberto had instructed him? Pray God Roberto does not lose too much blood before they can help him ...’

  We went to the emergency entrance of the hospital, and they were waiting for us. I knew it angered the Condesa to see Askew suffer the indignity of having to be handled as he was to get him on to the trolley, but she said nothing. She simply took his hand as they wheeled him inside. I stayed and folded the towels and put them in the trunk. Then I drove the car to a place in the parking lot.

  From the emergency entrance they directed me down a long corridor I remembered from the night Gerald had been admitted in this same fashion; then another glass corridor connected to a smaller wing of the main building. Here, on a long seat, was the Condesa. Someone, Jeffries perhaps, had put her needlework bag into the car. She was tugging at the strap in anguish, and then reached into its depths to find cigarettes. She had none, and snatched, without thanks, at the packet I offered. I handed over the keys of the Daimler.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘He has lost a lot of blood. They must make a transfusion.’ Her tone was sharp, almost angry. She looked around at the plain, pale green walls with a kind of loathing. ‘He is very ill, they say. In shock ... God, why can’t they do something? He’s in that room there.’ Then suddenly she seemed to become more aware of me as a person, and her anger and fear transferred itself to me. ‘You don’t have to stay. What use for the two of us to be here?’ In her stress her English was not quite as flawless as before, and her slight accent became stronger. Her face too had altered, the high Spanish cheekbones more pronounced, her warm olive skin now tinted to sallowness. There was something now much more elemental in her than I had ever glimpsed before. The sheen of sophistication had slipped from her. The sense of the drama of life and death that lies close to the surface in every Spaniard was breaking through. She could not accept the seeming inactivity behind the closed door.

  ‘Let me wait a little, please. I would like to take back some news to Gerald. I would like to know ...’

  ‘To know!’ She flung her hands wide. ‘They tell you nothing. He is closed in there, and I cannot see him!’

  ‘Give them time. They have a lot of work to do – ’ A sister in her starched apron came sweeping down the corridor, barely glanced at us, and went into the room where Askew lay. The Condesa regarded her retreating back with hatred. ‘You see! You English …! Roberto is vomiting up his lifeblood, and no one will tell me anything. They just come and go in their white coats.’

  As she spoke a young man – a doctor, I guessed – came out of Askew’s room with a covered kidney-shaped vessel in his hand. The Condesa jumped to her feet. ‘Please, you will tell me – ’

  ‘Not now, madame. I’ll come and talk to you when I have time.’ He half ran along the corridor. The sister came out of Askew’s room, and for a second I had a glimpse of another sister working there with two nurses. I couldn’t see Askew, but I saw the sphygmomonometer being used. Then one of the young nurses came out with Askew’s clothing in her arms.

  Once more the Condesa jumped to her feet. ‘Give me those.’ Her usually soft voice was gratingly harsh. She snatched the clothes from the girl as if the bloodstained bundle was precious and personal, not to be
touched by other hands. We waited for long minutes after that, and then the young doctor came back again, took no notice of us, and went into Askew’s room. He reappeared again almost at once. In the doorway he encountered an older doctor who had come down the corridor at that sort of flying march that seems to herald an emergency in a hospital.

  ‘Tough one, sir,’ the young man said. ‘Just about as tough as they come.’ He glanced over at the Condesa and his voice dropped. We couldn’t hear the next words. The older man disappeared into Askew’s room, the young man went to a room almost opposite us whose door stood open, an office of some sort, with a desk, files, a telephone. Probably the sister’s office, I thought. At once he was on the telephone. As eagerly as the Condesa I strained to hear his words. The call was to a hospital in Penrith.

  ‘... done the group and cross-match. Unless I’ve lost my mind it’s ... Yes, I know. Impossible. Well, you’ve got a list of donors, haven’t you? All right ... I’ll hang on. But for God’s sake hurry.’ There followed long minutes, and I saw the Condesa once again tearing at the handle of her bag as if she might shred it. The doctor tapped his pen on the blotter. He seemed for the moment to have forgotten us. Then his voice again. ‘No one? No one at all? Well, damn – to be expected, I suppose. I’ll try Carlisle. Thanks.’

  He put through another call. The first sentences were blurred. Then I heard him clearly as his voice rose in frustration. ‘Yes ... that’s what I said. ABRHDU. Yes – ABRHDU. All right, so I know it’s as rare as hen’s teeth! Have you got a donor? We’ve got a bloke here who’s vomiting it up as if he can’t get rid of it fast enough. Well, look, will you? I’ll hold on.’ During the time he waited I looked down at my own hands and they were as tense as the Condesa’s. We heard the doctor’s voice again. ‘Have you? Good. On the telephone? Just pray he’s not on holiday, or out at the pub, or something. How long do you think? I don’t think we’ve got much time unless we can control the haemorrhaging. Yes, I’m sure. While I’m waiting I’ll do the tests again, but I’m sure. This group’s so damn rare I double-checked. ABRHDU. Make it as fast as you can, will you? Alert the police and they’ll give you an escort – fine on the motorway, but these bloody mountain roads ... well, do your best. Thanks ...’