‘And you saw her…?’
‘… in her flat in Queensway, as arranged. Arabella was on her own. I don’t think anyone saw me arrive or leave.’
Why the hell doesn’t the fellow get to the point? ‘And you put the proposition to her?’
Dougal nodded. ‘As a friend of Jamie’s, as we agreed. I think she trusted me, after some initial hysteria. She seemed to be most upset because Jamie hadn’t called himself. She needs to talk to him—she kept telling me she must talk to him. Of course she understands that he is in Scotland with The Family at the moment, but as she points out—that never stopped him before.’
‘And her own family?’ interrupted Sir Hugh.
‘They don’t know yet but they soon will. The young lady is already leaning backwards on her heels like a duck and she’s only ten weeks—’
‘Good God, man!’ This is the kind of sordid detail Sir Hugh does not wish to hear. It’s the hard facts which interest him. Her family pose an uncertain threat. City people, made it under Thatcher, no form, only a whiff of class and certainly not enthusiastic supporters of the Crown, according to reports. ‘And she’s still maintaining the child is his?’
‘Naturally,’ said Dougal, adjusting his very white, crisp cuffs, fiddling with elaborate cufflinks of gold. ‘She is sticking to that and I am afraid it sounds as though she is telling the truth. And anyway, these days a DNA test would prove—’
‘Let’s hope it never comes to that,’ snapped Sir Hugh, irritated by the prideful preening of his equerry. He lowered his voice for the next question. ‘And no fresh evidence from Lovette?’
‘No, Sir Hugh. Lovette himself telephoned me yesterday. His men have discovered nothing new. She did have a slight reputation—she let her hair down when she first came to London, but not since she started seeing Jamie. According to her friends it was true love after that. That’s why she came off the pill.’
‘Damn fool,’ cried Sir Hugh, slapping his fist into his hand. ‘Silly, stupid little fool. What on earth did she think would happen?’
‘She is not the most intelligent of mortals,’ Dougal explained with a wry, handsome smile. ‘Not according to old school reports.’
‘None of them are,’ snorted Sir Hugh. ‘Sex mad, probably. But in the very lowliest of life-forms one expects to find some sense of natural preservation.’
‘But I don’t think she perceived any threat,’ Dougal went on, far too complacently for his superior’s liking, in his Brasenose College accent. ‘She’s just not very worldly-wise. She actually believed he would marry her and she’s only just recovering now from his thoughtless advice to abort the child. When she saw him on television attending church last Sunday, hand in hand with Frances Loughborough, she went into an immediate decline. She told me she couldn’t believe it. Lord knows what her reaction is going to be when their engagement is announced.’
‘Oh my God,’ moaned Sir Hugh, briefly closing his cold blue eyes. ‘What are we dealing with here? We must get a settlement before then, signed and sealed. And the Grange—you put that suggestion to her?’
The charming Dougal hesitated, wondering how he could soften the blow. ‘Her initial reaction is that she doesn’t want to live up north.’ He ignored Sir Hugh’s heightening colour. ‘She says she doesn’t know anyone up there.’
This time the private secretary slammed his fist on the desk. ‘But you took her the brochure?’
Dougal nodded. ‘Oh, she liked the house well enough. It was just the isolated location and the idea that she should live there without Jamie. I think she was pretty taken aback. I pointed out that of course she would have staff to see to her every whim, and visitors, too, naturally. She just sat there with her arms wrapped round herself and listened with her mouth gaping open. Didn’t really seem to take it in, if you know what I mean?’
‘Perhaps this little madam is more cunning than we take her for.’
‘It didn’t seem that way to me.’
‘Pushing for more…’
‘She is not that kind of girl.’
‘What?’ Sir Hugh rounded on Dougal with scorn. ‘Don’t tell me you are enamoured of her as well.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Dougal, fidgeting uneasily. Surely Sir Hugh knew all about his closet preferences. He’d been screened, hadn’t he? He hurried on, ‘But I do see what Jamie saw in her.’
Thank God he is not the firstborn.
She might not be that sort of girl but James Henry Albert, third and last son of the Sovereign, knows exactly what he is doing, the disgraceful bounder. He is as eager to sort this business out as everyone else involved. Sir Hugh had been deliberately hard on him, playing the strong father figure, last time they talked. Well, someone had to get through to the idiot before he ballsed everything up.
Since he cocked up at university, quitting after a year and a half to the great consternation of the tabloids, the boy has been treading water. Gadding off round the world disgracing himself while the country falls deeper and deeper into recession. Turning over luxury yachts, bungee-jumping off aircraft from the Queen’s Own Flight, motorbike-scrambling on sensitive mountains, intent on destruction. Well, hell, he has almost succeeded. His public rating is nil at the moment, let alone if this unfortunate business comes out. Refusing to go into the Services, refusing to throw himself into Good Causes, living in easy affluence, the only option left is for him to marry and procreate and thank God the virginal Frances is available and willing.
The traffic below was a steady grey noise, the rhythm of ordinary mortals. Little people. Sir Hugh closed the window.
‘I don’t consider your attitude to this as responsible as it might be,’ he stated firmly, raising a charcoal eyebrow.
‘She’ll get over it,’ said Jamie lightly, his easy, honeyed voice making everything sound so simple, his overlong curls half concealing the supercilious look in his eye. ‘And anyway, I’ll still see her.’
Sir Hugh felt like moaning aloud. ‘Oh no, you won’t, young fellow, that’s exactly what you won’t do!’
Instantly Sir Hugh sensed the tension. There was that hostile glance again, that challenging stare that has always been Jamie’s since early childhood as if to say ‘You can’t make me!’ The press used to love that look, considered it endearingly boyish. ‘Right little rough-neck,’ said the Sun, but fondly when he was six years old. He used to clench his little fists while his face contorted to hold back the tears. And then came the tantrums. Sometimes Sir Hugh, ever the realist, wonders about the boy’s IQ. Jolly good thing it was never tested.
‘I have the strongest impression, sir, that you don’t fully appreciate the extent of the scandal, should any of this come out into the public domain.’
Jamie smiles, a weak-faced man with his hands in his pockets, barely pubescent in a strange sort of unshaven way. But his eyes are extraordinarily bright, with flecks of amber round the pupils that spark whenever frustration hits him. ‘Do stop fussing, Sir Hugh. Peaches is a biddable wench, she’ll do whatever I ask her.’
‘I sincerely hope you are right,’ said his secretary, holding tight to his anger. ‘We are having to go to a good deal of trouble, let alone expense.’
‘Whose expense?’
‘Your expense, who else’s?’
‘You have never discussed this with me.’ Jamie’s shoulders tensed, his face seemed suddenly hot.
‘A girl is carrying your child!’
‘She’s not the first.’
‘No, indeed, but despite what you say she is not prepared to fade decently away into the background.’
‘I’ll see her…’
‘No! No, you must not! You must not be seen anywhere in her vicinity. The press—’
‘Bother the press!’ And then, as suddenly as he had flared up, James Henry Albert calmed down and bent his long, lean athletic body over the majestic desk and glanced with interest at the brochure from Jackson Stopps & Staff.
There was silence for a moment.
‘It is an i
deal retreat,’ explained Sir Hugh. ‘Perfect in all respects. High-walled, to keep out the press, security gates and alarms sprinkled everywhere. Owned by one Colin Smedley, otherwise known as Jacy from the popular group Sugarshack, of whom I am certain you will have heard.’ This last was said down the thin, aristocratic nose of Sir Hugh with a fair amount of disdain.
‘Perhaps,’ the young Prince hesitated, ‘perhaps if I were to take her there myself, introduce her to a few characters, a house party perhaps…’
‘No! Sir, if I might speak frankly, it is crucial that Arabella should understand that this affair is over. It is essential she be made aware that whatever her behaviour, she will never, ever see you again. We are far too close to your engagement announcement to take the slightest risk. If Lady Frances should ever discover…’
‘Lady Frances is quite happy to turn a blind eye.’
‘Excuse me, sir, but I do not believe one can predict a woman’s reaction after that ring slides on her finger. There’s likely to be a complete change of attitude, if you’ll pardon me for pointing this out.’ My God, in spite of his dubious experience, the silly ass is so damn naive. Did Sir Hugh have to spell it out? Was he totally unaware of the dangers implicit in all this?
‘How much is this Clitheroe place? How much am I coughing up for Arabella’s silence?’
Playing the selfless Civil Servant, Sir Hugh attempted to hide his disgust but all the same his sensibilities flinched. Money is something he would far rather not discuss. He spoke wearily, well prepared for a negative reaction. ‘Half a million, I’m afraid, sir, and much work to be done on it yet.’
‘And where is this money to come from? I’m so skint at the moment I have to borrow the dough for taxis.’
Blast the idiot! He knows full well he should never travel by taxi. His security guards are at their wits’ end, so much so that it’s proving difficult to keep them. Sir Hugh decided to ignore the gaffe. ‘The money will come from your grandfather’s trust, an early release. The trustees have looked into the matter. We can wangle it.’
‘You can find the money for this little tart and yet I have to wait till I’m twenty-five!’
Sir Hugh stared at him warily. ‘And an income for herself and the child for life…’
‘This is outrageous!’
‘We have little choice, sir, in the circumstances. We can hardly approach the Queen.’
‘Well, dammit, can’t we marry her off to somebody else? How about young Dougal?’
What an absurd remark. What sort of world does the fellow inhabit? Certainly not the real one. ‘She vows she is in love with you, sir, and that is the nub of the matter.’ Sir Hugh was suddenly aware that his words of counsel were falling on stony ground. James Henry Albert barely recognised his presence; his mind was already somewhere else, dwelling in pleasanter pastures. The older man sighed as he raised the other important matter of the moment. ‘And before you leave, sir, I must pass on a message from your mother. Would you please get your hair seen to—pronto.’
SIX
Flat 1, Albany Buildings, Swallowbridge, Devon
MOTHER HAS THE GALL to suggest she is going to write to the Queen. It really is quite pathetic. She honestly believes that the Queen would write back. She can hardly see to write anyway and is constantly sitting on her ill-fitting spectacles. She looks wild, older and more shrivelled than usual with her hair down like this, grey rats’ tails, pinned down by the weight of her years.
Returned to her little room once again, back safely among the aproned professionals, Irene Peacock refuses to accept that it is County Council policy to force their senior citizens to sell their homes when they need permanent care.
‘But how can that be, Frankie? I have paid. Me and William have contributed towards our old age every week of our lives, in his pay packet. That’s what those taxes were all about, surely—health care, pensions, roads, hard times…’
Frankie attempts to quell her own annoyance. It stems from a sense of guilt, of course, and she is well aware of that. She can still hear her own strident voice, ‘You have surpassed yourself this time, Mother,’ when they discovered the fugitive hiding in her flat, and Frankie’s teacher training doesn’t help her naturally imperious manner. It’s too easy to slip into the classroom role. ‘I know that, Mum, but back then no one envisaged the rise in the elderly population and the few people left at work to pay for the care of those in residential homes.’
‘Rubbish, Frankie. You sound like one of their forms, the way you speak. We have already paid and anyway, I do not need care. I hate it here, waiting to leave in a box with a spray of flowers on top. I’d be perfectly safe in the flat now and you know that very well. They hide my cigarettes. And anyway, how is it that nobody needs my consent?’
Frankie sighs, noticing how trembly-nervous her poor mother is. Many more adventures like this and they’ll kill her. She sits stiffly on the edge of the bedside chair, the bad daughter, the infected seed, and she can see what this situation would look like to a stranger. ‘That is because I took power of attorney over your legal affairs and I did that, if you remember, Mum, because you were getting very confused, forgetting to pay your bills, going about wearing odd shoes, leaving your purse lying around and giving money to beggars as if you had any to spare!’
Mother’s bony face takes on that rigid, stubborn look. ‘I only did it the once and just because old mother Blennerhasset happened to be passing by, and that toffee-nosed little nurse Jenkins, they jumped to the conclusion that I was always at it. But that does not mean you can sell my flat over my head without my permission.’
‘Well yes, it does, I’m afraid…’
‘William would turn in his grave.’
‘There’s no need to bring Dad into it. Anyone would think it was me going to benefit from this sale. In fact, the opposite is the case.’ A legacy of £45,000 some time in the future would have come in incredibly handy, helped to relieve the stress and go towards setting the children up. But by the time Mother dies this will all be gone.
‘Bullying me like this! My mind is crumbling by the hour and I don’t need you scolding me as if I’m a retarded child. This is the last time I will listen to you and your silly advice, Frankie. You have no right… and I want my own bedroom back!’
And on she goes, berating her daughter and blaming her for every single thing that ever went wrong in her life, and now they seem to be lurching from one petty crisis to the next, with Mother’s behaviour worsening all the time.
‘A Garibaldi or a Rich Tea, dear?’ asks an assistant, popping her head round the door.
‘Oh, go away and leave me alone,’ snaps Mother. ‘They have lost my mirror with the cross-stitch pattern on the back.’ And then she gets into tolerance and how, in her day, when Swallowbridge was but a village and not an ugly, expanding suburb of Plymouth, the old and the odd were accepted as part of the rustic scene. ‘That’s why you’re all turning into clones nowadays,’ says Irene testily. ‘Terrified to be different. All wearing the same clothes with the same disgruntled looks on your faces. Why, I remember the days when old Warty Nosworthy would jump out at us from the bushes and everyone just accepted him…’
Frankie tries to kiss her but is pushed angrily away.
In Matron’s office… From the smell you could tell there was steamed fish for tea. Matron’s Vauxhall Astra was scented by a vanilla tree. It swung beside the driving mirror along with the miniature lucky pixie. Picking up the odd absconding resident, frightened and in distress, perhaps Matron needed an over-riding perfume to cover a multitude of sins. The large bathrooms at Greylands are sanctified by cleanliness and the smell of pine disinfectant. They are hung about with tortured hoists and sparkling metallic rails. The bathroom mats are fluffy and clean as if they have never been used.
‘Mrs Rendell,’ says Miss Blennerhasset, while Mother is being bathed and changed into her nightie, ‘I think it is time your mother was put on something to calm her down, because, as I warned you last time th
is happened, we are a residential home not a hospital trained to cope with the demands of the demented.’
Frankie flinches and widens her eyes. Her chestnut hair hangs neat and straight to her shoulders. She wears jeans and a black sweater with marigolds emblazoned upon it. Matron is in her plaid skirt with a white blouse under her stiffly over-washed Aran. It is essential that Frankie remain solicitous and agreeable; she is more than grateful that Greylands have agreed to take Irene back. God knows where she would have to go if they expelled her, but Frankie is trained to remain calm and reasonable under difficult circumstances when you think what sort of parents she has to deal with at school. ‘Calm her down?’
‘For her own sake, Mrs Rendell, as well as for everyone else’s. We can help her be more at peace with herself. Less dazed. We haven’t the staff to keep watch on your mother twenty-four hours a day, especially as she seems to be so determined to leave us.’
Of course Frankie can understand why her mother hates it here; she is not entirely insensitive. Some of the residents have given up and gaze into space waiting for death, but Irene is nowhere near ready for death. ‘She hasn’t settled yet,’ she says, defending the cross old woman upstairs. ‘I mean, she’s only been here for three months and that’s no time at all.’
‘You could well say that,’ says Miss Blennerhasset, ‘but I can only report to you that her attitude towards the staff is at best surly, at worst downright rude. This does not endear her to anyone.’
You have to be liked to survive, thinks Frankie. When you are old and vulnerable, or sick, or smelly, or just lonely. Most of us learn that, but Mother, at seventy-five, is too old to learn anything and those rules have never applied before in her sheltered existence. The only real relationship in her life has been with William. Her reason for living has been William and since his death she has gradually mentally evaporated.
Sinking sinking sunk.
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