Clouds among the Stars

by Clayton, Victoria

  And then I saw it.

  I had drawn the curtains in the large central bay myself, earlier in the evening, all fifteen feet of gold silk trimmed with tarnished silver passementerie. Now the curtains bulged out in the middle as though someone was standing behind them. And as I looked at them the silk began to billow and from the folds came the hand of Old Gally. Just before the lights failed altogether, a last beam glinted on its metal finger that pointed directly at my heart.

  I didn’t mean to scream but it was out before I knew it. By screaming I frightened myself even more. Abandoning calm good sense I broke into a run towards the bathroom with the sole idea of barricading myself in. But when I patted frantically all over the wall and the door and finally found the handle, the door was locked. I hammered on it, yelling with fear, and within a few seconds it opened, just as the lights came on again.

  ‘How impatient you women are.’ Rupert stood in the doorway in his dressing gown. ‘In a house as poorly provided with bathrooms as this one, you must wait your turn.’

  I grabbed his arm. ‘He’s there! Behind the curtains!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old Gally!’

  ‘Nonsense! Let go.’ He shook off my hand. ‘You’re cutting off my blood supply.’

  I relaxed my grip and contented myself with hanging on to his sleeve. When we reached the main bay I stood behind Rupert, hardly daring to look. The hand seemed to twitch as the curtains swayed. Slowly the finger swivelled towards us.

  ‘Harriet, if you screech in my ear once more I shall lose my temper. It’s been a long day, not helped by the ridiculous behaviour of several young women.’

  Rupert went to the window and flung back the curtains. The arm remained suspended in mid-air but the body to which it belonged was invisible. I stuffed my hand into my mouth to stifle another scream.

  ‘Just as I thought. Come and see.’ Rupert took hold of the hand and pulled. ‘Black cotton. Pinned to the curtain. Look here.’

  Mystified, I stared at the safety pins attached to the lining. From them trailed long strands of thread. Another length was wound round the metal arm in several places, including the pointing middle digit. Rupert turned it over. It clanked with a dismal sound but all at once it had lost its power to frighten me.

  He laughed. ‘It’s missing its index finger. Looks rather silly, doesn’t it?’

  I had to agree that it did. ‘I found the finger in Maggie’s room. I hid it because I didn’t want her to be scared. Jonno’s got it now.’

  ‘Here. You hold it while I close the window. There’s a terrific draught. That’s what made the curtains move.’

  I examined the arm again, wondering how I could ever have been afraid of such a rusty, battered object. ‘Who put it here, do you think?’

  ‘It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Who’s so jealous of Maggie that they’d want to frighten her? Who heard me suggest that we bring in the police and put the arm back in the case within the hour?’

  I tried, and failed, to remember who had been in the dining room at breakfast on that particular morning at that particular time. ‘How did they undo the padlock if the key was always on Maggie’s belt?’

  ‘Maggie catnaps constantly. Anyone could take it while she’s dozing.’ It was true. I remembered finding her in Freddie’s studio, deeply asleep. ‘Once the arm was back in its case I made Maggie give me the key. I took it with me to London. That’s why the joker only had the finger to play with. I gave the key back to Maggie when I returned and it’s on her chatelaine now. You left it in the hall.’

  So I had. As Maggie was following the stretcher into the helicopter she had put the chatelaine with the keys into my hand, with instructions to give them to Janet. But Mrs Whale had not returned from Bunton by the time I went up to bed. I remembered noticing it on the hall table, still, when I went up to bed.

  ‘But why go to all the trouble of setting this up? If you’re right about Maggie being the one it was meant to frighten, everyone knows Maggie isn’t here. Except, of course – Oh, but that’s impossible!’

  A faint creaking sound behind us made me spin round.

  ‘You can come out now, Mrs Whale,’ said Rupert without raising his voice. There was a moment’s silence. ‘Either you come out of your own accord or I ring for the police.’ Another pause. Then the door opposite the bay that had been Max’s room opened and Janet Whale stepped into the gallery.

  She looked shockingly different. She wore a gaudy scarf over a red dress, large gilt earrings and plenty of makeup. Her mouth was a scarlet line of scorn. ‘Think you’re clever, don’t you! But Maggie’ll never believe anything against me. She’s known me all her life. We’re old friends.’ She put a weight of sarcasm on the last word.

  ‘But why?’ I was amazed. ‘Why would you want to hurt Maggie – to frighten her? She’s been so good to you!’

  ‘You wait until you’re in a position to have someone be good to you and see how you like it.’ Mrs Whale was almost spitting with sudden temper. Her meekness had become flaring defiance. ‘Why should she have all that money and a husband and this house and a respectable place in the world? Lady Pye.’ She dropped a curtsy, her expression contemptuous. ‘We used to laugh at her at school, she was so slow at lessons, and the boys used to call her Mag the Nag because of her ugly horse face. But the silly creature didn’t mind. She was always soft and good-natured. Everyone took advantage of her. If her father hadn’t made money with the carpets she’d have been the skivvy, while I – if I’d had better luck I might have stayed on at school, done my higher certificate. Perhaps even gone to university. I’d have seen the world and made a decent life for myself. Instead of which …’ She sighed. ‘Every day I wait on her at table. Every day I dust her things, I wash her crocks, I polish her floors. And he, why he’s nothing but a bag of blubber. He don’t even see me when I cross the room. I’m nothing to him. Though I’m cleverer than him by far, I have to wash the food off his clothes and carry in his breakfast while he snores in bed, and take the tray away again when he’s guzzled it. And those children, they haven’t respect for anyone. I’ve to live out my life in this place with the wind howling sometimes so’s I can’t hear myself think and be nothing to anyone.’

  ‘But Maggie’s so fond of you,’ I said. ‘And she works every bit as hard. It was such a cruel thing to do!’

  Mrs Whale smiled. ‘It did me good to see her worrying over it and turning it over in her mind. It made me laugh. Why shouldn’t she know what it is to be unhappy? There was some justice in it, then.’

  ‘Maggie’s gone to the hospital with Annabel,’ said Rupert. ‘The child’s had an accident. So this evening’s little diversion was a waste of time. You can pack your belongings in the morning and leave first thing.’

  ‘Why should I? Maggie’ll never believe it was me. She’s convinced Old Gally walks, the daft thing.’ She grinned very unpleasantly. ‘It isn’t against the law to play a few tricks on a friend. I’ve done nothing wrong and you can’t make me go.’

  Rupert sighed. ‘Maggie’s told me your history. At least, she’s told me the lie you concocted to win her sympathy. You didn’t kill your ex-husband, did you? I had the police do a check on you. You went to prison all right but it was for murdering the old man you and your husband were supposed to be looking after. You wanted his money and you couldn’t wait. Your husband’s still serving his sentence.’

  ‘I ought never to have married that fool. He never did anything right. I got twelve years for helping him. All I did was buy the weed-killer and wash up the cup afterwards. I wasn’t even in the room when he gave it to the old skinflint.’ Her expression was bitter. ‘You don’t know what prison’s like. Scum of the earth, that’s how they treat you. And that’s how you feel. It’s worse than death not to be free. I tried to hang myself but they cut me down. So I went religious and got parole. But there’s no such thing as forgive and forget in this world.’

  Rupert sighed. ‘What do you think about going right away from he
re?’

  ‘Where can I go? I’ve no references. If I do get a job, sooner or later people find out who I am. The newspapers see to that. They hound you until you’ve nowhere left to run. People are afraid I’m going to poison them. At least that’s what they pretend. The truth is there’s that amount of hate in folk they’re glad to find someone they can hate and not feel guilty for it.’ She laughed, a woeful sound. ‘I’m a pariah.’

  I felt some small return of sympathy. What must it be like to have put yourself, by some moment of weakness, of desperation, for ever beyond the pale?

  ‘Maggie said you’d worked in the theatre,’ said Rupert. ‘Was that true?’

  ‘Yes. I shouldn’t ever have left it. Only he came whining round me and I was stupid enough to fall for him all over again.’

  ‘A friend of mine’s starting a new theatrical company, based in Birmingham,’ said Rupert. ‘They need a wardrobe mistress. He’ll take you if I ask him. It’d be poorish pay at first but you could make something of it with hard work. Do you think you could make a fresh start?’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘I’d do it for Maggie.’

  She frowned. ‘You wouldn’t tell him about – about my past?’

  ‘I’d have to. As you say, he’ll find out sooner or later. But theatre people are more broad-minded than most. If you behave yourself, you’ll get a second chance.’

  She breathed in sharply and her eyes flashed. She must once have been a striking-looking woman. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll be glad to get away from here and shake the dust of the mean, petty place off my shoes! I’ll be glad not to have to run round after people that think they’re better than me, though I can see what fools they are.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rupert. ‘But the condition is that you leave tomorrow. You needn’t say anything to anyone. I’ll explain to the Pyes. You can go straight to Birmingham. I’ll give you the address of some theatrical digs. And money to tide you over.’

  ‘You won’t want thanks as you aren’t doing it for me.’ Her passionate mouth stretched into a sneer. ‘I wonder if you’d think so much of Maggie if she hadn’t married Sir Oswald Pye of Pye Place. I don’t think so, somehow.’

  Rupert continued to gaze at her impassively and said not a word. So she lifted her chin and walked away, a splash of hard, bright colour against the faded beauty of her surroundings.

  I felt angry but more than that, I felt sad. ‘I’m amazed,’ I said. ‘I fell for her act completely. What made you suspect her?’

  ‘A process of elimination, really. And she seemed a little too humble to be true. Truly pious people don’t generally flaunt their humility. Call it intuition.’

  ‘I thought women were supposed to be the intuitive ones.’

  ‘You fell for it because you wanted to believe her. You’re sympathetic by nature. I’m not.’

  ‘Most people would have been much harder on her. Do you think she’ll make a go of it?’

  Rupert shrugged. ‘No idea. Anyway, I’m not a policeman. It isn’t my job to reward the good and punish the bad. I dislike examining the psyches of my fellow human beings. I’ve no desire to see into other people’s minds and hearts.’

  ‘Unless they’re characters in an opera.’ I was remembering the discussion at lunch. I thought I was beginning to understand Rupert. He tried to avoid intimacy with all but a few. It went against the grain with him to speak of his own feelings because he was afraid of weakening his defences. ‘You prefer a world of make-believe, too.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I smiled enigmatically and changed the subject. ‘It was purest spite that made Mrs Whale torment poor Maggie. And after such kindness. But I feel sorry for her. Oh, look! Puddles of water! It couldn’t be – the Lady of the Moat?’

  ‘I was in the bath when you rattled the roof tiles with your screams,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve been dripping gently ever since.’

  ‘It’s so disappointing. There’s always the most prosaic explanation. Black cotton! It takes the excitement out of writing about it when I have to pretend. Thank goodness I finished my article about Old Gally’s arm while I was still more than halfway to believing in it. But I shall have to invent mystery and terror when I write about Fanny Cost – and seeing Old Gally in the powder closet. You know, it never occurred to me that there might be two hoaxers.’

  ‘Annabel’s antics give a new meaning to the thoroughly tedious and typically pedagogic idea of burdening children with holiday projects. Surely you didn’t really believe in either case that supernatural forces were responsible?’

  ‘Well, it’s extraordinary how different things seem when you’re on your own in the dark.’

  ‘Certainly, if you allow your imagination to run out of control.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get frightened?’

  ‘It has been known. But not of ghosts. The living seem to me considerably more dangerous. So, are you pleased or sorry to have a rational explanation?’

  ‘Mostly extremely sorry. I shall sleep better but, oh! what a let down! Imagine if we had conclusive proof that there is life after death!’

  ‘Proof of the existence of ghosts wouldn’t prove a continuation of consciousness. Spectral manifestations might be impressions left behind from past lives that we perceive intuitively – a sort of psychic dust. But even if one could prove that these emanations were genuine phantom angst – a guilty conscience or a cry for justice – a confirmation of life after death would mean the end of other kinds of philosophical possibilities. Not knowing, we have freedom to believe what we will. That seems preferable to me. I’m going to bed. If you feel another scream coming on perhaps you’ll be considerate enough to stifle it till morning. Good night.’

  Watching him walk away, I could not help contrasting his behaviour with Max’s.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go.’

  Cordelia probably spoke for all of us as we drove down the winding hill towards the village. I had turned back for a last glimpse of the house and the waterfall to see a forlorn Sir Oswald waving his handkerchief on the doorstep. The minute Archie put in the clutch Portia and Jonno had rushed indoors. They were catching the train to Manchester that evening. She had embraced us all and sworn she would telephone but I knew her thoughts had flown ahead to life with Jonno.

  Much of the sorrow in Cordelia’s voice was attributable to the knowledge that, immediately following our return home, things would be said and done about schools. But also, like the rest of us, she had been happy at Pye Place. An atmosphere of unreality had prevailed that had served to stimulate the imagination and relax one’s usual constraints. For a time we had been out of the ordinary world, transposed to somewhere savagely beautiful, where it seemed quite natural for behaviour to run to extremes. It was the first time I had spent any time with a family other than my own and it had shown me that context was of crucial importance to one’s idea of oneself.

  We had slowed to a crawl, waiting for a herd of cows to discover that there was no way to go but forward.

  ‘Archie?’

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘What was your childhood like?’

  ‘I was an only child. I lived with my mother and her sister in a small house in Chelsea. At least Mother called it Chelsea. Others might have thought it was Fulham. I was spoiled and petted by all the women who came to drink tea and discuss the neutering of stray cats and the homing of kittens. Mother was devoted to felines but suspicious of men and thought my father had let her down badly by allowing himself to be killed in the war. How I came to be born at all is a mystery. When she spoke of my father – which was infrequently – she evoked a terrifying being of sordid and shameful habits. He had been a doctor, specialising in diseases of the bladder. Perhaps it was that she objected to. She dreaded the medical profession, and urologists in particular, and made me wear ladies’ lock-knit drawers to keep my urinary tract warm.’

  ‘You’re making this up!’

 
; ‘It’s true. She hated boys’ rough games and paid extra for me to learn music and needlework with the girls. I had a beautiful treble voice and once sang “O for the Wings of a Dove” at a concert, wearing a white nightdress of my aunt’s and accompanying myself on the harp. The audience passed handkerchiefs up and down the rows. I went meekly along with my mother’s commands and proscriptions – an innocent, curly-haired, harp-playing, slightly sweaty boy – because of the woollen underwear, you understand – until one day I met an artist who wanted to paint me in the nude.’

  ‘Which one of you was nude?’ put in Cordelia.

  ‘Quite quickly we both were. Ah! At last that lummox of a boy has had the sense to drive those silly cows into a gateway.’ He wound down the window. ‘Young man,’ he addressed the astonished drover, ‘I intend to report you for appearing in public in a costume liable to incite lewd behaviour.’

  The cowherd looked down at his khaki jersey, mud-splashed dungarees and gumboots in bewilderment as we accelerated away so fast that the entire herd turned tail and ran back up the lane.

  Had Archie made up all that stuff about his childhood? I wondered. It would appear to be a pattern upbringing for a gay, exhibitionist hypochondriac. But when you knew Archie, those characteristics were almost the least important things about him. What had engendered his wisdom, wit and kindness? His moods, his sensitivities, his predilections? I wondered if families might be less important, when it came to the shaping of personality, than I had previously thought.

  ‘What did Sir Oswald give you?’ Cordelia interrupted my speculations. ‘I saw him tuck something into your glove on the doorstep when you kissed him goodbye.’

  ‘I haven’t looked.’ I turned over the little green box in my hand.

  ‘Well, go on.’ She gave me an impatient nudge with her elbow, which hurt as she was practically sitting on my knee. Rupert, because of his length of leg, was once more in the front passenger seat. Pa, Cordelia, Dirk and I were squeezed into the back. Dirk seemed to have doubled in size in ten days. His head hung over Rupert’s shoulder and from time to time he gave his ear an exploratory lick.