by Clare Clark
In the middle of the hall table there was a big silver bowl full of pale pink roses. Jessica took one out and, holding it up in front of her, glided across the hall towards one of the suits of armour that guarded the bottom of the stairs. The armour held a pike in one hinged metal hand. The other hand was empty, the arm slightly outstretched. Clasping the cold fingers, she bowed her head.
Will you, Jessica Margaret Crompton Melville, take this man to be your awfully wedded husband? He loves you to the ends of the earth and he wants more than anything else in the world to buy you an Alfonso motor car.
Why, in that case, I will.
Tearing the petals from the rose and throwing them above her head, she processed triumphantly back towards the front door. She had only ever been to one wedding, last year when Uncle Henry married Aunt Violet. It had not been in the least romantic. Uncle Henry was twenty-five years younger than Father but he was still ancient. When he made his speech he did not kiss Aunt Violet or say they would live happily ever after or anything. When Jessica asked Eleanor why not, her mother had made a funny face and said surely she knew by now that the Melvilles were the coldest fishes in the sea?
Jessica caught sight of Theo and Terence through the window as they crossed the gravel drive. They were laughing. They had changed into white flannels and Terence was wearing a panama hat. The hat made Terence’s face look redder than ever. Jessica stood four-square in the entrance of the Great Hall, her fists on her hips, so that when they pushed open the door, still laughing, they almost knocked her over.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ she demanded. The swearing made her feel better. She eyed the tennis racquets in Theo’s arms. ‘You’re not going to play bloody tennis, are you?’
‘Bloody tennis?’ Theo said. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’
‘The racquets.’
‘Racquets?’ Theo looked down at the racquets and gaped. ‘Good Lord. Where the devil did those spring from?’ Terence laughed as Theo pushed the racquets into his arms and, whisking Terence’s panama from his head, sent it skimming towards the eagle on the newel post. The brim clipped the eagle’s beak and skittered upside down along the floor.
‘You missed,’ Jessica said.
‘That depends on what I was aiming for,’ Theo said and Terence laughed again, his red mouth wide open. Jessica glared at him.
‘You shouldn’t leave people out,’ she said to Theo. ‘It’s rude.’
‘What’s rude?’ Marjorie skipped down the stairs. She was wearing a tightly belted tennis dress and shoes so white they made Jessica blink. Behind her, dressed in her ordinary blouse and skirt, Phyllis scuffed her feet, a book dangling from one hand. She kept her thumb tucked between the pages, marking her place.
‘Miss Messy here, that’s who,’ Theo said and, reclaiming a racquet from Terence, he bounced the strings on Jessica’s head. ‘You should hear the swear words Nanny’s been teaching her. The two of them would put a navvy to shame.’
Marjorie sniggered. Jessica glowered at her. She hated it when Theo called her Mess and Messy. Miss Messica Jelville, he would say, as though his tongue had got it muddled up, and Eleanor would laugh and laugh. But at the same time she could not help being glad just a little that he had a special name for her he had made up all by himself. He never called Phyllis anything but Phyll.
‘Ready?’ Theo said as Terence retrieved his hat. Then he frowned. ‘Come on, Phyll. You haven’t even changed your shoes.’
‘What difference does that make?’ Phyllis said. ‘I won’t be any less hopeless with different shoes.’
‘There’s no point in playing if you refuse to try.’
‘Well, in that case . . .’ Baring her teeth in a smile, she turned to go back upstairs, her eyes already on her book. Marjorie caught her arm.
‘Please, Phyllis,’ she wheedled, glancing at Theo. ‘We need you. Don’t we need her, Theo? It’s much more fun with four.’
‘Or you could let them play singles,’ Phyllis said. ‘You know they’d rather.’
‘Would you?’ Marjorie asked Theo. ‘Would you really?’ And she bit her lip and made her eyes go round at him in a way that made Jessica want to be sick on her snowy white shoes.
‘For God’s sake, Phyll,’ Theo snapped. ‘Just play, won’t you?’
‘I can play,’ Jessica offered quickly. ‘I’ve been taking lessons.’
‘I don’t even know why you want me,’ Phyllis said. ‘You’ll only growl at me every time I hit it into the net.’
‘Miss Whitfield says I have a natural eye for the ball,’ Jessica added.
‘He won’t,’ Marjorie said. ‘You won’t, will you, Theo?’
Theo’s mouth twitched, his eyes sliding sideways towards Terence. ‘Well, I suppose if she were on the other side I mightn’t. Then I might even enjoy it.’
‘Is that what we on the East Coast call a challenge, Melville?’ Terence said.
‘For you, most certainly. Have you seen Phyllis on a tennis court?’
‘That’s it,’ Phyllis said. ‘I’m not playing.’
‘Come on now,’ Terence said. The way he looked at Theo suggested some kind of private joke. ‘Wouldn’t it be a little bit fun to knock that self-satisfied smirk off your brother’s face?’
‘It’d be a joy and a pleasure. Unfortunately, though, he has a point. My tennis is execrable.’
‘Nonsense,’ Terence said, still looking at Theo. ‘Trust me. It will be a cinch. A snap. A picnic. A breeze. A piece of cake. A walk, my friend, in the park.’
‘Extraordinary,’ Theo said. ‘In the old country only a matter of weeks and already so fluent in hubris.’
‘Just wait till you see me serve.’
‘I’ve heard Terence is fearfully good,’ Marjorie confided to Phyllis. ‘You’ll hardly have to hit a stroke. You can just stand there looking pretty.’
Phyllis rolled her eyes. ‘If only Miss Pankhurst could hear you, Marjorie. She’d be so proud.’
‘What about me?’ Jessica demanded. ‘Why can’t I play?’
‘Are you still here?’ Theo asked. Then, putting one hand on the top of her head and another around her chin, he tipped back her face, twisting it from side to side. ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Royal Society. Today we will be studying the sadly not-so-rare species, the Spoiled Child.’
‘Let go of me,’ Jessica protested, trying to wriggle free, but Theo only tightened his grip, his fingers digging uncomfortably into her jaw.
‘Mark,’ he said, ‘the distinctive pout, the ill-tempered frown between the eyebrows. Not uncommonly this will be accompanied by the protruding tongue—’
‘Let her go, Theo,’ Phyllis said as Marjorie giggled, her hand over her mouth. ‘We can let her pick up the balls or something, can’t we?’
‘And be your slave?’ Jessica said. ‘No fear.’
‘Fine.’ Phyllis shrugged. ‘We’ll see you later, then.’
‘You can’t just leave me all alone.’
‘Oskar’s around, isn’t he? And anyway, I thought you were putting on a concert?’
‘It’s not a concert, it’s an Extravaganza. And I can’t do anything with you gone because you’re all in it.’
Theo looked at Terence and snorted. ‘When hell freezes over.’
‘It isn’t for you, actually, Theodore Melville. It’s for Eleanor.’ She rolled the name on her tongue like an elocution teacher. Her mother was always telling her to pronounce it properly and not like a maid who dropped her ‘h’s.
‘For Eleanor?’ Theo said, copying her enunciation. ‘Would that be the Eleanor who prizes children’s shows above all other entertainments?’
‘She’d like it if you were in it,’ Jessica said sulkily. Theo did not try to deny it. However short-tempered Eleanor was, however restless or peevish or bored half to death buried in the back of beyond, she was never impatient with Theo. Sometimes she even kissed him for no reason or smoothed the hair away from his forehead. When Jessica’s hair escaped
her ribbons, Eleanor just winced and sent her up to Nanny.
‘Do it with Oskar,’ Theo suggested. ‘I mean, the boy’s pure music hall.’ He strummed his tennis racquet like a Spanish guitar. ‘Zey call me Oskar Grunewald, ja, zey do. Some days I zay one word, some days even two.’
‘Don’t, Theo,’ Phyllis said. ‘That’s unkind.’
‘It’s not unkind if it’s true,’ Jessica said.
‘No you’re not. You’re ruining my Extravaganza just as much as Theo, only you won’t come straight out and say so. Which makes you worse.’
Terence grinned, showing white teeth. ‘Well, ain’t you a pistol, little sister?’
Jessica considered the American boy, her eyes narrow. Then slowly she raised her hands, the first two fingers pointing at his head.
‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ she said. Blowing the smoke from her fingertips, she stuck out her chin and stalked through the servants’ door towards the kitchen.
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About the Author
Author photograph © Juliana Johnston
Clare Clark is the author of five highly acclaimed historical novels, including The Great Stink, Savage Lands (both long-listed for the Orange Prize), and The Nature of Monsters. Born in 1967, she graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, with a double first in history and now lives in London.
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