The light in this encircling gloom was provided by Archie, who was having a lovely time baiting Mrs Mordaker. She was anxious to impress him with her knowledge of far-flung places. He trumped her every boast. She lectured him about the natives of Suetemala. He countered with an exhaustively detailed description of the ritual deflowering of virgins by the Rum-baba tribe. I was pretty sure he was making it all up, specially the bit about the corn cob and the eggs of the la-la bird. Poor Mrs Mordaker seemed to lose her appetite though the food was really good.
Throughout dinner I avoided catching Max’s eye. I wanted time to adjust to the shock of his arrival. Luckily he was seated at the other end of the table. He had said nothing on the telephone about his Christmas plans. I tried to remember if I had told him the name of my host. I thought not.
When dinner was over, the women followed Maggie into the drawing room and I went upstairs to check on Cordelia. She was awake and complained of feeling sick and cold. Her forehead was burning. Fortunately I met Mrs Whale in the hall and she brought aspirin and barley water. She refilled the hot-water bottles and made up the fire, moving competently about her tasks, unsmiling and unresponsive to my attempts to be friendly. I asked her to make my excuses to Lady Pye and to tell her that I would remain upstairs for the rest of the evening.
Neither Cordelia nor I got much sleep that night. Dirk tracked down a tantalising smell to a box of biscuits beside the bed. He fixed it with his eye and barked until, foolishly, I gave him one. After that no peace was to be had until the contents of the box had been eaten. Then he lay down by the fire for a good scratch. This was followed by a thorough wash with much lip-smacking, licking and nibbling. Toilette completed to his satisfaction, he padded restlessly about the room and scraped at the door. I had tried to persuade him to go out into the garden while Mrs Whale was fetching the hot-water bottles but he had refused to leave the doorstep.
‘You idiotic dog!’ I whispered crossly, putting on my dressing gown.
My watch said ten minutes to midnight. It was quite likely that some members of the household would still be up. I was reluctant to meet anyone, but particularly Max, in my nightclothes. In a house this size there must be a second set of stairs. I attached Dirk’s lead and we went in search of it. He behaved quite stupidly, wanting to scratch on every door we passed, until we came to what must be the servants’ staircase. The stone treads had been worn into curves by centuries of traipsing up and down with coals, trays, hot-water jugs, chamber-pots and slop pails.
I was halfway down it when the lights went out. The blackness was complete, which for a Londoner was disconcerting. I tried to feel the steps ahead of me with my toe and managed to clock my eyebrow painfully on the newel at the turn of the stairs.
Then the whispering began. At first I thought it might be a water-tank filling or the wind blowing through a crack but I soon heard voices mingled with the susurration. The echo made it impossible to hear what they were saying. Dirk growled.
‘Hello?’ I called. ‘Who’s there?’
The whispering stopped. A horrid silence prevailed in which I imagined someone – or something – creeping stealthily down the stairs towards me. It was broken by a peal of maniacal laughter of which Mrs Rochester would have been proud. Dirk gave a howl that frightened me even more, and pulled frantically on his lead, his claws scrabbling on the stone. I launched myself forward, away from whatever it was, and missed several steps to land awkwardly at the foot of the stairs. Ahead I saw a faint greyish light. I ran towards it and found a half-glazed door. The handle turned under my hand. I yelled again as the door opened and a gust of freezing air hit my face. A dark shape gripped me by the elbows and shook me, none too gently.
‘Is that you, Harriet? Stop screaming. You’ll wake the whole house.’
‘Rupert! Oh! Thank God!’
‘It’s all right. You’re safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ I clung to him, shuddering with cold and fear, and he put his arms round me. The warmth of his body, the faint scent of cologne and the smell of smoke from his cigar were immensely reassuring. After a while I lifted my head, which I had been pressing against his chest.
‘I’m OK now.’
He let me go at once and removed his cigar from his mouth. ‘What are you doing down here?’
‘Dirk wanted to go out. I was just coming downstairs when the lights went out. I heard whispering and laughter –’
I broke off as the passage was flooded with light. We stared at each other. I must have looked ridiculous, blinking in the glare, my hair practically standing on end with fright.
‘There’s no mains electricity at Pye Place. The generator is apt to cough from time to time. As for the rest – you’re tired after a long journey and you’ve been imagining things.’
‘I haven’t! Someone, two people, I think, were whispering and when I called to them they didn’t answer.’
‘It was probably an adulterous couple making an assignation. Clandestine sex is as much a part of a country house party as bridge, boredom and too much to drink.’ Rupert was maddeningly calm. ‘Just a minute.’ He opened the door, letting in a spiteful eddy of cold that shot up my dressing gown, and chucked away his cigar. ‘Where’s the dog?’
‘I must have let go of his lead when I screamed.’
‘It was a coloratura performance, then?’
I gave him a cool look though it is hard to be dignified when one has so recently clung to a person, sobbing with terror on his shirt-front. ‘Anyway, what were you doing here?’
‘I thought a stroll in the fresh air might clear my head. I shouldn’t have had that last brandy-and-soda. Or the cigar. The idea’s so much more pleasant than the real thing. Luckily I heard you screeching. We’d better go and find him.’ I noticed for the first time that my ankle was hurting like hell. I decided to maintain a decent reticence but before we had gone far Rupert said, ‘Why the Long John Silver imitation?’
‘It’s nothing.’
Rupert smiled. ‘Strange girl. Life must have a dreary sameness about it if you have to limp for fun.’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Brute.’
‘Fathead!’
The ten years’ separation was forgotten. We were friends as in the old days. I remembered Rupert’s particular brand of teasing as distinctly as the taste of the fluorescent yellow sherbet lemons we used to suck while he read to us of Lucy and the Master of Ravenswood.
My pleasure in this sentimental reunion was spoiled when we reached the main landing. It had been transformed from an empty, echoing and slightly sinister place in which one could imagine dark shapes slipping between sliding panels, or even through them, into a busy thoroughfare.
‘Look here!’ expostulated the colonel when he saw me. ‘I was just dozing off nicely when that blasted dog of yours tried to shoulder my door down!’ A long strand of hair dislodged from his bald pate hung over one ear, his pyjama jacket was buttoned up the wrong way and his face was flushed with temper. ‘If you own an animal you damned well ought to keep it under control.’
‘Kindly remember that my husband is a clergyman!’ The bishop’s wife stood in the doorway of her room, her sensible camel dressing gown fastened to the neck, a hairnet pulled down to her eyebrows, her cheeks shiny with blobs of cold cream. ‘I was always taught that swearing is the sign of an impoverished vocabulary.’
The colonel glared at her. ‘I should appreciate it, madam, if you would keep your trite and worthless opinions to yourself.’ He disappeared into his room and slammed the door.
‘Shut up, Doris, and come to bed,’ called the bishop from within. ‘How can I sleep with that bloody dog howling outside my room and you picking quarrels all night?’ The bishop’s wife retreated, with a face of wrath.
‘Will whoever has been scratching at my door desist?’ The old lady who had taken such a strong dislike to the bishop put out her head. ‘At my age I expect to be excused the libidinal attentions of the opposite sex.’ She withdrew her head without waiting
for an answer.
‘Is something wrong?’ Maggie looked anxious. She wore an apron over her dress and her hands were wet and red. ‘I heard voices.’
‘I’m afraid it’s my dog. He’s been making a terrible nuisance of himself and now he’s run off and I can’t find him.’
‘He’s down in the kitchen.’ Maggie sounded apologetic though it was hardly her fault. ‘He seemed hungry so I’ve given him the remains of dinner.’
Ten minutes later we were all back in our rooms and the house was quiet, except for the sound of teeth clashing against bone as Dirk chewed his prize on the rug before the fire.
I slept intermittently. The sound of the wind, a sort of low hoo-hooing that sometimes rose to a scream, seemed to weave itself into my dreams, while Cordelia turned and kicked, radiating heat like a brazier. Sometimes she muttered in her sleep, frequently she threw out an arm, striking me in the face or stomach. During one of the few periods when I was deeply asleep, she was violently sick over the bedclothes. As it was only barley water it was not too horrible and at least my half of the bed was still dry.
‘What time is it?’ Cordelia pressed up against me, shivering.
‘Half-past five. I’ll put out the light and you try to go back to sleep.’
‘OK.’ We lay in the darkness for some time until Cordelia said, ‘I’m freezing.’
I pulled the damp eiderdown over us. After about ten minutes she said, ‘I’m too hot.’
‘It’s because you’ve got a temperature. Like a drink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here you are. Don’t drink it too fast.’
‘OK.’
A further passage of time in which I tried to slide into unconsciousness.
‘Hat?’
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry I woke you being sick.’
‘S’all right. I was having … bad dream anyway.’
‘What about?’
‘I was being chased … by a big black bull … with red nostrils.’
‘Ooh!’ Cordelia clutched me sympathetically. We were silent for some time after that. I felt my mind slipping into irrationality. ‘Hat?’
‘What?’
‘I’m awfully glad I’m here with you. After Pa and Mark Antony you really are my favourite person.’
‘Good.’
‘Who’re your favourite people?’
‘Tell you … morning.’
‘It is the morning.’
‘Not … yet.’ I turned on my side away from Cordelia and felt myself fall slowly and blissfully towards oblivion. Beneath my feet were masses of primroses. I decided to lie down among them but, close to, they turned out to be miniature fried eggs on stalks, and their crinkled leaves were rashers of bacon. I was just about to eat some of them when something poked me hard in the back. Cordelia had her knee against my kidneys. I managed to manoeuvre her back to her side without waking her. I thought regretfully of the bacon and eggs and the empty biscuit box. It would be hours before breakfast.
Then my heart began to beat very fast. It was too dark to see anything but I heard something creeping round the foot of the bed. There was no mistaking the stealthy nature of what were undoubtedly footsteps. The wind raised its voice to a wail. Dirk woke with a yelp and growled.
‘Shh!’ came a whisper. ‘Don’t wake the young ladies, there’s a good lad.’ I heard Dirk’s tail thumping. I began to breathe again.
The sound of a match being struck was followed by crackling. I lifted my head and saw a flame leap in the fireplace. Someone was on their knees before it, adding fuel to burning paper. Slowly, expertly, the fire was built until that half of the room was filled with warm, red light.
‘Maggie?’
‘Bless me, you made me jump!’ Maggie came over to the bed. ‘How’s the lass?’
‘Feverish. And I’m afraid she’s been sick. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t you worry. There’s nothing in that way that can’t be set right. But I’m sorry she’s poorly. We’d best send for Dr Parsons straight way.’
‘Thank you for lighting the fire. It’s the most wonderful luxury.’
‘It’s a pleasure, my dear.’
I lay staring at the moving patterns made by the flame-shadows on the pleated silk ceiling of our bed and wondered why it was necessary for the mistress of the house to tiptoe about at dawn, lighting bedroom fires. There had been no other signs of economy. Dinner had been of the very best and the wine much praised. Accustomed to furnishings that were a little ramshackle I had been impressed by the orderliness of Pye Place. Though everything was marvellously old, it was in good order, shining and clean. Downstairs there were hothouse flowers, the latest magazines and silver bonbonnières of expensive-looking chocolates. Upstairs the sheets were linen, as smooth as glass and smelling of lavender, there were piles of soft towels and the sort of soap of which Ophelia approved. The spirit of the place, far from being penny-pinching, was sumptuous.
Twenty minutes later Maggie came in again with a tray of tea and, oh joy! two Chocolate Olivers. Seeing that Cordelia was asleep she put her finger to her lips and slipped away before I could thank her properly.
‘Good morning, Harriet.’ Archie was contemplating with pleasure a substantial plate of porridge and cream. ‘You look a little pale.’
Rupert lowered his newspaper enough to look at me over the top of it, then, wordlessly, resumed reading. Colonel Mordaker, the bishop and his wife and the old lady, formerly in purple, now in maroon, were the only others present.
‘I have always found a diet of water, poached fish and citrus fruit the answer for a muddy complexion,’ said the bishop’s wife to the table in general. ‘That, and outdoor exercise. The young these days are too much inclined to lounge. When I was a child my best friend was my skipping rope, and I can assure you I never suffered from so much as a sniffle.’
A derisive noise, something like ‘Tchah!’ came from the colonel’s lips as he banged his cup on to his saucer.
The bishop’s wife looked at him in haughty surprise for a moment before continuing, ‘If the young lady will condescend to take my advice and get out into the fresh air with a rope, I can guarantee she will find her appearance greatly improved.’
‘There happens to be something like a foot of snow and ice outside,’ said Rupert from behind his paper. ‘I don’t know that her appearance would be much improved by a broken leg.’
‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll feel better when I’ve eaten something.’ I went to the sideboard where spirit lamps kept several silver dishes hot, and helped myself to scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast.
‘Hello, Harriet.’ Max was at my elbow. He looked poetic in a waistcoat, collarless shirt and jeans. The other men, except for Archie, were in tweeds. Archie was wearing a suit of large windowpane checks in yellow and brown, very like Rupert Bear’s trousers. ‘You are pale,’ Max said in a low tone that only I could hear, ‘but it’s extremely attractive. That alabaster complexion with those dark eyes is stunning.’
No one had compared my skin to alabaster before. I was unaccustomed to so much concentration on my appearance. ‘Tomato?’ I held the spoon poised above the dish.
‘Whispering’s not allowed’ called Archie. ‘I must insist on a thorough briefing.’
‘’Morning, Archie. Rupert.’ Max went to the table, pulled out a chair and waited for me to sit on it. Rupert stared over his paper. I carried my plate across, trying not to limp, though my ankle was still sore. I felt Rupert and Archie’s eyes focused upon me as critically as though they were casting directors and I was auditioning for an important role. ‘Haven’t seen either of you for a while.’ Max pushed in my chair and sat down next to me. ‘How are you both?’
‘Well,’ said Rupert.
‘My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne,’ replied Archie.
‘Othello,’ I said without thinking.
Colonel Mordaker paused in the process of shovelling down kedgeree to say ‘Tchah!’ again, rathe
r louder this time.
‘Really, Harriet!’ Archie frowned. ‘You have shocked the colonel by your ignorance. It was, of course, a quotation from Romeo and Juliet. I’m sure Colonel Mordaker will give you act and scene, if you ask him nicely.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind, sir!’ A grain of rice trembled on Colonel Mordaker’s upper lip. ‘I know nothing of such twaddle! Fighting for Queen and country has kept me fully occupied without resorting to such stuff!’
‘There, Colonel, you are wrong.’ The bishop’s wife spoke decidedly. ‘I grant you there is a great deal of inferior prose and verse written these days, but the bard himself must be beyond criticism. Personally I have a great dislike for T. S. Eliot. As for D. H. Lawrence, I consider him fit only for degraded minds –’
‘Madam,’ the colonel’s face grew red as he turned his angry little eyes towards her, ‘when I want instruction during breakfast on the trashy jingles of dirty-minded nancy-boys I’ll be certain to apply to you. Until then perhaps you’ll be good enough to remain silent on the subject.’
‘Well!’ The bishop’s wife sent an indignant glance in her husband’s direction but he only crunched his toast more loudly and pretended to be engrossed in Country Life. ‘Well!’ She decided to enter the lists on her own behalf. ‘Of course we all know the proverb that ignorance is the mother of impudence. And whatever else he might have been D. H. Lawrence was not a homosexual.’
‘Madam, an old soldier knows better than to waste time bandying words with – ladies.’ The colonel got up and helped himself liberally to scrambled eggs and bacon.
‘When it comes to proverbs,’ said the old lady in maroon, uncurling her neck to stare at the bishop’s wife, ‘he is an ass that brays against another ass.’
Clouds among the Stars Page 32
