The Granville Sisters

by Una-Mary Parker

  ‘Of c-course I remember.’ She was sobbing now, her face buried in her hands. ‘I prayed every night for four years that you’d return safely. It was the worst four years of my l-life …’

  Henry looked at his pretty, vapid little wife, whose worst fear was that the splendid life she’d acquired through marrying him might all come to an end. He sighed inwardly, wishing sometimes that he’d married an intellectual equal; a woman with whom he could share a real life, not a roundabout of parties.

  ‘Darling, don’t cry,’ he said wearily. ‘You were such a brave girl during the last war. Such a brave little bride … waving me off at Waterloo Station.’ He knew he ought to put his arms around her, but the chill of anxiety paralysed him, and he was unable to offer her comfort beyond the reassurance of his words.

  ‘But what are we going to do, Henry?’ Liza felt soggy and shaken. ‘You won’t have to go to the front again, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. Much too old,’ he replied with false jocularity. ‘They wouldn’t want an old timer like me. In truth, I don’t know what will happen. But we’ll manage, like we did last time. We’ll get through it, Liza, because we’re Granvilles.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Mummy?’ Louise asked. The sisters had come down earlier by train, with Nanny and Ruby in attendance.

  Liza had slipped up to her room as soon as she and Henry had arrived, avoiding seeing anyone, including Lady Anne.

  ‘She’s got a headache,’ Henry said lightly.

  ‘She always has headaches when she comes here,’ Charlotte remarked. Now seven, and acutely observant in the same way Juliet had been at that age, she was also inclined to ask awkward questions and make blunt remarks. ‘I don’t think she likes being in the country. It’s too quiet,’ she added sagely.

  ‘The reason Mummy doesn’t like it here,’ Amanda pointed out bossily, ‘is because there aren’t enough parties.’ She’d been forced to wear glasses during the past year at Henry’s insistence, not that she cared. If wearing glasses prevented her from making ‘a good match’, so what? She hated parties anyway and thought they were a dreadful waste of money.

  Amanda had become a ten-year-old rebel, who, to her father’s amusement, disapproved of most of her family’s activities.

  ‘I thought we’d have tea in the conservatory,’ Lady Anne said.

  ‘A lovely idea,’ Henry agreed. ‘Come along, girls.’

  ‘Shall I be mother, then?’ Lady Anne asked gaily, picking up the silver teapot.

  Smiling with relief at being back in the peaceful haven of Hartley, Henry sank into one of the cane chairs. ‘That would be marvellous, Mother.’ He surveyed the table, set with cucumber sandwiches, scones and jam, and a rich Dundee cake. ‘I see Mrs Dobbs has been busy.’

  His mother smiled. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ Her bright eyes looked at him closely. ‘You look tired, Henry.’

  He made a little grimace. ‘It’s been a long week.’

  Louise sat down beside him. ‘You work too hard, Daddy.’ She was approaching the borders of puberty with serenity and there was a gentle stillness about her that attracted people, as if they felt safe in her company. Slightly plumper than her elder sisters, and with freckles scattered across her nose, she was the calm one. The placid one.

  ‘It’s half term, Daddy. Can’t you stay for the rest of the week with us?’ she asked.

  ‘I wish I could, pet,’ he said ruefully. ‘But everything is … well, very unsettled.’

  ‘Can’t you take a holiday? Everyone has holidays, even if they are chairman of a bank.’

  Henry looked at her tenderly. She had a great nurturing streak, always rescuing motherless kittens, or birds that had fallen out of the nest. One day she would make a wonderful mother, he reflected.

  ‘Daddy,’ Amanda asked. ‘I want to start collecting money for the poor children of the village. I don’t think they have enough to eat. And why don’t we give them some of our clothes? And someone,’ she continued darkly, ‘someone should be raising the money to get a new school built. And cottages with loos inside the house and not in the back yard. Couldn’t you give some money to help?’ she suggested.

  Henry and Lady Anne exchanged looks.

  ‘Could it be,’ Lady Anne asked Henry, when the children had gone out to play, ‘that we have a budding Socialist in our midst?’

  They both started to laugh. Neither mentioned Liza, reclining upstairs on her chaise longue, but both could imagine the uproar it would cause if Amanda were to grow up and betray her own background.

  ‘Oh! Is that your car?’ Charlotte exclaimed excitedly, rushing out of the house as Juliet parked her new Rolls Royce coupé next to her father’s Bentley.

  ‘Yes, darling. Cameron gave it to me for Christmas.’ She started gathering up all her parcels. ‘These are presents for you all. I had a shopping spree in Harrods yesterday.’

  ‘But it’s not Christmas,’ Charlotte pointed out.

  ‘Who cares about Christmas?’ Juliet joked, as Warwick helped her with her luggage.

  Louise and Amanda came running up. ‘How much did that car cost?’ Amanda asked immediately.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest,’ Juliet replied merrily. ‘Lots and lots, I expect, but then Cameron has lots and lots.’

  Charlotte looked impressed. ‘As much as the King?’

  ‘Maybe more,’ Juliet teased, amused.

  ‘More? More?’ Her little sister’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Does he give any to poor people?’ Amanda enquired.

  Juliet had no time to reply, as the whole family, led by Henry, came out to greet her.

  ‘You look well, darling,’ Lady Anne told her. ‘How is life in the Highlands?’

  ‘Not as much fun as life in the Lowlands,’ Juliet quipped drily.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ Liza exclaimed dismissively. ‘You have a lovely time up there.’

  Lady Anne looked closely at Juliet, recognizing the signs of boredom. In spite of everything, she could tell Cameron Kincardine was obviously not enough for Juliet. She needs a real man, Lady Anne reflected, and then immediately wondered why she’d used that phrase.

  In fact, Juliet was inwardly feeling desperate. She’d found Daniel’s telephone number in Kent, through directory inquiries, and, plucking up courage, she’d actually dialled it, only to have it answered by a servant, who informed her that Mr and Mrs Lawrence were away. Juliet had hurriedly hung up, without having to leave her name. But how long was he going to be away? Did she dare telephone him again in a few days? A week? Cursing herself for not having got more information, she’d decided to go back to the houseboat on the Embankment. Maybe the old man who owned it could help. But there was no one on the boat and it had a depressingly deserted air.

  On Friday evening she’d phone Cameron to say she’d have to stay down in London longer than she’d expected, because she’d need several fittings for the clothes she’d ordered.

  Letting Hartley work its magic on her, Juliet felt much calmer and happier by Sunday morning. She would find Daniel somehow, and meanwhile it was wonderful to be back with all her family.

  Dressed in elegant cream slacks and a silk shirt, she decided to walk to the village to see Rosie, once more living at Speedwell Cottage, whilst trying to make a go of her marriage.

  She found Sophia, who had just turned one, in her playpen on the tiny back lawn, while Rosie kept an eye on her through the open kitchen window, as she did the washing-up.

  ‘Hello, there!’ Juliet called out gaily, walking round to the back door.

  Rosie, furious at being caught unawares, and wearing an old cotton dress covered by a grubby apron, with her hair a mess, was less gracious. ‘What on earth are you doing down here?’

  The stark contrasts between their lives hit Juliet like a thunderbolt. She hadn’t made a bed in her life; hadn’t washed even a teacup; didn’t know how to work one of those modern vacuum cleaners, and didn’t even know how to boil an egg. And she had more money
than she knew what to do with.

  ‘Don’t overdo the warm welcome, will you,’ she remarked sarcastically.

  ‘You might have warned me you were coming,’ fumed Rosie. She jerked the plug out of the sink by its chain, and the soapy water glugged noisily down the drain. ‘I thought you were still in Scotland.’

  ‘Would you prefer it if I went back?’

  ‘Do as you like,’ Rosie snapped sulkily. She glanced round the small cluttered kitchen, seeing it through Juliet’s eyes. The charwoman didn’t come on a Saturday, so there was a pile of saucepans still to be cleaned; dirty nappies in a bucket of water, waiting to be washed, and a dustbin brimming to the top, so that the lid was placed at a precarious angle. Even Rosie, accustomed to the mess, realized it looked like a slum dwelling, and the rest of the cottage wasn’t much better.

  ‘I’m having to do everything myself today. Mrs Black doesn’t come at the weekend,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Get Charles to help,’ Juliet said, looking round, wondering where she could sit.

  ‘How can he?’ Rosie replied with savage fury, throwing a damp tea towel over the back of a chair. She hated Juliet for barging in like this, uninvited. She felt humiliated by the squalor of her home, and bitterly jealous of the fact that her sister, looking fresh and elegant and rich, had never had to do a single menial task in her life.

  ‘He’s still spending the week in London, is he?’ Juliet asked, to make conversation. ‘I heard he was working in a gallery in Duke Street. I brought you a little present, by the way.’ From her crocodile handbag, she produced a small gift-wrapped box.

  Rosie, who felt like weeping with aggravation, filled the kettle at the sink, and then plonked it down, with a resentful bang, on the stove. ‘You needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘No, I needn’t, but I wanted to.’ The sisters looked icily at each other. Rosie picked up the box, and unwrapped a bottle of Shocking perfume, by Schiaparelli.

  ‘Oh …!’ Her breath seemed to have been sucked out of her body, and her face turned scarlet.

  ‘I remembered it was your favourite.’ Juliet spoke with sudden gentleness. ‘There’s nothing like a good squirt of scent to cheer a girl up.’

  Without saying anything, Rosie put the bottle down, and turned away, so Juliet wouldn’t see her face.

  ‘Sophia’s growing fast, isn’t she?’ Juliet remarked, to fill the awkward silence. ‘She’ll be walking before long, I imagine. Does she sleep through the night, yet?’

  ‘Mostly,’ Rosie murmured, her voice choked.

  Juliet reached into her handbag for her gold cigarette case. For the life of her, she didn’t know what to say or do. The gap between them was too wide, too serious, to be bridged by a flippant remark.

  We’re both so proud, Juliet thought, as she drew on her cigarette, and watched Sophia playing in the garden. Neither of us will even admit we made a mistake, and are unhappy.

  ‘I hear you’re having another baby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’ll be nice for Sophia.’

  ‘Providing it’s a boy,’ Rosie snapped.

  At that moment, Charles arrived, carrying some shopping bags.

  ‘Hello there, Juliet,’ he said, brightening when he saw her. ‘What a nice surprise. And how is Your Grace?’ he teased.

  Compared to Rosie, he looked good in his casual country tweeds, which disguised the gangling thinness of his body.

  ‘Terribly well,’ Juliet said with brittle lightness, sounding like a parody of a witless débutante. ‘Thriving, in fact.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked her up and down, approvingly. ‘And have you brought His Grace with you?’

  ‘Poor Cameron has so much to do on the estate, he simply couldn’t get away,’ she trilled. ‘So I’ve popped down on my own.’

  Rosie filled the sink with fresh hot water. ‘Did you get all the shopping, Charles?’

  He’d ignored Rosie up to now, but as he plonked his shopping on the kitchen table he remarked casually, ‘They didn’t have any cucumbers. Or beetroot. Do we really have to have another bloody salad for lunch?’

  Rosie grabbed the brown paper bags, accidentally splitting one of them, and there was a series of thuds as the potatoes fell to the ground and rolled away.

  ‘Damn!’ she swore, her face scarlet with misery and embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ Charles remonstrated in a weary voice. ‘They’re only potatoes, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But they’re covered in earth! I’ve already washed this floor this morning.’ She looked so vexed, Juliet didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Charles had scooped up the offending potatoes by now. He chucked them in the sink.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Rosie screamed. ‘I was about to wash those dishes, and now the water’s all muddy.’

  He looked askance at Juliet, and made a grimace. ‘As you can see, I can’t do anything right.’

  Juliet ignored the look, and rose to her feet. ‘I must be off, or I’ll be late for lunch. Why don’t you both come to dinner tonight? And bring Sophia. Nanny can look after her.’

  ‘Thanks, we’d love to,’ Charles replied with alacrity.

  Rosie said nothing. Not even goodbye.

  Henry’s sister, Candida Montgomery, who lived ten miles away at Whitchurch, in Hampshire, also joined the family for dinner that night, arriving late and bringing her son Sebastian.

  ‘Sorry, Marina couldn’t come,’ Candida said bluntly. ‘These young things are always making their own arrangements and only telling you at the last moment,’ she added cheerfully.

  Her portly figure was encased in a maroon dinner dress that Liza privately reflected must have been designed by a tent manufacturer. But ropes of pearls made Candida a regal figure, dignified and commanding in her own way.

  Sherry was offered.

  ‘Sherry?’ she repeated, appalled. ‘My dear Henry, who drinks sherry these days? It’s a filthy drink. Too liverish. I’ll have a dry Martini, please.’

  Henry grinned. ‘Right-o! A dry Martini coming up.’

  Liza smiled bravely. Part of her envied Candida’s nonchalant cheek; she’d never have dared ask for anything different, not even in a relative’s house. Candida’s self-assurance was awesome, and she had a habit, although Liza didn’t think she realized it, of making Liza feel very small and very provincial.

  ‘So, how are you, old thing?’ Henry asked with equal breeziness.

  ‘Plodding on, you know. Plodding on. I’ve bought a new hunter. Grey Ghost, sired by The Siren out of Grey Mist; great dam, that Grey Mist. Goes like the clappers. Can’t wait for the hunting season to start again,’ Candida boomed.

  Liza twisted her diamond rings. The only hunting she was planning to do was to look for a new mink coat for the winter.

  ‘Good for you.’ Henry looked at his sister affectionately. She was indomitable; strong, brave, and determined not to mope since the death of Marcus, her husband, five years ago.

  Candida moved closer to Henry and spoke, her low rumbling voice like a motor mower just about to peter out. ‘What’s the matter with Rosie? She looks terrible.’ She glanced over to the far side of the room, where her niece sat, huddled and frail-looking.

  ‘She’s having another baby.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean, Henry. She’s changed. She used to be sweet and gentle; a really lovely girl. Now, she looks so –’ Candida paused, frowning in her search for the right word – ‘so hard-bitten! Sort of … cold and ruthless.’

  Henry’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I suppose, seeing her every weekend … but has she changed so much?’ he added, looking distressed. He glanced at Rosie, who was talking to his mother. She’d become very gaunt in the past couple of years, but Candida was right. Her face seemed to have frozen into hard lines, and her eyes no longer reminded him of bluebells, but of cold steel.

  ‘She’s not happy with that drip, is she?’ Candida continued, undaunted. ‘Damn shame she got marr
ied so young. What was she ever going to do with a loser like that?’

  By the fireplace, Liza was now trying to make small talk with Charles. ‘Bond Street is a nice place to work; all those lovely shops,’ she gushed. ‘Is it very busy in the gallery?’

  Charles shrugged, one hand holding his drink, the other in his trouser pocket, while he lounged against the mantelshelf.

  ‘Fairly busy. This is not the best time of year, though.’ He looked beyond her, bored.

  ‘It must be very interesting work, though,’ she persisted. ‘It’s always nice to be surrounded by beautiful things.’

  Juliet came up to them at that moment, relieving him of having to reply to his mother-in-law.

  ‘When are you and Rosie coming back to live in London, Charles?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘It was never my idea to leave London,’ he retorted, offended. ‘I hate the country. I don’t know how you manage, stuck up in Scotland, or perhaps you don’t? Perhaps that’s why you’ve come south, is it?’ he added slyly.

  Juliet ignored the taunt.

  A shrill voice spoke, just behind her.

  ‘If you’d bought the house in Farm Street, Charles, instead of just renting it, and then not paying the rent, we’d still be in London,’ snarled Rosie. Her eyes were flashing furiously, while her hand was held protectively over her stomach.

  An uneasy hush fell over the room. Lady Anne looked deeply troubled. Liza had turned scarlet with embarrassment and shock, and Henry, looking grave, went and put his arm around Rosie’s shoulders.

  ‘I don’t think, my darling, that everyone wants to hear about our troubles, do you?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Let’s talk about it in private, tomorrow.’