Clouds among the Stars

by Clayton, Victoria

  Here I described the waterfall and the scenery round about and the consequences, good and bad, of deep snow which, of course, we never had in London.

  I’ve tried to write a poem about it but it wasn’t any good. The textures and colours of snow are just too elusive. Do you remember you used to say it was the angels moulting? I’ve just heard the second gong, which means that dinner is in ten minutes so I’d better go down and be nice to people. I’m so glad the nuns are letting you take over some of the cooking. I bet they’re glad too. I’m delighted you’re feeling better. You know how much you mean to me, dear, dear Maria-Alba, I’ll write again in a few days, fondest love, Harriet.

  In the drawing room Sir Oswald was lecturing Freddie, Vere and Georgia about the seventeenth-century cabinet on stand, pointing out its exquisite ‘seaweed’ marquetry and blend of oyster veneers. Freddie was nodding attentively, Georgia looked frankly bored. Vere was staring at a painting behind Sir Oswald’s head. He wandered over to take a closer look at it, unaware of Sir Oswald’s vexation at having part of his audience stray. Miss Tipple sat alone, as was often the case. Her deafness, combined with her habit of speaking her mind, made her something of a social test. I brought up a stool beside her chair so I could shout in her ear, if necessary.

  This was, I’m afraid, not as altruistic as it sounds. Though I could not prevent myself knowing exactly where he was standing and who he was talking to, even whether he was smiling or serious, I wanted to avoid Max. The super-cognisance that operated between us was productive of both pleasure and pain. All my life I had chided myself for being vacillating and irresolute. That inner voice that advises against the dictates of our vanity and weakness and would guide us safely if only we would let it, which perhaps is nothing more mysterious than common sense, took a dim view of my hurling myself into a romantic abyss.

  Miss Tipple’s deafness varied quite a bit according to her mood. This time, despite the growing buzz of conversation, she heard every word I said and told me what it was like to be on hunger strike in prison as a suffragette before the First World War and how sleep strike – walking up and down without pause day and night – was far worse than being hungry. Sir Oswald interrupted a very interesting conversation.

  ‘Ah, Miss Tipple, you are warm enough there, by the fire? That is my favourite chair.’ Actually it was everybody’s favourite chair as it was closest to the only source of heat. ‘It is very comfortable, is it not? In the reign of Queen Anne, when it was made, they were beginning to acknowledge the importance of such things. It has a particularly deep seat. That is what makes the difference. Old Gally’s, on the other hand,’ he indicated the ancient black oak chair that stood on the other side of the fireplace, ‘makes few concessions to the requirement of the human frame for cushioning.’

  This particular chair had caused a good deal of annoyance. Its proximity to warmth had made several guests overlook its shortcomings in the comfort department, but whenever anyone attempted to remove the clay pipe, tobacco jar and snuff box that lay carelessly disposed on its seat, Sir Oswald or Maggie protested as vehemently as if someone had suggested the Holy Grail be used as a spittoon. The chair had belonged to the first Galahad Pye, he of tin-arm fame, and it had to be left exactly as it was with his favourite accoutrements at the ready or – the consequences were the more sinister for being left unspoken. This dog-in-the-manger-ish attitude on Old Gally’s part was regrettable but it was impossible to disregard the genuine distress of our hosts so the plum spot went untenanted, except possibly by spectral shanks.

  ‘No, no, you must not get up.’ Sir Oswald waved a hand dimpled with fat to motion Miss Tipple back into her chair. ‘Certainly not. I shall sit over there on the sofa and Miss Bung will perhaps be good enough to favour me with her views on the county of Derbyshire for which, I must confess, I have an unreasonable partiality.’

  He really was Prinny to the life. Dutifully I followed him over to the sofa, belabouring my brain for tributes to his native soil. But I need not have worried. Sitting down for Sir Oswald was a lengthy business. It produced much gasping and puffing, crunching of human joints and ominous creakings from wooden ones as the sofa took the strain. When I had squeezed myself in beside him, pressed hard against the arm on one side and Sir Oswald’s swollen thigh on the other, he began to talk.

  ‘You can have no idea, Miss Bung, what pleasure it gives me to see young people about the place. This dear old house, simple and modest as it is,’ I made disclaiming noises in my throat to which he nodded approval, ‘needs the vitality of the new generation if it is not to sink absolutely into the past. Ah, Annabel, there you are. Come and give your father a kiss.’ Annabel, her face expressionless, came over and planted a peck on Sir Oswald’s enormous cheek. ‘Sweet child! That will do now.’ He waved her away. ‘Now, my dear,’ he placed the hand on my knee, ‘you will not object to telling an ancient creature like me how old you are?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said politely. ‘I’m twenty-two.’

  ‘Really? As much as that? I should not have thought it.’ He looked disappointed. ‘Are you married?’ I shook my head. ‘Catherine, my first wife, was just seventeen when I married her. Think of that! Hardly more than a child.’ He gave my knee a hard squeeze. ‘Her skin was of a delicious creaminess flushed with pink, like – like strawberry fool, with violet-blue veins on the insides of her wrists and the backs of her knees – yes, hmm. The rude blast of life was too rough for my poor sweet girl and the tender blossom withered on the bough. I have only a painting now to remind me of that gentle, innocent gaze, those cheeks with a faint, fair down of youth, that little dimpled chin, lips like the plump breasts of tiny birds – ah, me!’ He sighed. I struggled to think of something sympathetic to say. ‘We made a handsome couple though perhaps I should not say so,’ Sir Oswald went on before anything occurred to me. ‘But you will allow an old man to boast of past glories, my dear Miss Bong.’ A smile broke across his cheeks like a knife cutting dough and he gave my kneecap a gentle massage. ‘You know Mrs Gilderoy is painting my portrait now?’

  ‘Yes, Freddie did tell me.’

  ‘She has managed to capture something of the old dog, I fancy.’ His small beaky mouth was round with silent laughter. ‘The years have taken their toll and I’m a touch broader round the girth, of course. You must ask her to let you see it.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like –’

  ‘Something about the eyes isn’t quite right, a little too small, I think.’ I glanced at the tiny porcine twinkles enveloped in seamed blubber and wondered at man’s ability to delude himself. ‘Twenty-two, you say? I’d have guessed about eighteen. You’re very slender. And firm.’ He slid his hand, which was hidden by the folds of my dress, along my thigh. I could not help seeing that his face was reddening, I hoped with the effects of alcohol.

  ‘My sister’s coming downstairs for dinner. Perhaps I ought to go and hurry her.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Not when we’re so nice and cosy here, having our little chat.’ His breathing quickened as his hand explored further.

  I was seized by mental paralysis. There must be a thousand excuses for getting up and going away but I couldn’t think of one. Rupert’s voice over my shoulder said, ‘Oswald, I must have a word with you. Harriet, would you mind giving up your place to me?’

  I shot up from the sofa. Sir Oswald looked at him reproachfully. ‘I am quite cross with you, Rupert, for interrupting our little talk just when we were getting on so well.’ He seized my hand in his flabby paw and held on to it tight. ‘We shall continue it after dinner, my dear Miss Bang.’

  It was then that Cordelia came in. The black dress fitted very well as she had nearly as much bosom as I, and it didn’t matter at all that on her it was ankle length. The dress, that is. Her hair hung about her shoulder in soft, shining curls. She had raided my supply of cosmetics and was wearing a great deal of makeup. It would have looked whorish, but Cordelia looked seductive and at least seventeen. Sir Oswald let go of my hand. ‘Who is that
girl?’ His cheeks quivered. ‘Where has she sprung from?’

  ‘By heaven, that’s a fine-looking gel!’ I heard Colonel Mordaker say. ‘Sort of creature one dreamed about in the trenches.’

  Mrs Mordaker looked hurt.

  ‘That’s Cordelia Byng,’ Rupert took away Sir Oswald’s glass before he could spill it over himself. ‘Harriet’s sister. She’s been ill and confined to bed since our arrival.’

  Sir Oswald’s feet scrabbled ineffectually at the floor before he panted, ‘Bring her over here. I must bid her welcome.’

  ‘Here’s Maggie to announce dinner.’ Rupert gripped his arm. ‘Let me help you up, Oswald. You can say hello later.’

  As we walked towards the dining room I heard Annabel say to Cordelia, ‘Maggie said I’m to say I’m sorry you were ill.’

  ‘You needn’t be. It isn’t every girl who has a film star to herself for hours and hours in her bedroom.’

  ‘A film star?’

  ‘Max’s going to be in a film version of Macbeth this autumn. Of course I shall miss him dreadfully while he’s away.’

  ‘Is he your boyfriend, then?’

  Cordelia hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘Let’s just say,’ she tossed back her curls, ‘it’s a meeting of kindling spirits.’

  ‘Are you really only twelve?’ Annabel looked at her in awe. ‘Emily Cutler-Biggs was voted the best-looking girl in the school last term but I think you’re much prettier.’

  ‘Really? murmured Cordelia, with a fair imitation of modest astonishment. ‘Where did you come?’

  ‘Nowhere. I never get picked for anything.’

  Cordelia opened her blue eyes wide. ‘That’s the saddest thing I ever heard!’

  I was delighted to find Vere on my left but rather less pleased to have Sir Oswald on my right. But he rarely spoke during the first two courses, preferring to give his attention to his plate. One’s duty was to keep him supplied with sauces, salt and pepper and bread and butter. Max was at the other end of the table next to Georgia and Maggie. Cordelia was sitting between Emilio and Archie. Emilio was rolling his eyes at Cordelia and showing her all his teeth. He reminded me of Dirk in one of his less sensible moods.

  ‘Did you see any more of those birds?’ I asked Vere as we began the soup, which I saw from the little menus Maggie put at intervals along the table, was called Potage Alexandre. It was smooth and creamy with grains of rice and green shreds, possibly leeks floating in it. I must not forget to tell Maria-Alba about the delicious little croûtons coated with sieved hard-boiled egg that accompanied it.

  ‘The mountain bustards, you mean? Yes. Three. But I saw something even more exciting.’ Vere put down his spoon and turned to look at me so I knew it was important. ‘A blue-footed falcon!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m positive. There’s no mistaking it’s black moustachial stripe and a densely cross-striped belly.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘And in flight the wedge-shaped, tapering tail makes it unmistakable. I think it was a young one, for the dorsal feathers were quite pale still.’

  ‘Gosh! Really?’

  I had overdone the incredulous excitement. Vere began to laugh. ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, have you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m completely ignorant about birds. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s I who ought to apologise for assuming that everyone cares about what interests me.’

  ‘But I really am interested. Honestly, I’d love to know something about them. I wish you’d begin to educate me.’

  ‘Well, if you really mean that –’

  Colonel Mordaker interrupted Georgia, who was telling him about her last holiday in Jamaica, to lean across the table. ‘A blue-footed falcon, you say? I don’t believe it. It must have been a sparrowhawk.’

  ‘No,’ said Vere firmly. ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘I tell you, blue-footed falcons don’t appear this far south in winter.’ The colonel thrust his brick-red jaw at Vere.

  ‘But my dear Colonel,’ said Archie. ‘One should never forget Nature’s apostasy. If ice-caps can melt and rivers dry and volcanoes become extinct, if mountains can rise up from ocean beds and continents can move, we must allow that blue-footed falcons may, from time to time, change their habitat. Flux! Flux! All is flux! Just the thought of it makes one feel madly insecure, I know,’ he added kindly. ‘But we mustn’t get into a tizzy about it. You, particularly,’ he waggled a finger, ‘must remember that troublesome old ticker.’

  Colonel Mordaker, whose line of country had been action and not words, made his customary swatting motion as he struggled for speech. Archie goaded him mercilessly and the colonel was beginning to be afraid that he, a tough old bruiser of a war-horse might be got the better of by a namby-pamby pervert who wore makeup. Makeup, for God’s sake!

  ‘Now what was that bird I was reading about the other day?’ continued Archie smoothly, as the colonel opened his mouth to resume his attack on Vere. ‘A masked something-or-other – dear me, one’s memory – that has suddenly appeared in great colonies in quite the wrong place. The ornithologists are in a rare old dither about it.’

  ‘If, sir, you’ll allow me, to speak,’ said the colonel with slow emphasis, ‘we might be able to have a sensible discussion.’

  ‘Oh, of course, Colonel, dear. You press on while I have a teeny think.’

  The colonel ground his dental plates together and questioned Vere in barking tones about what he persisted in calling the ‘supposed’ blue-footed falcon.

  ‘What a fuss about a stupid bird,’ said Georgia quite angrily. ‘Can’t we talk about something interesting?’

  ‘Madam,’ the colonel turned to her, ‘when you have something interesting to say I shall be delighted to hear it.’

  ‘Booby!’ said Archie.

  The colonel drew himself up and bared his teeth. ‘I’ll have no more of it!’ he shouted. Everyone stopped talking. A beetroot tide suffused the colonel’s features. ‘I won’t put up with being insulted to m’ face by a painted catamite who ought to be ashamed to call himself a man!’

  We looked at each other aghast. Maggie half rose from her chair.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Archie, beaming. ‘The masked booby! A tropical marine bird of the same family as pelicans and cormorants. Colonel dear, as you’re such an expert, I’m sure you can enlighten us as to its usual migration patterns.’

  ‘Washa matter, everybody?’ asked Jonno, sliding into the empty chair next to Annabel. ‘Shorry I’m late.’ He let out an ill-concealed belch. ‘Cat got your tonguesh?’ He fell into helpless giggling.

  I caught Freddie’s eye. She was making motions with her hand to imitate the eating of soup and pointing at Vere. I saw that his plate was still untouched while the rest of us had finished. I risked my first glance at Max since we had sat down. He was looking at me with an expression of amusement. As our eyes met, he threw back his head and laughed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After dinner, when we women gathered for coffee in the drawing room, leaving the men to their port, Freddie grabbed my arm. ‘Come and talk to me. I have a dread of that Bisset woman.’

  ‘Apparently she can read us all like a book.’

  ‘From the conversations I’ve had with her, I doubt very much if she ever reads anything, human or paper and glue.’

  Georgia was standing on the hearth to get warm, her décolleté covered by a shawl now there were no men to admire it. Her bold eyes wandered in a bored way about the room. ‘She looks like a spider that’s just eaten its mate,’ I said cattily. ‘The triumph of ascendancy faintly tinged with regret. She can’t be bothered to struggle with Miss Tipple and she despises Mrs Mordaker. She certainly doesn’t want to talk to little girls. Oh, no,’ I turned my head to avoid catching Georgia’s eye, ‘she’s looking at us. I think she’s decided to while away the barren half-hour until the men come in by riffling through the pages of our dull, commonplace minds. Do let’s go and look at your
portrait of Sir Oswald.’

  We went into the hall and up the stairs. Freddie paused at the top and pointed to two paintings, full-lengths in the manner of Sargent but in more modern clothes.

  ‘These are interesting examples of the art of portraiture.’

  ‘I always look at them as I go by. He’s so handsome and she’s enchanting.’

  ‘That, believe it or not, is Sir Oswald.’

  I stared at the golden-haired Phoebus Apollo, his eyes large and bright, features that it would not be an exaggeration to describe as chiselled, a mouth firm and well-shaped above a decided chin. He stood slender and proud, a pointer at his feet, Pye Place and the waterfall on the skyline.

  Freddie read the date on the frame. ‘It’s 1958. Only twenty years ago. If one needed an incentive to forgo a second helping of treacle tart, this is it.’

  The other painting was of a sweet-faced girl in a white dress. Her dark hair was pulled smoothly back from her brow and fastened with a cluster of white flowers on the crown of her head. Her enormous eyes were childlike, her mouth a soft pout. She looked younger than Cordelia.

  ‘This is by a different hand,’ said Freddie, looking closely at the brushwork. ‘It’s shamelessly meretricious – denying truth, I mean, for the sake of appeal. Of course you can paint a basket of kittens well and capture the essence of the animal but the temptation is to prettify it so that judgement is suspended. All the viewer wants to do is pick them up and stroke them. It tells you nothing about the creatures themselves. Certainly most men would like to pick up this girl and give her a damned good stroking. See how her skin is painted in tones of quite unrealistic sugary pink, which make her face more doll-like than human. Eyes that big would be freakish in life. And look how tiny her hands are, on fat little arms without wrists, again like a doll’s.’