Cordelia

by Winston Graham

  ‘Of course not! Certainly not. There’s no question of it. But I–’

  ‘Yet without first asking me about it, you have the clock brought down – arranging it with my servants in secret. They become a party to the deceit.’

  ‘It wasn’t intended to be deceit at all,’ she said in distress. Why couldn’t he see that in her sight it looked quite different? Awful, to be hauled over the coals, with Brook listening, perhaps servants; to feel the conflict of impulses, to want to explain, to ingratiate, yet to feel her own cause just. She had never quarrelled like this – and so petty. Mr Ferguson, her guide, her benefactor. ‘I don’t want to offend you or anyone, but I’ve tried to explain why I did it. It never occurred to me to look on it as–’

  He said: ‘I don’t think we need go any further with this, Cordelia. It’s a small thing, no doubt.’ He brushed the lapel of his coat, brooding on her behaviour. ‘Perhaps you think I have made too much of it. But it really depends on one’s code in these things, what one is brought up to regard as important–’

  She stiffened. ‘I was brought up to respect my own father and to consider his feelings!’

  He had said the wrong thing for once, strengthening her opposition when he had wanted to undermine it.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, nodding slowly. ‘Perhaps I am expecting too much in too short a time.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t want to change.’

  He stared at her. Not the benefactor but the judge. ‘ My dear, when you were married, you took Brook as your husband and me as your father. We have our faults, of course – our faults – but one of them is not lack of confidence between one member and another. To do things behind each other’s back. To pretend to accept what we really intend to rebel against. No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to upset you, but I hope you’ll think this over. Try to understand.’

  She was about to say something in reply but checked herself, picked up her skirts, and ran up the stairs.

  Five minutes later Brook found her in the bedroom staring out of the uncurtained window at the fine flakes of snow. He stood there uncomfortably for a moment, wondering whether and how to end the first silence.

  She said: ‘ What sort of a breakdown was it at the works to-day, Brook?’

  He was startled. ‘What? What breakdown? Oh, that … I think it was a drum. Or a roller on one of the drums.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Oh – after dinner, I think. I didn’t really see it, you know. I was out most of the day.’

  ‘Did your father say it was repaired when he came home?’

  ‘I don’t remember. What does that matter? Delia, I hope you won’t be too upset about this business of the clock. I told you you didn’t know Father.’

  She said: ‘He made it seem something enormous – almost criminal. He talked about bringing up; well, I was never brought up that way, to see things distorted and exaggerated. Heavens, how could you live in a big family if every little disobedience was made into a monstrous crime to upset the whole family!’

  Brook sneezed. ‘I tell you, dear, it’s no good arguing like that. He doesn’t mean to be unkind; that’s not it a bit. He made it a matter of principle because it was a matter of principle to him. And discipline, of course. But he’ll always win in an argument.’

  She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her fingers, an upward, small girl movement. ‘Not if you’re in the right.’

  Brook said: ‘Well, somehow he always seems to put himself in the right.’

  ‘He can’t do. He can’t if you’re in the right first.’

  Brook moved moodily over to the table. ‘I asked cook to do me a lemon and have it sent up. I’m going to have some hot whisky and camphor with it tonight.’ She did not speak. ‘Don’t stand there, Cordelia, or you’ll have a cold next.’

  After a moment she sighed. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it will blow over. He’s been very kind to me in most ways … Brook, did Margaret get on with your father all right?’

  He said stiffly: ‘I think he was very good to her. It’s no good listening to all the silly prattle you hear.’

  Tuesday was New Year’s Eve, and in the evening Mr Ferguson was giving a larger party. This was an important occasion; and Cordelia spent all the early afternoon preparing the flower decorations for the dining-table. While she was doing this a maid came in and said a gentleman had called and would like to see her.

  The brush with Mr Ferguson had left her lonely and flat. Almost more than anything in her new life she found she missed the chiming of the clocks. They had been a part of her birthright, her babyhood, her adolescence. All her home life had been lived to their regular commentary. At times in the afternoons this house was so desperately quiet that one was almost afraid to walk about in a normal way. The one chiming clock in the dining-room was like a pathetic orphan. Like herself. Lonely and lost.

  So she was very glad to hear someone had called, and it was not until Patty had disappeared that she remembered Margaret’s maiden name had been Massington.

  As she went into the drawing-room a tall thin man turned from the window, tapping his gold-mounted cane in his open palm. He was in the middle thirties, with close-set prominent teeth and a black well-groomed head. Raffish, distinguished, ever so slightly shy.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I asked for Miss Ferguson. That’s a new maid you’ve got. And are you – the new Mrs Ferguson?’

  ‘Yes. Aunt Letitia’s resting. I’m sorry. I expect Patty misunderstood you.’

  He had been eyeing her.

  ‘No matter, my dear. It was a good mistake. You know who I am?’

  ‘Some – relation of Margaret’s?’

  ‘Yes. Her brother. And you’re Brook’s new wife.’

  She coloured. ‘Will you sit down?’

  ‘Thank you.’ But he waited for her.

  They talked about the weather. Dan Massington had come on horseback and he complained about the slippery roads, said the frost would spoil the hunting. But all the time they were being polite he was weighing her up, glancing round the room, cocking a cynical eyebrow. There was something in his manner which made his courtesy insincere. Quite abruptly he broke off and put his lips together over his teeth.

  ‘Brook didn’t take long for his next choice, did he? Bereaved in March, married in October. But I expect it was mainly the old man’s doing, wasn’t it?’

  Her colour came again but deeper. ‘Do you want to see me about something?’

  ‘I didn’t. But I’m interested now. Tell me, my dear, d’you like living here?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Very much.’

  ‘Do you come from somewhere out of the town? I’ve never seen you before. But that’s not surprising; you’re so young. Were you poor and did the gilded cage attract?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘ ’Fraid you’ll find it a whited sepulchre. That’s what Margaret found it. If it hadn’t been for her damned religion – I beg your pardon – she’d have walked out of here years ago and would have been alive and well today. Are you a religious gel? I hope not. What’s the good of sticking to a man for better or for worse when the worse is of his own making? There’s things I could tell you … But you’ll find them out for yourself all in good time.’ He yawned. ‘I like the looks of you, you know. I hope you fly away before you get your wings clipped.’

  ‘Thank you for liking my looks,’ she said. ‘Now will you tell me what you’ve come for?’

  ‘Not a nice subject, is it, the family of Ferguson. They’re an unbalanced lot – all excess and deficiencies. You might expect it in the old rich but not in the new rich. Tell me, d’you ever go out on social visits? If so, remember the Massingtons. Come and compare notes some time.’

  She had never felt her inexperience so much as now. Have him shown out. Yet she was the newcomer, he the older relative.

  She got up. ‘ Perhaps you’d like to see Brook’s uncle.’

  He rose to stop her. ‘Old Pridey? A monumental bore. There’s not
hing worse than an eccentric who’s really only commonplace. Spare me that.’

  Flushing still, she hesitated, facing him. Looking at her, something kindled in his eyes.

  ‘My sister used to give me tea.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t feel so well disposed.’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  She pulled the bell and ordered tea, hoping that one of the others might come in unexpectedly. Once there was another person there his guns would be spiked.

  But no one came; and after he had sipped his first cup of tea he crossed his legs and said:

  ‘It’s queer to be back in this room again. And you sitting there, Mrs Ferguson. Just where my sister used to sit when she was Mrs Ferguson.’

  He had a knack of saying the uncomfortable thing. But the interval had given her back some self-possession.

  ‘I wonder, Mr Massington, that you can bear to come here.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘I assure you, I shouldn’t come here often if it was to see the Ferguson family. I used to come to see my sister … And now perhaps I may come to see you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘ I only want to meet people who want to meet my husband.’

  ‘All right, that’s a bargain,’ he agreed. ‘ I want to meet your husband – so long as I can call in the afternoon when he’s likely to be out.’

  ‘I’ll ask his permission for you to come,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that would be a bad move, my dear. I don’t think he likes me. We’ve hardly been on speaking terms since the funeral.’

  ‘Then–’

  ‘Tell me,’ he went on. ‘ I suppose you’ve known the Fergusons a long time?’

  ‘Quite a time.’

  ‘Then you knew my sister?’

  ‘… No.’

  ‘I see.’ Satisfied, he stretched forward for his tea. ‘ Now if–’

  ‘Would you tell me one thing?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  Her heart was beginning to thump. ‘Why do you bother to come into the Fergusons’ home to insult them when I’m sure you must be able to do it so much more freely outside?’

  He stared at her, tried to read her cool hostile expression.

  He said: ‘Perhaps you’re different stuff from Margaret, perhaps you’ll be flattered into becoming a chattel, another slave in the old man’s retinue, think it fun to dance when he pulls the strings and then be put away in a convenient drawer. Perhaps. But I don’t think so now. The pretty pussy has claws.’

  She said: ‘Can I give you some more tea, Mr Massington?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sipped in silence.

  ‘I really came to ask if Margaret’s writing-case had been found. It has some family papers in it.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll go and ask Aunt Tish.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. I’ll call again.’

  ‘If it’s found we could send it to you.’

  ‘Dear, dear, so the young lady is really on her dignity.’

  ‘Didn’t you expect me to be?’

  ‘Let’s see, how long have you been married, two months? Well, yes, I might have done … Have you any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fond of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to see one of them marry and be unhappy and constantly at loggerheads with her father-in-law and have a weak-kneed shadow for a husband? And then would you like to see her taken ill and fade away? None of it for any good reason either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The world’s a wicked place, you know.’

  She said after a moment: ‘Are you married, Mr Massington?’

  He glanced at her again, uncovering his teeth.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But suppose you were, and you were fond of your husband, happy in your home. And a man called one day – and said the things you have said. Would you be – offended?’

  ‘Not if I believed him.’

  ‘Why should I believe him?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I see your point. But you will. Leopards don’t change their spots. Neither will Frederick or dear Brook.’

  Tea was finished in silence.

  He got up to go. ‘ Well, thank you for your entertainment, Cousin. I suppose we are some sort of relations, aren’t we?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Perhaps not. I think I’d rather have it that way.’ He smiled at her, looking her quickly over very expertly just once more. ‘Don’t forget, it’s the merest etiquette to return a call.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t often go out alone.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he agreed. ‘Nor will you if the old man has anything to do with it. You’ll find that out, my dear. It isn’t that he begrudges you pleasure, but that he doesn’t like you to have any in which he’s not concerned. He doesn’t fancy anyone in Grove Hall having a separate life of their own.’

  Chapter Eight

  In the evening Mr Ferguson was in one of his best moods. In preserving a balance, Cordelia noticed, Mr Slaney-Smith’s presence was a help.

  Mr Slaney-Smith was Mr Ferguson’s best friend. Mr Ferguson esteemed him above all his other acquaintances, and sometimes deferred to his judgment – which alone put him on a pinnacle not reached by ordinary men.

  He was a tea-taster by profession, but he lectured on biology two evenings a week at the Carpenter’s Hall, Brook Street. The Origin of Species had been published only seven years and Mr Slaney-Smith was in the forefront of the battle raging over the body and soul of man. But the gentle agnosticism of Darwin was not for him; he was a militant atheist ready to thrust a sword into the belly of any entrenched churchman who came in his path. There was in fact something almost religious in his irreligion. No priest or deacon could have brought a more unquestioning faith to Holy Writ than he did to Mr Huxley’s successive chapters in the gospel of scientific revelation. For him the principle of natural selection had got itself transformed into a self-seeking, terror-shot, bloody-handed struggle for existence in which only the basest attributes callously exercised could ensure survival. The universe was by its very nature evil – science, he said, had proved it so, logically and with good evidence. There was no hope. Man was alone in the jungle. Away with God and the hypocrisies.

  To the furtherance of these views he brought a peculiar personal animus, as if any semblance of a religious idea was an affront to his soul. He was no longer on speaking terms with his own brother because one day he had met his brother’s little girl coming home from Sunday School and had said: ‘Well, Annie, have you seen Jesus Christ today?’

  Tall, thin, square-shouldered, and rather stooping, with dark, gold-brown eyes, he wore his sandy hair in a well-plastered quiff and had a long, smooth, drooping moustache. (As Aunt Tish was fond of saying in private: ‘Eh, it should be cut off. It should an’ all. And him a teataster too.’) He had nine children who were reared on a strictly rationalist diet and were never allowed downstairs when their father was at home. He also had a wife, but she stayed in with the children.

  His welcome in Grove Hall, where he supped twice a week, seemed a little contradictory, since Mr Ferguson was a stickler for all the religious observances and was unfailing in his Sunday churchgoing, gave money to the church, fed the rector, was a churchwarden and on the council. But Frederick Ferguson had an intellectual pride in his own openness of mind, and it interested him to hear the other side. It interested him to hear all sides. He was always taking up some new subspecies of religion and bringing its believers to the house or bringing books on it when the believers were all distant or dead.

  What might have been a cause of the utmost friction was a curious link. They were both fascinated by the religious topic though they looked at it from different sides. They wrangled and said outrageous things to each other, but they never quarrelled. And on all other topics they saw eye to eye: liberalism, reform, hygiene, cold baths, gambling,
municipal art, the menace of Russia, tripe, Swinburne, Garibaldi, and the water supply.

  Mr Slaney-Smith had a poor opinion of the female sex generally, and his advanced ideas curled back like the horns of a snail whenever they touched any suggestion of the emancipation of women. He usually ignored Cordelia, and she was not a bit indignant but rather grateful for this. His crushing intellectual armour overawed her.

  Mr Ferguson had recently been elected to the city council, and a dozen of the guests tonight were friends of his on the council or the aldermanic bench. The family doctor was also present, a man called Birch, a school-friend of Brook’s, who had taken over the local practice recently. A tall gaunt young man with a reserved manner which made him difficult to know.

  It was to be a musical evening. Uncle Pridey had got out his old cello, and he and Brook and Brook’s friend Tom Griffin played a Haydn trio and one by Boccherini. Brook played two of Chopin’s Nocturnes and Mary Griffin sang. Then a lady called Mrs Thorpe recited a dramatic poem; and to give the evening its final crown Mr Slaney-Smith allowed himself to be persuaded to sing: ‘Oh, Give Me Back My Arab Steed’.

  By this time it was nearly midnight, and the darkest man in the room was sent out to let the New Year in.

  It had always been a happy time for Cordelia before. This year while Tom Griffin was outside she felt again that little twinge of melancholy.

  ‘A happy New Year, Brook dear! A very happy New Year!’ She kissed him. ‘A happy New Year, Mr Ferguson.’ He kissed her cheek and she caught the smell of wine and broadcloth and eau de Cologne. His heavy hand was on her shoulder and she smiled up at him. ‘A happy New Year, Mr Slaney-Smith. A happy New Year, Mrs Thorpe.’ So it went to the end, and then Cordelia expected them to join hands and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, but instead they stood with bowed head while Mr Ferguson said prayers – all, that is, except Mr Slaney-Smith, who was allowed to remain seated and represent New Thought by pulling at his moustache.