by JP Wright
While Kitty was crawling like a rash all over her new best friend the 'Actress' Belle, I was studying. I discovered, to my increasing dismay, that the more I looked at the requirements for the Home Ec. assessment, the uglier the situation became. Three courses. A written report to include nutritional analysis and health impact, cooking schedule, equipment list, ingredients and costings, and – seriously – historical and social context of the three dishes. Three dishes. I had one – and that one was turning out to be complex. Damn Miss Simpkins and her 'simple Italian'. Damn Mother and her murder mystery nonsense. Any other weekend would have been fine. I do not need her help with English and French, and a fat lot of help she would be with Maths or Science. Cooking and theatrics are the only areas I would consult her on.
Since the more I looked at it the worse the situation seemed to become, I set aside my work and lay down for a little while, and let Dublin Boyz soothe me with their fat-free voices and torsos. They promised they would love me forever. They said they were sorry they had ever left me. They said I was cruel to tease. Track after track like bland biscuits dunked in milky tea. They wondered if they could ever love again. They had never doubted my faithfulness. One day, I shall get to meet them – and what will they think then? Perhaps they should not be so hasty with their promises. Perhaps they will run for the Irish hills on their perfectly sculpted, hairless legs when they see my fat bum. Perhaps the sight of me will turn the other three.
I confess I became a little gloomy, in a pleasant sort of way. Sometimes, when there is too much going on all at once, around and within you, it is pointless to try to untangle the threads; impossible to pay attention to every clamouring voice. Better to shut them all out and drift awhile along the slow, melancholy stream of self-pity. It is a fine way to spend time. I lay on a soft, warm bed of tristesse. I could not quite achieve the higher plane, the astral, endless peace of ennui where I had so often in summer spent whole days. There was too much on my mind for that, and even with the music on I could hear from downstairs the crashes and clangs inevitably attendant upon cooking; this reminded me of the dreaded assignment, and of Mother's weekend thing, and of that morning's cake catastrophe. And from there, the reason for the weekend murder thing: money.
Even though the current squeeze began with great grandfather, it has certainly tightened in the past few years. The Tickham women – brave, noble, beautiful (ahem!) and astute in all other matters – have always had a tendency to select poorly when it comes to mating. Like female bower-birds, they give in to instinct and allow themselves to be distracted by flashy trinkets; like noble savages meeting ignoble empire-builders, they become distracted by pretty beads and give away their ancestors' lands; like supplicants at a shrine, they offer their gold and allow their heads to be filled with empty promises. Too young, they rush into marriage with bastards or fools.
Perhaps a little harsh. Grandpa did not seem to be a bastard, not when I knew him. But he was old by then: perhaps the lion had returned to his cage, and was grateful of its shelter and prepared to behave if given a bone to mumble at.
Anyway, the fools lose money on gold-plated investment opportunities that turn to tin, and the bastards throw it away on cards, horses, fast cars, women – all the traditional things. The amount of money squandered depends only upon the tolerance of the lady. Father was, I suppose, unfortunate, as there is so much less to squander now than there was in the old days, and the Tickham women have, rather too late, begun to learn their lesson, so the house itself was tied up in legal knots that he could not unpick. Mother was too tolerant for too long though; too keen to believe stories of certain returns and 'you've got to spend money to make money'. I rather let her have it when, in a watery mood last winter she claimed that she had let things continue for so long “for your sake Violet, and Tabitha's.” And then at Easter, Starlight was sold, and that totally proved my point.
Thinking about the amount of food in the fridge – in the fridges – and the number of staff mother had brought in for the weekend (even if, as she said, they were only actors and “actors are ever so cheap, darling, and they need the work poor things”) not to mention the caterers, I wondered whether we would make any money at all. I do not suppose Mother had drawn up a list of costings and a nutritional analysis. The guests were not exactly a glittering collection of socialites, so they cannot have been paying that much. I sort of hoped it would not be a success, then Mother would not do it again and we could have our house back. Having all these people everywhere was worse than mother's other money-raising scheme: what my unkind but perceptive sister has referred to as the Wet in the east wing.
Simon – for that is the Wet's name – had been lurking in our house since spring. A damp April breeze might have blown him in. He managed a difficult feat with no apparent effort: to be self-effacing to the point of invisibility, apologetic to the point of inaudibility, reclusive to a hermit-like degree, and yet at the same time always there, irritating in his passivity, always making a noise, the penetrating tink tink tink of his silly little hammer ringing through the whole house, always in any chair I had a mind to sit in, all the more annoying for the rodent haste with which he squeaked an apology and scuttled away. He is an archaeologist. There was a dig on the other side of Hapeney Magna. In the summer, the area swarmed with students whom Simon ('Doctor' Scrimshaw) was supposed to be instructing or directing. Even the local school-kids got to take time off from flicking snot about the classroom to wade about in mud, whilst their carefree teachers sipped tea and planned their escape. Next summer, Mother has threatened, she might open the stables to accommodate the whole mob. Archaeology students are the worst kind. They are quite old, for students, and they tend to be bearded and wear woollen beanie hats; they sweat a lot and wash little; they drink cider and dance around with flaming torches at midsummer; you cannot tell the women from the men (though I suppose they can: in the same way that birds and animals know who is whom, they recognise their own kind).
What were they digging for? I neither know nor care: something that goes tink-tink-tink when you hit it. Anyway, when summer ended the students went away, but Dr Drip stayed, like a damp mark in the plaster. His room was stacked full of boxes (can the floor take it? Be wary in the dining room below!) and it seemed that each one must be unpacked and every one of its pieces of excavated whatever-it-is tapped with a little hammer and then carefully re-packed, before the task was done. And in the meantime we were to be polite because, as Mother frequently told me, he was a Paying Guest.
Bored with paperwork, bored with Dublin Boyz, and bored with boredom, I roused myself and went back downstairs into the clattering kitchen. Mother was there, with the Maid and the Cook. Chef, rather. The 'Cook' was elsewhere – apparently she had done enough research, or finished her sandwich. The table was covered with industrial-looking metal baking trays, cling-filmed over. The oven was making odd noises as it struggled to get up to temperature: Verity was standing impatiently by it, chewing her lip, measuring the trays and the oven with her eyes.
“Pass around a few of these petit fours,” Mother was saying to the sulky-looking Maid, forcing a serving plate into her hands, “and flirt a little. You had an affair with Mr Cutter when you worked for him; his wife found out. Now you need to find another … protector.”
“Okay.”
“And not Sandy. He may chase you – you must brush him off.”
That did not give the poor girl many options – the Colonel looked a poor catch to me, and the Reverend would surely not be interested. Still, she consented – gave way before Mother's imperious stare – and slouched out with the petit fours. They looked good: tiny pies and little boats with roast tomatoes on board, and fig and goat's cheese swaddled in ham. That reminded me of Mrs Baker's story about her wet-socked trip to Venice and the melon in 'bacon'. First course solved: prosciutto must have loads of social and historical context, not to mention not needing cooking. Or did I mean parma ham?
“Hallo Mummy,” I sang.
“Do you know
where you sister is I have not seen our latest guest at all she did not bring her for tea,” she complained. I shrugged: the imp is the imp and not my responsibility.
“Which is the bay tree?” I asked, “And do we have any cloves?” If Mother had answered she would have been drowned out anyway by a roar of laughter and a burst of song that seemed to blow the door open. From the hallway in tumbled the Maid – sans snacks – doing a very good 'flustered', not to say blushing, followed closely by Colonel Rooting-Compound, as flushed as she, arm-in-arm with the Butler.
“… and keep her down below-oh,” they finished their song, then,
“What-ho, Lady T!” shouted the Colonel, who had obviously found something more sustaining than elderflower cordial. “Jest searchin' for clues, doncha-know. Where's Cookie? Damn fine little pies.”
“Thank-you” said Verity, looking up from the now-roaring oven. The Colonel stared at her, confused, then turned around, grabbed the Butler again, and steamed off.
“… sworn she had more meat on her bones …” we heard as the door slammed shut.
The Maid was sent trotting off again with another plate of dainty things and before I could ask about prosciutto or parma ham Mother slipped off upstairs to change her outfit. “If you want to help,” said Verity, furiously crushing cloves of garlic, “get the cling-film off those trays and stand the shanks up.”
They looked pretty scary – hollow-ended bones attached to a cone of meat, stuck in cold brown jelly that sucked revoltingly when I stood them up. They were the shape, if it helps you picture it, of oast houses. Oast houses, if it helps you picture them, are the shape of lamb shanks. I tried to get them lined up in formation, but they made a disorderly parade, their bony rifles sloping up from their meaty shoulders. I could not figure out which bit of the lamb a shank was – maybe some vile inside part – and I preferred not to ask. The Chef chopped a handful of parsley on top of her garlic and barked at me “Find some tin-foil – box under the table – and make a cover for the bones. While you're down there, grab me a lemon.”
She had everything in that box that she needed, all ready to go; and in another next to it, a stack of plates and bowls. Good thing – none of ours match. The petit fours she must have made in advance and just warmed up. I would find out later that she had a whole cohort of tartlet bases waiting too, billeted in any spare space she could find in Mother's fridge, blind-baked already and waiting to be called into action when the savoury battalions had been devoured.
“In fact, grab two lemons. I haven't prepared any for the dessert. Shit. Look …” She showed me how to make little helmets for the bones, and then went back to grating lemon zest onto the parsley, and then into a pan. “Sugar!” she snapped. She seemed to have mistaken me for the Maid, or her assistant.
Soon, lemon zest was softening in bubbling syrup, gremolata was scraped into a bowl ready to dress the lamb, and my little soldiers had been slammed into the oven, shiny hats and all. Just in time, as I was getting pretty tired of being treated like a skivvy, Charity crashed through the door with her trolley.
“It's chaos!” she panted. “The Maid is eating more than she is serving, the Butler is drinking more than he is pouring. A woman dressed as a Vicar just asked me if I was married, and a leering man with a bow-tie and a stethoscope asked if I was pregnant, and did I need to be examined.”
“Cut the terrine would you – and just throw a few capers on each plate,” commanded the Chef. Enough of the sharp end of catering: I left them to it and went upstairs to find Mother to tell her the guests and the staff were out of control. I found her staring out of the window of her bedroom, which looks out over the driveway and down the hill. It was pretty much dark. I checked, and there were no lights to be seen, just grey ghosts of sheep floating about. I gave Mother the news about the situation downstairs, but she seemed not to care.
“So long as everyone is enjoying themselves. They need to relax to get into their characters. Help me with my zip would you?” So I did. It was a long, dark-dark blue gown, all the way to the floor. Her hair was up. She had on a plain pearl necklace and matching earrings. Nothing more – very simple. Did I mention, Mother is quite tall? And she is not bad for her age, though she is nearly forty and the pressure of putting up with Kitty has definitely aged her. She had her elegance on full power, with a hint of queenly condescension. She was impossible to recognise as the dungaree-wearing, paint-spattered, wild-haired creature of the summer. “I shall set them a little example – do not worry my dear. Now, pop down and tell Butler to be ready to announce me.”
So off I trotted again down the big stairs, to witness the chaos for myself. Disappointingly, it was really not so bad: nothing like the Roman orgy I had imagined. The evening chill had driven the guests in off the terrace and they were milling around the drawing room, dropping crumbs on the carpets and lining up wineglasses along the mantelpiece. No-one was naked, no-one had been smothered with rose petals, no-one was drinking champagne from a shoe, or even sparkling wine. Beryl Rooting-Compound was chatting away at the Choirboy Ms Tasket (or Tisket) who was looking trapped and anxious; the Vicar Ms Tisket (or Tasket) was gravely questioning the chubby Maid; Dr Plain was flirting with lanky Sandy, rather half-heartedly: she kept looking over at her husband to see if he had noticed. He was too busy trying to insert himself between Reverend and Maid. Colonel Rooting-Compound was leaning against the doorway through into the dining room, casting longing glances at the table, laid with silver and glittering crystal. The drawing room is greenish and bright: the dining room is red and gold and dramatic. One wall is occupied by a giant, dark sideboard, another by the empty fireplace, over which hangs a big gilt-framed mirror busy with leaves, flowers and putti, which reflects the candles on the sideboard. The heavy curtains were drawn across the darkness of the wide bay window – no glimpses of the moon in the pond this evening. The scene lacked only a fire to make it look like Christmas come early. Even last year, when it was just the three of us and aunt Bobbie, staying over for a week since she was between affairs and between trips, we ate in the dining room, Kitty and me running back and forth with the trolley, trying to eat the food before it froze.
The Chef's assistant Charity squeaked through the drawing room, that same trolley stacked with plates. Salmon terrine – already cold, nice and simple (sensible Verity). She squeezed past the Colonel into the dining room, narrowly avoiding his eagerly pinching fingers the disgusting old lech, and clattered the plates onto the table. It looked much smaller set for eight. That Christmas, there had been acres of mahogany between each of our plates.
The Butler was striding about the drawing room enthusiastically sloshing sherry into glasses: I tugged at his elbow and whispered that Mother would be down in a moment and he was to announce her. He winked at me, straightened his whiskers, tapped his nose and breathed a gust of sweet sherry over me. Repellent. I went back upstairs to warn Mother. Just as I reached the balcony, she came through the door from the west wing, and through the opposite door burst the menace to society, dragging like the glittering train of a comet, the Actress Belle.
Mother swept forward to grab Belle's hand, exclaiming “Delighted to see you at last! You had some trouble getting here? Trains – I know. We do feel so out-of-the-way at times. Do go down and introduce yourself to the other guests. Tabitha dear you might want to wash your face you have a little smudge just … there but show our guest to the drawing room first would you?”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Belle declared, barely resisting the urge to curtsey, “So sorry if I have delayed your dinner.”
“No, not at all. We have not been kept waiting,” Mother assured her, meaning something more like 'We would not have waited for such as you'.
“Your daughter has been most helpful. We have been dressing me up. I just dashed down from London, threw a few things in a bag, but I think it has come together okay,” Belle lightly said.
Mother looked her up and down slowly before replying drily, “Some things really cannot be
hurried, can they?” For a few moments the two women stood, face to face, like boxers at the weigh-in, sizing one-another up. Mother no doubt took in the younger woman's gaudy make-up, cheap jewellery, tarty stockings, slightly scuffed shoes, dyed hair, and thick ankles that promised fat legs to come before too long. Belle might have failed to appreciate the elegance of Mother's dress, and the expense of her simple string of pearls, but she must have registered her superior height and reach, and the scorn in her eyes.
Kitty gangled off downstairs, oblivious to the frisson on the balcony, and Belle followed on those thick ankles, the silly frill at the back of her dress brushing her calves as she waggled her bum. Mother waved me after them.
Amazingly, the Butler had got the all staff lined up inside the door, except Cook, who bustled in just ahead of Kitty, wafting her faux-flushed face with her big chef's hat. Charity squeaked out of the dining room, started to retreat, changed her mind and tried to hurry her trolley past the line-up. Cook hooked her with one chubby arm and swung her in between herself and the Maid, who barely noticed, too busy giggling and nudging Sandy the lanky Stable-boy.
Kitty bounced in, shoved the trolley out of the way, grabbed Butler by the whiskers and hissed in his ear. He raised his eyebrows, straightened his bow-tie and bellowed, “The Actress Belle Figura.” Belle struck a pose in the doorway; the staff, actors all except the indignant Charity, shrugged; the guests glanced up from their sherry and can-apes with grave little frowns of mystified non-recognition. Belle made the best of it anyway, strutting past the line-up, nodding and smiling. Seeing her then stranded in the middle of the room, Beryl Rooting-Compound wandered up to her with a plate plucked from the Maid and offered swaddled figs.
“Hallo dear,” she chirped, “I'm Mrs Colonel Rooting-Compound …” and she went on to introduce the other guests, “… my husband Clive – he's not really a Colonel, dear – and those ladies are Miss Take-it and … oh, I forget. For this weekend they are Reverend Younglove, that's the one in the black, and Roger, that's the one in the hassock. And over there are the Cutter-Plains, who are both Doctors or both Misters, or anyway pretending to be.”
“Charmed,” purred Belle, and “How sweet!” and she looked around for someone else to talk to. She caught the eye of Mr Cutter, but he only got halfway across the room before his wife reeled him back in.
“Did you get your pack?” asked Beryl, “Of course you must have, you are all in character already: 'Belle'“
“My real name.”
“'Belle the Actress',” continued the old lady remorselessly.
“I really am …” Belle the actress-slash-model tried to insist.
“So, you know there has been a murder already: the Master of the house has been found slumped over his desk with a paper-knife in his back. That happened before we got here. We have to imagine that. And there was something in the kitchen that I missed. Have you met Kitty? She is a detective, you know. She will explain it all I'm sure.”
While this chatter was going on, the staff dispersed – the Butler back to his carefree sherry pouring, Charity to rescue her trolley and scuttle back to the kitchen, the rest to submit themselves to the inept interrogation of the guests. The flea, having taken the opportunity of the line-up to inspect the shoes of all the staff for traces of cake and parsley, hopped away after the Chef's assistant, doubtless keen to scavenge some dinner. I was pretty hungry myself, but stayed in the doorway a while, watching, while Mother came on stage.
Having witnessed the failure of Belle's attempted grand entrance, she slipped into the room un-announced, turned down the intensity of her imperial gaze, and went gliding about the room playing the perfect hostess, murmuring greetings and encouragement in her most thrilled-to-meet-you voice. “Colonel, so pleased to have you here. I am sure a man of your experience and courage will not quail in the face of the terrible things that we have witnessed. Mrs Rooting-Compound, how are you bearing up? Fig – why thank-you,” and on she moved to Belle, “Have a sherry, dear. It will loosen your inhibitions and help you find your character,” and on to Ms Tisket and Ms Tasket, “Reverend, thank-you for coming. I am sure some of the weaker members of the party will need some support from you. I know I can rely on you to look after the ladies. How is your young friend? Sherry? Well – I suppose he is above the age of consent.” She waltzed across the room, leaning down to whisper in the ear of the Maid as she passed. The Maid beckoned to Sandy, and the two of them slipped into the dining room. “Dear Dr Plain, Mr Cutter – I am afraid the poor fellow, my dear dead husband, was beyond even your expert aid by the time you arrived. Perhaps we shall have need of you yet, however – one never knows when a bloody murder might occur.”
Right on cue came a scream from the dining room, and out stumbled the Maid. She paused in the doorway, feigned a little faint, gasped, panted and generally milked her moment. In her hand she clutched a piece of cloth horribly daubed with red. “Murder,” she finally managed to croak, and then “Oh!” and “Ah!” as she clutched at her belly and fell carefully to the hard floor.
The guests rushed headlong into the dining room, the Colonel leading the charge, expertly hurdling the Maid, who was still dying operatically. Mr Cutter hung back to examine the poor girl, pronounced her finally dead, tried to find a pulse to make certain and was rewarded with a sharp shove and a sotto voce “Gerrof, perv!” from the corpse. The Butler staggered forward to usher him into the dining room and then began laboriously dragging the body away. As soon as they were out of sight of the guests, the deceased Maid jumped up nimbly enough, and cantered away.
In the dining room, the guests were discovering the body of Sandy the Stable-boy, slumped in front of an open window with not a mark on him, staring blankly out into the darkness – apparently dead from fright. Under Mother's direction Cook, Butler, Reverend and Colonel took a corner each and carried him out of the dining room, not without some difficulty and some bumping of his head against the door-frame. Despite his terrible death, once left propped on the chaise-longue he too recovered rapidly, and made off after the Maid.
There was a burst of excited chatter, soon replaced by the scrape of knife and fork and appreciative murmurs as the guests found their seats and, their appetites stimulated by a double death and the threat of a murderer roaming the grounds, settled down to their salmon terrine.
Chapter 9
