The Old Dog and the Doorstep

by JP Wright

I have not yet given you very much detail on the salon; so far, it has been only a room to walk through to get out into the orangery, and from there across the field to the lodge. It is much more important than that. Although lately we had not been using it so much, when K and I were smaller it was the room where we spent most of our time. Having been sent out of the kitchen for dipping our fingers in pies or puffing clouds of icing sugar out of the bags so we could choke on the sweetness, we might spend a while sliding on the smooth boards of the hallway until something got knocked over by Kitty's flailing elbows. Father would pop out of the study and survey the wreckage, trying to look cross though in fact he did not care too much about Mother's 'priceless antiques', and we would scurry into the salon. There is plenty of space in there. A few chairs and a chaise longue that can be dragged to the edges, and an old rug that was too stained even before we got to it to worry much about. Enough space to make tents, if we could smuggle our bed-covers downstairs without Mother noticing. Her hearing is so sharp. Enough space for a spot of indoor badminton. Enough in fact for hockey, but that was quickly banned. It is in the salon that the pest's artistic endeavours are encouraged. She scrapes away at her violin in there (I myself used to play the flute, much more peaceful, but lately have not had time for it), and on a big sheet of polythene laid on the floor she splats clay about or splashes paint, or whatever the latest thing is. Mother treasures the rubbish she produces, but Kitty herself never looks at it once she has finished. She bounces off to the next enthusiasm.

  Even further back, we both learned to walk in the salon. The walls still bear the marks of our jammy-fingered cruising. From the height of the marks, rising like a tide each year, you could track our growth and progress. Those few chairs were our anchor points and targets for each expedition. The chair whose back Mother was now gripping as though she would rather be throttling someone, that was the one from which I set out on my first successful crossing of the room: I have seen the photographs.

  Because it is at the southern-most tip of the house, and is mostly windows along the orangery side, and the orangery itself is all window, in the summer time it gets really hot in the salon. Hot as a greenhouse. In fact, Mother more than once tried to grow chillies on the window sills, but they were too delicate. Even a feathery shuttlecock would knock them off their perches. For the same reasons, in the winter-time, when the wind forces its way through the gaps in the window frames and there is frost on the inside of the windows, the room can be icy cold, especially early in the morning when Kitty used to wrap herself in her duvet and parade about being a queen while I tried to watch TV. Or she would insist on dragging back the heavy curtains and scribbling jagged pictures on the frosty glass.

  Those curtains across the big doors into the orangery are rather ragged, having been much tugged to and fro, and much pierced by the pins we used to hold the scenery in place when they were acting as a backdrop for one of our concerts or plays. Mother was happy to encourage our silly attempts; Father too. Our greatest triumph was prompted by a suggestion of his: the story of Narcissus. Father was a classical scholar, he would remind us often. Which seemed to mean that he had attended some lectures at Uni, though in the end he had not seen the necessity in taking the exam. I remember we dressed K in green tights and a yellow skirt that she wore as a top that was supposed to be a smock (because it was set in Arcadia, where everyone who was not a god was a shepherd). She usually ruined everything by bounding out from behind the curtain before her cue crying 'Da-daa!' and of course Mother and Father applauded like idiots and that only encouraged her, but on that occasion she did manage to contain herself and at the right moment flip up the skirt over her head so that it covered her face and made her look like a pretty good daffodil, if a droopy one. I doubt that Narcissus, after his transformation, performed a little ex tempore song and dance to express how pleased he was to be a flower but despite that, and despite the mirror getting cracked that was serving as a pond, the production was acclaimed as a triumph.

  That was a few years ago. The salon has been used more recently mostly for watching TV and for arguments. Though in this family, there is a broad overlap between theatrics and arguments. There are always grand entrances and exits. Waving of hands and great speeches. Neither Mother nor Father would ever think of getting into an argument if there was not the promise of at least one epic speech for them. Ideally one that covered the range of emotions, and addressed one of the great issues of life: fairness, sacrifice, money. There were sometimes walk-on parts for a child actor, but these were always really domestic dramas for two. And, after months during which Mother had been limited to melodramatic monologues, I walked right into the middle of the stage to find the piece already well into its second act.

  My first feeling was panic rather than surprise. Despite his promise to lurk down the hill, I had half-expected Father to turn up, but I was at a disadvantage, not having heard the beginning of the argument. What had they said already? What did Mother know? How do spies keep their cool, when the wrong word could get them shot? I felt like a child again, that feeling that they can see right through you and it is no sense trying to keep anything secret because they know anyway exactly what you are thinking. Mummy always knows what you have done, even when she is asking you 'What? Why? Who did this?' She knows really. Better to tell everything right away.

  Fortunately, she did not look at me, just kept gripping and gripping the back of the chair. She had abandoned her soaked hanky and was now letting tears run down her face and drip off her chin as if she did not care. Father was sitting in another chair, looking tired, crumpled and defeated. Not looking at all like a knight who had come to sweep her off her feet. Perhaps he had not found Mother in the mood to be swept. It looked more like she would be doing the sweeping. This is the thing you have to know about Mother's watery moods: all the leakage is nothing compared to the surge, the tsunami building up inside. Her earlier drying was akin to the sudden rush of water away from the shore before it returns like a furious, irrefusable black wall. The tears were trickles from cracks in a dam that would soon break to release a lake, in its mass not soft as water should be, not turning this way and that to find the easiest route and gently retreating into the ground, but as hard as an explosion, bearing all before it and brooking no argument. Father did well to look worried, sitting as he was in the way of that unstoppable force.

  Had she caught him at the safe? That must be it. What had he already told her? Was I in the frame? “Mother,” I ventured, raising my eyebrows at Father enquiringly, “I need to talk to you.” And I did, before the plot was exposed, because I knew that Father would collapse under questioning, if he had not already.

  “Please set out the lunch, Violet,” she gritted, glancing at me. Father took that opportunity to wink at me reassuringly: not caught red-handed then. Clumsy of him to be caught at all. I tightened my lips and glared at him to signify Dammit, Mother was not supposed to be involved. He pursed his lips regretfully, as though to suggest that it had been unavoidable.

  “I've already done most of it; I'm waiting for the chicken,” I told Mother, making a gesture to indicate a key, so that Father would know the safe was open. “Oughtn't you to be seeing to your guests? They must be getting restive – there have been no bloody murders since breakfast. I'll talk to the Bastard for you.”

  “Never, Violet Tickham, use that tone about your Father,” Mother said severely. For a moment I thought the flood was about to descend on me. Notice that it was my tone she objected to though, not my choice of words. Is there a respectful tone in which to call someone a bastard? “I am quite capable, thank-you, of dealing with this,” she snapped icily, and turned back to the aforementioned son of dubious parentage.

  “You don't understand, Mother,” I protested. How to get a word with Father with her out of the way?

  “Oh, do I not?” she countered, looking dangerously amused. Uh-oh. I could not give her the real story. What could I say if she asked me to explain? This was one of those
serious dramas that was all talking and weeping; no chance of distracting everyone by bringing on the dancing girls. Mother paused. “In fact, you are right, V, I don't understand. Hugo, what the hell are you doing here?” I doubted that Hugo – for that was his name, the Bastard, my Father – had a convincing story, any more than I did.

  “It's tricky to explain,” Father began, squirming in his chair.

  “Then don't explain it, Dad,” I interrupted, hoping still to save the situation. Mother clearly was not going to be diverted, so my only chance was to get him out of there. “Just weasel off.”

  As Mother turned to me again Father dropped his contrite mask to wink rapidly and give me a thumbs-up. I scowled at him: easy enough. “If your Father,” Mother said, “is going to burst in here then he will damn well stay until he can give me an explanation. Now you ...”

  “I did not really burst anywhere, Elodie, be fair. The orangery was wide open. Old Marcus showed me in.” Old Marcus, having exhausted himself with a stroll to the lodge and back, was stretched out in his usual spot in the sunshine, snoring.

  “I can smell chicken burning, V,” Mother told me, so with one more warning scowl at Father that meant don't you dare tell her about my part in this, I went to check it. She was almost right. It was on the good side of burned though, just enough to make it interesting, so I tipped it into a bowl with the remaining marinade and ouched the hot rolls into a basket, and took them outside to the vultures while K completed her hummus hedgehog. By the time I returned, the little viper had slid into the salon, where Father still sat looking bemused. “... and apart from the murders there has been a cake assassin abroad, and I'm sure there is a secret plot ...” she was telling him. Mother had left the room.

  “It sounds like you know everything,” Father said to K, raising his eyebrows at me. I shrugged slightly as if to say Maybe she does. I thought it would not hurt to let him suffer a little, but the panic in his brown eyes made me relent.

  “She's making it up as she goes along,” I told him. Kitty bounced about the sunny room, poking under chairs and behind curtains, looking for clues. “Kitty, where is your friend Belle?” I asked her, hoping to get rid of her that way.

  “Belle?” Father asked.

  “Just one of the guests,” I told him.

  “She's an Actress, Daddy. I am not sure where she is,” said Kitty from beneath the chaise longue, “For now, she cannot help me. Not really side-kick material. Probably getting dressed for lunch.” Meanwhile Father tapped his wrist, though he had no watch on, indicating – what? That he would return later? He had to leave? That time was running inexorably away and we were but mortal? He had a new freckle? This spy business was exhausting. Who knows who knew what any more?

  “Are you staying for lunch?” I asked politely

  “He's leaving now,” came a sharp voice from behind me. Mother, the quick-change artist, re-entering the room, tear-stained loose gown gone, waisted garden-party pastel number and sparkly sandals in place; hat pinned on; make-up removed and re-applied. “Tabitha dear your friend Belle is not at lunch yet I would hate for her to miss any of the entertainment perhaps you would find her and take her along good girl,” and off the blight trotted, Mummy's little angel, “V you keep telling me you have lots of work to do perhaps you had better do it and as for you ...” the great wave leaned over Father and he did his best to look defiant but looked more like a schoolboy caught with his hands down his pants. In his moment of greatest danger – and mine, as he would surely blurt out my part in his ridiculous scheme – he was saved by a sudden outbreak of hemming and hawing in the doorway. Sandy and Lottie, or rather Sergeant Able and Constable Easy, presented themselves to Mother, he with a ragged salute and an attempt to stand to attention that was doomed to ridicule by his lanky frame, she with a plié and a plummy,

  “'Allo 'allo 'allo Ma'am.”

  “Mornin' ma'am,” added Sandy.

  Mother glanced at them, took in their rosy cheeks, moustaches, shiny buttons and stupid grins. They bobbed up and down, bending their knees and tucking their thumbs into imaginary waistcoats. “Mornin' Ma'am, mornin' Miss, mornin' Sir.” Bob, bob, bob.

  “Yes, very good,” cut in Mother drily, “An utterly convincing transformation.”

  “Thank-you Ma'am,” said Sandy

  “Much obliged Ma'am,” said Lottie

  “Good work, Easy.”

  “Thanks Sarge.” Up and down they went like clockwork toys.

  “Beggin' your pardon, Ma'am, we've come to ask you, sorry to be troublin' you but we have to ask, if it is not too much trouble Ma'am, is it time for the de-noo-ment?” said Sandy as he bobbed and saluted.

  “Is it time, Ma'am, is it? Only we wasn't sure Ma'am, milady, Ma'am,” added Lottie. Mother sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “No,” she told them through teeth that could not help but be a little bit gritted, “First, you must present them with the results of the post-mortem examination of the Master. Then, you must discuss your own suspicions with them.”

  “Right-o milady,” cried Sandy, not a bit downcast. “Post-mortem it is.”

  “Quick work by the old post-mortem-er,” put in Lottie, “The Master being only 'orribly murdered yesterday in the ay em.”

  “And our suspicions. What do you think, Easy?” said Sandy, turning to his partner, who was still popping up and down like some sort of steam-powered fairground attraction, “The gypsies?”

  “Oh, the gypsies, yes. Or the musselman jugglers, Sarge,” she piped.

  “Off you trot, officers,” cried Mother brightly, clapping her hands, “You're wanted on-stage.” And so they saluted, turned and proceeded away.

  There was a little pause while Mother, Father and I all caught up with where we had been. Let me see – the plot on the verge of ruin, Father here with no explanation to satisfy Mother, me with a lot of work to do, true enough, but I could not leave in case Father broke and exposed me. Mother about to crash down on Father's head. We all took deep breaths, but Mother got in first with, “As you can see I have a lot to do I do not have the time to deal with you I shall be busy for the rest of the day ...” and I supposed Father might take encouragement from that, knowing the coast would be clear, “so will you just go away?” She held her force in check: the drama required a rejoinder from Father, some resistance. He knew his part. Shaking his head ruefully as though frustrated with himself for failing to make things simple enough for Mother to understand, rather patronising and I can tell you from experience irresistibly irritating, he stood and patted her on the arm.

  “Elodie,” he began, with a sigh, but then there came a tap on the door-frame and a tentative voice.

  “Modom,” it said, “your public awaits. Oh.” Simon noticed Father, who did not appreciate this interruption just when he was getting to his grand speech.

  “Who's this now?” he demanded, standing in front of Mother but looking past her at Simon in his repaired trousers and stuck-on whiskers. In the bright sunshine of the salon, he did not look so convincing as he had in the murkier morning kitchen. “You seem to be well-off for staff, Elodie.”

  “Ha!” Mother snorted, “As if there is anything left for anything like that. Simon is a friend who is kindly playing Butler for me. Your fun and games left us without funds for a cleaner, let alone a butler.” She shook off Father's hand. Simon persisted in character,

  “Will the gentleman be joining us for luncheon, Modom?” he asked, then summoned some butlerish snobbery and added, “If so I am sure I can locate some articles of clothing in which he might find himself more comfortable in company.” With a sneer he moved further into the room, measuring Father with his eyes. He hesitated as Father stepped around Mother, perhaps finding him a little tall.

  “Investments, not fun and games, Elodie.” Father frowned, glaring at Simon, “Anyway, I won't discuss this in front of staff.”

  “Simon is not staff,” said Mother, stepping between the two of them, pushing Father back towards his ch
air.

  “Then I don't know who he is,” insisted Father, “and I won't discuss this in front of strangers.” Beware, Father, for the wall of water is building again.

  “We are not going to discuss it at all,” Mother told him, guiding him around the chair and towards the door where Marcus lay.

  “Never fear, Sir, for your investments,” said Simon smoothly, more confident now that Father was on the retreat, “I have no need of them – I have already located a fence for what remains of the family silver.”

  Suddenly Mother's head was in her hands and she seemed to be holding back sobs. “That will do, thank-you Butler,” she choked out, “This fellow will not be staying for lunch. You may inform my guests that I shall be with them shortly.”

  Simon glanced from her to Father, then in response to a sharp flick of her hand slid backwards out of the room, bowing at the waist. Mother continued to reverse Father towards the orangery. “And as for you,” she spat at him, “just … go away.” He continued to reverse under his own power, staring at her. “Mind Marcus!” she cried. He stopped, turned and bent to ruffle the sleeping dog's matted hair. The tide subsided. Mother turned and swept out of the room. Father risked an obvious wink at me and a thumbs up, stepped with exaggerated care over Marcus, then slipped apologetically out the way he had come in, out through the glass doors and down towards the sheep-field. I followed him only as far as the orangery, where I sat with Marcus a while, who offered more comfort than Mother or Father, though he slept. At least, I thought, I had learned to doubt that 'all together again' would be a good idea.

  I sat there until I saw Belle, actress-slash-model and Thieving Bitch, round the corner of the house and set off herself across the field, mincing around the sheep droppings, with a fat blue folder under one arm. Then I remembered that, as Mother had said, I had a lot of work to do, and I retreated to my bedroom.

  Chapter 16