‘You have Rupert.’ I glanced over to where he and Jonno were talking.
‘My dear Harriet, no one has Rupert, or ever will. By comparison with Rupert, the sphinx is a rattle. Who knows what spirit inhabits his mind, tiptoeing about his hemispheres with subtle stealth, shrouded in secrecy?’ Archie looked more closely at my face. ‘I do admire your lipstick. Is it, by any chance, Rhubarb Dash?’
I opened my evening bag, a small velvet purse with a diamanté clasp, borrowed from my mother. I peered at the words on the base of the lipstick case. ‘Currant Bliss.’ I saw that he was looking at it hungrily. ‘Do have it, if you don’t mind the germs.’
Archie pocketed the lipstick. ‘It would be a pleasure to be blasted into eternity by one of your pathogens, you generous girl.’
Rupert came up to fill my glass. ‘I’m glad you two are enjoying yourselves. What are you giggling about?’
‘Harriet has made me the happiest of men,’ said Archie obliquely. ‘I see you’ve got Jonno to behave.’ We watched Jonno shaking hands with the other guests. The men walked quickly away the moment the ceremony was over but Georgia Bisset put her arm through his to draw him apart.
‘I must circulate, darlings.’ Archie pinched his lips together and smoothed his eyebrows with a forefinger. ‘Emilio has been sending me come-hither looks for some time. He’s rather excitingly oleaginous.’
‘Where’s Sir Oswald?’ I asked Rupert.
‘In the library. He likes to fortify himself before dinner.’
‘Isn’t that rather odd? Don’t the lords and bishops mind?’
‘Oswald never puts protocol before his own immediate comfort. Everyone knows that. The lords and bishops are only too pleased to be lavishly entertained with no obligation to return it. Oswald never goes anywhere to dine. He’s very fussy about what he eats and drinks.’
‘Oh.’ I considered this. ‘He’s rather selfish then?’
‘He’s always had his own way. Spoiled perhaps, but amiable. And very generous.’ I was relieved to hear this. Presumably, then, he would not mind having two strangers foisted on him for the Christmas period, at short notice. ‘I’ve only seen him angry once,’ continued Rupert, ‘and I’ve known him all my life.’
‘What made him angry?’
‘The death of his first wife. He married Maggie within the year and recovered his temper.’
‘Then Jonno isn’t Maggie’s son?’
‘Both children are from his first marriage. Here’s Annabel, Jonno’s sister.’
A girl of about Cordelia’s age had come into the room, carrying a plate and a bowl. Dirk, who had given every appearance of being delighted by Mrs Mordaker’s petting and conversation, dropped her like a hot brick and presented himself at the child’s knees. When Annabel saw Rupert, her eyes widened with an expression of joy and she flew towards him.
I knew Cordelia would require every detail of her rival’s appearance so I took careful note. Annabel’s brown hair was fastened into two tight plaits. Her bottle-green dress was hideous. She wore knee-length socks, another fashion atrocity in Cordelia’s eyes, and her brown shoes, strapped across the instep, were clumsy and childish. Annabel would have been entirely eclipsed by Cordelia but for her eyes, which were the colour of storm-clouds, surrounded by dark lashes, and were really beautiful. She fastened them on Rupert with a look of adoration, blent with accusation.
‘I’ve been waiting all day to see you. Maggie promised she’d tell me when you arrived but she broke her word.’
‘Maggie’s been much too busy to think about it. I hope you’ve been giving her a hand?’
‘I walked the dogs. Anyway, I don’t see why I should help her. It’s her job.’
‘You’re an ungrateful little hussy.’
‘Maggie’s boring and stupid.’ Annabel shook her head impatiently until her plaits flew out. ‘Come for a walk with me tomorrow? I can recite two whole pages of The Ancient Mariner by heart. I spent hours during prep learning it. You said it was your favourite poem.’
‘But I don’t like tramping about in snow.’
Annabel’s face fell. ‘Please, Rupert.’
‘Don’t be a pest. Take those things round and make yourself useful. And offer them first to Harriet.’
I took a sliver of toast spread with what looked like scrambled egg and fish roe. ‘I’ll come for a walk with you,’ I said, feeling that Rupert had been unkind. ‘I’m very fond of The Ancient Mariner.’
Annabel looked me up and down, apparently with contempt. ‘You wouldn’t be able to keep up. Besides,’ she wrinkled her nose, ‘girls are a pain.’
Rupert took hold of Annabel’s ear. ‘You can talk. Apologise to Harriet for being cheeky.’
‘Ow! That hurts!’
‘Go on!’
‘All right. I’m sorry. There!’ Annabel’s eyes filled with tears, whether of pain or humiliation I could not tell.
‘Good. Now go and do the rounds. And be polite.’
Annabel rubbed her ear and gave him a look of wounded love before going away, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand.
‘Weren’t you rather hard on her? I wasn’t offended.’
‘That’s because you come from a large and outspoken family. Not everyone’s accustomed to candour. It’s time those children learned how to make themselves liked.’
This conventional attitude surprised me. Rupert glanced across at Jonno and I took advantage of the pause in the conversation to examine him. Rupert, that is, not Jonno. I had already seen quite enough of him. Evening dress is a sort of uniform and Rupert’s plain piqué-fronted dress-shirt and small pearl studs were beyond criticism. But something in his face, most particularly in his eyes, told you he did not care what the world thought. From what I knew of him and the people he chose to associate with, I guessed he preferred eccentricity, that conformity bored him. And he was frequently less than polite himself. ‘Of course, it’s too late for me.’ He returned his eyes suddenly to me. ‘That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?’
‘Certainly not!’ I was indignant because he was right. ‘Some people always imagine they are uppermost in other people’s thoughts.’
Rupert laughed. ‘How cutting, Harry.’
Before I could think of something really crushing to say our host came in and began a stately tour of his guests. He walked slowly of necessity for he was immensely fat. He turned his head from side to side as he advanced, nodding graciously and bearing a remarkable likeness to cartoons by Rowlandson of the Prince Regent in middle age. His hair touched his collar, and waved in a shade between gold and grey. As he waddled towards me I saw that the buttons of his dinner jacket were strained to bursting point across his enormous stomach. His eyes were glistening pits in shiny flesh and his little red mouth was crushed between pendulous cheeks.
‘Introduce me, Rupert,’ he wheezed, very out of breath.
Rupert did so. Sir Oswald pressed my hand between his great paws. ‘Delighted you could come, my dear Miss Bung.’
‘Byng. It’s very kind of you to have us. My sister and I are so –’
‘Charming!’ He peered closely at my face and I smelled the alcohol on his breath. ‘Really lovely and quite original. Something of the Russian look, I fancy. You read Tolstoy?’
‘I’m very fond of Anna Karenina –’
‘Yes, yes. But little Natasha Rostov – gazing at the moon from her bedroom window, a young girl on the threshold of experience – it was she you reminded of.’ He ran a finger down my cheek as if feeling the texture of a piece of cloth. ‘Hm! Soft and young. You’re staying for Christmas?’
‘Yes. It really is very good of you to –’
‘Excellent! I look forward to many little chats with you.’
His chin disappeared into swelling folds as he bowed his head and made his way over to the other guests.
‘I didn’t make a very good job of that,’ I said, when Sir Oswald was out of earshot. ‘I hadn’t realised how troublesome gratitude can be
. I feel I ought to be making little speeches of thanks and finding innumerable ways to show how grateful I am but everything sounds gushing and insincere.’
‘Oswald won’t care about it either way. He’ll take your appreciation for granted.’
‘I wasn’t thinking only of him. I’m so deeply in debt to you – for my beautiful clothes and bringing us here and getting me a job and paying the bills. There’s so much, I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Then don’t try. Your parents were very good to me years ago. But for them my childhood would have been hell.’ Rupert spoke quite coldly. I made a resolve that in the unlikely event of anyone feeling indebted to me, I would be extremely gracious. Rupert made a sound of vexation. ‘I think we ought to rescue the olives – Oh, too late!’
‘Dirk, how could you!’ I spoke sharply and he came bounding over, wagging his tail. ‘All the stones too. It’ll serve you right if you have a stomach ache.’
Rupert beckoned to Annabel. ‘Take this animal – his name’s Dirk – to the kitchen and feed him, will you?’
Annabel’s face was eager. ‘If I do, will you let me unpack your things?’
‘I’ve already unpacked.’
‘Can I bring you breakfast in bed?’
‘I hate toast-crumbs between the sheets.’
‘Can I clean your shoes, then? Maggie showed me how to clean Father’s. I’m really good at it.’
‘Well, all right. But one smear of polish on the laces and you’ll be in hot water.’
‘I promise I’ll be careful.’ She beamed and took hold of Dirk’s collar. He dropped to the ground as though felled by a blow. ‘Supper!’ I hissed. As yet, this was the only word Dirk definitely understood. He sprang up and strode purposefully to the door, Annabel running behind.
‘Poor little thing!’ I said as I watched them go.
‘I don’t see that either of them deserves your compassion.’
‘Annabel worships you. And you’re so hard on her.’
‘Just an adolescent crush. But it’s a nuisance. I’m trying to discourage it.’
I laughed. ‘You evidently know very little about female psychology if you think that being mean to her is going to make her fall out of love with you.’
‘Why you women want to be treated badly, I shall never understand.’ Rupert frowned at me as though I were chiefly responsible for this feminine failing. ‘I can only imagine such masochism has its murky origins in cave behaviour. Which reminds me, I want to talk to you about Max Frensham –’
‘Dinner’s ready, everyone.’ Maggie looked heated and her hair was escaping its bun. She wiped her hands absent-mindedly on her hips and left smears of flour on her yellow dress.
The dining room was lit only by candles. Down the length of the table were some wonderful arrangements of black-berried ivy and red hippeastrum. They made me think of Maria-Alba, whose favourite flowers they were. My mother decried them as coarse but I liked the huge, artificial-looking trumpets of sickly pink or scarlet that flared all winter on Maria-Alba’s windowsill. In the middle of the table was a magnificent silver galleon, about three feet long. It had square silver sails and a snaking silver pennant on top of each of the three masts. The rigging was silver too, a ravelled web of ropes. It occurred to me, even though I was possibly the least domesticated female in England, if one discounted my mother and sisters, that it must take hours to clean. Everything on the table, the knives and forks, the glasses, the salt and pepper pots, and the candlesticks, sparkled against the unblemished whiteness of the damask tablecloth. I wondered how many servants were required to maintain a large house to this standard. Except for Mrs Whale, who stood with downcast eyes, waiting for us to be seated, there was no sign of domestic staff.
My name was written on a card held between the paws of a miniature silver fox. I was delighted to find myself on the side nearest the fire, but less pleased to discover that I was sitting between Emilio and the bishop. I have nothing against bishops in general but something about this one was unalluring. His moist, pasty face bore an expression of pompous satisfaction, as though he thought that to be a bishop was everything, and also that he considered himself to be just the man for the job.
I counted the guests. Including Sir Oswald, Maggie and Jonno, there were twenty people for dinner. No, nineteen, for one chair remained empty. Maggie hurried to check the place card for the missing guest, then consulted her watch. ‘Oh dear, one minute past – perhaps the weather … We won’t wait,’ she murmured to no one in particular. ‘Bishop, will you say grace?’
We bowed our heads and the bishop began a homily about God’s goodness and the prodigal plenitude of our teeming earth. Every time he paused a scraping of chairs on floorboards broke out as people tried to sit down but the bishop was only drawing breath. From the subject of Nature’s bounty he passed on to our unfitness to receive it and his tone became accusatory. As I was standing next to the bishop I could open my eyes without him seeing me. Everyone was looking bored and cross. Except for Mrs Whale. Her eyes were screwed up tight and her hands were locked together as though she were standing on the lip of hell, praying like mad not to be dropped in. Freddie’s husband, Vere, seemed to have forgotten that we were supposed to be praying, for he leaned forward to adjust something on the deck of the silver galleon. Mrs Mordaker coughed reprovingly.
‘In the mouth it is sweet as honey but the moment it is eaten it is bitter in the belly,’ the bishop assured us in well-bred tones. Vere caught my eye and made a face of mock-terror. I started to giggle.
The next few minutes were agony. Archie, who was opposite me, saw the difficulty I was in and began to titter. We were about to break down all together when Sir Oswald, raising his voice from the end of the table, said firmly, ‘Amen. Thank you, Bishop, most enjoyable,’ He sat down and everyone gratefully followed suit. The bishop was obliged to tail off lamely, his expression aggrieved.
‘Hola! What a bore that man eez!’ said Emilio a little too loudly. ‘I like to put him to the inqueezetion.’ He displayed his teeth. ‘Long time I theenk I wish to talk to the beautiful Mees Harriet.’
There was much more in this vein. I wondered if Georgia was doing the right thing, marrying this jaundiced Don Juan. My attention wandered during the flow of compliments. I heard Mrs Mordaker say to Archie, ‘When you have travelled as much as I have, you become thoroughly familiar with folly and improvidence. Nothing ever surprises me.’ She ate a mouthful of soup with an air of complacency. ‘The British Empire was the making of India and Africa but were they grateful? Not a bit of it! Though occasionally you do see a spark of decency despite everything. When we were stationed in Nzomiland, the officers’ wives did sterling work setting up schools for the !Yu tribe and when we left the women held a special feast day and presented us with hats made from painted animal skins. They’re a tiny people, extraordinarily primitive and ignorant and they speak in a series of clicks. Like this.’ She made a series of clucking noises like a hen having difficulty with an egg. ‘They’re quite artistic in their simple way. Unfortunately the hats had to be thrown overboard on our way home as they weren’t properly cured.’
‘The !Yu of Nzomiland?’ Archie clicked with gusto. ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that they are now extinct?’
‘Well, there was an unfortunate incident.’ Mrs Mordaker’s face clouded. ‘For which no one was to blame. Hereward – my husband – made the !Yu hand over their bows and spears. They were always warring with the other local tribes, you see, and it was difficult to establish law and order. Unluckily the !Qig chose that very night to attack. Someone always has to carry the can, of course. But I say the British Army cannot be held responsible for the behaviour of the indigenous population.’
‘Fascinating, isn’t it, the universal human impulse to create art?’ Archie spoke with fatuous pomposity. ‘Did you know, the males of certain tribes in New Guinea wear elaborately carved and brightly painted penis gourds to cover their genitals? Generally they are strapped in the upright
position, sometimes as long as three feet, with tassels at the tip. For those of us who take an intelligent interest in anthropology,’ he bowed courteously to Mrs Mordaker, ‘there can be few more inspiring sights than a group of these men so garbed, in naturalibus cum membris virilis erectis.’
Something that looked like uncertainty disturbed Mrs Mordarker’s composure and she gave her attention to a thorough buttering of her melba toast.
The ancient old lady in purple, on Archie’s other side, who had been browsing in her soup like a herbivore on the savannah, twisted up her head to direct her gaze at the bishop. ‘Some men love the sound of their own voices.’ Her features were lost in dropping flesh but her eyes were bright and her voices, though quavering, was distinct. ‘Some men resemble nothing so much as a lump of mutton fat. But they are not as useful.’
Though I felt sorry for him as the target of general hostility I thought her description of the bishop’s pale and sweating complexion had hit it off rather well. I was trying to think of something mollifying to say when the dining door opened to admit a man in evening dress, presumably the twentieth guest.
‘Sorry to be late, Lady Pye,’ said a voice I knew. ‘The train broke down in the snowstorm. We were brought the last lap by bus.’ He walked the length of the table to shake hands with Sir Oswald. I saw him clearly as he passed by. It was Max Frensham.
‘Oho!’ Archie leaned towards me across the table. ‘Now the fun begins!’
TWENTY-ONE
Archie was mistaken when he predicted the beginning of fun. The bishop sulked disgracefully for a grown man. Emilio’s English was not good but it was far better than my Spanish, so our conversation was limited, verging on the banal. At first I smiled a lot, to show good will. He must have taken this for evidence of banked fires, for he patted my hand, stroked my arm and paid me ridiculous compliments. Once he pretended to rescue his napkin from the floor so he could give my knee a squeeze. After that I shifted my chair by degrees nearer to the bishop and adopted an expression that was coolly neutral. There was not much fun in this.
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