Registering the change in climate, Jim decided that Albert’s next beer would be one of those nonalcoholic pissbrews he kept on tap for just such occasions. When they were as drunk as young Albert here they didn’t even notice the difference.
“You do realize what this does to us, his children?”
“Oh, aye, emotionally like-”
“Emotionally be buggered.” Albert had known Jim most of his life and saw no need to pretend the Beauclerk-Fisk family laundry couldn’t stand an airing like anyone else’s, even had discretion ever been a part of his nature-which it had never been. Furthermore, a lifetime of theatre training, while rewarding him poorly in a financial sense, had encouraged a natural tendency to speak from the heart, regardless of the consequences.
“What I want to know is what he’s going to do with the will this time,” he continued now. “He’s owned and disowned most of us several dozen times over the years-I don’t think even Ruthven, the mercenary little shit, has any idea what Father is worth or how much, if anything, is liable to be Ruthven’s cut. And with this wedding… well, you do see, don’t you? We don’t any of us even know who this woman is.”
Jim, who at his death would probably be worth no more than 5,000 pounds once the Inland Revenue got through raping his widow, still could appreciate the similarities. Where there was money at stake, even piddling amounts, the heirs were sure to behave badly. Why, when Mrs. Cottle up the way had died last year her two daughters had had a regular knock-down drag-out in her front garden over some trinket the old lady’d probably bought at Torquay for ten pence back in the 1930s. Jim, whose reading was largely confined to racing forms, had no idea what a famous writer like Sir Adrian might have raked in over the years; he only knew the mansion itself was probably worth a few million. And if some stranger were to come along and grab the whole lot now that the old man was approaching his twilight years… yes, Jim could see where this could lead to a right mess in any family. ’Specially this one.
“Sarah thinks-”
Just then, the wind caught the door, blowing it open with a crash. Its squat medieval frame was filled to capacity by a large form in black. Both Jim and the cat jumped; the cat was not seen again for many hours. As Jim told his regulars later, it looked like nothing so much as a witch blown in on the rising storm. Had he had either Albert’s theatrical background or his level of alcohol, he would have thought the entire cast of the witches’ scene in Macbeth had come crowding through the door at once.
“I recognized the car,” announced the apparition, unwrapping itself from a dripping black anorak.
“Sarah!”
Albert stumbled off the barstool, again righting himself just in time. He threw his arms around his sister as far as they could reach. Jim thought he looked like a drowning man clutching a rubber dinghy.
“I see you had the same thought I did,” said Sarah, gently disengaging herself. “No way am I going up to that madhouse without fortification. Jim!”
Sarah had two volumes, inaudible and bellowing. Her voice now rang out across the room, as if to be heard over a thronging crowd at the bar.
“How are you? Let’s see the wine list.”
Jim, who had two wines to his name, both plonk varietals in boxes from which he refilled the two bottles he kept behind the bar for appearances, was momentarily at a loss. Sarah, who shared her father’s passion for only the finest when it came to drink, sensed the problem and sighed. “Just bring me a red, then.”
She and Albert moved to a table in the corner near the fire.
“I decided I had to come,” she announced, looking around as if she’d somehow found herself in the wrong pub by accident. An antique scythe hung from the rafters just over her head, she noticed, and shifted her position a foot or so to the right.
Jim brought their drinks to the table and then discreetly disappeared toward the back.
“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of not being here,” said Albert.
“More or less my thinking, too.” Sarah was in a rare belligerent phase, thought Albert. She seemed all her life to have careened between knuckling under to their father and doing things designed to annoy him. Her weight-a bone, so to speak, of contention the whole time she was growing up-was one of those things. She was a pretty girl, Albert recognized, and had been heartbreakingly beautiful as a child, but by wearing no makeup and swathing herself in dark drapery she made sure no one would suspect. She gazed at him now out of blue eyes in a round face framed by a too-short brown fringe she clearly had cut herself, now plastered to her forehead in zigzag fashion by wind and rain.
“Has it occurred to you,” she continued, “that he’s done this deliberately? I mean, what else could get us out here in a howling gale like this?” She paused to wipe the fringe off her face, so that now it pointed skyward. “I’ve heard from Ruthven and George- they’re both coming, Ruthven with Lillian in tow, naturally. George is bringing a girlfriend.”
Albert nodded noncommittally. He’d also heard from Ruthven, gaining the distinct impression in the course of the conversation that Ruthven was trying to discourage him from showing up. Fat ruddy chance, thought Albert. It had only put the seal on his decision to come.
“On the way down I was trying to remember the last time the whole clan was together like this. And I couldn’t. Remember, I mean. It seems that even on one or another of his birthdays, one or another of us was out of favor.”
“Out of the will, to be specific. Have you talked to him at all?”
“I rang to tell him I was on my way. Maria took a message.”
“I thought it was regrets only. I have no regrets.”
Sarah smiled. “What do you think the story is with-”
The pub door again swung open, fanning the fire into loud crackles of falling wood. This time, two lean black figures scurried in from the gloom.
George, shrugging out of a black leather jacket, glanced at the pair at the table, then looked around him, as if disappointed at the small audience. George never went anywhere he didn’t expect or hope for a crush of frenzied females to come out of the woodwork. Sarah didn’t recognize the girl who followed him in, flapping her arms and spraying water in all directions, surmising it was George’s latest semi-permanent, and searching memory for her name. Natasha, that was it.
Sarah and Albert made room for them at the table. Albert noticed that, by creating some unnecessary disturbance for the rest of the party, George managed to seat himself where he had the best view into the gilt-edged mirror hanging on the wall opposite. Also, that his girlfriend was left to fend for herself in disentangling herself from her coat, George being engaged in arranging his long blonde hair back into the artfully tousled look he paid a London salon to maintain for him, at a cost of the average working man’s weekly pay packet.
And they say actors are vain, thought Albert.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries (“If we’d traveled any farther, the wind would have sent us into a ditch,” George explained), the three siblings quickly turned to the topic uppermost in all their minds. Natasha, unsurprisingly, as quickly looked bored-she had heard it all a million times on the drive down-and hoved off in search of drinks.
“Right,” said George, clasping his manicured hands on the table in a without-further-ado manner. “I think we’re all agreed that we’ve got to put a stop to this farce. The question is, how?”
“I had thought a confrontation might be in order. What they call an intervention,” offered Sarah.
They both looked at her as if she were mad.
“He’s not a drug user,” said George, patiently, as to a child.
“I know that,” she said, with some asperity. “But what’s the alternative? I’ve never known reasoning with him one-on-one to produce the desired result. A show of force, on the other hand…”
“I think Sarah’s right,” said Albert.
“Should we include Ruthven?” she asked.
“No!” This from George and Albert simu
ltaneously.
“He’ll only try to grab a bigger share,” said Albert, “and we’ll be back where we started. Provided, of course, the whole thing isn’t a joke to begin with.”
“He’s never gone this far before,” said George. “This is different, I tell you. Playing around with the will practically every week is one thing. This marriage is another. I want to know-I demand to know from him-what the arrangements are.”
“Demand, do you?” said Albert. “That will get you far. Besides, do you seriously believe he’s going through with it? I don’t. I think he’s playing games with us, hoping to spark a reaction. I’d be willing to bet there is no bride, he’s just making this up.”
“Why?” asked Sarah, wanting to believe he was right.
“Because of the way he’s gone about this. The invitation only last week. The fact that not one of us, so far as I know, has ever heard of or seen the bride before. It’s almost like he’s done the one thing he knew would send us all scurrying up here, as if he wanted us all on the spot, together, and this was the only way he could dream up that he was fairly certain would work.”
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” said Sarah. “But the same thought occurred to me. Perhaps he’s just… lonely… wanting to see us all together, knowing it would take something like this to bring us running, as you say.”
“Fine family feeling at last? Decades too late for that. But… perhaps. He couldn’t just ask us in the normal way, that’s for certain,” said Albert. “Knowing we’d all suspect a trap if he did.” He took a long draught of his ale, wondering why it seemed to be sobering him up rather than having the desired, memory-obliterating effect. “God, for a normal father!” he added with feeling.
“Dysfunction breeds dysfunction,” Sarah intoned. “We’re all classic COA: Children of Alcoholics.”
“Speak for yourself,” said George, suppressing a glance at Albert. “I never once saw Adrian really drink to excess, come to think of it.
Nor Chloe, although it might have done her a world of good. She seems to be making up for lost time in more recent years, though.”
Albert nodded drunken agreement. Whatever led him to drink, he felt, it wasn’t his parents’ example, just his father’s continued existence.
Natasha had by this time returned to the table with drinks for herself and George (for which she had paid, Albert noted) and by mutual consent, or rather, bowing to the inevitable, the talk turned to George’s latest tour of the European art galleries, which tour he pronounced to be a triumph. He next launched into his plans for a working vacation in America the next year. Albert took advantage of the moment to study George’s companion. She was a stunner, and no question: coal black hair shimmered from a center part to frame high, delicate cheekbones on a heart-shaped face. She had strong dark brows and a high-bridged nose, features that would have overpowered most faces, but made hers that much more memorable. She wore the ubiquitous black sweater and slacks, but in an indefinably stylish way that recalled photos of Jackie O dodging photographers rather than the millions of young women who now wore that particular New York uniform. How a vapid dumbshit like his brother reeled these women in, Albert couldn’t imagine.
Seeing his eyes on her, she smiled and spoke for the first time, nearly reading his thoughts. It was a lovely smile.
“We’re all wearing black,” she pointed out. “You’d think we were headed to a funeral.”
“No such bloody luck,” said George.
4. THE HAPPY COUPLE
IT WAS SOME TIME later before the party of four was to be seen wending its reluctant way in the general direction of Waverley Court, a motley procession comprised of one red sports car, weaving somewhat less erratically than when it had arrived at the pub; one ancient Mini, this belonging to Sarah, that barely qualified as a passenger automobile apart from having the required number of wheels; and one roadster of timeless and well-preserved vintage containing George and Natasha. Having made the mistake of letting Albert take the lead, bobbing and weaving, they tooled faithfully behind him, not daring to risk overtaking in case he made one of his frequent and unexplained swings over into the oncoming lane. Fortunately, the wind had died and they were quite alone in this cortege, having earlier turned off the tarmac onto several miles of dirt road leading up to the manor house.
A final twist of the wheel-Sarah, following the red lights on the back of Albert’s car, could not at first tell if he was inexplicably veering off the edge again or merely following course-and Waverley Court hove into view. God, it was worse than she remembered. Although ablaze with light, there was nothing in its hulking mass as it rose from the surrounding mist that spoke to her of welcome. It only needed Mrs. Danvers running about the garden with matches and a can of petrol.
A silver Rolls Royce that could only belong to Ruthven was parked proprietarily at precise right angles to the steps leading up to the front door. She guessed, rightly, he and Lillian had arrived early in order to establish a beachhead.
The front door beneath an ill-proportioned pediment had an impressive coat of arms carved into its tympanum-lions and griffins rampant among towers and flowers. This door now flung open to reveal a Heathcliffe-type figure in butler’s uniform: Brooding, dark, unfriendly, he observed them as they hauled their assorted belongings out of their assorted car boots. It was Paulo, needing only a knife clenched between his teeth to complete the image of menacing hostility. Sarah noticed he made no move to assist anyone but Natasha, who, à la Grace Kelly in Rear Window, seemed to be making do with a tiny makeup case, while Sarah herself struggled with an overpacked valise.
“Sir Adrian is waiting for you in the drawing room,” Paulo announced, cutting short Albert’s attempt at polite greeting. “If you’ll leave your bags in the hall I’ll see they’re deposited in your rooms.”
Freshening up from the long road trip was not going to be allowed, Sarah recognized, trooping in behind George, who was looking decidedly miffed, and Natasha, who was gaping in unabashed wonder at the baronial entry hall, the ceiling of which soared far overhead to disappear in darkness. The only thing lacking in here was a suit of armor, thought Sarah, but her father had had to make do thus far with an array of authentic and reproduction maces and battle-axes ranged along the walls. She had always itched to attach “Your Souvenir from Brighton” labels to their handles.
Meanwhile, Paulo had swung open the doors leading into the drawing room, then disappeared into the back reaches of the house, presumably on some errand more urgent than greeting unwanted guests. The four of them huddled in the entrance to the drawing room, taking in the scene.
Two chairs were ranged on either side of the fireplace, which flamed extravagantly in warmth and welcoming contrast to Paulo’s greeting. In one chair sat the familiar form of their eldest brother, in the other the more elegant, less-familiar but more despised form of his wife, Lillian. She, interrupted in the act of inserting a cigarette into a black cloisonné holder, paused now to gaze at them each in turn from beneath painted-on eyebrows. Albert was reminded of the cat at the Thorn and Crown-the same unblinking green gaze, the same queenly contempt. Their brother similarly stared at them, but his eyes held a look neither George nor Albert could read. Sarah, frequent victim of his childhood cruelties, could. He was watching for their reaction, mentally rubbing his paws in anticipation.
Directly facing the fireplace was a large, high-backed sofa, above which could be seen the easily recognizable, balding top of their father’s enormous round head. Having heard the visitors enter, he seemed to be engaged in a superhuman struggle to rise, judging by the snorts and snuffles emerging from his direction. A woman to his right was attempting to help him to his feet. They saw a strong back swathed in a tight-fitting white dress, sleek hair pulled back into a glossy chignon.
She turned to face the group, smiling as if for photographers. Blue eyes that the smile didn’t quite touch grazed them in passing before returning their solicitous gaze back to the heaving bundle at her side. She w
as unquestionably beautiful, she was slender even beyond the stringent dictates of fashion, she was, in fact, pretty much everything they’d conceived in their worst May-December imaginings… except that she was also, unequivocally and unambiguously, a woman of a certain age. Fifty? Sixty? In the silence from the doorway, you could practically hear the separate brains performing their calculations, and arriving at a median estimate of late fifties.
Sir Adrian smiled at their discomfiture. If Violet noticed anything odd in the way they stood frozen in the doorway, she gave no sign.
“Violet, my dear,” he said, patting her hand over his arm. “It’s time to meet your new relatives.”
***
Dinner that night was preceded by more than one hushed meeting behind closed doors.
They had spent an awkward half hour or so in the drawing room, clutching their drinks, pretending it was just a normal family gathering. As gatherings of the Beauclerk-Fisk family went, it was not, in fact, much stranger than the usual. Sir Adrian dominated the conversation by his presence, as always, but without saying much-it would be truer to say he steered the conversational boat, then sat back to watch them all flounder in his wake.
They had all gaped at Violet while trying desperately, in their different ways, to hide their gaping. They shook hands all around and then subsumed into chairs and uncomfortable silence. From long habit, and because of his advantage of being on the scene first, they all looked to Ruthven to rescue them. After an apparent struggle with himself, he decided to oblige.
“Violet was just telling us of her upbringing,” he said smoothly. He was using his negotiator’s face, the one that made it impossible to read his thoughts.
Violet waved her upbringing away with a red-taloned claw. Albert was reminded of photos he had seen of the Duchess of Windsor; unquestionably her worst feature, apart from her face, had been her big-boned hands dangling at the ends of her scrawny wrists.
Death of a Cozy Writer Page 4
