by Ann Swinfen
'Good, good. Sorry I didn't introduce you.' He waved his hand dismissively. 'But you all seemed pretty busy.'
'Pretty busy, yes. I would have liked to meet him all the same.'
'Oh, you will, you will. It's going to be big, this series, and I'll be seeing a lot of him.'
'The Great Eccentrics? Yes, Natasha told me about it. You're to do the voice-overs.'
'Ah, yes.' He looked briefly disconcerted. 'I didn't realise you'd heard about it. Well, of course, I'll be involved in a good deal of the planning, you know. Ran my eye over Nigel's preliminary ideas when we had lunch and gave him a bit of advice.' He sounded pleased and confident.
'I'll be dealing with him myself,' she said quietly. 'Natasha has asked me to act for her in the negotiations about the programme he wants to make on St Martins.'
'Yes, yes. We'll both need to look after that.'
Frances looked at him steadily, but did not answer. The bricks under her hands were soft and warm, crumbling slightly with age. As she gripped them to stop herself speaking out angrily to Giles, her fingers dug into the dark brown soil of the bed behind her. This was where Gregor had dug up carrots this morning, and the soil was the colour and texture of rich Muscovado sugar. The garden wall beyond the vegetable bed was crowned with ivy, which had climbed up the outside and cascaded down against the inner face. Its relentless advance had sent out tough parasitic tendrils that were working their way insidiously into every cranny of the tender warm brick. I must see that ivy is cleared, thought Frances with great clarity, her mind stepping smartly to one side of Giles. It will destroy the wall.
The black bitter reek of the ivy mingled with the fertile scent of the earth under her fingers.
Giles had assumed the look of a scholar, a man of wisdom and vision, who could impart great ideas to the eager masses gathered to hear him. 'I have decided we need to make a few changes in our life-style,' he said. His tone was pitched a little lower than usual, with a fruity resonance. He is practising his voice for the new series, thought Frances.
'Oh? Have you indeed?' She clenched her fists over handfuls of St Martins soil and clung to it, like a shipwrecked survivor clutching at the land.
'Yes. I've decided we should sell the Reading house and move to St Martins. I'll keep the London pied-à-terre, of course. But I think it's time we took over here, turned it into a proper home. It will be great for entertaining. I've reached that point in my career when I need a big country place. All part of the image. Doesn't do me any good, not having a place where I can entertain people like Nigel. I need to be able to demonstrate that I've arrived. Success breeds success, you know.'
He glanced sideways at Frances, but she was gazing away from him, across towards the wooden gate which they had left open, and beyond which the audience could be seen drinking cups of coffee and walking about the lawn. She was crumbling handfuls of dirt between her fingers, letting it fall like fine rain back on to the vegetable bed. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
'It's unfortunate that it's such a long way from London,' he went on, pursuing his thoughts. 'Kent or Oxfordshire would have been better, but the price of places the size of St Martins in those areas would be right through the roof.'
He pondered. He had been thinking about this all afternoon, but by putting it into words he could fill in the details, see the whole thing taking shape delightfully before him.
'I'll probably need to get a better car – a Daimler, I think – for travelling back and forth. The trains aren't to be thought of, and flying is too complicated. Bristol's the nearest airport.'
'You've been banned from driving.' It was her first response, and her voice held nothing but a detached interest. Watching him, listening to him, was like watching a play.
'Oh, I'll have a driver. Or rather, a general manservant. He can act as a dresser too, and odd-jobs body.'
Still she did not react. His voice took on an injured note.
'Well? Aren't you pleased? Isn't this what you've been wanting to do for years? All those holidays with the children down here? All those complaints about the house in Reading?' His face flushed. 'For God's sake, Frances, I thought you'd be pleased.'
'Pleased? Well, I'm surprised.' She turned to look at him. 'After all these years when you've sneered at St Martins and all it represents. You've mocked my family. Derided the very idea of living in the country. And in any case, I can see several flaws in your plan.'
'Such as?'
'St Martins doesn't belong to us, it belongs to Natasha. We could live here if the trust committee agreed, but it could never be our grand house in the country, as you seem to think.'
Giles's eyes slid away shiftily. 'It might be possible to come to some arrangement.'
'No,' said Frances firmly. 'My grandfather tied the trust up very firmly indeed. Natasha only controls ultimate ownership of the property, not its usage. The ownership, of course, she can bequeath to her heirs on whatever terms she wishes, within the general constraints of the original trust agreement.'
Giles opened his mouth as though he was about to protest, then closed it again.
'And this idea of a – what was it? a Daimler? And a driver? And house parties? Where do you suppose you would get the money for those? I'm sure Nigel's series will pay well, but it won't make you a millionaire.'
He smirked. 'Ah, now there I'm ahead of you. Had a chat with a fellow called Frobisher while you were watching the stage-struck villagers. He's keen to buy that field for a very handsome sum.' He gestured expansively in the direction of the meadow.
Her temper flared up at last. 'Can't you grasp this one simple idea? That meadow doesn't belong to you any more than the house does. It belongs to Natasha, and the trust has use of it in perpetuity.'
'Be reasonable, Frances. The meadow is useless to St Martins as it is now. Frobisher will pay well for it. I'm sure you can make Natasha see sense. And that is family property. The trust doesn't make any use of it.'
Frances stood up, letting the last fragments of rich brown soil trickle back on to the bed. She said nothing for a moment, then drew a deep breath and looked at him squarely.
'There is no point in continuing with this conversation, Giles. You won't be coming to live at St Martins. But Katya and I will. I'm leaving you.'
He gaped at her. 'But why?' His voice was injured, outraged. What, for God's sake, had he done? Suggest that they leave Reading and come to Herefordshire. Wasn't that what she'd always said she wanted?
'Why?' She withdrew her gaze, looking inside herself. 'Perhaps you should ask: Why never before? For years our life together has been a pretence. Your whole life is a pretence. You don't even know yourself who you are. Sometimes I'm inclined to blame your profession, but when I look back I can see that it was already there when I first knew you. You have been acting a part so long in your private life that nowadays you seem more real to me when you are on stage.'
She drew another long, shuddering breath, and her voice broke. 'I did love you once. At least I think I did. I thought you believed in the same things as I did. But at the heart of you there is nothing but a great emptiness, and I'm tired of trying to fill it. And I – well, there are things I want to do before it's too late.'
'Frances,' he said, suddenly aware of panic gripping him, 'you can't do this. Be reasonable, please . . .'
Frances looked at him with pity. 'I think we have just become a habit with each other, you and I. There is nothing else holding us together. Your career is taking off so well, and I'm glad of that. The children are grown, all but Katya. You don't need me any more.'
'Oh, Frances, please.' He was pleading with her. For the first time in his life, perhaps, sincere.
She cut him off, turning on her heel. 'There is nothing more to be said.'
She walked back along the brick path and through the archway on to the lawn. Only when she was hidden within the crowd did she pull out her handkerchief, and blow her nose. She had long practice in holding back tears.
The herald
sounded the fanfare for the second half of the play.
Chapter 13
Frances found a seat next to her father. After his rest William looked brighter, and managed a near-smile as she sat down. She took his hand in hers.
'I've been trying to catch up with you all day, Dad. But when I haven't been helping with the party, you've been resting. How are you?'
'Better.' He was able to shape the word, though the 't' sound was slurred.
'Mabel says the physiotherapy and the speech therapy are doing wonders. We'll soon have you back to normal.'
William looked at his daughter tolerantly. He knew, even if she didn't, that this was unlikely, but he was prepared to go along with the pretence. Her eyes, he noticed, were unnaturally bright. Had she been crying?
'You?' he said.
'Me? Oh, I'm fine,' she answered automatically. Then she smiled ruefully. Dad had always been able to see through her polite deceptions. 'Well, no, to be honest, I'm not fine. But I will be. I've just told Giles that I'm leaving him. Katya and I will be coming back to St Martins to live.'
William's whole frame gave an involuntary jerk, then his face flushed and softened. The twisted muscles at the side of his mouth relaxed and he beamed at her.
'I'm glad. Franny, I'm glad.' His voice sounded almost normal. 'Sounds selfish. But I've never been happy. About that marriage of yours.' He took a deep breath. 'Wonderful. To have you both here.'
She squeezed his hand, and the tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She brushed them away impatiently with the back of the other hand.
'Listen to you! You're speaking as well as ever.'
'Joy,' said William, 'is a powerful medicine.'
* * *
My lord, said Lysander, I shall reply amazedly,
Half sleep, half waking . . .but as yet, I swear,
I cannot truly say how I came here . . .
The tangled plot of the play began to unwind. The lovers paired off, and the mortals left the magic wood for the pleasures of the court and the marriage celebrations. And the 'hard-handed men that work in Athens' found they were chosen to perform before Duke Theseus, who chided Hippolyta's sarcasm about them, pointing out:
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity
In least speak most, to my capacity.
Nigel leaned back in his chair with his hands in the pockets of his calfskin jacket and smiled contentedly as Eric, playing Quince, spoke the prologue of the inner play with its comically disordered punctuation. Wall marched stiffly on stage wearing a harness over his shoulders supporting pieces of hardboard in front and behind, roughly plastered over. Moonshine carried an old candle lantern from the stable and led Harry, who had been cast as the man-in-the-moon's dog. The audience rocked with laughter at the mincing Thisbe, with his wellingtons and bass voice. Nigel cheered along with them. During the interval Gregor Baranowski had agreed to do an interview for The Great Eccentrics – stipulating, like Peter Kaufmann, that a fee was to be paid into the trust funds. All in all it had been a very productive day. He just needed to see Frances Kilworth to schedule a further visit, this time with his assistant Jack and the chief cameraman he planned to use. They would settle terms then, and organise a filming schedule.
On stage Bottom as Pyramus ranted and swaggered, then discovered the bloody mantle dropped by Thisbe and pawed by a very charming and gentle Lion. He drew his sword and waved it about so that the audience could see it was made of cardboard loosely covered with kitchen foil, bending and wobbling in his hand.
Come, tears, confound;
Out, sword, and wound
The pap of Pyramus:
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop . . .
He thrust the cardboard sword under his left arm and began to stagger wildly about the stage, bouncing off the flower troughs and teetering on the very edge of the terrace, as though he was going to fall into the laps of the front row of the audience. The children sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of the chairs shrieked with excitement.
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus....
Now am I dead,
he collapsed on his back at the front of the stage, with his legs sticking straight up into the air.
Now am I fled,
he groaned dreadfully.
My soul is in the sky.
Tongue, lose thy light!
Moon, take thy flight!
Now die, die, die, die, die.
His final twitching convulsions were greeted with a great cheer from the audience. Thisbe, tiptoeing on stage in her wellingtons to find her lover, was revealed – now without her mantle – to have a thick ginger beard. She grieved over her dead lover:
These lily lips,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone:
Lovers, make moan:
His eyes were green as leeks.
As befitted a true romantic heroine, Thisbe hunted for Pyramus's sword but – failing to find it – stabbed herself daintily with the scabbard. She arranged herself delicately across the body, showing a good deal of hairy leg.
'Give over,' said Pyramus in a loud stage whisper.
The roar of applause at the end of the mechanicals' 'palpable-gross play' drowned the sound of a car drawing up at the far side of the house, before the front door. As the cheering died away Katya raised her head and listened. She thought she could hear the sound of a car driving away down St Martins' lane, but she hadn't noticed anyone leave. She glanced around. Her father had been standing over near the stableyard, dissociating himself from the amateur play-acting. He didn't seem to be there now, but he wasn't allowed to drive. She shrugged and turned back to Puck and the other fairies, dancing in Theseus's hall, led by Oberon and placing candles all around the edge of the stage so that it began to glow in the fading light.
Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we:
Which by us shall blesséd be:
And the issue, there create
Ever shall be fortunate:
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be:
Frances felt William's hand warm in hers. The laughter had caught her up, and the tears had dried on her cheeks. Suddenly she felt an unexpected and unfamiliar sense of happiness welling inside her. She glanced around and caught Gregor's eye. He smiled at her. Over his shoulder, she could see a figure, blurred and indistinct in the long shadows cast by the setting sun, approaching from the stableyard. Puck was speaking the epilogue:
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumb'red here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearnéd luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long:
Else the Puck a liar call.
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends:
And Robin shall restore amends.
A tall man stepped out of the shadows just below the terrace and led the applause. The light of the candles on stage fell across him, lighting up a thick head of dark hair peppered with grey.
'Uncle Hugh!' shouted Katya.
'Hugh,' breathed Frances, squeezing William's hand.
A smile lit up Natasha's face. Now we are complete, she thought.
* * *
As twilight fell over St Martins, a kind of wild excitement seemed to take hold of the party-goers. A Midsummer Night's Dream had been a success beyond anyone's expectations. The stranger who had come up from London with Giles Kilworth turned out to be a television director, and he was seen going about shaking the ac
tors' hands, congratulating everyone. He thought he might be able to introduce Kate Fellowes to a few useful people before she finished at RADA, talked about getting them to do a scene from the play in some TV programme he was planning to make about St Martins, and hugged Chrissie, telling her he had never seen the fairy played with such panache. All the actors were drunk with achievement.
Chrissie threw herself on Hugh. 'Did you see me? Did you see me?'
But before he had to admit that he had arrived too late for her major scene he was borne off by Katya and Nick. Sally captured Chrissie and managed to rescue her filmy costume before it was ripped to tatters. Clad in jeans and a pullover – for the evening was growing a little chilly Chrissie raced off to find Samira.
'Let's go and see our puppies,' she said. 'Have you thought of a name for yours yet?'
'Not yet,' said Samira. 'I still can't believe he's mine.'
'Let's show the puppies to your mum while they are getting the barbecue ready. When she sees them she'll understand why you just had to have one.'
They ran together across the grass and into the stableyard.
'Here, you two,' called Anya, coming with Spiro out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of plastic boxes full of sausages and chops. 'Come and give us a hand.'
'Can't,' said Chrissie cheekily. 'We're terribly busy.'
'Monkey,' said Anya. 'There'll be no putting up with her after that play.'
Spiro dropped a kiss on the top of her head, as his hands were full. 'I see that all the women in this family have very strong and difficult characters.'
'I warned you.'
* * *
Mia Patel, sitting with Muriel, Richard and Chanor at a folding picnic table near the barbecue and buttering a great mound of hamburger rolls, suddenly found her lap filled with two sleepy puppies who squirmed in confusion. With a small shriek she dropped the buttery knife. Samira leaned on her shoulder, gently caressing the head of one of the puppies.
'This one is mine. Isn't he beautiful?'
Mia looked at the puppies nervously, her hands hovering in the air above them. Chrissie's puppy turned round a few times, then sank down to sleep, her nose tucked between her paws, but the other puppy ducked from beneath Samira's hand and planted his forepaws firmly on Mia's chest. He had a slightly worried expression, and his little bright eyes looked intelligently into hers. Then he butted his head into the hollow of her neck before touching her chin with the tip of his nose. He gave a small sigh, then he too circled on her lap and settled to sleep, curled up against his sister.
