A Married Man, page 11
‘Fun!’ spat Rose. ‘God, you’re as bad as they are, Archie. You’ll probably go the same way, too. It’s all in the genes. Oh God.’ She shut her eyes. ‘Hear that? Talk of the devil.’
I looked around expectantly. There was nothing to see though, just the distant roar of a car travelling very fast. It appeared to be roaring up the front drive, with the speed and accompanying gear changes that one would normally associate with Formula One racing. We waited, spellbound, as seconds later an ancient red Fiesta shot around the side of the house and careered towards the fountain below us, performing a hair-raising handbrake turn in the gravel, just short of the water. As it lurched to a halt, fumes billowing, gravel flying, we held our breath, waiting for the doors to open. Seconds later it lurched backwards though, reversing at speed, straight into an ornamental box hedge. This, apparently, was where they fully intended to park, because the doors opened – as much as was possible – and the sisters squeezed out through the hedge, nonchalantly brushing bits of box off themselves.
Cynthia, the elder, was looking immaculate in a silk Jacquard dress and pearls, very Knightsbridge, very elegant, until one looked down and realized she had woolly socks and slippers on. On closer inspection, it also transpired that her lipstick was spread all around the outside of her mouth. She marched purposefully towards us, a handbag in one hand, a packet of sausages in the other.
Violet, her sister, followed behind. She was much smaller, and more casually dressed; in a red and black silk jockey’s cap, a shirt that had lost most of its buttons revealing a black bra, a pair of trousers, so covered in mud, manure, blood and guts they practically stood up by themselves, and on her feet, the biggest pair of black trainers I’ve ever seen in my life.
As they walked up the flight of terrace steps, Archie found Ben’s ear.
‘Not quite like other budgerigars,’ he murmured.
Poor Ben’s eyes widened even more at this as, totally unfazed, the sisters sat down at the two empty places. Cynthia put the sausages in the middle of the table.
‘Thought we’d make a contribution,’ she said firmly.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Rose faintly. ‘And – how lovely to see you. I hope you don’t mind, we started without you, so you’ve rather missed the first course. We’ll move on to the duck if – ah. Thank you, Joan.’ Joan materialized to clear the plates and a brief silence ensued.
‘Now,’ Rose smiled, regaining her composure. ‘Cynthia, I don’t know if you remember Ned’s wife, Lucy? And my grandsons, Ben and Max. They’re going to live in Chandlers Barn, you know, on the other side of the lake, near the paddocks.’
‘I know where the barn is, Rose,’ snapped Cynthia. ‘I grew up here, as I keep having to remind you, and of course I remember Ned. He was my nephew, for crying out loud. Died prematurely, as you never fail to remind me. The only one of you lot that had any sense.’ She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Ned’s wife, eh? I remember, you’re Lucy. So that makes you Hetty’s girl, doesn’t it?’
‘Er, well. No, I –’
‘VIOLET, IT’S HETTY’S GIRL!’ she yelled across the table at her sister. ‘Bit deaf,’ she muttered to me.
‘Hetty’s girl?’ Violet blinked.
‘THAT’S IT!’ Cynthia roared, then turned back to me.
‘How is that trollop of a mother of yours? Still whoring her way around Cadogan Square?’
‘Oh! No! No, she –’
‘Terrible business with Roddy McLean, eh? His poor wife ended up falling on a fish-knife she was so distressed. Nasty, common way to die. Incidentally, didn’t I see you in the field today?’ She frowned at me.
‘F-field?’ I gasped, trying to keep up.
‘I thought it was you!’ Ben piped up suddenly, cheeks pink. ‘I was listening to your voice just now, and that’s how you shouted at us! It sounded like a man, but it wasn’t.’
‘Ah, that was you, was it?’ She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Sorry about that, thought you were trespassing, you see. Rose here thinks she owns the whole bloody shooting match, but she doesn’t, in point of fact. Pa left us that patch of land and we put our cattle on it, de temps en temps. Resting it at the moment.’
‘Oh.’ Rose clutched her heart. ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry. Did she –? Cynthia, you didn’t …’
‘Let them have it with both barrels? Of course I did.
Would have blown their heads off if they’d come any closer.’
‘Real bullets?’ Ben was impressed. Something to tell Pietro.
‘No darling, blanks,’ breathed Rose quickly. ‘Aunt Cynthia wouldn’t fire real ones!’
‘Don’t bet on it,’ muttered Cynthia darkly. ‘Particularly in your direction.’ She smiled down at Ben. ‘No my sweet, not real ones, I’m afraid. And I’m sorry if I frightened you.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Ben staunchly, earning an indulgent smile from Archie.
‘Good lad,’ he growled. ‘Cool under fire.’
The duck appeared and was almost totally raw, arteries still pumping. No one seemed to notice though, and it was followed by some sort of livid green mousse which was inedible. The evening lurched on, and as I struggled to eat, coping with Lavinia on my right who was getting disastrously drunk and muttering on about porticoes and gargoyles, simultaneously trying to keep an eye on Ben who was making a valiant effort to eat his food, whilst Max, who hadn’t even bothered, was falling asleep in his plate, I was all the time aware that Violet, across the table, was eyeing me very suspiciously.
The filthy mousse finally disappeared. I was just clearing my throat to suggest that the boys were awfully tired and could I possibly hustle them away, when Cynthia roared across the table, ‘DO YOUR SHIRT UP, VIOLET!’
‘What?’ Violet took her eyes off me for a split second.
‘DO YOUR SHIRT UP! NO ONE WANTS TO SEE YOUR TITS!’
Rose gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Cynthia dear, language. Pas devant les enfants, n’est-ce pas?’
Max sat bolt upright, eyes snapping open. ‘I know what that means,’ he declared. ‘It means not in front of the children. And I know what tits are, too.’
‘Shut up, Max,’ muttered Ben, embarrassed. He flushed.
‘Well, I do!’
‘’Course you do,’ said Cynthia briskly. ‘Every woman’s got them, for God’s sake, just as every man’s got balls.’
‘And a willy,’ added Max. ‘And Mummy’s got a string.’
There was a startled silence. I stared, horrified, at my plate.
Archie frowned. ‘A string …’ he said thoughtfully at length. ‘Interesting. Let me have a little chat with you later, eh young fella? Set you straight on a few things.’
‘Come on, Max,’ I said, lowering my burning face and trying to ignore Pinkie, who was crying with laughter into her napkin. ‘We’ll have to go. You’re falling asleep in your chair.’
‘Oh, but won’t you stay for coffee?’
‘Oh Rose, I’d love to. But you know, first night, and everything, everyone’s exhausted. Would you mind awfully excusing us?’
Rose inclined her head graciously showing rather yellow teeth. ‘Of course. À demain.’
‘And tomorrow,’ said Lavinia, suddenly coming to from her drunken slumber and snatching my arm, ‘we’ll see about those committees.’
‘Well actually Lavinia, I’ve decided I’m not really committee material,’ I said bravely, getting to my feet.
‘Not?’ She looked up, horrified. Pissed, but horrified.
‘I don’t mind helping out in some small way for the church, or –’
‘Flowers?’ she pounced. ‘Only have to do it on the second Sunday of the month?’
‘Flowers,’ I agreed. ‘Once a month.’
‘Perfect,’ she beamed, satisfied. ‘We’ll go and see Mimsy Compton-Burrell tomorrow. She’ll be thrilled to have you on board.’
‘Fine,’ I said faintly, thinking even I could shove some dahlias in a jar once a month. ‘See you tomorrow.’
I gathered up the boys and we kissed, smiled and nodded our way around the table, thanking everyone and making our apologies. As I said goodnight to Violet, ducking under her riding hat to peck her floury old cheek, she held my arm firmly. Looked me in the eye.
‘I want you to know,’ she said, fixing me with wide, pale blue eyes, ‘that I was riding a cow, yesterday.’
I gazed. ‘Excellent,’ I said finally. ‘That’s … good news.’
‘I also want you to know,’ she hadn’t finished, her grip tightening on my arm, ‘that Roddy McLean’s wife was my bridesmaid.’
I stared. Gulped. Right. Well, she was coming after me, wasn’t she? Armed with a fish-knife. Riding a cow.
‘Um, Violet, my mother isn’t who you think she is. You see –’
‘Never mind, Lucy,’ tinkled Rose, ‘I’ll sort it out. On your way now, darlings, on your way!’
She shooed us away, and for once, I blessed her. I held the boys’ hands and we scuttled down the terrace steps. As we skirted the fountain and headed off across the park, away into the night, I realized my heart was beating really rather fast.
Chapter Eight
The following morning Lavinia was on my doorstep at what felt like dawn. It was probably more like nine o’clock, but the boys and I were barely awake. There we were, faintly comatose at the kitchen table, blearily shovelling Cheerios into our mouths in our pyjamas when – ‘Co-eee! Sorry it’s a bit early, but I thought I’d catch you first thing,’ came winging in though an open window.
‘The door’s open,’ I growled from deep in my bowl, not moving from my chair, and grinding my cereal to a pulp.
I wondered, through a fuggy blur, if such visits were to be a regular feature. Then realized in a blinding flash that of course they jolly well were. I groaned quietly. She was looking horribly chipper too, in a bouncy, Fun in the Fourth sort of way, floral skirt swinging jauntily. Very bright-eyed, and no hint of a hangover. A sure sign of an alcoholic, I thought caustically.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ she whispered, tiptoeing through in an annoying fashion, as if being bent double made her less obvious. She sat down purposefully, all set for a cosy little chat. ‘But we did mention yesterday …’
‘Yes, yes I know, and I’ll be around this afternoon, Lavinia,’ I said. ‘But not until then. The boys and I want to go and have a look at Oxford this morning, have a peep at their new school.’
‘Oh, but it won’t be open. It’s the holidays.’
‘I know that,’ I said patiently. ‘They just want to look at the outside, get a feel for the place. See where they’re going in September.’
‘Do we?’ Ben looked doubtful.
‘Yes, darling, don’t you remember, you said?’ I glared meaningfully at him over the breakfast table.
He blinked. ‘Oh. Right.’
If I’d had one clear thought that morning as I’d crawled out of bed, it was that we needed a plan. We needed to look busy, and not as if we were waiting for the Fellowes to come and organize our lives. It was important to look as if we already had one.
‘Oh, well I was going to suggest this afternoon, anyway,’ she said airily. ‘Mimsy and I will be in the church from about three, so pop down any time after that. OK? We’ll show you the ropes.’
‘Right,’ I promised faintly, thinking, But this is it. This is absolutely all I’m doing on the pillar of the community front, and then when the boys have gone back, I’ll see about getting a job. I was not going to turn into her, I thought grimly, taking the cereal bowls to the sink and banging them down on the draining board with more force, admittedly, than I’d intended. I busied myself guiltily in the sink as she chatted to the boys.
‘Oh, but how lovely!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘You’ve put all your china up.’
I paused, elbow deep in the suds, and followed her eyes to my prized collection of Asiatic Pheasant porcelain, decorating the dresser. Last night, when the boys had gone to bed, I’d spent a very happy hour unpacking boxes and carefully unwrapping piece after precious piece from their nests of newspaper. I very nearly had a full dinner service, which was quite an achievement considering how hard it was to come by. There was a lovely soup tureen Ned had given me for my birthday, various dishes from Maisie and Lucas – all of whom knew I’d rather have china than cashmere – then some bowls and plates I’d bought myself. Most of it I’d spotted at Christie’s, eyed all week, then stood anxiously at the back of the auction room on a Friday night, usually groaning as the pieces went way over my budget, but occasionally securing something, Rupert grinning broadly as he waved the hammer in my direction, me waving back triumphantly. Happy days.
‘Mummy thought you’d put it all up there,’ said Lavinia smugly.
I clenched my teeth and took a deep breath. Now why should that annoy me? Last night I’d been delighted to find a huge, empty dresser; had filled it happily, standing back to marvel at the delicate, faded blue and cream gleaming against the dark, Welsh oak.
‘Did she,’ I muttered savagely. There was a silence.
When I turned around, Lavinia had gone. I walked quickly to the open door.
‘Did she hear?’ I asked Ben, anxiously wiping my hands on a tea-towel and watching her go down the hill.
‘Hear what?’ He looked up from the Beano, marking his place with his finger.
I bit my lip. Oh God, I was such a cow. And she was probably so lonely, and only trying to be kind. She was walking back fairly jauntily though, I decided, so she couldn’t be too despondent.
‘See you later!’ I called out impulsively.
She turned, looked surprised. Then grinned back broadly. ‘Okey-doke!’
No, I thought wryly, it clearly hadn’t registered at all. Fellowes skin was thicker than rhino hide, of course, which helped. Particularly if I was going to oscillate between guilt and defiance like this on a regular basis.
As I went to shut the door again, I spotted another figure in the distance and realized my mistake. Silly me, open house wasn’t over yet. I had more guests to entertain this morning. I sighed and leaned against the door frame, waiting in the sunshine, as, looking lovely, long-limbed, bronzed and relaxed, Trisha strolled languorously up the hill; no rush, no worries, and j-u-st about dressed, in tiny white shorts and a bright pink crop top. She was gaily swinging a bucket full of Omo, J-cloths and dusters. I couldn’t help but smile. And in point of fact, with this little treasure popping in on a regular basis to clean and look after the children, I might avoid all my house guests altogether and get out amongst the gainfully employed. I’d never in my life had help like this. Yes, well, you’ve never had the money to pay for it, have you, I reminded myself guiltily. Yep. More guilt.
‘Mornin’ missus!’ she croaked as she came in, affecting a cockney accent and tugging her forelock. ‘Where d’you want me to start then?’
‘Air, hellair Mrs Mop,’ I said haughtily. ‘Just scrub the floorboards till you can see your face in them and then beat the living daylights out of the carpets, would you? I’ll be back to take tea at four.’
‘Silver service?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Iron yer newspapers? Warm yer loo seats?’
I giggled. ‘What a revolting thought. No thanks. Seriously though, Trisha, there’s absolutely nothing to be done in this place. Look …’ I swung my arm around expansively. ‘As you can see, it’s all brand, spanking new, and without a speck of dust to be seen, Rose has made sure of that. What exactly has she asked you to do for me? Polish inside the teacups?’
‘Yeah, something like that, as well as being totally at your beck and call, of course,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I tried to tell her you might not want me in the way, but she wouldn’t have it.’
‘It’s not so much that I don’t want you, it’s just that nothing needs doing. I mean, it will later on, when the boys have wreaked havoc, but even then, not every day. Maybe later, when I’m working …’
‘Exactly. That’s what I thought, in which case you’ll let me know.’ She shrugged. ‘So meantime, why don’t I clean the place, say – ooh, twice a week? Do the tub, the kitchen floor, some ironing maybe, and then when you’ve fixed yourself up in the real world, I’ll come down and look after the kids? We don’t have to tell Rose I’m not down here constantly, and Joan certainly doesn’t want me hanging round Her Kitchen, as she grandly calls it, so maybe I could chill out a bit? Maybe go into town, do a bit of shopping, have my legs waxed, you know?’ She smiled winningly.
I shrugged. ‘Fine by me.’
‘I mean,’ she contrived to look serious for a moment, ‘I do feel a bit guilty about being paid to do bugger all and skiving off,’ she said, without an ounce of moral conviction, ‘but if you and Joan don’t want me,’ she widened her eyes artfully, ‘what’s a girl to do? I think the woman’s barking, actually,’ she finished darkly.
‘Joan?’
‘No, Rose. Mad as a box of snakes.’
‘Quite possibly, although in my experience, there’s generally method in her madness. Don’t underestimate her, she’s no fool.’ I hesitated for a moment. ‘OK, Trisha. Let’s play it your way for the minute, since it suits both of us.’ I reached into a drawer. ‘Here’s a key,’ I chucked it to her, ‘and if you give me your mobile number …’
‘Oh yeah! Good point.’ She scribbled it down. ‘Then if you need me, or um,’ she glanced up quickly, ‘if Rose comes looking for me, you could beat the jungle drums, yeah?’
I grinned. ‘Will do.’
She sauntered out. ‘Oh, and can I leave my bucket? Not necessarily the smartest accessory to be seen with in Oxford!’ She handed it to me with a grin at the door.
I watched as she went back taking a different route; over the lake and up the park, but then skirting the parterres, head low, weaving in between the box hedges, and making for the stables where the old Renault, which Rose had given her the use of, was kept.
Nice work, if you can get it, I thought admiringly, as I listened to her rev up the engine. A spot of shopping in Oxford, then back for a well-deserved rest by the pool, with Rose thinking she’d earned it. I smiled and turned to my offspring.
