by JP Wright
For the sake of having something to say, I told Father about the birds – what I had been thinking earlier, in the wood. Coming out at night had made it easier to see gentle England as a hostile place, full of teeth and claws. Suddenly he stopped his pacing and turned to sweep me up in a huge hug. “I've missed you,” he said, “You're a genius.” And then, putting me down, “You're pretty damp.”
There is no safer place, no place to better feel the weight lifted, the relief of all your cares, than in your father's hug. I had been more worried, waiting out there in the dark, that it would be Father – and what would I say, and what would his reaction be, and would he be angry, and would I? Because let's face it I was the one with the right to be. More worried about all that than it being someone else. Someone whose embrace would have been much less welcome.
It had been an awkward few minutes, until that hug. “You'd better come in,” he had said, and I had followed him into the lodge, where at least the rain dripped only in two or three places, having worked its way through holes in the roof, along damp joists, through the sagging ceiling; where the wind was limited to whistling through the cracks around the door and windows. Father had put down his flickering torch and turned up the gas lamp he had there on the table. There was not much besides: a couple of chairs, a half-inflated air-bed on the floor, and a box, from which he had taken an old saucepan, a bottle of water and two tin mugs. “Tea?” he had asked, and I had nodded. Stayed standing while he sat and wrestled with the gas lamp. “This thing converts to a stove … somehow.” It had gone out, and I had heard him fumbling for matches.
I should be angry why? Well, the cake, for one thing. The demolished, broken, trodden into the parsley-bed cake for which I seemed to have been blamed by my beloved ickle sister and by my Mother. But that was only the most recent item on a long list. There was Starlight, trailered away, now being poked in the ribs by some loathsome little sharp-heeled proto-Haugh-Frost. There was the summer I had spent in dark, chintzy apartments and chipboard-y new bungalows, hovered over by aunts and cousins of various removes. The humiliation of being driven in to school every morning, beginning each day, as K once put it, the size of an ostrich. There were Mother's tears, and a house full of guests. Nettle stings, sheep shit.
None of those can be forgiven and forgotten in a moment, but a warm hug certainly starts to blunt the sharp edges of them. Makes it easier, less painful, to handle them. It will be okay the hug says. These harms were not intended, were not aimed at you, it assures. The nettle's sting will recede to a tingle; the bruise will flower, do its rainbow display and eventually fade away; memories will become stories, neatly packed away. Daddy will make it all okay. And part of me believed it, that having big feet and long arms and a bristly chin are all the qualifications needed to make all things right.
“I want to make things right.”
Did he actually say it? Perhaps; right after he called me a genius. I was not ready to give in too easily, though.
“That was you, wasn't it, the cake?” I demanded, when he put me down.
“Cake?” he asked, eyebrows innocently raised, and decided the water was near-enough boiled and decanted it into the teabag-primed mugs.
“The Cake. The kitchen window.”
“Ah.” He dug a teaspoon out of his box. “The kitchen window. You saw me? The cake, I did not notice – in a bit of a hurry at that point.” You have never seen someone look so innocent, so guileless, whilst admitting to being a kitchen-window-out-jumper. Oh, we are a family of fine actors. But has anyone jumped from a kitchen window, landing size 10's in the parsley without even noticing a large cake exploding behind him, who did not have an ugly motive?
“I saw someone, galloping away across the kitchen garden,” (dear reader, I know I have not been entirely honest with you until now about what I saw, but I did assure you it was not I who destroyed the cake. You are getting the straight stuff now) “and I thought it was you. Who else steeple-chases in brogues and moleskins?”
“It was a brisk morning. Too chilly for shorts I thought.”
This is us – my Father and me. This is our usual style of silly banter. More than three months without exchanging a word, and there we were right back where we had always been. “Would something in black not have been more appropriate?” I asked, “A pair of tights stretched over your head, for sneaking into other people's houses.” That hurt him – reminding him that it was not his home. I told you, I do not forgive too easily.
Plucking a miraculous lemon from his box, digging at it with a more prosaic fork and squeezing a few drops into each of our tea-cups, he waved me over to the table. “No milk or sugar I'm afraid. Come and sit down. I wasn't sneaking – or had not meant to. Let me explain.” I avoided his eyes, but trumped his lemon by pulling from my coat pocket a crushed stack of leftover sandwiches, crust-less, and a piece of salmon wrapped in clingfilm. “Ah, good girl. I'm famished. Didn't really expect to be staying another night. Ate all the pemmican last night, and drank the ginger pop. It's been a long day.” He forked up the salmon, and glanced at his watch. “Lafe for dinner, or early for breakfush. Shtill goob.”
“Not much change from your usual playboy lifestyle, I'd have thought,” I said, somewhat coolly. He chuckled ruefully.
“What have your aged aunts been telling you? I have been positively hermit-like. A couple of trips or so up to London. I have some projects bubbling along up there. You know – something to buy back the old family silver.” He paused, and grabbed my hands. Lucky the tea was not too hot. “I do want to make it all right, V.” I said nothing. He went on, “Let me explain about the 'sneaking'. I rather came here with a romantic notion. I've got these projects – no yield yet, but there will be – and I thought I could explain to your Mother. Well …” he scratched his head, “I had the idea I would see her, and she would melt into my arms and so on, but it turns out to be more complicated. I stayed here Friday night. Arrived late, did not want to disturb you all then. Thought it best to lie low, then come up to the house bright and early this morning. Well, yesterday morning now. Did you see the car parked out in the lay-by? I thought coming up the drive bold as brass – well, it wouldn't really strike the right note of contrition.” Of course, I had led K on the 'short-cut' through the brambles, so we had not seen the car tucked in next to the hedge, just outside the gate. I shook my head, and Father went on, “So I walked up, round the back. Abase myself at the servant's entrance, you know. Until the last minute, I was sure it would work. Face your Mother, explain my plans, get her blessing. Then the melting, tears, hugs and so on.” More detail than I need, thanks Dad. No more about the so-on.
“What happened?” I asked, peeling another squished sandwich off the stack. He sighed,
“I'm not as brave as you. Coming out on a night like this, strolling about the field. Did you see old Aunt Hettie's ghost? No. I'm not so brave. I heard her footsteps, and heard her humming. Your Mother's I mean, not old Hettie's. You know how she hums when she is busy – when she is baking, or on a cleaning mission?” I nodded. I had heard a lot of that hum lately. “Well, I heard her hum, and I panicked, V, like a little boy with his hand in the jam jar. I must have gone from the middle of the kitchen to the window in a single bound. The cake, I swear I did not see. I ankled it away, retreated to the King's Arms for breakfast, to lick my wounds and re-group.”
I sipped my tea and had a little think. They must have been my footsteps, my light pitter-patter down the stairs, as Father had only reached the edge of the wood by the time I had looked out of the kitchen window, but I was pretty sure that I had not been humming. Where had Mother been, while Father was vaulting through the window? Up in the attic already, making the beds. For the moment, I let it pass.
“Perhaps this way is better,” Father murmured, “This way, you can prepare the ground for me, talk to your Mother.” He toyed with the fork and scratched his head again. “But no,” he decided, accepting a slice of salami. “It would be unfair to involve you; and besides, it's a complic
ated matter. A business proposal that I need to put to her ...”
“Oh!” I sighed. Had I really expected a grand re-union, engineered by yours truly?
“... and with that in place, the debts will be paid. Then perhaps we can put everything back together again. What do you think? All of us together again?”
Hurrah, I thought, but kept quiet, wondering rather what Mother would think. Her patience with his business proposals had been worn not just thin, but right through. She might not think the situation was one that could be darned: perhaps a whole new pair of socks was called for.
“You haven't chosen the best time to talk to Mother,” I began, cautiously.
“No?”
“No. She has guests.” And I told him about the murder mystery thing, the houseful of actors and guests. Rather pointedly, I explained that Mother was trying to find ways to raise funds to keep the house going.
“I had wondered about all the traffic,” Father nodded. He put down his tea and gripped my hands again. He stared at me with his big brown eyes. You know how owners begin to resemble their dogs? Or is it the other way around? Father and Marcus have the same round brown eyes; eyes like warm, well-raked earth. Eyes to fall into. “Your Mother should not have to clutter her house with guests, poking about the place, turning everything over. If only she'd let me explain to her how the house can be made to work for itself.”
“I rather think Mother enjoys the excitement. Putting on a show. Kitty's as bad – she's running around imagining she's a detective,” I said.
“And yet you were the one that found me,” he said. “You're the clever one, V. Perhaps I can explain the plan to you, and you can put it to your Mother. Better I stay out of her way, by the sounds of it.”
“What about 'All together again'?” I muttered. Father pushed back his chair and began pacing, running his hands through his hair. His usual habit when thinking.
“That's what I want!” he protested. “Listen, V, here's the plan. First – there are some technical details I need. Second – I can close the deal. Third – I return, in daylight, on a cash-powered white steed. Fourth – your Mother indulges in a dramatic swoon, I catch her and carry her back into the house. And there we are.” So far it did not sound like a convincing plan, even in the middle of the night by lamplight, when wild schemes are usually at their most inspiring. It sounded as though the later parts were better worked out than the vital early stages. Father was always clear about how he expected things to turn out, always optimistic about the destination, often a little hazy about the route. Elodie, don't worry. It'll be fine! were words we had heard many times: often immediately before a disaster, a missed flight, a fully-booked restaurant, the selling-off of another tranche of the grounds.
“You want me to explain that plan to Mother? You think that will convince her?” I began pacing too, and possibly pulling at my own hair. His is dark; mine is what Mother calls honey blonde and the tick calls dirty blonde. Hers is dark like Father's. The pacing and pulling, though, I seem to have inherited.
“Okay,” Father said, “You like physics, still?” Well, I would not go that far. “Here goes. Imagine a see-saw, with one long end. And on one end – on the long end – is a small amount of money. Or, that is, something light. But because it is at the end of a long lever, it needs a heavy weight on the other end to lift it.” So far, it made about as much sense as any other physics question. “So,” Father continued, “we put something heavy on the other end, and that lifts the long end. So the small amount of money is multiplied by the length of the lever, right? Of course, this is only a metaphor.”
To be honest, dear reader, I do not recall exactly his exposition. It was two in the a.m. and I was sleepy and cold. Levers definitely featured. It did seem as though the first law of thermodynamics was under threat at some points, but it was only a metaphor. Perhaps in economics, perpetual motion machines are allowed. The conclusion seemed to be this: that the house, or rather the presence of the house, or perhaps just the name of the house, could be used to make money.
“Do you think, V,” Father said, “that you could make Mother understand that? If all our futures depended on it?” He must have noticed the glassy look in my eyes, because all at once he slumped into his chair again, deflating like a soufflé plucked prematurely from the oven. “Ah, never mind,” he muttered. “Unfair to ask you … just a girl.” Suddenly he struck the table with his fist, and the fork clattered to the stone floor. “I shall not shirk my responsibility!” he declared, puffing out his chest “I shall speak with her myself. At once! Or first thing tomorrow.”
I could imagine him marching up to the house to confront Mother just as the guests were sitting down to breakfast. I could see the Tisket-Taskets tutting, Mrs Rooting-Compound huffing, the Colonel puffing, toast-crumbs in his whiskers, the Cutter-Plains arriving late, thinking it was all part of the show, making notes, adding new suspects to the list, while the latest corpse (who would be next – the Butler perhaps?) lay all un-regarded, slumped in a doorway. And Mother in tears while Father expounded his theory of levers. “No!” I cried, “Let me speak to her. Wait a couple of days.” But Father shook his head ruefully.
“It has to be tomorrow. This opportunity won't wait much longer to be pounced upon. The mouse has already eaten half the stilton and is beginning to wonder whether to wander off to find a walnut to nibble on. The tiger must spring.” And other mixed metaphors. “But ...” he ran his hands again through his much-tousled hair, “but perhaps we do not need to bother your Mother with it at all, what do you think?”
I nodded, “That would be best.”
“After all,” the pacing began again, “all I need is a few papers, and a few reference numbers. I could just pop in and pick them up without troubling anyone.” He finished his cold tea with a flourish. “Good!” he exclaimed, “So – you'll dig those papers out for me? They're in the safe in the study.” Perhaps I had nodded off for a minute or two: I did not remember agreeing to that part of the plan. Father seemed so confident now, though. “They were in a blue folder marked Deeds etc. Your Mother's taken to locking the safe.” And I did not think to wonder how he knew that. “Probably doesn't feel safe without a man in the house. D'you happen to know where she keeps the key?” As a matter of fact, I did – it dangled amongst her necklaces from the arms of that tacky pierrot on her dressing table. I nodded again. “Good girl. Tell you what – don't worry about which papers are which. Just open up the safe and I'll find the ones I need, okay?”
“Okay.” I really needed to sleep. I could see the key, dangling, swinging, hypnotising me.
“Best do it now then, V, before you fall asleep.”
“Now?” I mumbled. Back out into the rain then – but at least I would be moving in the direction of bed.
“Now!” Father said, heaving me up and turning me around by my shoulders. “Cave diem, and so on.” And out I went. Suddenly a double agent: I was sneaking away from the place I had sneaked up on; sneaking towards where once I had sneaked away. I say sneaking: stumbling would be more like it. At least I did not have to detour via barrow and ditch this time, and the moon had found its way out from behind the clouds to ease back the threatening shadows. Confident in my black coat, knowing my slippers had not enough scrunch to wake the sleeping house, I marched up the drive, at least as far as the fence. The cold air and the tiny needles of rain blowing in my face woke me up enough to safely negotiate the cattle grid, but it was not until I reached the house, sliding past Marcus, asleep where I had left him in the orangery, that my slow brain delivered a message to my consciousness. The safe was in the study. The key to the safe was hanging amongst potentially jangly jewellery on the arm of a wobbly statuette on the dressing table in the bedroom where Mother was sleeping. I sat on the stairs a while, taking this in, idly nibbling on a piece of salami that had been left behind in my coat pocket. Thanks for the info, brain. Now – any suggestions? First, I should take off my coat. I finished the climb up the stairs, avoiding
the creaky ones, and crept into my bedroom. Dangerously close to the bed, yawning deep and soft. Perhaps you should lie down, it whispered, and think it over. Determinedly, I shed my cocoon. Now I could slipper about the house with impunity, my sleepwalking alibi threatened only by grass-stains and damp legs. Perhaps I could risk Mother's bedroom, where the key swayed, if only I could resist the black hole of my mattress.
My footsteps seemed heavy as I reached escape velocity, breaking free of the bed and lurching to the doorway. They sounded wooden and echo-ey, and I seemed to be cursing – words I would not have admitted knowing – in a muffled way. Barely in time, I realised that the noise was coming not from me but from above, from up the attic stairs. I leapt back through my bedroom door just as Mother and the Kitty-witch sprang like Jack-in-the-boxes out of theirs. More shouts came from the stairway, and then Mother's commanding voice silenced all but Kitty's excited twittering. A committee was formed with the purpose, as it seemed from behind my bedroom door, of moving a piano, or some other heavy and uncooperative item of furniture, down the stairs. There was more thumping, some crashing, and a good deal more cursing before they reached the kitchen. As the parade passed under my bedroom, I scurried into Mother's. Just where I had expected to find it, there shone the key to the safe, silvery in the shaft of moonlight that peered in through the half-open curtains. I glanced out to where on the drive a pyjama'd gang appeared to be stuffing a body into a car. Part of the mummery perhaps? Another bloody murder to titillate the guests? The car started with a wheeze and sputtered off down the drive whilst the mob returned at once to the house, and I returned to the safety of my bedroom, where I waited until the giggles from the attic had ceased, and all I could hear was Mother's light snore. The bug would have blinked out like a firefly as soon as she hit the pillow, I knew, but I did my sleepwalker's shuffle just in case, down the stairs, through the kitchen, into the study where I stumbled about until finding the green table-lamp. The safe was in the back of the cupboard to the right of the fireplace. Inside there was a stack of papers, and amongst them the blue folder.
I did what Father had asked – I left the safe unlocked – then I dragged myself upstairs for the final time, tucked the damning key under my pillow, and was allowed at last to sleep, which I did more soundly than any double agent should.
Chapter 12
