Summertime

by Charlotte Bingham

  Wake Park was originally Jacobean, Piers had told her, but had been added to over the centuries by different owners, long before the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings came into being. The end result, in the twentieth century, was a house that presented itself in as unplanned a manner as a woman who has somewhat carelessly chosen her clothes from many different designers, but ended up with a surprisingly harmonious effect. Wake Park was therefore revealed to be a little grand to the front, a little informal to the side, and a little surprising everywhere.

  As soon as the housekeeper brought the children downstairs, the old dark wood-panelled hall rang with shouts and laughter, and the whole feeling of the interior of the house became one of informal gaiety. Solemnly Piers introduced each child to Trilby, and Trilby, equally seriously, shook their hands, before heading back with Piers to the old Land Rover in which the children were ferried to and from their grandparents’ home.

  As one person, and obviously knowing what to expect, the children jumped into the old capacious jalopy with its muddy exterior and worn seat which Piers had made more comfortable with old horse rugs. Upon these the four of them now sat, chattering non-stop to each other, and to Piers, interrupting each other, their conversations happily inconsequential, words and laughter a carousel of sound that went round and round, rising above the noise of the old engine, spiralling towards the early summer day outside.

  Climbing last of all back into the Land Rover Trilby sat down beside Piers, but she had hardly settled herself into her seat before he started to sing and the children behind him, on cue, joined in.

  They sang all the way from Wake Park to the farm, and the children, obviously knowing what was expected of them, gave of their best without a pause. They sang old songs and new songs, they sang songs they had heard on the wireless, and songs they had learned at school, or in church, and they did not cease singing until the Land Rover finally drew up in front of the old farmhouse. Then they all, with one joyous shout, jumped from the old farm vehicle and ran into the house, talking and laughing at the tops of their voices.

  ‘Are you tired already?’ Piers asked, raising his voice above the din, and as Trilby shook her head he went on, ‘Well, you soon will be, I can promise you!’

  The children obviously knew the Sunday routine, because armed with jugs of lemonade and packets of crisps they left Piers and Trilby alone to finish off cooking lunch while they streamed back out of the front door to the barn, where table tennis and other amusements were waiting for them. Meanwhile in the kitchen Piers set about identifying each child in more detail to Trilby.

  ‘Minette is the tall one, she had a Trinidadian father. Lindsey is the boy with the reddish curly hair, his father was Governor of – well, never mind, but anyway he was a governor. Then there’s Jonathan and Millie, both blond and English-looking – they share the same father. He was a major killed in Singapore, I think, something like that. So, that’s the lot of us, except me of course. I was Mum’s first, before she did a bolt to the West Indies, for some reason best known to herself.’

  He smiled briefly at nothing in particular and poured the Yorkshire pudding mixture into a baking tin. Trilby went on scraping carrots, not saying anything, knowing that if she did, and it was the wrong thing, it might turn out in some way or other to be wounding.

  ‘My mother was very beautiful,’ Piers said, straightening up from the Aga. ‘Men just adored her. If they liked red hair, that is. She was red-haired like Lindsey, which is probably why he is such a handsome boy. Still, much as I loved Mum, God forbid he should turn out like her, really.’ He smiled. ‘Not that I would not want him to have her charm, but you know how it is, she was one of those wild creatures that are always at odds with the world, and I really would not want that for Lindsey. My grandparents disowned my mother. They still say they have no idea where she came from, so unlike was she to the rest of their really rather staid family. Perhaps she was conceived on some wild night when the moon was red. At any rate she went from bad to worse, and back again, never once staying still, not once. Every few months, we moved, myself, Mum, and this ever growing family. When we were in the West Indies, we island-hopped all the time. She took me away from school so that we could move around quicker. That was how and why I learned to cook, because if one of us didn’t, we should all have starved. My childhood memories are always of being in a kitchen trying to keep Mum’s ever growing tribe of love-children from passing out from no victuals! Finally, once they could dress and wash themselves and tell the doctor where the tummy pain was, my grandparents took them all over, and I went into the army, and my uncle died and Aunt Laura reverted to her maiden name and, for reasons I never have found out, made over Charlton to me. So, here I am, busy, busy, busy, as you see, and still cooking for them, the little devils.’

  Having finished chopping the vegetables, Trilby sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. Putting her chin on her hand, she sighed happily. ‘You have just made me feel so, well – so lightweight, really.’

  ‘How about these for pies?’ Piers held out one of two perfectly cooked steak and kidney pies, with their decorative pastry animals cooked to a golden brown to match the underlying crust.

  ‘Perfection. But I have never seen so much food. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast lamb, and pies! It doesn’t seem possible!’

  ‘Oh, it’s always the same, every fortnight. They all long for something different, you see, and seeing that I am their father and mother replacement I cook it all, and that makes them realise that I love them all quite equally. Can’t have any favouritism.’

  ‘A friend of mine used to say that you could always tell a really loving mother because she cooked Yorkshire pudding not just with roast beef, but with roast lamb too!’

  Trilby sighed again, just as happily, but also nostalgically. Moments like these, kitchen moments full of warmth and sunshine, reminded her of days long ago. After a minute or two she went on, ‘As a matter of fact I always thought that men like you, army men, that they wouldn’t cook, or anything like that. I thought that certain kinds of people never did those kind of things, that they only really liked hunting, shooting and fishing and that sort of thing.’

  Piers turned briefly from his Aga and smiled. ‘We all grow up with preconceived notions about each other. It is just how it is.’ He threw what looked like half a pound of farm butter into a vast saucepan of soft parsley potatoes and started to mash them energetically. ‘It is quite wrong, really. And dull. I mean, I have known generals who could do tapestry better than their wives, and cut out dress patterns better than their sisters. I have known colonels who could draw and paint well enough to be hung in the Royal Academy. Good Lord, Rex Whistler went into battle with his drawing pad fixed to the side of his tank. And every time there was a pause in battle proceedings, he would sketch. It is only other people who put us all into little pigeonholes. It is just mental laziness, really, and it can be rather cruel. Saying which, it is now time to call in the troops.’

  Trilby said little over lunch, not because she felt shy, but because she was too interested in what Piers’s half-brothers and sisters had to say. As a result she quickly discovered that although the children might not have too many fathers in common, they certainly shared the same sense of ridicule. By the time they were satiated with Piers’s chocolate mousse, they had painted a picture of their life and the people who dominated it which was so clearly defined that Trilby felt she could have sat down and sketched all the characters involved.

  ‘Their sense of humour,’ Piers told her, as they washed up together, ‘is their way of surviving. They know they are a minority, and that out there, beyond the gates of either Wake Park or Charlton House Farm, they are illegitimate, sometimes even ‘bastards’. So their response to this is to put up a humorous flak, a very effective barrage, and hide behind it. Making jokes about everything is their safety valve, and a very good and effective one it is too. Stops people getting at them, because they, as it were, get at themselves fi
rst.’

  ‘Lindsey told me he wants to join the Navy, go to Dartmouth.’

  Lindsey came into the kitchen at that moment, so Piers, obviously following a much loved routine, immediately whistled a hornpipe, followed by the high-low sound which traditionally pipes an officer on board, at which Lindsey immediately executed a perfect naval officer’s salute. After which, with a shy grin at Trilby, he darted back outside with the jug of lemonade that he had called in for.

  ‘They’re playing Charlton House Farm Cricket. It’s lethal.’ Piers nodded towards the window, an expression of modest pride on his face. ‘I made it up, ages ago, one rainy afternoon. They take it very, very seriously, I have to tell you. Want to come and watch?’

  It was one of those warm, sunny Sunday afternoons when England seems absurdly over-English, what with the trees in full leaf, and the sound of cricket ball on cricket bat, and children’s cheers ringing out in support of every run scored. Four o’clock tea, and the return to their grandparents’ house, came far too soon, and not just for the children.

  As he stood outside the old house in Dorset, and the evening light began to replace that of the afternoon, Piers took care to embrace each of the children in turn, ruffling heads and making encouraging noises, pretending not to notice that the moment their feet had touched the gravel they had all assumed determinedly cheerful expressions, quickly hugging and kissing their tall, fair-haired half-brother, while he said something different to each one. Reminding Millie to try harder at her maths, Jonathan to let him know if some senior boy was still bullying him. Minette was told not to worry about her Monday history test, and Lindsey wished good luck in his coming house cricket match. All the usual admonitions and encouragements that a good father would make, Piers made.

  In return the children all listened to him, bravely, gravely, attentively, for all the world as if he truly was their father, which, as far as they were concerned, he must have seemed to be in every way, except fact.

  Trilby tried not to be touched by their courage as they turned towards the tall old house where their grandparents tolerated them in circumstances which had long ago slipped from their control. Where the servants palmed them off with food that was either half cooked or overcooked, and where the sun must, she supposed, seem to shine much less brightly than when they were with Piers at Charlton House Farm, playing cricket and dashing about with the kind of careless energy of which the old are incapable.

  ‘The two weeks until they see you again will seem so long, won’t it?’

  Piers glanced sideways at Trilby as they drove back to the farm. She was wearing one of his old summer gardening hats, and had slipped down in her seat, her feet propped up on the space at the bottom of the old windscreen.

  ‘Let’s sing again,’ he suggested, avoiding the question.

  Trilby squinted up at him from under his old straw hat and nodded. ‘Very well. You start and I will follow, pretty approximately, I am afraid.’

  They must have sung exactly the same songs as they had when the old jalopy had been filled with cheerful children, with one exception. As the Land Rover nosed its way towards the farm, Piers, pretending to keep a straight face, sang a solo, at the top of his voice. ‘People Will Say We’re In Love!’

  Despite knowing both the words and the tune, Trilby did not join in the song at any point, but stared straight ahead of her, pulling the hat down lower on her nose, and pretending to take no notice as to its import.

  When David Micklethwaite reported back to Lewis that the painting of the old lady had been blacked out by a person or persons unknown, Lewis started to feel that particular sense of threat that afflicts those who are in the privileged position of employing numbers of people

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir,’ Micklethwaite said with some degree of sincerity, principally because it was true. He did have no idea. ‘I went there with the stepmother, it must have been after midnight. We were there for about a quarter of an hour, and that is when we discovered it. Of course she could not identify the old lady, unless, that is, it is a very black lady that we are looking for!’ he ended, half jokingly, trying to relieve the grim atmosphere.

  ‘I was there with Lyons at six o’clock. Myself, and the chauffeur, we were there. You know Lyons, David, he is very loyal. Loyal Lyons, we call him here. He has been with me for about – well, must be over ten years. I doubt that he would do such a thing. In fact I doubt that there would be anyone else who would do such a thing, excepting perhaps Trilby herself.’

  They were walking up and down the garden once more, and had reached the point, by the wall, where they always turned. They did so now, and Lewis was at once seized with an idea.

  Supposing that Trilby had returned to the studio, after he and Lyons had gone? Supposing that she, and she alone, had returned and defaced her own painting, to stop Lewis finding her?

  ‘She must be in London, David. It must have been her who sneaked back to daub out the painting. No-one else would do such a thing, would they? I mean who else would bother?’

  ‘Surely not?’ Micklethwaite stared at his boss. Not just his forehead, but his whole face was now flushed. It was the terrible strain, of course, but even so, Micklethwaite worried for him, knowing as he did, from previous times, just how much emotional upsets affected his health and behaviour.

  ‘Why surely not?’ Lewis frowned even more furiously.

  ‘Well, because, logically, if I may say so, sir, logically speaking if a girl wants to leave her husband, if she is, let us say, either unhinged, or over-emotional, or plain unhappy, she will, I should have thought, put as much distance between her and her husband as is possibly possible, I should have thought, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but you are not taking into account the fact that Trilby is, was – is – a very talented painter. If she returned to the studio to daub out the old lady, it may be because she was filled with some hatred for her work, that she truly loathed what she was doing, and that being so, well, don’t you see, David, she could still be nearby! She could be over this wall, at this minute, watching me coming in and out, and enjoying every moment of my anxiety, like a naughty child. That is what she could be doing.’

  In the face of what he considered must be total fantasy, Micklethwaite felt that the best option open to him was to pause, and pretend to be thinking deeply, which he certainly was not. It seemed perfectly obvious to him that it must have been the chauffeur who blacked out the canvas. Trilby might have paid him off, or he might have some misguided sense of loyalty to a young girl he had been paid to spy on for most of her short marriage. Or he might have been in love with her. But it was useless even hinting that this might be so, because like so many rich, powerful men, Lewis found the idea that one of his most trusted servants could be disloyal to him unthinkable. His whole world would start to crumble even more than it already had. Inwardly Micklethwaite sighed to himself. The rich were, in so many ways, so awfully pathetic.

  ‘I understand, from Dr Mellon, that on his last visit she had seemed to be much better, she had seemed to be recovering from the overwhelming sadness which led to her alcoholism. It is a terrible experience, apparently, sir, losing a baby is a terrible experience.’

  Lewis burst into a sudden and violent storm of tears.

  It was so sudden and so unexpected that Micklethwaite had no time to feel embarrassed either for his employer or for himself. To his extreme surprise he felt only pity and compassion. The sound of Lewis crying, the sound of his deep down hurt, cut into Micklethwaite, and if he had not been so much in Lewis’s pocket, if he had not been so much his hireling, he would have put his arm round him, and patted him on the back. As it was, he did not, but only stood looking on helplessly, unable to be of any assistance to the man who was in thrall to such sudden and terrible grief.

  ‘If you had only known how much, just how much, I was looking forward to that baby. How much I longed to hold a child of my own in my arms, and to see her, Trilby, who I adore
and worship, holding that child. There is nothing, believe me nothing, David, so beautiful to its parents as the unborn baby. It is more beautiful that any angel that comes closest to the heart of God.’

  Again the tears started to pour down Lewis’s cheeks and Micklethwaite, the bought man, the hired hand, the employee who was being paid to stand where he was standing, could only look on. Denuded of any friendship as their relationship was, in this moment of extremity it was exposed as being as barren as, in effect, it had always been.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Lewis turned away, hating himself for giving way, and then, seconds later, hating Trilby, hating everything and everyone to do with her.

  After a minute he straightened his shoulders. Hatred was always an easier emotion for him, and never more than at a moment when he had shown himself to be as human as the next person.

  ‘Don’t be sorry, sir, it is only natural. You have, after all, had a bad shock.’

  ‘Shock.’ Lewis stared around him as if he had been parachuted into his own garden. ‘Yes, I have had a bad shock, you are right. It has been very bad, but now, now I must do something about it.’

  Lewis’s mouth, never very full lipped at the best of times, now looked to Micklethwaite to be somehow smaller than ever as he cast about him to make a plan, to send someone somewhere on his behalf, always such a relief to a powerful man.

  ‘Yes. The shock has been very bad,’ he agreed, playing for time. ‘Now, I want you to do something for me, David. I want you to…’ He paused. ‘I want you to go round to – yes, I think you should go round to Henri de Ribes and talk to him. He must know something. He always does.’

  ‘Is that wise, sir? The de Ribes, well, they are very useful to the newspaper group, I agree, but gossip only, sir, that is their field. I mean, I will agree, sir, that he and his wife are unendingly useful for our gossip columns, but not much more I should have thought. Besides, I should also have thought that it would be better, sir, as we have been saying all along, not to tell too many people. If we tell too many people, well, the cat might very well be out of the bag and no putting him back again.’