The Dwelling Place, page 9
As his valet helped him into his jacket he heard the sound of trotting horses coming up the drive and he turned his head in the direction of the long window and thought, ‘That’ll be Bellingham.’
Hugh Bellingham was his nearest neighbour, in his own class—and yet not quite in his own class, for he was in commerce, not just holding shares but actively so. Concerning himself greatly with the new railroads, Bellingham represented the powerful middle class that was clawing the power from the old reigning families, of which he considered the Fischels one of the foremost. Yet Bellingham was his only link with the outside world, the outside world in this case being London, and he was eagerly awaiting news from there, yet at the same time afraid of what he might hear.
The news that he was anxious to hear did not concern the political situation of the moment, but the gossip that surrounded the woman who was still his wife, and who would remain so until one of them died. For he considered the very thought of divorce evil. Bellingham’s letter of three days before had conveyed to him the disturbing fact that his wife had dared to return to town, and this time with an Italian much older than herself who bore the title of Count and who presumably had unlimited wealth.
The situation that now troubled him was this: If Bellingham brought him the news that his wife was aiming to set up an establishment in London, he could not possibly take up residence there; in which case what was he going to do with those two along the corridor?
The dinner was almost at an end. It had begun with Flemish soup, followed by turbot and fried smelts, after which came roast haunch of venison with vegetables. This in turn was followed by roast grouse and the meal ended with charlotte russe of which Isabelle had two helpings. She was very fond of puddings; in fact she was very fond of food altogether, yet no matter what amount she ate it did not show itself in flesh, for although seventeen in three days’ time, her hips looked non-existent and her chest almost as flat as her brother’s.
As she began her second helping of pudding she made an almost imperceptible movement with her eyelid towards her brother sitting opposite, then slanted her eyes ceilingwise for a second, which caused him to cough and put his hand to his mouth.
No-one would have taken the brother and sister for twins, for they were quite unlike each other in looks, nor did either show any resemblance to the man sitting at the head of the table, nor would there have been any resemblance to their mother had she been present. Clive Fischel, it was said, took after his maternal great-grandmother and was of unusual fairness, while Isabelle looked the image of her paternal great-grandfather. She only had to stand in the gallery and look at the three portraits of that notorious gentleman and she saw herself at the ages of twenty, thirty and forty. Since she had been a child, she had taken a secret pride in resembling her great-grandfather, and only she knew that the resemblance was not in her exterior alone. Over the years she had got into the habit of talking to the portrait of the elegantly dressed youth and at times led herself to believe that the full sensual lips were answering her.
Only this morning, after the wearisome ritual of prayers and breakfast, she had stood in the gallery and said to the bold, dark face, with its nose seeming to protrude out of the canvas, ‘I’m weary; I’ll erupt if I don’t get away from here. There’s another month before I go to town. Heidelberg and Aunt Helen had its drawbacks but it was a wild life compared with this. What am I going to do?’ She had watched the lips move and she had imagined a deep, throaty voice saying, ‘Live!’ And she had answered it by asking, ‘But how?’ And to this the portrait had only smiled.
Her home she considered to be a cross between a monastery and a convent where her father ruled like a prior, and the housekeeper, Mrs Hatton, a mother superior. She had voiced this to her brother as a rather clever quip.
She didn’t like her father; but then she liked so few people. She often thought about this, her dislike of people. There was only one person in the wide world for whom she had any affection, and that was Clive; yet even towards him her feelings were mixed. She could say that she loved him, yet at the same time she hated him because he was so ineffectual. She, like her father, thought their sexes had got mixed up—she should have been the man; she was the vibrant one.
She looked at her brother now. She could make him laugh; she had power over him in a number of ways and he could read her every sign. Her raised eyes that had caused him to splutter had indicated her opinion of the quality of the conversation. The conversation should have been of interest to her as her father and Mr Bellingham were talking of London, but it was the political London they were discussing, not the social London. She turned her head and looked in Bellingham’s direction as he said vehemently, ‘That Sadler, not satisfied with attacking the enclosures, he’s now pressing the Ten Hours Bill. The Second Reading was in March and if we’re not careful he’ll get it through. Did you ever know anything like it? They’re asking for trouble; Malpass’ philosophy is the only remedy and those with any sense know it. It’s only through poverty and hunger that the population can be kept at balance; feed the mob and where are you? And he wants to bar the employment of children under nine…He wants to bring the country to ruin; burn it down in fact, for where will they get the climbing boys? They’re too big over nine. And on a ten-hour day mill owners will go bankrupt. And think of the reorganisation in the mines this will cause. The man’s mad. Him and his committee, he’s had it running hell for leather from April, and it holds out the kind of policy that could bring this country to its knees. You’ve never read such nonsense as is in his report, such piffling little things as wanting to eliminate strappers from the mills. Where will you get boys to work unless they’re strapped? Boys are lazy by nature. He talks about them being crippled and deformed and old at twenty. Of course they’re old at twenty, they’ve got to be old at twenty. It’s as Malpass said: “The population must be kept down, at least the populace.” Moreover we know the bishop’s words are right: “Everything is the will of God, and poverty and hunger is the cross the poor have to bear.” You cannot understand, John, can you’—Mr Bellingham now leaned towards his host as he put the question—‘the stupidity and shortsightedness of such men as Sadler?’ He did not wait for an answer but went on, his voice loud now. ‘And he’s not alone. This is serious. Men who you’d think would know better because the Bill is against their interests are showing sympathy with it. There’s this John Wood of Bradford. He’s not only employing a doctor in his mill but has put baths on the premises. Can you believe it? You’ll not believe this either, but he’s sent his overseer up to the committee to tell them of all the harm that can come to children employed too early and made to work over twelve hours. I tell you, things are coming to a pretty pass.’ He held out his glass to his host to be refilled and ended, ‘You’re well out of it, well out of it, John.’
Lord Fischel moved his head twice and murmured, ‘Yes, yes.’ Then reaching over, he filled his son’s glass with port. But there was no glass in front of his daughter to be refilled. His daughter wasn’t allowed wine, although she had dared to protest to him during their first meal together that they drank nothing else but wine in Heidelberg.
He now looked at her and gave her the signal that she could leave the table, and knew a rising anger when she didn’t take the cue straight away. It was almost five minutes later before she rose and made her exit.
Going into the drawing room, she flopped down on to a deep couch before the open fire and, putting her hands behind her head, she stretched out her legs in a most unladylike fashion and muttered, ‘Mein Gott! Mein Gott!’ Then, her head still back, she rolled it first one way, then the other, taking in the room, the faded tapestries on the heavily upholstered chairs, the black carved Chinese cabinets, the spindle-legged occasional tables, the faded rose velvet curtains with their heavy betasselled pelmets, the carpet, thick, but the colours faded to neutrality, and overall, and in spite of the crowded furniture, the great emptiness that pervaded the room. But then the emptiness pervaded the whole house, and there was the sameness about everything, and a great heavy, weighing dullness. If she had her way she would sweep every piece of furniture and drapery into the park and have an enormous bonfire. She’d bring decorators in and have the place painted in pearl grey and white. She’d put one picture on a wall and nothing more, except in the gallery, and even there she’d make a sweep. Yes, she’d make a sweep there all right, everything would go except the portraits of her great-grandfather.
When the door opened and the second footman came in with a skip of logs while apologising to her for disturbing her, she stared at him. His livery was brown, his stockings were brown, and his shoes were black. He could not be very old but he looked lifeless. When he bent over the fire she had the desire to take her foot and kick it into his buttocks and knock him sprawling over the basket of glowing logs, thinking, as she saw the picture of the incident screened in her mind, that it would take something like that to make him come alive. She didn’t like servants, she had never liked servants; they whispered and talked among themselves. But of all the servants in the house there were two she disliked with particular venom, the butler, Hatton, and his wife. They ruled the place. Their faces were sombre, unsmiling. This, she thought, was because they patterned themselves on her father. She had already decided that when her father died and Clive took over she would sweep the lot of them out, as her grandfather had done, but for a different purpose.
It did not seem strange to her that she never saw Clive’s wife ruling the house, for she never imagined Clive marrying. All Clive cared about was painting. She herself would marry, she was sure of this, because the feelings inside her told her she must; and she and her husband would rule here while Clive lazed his days away with his paintbrush. It was all very clear in her mind.
When the door opened and her brother entered she straightened herself on the couch and waited until he was seated beside her before she said, ‘Terrible, wasn’t it? Ten Hour Bills, poverty, factories.’ She added laughingly, ‘Would you like to go into Parliament?’ And he, now leaning his head back against the couch, said lazily, ‘Too expensive. If you haven’t a mine, a factory or a shipyard you’ve got to buy votes.’
‘Have you really?’ She raised her eyebrows at this, and he nodded and said knowledgeably, ‘Yes, it can cost you anything from ten to fifty thousand pounds to be elected.’
‘Oh, don’t bother.’ She pushed him playfully, adding, ‘Buy some paints.’
At this they both dropped their heads together and laughed; then she asked, ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Sleep.’
‘You’ll not, you lazy thing.’
‘I’m full, replete, packed right up to here.’ He placed his hand on his throat.
‘Let’s go out for a walk.’ She pulled herself to the edge of the couch and tugged at him; but he lay supine, saying, ‘Walk! Oh God, I couldn’t.’
She now bent over him, her face close to his, and whispered on a wide laugh, ‘You nearly let that slip in front of Father, didn’t you, at the beginning of dinner?’
‘Huh! Yes, I did.’ He pulled himself upwards now and, his long pale face dropping into sombre lines, he said, ‘It’s a bit much having to watch your every word; I think I’ll be glad when I’m back at school.’
‘Well’—she stood up abruptly—‘you’ve got another six weeks, and we’re not just going to sit here, rising up only to pray and eat, until we go to London; we’re going to do something.’ Swiftly now she bent forward and, gripping his hands, jerked him to his feet, crying, ‘Come on, we’re going to walk right to the end of the park. We’ll go and see one of the farmers, Thornton.’
‘Oh, Belle.’
‘Never mind, “Oh Belle”; go and change your shoes, and don’t come out wrapped to the eyes because you’ll be sweating by the time we’re finished…’
Ten minutes later they crossed the great stone-walled hall with the open fireplace at one end that held fire dogs three feet high and showed lead-coloured suits of armour standing like sentinels at the foot of the stairs. They went down the broad, shallow stone steps on to the gravel drive, across this and down another flight that led to the sunken lawns, then through the gardens to the park, and the farther they walked into the parkland the more wild it became, until only the paths were clear, their view being checked on either side by mounds of bramble, bracken, and scrub. And the sight seemed to infuriate Isabelle, for she exclaimed angrily, ‘It’s a disgrace! He should have all this cleared. Do you think it’s Todd’s fault?’
‘No, of course not. Father must have told him to let it go. Anyway, it deters intruders, and I rather like it wild like this.’
‘It’s got worse,’ she said. ‘Last year you could see the lodge from about here…What’s that?’ They both stopped and looked at the tangle of brambles to the side of them.
‘Fox; likely got his hole in there.’
‘It won’t be a fox,’ said Isabelle knowledgeably. ‘He would have scurried long before this; and there was a squeak as if from something in a trap.’
She took her walking stick and beat at the top of the bramble, then pressed it aside with her foot, and as she did so there came another scurrying sound. And now she cried to her brother, ‘Come on! Poke your stick and see what’s there.’
Laughing, Clive poked his stick vigorously until it touched something soft, then he beat the bramble aside to disclose first a small fair head, then with another movement of his stick there was revealed the figure of a small boy crouched on his haunches, a rabbit lying limp across his knees, its forelegs still attached to a crude wire trap.
‘Well, I never!’ Clive laughed softly, while Isabelle, after a moment of staring, demanded coldly, ‘Who are you?’
The small figure, all eyes and mouth, did not reply.
There was no movement from him whatever; he could have been cast in stone, an ornament in the garden, so still was he.
‘Answer me! Who are you? How did you get in here?’
‘He could be one of the children from the farm.’ Clive was still smiling.
‘He’s not. Look at him; he’s from outside.’ She reached over and down and grabbed the narrow shoulder, then relinquished it immediately, not only because the boy let out a high squeal, but because she realised that her bare hand had come in contact with a ragged soiled shirt.
For no reason that she could explain at that moment the sight of the child infuriated her. He was from outside and represented the populace, dirty, ignorant, animal-like, crippled, old at twenty, one of those who should die early to keep the population level. Mr Bellingham’s theories were flashing through her mind, and she had sympathetic leanings towards them now.
‘You’re a poacher. You could go to prison.’
‘Leave him be; it’s only a rabbit, and he’s only a child.’
Now she turned furiously on her brother. ‘Leave him be? Don’t be silly, Clive. That would be a licence to have him scaling the wall, have them all scaling the wall.’
Clive Fischel stared at his sister. Sometimes Isabelle frightened him, she was so intense, and about the most odd things. This was only a child poaching a rabbit. Likely he was hungry. Once or twice lately he had thought about people being hungry, but he hadn’t dwelt upon it. It was a worrying matter and he didn’t like to worry; he wanted life to be quiet, calm, the sun to shine and time to stand still, to stand still forever so he need never stop painting. He hadn’t opposed his father as yet, but he knew he was going to because he meant to paint, paint all the time. But what was Belle up to? ‘Look.’ He put his hand on her arm as she now took her stick and prodded the boy out of the brambles on to the path. ‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘I’m going to teach him a lesson.’
She had no hesitation in picking up the dead rabbit and the trap, and when, disengaging her skirt from the brambles, she turned to the child to see him sitting in the middle of the grass drive, his feet straight out, his hands tucked under his buttocks, she was not to know that this was the characteristic attitude of Joe whenever he knew he was going to get his backside smacked for some mischief. But he could not have sat in a better position for her purpose, for after deftly disengaging the rabbit from the wire, she bent down and as deftly hooked it round the boy’s ankle; and at this Joe let out another scream and, hitching himself rapidly back from her, still on his buttocks and dragging the trap with him now, he yelled out a name, ‘Cissie! Our Cissie!’
When her hand caught his ankle again and he screamed, scream after scream, Clive tried to pull her aside, and, shouting now, he cried, ‘Belle! What’s the matter with you? Stop this!’
She stood up. Her eyes still on the child and seeming unaware even of her brother, she spoke as if to herself, saying, ‘Whichever way he got in he’ll not get out with that on.’
‘But you can’t do this.’ As he went to stoop down to the boy she pulled him aside with a strength greater than his and muttered, ‘We’ll leave him there to cool until we come back this way, then I’ll let him go.’
‘Cissie! Cissie! Our Cissie!’
Joe’s screeching was ear-splitting now and the anguished sound brought Clive again to the child’s assistance, only to have Isabelle drag at him so fiercely that she almost knocked him on to his back, the trunk of a tree saving his fall, and he stood leaning against it staring at her. Once before he had seen Belle act like this; it was on the day they learned their mother had left them. She had kicked her dog and maimed it so badly that the keeper had to shoot it. He had been afraid of her on that day as he was afraid of her now, as if her attacks were directed against himself; yet on that day her attitude had created a frenzy in him, for the yelping of the dog had torn through his brain and of a sudden he had turned on her and had shaken her as their pet had been wont to do with a rat. Now as then, he was about to turn on her in defence of this dirty, snivelling creature who was not much bigger than the dog, when his eyes were lifted to the top of the wall, and there to his amazement he saw a girl pause for a moment on its crest as she took in the scene below her before dropping down into the undergrowth. She was hidden from his sight until, a minute later, she came thrashing her way through the bramble and almost to the feet of Isabelle.
