by Jonathan Coe
‘So who lives in the house at the moment?’
‘No one, really. There’s a minimal staff – a couple of cooks and gardeners, and this old butler who’s been with the family for about five hundred years, and that’s about it. So the place is pretty much empty.’ He took out another cigarette for himself and gave it Phoebe to light. ‘Oh, apart from my father, of course.’
‘I didn’t realize he was still alive.’
Roddy smiled. ‘Well, as far as anyone can tell.’
Not knowing quite what to make of this, Phoebe said: ‘Do you know that John Bellany portrait of his father? I love that painting: it’s so rich and detailed – it tells you so much about the man, and at the same time it’s done with such warmth and affection. It positively glows.’
‘I know his work, yes. I’m not sure I’d recommend it to anyone as an investment these days. Look,’ he said, fixing Phoebe with a half-humorous, half-admonitory stare, ‘I hope you’re not going to want to talk about painting all weekend. I get enough of that down in London.’
‘What else are we here to talk about?’
‘Anything.’
‘ “I live and breathe art”,’ said Phoebe. ‘ “What other people refer to as ‘the real world’ has always seemed pale and insipid by comparison”.’
‘Well, that’s as may be. Personally I find that sort of attitude rather affected.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t say it: you did. Observer magazine, April 1987.’
‘Ah. Well, that’s the sort of thing you’re expected to say to journalists, in my line of business. You’re supposed to take it with a pinch of salt.’ Still puffing away on his cigarette, an edgier, more dangerous tone entering his voice, he said: ‘Do you know what I’d planned to be doing this evening? I’d been invited to dinner with the Marquis of ——, at his flat in Knightsbridge. Also on the guest list were one of the most powerful theatrical producers in London, a member of the royal family, and an incredibly beautiful American actress, currently starring in a film being screened all over the country, who was flying over from Hollywood especially for the occasion.’
‘And what am I supposed to say to that? You must obviously be bored with these people, if you’d rather spend the time up here with me, in the back of beyond.’
‘Not necessarily. I look on this as a working weekend. After all, my livelihood depends on the cultivation of talented young people: and I do regard you as talented.’ The compliment, he thought, was well calculated, and gave him the courage to add: ‘What I’m saying, my dear, is that I’m expecting something a little more exciting from this weekend than a few hours in the drawing room discussing the influence of Velazquez on Francis Bacon.’ And then, before Phoebe could reply, he caught sight of something on the distant horizon. ‘Hello, there it is. The beloved homestead.’
∗
Phoebe’s first impression of Winshaw Towers was not encouraging. Perched almost on the crest of a vast, forbidding ridge, it cast deep dark shadows over the grounds beneath it. The gardens were not yet visible; but she could already make out a dense area of woodland which screened off the approach to the house, and at the foot of the hill lay a large expanse of dismal and featureless water. As for the mad conglomeration of gothic, neo-gothic, sub-gothic and pseudo-gothic towers which gave the house its name, they resembled nothing so much as a giant black hand, gnarled and deformed: its fingers clawed at the heavens, as if to snatch down the setting sun which shone like a burnished penny and would soon, it seemed, have descended inexorably into its grasp.
‘Not exactly a holiday camp, is it?’ said Roddy.
‘Aren’t there any other houses around here?’
‘There’s a little village about five miles away, on the other side of the hill. That’s about it.’
‘Why would anyone want to live in such a lonely spot?’
‘God knows. The main body of the house was built in 1625, so they say. It didn’t come into my family for another fifty years or so. One of my ancestors, Alexander, bought it up – for reasons best known to himself – and then started adding to it, which is why there’s hardly any of the original brickwork left. Now this trumped-up duckpond’ – he gestured out of the window, for the road was now running parallel to the water’s edge – ‘goes by the name of Cavendish Tarn. It isn’t really a tarn, of course, because it’s man-made. Cavendish Winshaw was my great-great-uncle, and he had the whole thing dug out and filled with water about a hundred and twenty years ago. I think he must have envisaged hours of happy pleasure-boating and trout-fishing. Well, just look at it! You’d catch your death of pneumonia if you tried to stay out there for more than five minutes. I’ve always suspected that Cavendish – and Alexander too, if it comes to that – must have belonged to the … well, the eccentric side of the family.’
‘And what does that mean, exactly?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know? The Winshaws have a long and honourable history of insanity. It continues right up to the present day, as a matter of fact.’
‘How fascinating,’ said Phoebe. ‘Somebody should write a book about you all.’ There was a knowing, mischievous undertone to this remark which a more alert listener than Roddy might have registered.
‘Somebody was writing a book about us, now you come to mention it,’ he said blithely. ‘I even met up with him once: gave him an interview a few years ago. Inquisitive sort, I must say. Anyway, all that’s gone very quiet. Good job too.’
They had arrived at the main driveway. He swung the car in and they were at once plunged into a dark tunnel of foliage. In days long past, perhaps, it might have been broad enough to admit a fair-sized vehicle, but now their windscreen and roof were under constant attack from vines, ivy, creepers and overhanging branches of every description. And when they finally emerged into what was left of the daylight, the same neglect was evident on every side: the lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, the location of paths and flowerbeds could only be guessed at, and most of the outbuildings seemed in a state of near-collapse, with cracked windows, crumbling masonry and doors hanging off rusty hinges. Roddy seemed impervious to all of this: he drove with inscrutable single-mindedness right up to the front door, and the car pulled to a halt on the pebbled forecourt.
They got out of the car and Phoebe looked around her, silenced by awe but also by a strange, unaccustomed apprehension. She realized, now, that Roddy had managed to lure her into a situation of peculiar loneliness and vulnerability, and she began to shiver. And then, while he was taking their cases out of the boot, she glanced up at the second storey and a movement behind one of the mullioned windows caught her eye. She saw it for only a brief moment: a pale, drawn and crooked face, surmounted by a wild tangle of grey hair, staring down at the new arrivals with a look of lunatic malevolence which was enough to freeze the blood.
∗
Roddy sank down on to the bed and dabbed with a silk handkerchief at his now beetroot-coloured face.
‘Phew. I wasn’t expecting that, I must say.’
‘Well, I did offer to carry them for you,’ said Phoebe, walking over to the bay window.
A prolonged bout of bell-ringing and hammering on the front door had failed to produce any response, so Roddy had been obliged to use his own keys, and had then insisted on taking both their cases upstairs himself, with Phoebe’s folio wedged precariously beneath his arm. She had followed him in silence, amazed at the atmosphere of gloom and decay which permeated the whole house. The tapestries which hung from the walls were threadbare and tattered; the heavy velvet curtains on the landings were already drawn, admitting nothing of the dying sunlight; two suits of armour, standing precariously to attention in opposite alcoves, seemed about to fall apart from rust; and even the heads of the various unfortunate species of wildlife which had ended their days adorning the walls wore expressions of the utmost despondency.
‘Pyles is around, but he’s sure to be dead drunk by now,’ Roddy explained, between gasps for breath. ‘Here, let’s see if this does the tr
ick.’
He took hold of a bell-rope hanging above the bed and pulled on it violently six or seven times. From the distant bowels of the house they could hear a far-off ringing. ‘That ought to do it,’ he said, panting heavily and lying flat out on the bed, and after about five minutes the approach of footsteps along the corridor could be heard: their tread irregular and unbelievably slow, with one step much heavier than the other. As they came closer, they were accompanied by a dreadful wheezing. Then the footsteps came to an abrupt stop outside their door, the wheezing continued, and a few seconds later there was a loud knock.
‘Come in!’ said Roddy, and the door creaked open to reveal a shabby, cadaverous figure whose eyes, set off by thick, beetling brows, flickered suspiciously about the room before coming to rest on Phoebe, seated at the bay window, who stared back in astonishment. The smell of alcohol overwhelmed her: she thought she would get drunk just by breathing.
‘Young Master Winshaw,’ the butler rasped, his voice hoarse and expressionless, his gaze still fixed on the female visitor. ‘What a pleasure to have you with us again.’
‘You got my message, I take it.’
‘I did, sir. Your room was prepared this morning. However, I was not aware – that is, I do not recall being informed – that you would be bringing a …’ (he coughed a dry cough, and moistened his lips) ‘… companion.’
Roddy sat up. ‘This is Miss Barton, Pyles, a young artist who I hope to be representing in a professional capacity in the very near future. She’ll be staying a day or two. I thought this room might be the most comfortable for her.’
‘As you wish, sir. I’ll go down and tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’
‘Four? Why, who else is coming?’
‘I received a telephone call earlier this afternoon, sir, from Miss Hilary. She’s flying up this evening, it seems, and she also intends to bring a …’ (clearing his throat once again, and licking the cracked corners of his mouth) ‘… companion.’
‘I see.’ Roddy seemed none too pleased with this information. ‘Well in that case surely we shall be five for dinner? I assume my father will be eating with us.’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Your father suffered a slight misfortune this afternoon, and has already retired. The doctor has advised him not to exert himself any further today.’
‘Misfortune? What sort of misfortune?’
‘A most regrettable accident, sir. My fault entirely. I was taking him out for his afternoon constitutional, when I – most carelessly – lost control of his chair, and sent it hurtling down a slope, where it crashed. Crashed into the hen coop.’
‘My God – was there … was there any injury?’
‘A chicken was decapitated, sir.’
Roddy eyed him narrowly, as if trying to decide whether this was a joke. ‘All right, Pyles,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure Miss Barton would like to freshen up after her journey. You may tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’
‘Very good, sir,’ he said, shambling towards the door.
‘What are we having, anyway?’
‘Chicken,’ said Pyles, without turning round.
Phoebe and Roddy were alone again. There was a difficult pause, and then Roddy said, with an awkward laugh: ‘He should really be put out to grass. Mind you, I don’t know who else they could find to look after a place like this.’
‘Should I go and see your father, do you think? There might be something I could do.’
‘No, no, the doctor will have seen to all that. Best not to get involved.’
‘Your butler seems to have a dreadful limp.’
‘Yes, poor soul.’ He got up from the bed and began to pace the room aimlessly. ‘That goes back about ten or fifteen years, when my uncle, Lawrence, still lived here. They were having a lot of trouble with poachers at the time and some man traps were put down. Seems that old Pyles got caught in one – late in the evening, as I understand it. Poor devil, they didn’t find him till the morning. The pain must have been shocking. That’s when he turned to drink, apparently. They even say that it … you know, turned his head a bit. Made him a bit strange – mentally, I mean.’
Phoebe said nothing.
‘Well, I did warn you what this place was like.’
‘Am I expected to dress for dinner?’ she asked.
‘Good Lord, no. Not on my account: and certainly not on account of my dear sister and her so-called companion. Which reminds me, I’d better go down and put the landing lights on for them. Pyles is bound to forget. Why don’t I come back up for you in about ten minutes or so, and we could perhaps do a quick guided tour before it gets dark?’
‘What about your father?’
Roddy’s smile was a perfect blank.
‘What about him?’
∗
It was dusk. Roddy and Phoebe stood on the terrace overlooking Cavendish Tarn, drinking a Château-Lafite 1970, newly brought up from the cellar. They had been on a cursory tour of the house, during which Roddy had proved himself wearily knowledgeable on the subject of Ionic columns and basket arches, and Phoebe had done her dutiful best to admire the brick diapers and the flush quoins and the close carving on the spandrels. Now it appeared that Roddy had other things on his mind. While Phoebe stared out at the two parallel rows of landing lights which stretched across the lake and seemed to converge only at its furthest shore, Roddy’s eyes were turned intently on her profile. She knew that he was about to say something unwelcome, and steeled herself for it.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t really see,’ she answered – slowly, and not without a smile – ‘what that’s got to do with anything.’
‘It’s why you’re here, and we both know it,’ said Roddy. He shifted a few inches closer. ‘There’s a cousin of mine called Thomas. A fair bit older than me – getting on for seventy, now, I should think. He’s quite big in the city. When he was younger – back in the late fifties, early sixties – he lent money to some film companies and got to know a few people in the business. Used to hang around the studios, and so on.’
‘Is there a point to all this?’
‘Hang on, I’m just coming to it. You see, I was only about eight or nine at the time, and Thomas – well, Thomas was, you know … a bit of a lad. A bit of an old rake. He used to bring me these photographs.’
‘Photographs?’
‘Pretty run of the mill stuff, most of them. Scenes from nudist films that he’d been involved with, that sort of thing. But there was one photograph – just an ordinary portrait shot, head and shoulders – of an actress: she was called Shirley Eaton. And I was really smitten with it for a while. Used to sleep with it under my pillow, if you can believe that. Of course, I was very young. But the funny thing is –’
‘– that I look exactly like her?’
‘Well, you do, actually.’ He frowned. ‘Why, has somebody told you that before?’
‘No, but I could see it coming. And now I’m to have the honour of helping you to live out your childhood fantasies, I suppose.’ Roddy didn’t answer that, and she continued to stare ahead, relishing the silence, until she noticed a red light winking in the night sky. ‘Look, there’s something up there.’
‘Sister dearest, I expect.’ He left his wineglass on the balustrade, and said: ‘Come on, let’s get down to the jetty and give her a proper welcome.’
The descent to the lake involved crossing three more lawns – all of them thick with wild, unkempt grass – linked steeply by walkways which had to be negotiated with care, for many of the slabs were loose, or concealed cracks which were big enough to trap the unwary foot. Finally, a set of rotting wooden steps led down to the water itself. They arrived just in time to see the plane skim down on to the tarn’s moonlit surface, and then taxi towards them, sending out shockwaves of foam as it came to a graceful if noisy halt at the edge of the jetty. Seconds later a door opened and the ash-blonde tresses of Britain’s most highly paid columnist popped into v
iew.
‘Roddy?’ she said, peering out into the semi-dark. ‘You couldn’t be a love and take this case for me, could you?’
She handed him her case and squeezed herself through the doorway, to be followed by a square-shouldered, chisel-jawed, very bronzed and muscular figure who leapt out behind her and swung the door shut in one lithe, athletic movement.
‘Have you met Conrad, my pilot?’
‘A pleasure,’ said Roddy, shaking his hand and almost getting his fingers broken in the process.
‘And I don’t believe …’ Hilary prompted, having glimpsed Phoebe lurking in the shadows.
‘Phoebe Barton,’ said Roddy, as she stepped forward shyly. ‘Phoebe is my guest this weekend. She’s a most gifted young painter.’
‘Of course.’ Hilary appraised her coolly. ‘They always are. Is this your first time at the house of horrors, my dear?’
Phoebe had the sense that a clever answer was expected of her; but all she could manage was: ‘Yes.’
‘In that case, welcome,’ said Hilary, leading the way up the steps, ‘to Baskerville Hall. Come on, everybody, I’m famished. We had the most loathsome flight.’
3
The dining table could comfortably have seated twenty. The four of them huddled together at one end, and beneath the arches of that cavernous, overblown chamber, their voices sounded puny and faint. Not that Phoebe and Conrad had much to say in any case: for the first twenty minutes or so, brother and sister conducted an exclusive and (despite all the disparaging remarks Roddy had been making about Hilary before her arrival) affectionate conversation which consisted entirely of salacious gossip about mutual friends. Phoebe occasionally read the review pages of the national papers and watched arts programmes on the television, so she recognized most of the names as belonging to that small, self-elected and mutually supporting circle which seemed – for better or worse – to be at the heart of what passed for cultural life down in London. What she couldn’t quite understand was the odd, persistent note of reverence which underpinned even the sleaziest or most trivial of the anecdotes: the sense that Roddy and Hilary did, in fact, ascribe real importance to everything said and done by these people; that they did believe them, at heart, to be something like colossi bestriding the national stage, even though Phoebe could easily have gone through the entire roster of her friends, colleagues, neighbours and patients and not found a single person in whom their names would have produced even the dimmest flicker of recognition. None the less, the flow of private jokes and inside stories showed no sign of abating until Roddy moved things on to an altogether more personal level, by asking after the health of his brother-in-law.
