When things was more or less under control I sent everyone upstairs to join Rupert in the drawing room with fresh supplies of wine and peanuts so we could have another shot at elegance. Pa had not come home yet so I decided to wait another five minutes. Before leaving for work I had laid the table in the dining room and arranged some hellebores from the garden with sprigs of mistletoe, now out of season and therefore cheap on Brixton market. I put out two more sets of knives and forks and lit the candles. Really, it did look rather pretty.
We began dinner without Pa. Conversation sparkled. I began to feel that intoxication which overcomes a hostess when she sees her party is a success. Ophelia, looking breathtakingly lovely, drank a great deal of champagne and was very entertaining at the expense of the Drosselmeyers. Then Charles told the tale of the bolt of lightning and those who had not previously heard it were electrified. Sorry about the pun. I could see Cordelia was making up her mind to disregard his advice as to the unsuitability of policemen as husbands. She propped her chin on her hand and ate him with her eyes, quite forgetting her risi e bisi, which, incidentally, was not at all bad.
‘So what are the chances of catching the murderer?’ asked Rupert as I sent Cordelia down to bring up the salmon, not quite a pièce de résistance but the cucumber slices had worked wonders.
‘Slim, I must admit.’ Charles got up to help me stack the dirty plates on the dumb waiter as though he had known us for years. He really was an exemplary man. ‘If you look at murder from the murderer’s point of view, obviously the main problem is getting rid of the body. One is rather conspicuous shoehorning a corpse into the boot of one’s car. And it’s a lot of work digging what has to be a large, deep hole in the garden. Corruption makes hiding it in cupboards or under floorboards impractical unless you live the life of a hermit. Hence acid baths, joints in deepfreezes and so on. But if the body is found at the scene of the crime and nothing particularly points to you – if you’ve time to wash off blood and hair, dispose of the weapon and bloodstained clothing then, if the truth be told, you’re in a position to sit tight and laugh at the police. In this case the weapon was effectively hidden for a sufficient period of time and the murder was done at such a distance that X had nothing to hide. Our only chance is to find the motive, bring in X and extract a confession. But these days we’re not allowed to torture suspects. The nastiest thing we can do is give them a plastic mug of canteen coffee with a grubby spoon. If they’re cool customers with a good solicitor they can, literally, get away with murder.’
The salmon beneath its thatch of cucumber slices was an odd shape, even odder than I remembered it, but it tasted all right. Also there seemed to be less of it but as Cordelia refused to have any it went round easily. The primrose-coloured sauce was unctuous and the vegetables were unexceptionable. I relaxed.
‘The table looks lovely, Hat,’ said Ophelia. ‘The mistletoe is quite original.’
Ophelia’s encomiums were greatly valued by me as they were so rare. Sussex seemed to have had a mellowing effect.
‘Every Christmas a bunch is hung over my door at the police station, creating much merriment and innuendo,’ said Charles. ‘I always try to skip past it pretty quickly. There are some frighteningly big girls in uniform these days.’
‘Traditionally it’s supposed to be unlucky to put mistletoe on the table,’ said Rupert. ‘According to Norse legend, the berries are the tears of Freya, the goddess of love. When she wept for her lover – whose name I’ve forgotten – her tears turned into pearls. She suspended them between heaven and earth with a warning to mortals that if they would guard themselves from the torments of love, they must hang it out of reach.’
‘So, Harriet, you have set us all at grave risk from the barbs and pestilences of passion.’ Archie looked portentous. ‘For myself I cannot be too grateful. Life without love is a cup of cold tea. Give me a rummer of the stuff that scorches and sets one’s veins on fire. Hello, what’s this?’ He held up something on the prongs of his fork, then leaned over and put it on my plate. It was a small triangle of seersucker.
‘I can’t imagine how it got there.’ I was mortified.
‘I know,’ Cordelia whispered in my ear as we loaded up the dumb waiter again. ‘When I went down I found the salmon under the table among all the bits of stuff. Dirk was licking it. I put it back on the plate with some more cucumber to hide the bits he’d eaten. Supposing someone’s actually swallowed some of it – the fabric, I mean?’
‘What’s all this whispering?’ called Archie. ‘You know I can’t bear to be left out.’
I was horrified to see on the edge of Rupert’s plate one of Dirk’s little bone-shaped biscuits. It was good of him not to have said anything.
‘Cheese, everyone,’ I cried distractedly. I heard the front door open. ‘Cordelia, run down and see if there’s any risi e bisi left for Pa. And check that Dirk hasn’t got into the larder with the Budino Diplomatico,’ I added in a lower tone. This was an Italian trifle, very easy, which I had learned to make at Maria-Alba’s knee. I was confident it would make up for the salmon.
‘Hello, everyone,’ said Pa’s voice. ‘Sorry we’re late.’
I extracted my head from the interior of the dumb waiter. Preceding my father into the dining room was a woman with dark hair winged with streaks of silver and held in place by two small black patent bows. She wore a smart red suit and very high heels. After the men had got up with a scraping of chairs, a hush fell on the dining room.
‘Fleur, this is Harriet, my second daughter.’ Pa began with me because I was nearest. He looked nervous.
‘It’s so lovely for me to meet Waldo’s girls at last.’ Fleur’s voice was incisive, not loud but penetrating, with a strong transatlantic accent. ‘You must be the journalist.’
‘Of a kind.’ I gave her a wide smile, hoping to get it into my eyes.
‘What kind is that?’
‘The incompetent kind.’
Fleur smiled back, showing quite a bit of gum. Her eyes were pale blue and catlike. ‘I’m sure you’re a very good little writer.’
‘And this is Ophelia.’
‘Hi, Ophelia!’ Fleur clacked across the room in a cloud of scent to shake her hand. ‘I’m charmed to meet you. Waldo’s told me so much about you all. Now let me see, you’re the one who does clever things with cushions and toast-racks. Though why you sweet young things want jobs, I don’t know. It’s plain old girls like me who have to sharpen their brains and make a career for themselves.’
‘How do you do?’ Ophelia seemed to be examining the wall directly behind Fleur’s badger-striped head.
‘Nonsense, darling.’ My father took Fleur’s hand and kissed it. ‘You know quite well how beautiful you are, besides being the most brilliant woman in London.’
Fleur put her head on one side and grinned until her eyes were slits. ‘You’re so sweet to me, Waldo,’ she cooed. ‘I’m just the luckiest woman in the world.’
While further introductions were made I struggled with the ropes of the dumb waiter. This gave me time to compose my feelings. I must give Fleur a chance. For Pa’s sake I must try to like her. The Budino Diplomatico came up with a note. ‘HAD AN ACCIDENT WITH THE PUD. SORRY.’ It seemed to have acquired many more cherries and pieces of angelica since I had last seen it.
‘No, thank you,’ I overheard Fleur say, when Ophelia offered her the remains of the first two courses. ‘Waldo and I had an enormous lunch and we have to watch our figures.’
This made me think of Wallis Simpson who, if report is true, weighed herself three times a day. Fleur had the same band-box appearance and professional charm behind which, one knew in one’s bones, was a cold and calculating mind. Fleur was much prettier than Mrs Simpson, I forced myself to admit. But she had turned my father into someone as pea-brained as poor old Edward VIII. He was almost drooling over her arm, snuffing up her heavy scent as though he were a pig seeking truffles. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be giving Fleur a chance.
; I decided to serve the Budino from the sideboard, just in case. I sliced into it with a spoon. It should have been elegant layers of brandied sultanas, jam and crema bavarese – brown, pink and yellow stripes. Instead it was a swirl of sludge colours. Cordelia mimed heartfelt apology when she came up from the kitchen.
‘How do you do?’ she said politely to Fleur. ‘I am Cordelia, Waldo and Clarissa’s youngest daughter.’
‘Oh, my! What a pretty child, Waldo.’ She ran her eyes over Cordelia’s dress – my black. ‘And so glamorous.’ Fleur’s laugh was deep and not unattractive except perhaps in being a little too self-assured. She gave my father’s cheek a playful tweak. ‘Honey, you ought to have told me this was to be a grand party. I feel quite cast in the shade by your gorgeous girls.’ My father made mewing noises of protest and appreciation while Fleur turned back to Cordelia. ‘So you’re the baby of the family. But I can see you’re very grown up, dear. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen,’ replied Cordelia without a moment’s hesitation.
‘And is it usual in England for fourteen-year-old girls to wear Givenchy? In the States kids of fourteen are in jeans and sneakers mostly.’
‘It isn’t everyone who can carry it off.’ I could tell Cordelia was beginning to resent such concentration on her age.
‘I should think not. Your poor Pappy’s gonna have to work awfully hard to keep you in haute couture.’
Cordelia considered Fleur gravely in silence. Then she said, ‘How brave of you to wear scarlet.’
I saw Fleur’s smile shrivel for a moment before it became broader than before. ‘Waldo, will you change places with me, honey? I’m just a little in the draught from these marvellous old windows.’ Her gaze roamed round the room and rested for a moment on the half of a gondola from The Merchant of Venice that served as a sideboard. ‘My, what a quaint house this is. I just adore you English eccentrics.’ She shivered. ‘But isn’t it a mite expensive to heat?’
I happened to look at Rupert. He caught my eye and smiled, his dark eyes sharp with amusement. I felt suddenly better.
I gave Fleur some pudding. She took a mouthful and put down her spoon. ‘So nice. But perhaps a little rich. Have you some fruit?’
‘I’ll get you some grapes.’ Cordelia was out of her chair and running down the stairs before I could stop her.
‘I don’t know when I’ve eaten a more delicious pudding,’ said Charles. He looked at me as I raced about with plates and raised his glass. ‘In fact this was a dinner fit for a prince. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.’
‘Oho!’ said Archie in an undertone to Ophelia. ‘I hear the laughter of the goddess.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was not to be expected that we would welcome Fleur with open arms, but as the weeks passed we came to accept her after a fashion. To be fair, few women newly engaged would be positively pleased about the prior existence of five children. I don’t believe she meant to be actually unpleasant but she wanted to show us that my father belonged to her. That they were besotted with each other was apparent to all the world. Pa was much more confident when she was with him. This ought to have pleased me, I know.
Fleur constantly petted him, stroking his cheek, smoothing his hair and straightening his collar, which had the effect of making the rest of us feel excluded. Of course, I was sensitive to the least fault. Her continual carping about how hard he was having to work to support us all grated, considering we were doing our best to alleviate the situation by our own efforts. She had a special voice for talking to Pa, a husky croon, like Billie Holiday with a sore throat. She assumed a habit that we all loathed, of calling him ‘Sweetness’.
She and Ophelia went several rounds in the struggle for supremacy and Ophelia won by dint of outright rudeness. Fleur grew afraid of her and kept out of her way as much as possible. She quickly gave up attempts to patronise Cordelia and instead, seeing that Pa was devoted to his youngest child, thought it expedient to win her over with flattery. Cordelia called her Pussyfoot behind her back because of her crude blandishments but was reasonably polite to her face. By contrast I felt Fleur’s manner to me tended towards the dismissive but I probably asked for it. I was so anxious to conceal my real feelings that I was always conciliatory in her presence and she took this for weakness. As it probably was.
Fortunately, Fleur and Pa were working so hard in their respective spheres (he began rehearsals two weeks after our return) that they preferred to spend what few hours were left, alone together at her flat. After a week or two of token nights at home, he gave up all together the pretence of living with us and returned only to fetch clothes and books. Fleur always came with him. On the grounds that her stomach was ‘faddy’ she avoided having dinner with us but sometimes they had a drink and an attempt was made by all of us, except Ophelia, to pretend that these were relaxed and friendly get-togethers. Sometimes Rupert and Archie were there, which helped enormously. And Charles Foy came almost as often.
It was on one of these occasions, some time in late March, when Pa, Fleur, Charles and I were making conversation in the drawing room, while Ophelia and Cordelia lurked upstairs until Pussyfoot should have gone, when we heard a dramatic vroom, vroom from the road. My spirits lifted, thinking it was Rupert and Archie, but when I went to the window I saw an unfamiliar red sports car parked outside.
A pair of legs the thickness of cocktail sticks swung out of the passenger seat followed by a body clad in a coat of black and yellow fur, striped like a bumblebee. Above this was a bob of scarlet hair. I could not see her face because of a gigantic pair of dark glasses. My attention was distracted by the emergence of the driver on the other side.
‘Bron!’ I cried. ‘Oh, Pa, it’s Bron!’
We had had one telephone call from him since Christmas, in which he said he was fine and wasn’t coming back to England for a bit and he’d read about Pa being let out of prison in the Italian papers so that was fine, and he hoped we girls were fine too. I had told him about the divorce and he had said, ‘Fine, fine,’ as though we were discussing the weather. It was altogether an unsatisfactory conversation.
I ran to the front door.
‘Don’t crush the suit, there’s a good girl.’ Bron returned my kiss and straightened imaginary creases from his immaculate coat. ‘You’re looking terrific, Hat. What a transformation!’
I had forgotten that the last time he had seen me I was wearing my anarchist uniform.
‘Rupert bought me these things. Wasn’t it kind?
‘What some men will do in order to get their oats! Now me – I like it the other way round. This is Letizia.’
He put out his hand to embrace the tiny waist of the woman who had scampered up the steps like a daddy-longlegs fluttering to the light. I remembered that Letizia was a divinity of the fashion world and Bron’s employer. Close to I could see that her face – what was visible round the enormous specs – was a cracked riverbed of wrinkles.
‘Ciao, cara.’ Letizia smacked the air with lips like a rouged rubber band. She spotted the Anubis hat stand. ‘This we must have. For the fashion shoot.’ She pushed past me into the house. ‘Yes, perfetto for the beach collection. Pay anything they want.’
Bron took a wallet from his pocket. ‘What do you say, Hat? Five hundred?’ He held out a fistful of notes.
‘What? For the hat stand? But, Bron, it isn’t mine to sell. Besides, I’m very fond of it.’
Bron took out more notes and slapped them down on the table. ‘A cool thousand. What Letizia wants Letizia gets, sweetie. Luckily she wants yours truly.’ He gave me a fiendish grin and followed her into the drawing room.
‘And this is Papa. Ciao.’ Letizia embraced my father. ‘Now I see where my darling boy gets his good looks.’ She gripped Pa’s cheek between thumb and forefinger and waggled it. He looked bemused. ‘The famous actor, ah yes, I remember now. The man that was assassinated. In Italy we understand these things but the English – pooh! – they make such a fuss!’
; ‘Actually, I didn’t –’ Pa began but Letizia had gone on to Fleur. ‘And this is Mama.’ She kissed Fleur enthusiastically. ‘I have to thank you for bringing in the world the beautiful Bron who has made me so happy. I owe you a great – word, caro?’ She snapped her fingers at Bron.
‘Um, debt?’ supplied Bron, getting out the wallet again.
‘Sì, sì. But I did not mean – va bene,’ she shrugged. ‘What matter?’
Bron slapped down another pile of notes.
‘I am not this man’s mother,’ began Fleur, pardonably annoyed as she was thirty-five, less than ten years older than Bron. ‘In fact I never saw him before in my life.’
‘Ah, you are American,’ said Letizia, who had been doing a quick circuit of the drawing room. ‘That answers it.’ She gestured with a hand like a collection of leafless twigs towards Fleur’s very smart tailored dress. ‘You Americans have no history, poor things. You have to try too hard. The hair is not bad. But not the little black bows. Too much. And you,’ she darted towards me, ‘this is much better. You have the style.’ She veered away on her tiny insect legs. ‘That sofa – perfetto with the fur collection. In fact I make you an offer.’ She turned back to Fleur. ‘Fifteen thousand for the whole furniture of the house. You have a taste with the decoration. What you say?’
Fleur looked at Pa. ‘Sweetness –’ she began in a dangerous voice.
‘Now, my dear Miss Letizia,’ began my father obediently, ‘delighted though we are to see you, I’m afraid we have no intention of selling our furniture to a complete stranger.’
‘But, tesoro mio, I am not a stranger. No. I am your – word, caro,’ she snapped her fingers at Bron.
‘Daughter-in-law,’ supplied Bron. ‘We were married in Rome last week.’
‘But, Bron,’ I said, later as we stood in the kitchen while Letizia had a bath to wash away the rigours of air travel, for they had come straight from the airport to see us. ‘Isn’t she just the tiniest bit – old?’
Clouds among the Stars Page 57
