‘You aren’t taking it seriously.’ Cordelia was cross. ‘But I saw this film called Heaven is where the Heart is, where this man was in gaol though he hadn’t done the murder – he’d been stitched up by his best friend – and his childhood sweetheart was dying and they wouldn’t let him go and see her and he made a file in the prison workshop –’
‘I’ve brought your post,’ I said as Cordelia paused to draw breath.
My father looked through the envelopes. ‘Half these are bills.’ His momentary good humour evaporated. ‘And there’ll be your mother’s chin to pay for. They’ve cancelled the play. Had to, of course, without me and Basil.’ He swore a decorative Elizabethan oath. ‘Here’s a letter from the bank. My God, they’re quick on the draw when it comes to calling in the dibs! This fellow,’ he glanced to the bottom of the letter, ‘Potter, he calls himself, says he wants to know what I’m going to do about reducing my overdraft.’ He threw the letter down. ‘Well, he can take what steps he likes. They can’t do anything to me while I’m in here.’
He set his face mutinously. I picked up the letter and put it in my bag. While my father and Cordelia played the farewell scene from Romeo and Juliet, I went to find Sergeant Tweeter.
We arrived home to find our neighbours mingling with the reporters who had reappeared with the cessation of rain, like flowers blooming in the desert.
‘Someone ought to ring the RSPCA.’ Mrs Newbiggin from next door, whom I had never liked, had a penetrating voice but even she was almost drowned out by the howling that was coming from inside the house. Seeing me, she pointed a finger. ‘That’s one of the girls. This used to be a respectable neighbourhood. What’s going on? I’d like to know. Is some poor animal being tortured in there?’
‘Sorry. It’s only our dog.’ I squeezed past the cameras and rang the bell. The howling changed to barking over three octaves, from a high-pitched whine to a deep Baskerville bay. I pushed open the letter box to call out to Maria-Alba and a large pink tongue laved my hand affectionately.
‘Grazie al cielo.’ Maria-Alba brandished her ladle threateningly as she let us in. Under the other arm she held two cushions. ‘Now I understand the cruelty to animals.’
‘What are the cushions for?’ asked Cordelia.
Maria-Alba held them over her ears in demonstration. ‘He has not stop since you go out.’
‘But look how pleased he is to see us.’ I patted Derek, who was jumping up in an attempt to get his front paws on to my shoulders. ‘It’s really very touching. He’s going to be an excellent watchdog.’
‘Perhaps he’s going to perform deeds of heroism.’ Cordelia was willing to join me in a little dog-worshipping. ‘He might rescue me from a raging torrent or you from an axe-murderer. He’d be famous then, like Greyfriars Bobby. They might put up a statue of him in the street. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’
‘I’m not entirely sold on the idea, since you ask. There don’t seem to be quite so many reporters as usual. I wonder if they’re getting fed up? There can’t be a worse job in the world than working for a newspaper. Out at all hours in all weathers, making an absolute nuisance of oneself and being loathed and reviled, just to get a story that’s identical to everyone else’s. Making up sordid lies about other people’s sadness to get something exclusive. I should hate it.’
‘I’m going to have to get used to the paparazzi, though,’ said Cordelia. ‘When I’m a famous film star I shall never know a moment’s peace.’
‘It may not be that easy.’ I did not want to be discouraging but I knew acting was a cruelly disappointing occupation for most people.
‘It will be for me.’ Cordelia said with confidence. Looking at the calm smile on her ravishing little face, I thought she might be right. Cordelia had my father’s ability to draw your eye and hold your attention. She had Ophelia’s beauty with the added charm of warmth, and Portia’s spontaneity, with – so far anyway – less reckless self-destructiveness in her nature. ‘I shall have a white Pekinese like Marina Marlow,’ she went on, ‘that I can carry around under my arm. I shall call it Yum-Yum after the girl in The Mikado. You needn’t look so snooty. At least I haven’t got a dog called Derek.’
‘A palpable hit,’ I acknowledged.
‘I’ve just had a brainwave!’ Cordelia looked pleased. ‘You remember the film of A Tale of Two Cities? They’ve got the same gorgeous doggy brown eyes. Derek and Sydney Carton, I mean’
‘Isn’t it rather a mouthful? Imagine calling, “Come here, Sydney Carton!” across the park. Beside sounding a little pretentious –’
‘No, you ass! You can call him Dirk – after Dirk Bogarde. It’ll sound just the same to a dog but it’s got bags more style than Derek.’
This was undeniable, but I was still not enthusiastic. Dirk sounded assertively masculine; it lacked poetry. Cordelia pointed out that it was a sort of Highland dagger, which was romantic enough for anyone, even a loopy poetess. It made her think of wild, wet mountains, bottomless lochs, ruined castles, skirling bagpipes. When I begged her, perhaps unkindly, to stop sounding like The Highlands and Islands Tourist Board, she lost her temper and hard words were exchanged. I think we were both tired and under a strain. Anyway, Cordelia got her way as she always did and, by a process of attrition, Dirk he became.
EIGHT
‘So! The worm has turned.’ Ophelia flung down a letter among the toast crumbs on the breakfast table.
‘What worm?’ Cordelia was interested as, indeed, was I.
‘Which worm, you dunce.’ Ophelia’s lips were curved with a smile of satisfaction. ‘That soft squirming thing called Crispin Mallilieu. He’s written to ask me to marry him.’
‘Can I wear white with a pink sash and a wreath of pink rosebuds?’ said Cordelia instantly. ‘That’s what Janice Thatcher wore when her sister got married and Janice has hair as straight as stair rods and tiny, tiny eyes like ink blots.’
‘I’m so pleased!’ I said mendaciously, for the idea of Crispin as a brother-in-law was not one to gladden the heart. ‘How wrong we were to accuse him of cowardice.’
‘Actually, what about yellow sashes? And yellow rosebuds? We’ll all have to look the same and Harriet looks foul in pink.’
‘Do I?’ I remembered that we were discussing an event of great moment. ‘I suppose you’ll have to wait a bit, though – till Pa can give you away.’
‘Of course I’m not going to marry him.’ The light in Ophelia’s eye became scorching. ‘He says his mother’s begged him not to throw himself away but he can’t give me up, whatever the world may say. Pah! I don’t imagine the world ever gives Crispin a second’s thought. He’s much too dull and stupid. He suggests a quiet ceremony in a register office followed by a short honeymoon in a little pension he knows in the Pyrenees. The very idea of spending a weekend in a second-rate hotel with Crispin makes me want to kill myself. He thinks his mother will come round when it’s a fait accompli. He’s worse than a worm. I believe worms have guts.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cordelia. ‘I saw this nature programme on the telly and it said that worms are just muscle and intestine, jesting and execrating, rather disgusting actually.’
‘But, poor Crispin – he must be very much in love with you,’ I said.
‘So? Plenty of people are in love with me. I can’t marry them all. Apparently his mother says I’m heartless and decadent. Ha! Merci du compliment.’ I could see that Ophelia, despite her expressions of derision, actually minded. I stopped feeling quite so sorry for Crispin. It was very stupid of him to repeat his mother’s remarks. ‘He says he’s sure she’ll come round eventually to our marriage if we show her we’re repentant. If he thinks I’m going to bed forgiveness from that ghastly old countess, he must be even more stupid than I thought!’ I had rarely seen Ophelia so moved. ‘If I were covered with warts, I’d think twice about abusing other people. I’d hide under a stone and hope that people would be kind to me.’
‘Is she really covered with warts?’ Cordelia looked fascinated.
‘Poor thing. She can’t help that, I suppose,’ I said.
Ophelia turned on me, her eyes blazing. ‘Why are you always sorry for everyone but me? I suppose you’d like me to marry Crispin and be bored to death and patronised by that hateful old woman. I’m sick of you being holier-than-thou!’
‘I’m not!’ I very felt near to losing my temper. ‘It’s just that you despise people who aren’t beautiful – as though they wouldn’t be if they could. No one wants to be ugly –’
‘Christ!’ Ophelia got up from the table and slammed out of the room.
‘Don’t mind it,’ said Maria-Alba, who was washing up at the sink. ‘She is looking for a goat.’
‘A goat?’
‘Sì. Espiatorio. A thing to blame.’
‘Oh, I see, a scapegoat. Am I irritatingly goody-goody?’
‘Not all the time,’ Cordelia said kindly. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit wet but you’re still my favourite sister, by far.’
‘Thank you very much.’ I felt gloomy. We were getting terribly on each other’s nerves. Quite apart from the fact that I hate rows, surely when everything was so miserable we ought to try to stick together? Anyway, during a quarrel our family always fell into the same divisions, which had more to with temperament than the merits of the argument so the rows were pretty pointless. Perhaps this is the case with all families. My mother and Bron were generally in league, and my father, Ophelia and Cordelia were usually on the same side. Portia was my ally on these occasions of family feud but God only knew where she was now. I wondered, not for the first time, if I ought to consult Inspector Foy but I was afraid Portia would be angry with me for making a fuss.
Wherever one turned one’s thoughts there seemed to be doubt and difficulty. I took a covert look at Maria-Alba as she bent to give Mark Antony and Dirk their breakfast biscuits. At least they were settling down together. Mark Antony had established ascendancy the day before by springing claws like flick knives and hissing like a maddened cobra. Dirk had rolled on to his back and ratified the peace treaty before the ink was dry, like a dog of sense.
Maria-Alba began to dry the cups. She had black rings under her eyes and her hands were shaky. She had made delicious little custard and raisin buns for breakfast so she must have risen early. Insomnia was one of the first signs with Maria-Alba that things were going seriously wrong. I hated the idea that she might have to go back into the psychiatric unit. For all our sakes we could not afford to allow what was left of our domestic structure to break down. I resolved not to lose my temper or provoke any more quarrelling, even if it meant knuckling down under insult. I was given the chance to put theory into practice immediately.
‘You bitch, Harriet! You bloody little traitor!’ Bron was standing beside me, clad in his dressing gown, his hair ruffled from sleep. He thrust a newspaper into my face. ‘I’m sacking you as a sister! From now on you’re no relation of mine! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bring myself to speak to you again! And nor will the others when they see this!’
I was bewildered. But one glance at Bron’s face convinced me this was not play-acting. My heart began to race. ‘What is it? What have I done?’
Bron slammed the paper down in front of me and pointed to a headline. ‘Read it!’
‘My Unhappy Family. Waldo Byng’s Daughter Confesses All. An exclusive story by Stanley Norman.’ Under the caption was a large photograph of me grinning into the camera, my chin resting on the top of Dirk’s head.
‘Oh, but I didn’t. I only said “no comment” whatever they asked me –’
‘So where did they get this?’ Bron real aloud in a voice modulated by fury.
‘Oberon Byng, aspiring thespian and young man-about-town seems likely to follow in his jail-bird father’s footsteps in more ways than one. After being expelled from school for impregnating the matron he has had a chequered career. A few undistinguished stage roles have been interspersed with nefarious dabblings, receiving stolen goods and drug trafficking. He is now being investigated by Scotland Yard with regard to a serious charge of fraudulent land deals.’
‘Oh! Oh dear! I only said – Stan was telling me about his family and it seemed polite – I didn’t say you’d been dealing in drugs, only that you were suspended for a term for taking that hookah to school that Pa brought back from an opium den in Shanghai, and smoking it in the junior common room. And I just mentioned the car you bought that turned out to be stolen, though it wasn’t your fault, and you lost all the money for it. He’s just turned everything around and made it all sound terrible! He seemed so nice and friendly and I was sorry for him. Oh God, I’m so sorry!’
‘You absolute imbecile! Don’t you know that’s what journalists always do? It’s the oldest trick in the book.’
‘I wasn’t thinking. I’d forgotten about him being a reporter and he was so depressed. His wife’s an invalid and they haven’t got any money. I was trying to cheer him up.’
‘What a sap you are! Well, I hoped you’re pleased to have your photograph splashed all over the Daily Banner. There isn’t even the smallest one of me.’
I hung my head in shame.
‘I say, Ophelia’s going to be hopping mad when she reads this.’ Cordelia gave a whoop of glee. ‘Jolly well serves her right. Listen!
‘I have it on the authority of her sister that Miss Ophelia Byng, formerly an actress, was jilted at the altar by the Hon. Crispin Mallilieu. He is the second son of the Earl and Countess of Sope. When the Earl brought the marriage service to a halt by voicing his objection to the alliance of his son with the daughter of a suspected murderer, the bride-to-be fainted and had to be carried from the church by four of the officers who were to have formed the guard of honour. According to her sister, Ophelia has locked herself in her bedroom, still dressed in her bridal finery, surrounded by magnificent wedding presents from England’s most aristocratic families, which she refuses to return.’
‘He’s making it all up!’ My indignation was unbounded. ‘It’s a crib from Great Expectations! Of course I didn’t say any such thing!’
‘I’m sure Ophelia will be comforted to know that,’ said Bron drily.
‘If I could get hold of that hateful liar I’d – I don’t know what I’d do to him. It’s all wild invention – apart from the bit about you getting Matron pregnant. I wish I hadn’t told him that.’
‘Golly! Look at all this about Portia.’ Cordelia’s voice was awed.
‘Even worse is the present predicament of Portia Byng who, her sister reports, has left the country in mysterious circumstances, escorted by a man who is wanted by the police for crimes ranging from illegal immigration to homicide. According to a reliable informant, Mr X, thought to be of Albanian extraction, is known to his associates as The Gravefiller. Chief Inspector Charles Foy has been in touch with Interpol, acting on a tip-off that she has been taken to Albania. The informant has also revealed that Mr X has a harem of girls in his mountain hideaway, kept under guard to satisfy his unbridled sexual depravity.’
Cordelia gave a scream. ‘Is it true? My poor darling sister! What do you think unbridled sexual depravity means, exactly?’
‘Oh, Lord! You don’t think … No, Portia can’t have gone abroad; she would have telephoned. He’s made it all up. It’s just nonsense like the rest.’ I read the article again, wanting to reassure myself. Supposing there was even the smallest amount of truth in the story?
‘There isn’t anything about me.’ Cordelia sounded disappointed.
‘No doubt there’ll be something in the evening edition.’ Bron was bitter and I couldn’t blame him.
‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to make you see how sorry I am,’ I said sorrowfully.
‘I shouldn’t think so, no.’ Bron took a plate, filled it with buns and went slowly upstairs with the mien of a man betrayed.
I felt deeply remorseful. I had been an idiot and I deserved all the vituperation that would no doubt b
e coming my way. Dirk put his paws on my knees and tried to lick my face. I was grateful for his solicitude.
‘Don’t worry, Hat,’ Cordelia patted my arm, smearing my sleeve with custard. ‘I shall go on speaking to you even if everyone else in the world refuses to. There was a sad film I saw once called The Angry Silence about this man who was sent to Coventry by his workmates …’
I stopped listening to Cordelia’s recital of the plot as my eye fell on another, smaller item on the same page.
DRUGS SEIZED AT HEADQUARTERS OF REBEL POLITICAL ORGANISATION.
Acting on information received, police yesterday raided a house in Owlstone Road, Clerkenwell. They took away several packages, believed to be cannabis, and the remains of a cake. The officer in charge said he could not confirm the presence of illegal substances until these items had been subjected to laboratory tests. Several arrests were made and an injunction has been served prohibiting the group known as SPIT to hold further meetings on the premises.
‘… I mean, nothing could be that important, could it?’ asked Cordelia. ‘I’d have given in at once – What’s the matter?’
‘This is the worst day of my life.’ I groaned and put my head in my hands.
‘You can’t possibly know that. You might have something really awful going to happen to you later on. All your children burned to death or your nose cut off in a revolving door.’
I was too depressed to argue. The telephone rang and went on ringing. There had been an offended silence since I had dared to plug it back in, the night before. And the gang of pressmen outside the front door was considerably depleted. It seemed they were busy digesting Stanley Norman’s scoop. Now the telephone bell seemed to have a new tone, insolent and at the same time imperative.
It was Mr Potter, the bank manager. When I said my mother would not be able to answer his letter for at least two weeks he sounded cross. He kept saying that it was all ‘very irregular’, to which I could make no answer, having no idea what, in a bank’s eyes, constituted regularity. I have never been good with money. In this I am a true Byng. I always hope some will come from somewhere and, so far, it always has. I waited patiently, mostly in silence, while he remonstrated with me. Sometimes I said ‘I see’ when he seemed to require a response. I suppose this was irritating for he got more and more tetchy. When he began to talk of solicitors and bailiffs I felt alarmed but continued to say ‘I see’ because I really couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. It would hardly do any good to beg him for mercy, or a donation to the fund for indigent Byngs.
Clouds among the Stars Page 11
