‘Thank you.’ I mopped my eyes on my napkin. I had forgotten I was wearing mascara and was dismayed by the ugly black blotch on Maggie’s starched linen.
‘One wonders, though,’ Archie smiled maliciously. ‘Does Georgia know that you and she were turn and turn about? I’d have thought her as wily as a sack of foxes – up to every trick. But somehow I imagine even she has her pride and would revolt at the idea. The thing is he took you both in. He’s an actor, after all. He wouldn’t be much good at his job if he couldn’t convince you that he was burning in hell for a glance from those beautiful dark eyes.’ Archie tapped my cheek with his finger. ‘Everyone makes mistakes in the bed department. When I think of some of the people I’ve woken up next to …’ He shook his head until his cheeks quivered. ‘No, I don’t think I will, so soon after breakfast.’
This made me smile as it was intended to.
‘That’s a good girl. Uncle Archie says you’re not to be a bore and dwell on it like a moon-sick maiden. I take it you weren’t one?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, there’s that to be thankful for.’ He sighed. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I have the right temperament for an agony aunt. I’m too easily depressed by life’s sordid cares. Which reminds me, you remembered, I’m sure, what you learned at school about the birds and the bees and the right and proper purpose of coition? And took care, accordingly?’ I smiled weakly. ‘Oh, really, Harriet! You’re as helpless as a swaddled babe.’ He resumed his former expression, as of a headmaster whose hopes in a promising pupil have been unexpectedly dashed.
‘Actually I feel pretty sure it will be all right. I only had my per –’
‘Stop there!’ Archie held up his hand. ‘Marjorie Proops is paid for it, after all.’
‘I promise I won’t pine. Not publicly anyway.’
‘Excellent.’ Archie patted my hand and beamed at me, his cheeks wrinkling up under the lenses of his spectacles. ‘I shall hold you to that.’
‘One thing, though, you won’t tell Rupert, will you? I’m afraid he’d despise me dreadfully.’ Archie’s expression returned to its customary satirical sharpness. ‘I mean, I don’t think he’d understand how anyone could be such a fool.’
‘I won’t tell him if you don’t want me to. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope of putting one past him. He asked me only the other day why Frensham was laying suit to you.’ I was much offended by this discounting of my power to charm but I concealed my indignation. ‘He said he doubted whether Frensham was to be trusted. When I asked him why in that case he hadn’t attempted to put you on your guard he said it was clear you were highly susceptible to Frensham’s allurements. Any interference would probably only add to his appeal. Besides, he thought it might be a salutary experience and that you were too much inclined to live in a world of self-deception and make-believe.’
‘He said that?’ I stared at the bacon rinds amid the yellow blobs of egg on my plate while my bosom swelled with pain. ‘I see.’ Even then I recognised that there was some justice in what Rupert had said. But I was far from being prepared to admit it openly. Max had given my self-confidence a drubbing and Rupert’s censure applied pressure to the bruise. ‘Thank you, Archie, you’ve been more than kind. I’d better go and see how Maggie is.’
By unlucky chance, I met Rupert in the hall. I turned to the table to see if there was any post. Of course there wasn’t because it was Boxing Day, but I had forgotten that.
‘I’m going to London for a couple of days,’ he said to my unresponsive back.
‘Oh?’ It came out like a snap.
‘An emergency committee meeting of the board of the English Opera House. There’s been a row. Hard words have been said and the two biggest cheeses have resigned. I’m supposed to draw out the thorns with a fomentation of shameless flattery and cajolery.’
‘Oh.’ His friendliness stung, now I knew what he thought of me. I turned, frowning. He looked at me quizzically, his eyes searching my face. ‘I’m going by train,’ he said, ‘so that you and Archie can stay and help Maggie. She’s not at all well.’ I continued to look at him frostily. ‘That’s if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I shall be delighted.’
The words came out like chips of ice. I thought I saw the suspicion of a smile hovering about his mouth. A faint scar showed on his upper lip. I remembered he had cut it years ago, when my father was teaching him to drive. Rupert had reversed at speed into a brick wall and gashed his face on the steering wheel. My father had banged his elbow. I must have been seven or eight at the time. I had gone with them in the taxi to the hospital, Pa groaning and weeping, Rupert white and silent with blood dripping from his chin. My father had entertained the staff of the casualty department with his entire vocabulary of pain and despair before being sent home with a sticking plaster. Rupert had borne six stitches without complaint. I had held his hand; then, when he asked me not to, his coat-tail. The memory might have softened my wrath, had he not assumed a comical expression of glowering resentment, imitating mine.
‘What are you so huffy about? “Speak again, sweet Desdemona” –’
‘Oh, shut up!’
TWENTY-NINE
Maggie’s room was on the top floor. It was meanly proportioned with a view over the stable yard. The single iron bedstead and the chest of drawers and wardrobe made from varnished deal confirmed that this was a maid’s room. The tiny grate was empty, the room was chilly and there was a smell of damp.
‘Hello, my dear.’ Maggie opened sad eyes in a face the colour of porridge. She had been lying flat on her back, but as I came in she tried to sit up. ‘I’m ever so sorry to be laid up. I shall be better soon. Oh, lord!’ She groped feebly for the bucket beside the bed and was sick on the eiderdown.
I held the bucket for her until she had finished vomiting. ‘Lie down and don’t worry. I’ll find something to clean it up.’
In the corridor outside her room was a sink and next to it a cupboard containing brooms and dusters. I wiped the floor as well as I could. ‘You must have some clean bedclothes. I know where. I won’t be a minute.’
In Freddie’s old studio I found an eiderdown and more blankets.
‘You shouldn’t have to do this,’ murmured Maggie. ‘I feel ever so ashamed.’
‘Dear Maggie, it’s a pleasure to look after you. Though I’m sorry you’re ill, of course. But you ought to let Mrs Whale send for the doctor.’
‘I don’t want to be a trouble. I’ll be better in a minute. Only when I lift my head the room does turn round so, I don’t know which way up I am.’ I noticed that Maggie’s eyes were jerking the way people’s eyes do when they look out of the window on trains. She groaned. ‘How’s Janet to see to everything? But I can’t set foot to floor without falling over. I wonder if Sir Oswald’s had his clothes put out for him? Could you ask Janet to do it, dear? I always lay out his tie and weskit first, then trousers and braces over them – carefully so’s they don’t crease – socks and shirt next and underpants and corset on top, so it’s in order of putting on, see? Let me see, what’s today? Tuesday, is it? Then it’s his brown Tattersall check with the green and brown paisley tie.’
‘I’ll go and ask her.’ I saw Maggie was shivering despite the extra bedclothes. ‘And I’ll bring you some tea.’
‘I’m so sorry, pet, really I am.’
I met Freddie on the back stairs. She was carrying a tray of tea things and some buttered toast. ‘Harriet, thank goodness!’ she said when she saw me. ‘Poor Maggie! But I’ve simply got to go. More snow’s forecast and Vere’s getting fidgety about his horses in case they aren’t being properly taken care of. And we’ve left our darling old dog to be looked after by Vere’s brother. He’s a bit unreliable.’
I took the tray from her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see to everything. You go.’
‘Give Maggie my love. I’ve already thanked her and said goodbye but then I felt so unkind leaving her in that freezing room without even the comfort of a hot drink.’
‘Goodbye, dear Freddie.
’ We kissed across the tray. ‘I’m so glad we met properly at last.’
‘Promise you’ll come and stay this summer? I’m longing to show you everything – our house and the valley and the river. There’ll be haymaking and Vere’s starting market gardening in the spring. I’ve so enjoyed our talks. I shall miss you.’
While Maggie drank her tea I looked out of the window and watched Freddie and Vere loading their luggage into a large black car that was parked in the yard. Though we had known each other only a few days I felt this friendship had the potential to develop and last. It’s hard to say why with some people you could talk all day and all night, while with others it’s a struggle to find enough to say during a single course at dinner.
With some people you can only have the sort of conversations that are exchanges of information – not just the death of your grandmother and the price of tomatoes but what conclusions you came to about Graeco-Roman architecture the last time you gave it any thought. Then they tell you what they think on the subject and you go on giving each other the benefit of your experience, which if you happen to be interested in the same things is a reasonable way of passing time. But with Freddie I seemed to have the best sort of conversations, where our talk became exploratory and would lead on to new ideas, like thinking aloud, and in the process of clarifying improvisatory theories I always made useful discoveries about what I thought and felt.
I watched them drive away with regret, wondering what it would be like to stay with Freddie and Vere in Dorset. I imagined myself as a Thomas Hardy heroine in a cotton sunbonnet and dimity dress, milking velvet-skinned cows in a flower-strewn meadow like Tess or, even better, as Grace Melbury strolling through the woods with the poetically rustic, noble-hearted Giles Winterbourne, his clothes sprinkled with pomace and apple-pips. My reverie was interrupted by Maggie being sick again, this time into the bucket.
‘You poor thing! I’ll get you some more tea. Do you think you could manage a bit of toast? It might help.’
‘What’s that, dear? I can’t hear you. I seem to have gone deaf.’
I found Dr Parsons’ number in the telephone book in the hall. He said he would come within the hour. When I went back upstairs, with some fire-lighters, matches, and a bucket of coal, Maggie seemed worse. She was delirious, falling into a doze, then waking with a start, muttering about potatoes and laundry and struggling to sit up. I lit the fire and drew the thin curtains to keep in the warmth when there should be any.
I was on my way downstairs again, trying to think of the best way to help Maggie, when I saw out of the corner of my eye that something in the Long Gallery was different. The glass case, home to Old Gally’s arm, was once more bound by the chain and fastened with the padlock. I approached it with caution. The arm was back. It was rustier than ever and missing a finger. It had rather a pathetic appearance I decided, after the first recoil.
Mrs Whale was in the drawing room. She was kneeling before the grate with a shovel in her hand.
‘Seems to me that chain and padlock’s a waste of time,’ she said, when I informed her that the arm had returned. ‘There’s forces that laugh at man’s devices.’
‘You mean the supernatural?’
‘I mean,’ she dropped her voice, ‘the Devil.’ She crossed herself twice.
‘Mm, well, I expect so.’ I had had many unsatisfactory conversations with Loveday about the existence, or not, of the Devil and I had no intention of beginning another. ‘Maggie says would you mind putting out Sir Oswald’s clothes?’
‘Drat! I’d forgot them.’ The ash from the fire rose in clouds. She coughed and flapped her hand in front of her face. ‘I’ve made the beds and swept the hall but I’ve the breakfast to wash up, the kitchen floor to scrub, the bathrooms to clean, the washing to put on and the water in the flower vases to change. That’s before I scrub the vegetables for lunch. There’s the table linen to see to and the silver to polish, what Lady Pye always does herself. besides the cooking. I’m not much of a hand at it and I’ve never pretended otherwise. I could do mince and potatoes. And rice pudding. But he’ll not like it.’
‘Couldn’t the vases be left for one day?’
‘Sir Oswald’s most particular about the vases smelling fresh.’ She lashed out with her duster at some floating particles of ash.
‘Let me do some of the things. I could change the flowerwater and scrub the vegetables.’
‘Who’s going to put out his clothes?’
‘I don’t think I could do that. I mean, I’d have to go into his room. And mess about with his underwear. It would be terribly embarrassing.’
Mrs Whale sat back on her heels and looked at me reprovingly. ‘Lady Pye’ll be vexed to death when she learns no one’s done it.’
‘Perhaps she won’t find out.’
‘She’ll find out all right. The minute he’s dressed he’ll go and tell her, ill or not.’
I opened the door of Sir Oswald’s room. The brilliant light from the snow-covered hills lay in broad bars across the floor. A bed at least fifteen feet tall was hung with crimson damask and handsome gilded tassels. White plumes sprouted from each corner of the gold-and-white canopy. A coat of arms was embroidered on the back panel, proud symbol of the sweltering mound completely covered by bedclothes that lay beneath it. Beside the bed was a breakfast tray on which were two disembowelled eggshells, toast crumbs and the remains of a pot of jam and a dish of cream. The mound moved rhythmically up and down and I heard a richly mucosal snore as I tiptoed over to the closet.
The shelves were filled with neatly folded garments, and a rack held coats and trousers. I found the items described by Maggie and gathered them in my arms to arrange them in order. I was just wondering whether men put socks on before or after their trousers when a voice said, ‘Little girl, would you like a barley sugar?’
I spun round. Sir Oswald’s reddened face was peeping from under the sheets, like a setting sun wreathed with cloud. He put out a plump hand and beckoned. ‘I’ve a toffee if you’d rather.’ I shook my head, put down the clothes and began to sidle over to the door. ‘Just come and see the little doll I’ve got hidden here, in my bed.’ The bedclothes rustled energetically. ‘You can make it stand up all on its own if you’re nice to it,’ he called as I ran out and slammed the door behind me.
‘Labyrinthitis,’ said Dr Parsons as I escorted him downstairs. ‘An inflammation of the inner ear. Lady Pye works too hard. She’s run down. I’ve told her she should rest when she’s ill and give her body a chance.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Occasionally the deafness is permanent. But I’ve put her on a course of antibiotics, which ought to clear it up. She’ll be unwell, with vertigo and nausea for several days. See she stays in bed and has nothing to worry her. I’ll call again tomorrow.’
Keeping Maggie from worrying was beyond my power. There were eleven of us in the house after Rupert had been driven to the station by Archie. Luckily Georgia and Emilio were leaving at teatime. Out of the nine who would remain, three – Miss Tipple, Sir Oswald and Maggie – were entirely helpless. I decided to put the children to work.
‘Oh, why? Why must we?’ the girls whined in unison as I gave them dusters and the vacuum cleaner.
‘Because it’s the decent thing to do. Now stop grumbling. Anyone who does a good job can come with Archie and me to see The Four Musketeers at the cinema in Bunton tomorrow.’ I hoped Archie would not object to this scheme. Not for the first time did I regret my inability to drive a car without hitting something.
Cordelia considered this. ‘Can we have fish and chips afterwards?’
‘Yes.’
‘Popcorn during?’
‘Yes.’
‘Strawberry milkshakes?’
‘If Bunton has such things.’
‘The latest issue of Metropolitan? I saw it in the newsagent’s at home. It’s got an article in called “Sex without Guilt – The One-Night Stand”, which looked interesting.’
‘Well …’ T
oo much information was generally better than too little. ‘I suppose so.’
‘A new jersey each?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I just wanted to see how desperate you were.’ Cordelia gave me a knowing look as she sauntered off, carrying the cleaning equipment. ‘I’d say pretty.’
‘Why should people feel guilty about sex?’ I overheard Annabel asking Cordelia when I passed them ten minutes later, as they were polishing the banisters.
‘Because beautiful people have so much and plain people not any,’ replied Cordelia.
‘What are one-night stands?’
‘Goodness, don’t you know anything? It’s making love standing up. That way you don’t get pregnant.’
This confirmed the advisability of more information.
I found Archie lying on the sofa in the library, reading a book and shedding tears. ‘It’s the life story of John Huss,’ he explained, wiping his eyes. ‘A protestant preacher in Germany in the fifteenth century. He was burned alive. As a toothless peasant hag, covered in warts and boils and reeking of urine, staggered forward beneath the weight of a huge faggot and threw it, cackling, into the flames, he cried out in his agony, “O holy simplicity.” You have to admit it was forgiving in the circs. The man was a genuine saint.’
‘Does it make it worse that she was ugly?’
‘I think it gives it a little extra sanctity. And one would rather see someone good-looking, I suppose, in one’s last few seconds. Actually I made up the boils and the urine. But still.’
‘Anyway, I thought people being burned alive used to beg onlookers to stoke the fire to get it over with quickly.’
Archie snapped the book shut. ‘If you’re going to pour cold water on every little shred of romance in this sorry world, Harriet, I must beg you to leave me. I understand that the pain of betrayal may bring on a mood of cynicism –’
‘Would you mind scouring the baths and basins?’ I interrupted. ‘Maggie says to pay particular attention to the plug chains. They have to be unhooked and soaked in a pan of disinfectant for an hour.’ I held out a cloth and a bottle of Banoscum.
Clouds among the Stars Page 44
