At the age of sixteen Portia had decided that she wanted to get rid of her virginity. She had put the names of all the men she knew between the ages of twenty and sixty into a hat and asked me to pick one. The name on the scrap of paper I had pulled out was Roger Arquiss. This made us giggle, not just because Roger was gay but because the idea of anything remotely passionate in connection with him seemed ridiculous. Sadly, the best-looking of my father’s friends were all homosexual, but Roger was not in the former category. He was in his mid-fifties, had a large Roman nose, a fleshy upper lip above crooked teeth and resembled a friendly old horse. When young he had had great success on the stage playing decent self-sacrificing Englishman who never got the girl, but later on he was reduced to playing idiot clergymen in popular farces.
‘Why on earth did you put the buggers in?’ I asked. ‘Let’s take them out and do it again.’
‘Without them there’d be precious few names. Besides, I was hoping to get Hugo Dance. I’m sure he stroked my bottom last Christmas when he was helping me into my coat. He pretended it was accidental but I saw something like a glint in his eye. I think he just needs the right woman. Still, it’s too late now. Roger it will have to be.’
‘But, Portia, you’re not serious! He’s so horrible, the poor old thing. I mean, sweet but!’
‘It’s no good picking names out of hats if you aren’t going to stick to it.’
Portia was nothing if not stubborn. We took the tube to Albany, Piccadilly, where Roger had a set of rooms decorated in a cosy English style with mahogany furniture, green leather chairs, elegant bibelots and masses of books. Roger was very well connected, and judging from the portraits on the walls all his family would have looked at home nodding over a stable door. As luck would have it Hugo Dance was there. They were enjoying tea and crumpets and gallantly pressed us to join them, though it was obvious they were surprised to see us. It was not a little embarrassing. I wondered if poor old Roger had been trying to get Hugo into his bed. Hugo was certainly a dish. He had black hair, long curly eyelashes and a dark red mouth. I saw Portia giving him longing looks as she smothered her crumpet with quince jelly.
Roger, whom we had known for years, brought out all his tame, child-friendly jokes for our benefit. Portia, instead of laughing politely, slid down her chair so that her skirt rode up over her knees, breathing deeply to make her bosom conspicuous – already it was much bigger than mine – and smouldered. Roger looked more and more surprised. Hugo stared at her a lot, I noticed. Time wore on. It was quite dark outside and soon we’d have to be thinking about going home. Roger got out a bottle of whisky. I stuck with tea because I hate whisky but the other three had plenty. Roger’s jokes began to get more daring and then Hugo told some really filthy stories. I laughed, though they did not seem particularly amusing.
‘Roger.’ Portia stood up, cutting Hugo short. ‘I’ve never seen your bedroom. I bet it’s pretty.’
Roger liked to be complimented on his taste. He followed her meekly from the room.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Hugo, chummily.
I couldn’t think of a convincing lie so I told him the truth. Hugo thought it was very funny. We giggled together and I thought how attractive he was and what a shame he didn’t like girls. He walked up and down before the fire, grinning.
‘I wonder if Roger will be able to – what a hoot! Your sister’s a little devil, isn’t she? I could see she wasn’t wearing any pants. Christ! How old is she?’ I stopped wanting to laugh. For some reason the fact that Portia wasn’t wearing knickers, which I hadn’t known before, made it seem real. Despite the brightness of the fire, the elegance of the furnishings and the smartness of the address, everything seemed suddenly tawdry and sad. I heartily wished we weren’t there. Hugo came over and put his hand on my breast. His cologne smelled of lemons and pencil boxes. ‘Are you wearing pants, Harriet?’ I was horrified and became rigid and tongue-tied with embarrassment. I could not look at him. ‘Mm-m-m. You’re as flat as a boy. I like that. I think it would be only friendly to follow suit, don’t you?’
He shoved me down on to Roger’s chesterfield and began to kiss me. His tongue was in my mouth and it seemed enormous. I couldn’t think what I ought to do. I wanted him to stop but I was afraid of making him angry. Perhaps it was better to go on. Portia and I could laugh about it afterwards. What was virginity but a nuisance, a badge of immaturity? This was my chance to get rid of it. If only it weren’t all so horrible. When he put his hand between my legs I don’t think I could have stopped myself from screaming if my mouth had not been full of his tongue. I closed my eyes, terrified I was going to be sick. Amid waves of heat and sweat and pain and drowning in aftershave, Hugo rid me of my virginity before it had begun to be troublesome. Afterwards, as he lay panting on top of me, a hateful stranger, my throat ached from trying not to cry.
‘You lucky swine!’ shouted Portia as we ran down the escalator at the underground station. ‘God! Roger was the last word in utter wetness. When he couldn’t manage to have an orgasm he cried, the silly old Dobbin, and I had to tell him it was all right. I think he managed to penetrate all right, though. There was blood. That counts, doesn’t it?’
My own thighs were sticky and I had a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. Hugo and I had been sitting silent in our chairs when Portia had come back, alone, into the drawing room, tugging a comb through her hair. Hugo was smoking a cigarette. We did not look at each other. He saw us to the door and patted my arm, before turning quickly away and shutting us out. Though the thing had not been of my doing I felt deeply ashamed.
‘You are lucky!’ said Portia again as we rattled through dark tunnels on the way home. ‘Fancy! The divine Hugo! There can’t be many girls who’ve had the pleasure.’ Then she peered at me. ‘You’ve got lipstick all over your cheeks.’
Even now, years later, when I remember Hugo I want to groan aloud. For a long time afterwards, when anyone kissed me, I wanted to retch. Portia had described in intimate detail what it had been like making love with Roger. She was a good mimic and conjured up a vivid picture of his fumbling awkwardness and her attempts to be nice about his incompetence. The incident did not appear to trouble her in the least. In some ways I envied her profoundly.
Maria-Alba, Cordelia and I ate the partridge in silence. I could think of nothing to say.
When we were halfway through the bavarois Cordelia suddenly said, ‘Are you going to see Pa tomorrow? Because I want to come too.’
I looked at Maria-Alba. She shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Perché no?’ she said, wiping blackberry-stained lips with her napkin. ‘The mistake has been too little of the reality.’
I wondered which particular mistake she meant. At that moment the opening chords of Chopin’s Funeral March, played with the sustaining pedal held firmly down and the occasional wrong note, came floating through from the drawing room. I rested my aching head on my hand. Oh, Pa, I thought, I do love you.
SIX
The sound of the telephone woke me. I opened my eyes, aware that something was terribly wrong. Then with the violence of a fist in the face, I remembered everything. For the first time for years I said the waking prayer the nuns had taught us, as fervently as when I was a child. From the age of sixteen I had declared myself an atheist but now I could not afford intellectual pride. I stared gloomily through the window. All the brightness of the previous day had dissolved in swollen grey clouds, piled ominously high.
I listened to the insistent monotone, hating it, hoping it would stop or that someone else would answer it. For the first part of the night I had been unable to sleep for more than a few minutes before a subconscious prompting had made my eyes snap open to confront some awful danger. I had had to visit the lavatory several times, whether because of the indigestibility of Yell’s cake or the affect of terror on my bowels I did not know. My mind was in rags.
When the telephone went on ringing, I rolled out from beneath the weight of Mark Antony and ran down two flights to the fi
rst-floor landing, my bare feet recoiling from the coldness and hardness of the stairs.
‘Hello?’
‘Chief Inspector Foy speaking.’
The cleft in his chin flashed into my mind. ‘It’s Harriet.’
‘Ah. I was hoping to speak to your mother.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘A quarter past eight.’
‘Could you ring back later? She doesn’t like to be disturbed before half-past ten.’
There was a pause followed by some pom-pomming up and down the scale. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell her that Mr Byng is due to appear in court this morning at nine fifteen.’
‘Oh. Oh dear!’ I immediately felt sick. I could not deal with reality following so swiftly on sleep.
‘Don’t worry. It’s only a formality. He’ll be put on remand. No need for you to be there.’
‘Isn’t there any chance they’ll find him not guilty?’
‘This is only the preliminary hearing. The case won’t come to court until we’ve had a chance to sift the evidence. Probably not for months.’
‘He didn’t do it. He’s not the sort of man who could kill someone.’ A crushing misery made my throat tight. Tears began to roll down my face.
‘Harriet, listen to me. Can I call you Harriet?’ I let out a kind of bleat because I was suppressing a howl. He took it as assent. ‘You’ve got to be brave, Harriet, both for him and for you. British justice is slow and often the way it goes about things seems pretty asinine but it’s the fairest legal system in the world. I know that perhaps isn’t saying much but, believe me, the idea of sending an innocent man to prison is as abhorrent to me as it will be to the judge and the twelve men and women of the jury. Be patient, and trust me.’
It did not seem to me that I had any alternative but I was grateful for the kindness in his voice. ‘All right. Thank you.’ I tried to sniff quietly.
‘Good girl. He won’t be without friends. Mr Sickert-Greene will be with him.’ The cleft in Inspector Foy’s chin was swiftly replaced by a mental snapshot of Sickly Grin’s neck, which bulged in a fleshy roll over his starched collar. I could not imagine him being a comfort to anyone. ‘If I were you I’d spend the day quietly at home. The press will be merciless for the next few days. You might get Mr Sickert-Greene to give them some sort of statement on behalf of the family.’
‘All right. Thank you,’ I added, though probably it was silly to thank the man who was accusing my father of murder.
‘Chin up.’
The line went dead. I put back the receiver and the telephone rang again immediately.
‘Hello, it’s Crispin. Who’s that?’
‘Harriet.’
‘Oh, good.’ There was a shade of relief in Crispin’s cultured tones. ‘I hoped it might be you.’
‘Shall I go and get Ophelia?’
‘Ah – no. Hang on a sec – don’t disturb her. Just tell her I called, will you?’
‘Any particular message?’
‘Er – just say I’ve gone down to the Towers for a few days. Awful bore – m’uncle’s birthday. Mother insists I show the phisog for a spot of celebrating. He’s nearly ninety and expected to pip out before long.’
‘Oh.’ I did not know whether to sound pleased or sorry.
‘Tell Ophelia I’ll ring her when I get back. By-ee.’
‘The low-down, snivelling, craven wretch,’ said Ophelia when I gave her the substance of the conversation. ‘He’s going to rat!’ She punched her pillow violently. ‘Well, I hate that hideous Mallilieu Towers, anyway. All pinnacles and gargoyles and nasty blue bricks. Henrietta Slotts is welcome. I don’t care.’
She put the pillow over her face and refused to say another word. After I had closed the door behind me I heard what might have been a stifled sob. I went downstairs to make myself some tea.
Maria-Alba was washing up the supper things.
‘Che c’e? You look beaky.’
‘Peaky, I think you mean. I’m all right.’ I could feel my chin trembling ‘It’s delayed shock or something. It seems worse this morning but I expect I’ll be better when I’ve woken up properly.’
I managed a smile, which changed to a scream as a man with several cameras round his neck jumped from the front garden down into the area outside the kitchen window. He pressed his face against the glass, which clouded with his breath.
‘Basta così!’ exclaimed Maria-Alba, picking up a soup ladle that lay to hand. She threw open the kitchen door and ran out. ‘Va fottere la cucina della Mamma!’ she screamed. It was one of her favourite insults. I heard the man yell as Maria-Alba hit him hard on his bald head. He tried to take a photograph of her but she pelted him with blows. He ran off. Maria-Alba came in again, her normally sallow face dark red.
‘La feccia!’ She was panting with anger.
‘You gave him a good thrashing. I bet he won’t come back.’
‘If he do I take a knife to him. I keel him!’
I wondered if the world had gone mad. I did not want to spend the rest of my life travelling between maximum-security prisons, visiting those I loved.
Cordelia came down, looking pale but determined. She was wearing jeans, though it was a school day.
‘You don’t think I’m going to that stinking convent so those beastly girls can be foul to me? Drusilla Papworth’ll be thrilled to bits. She’s jealous as hell of me and now my father’s a criminal she’ll be able to leave me out of everything.’
‘He isn’t! You mustn’t believe that. I can understand that some of them might be unkind but surely your friends –’
‘You’ve obviously forgotten what school’s like.’ Cordelia thrust out her lower lip and shook her silky curls. ‘I won’t have any friends after this. Ever again. I shall be ostrichised by everyone. When all my family are finally dead there won’t be anyone left speaking to me. But by then I’ll probably be used to it.’ A faraway look came into Cordelia’s eye. ‘I shall live in a cave in a forest and tame wild animals. People will come and make offerings of food and wine and call me Cordelia the Holy Woman. It might be fun to make a hole in the rock and tell people’s fortunes, like an oracle. You have to say things in an amphibious way so you can’t be caught out. Pa told me all about it.’
‘Ambiguous. But it would be very difficult to think up clever answers if you hadn’t been to school and acquired some sort of education.’
‘What a poisonous remark!’ Cordelia glared at me. ‘Just the sort of sneaky, trapping thing the nuns say.’
There was some truth in this but I was not in the mood to be generous and admit it.
‘I hate school,’ Cordelia continued with passion, ‘and particularly those nasty nuns. Their only happiness in life is to punish helpless children. I bet when they’re supposed to be saying prayers they’re dreaming up new forms of torture. Camilla Everard had to kneel on a broom handle for an hour because she forgot her gym pants. Her parents were furious and she wasn’t allowed back after that. She goes to school in Switzerland now and her skiing instructor buys her chocolate cake in return for favours – you know.’ Cordelia assumed her grown-up, knowing face.
‘Some people come cheap.’ I suppressed a smile, not believing a word of it.
‘Well, poor Camilla has braces and glasses,’ Cordelia conceded. ‘It’s a dump and I’m never going back. I shall kill myself if you try and make me.’ I sighed, unable to contend with so much violence. Cordelia scented victory. ‘I’m going to make Pa a cake.’ She fetched the flour jar as she spoke. ‘That’ll cheer him up. I’ll put it in a tin so the rats can’t get at it.’ She found Maria-Alba’s folder of recipes and began to weigh ingredients.
I was touched by this instance of thoughtfulness in one so young. It seemed a good example to imitate. I began to cast about in my mind for something I could do to console the weary prisoner. I wondered if he would be allowed music. I could take along my portable gramophone and some of his favourite records. Prison furniture was probably uncomfortable. Perhaps they wouldn�
��t mind a very small bergère armchair. The piece of Brussels tapestry that hung on the stairs would conceal ugly paint or wallpaper. I began to form a picture of quite a cosy cell with pictures and books and a few pieces of his favourite Vincennes porcelain.
It occurred to me that someone ought to inform Cordelia’s headmistress that she would not be coming to school. My mother’s voice, issuing from the receiver as I lifted it, said sharply, ‘I am trying to have a private conversation. Whoever that is, put it down at once.’ I was disappointed. I had assumed the telephone’s silence was because the reporters had given up using it as a medium to contact us. It shows how naîve I still was.
When I wandered down again an hour later, having refreshed myself with a bath and a few lines of Gerard Manley Hopkins, I was surprised to find Max Frensham in the drawing room. Max was a member of the cast of King Lear and a friend of my parents’.
‘Harriet!’ He came towards me and took my hand in both of his. ‘I had to come and see you were all right. How is Waldo bearing up?’
‘How did you get in?’
‘Through the back door. I expect you’ve forgotten, but last year at your mother’s birthday party, you let me in on the secret of the maze.’
I remembered that Max and I had spent half an hour last summer exploring its intricacies and I had told him Loveday’s masterplan. Caroline Frensham, Max’s wife, had been waspish when we re-emerged and had devoted the rest of the afternoon to flirting with my father. She was good-looking, if one overlooked the blankness in her eyes. In fact the Frenshams were considered a handsome couple and were much in demand socially. Max was auburn-haired with a pale, ascetic face, in which hazel eyes burned, and one of those thin, finely modelled noses with a slight dent at the tip. He had considerable charm. Being Edgar to Basil’s Lear was the high point of his career so far but he was only thirty-four and great things were foretold.
Clouds among the Stars Page 7
