Take No Farewell - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Indeed. One might say that the external charms of Clouds Frome are almost the equal of those within it.’ Turnbull’s eyes met mine with a mirthless sparkle.

  ‘I didn’t think it could look so good in its first year,’ said Victor, ‘but Banyard’s excelled himself. Come and admire his handiwork, Staddon.’

  ‘Er … I’d be delighted to.’

  ‘Consuela will excuse us. Won’t you, my dear?’

  ‘Yes,’ came her voice, seemingly from a distance far beyond the bounds of the room. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m very pleased with the house, Staddon, really I am. It has everything you promised. Character. Elegance. Comfort. And something else. Panache, you might say. Yes, that’s it. If a house can have panache, then Clouds Frome has it in abundance. My neighbours admire it. My friends covet it. You’ve done a fine job, a damned fine job.’

  We were walking the length of the pergola, glancing back at the ornamental garden and the house as we went. Victor was in a declamatory frame of mind, waving his boater at arm’s length as he spoke, smiling and patting my shoulder at intervals. On my other side walked Turnbull, thumbs wedged in waistcoat pockets, head back and breathing deeply, as if sampling what little fresh air could penetrate the haze of smoke from his cigar.

  ‘And my wife likes it. That’s probably your most remarkable achievement, Staddon. Consuela can be pretty damned cool about a lot of things, I don’t mind admitting. Found Hereford stuffy and boring after Rio, I dare say. But where Clouds Frome is concerned, it’s a different matter. Becomes quite, well, quite animated. Isn’t that right, Royston?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  Was it the house that had stirred Consuela – or its architect? Was Victor paying me a compliment – or giving notice that he had my measure? I did not know and all I could do, as we strolled on, each affecting amiability, was nod dumbly and grin appreciatively.

  ‘I shall be happy here, Staddon, not a doubt of it. We shall be happy, if it comes to it – Consuela and I. Being mistress of Clouds Frome will bring her out of herself. You just see if it doesn’t. And don’t think you won’t have the chance to, because I hope you’ll always feel able to call and see us. As Clouds Frome’s creator, you’ll be assured of a permanent welcome.’

  We reached the end of the pergola and slowly circled the statue of a wood-nymph set up on the flagstoned platform above the orchard. Still nothing could stem the flow of Victor’s words, or rid me of the conviction that Turnbull’s eyes, shaded by the brim of his panama, were trained upon me.

  ‘It should be a splendid evening. Should be damned splendid, considering what it’s cost me.’ He laughed. ‘But what does money matter at a time like this, eh? A beautiful wife and a beautiful house. I’ll see them both in all their glory tonight.’

  Dusk was beginning to settle upon Clouds Frome when I saw from the window of my room the first guests’ motorcars moving up the drive. The evening was destined to be magnificent, to judge by the pink hue already tinging the sky. Down in the ornamental garden, a swarm of gnats hovered over the surface of the lily pond and water pattered soothingly round the stone cherubim of the fountain. The air was sweet and sultry, afloat with the mingled scent of a dozen flowers and shrubs. It should have been – for some perhaps it was – an hour snatched from paradise. It should have been unblemished, the rose for once without a thorn. Instead, my soul rebelled at what it sensed. This was wrong, this was false in every way. Amidst all the finery, all the gaiety, all the perfection of what would follow, I would carry my own midwinter secret.

  I crossed to the mirror and checked the straightness of my tie, then lifted the carnation from its bowl of water and secured it in my button-hole. It was time to answer the call of the music I could hear from the hall, time to plaster a smile to my face and join the grinning throng.

  The hall was bedecked with flowers; red and white roses, chrysanthemums, dahlias, lilies and magnolias, all crystal-vased and swathed in fern. The French windows stood open to the aromas of the terrace and, in the corner of the room, a string quartet had embarked on a tuneful programme. About half the expected fifty guests had arrived and were separating into eagerly conversant knots by windows and side-tables. I noticed Gleasure among those circulating with tray-loads of champagne and canapés; most of the other waiters I took to be hired specially for the occasion. Danby stood by the door, announcing new arrivals, whilst Victor was holding court by the fireplace, with Consuela at his elbow.

  Of her beauty nobody present could have been unaware. Her gown was of shot-silk blue, minimally decorated with lace and tulle. She wore a circlet of pearls in her hair and a diamond necklace about her throat. Her foreign blood seemed exaggerated, her exoticism accentuated, by her costume and its setting. And she was nervous. I could see the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, the writhings of her gloved fingers round the stem of her fan, the dartings of her dark eyes about the room. When her gaze met mine, there was the faintest of smiles, the briefest of yearning looks, then she turned back dutifully to her husband’s friends.

  The Caswell family had turned out in strength. Old Mrs Caswell was installed on a curved sofa in the bay window, beaming contentedly around the room. Mortimer was beside her, sour-faced and evidently out of sympathy with this and every other form of merry-making. Hermione, meanwhile, was laughing uproariously at the centre of a particularly noisy group near the dining-room doors. Marjorie was with the Petos, smiling and bobbing diplomatically; so far as I could judge, Grenville Peto’s grudge against Victor had evaporated with the champagne bubbles. Of Major Turnbull there was no sign and, strangely, I found this more disturbing than the sight of him at centre stage.

  It was whilst I was looking around for Turnbull that a portly little man with a bald head, wire-framed spectacles and a puffy look of perpetual affability tapped me on the elbow. ‘You must be young Mr Staddon,’ he said, grinning broadly.

  ‘Why, yes. I don’t believe—’

  ‘Quarton. Arthur Quarton. Mr Caswell’s solicitor.’

  ‘Of course.’ We had corresponded several times regarding Clouds Frome and had spoken at least once by telephone. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Quarton.’ We shook hands.

  ‘A splendid occasion, don’t you think?’

  ‘Er … yes. Yes, indeed.’

  ‘So good at last to see Victor come into his own, so to speak.’

  ‘I’m not sure I …’

  ‘Excuse me. What I mean is that, as the late Mr George Caswell’s adviser, I know how pleased he would have been to see his son installed here with the fruits of his success.’

  ‘I suppose he would, Mr Quarton. But wasn’t it he who sent Victor to South America in the first place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was that exactly?’

  The smile did not leave Quarton’s face, but a cautious frown arrived to crumple it still further. ‘Boys will be boys,’ he said. ‘The important thing is to reflect how well it’s turned out. This house, for instance. You must be proud of what you’ve achieved here.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And Mrs Caswell, of course. Victor’s finest acquisition on his travels.’ My spirit rebelled at his description. He might have been speaking of the centre-piece of an ethnographic collection. Perhaps, for that matter, he was. ‘A bewitching creature, don’t you think?’

  Quarton nodded towards Consuela and I felt myself turn to follow his gaze. There she still stood by her husband’s side, eyes lowered, the rays of the setting sun glinting on her necklace and shimmering about the folds of her dress. Bewitching? Yes. Truly she was, too bewitching altogether, for her own good and for mine.

  The hall filled, with Major Turnbull among the latecomers. The champagne flowed. The gaiety proceeded. Faces grew red and voices hoarse. The candles were lit. Victor made a brief speech. Mr Tuder Hereford of Sufton, his most distinguished neighbour, replied on behalf of the guests. Supper was served: pigeon pie, ox tongues, poached salmon and lobster. Happy to find myself at a table where I knew
nobody, I could only marvel at my fellow-guests’ appetites – for gossip as well as food. There was a bleak undercurrent of envy which I could have foreseen but which surprised me nonetheless. What right, some tones of voice and gists of remark implied, had the black sheep of the Caswell family to return so wealthy from his exile, so sure of himself, so accommodating – and so well married?

  It was from one such outspoken source that I learned of a forthcoming event in Hereford: the visit of the German Automobile Club, their party led by Prince Henry of Prussia, brother of the Kaiser. They were to lunch at the Mitre Hotel and among those joining them would be Victor. The date of their visit: Tuesday 18 July. This was surely the opportunity for escape to which Consuela had referred, though what she had in mind I could not guess.

  Nor did I seem likely to find out that evening. Try as I might, it had proved impossible to exchange more with her than the odd highly public word. In the end, I slipped away and went out on to the terrace to smoke a cigarette in the hope that it would calm my nerves.

  The night was as perfect as the day: stars scattered like dusted silver across the sky; the heady scent of jasmine wafting up from the garden; and an owl hooting somewhere beyond the orchard. I stood near the brightly lit windows and gazed in at the banquet. Consuela’s table was closer to me now than when I had been in the same room. Victor was beside her, conversing intently with Mr Tuder Hereford. Consuela herself was exchanging pleasantries with a lady I took to be Mrs Tuder Hereford. It was clear to me from Consuela’s strained and absent expression that she wished devoutly to be elsewhere, that her role as Victor’s obedient and courteous wife was one she could not sustain much longer. She looked unbearably beautiful, irresistibly desirable. And she was relying on me. She was trusting me absolutely. In that instant – but only for that instant – I determined that she should not trust in vain.

  ‘What are you going to do, Staddon?’

  It was Turnbull’s voice, raised hardly above a whisper. When I swung round, I found he was standing disconcertingly close to me, grinning in that cocksure way of his that defied one to accuse him of sneering. ‘I … beg your pardon?’

  ‘Confoundedly stuffy in there, wasn’t it? Don’t blame you for seeking a breath of air. Sorry if I startled you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I was simply wondering. With Clouds Frome finished, what will you do next?’

  ‘Accept another commission, Major. I am offered them from time to time, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. Still, it’s an uncertain occupation, isn’t it? Architecture.’

  ‘No less certain than most.’

  ‘Reliant on reputation, I should have thought. Word of mouth. What gets round about a fellow. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Still, with all you’ve done here, I don’t suppose you’ll go short of work. Grape?’ He held out his hand, from which dangled a small bunch of red grapes.

  ‘No thank you.’

  He picked one for himself, popped it into his mouth and nodded towards the window. ‘Been enjoying yourself this evening?’

  ‘How could I not? The hospitality’s been lavish.’

  ‘Victor hasn’t stinted us, certainly. And even Consuela seems in a generous mood.’ He spat some pips into the shrubbery and grinned more broadly still. ‘At least as far as décolletage is concerned.’

  Turnbull was trying to goad me. That much was clear. But on whose behalf? His own – or Victor’s? Until I knew, it was vital I should not let myself be riled. ‘Your remark seems in poor taste to me, Major.’

  ‘Really? You ought to loosen your stays, Staddon. Or perhaps you’d like to loosen somebody else’s.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘At the moment, I think I’d just like to go indoors.’

  ‘Dark skin. Yielding flesh.’ His eyes had not left mine for an instant. In them all the warmth of his tone was absent, all the breadth of his smile squeezed to nothing. ‘Damn fine, these grapes. Are you sure you won’t have one?’

  He held out his hand, stretching it deliberately across my route to the French windows. He was daring me to brush past him, tempting me to give way to petulance and so reveal that his darts had found their mark. ‘Quite sure,’ I said, as levelly as I could. ‘Keep them for yourself. And mind you don’t choke on the pips.’

  The grin vanished. The arm withdrew. He said nothing, but I was sure he watched me, all the way, as I walked back into the house.

  Saturday, I had been informed, was to witness a cricket match in Mordiford between the village side and the Caswell & Co. works team. The match had been arranged at Victor’s instigation as part of the Clouds Frome celebrations. As the only sportsman of the family, he was to captain Caswell & Co. Mortimer and the ladies would watch safely from the boundary’s edge. Victor had also supplied a trophy for the winners – a silver cider-costrel – which he hoped would be annually contested. All in all, he seemed to be doing his level best to transform himself into the most traditional and generous of rural landowners.

  The heat wave was unbroken and the match was due to start at eleven o’clock. I breakfasted late, with Turnbull, Hermione and Marjorie. Victor was already at the ground, whilst Consuela was reported to be keeping to her bed with a headache. In the circumstances, I could offer no plausible objection to accompanying them all into the village straight afterwards. As we were leaving, Lizzie managed to pass me a note from her mistress, which I buried deep in a pocket pending an opportunity to study it without interruption.

  Such an opportunity did not arise until the match had started. It was played on a pleasantly situated ground fringed by elms, with a pink and white marquee hired by Victor serving as a pavilion. Victor won the toss and elected to bat. The Mordiford team looked as muscular and inexpert as might have been expected, but the Caswells appeared to find the contest enthralling, with Hermione shrieking out advice and encouragement to the batsmen. Turnbull slumped into a deck-chair, pulled his hat over his face and lapsed into a torpor for which I was grateful. It left me free to find a chair on the least populated side of the ground and open Consuela’s note.

  Querido Geoffrey, it read. I have pleaded a headache to avoid attending the cricket match. Everyone else will be there, as well as most of the staff. Victor has recruited nearly all of them to play, cheer or serve lunch. I am sure nobody would notice if you slipped away. We must talk and make our plans. Do not fail me. Your loving Consuela.

  She was right, of course. We had to talk and the cricket match gave us the best chance of doing so we were likely to have. Strangely, however, I felt reluctant to do as she suggested. It was not that I dreaded telling her why her hopes of escape were to be dashed. Rather I suspected that, when it came to the point, I simply would not be able to tell her. This, more than anything, made me cling to delay like a drowning man to a raft.

  Caswell & Co. lost a wicket, which brought Victor to the crease. For a man who had allegedly not held a bat in years he made a remarkably fluent start, playing a succession of flourishing drives. He cut an irritatingly handsome figure in his sparkling whites and striped cap and I found myself resenting the applause he attracted. I had just begun to hope that the fastest of the Mordiford bowlers might dig one in short at him when I caught sight of young Spencer Caswell shuffling towards me round the boundary. He was smartly turned out in knickerbocker suit and straw boater, but wore an expression of studied moroseness.

  When he saw me, he stopped and stared for an instant, then said, ‘Hello,’ in a tone that seemed to blend equal measures of suspicion and indifference.

  ‘Hello, young fellow. Are you enjoying the cricket?’

  He glanced round at the game, watched Victor call his partner for a sharp single, then said, ‘No.’

  ‘But why not? Your uncle’s doing so well.’

  ‘They’re letting him. Anyway, cricket’s just a waste of time.’ As I absorbed the lack of boyishness in these remarks, it occurred to me that I had never seen Spencer larki
ng about or laughing, never behaving as children were supposed to. There was something disturbingly mature, almost cynical, about his character. That and his blank, set face, from which a pair of small piercing eyes stared out, seeming hardly ever to blink, created an impression of cold, hard aloofness.

  ‘They tell me you’re going to Harrow next year.’

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘Well, they’ll expect you to play cricket there. And Lord knows what other sports besides.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Tell me that when you’re lying under a scrum on the rugger pitch one freezing winter’s afternoon.’

  But my light-heartedness was wasted on him. A smile did not even flicker about his pinched little mouth. ‘I shan’t care whatever they do to me. If anybody hurts me, I’ll pay them back.’

  ‘Will you, though?’

  ‘Oh, yes. When I’m a man, I’ll pay back everybody who ever hurt me.’

  With that, he walked behind my chair and headed on round the boundary. I felt no inclination to call him back, was glad indeed to have to say no more to him. As I looked back at the cricket, a mighty shout went up against Victor for lbw. It was rejected. And the umpire who rejected it was none other, I realized, than Banyard, the Clouds Frome gardener. Perhaps Spencer was right after all.

  I showed myself briefly in the marquee for lunch – cold chicken and yet more champagne, Victor toasting his undefeated half-century – then slipped away, hoping to discover on the solitary walk back to Clouds Frome enough resolution to show Consuela the honesty that was the least she deserved of me.

  The house was enveloped in a silence that the heat seemed to render absolute. Almost everybody was engaged in some capacity at the match and I was confident of finding Consuela alone. There would never be, I knew, a better time to tell her what I had decided.

  She was not in any of the reception rooms and there was no sign of her in the garden. Nor was there anybody to ask where she was. Danby, Gleasure and the maids were all catering for the lunching cricketers. Cook was probably on the premises, but I had no wish to disturb her. As for Lizzie, she seemed to have vanished.