Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  Marigold had left Sinbad at home. He was a well-trained dog and would be content, after his walk, for several hours. She rang the bell.

  There was some delay before it was answered and she almost turned away, wondering if she had, after all, misunderstood the invitation, reluctant to press it a second time. She had just stepped back, preparing for retreat, when the door opened and there stood Richard, looking harassed, wisps of greying brownish hair standing up round his head. He wore a shiny plastic apron decorated with a Snoopy motif, and a swift, artificial smile.

  ‘Hallo! You came,’ he cried, effusively. ‘Welcome. Do come in.’

  Marigold knew at once that he had repented the arrangement, but it was too late now for either of them to withdraw. She must exert herself to be a perfect, unassuming, helpful guest.

  ‘So nice of you,’ she murmured. ‘Happy Christmas once again.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ cried Richard, falsely merry.

  He took her camel coat and laid it over a chair which stood against the wall. ‘Perhaps I should hang it up?’ he asked himself, aloud.

  ‘No, no. It’ll be splendid there,’ she assured him. She was wearing a hat, this time one made of flecked tweed, not unlike his own, and now she removed it, laying it and a pair of brown leather gloves on top of her coat. Then, with short, stubby fingers, she briskly plumped up her wavy iron-grey hair.

  Entering, she had set down a basket full of packages covered in Christmas wrappings. Now she picked it up.

  ‘I brought you these,’ she said, tentatively. ‘Nothing exciting. So last-minute.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’ Richard had not thought of finding a present for her. There might have been a box of chocolates among their own presents; perhaps he could contrive to find one. Then he looked at what her basket held. ‘Do I espy a bottle?’ he cried, extracting a parcel shaped unmistakably. It might contain some non-alcoholic concoction – elderflower wine, for instance – he warned himself.

  But it didn’t. It was a bottle of a very good Chardonnay. How fortunate, because as he had stopped buying wine or spirits, he could not have produced anything with the meal, unless he tapped Verity’s secret supplies, and he would not ask her where she had them hidden. He knew there was some sherry; he’d put a bottle in his study, in case of seasonal callers such as carol singers.

  He took her into the drawing-room.

  ‘I expect you feel a little strange,’ he said. ‘Coming back like this after so many years.’

  ‘I don’t know how I feel,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

  She looked around her. Near the window was a large fir tree, more than six feet tall, decorated with painted glass baubles, mainly red and silver. There was tinsel on it, and tiny star-like lights.

  ‘How lovely,’ she exclaimed. ‘Our tree was always in the hall.’

  It had seemed immense to her, reaching up to heaven, though it must have been about the same height as this one.

  ‘Sherry?’ he offered, adding, ‘Verity will soon be down. She’s changing.’ Dressing, he meant. She’d not yet surfaced for the day.

  ‘Thank you.’ Marigold accepted the sherry, in a pretty glass – Georgian, she suspected, of some value. She had been thinking about the rooms the house contained in her day: drawing-room, dining-room, study, and a room the maids used as a sitting-room. There had been two maids, living in: amazing! One had been the cook. Upstairs, there had been six bedrooms and her father’s dressing-room, and a single bathroom. Leading off the kitchen, in a sort of extra scullery, had been a bath, covered with a board by day, for the maids, who shared an attic bedroom. ‘How many bathrooms have you got?’ she asked abruptly.

  Richard laughed.

  ‘Three,’ he said. ‘One en suite, as they say. Four bedrooms on the first floor and two in the attic. The boys have those; they’re both a good size.’

  When they moved in, frequent guests had been expected, at least by Richard, but none came except, occasionally, his daughter Anna, and, still less often, Verity’s parents.

  ‘So many!’ marvelled Marigold. If there were two attic rooms, why had Doris and Mabel, the housemaid, not had one each? She would never learn the answer.

  ‘I expect you’d like to look around,’ he said.

  With Verity still upstairs, this was not the moment, and Marigold demurred.

  ‘Another time,’ she said, but he showed her the ground floor.

  Here, the kitchen had been entirely re-done when Richard bought the house. Its design was modern but its wood fitments retained the older character of the house. In the centre was a vast table.

  ‘It’s got a heat-resistant top,’ said Richard. ‘I had it specially made. We eat in here most of the time.’

  In Marigold’s youth, Doris, the cook, had operated at a large scrubbed deal table: not so very different. Marigold had been allowed to put pastry leaves on pies and cut out circles for jam tarts.

  Today, the dining-room table – mahogany, a good reproduction, Marigold decided – was laid for five people. Red candles rose from swags of holly and there were scarlet paper napkins set beside each place. Silver gleamed. Heavy cut-glass tumblers sparkled.

  ‘How lovely it looks,’ said Marigold.

  ‘My wife’s artistic,’ Richard loyally declared, but it was he who had done all this. Verity, the night before, had painted large black streaks across her Christmas scene and turned it to the wall after Terry had said it looked too sad for Christmas. ‘She paints,’ Richard added.

  He led his guest on, showing her his study.

  ‘It was my father’s study, too,’ said Marigold. ‘It’s still dark.’

  Even on this sunny day, the room was dim. Marigold remembered that in the summer, her father always had the light on when he was in the room. She entered it sometimes, to read to him. He wanted to be certain of her progress.

  ‘Verity uses one of the bedrooms as her studio,’ Richard said. ‘It’s much lighter. I’ve got a workshop in the garden.’

  Marigold had noticed the large wooden hut as she walked up the drive.

  ‘What do you make?’ she asked.

  ‘I do a bit of carving,’ he replied, opening the playroom door.

  The two boys were in there, one intent before a television screen, obsessed with his computer game. The other one was reading a book with a fearsome cover; he had a headset on, pumping rhythm into his head as he read. Neither glanced up. This room, Marigold recalled, had been the maids’ sitting-room.

  ‘Forgive them,’ Richard said, leading her out again. ‘They’re deaf to the rest of the world. You’ll meet them properly when we eat. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must just dish up the bird.’

  Marigold did not offer to assist; the wife, Verity, would be doing that. She sat down in the drawing-room and closed her eyes, trying to refurnish it as it had been more than fifty years ago. The curtains – green now – had been a sort of coffee colour and the chairs and sofa had worn coats of flowered cretonne – yes, that was what it had been called. Wasn’t it really printed linen? Blue, it had been, with large pink sprawling blooms like paeonies all over it, quite pleasant. There had been several casual tables here and there; ornaments had stood on some, and photographs on others. The room, in winter, had been extremely chilly unless there was a roaring fire, though there had been central heating, with a coke boiler in the cellar. Today, there was a log fire which looked much the same as she remembered, but the room was very warm; a more efficient heating system must have been installed when the house was renovated. She wondered which of the bedrooms had been turned into bathrooms; how luxurious it sounded.

  She was still lost in the past when she heard a sound and opened her eyes. A thin woman had entered the room: a tragedy queen, she thought at once, observing Verity’s haunted expression. She was dressed in peasant style, with a flowing skirt of some eastern printed cotton, and a long black sweater which clung to her meagre breasts and bony elbows. Dark hair, glinting with copper shades, tumbled abundantly about her sho
ulders, but it did not hide her scrawny neck and it emphasised her somewhat raddled – yes, that was the word – face. Her dark eyes were large and staring, slightly unfocused. She did not speak, but gazed down at Marigold, uncomprehending.

  Marigold stood, levering herself out of her chair with powerful arms. A stocky figure in a burgundy-red woollen dress, she was a surprise to Verity, who expected to see an old, frail woman in her eighties, not this resolute-looking person who could clearly play two rounds of golf, straight off.

  ‘Marigold Darwin,’ said the visitor. ‘Your husband most kindly invited me.’ She extended a small, square hand.

  Verity advanced and touched the outstretched fingers. Her own were icy, and felt fragile. Marigold did not clasp them.

  Silence fell.

  ‘I’m shortly moving to The Willows, just along the road,’ said Marigold, at last. ‘It’s a delightful house – just as yours is, though much smaller of course. I lived here as a child. Did your husband mention that?’ Why should he, she reflected, as soon as she had said the words.

  ‘How nice,’ said Verity vaguely, then, brightening, ‘Ah – I see you’ve got some sherry. Where did Richard put it?’

  ‘It’s over there.’ Marigold gestured towards the bottle which was on a table by the window.

  There was no spare glass. Verity made an impatient sound, became more alert and hurried from the room, soon returning with one, which she filled, tossed the contents down her throat, filled again and swallowed half, topped it up once more and then sat down on the sofa, opposite the hearth. She spread herself across it, skirt fanning round lean thighs.

  Marigold thought, not for the first time, that love was very strange. What had attracted this ill-assorted pair to one another? Or were opposites, like magnets, inexorably drawn together? Before another silence overwhelmed them both, she spoke again.

  ‘A lovely day,’ she said, in her low, rich voice.

  ‘Is it?’ asked Verity. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Very cold.’ Marigold persevered. ‘Maybe it will snow.’ It wouldn’t; the sky was too clear. ‘I expect your boys would enjoy that.’

  ‘I daresay.’ Verity had finished her sherry. She refilled her glass and, as an afterthought, waved the bottle enquiringly in Marigold’s direction.

  Marigold shook her head.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  With the sherry, Verity was relaxing; her tense expression softened but her focus was now even less acute. She’s had something already, Marigold decided, but was it drink? She felt a flicker of concern; that nice man, Richard, had a problem here.

  At this point in her speculation, he appeared, smiling warmly and announcing that the meal was ready.

  ‘Where are the boys?’ asked Verity. Her voice was harsh, in contrast to her drowsy appearance.

  ‘Waiting eagerly for nourishment,’ said Richard. ‘They’ve been helping me dish up.’

  Hunger and greed had driven Justin and his brother to the kitchen, where they had hopped about in some excitement, not too sophisticated to be unmoved by the sight of a large turkey, roasted to a perfect golden brown. One had stirred the bread sauce; the other had drained the sprouts. There were carrots, too; some people – Richard among them – did not care for the traditional sprouts.

  On the sideboard in the dining-room stood the bottle of wine which Marigold had brought. She wondered whether to ascribe this to his tact and then remembered that when they visited this room on their tour, she had noticed only tumblers at the place settings. Now, everyone had a wine glass.

  ‘This is Justin and this is Terry,’ Richard introduced, as the two boys waited by their chairs, Richard having sharply told them to stand up when they had already seated themselves, Terry brandishing his knife and fork around in anticipation. He replaced them, crookedly, as an old woman entered with his mother, and he knew immediately that she was the woman from the park. He’d seen her there a few times since that episode, always in her hat and with the dog. She recognised him, too: he saw it in her face but, to his amazement, she gave no sign that they had met before.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Justin. Happy Christmas, Terry,’ she said, her stern features creasing into what was, for her, a smile. She identified the smaller boy at once, but did his parents know about the incident in the park? He had done nothing wrong; the bigger boys were the miscreants. In her experience, it was best not to complicate matters so she did not mention their earlier encounter.

  Somehow, Richard kept the talk going while they ate. There was quite a lot to do, what with serving everyone and passing round the vegetables and all the trimmings.

  ‘Miss Darwin lived here years ago,’ Richard told the boys, in between carving and seeing that Justin was handing round the gravy and bread sauce. Verity sat silent, and idle.

  ‘Did you?’ Terry looked at her directly.

  ‘Yes. Until I was about your age. Then we moved away,’ she said.

  Terry was intrigued by her hair. It was so thick and curly, like a wig. Perhaps it was a wig.

  ‘Did you have a tree house?’ he tried out. ‘Did people then?’

  ‘I didn’t, but the children next door did. I envied them,’ said Marigold.

  ‘Cat made us one,’ said Terry.

  ‘Cat?’

  ‘The boys call me that,’ said Richard. ‘Because my name’s Richard – Dick Whittington, you know.’

  ‘I see,’ said Marigold. Somehow she did not think the name was intended as a compliment.

  ‘Willy would have been better,’ said Terry, and began laughing wildly.

  ‘That isn’t funny, Terry,’ said Richard. ‘Mind your manners and pass Miss Darwin the cranberry sauce.’

  Marigold had, after a second, understood the boy’s remark. Why were the two of them hostile to their stepfather? Why was Verity so obviously miserable? Despite his apparent geniality, was Richard really a domestic tyrant? It was possible. Malevolence could lurk behind benign facades, despots could beam kindly upon children, the mild man next door could turn out to be a murderer or a rapist.

  Verity contributed little to the conversation. Richard had given each boy what he preferred to drink – Coca-Cola – after offering them some wine.

  ‘You’re not too young to have a taste,’ he told them, but they both declined.

  Marigold noticed that he only half-filled Verity’s glass while being generous to her and to himself. Verity drank hers rapidly, and when he did not top it up, she asked for more.

  ‘In a minute,’ he replied, and rising, filled all their tumblers with water.

  She drinks, Marigold thought: she really does, and if I hadn’t brought that bottle, it would have been a soft drink meal for all of them, though Richard might have been embarrassed by not offering wine to a guest.

  ‘It’s a very nice wine,’ he told Marigold, topping up her glass and his and just covering the base of Verity’s. ‘Thank you. Miss Darwin brought it,’ he told the company.

  ‘And I’d like some more of it,’ said Verity distinctly. ‘Richard doesn’t like me drinking,’ she told Marigold.

  ‘I got it at the wine merchant’s in the town,’ said Marigold, smoothly ignoring this observation. ‘Where it is, there used to be a draper and haberdasher. The money went in small screw-top containers on an aerial pulley to a cashier, who put the change in it and sent it back by overhead wire. It used to fascinate me as a child.’ She thought of purchases made from the Miss Morrises, who kept the shop: knicker elastic, lisle stockings, linen buttons for the dreadful liberty bodices.

  ‘It must seem very different,’ Richard said kindly.

  They talked about the changes she had noticed while the boys ate without comment and Verity toyed with her food, abandoning the meat and barely eating any vegetables. Then Marigold, rather daringly, enquired if the boys liked football.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Justin. ‘Terry got himself into a fair old row in the park while playing, not so long ago.’

  Marigold could see by Justin’s
expression that he had said this to cause trouble.

  ‘We don’t want to discuss rows on Christmas Day, do we, Justin?’ Marigold replied.

  She was surprised to see Terry, his mouth full of roast potato, gaze amazed at her and then almost grin. Was that gratitude because she had blocked his brother’s attempt to reveal the incident, presumably not mentioned to their parents? She sent another diversionary remark on its way.

  ‘Do you enjoy swimming?’ she asked.

  Yes, they did. They wanted Cat to install a pool.

  ‘Do you skate?’ she asked, and learned that they had roller blades and skateboards, and went occasionally to the ice-rink.

  She told them about the floods freezing in her youth and how she had skated in the fields. Richard fed her questions. The boys concentrated on their food and, when the pudding, which had flamed effectively while it was carried in, was being eaten, she questioned Verity about her painting, wanting to know which medium she preferred.

  Verity ground out responses about oils and gouache. She spoke with such reluctance that Marigold wondered if it was her own presence which had provoked this sour mood. Had there been a fearful quarrel before she arrived? She began to fear this was the answer. Richard would regret his friendly act.

  After lunch, the parcels she had brought were opened. There were sweets for the boys – nothing exciting, but she had some toffees left from those she had bought as an answer to Trick or Treat children over Hallowe’en, and had bagged them up in polythene and tied them with ribbon. There was a box of chocolates for Richard and Verity. It was her own Christmas indulgence; otherwise she would not have had a present. There was nobody to give her one, now that she had left the office and was not part of the ritual gift exchange between colleagues.

  Then Richard astonished her by handing her a parcel. When she opened it, she found inside an expensive bottle of Chanel No. 5.

  She did not see the look of pure hate which Verity directed at him.