He stared at the Russell Flint beauties at their toilet. One of them, though only distantly, reminded him of Lady Jean. A sudden tiredness took him. What a bore this bloody dinner was going to be. And this Washington business—did he really want it? Birdcage would never let up on him. They would be on his heels till death and then have someone watching the catafalque —he grinned—in case he had cheated again. What he should have done when he had taken her from the Foreign Office was to have married her and stuck to Conary and a quiet life. Domus et placens uxor.
He made up his mind. A letter first.
* * * *
They drove up to Lisbon and on to Estoril and stayed two nights at the Hotel Globo, much to the joy of Melina and her husband Carlo. For Sarah it was the beginning of one of the happiest periods of her life. She spent a lot of time talking with Melina, who clearly liked Richard. It delighted her that she did for she took without any embarrassment a simple pleasure in other people liking him. Carlo liked him too, and the pair of them—after Carlo learned that he had once run a restaurant and now thought of finding a place in the Dordogne—spent their time discussing hotel practices and Carlo was proud to take Richard around the Globo and to go into all the details of its management.
Before they left Melina, alone with Sarah in her bedroom, said, “You have found a good man. One can always tell when it is the right thing. And never must you have any feelings about leaving the convent. That was all a big mistake. Once, you know, just before your mother died and when it was all settled that you should one day become a religious I told her I thought it was not for you. A thing against your nature . . . your true nature. You know what she said to me with that wicked smile of hers?”
“No.”
“She said, ‘Don’t worry. My Sarah is like me. If she finds she doesn’t like a thing, she doesn’t put up with it.’ ”
Just then Farley came in with a parcel under his arm. It was a new suit—which he had bought at Sarah’s urging to replace the shabby old thing he had had for years. Melina left them and Sarah made him put it on to please her.
“You look marvellous, darling. I know you don’t care about clothes much, but Daddy’s always been a one for being properly dressed. I suppose it was being Army and all that. Now take it off and I’ll pack it away properly in your case—not just throwing things in as you do.”
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Well, from now on I do it.” She came across to him and kissed him. As she did so he remembered how his mother had always packed for him when he went off to school and always clucked at the state of his case when he brought it back. It was a memory which had come to him, too, in the villa just before they left so he had decided not to carry the diary in his case. He had wrapped it in newspaper and it now travelled in the car safely hidden under one of the back seats.
From Lisbon they motored without hurry to Biarritz and then Bordeaux and then inland to Perigueux where they stayed three days at a small hotel, got a list of properties from an estate agent and spent their time inspecting them. Three or four interested them and they decided that they would visit them again on their return and perhaps make a decision.
As they lay in bed on their last night in the Dordogne Sarah said, “I like this way of travelling. With my mother it was such a business. Cases and trunks and complaints if the hotel or the service didn’t please her.”
“No wayside picnics with a bottle of wine, a loaf and paté?”
Sarah laughed. “Sometimes we did—but you should have seen! Folding chairs and a table, damask cloth and silver. It was always a fête champêtre de luxe. Wine from a cooler and Giorgio serving. Everything had to be absolutely right, particularly if Lord Bellmaster was with us. Daddy never minded so much for all the grandness.”
His arm round her, glad of the darkness in which they lay, Farley asked, “What was Lord Bellmaster like?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . I suppose even at that age knowing what he was to Mama I shouldn’t have liked him. But I did. He was always charming to me. Far nicer really than Daddy usually was. Though there were times when he would change, and then he would be fun, far more fun than Lord Bellmaster. Isn’t it funny . . . now, after so many years away from the real world . . . I seem to have come back understanding far more about it. I think Mama was always, deep down, unhappy . . . what she showed other people was a part she had decided to play.”
“You mean unhappy because Lord Bellmaster didn’t marry her?”
“Perhaps. But, you know, I think that though that was what she wanted—to be Lady Bellmaster—she didn’t really love him. Though things went wrong between them—Melina told me an awful lot that I didn’t know—I think she loved, really loved Daddy.”
“Sounds a proper mess. How did your father and Lord Bellmaster get on?”
“I didn’t see them together very often. They were polite, I suppose. No more.”
“I can’t understand why your father didn’t kick him out.”
“Perhaps Mama wouldn’t let him and he loved her so much he just accepted things. One thing Melina told me which I didn’t know was about Giorgio. About the way he left. I was away at convent school then. The Rolls-Royce belonged to Lord Bellmaster, you know. But Mama always had the use of it. One day his lordship told Giorgio that the Rolls was getting old and he was going to change it and buy something different. I don’t know what, a Daimler or some splendid American car. Melina did say the name but I’ve forgotten. Anyway Giorgio exploded! He was washing the car at the time—at the villa— and Melina and Carlo overheard it all from the servants’ quarters. He told Lord Bellmaster that he had no wish, nor intention of driving anything else but a Rolls and if his lordship changed it for anything else but a Rolls then he would hand in his notice.” Sarah’s body shook with laughter. “They had a real shouting match, Melina said. And when Lord Bellmaster said the last thing he would buy would be a Rolls just for the convenience or something of a chauffeur Giorgio gave his notice—which was bad enough—but he then went on to tell Lord Bellmaster what he thought of him as a man. Then Mama came out and pleaded with them both and that made it worse, because she lost her temper and told them both what she thought of them . . .” Sarah giggled. “And Melina said she had to hang on to Carlo because he wanted to go out and join in—because he didn’t like Lord Bellmaster and he didn’t like Giorgio. Weren’t they all stupid? Just over a silly old car!”
“So what happened in the end?”
“Giorgio left that day. And Carlo became chauffeur and the new car was something or other. Not a Rolls anyway. But that wasn’t the end. Oh dear.” She lay for a moment or two shaking with laughter, and then said, “Do you know what? Two weeks after they had it poor Carlo, who wasn’t as good as he thought, hit a tram in Lisbon, or somewhere, and smashed it up. And then. . . then. . .” She rolled towards him, her laughter muffled against the bare skin of his shoulder, unable to speak for the mirth in her, and in those few moments his love for her was boundless, a wordless all-encompassing joy.
“And then what?” he asked. “Come on—you can’t have the joke all to yourself.”
She drew away from him and, calming, said, “And then— guess what? Lord Bellmaster replaced it with a Rolls. Isn’t it a silly story? Such a lot of pettiness. But it’s funny. I really must look some time and see whether Mama wrote about in in her diary. Maybe she did one of her little drawings. I’ll look and see when we get back to the villa.”
Later, lying awake in the dark while she slept, knowing there was no entry in the diary for the incident, he knew that he was never going to let her read the diary and wondered whether the sensible thing would not be to go off alone for an hour and burn it somewhere. Perhaps he should. Perhaps he would. She always slept late and breakfasted in bed. He could walk out tomorrow and do it in some quiet place. Then his mind hardened against it. Bellmaster . . . it was time he did a little paying and he had to find a way to arrange it—though God knew how. He really wanted someone to counsel him
; someone who would be discreet and understanding and give him good advice. Certainly not Colonel Branton. He was too involved and had been for too long far distant from Sarah. Eight years in a prison. Bellmaster had been partly responsible for that—and then, when Sarah was free, he had turned out also to be a cheat over the girdle of Venus. Perhaps Kerslake would be the man. Yes, Kerslake. A solicitor would stop him from doing anything silly. He would look him up in Cheltenham while they were staying with Colonel Branton.
From Périgueux they drove leisurely through Limoges and Orléans to Paris where they stayed for three days and enjoyed themselves.
* * * *
It was a beautiful late May morning, the long racemes of the laburnums hanging golden against the cloudless sky, the lilacs down the driveway dwarf-pinnacled with wine-purple blooms, the house martins back and nesting under the house eaves, the coat of his neighbour’s mare in the paddock across the road as sleek and glossy as a polished chestnut. And on his study desk, unopened, the morning mail. Seldom for many years had any letter arriving for him merited being categorised as a harbinger of joy. Bills, bloody bills mostly.
Colonel Branton sat down and quickly leafed through the five envelopes. He was in a good mood for no reason that he could readily isolate—unless it was the season of the year. He was off soon to motor to the Wye for a day’s fishing, half of which he would spend with the wealthy, tax-fiddling, aspirant country gentlemen who kept the wheels of industry and the cash registers of finance turning and clicking. Had to say, though, that some of them were good chaps . . . not many, but some.
Five letters. He recognised two of them as bills on their first delivery to him. He tore them up unopened and put them in the waste-paper basket. He opened a third, an uncommercial envelope, and found—canny tradesman to use a good plain envelope—that it was a final demand bill subscribed politely but firmly asking for a quick settlement. He stuck it on a spike next to the reading lamp. The fourth letter, with a foreign stamp, he turned over once or twice, trying to place the writing. Then failing, opened it and found that it was from Sarah in Paris. Pleasure moved gently in him. It was short but affectionate. She and the Farley man would be in England in a few days’ time. They would telephone him on arrival. Well, no problem about that. She was his daughter—damned if he was going to regard her as anything else—and they would stay with him. Push the boat out, too. Why not? Celebrate now and tighten the old belt later. Wouldn’t be the first or the last time.
The other letter, in an expensive plain envelope, had his name and address written in a vaguely familiar handwriting. Postmark no help, only a blurry, typical Post Office mess as though the machine or the man suffered from the palsy. What this country damned well needed was . . . well, what was the good of even saying it?
He opened the letter and a glance at the deckle-edged note-paper with its embossed address enlightened him. Our dear old double-dealing friend Bellmaster. He put the letter down and lit a cigarette. Beautiful day outside. Rain earlier in the week. The river should be just right. He’d like to take Bellmaster along and shove him in with a weight round his neck. Wonder if this Farley man fished? Probably did. He’d take him over for a day. That’s how you got to know people. Big fish on, heavy river, and one look at the way he handled it would tell you more in a few moments than a thousand personality tests. In the saddle the same . . . Feeling good, he stubbed out the cigarette and began gently to whistle to himself as he read the letter. The whistling died after a few moments.
The letter read:
My dear Branton,
I heard recently from Geddy the very happy news that dear Sarah is to be married to this Richard Farley man who saved her life in Portugal. He told me that he is apparently a very decent sort of fellow—good Service family and all that—though he hasn’t done much with his life so far. But that can easily be remedied when the time comes with a word here and there. Naturally, as her godfather, I am as delighted for Sarah’s sake as you must be. Our dear Lady Jean if alive might perhaps have wished for her to fly somewhat higher in her choice, but these days that doesn’t go for much with titles and honours being dished out two a penny to any Tom, Dick or Harry who can play a guitar or in other affairs has been promised a quid pro quo !
Still, I thought that if you were likely to be in London soon you might care to drop by and we could have a chat to see what we could agree between us about rolling out the red carpet.
Yours sincerely,
Bellmaster
The mild euphoria raised by the beautiful May day and the prospect of some successful fishing died in Branton. With an oath he pushed the letter from him. The bloody man! How well he knew this kind of approach. And how well he could read his mind. In so many ways it ran parallel to the line Lady Jean would have taken over the wedding. A bloody great fuss over it. Saint Margaret’s, Westminster . . Everything out of his hands. Not even a passing query as to what Sarah might be wanting. Oh, no—Bellmaster, Bellmaster; what Bellmaster wanted was the important thing. Well, he was damned if he should have his way. Sarah was the one to choose.
A phrase from the letter ran blood-red through his mind “. . . a very decent sort of fellow—good Service family and all that—though he hasn’t done much with his life so far”. That might be Farley but it was also himself, and Bellmaster had fixed it that way. Well, over his dead body would he agree to anything that Sarah herself did not want. By God, he had not been a good father to her one way and another, but it was never too late to start. She should have what she wanted, and only that.
At that moment his wife put her head round the door and said, “Oh, you’re still here. I thought I hadn’t heard the car go. Darling, on your way through Cheltenham I wondered if you would do something for me?”
The rage which had been rising in him burst free and he almost shouted, “On my way through Cheltenham I’m not doing anything for anybody—unless some jay-walking civilian steps in front of me and then I’ll run the bugger down! And on the river if some half-arsed sod of a Birmingham gent begins to tell me about his new Jaguar when he should be watching his line—I’ll push the ostentatious crap-hound in and watch him drown. And if——”
His wife suddenly laughed. “Oh, darling—I love you when you get like that! You’ve been very peaky lately. It’s nice to see you back in form . . . full of fire. Can you keep it up until we get to bed tonight?”
Grinning, rage suddenly gone, he said fondly, “You’re a vulgar bitch. But I like you. Now clear out—otherwise I won’t wait until bedtime.”
“Yes, love. It’s a parcel waiting for me at our jewellers. I told them you’d call.” She made a quick kissing-mouth at him and withdrew laughing.
Calm now, smooth from his outburst, he picked up the letter. How nice to be Bellmaster, he thought. How nice it was going to be too, ditching the bastard over this wedding thing. If he knew Sarah she would want something quiet. He had danced a puppet to his strings for years. But no more. No bloody more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SARAH LAY IN bed reading. It was their second night in her father’s house and—because they both wished to observe the proprieties—they had separate bedrooms. Her father and his wife had made them both warmly welcome. Casting back through her memory she found it hard to see now in her father the man who had been so distant and self-contained during her girlhood. There was about him a tenderness and, well, happiness she supposed, which she could not remember before. She liked the wife, too. Generous, a great chatterer, busy and efficient—and so clearly very much in love with her father.
It pleased her that both of them had readily taken to Richard —and he to them. She had looked forward with some trepidation to their meeting. Dreaded it somewhat. But all her fears had been dissipated within a few hours. Neither of them had said a word about the convent or of the way Richard had come into her life. It was just as though she had returned from a long absence to find a familiar life waiting into whose rhythms and patterns she had been immediately gathered. Made welcome.
That was how it was. And Richard, too, she saw, had quickly felt at home here.
Farley came in, wearing pyjamas and dressing gown, to say good-night to her. He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her, then made a face and said, “We’re being very proper, aren’t we?”
“And so we should, my love. It’s not that they would mind whichever way it was. But I think it’s the right thing.”
“I agree with you. He’s a nice bloke, isn’t he? Bit outspoken at times——” he laughed, “——particularly to her. But she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s all right, though. Must have been quite an eyeful when she was younger.”
“She’s not his real wife. Did you know that?”
Birdcage Page 19
