A Tale of Two Families (14 page)

It was warm in the train, even on the non-sunny side. He was glad to get out on to the windy platform. Mysteriously, it was always windy, even when there was scarcely any wind; today, in the station yard, there was only a light breeze. Pleasant to see so
many welcoming wives, children and dogs – though he hadn’t any desire to be welcomed himself; he always enjoyed his solitary drive home. Not for the first time, it struck him how remarkable it was to see so many dozens of cars parked outside quite a small country station. Soon the supply of country properties suitable for commuters would run out. He wished they could buy the Dower House instead of renting it. But they’d got it for five years and could probably renew their lease. He drove back to it, with the car windows all down, feeling as benign as the early evening air.

As he entered the house he saw May corning from the kitchen with a filmy pink dress over her arm. He said, ‘Hello! That looks very fetching.’

‘Positively dreamy but don’t imagine it’s mine. I wouldn’t be seen in anything so juvenile. Aunt Mildred will soon be delighting your eyes in it. I managed to get three of her four evening dresses pressed before tea but she
particularly
wanted this one. Just let me take it up to her and then I’ll get you a drink.’

‘I’ll get
you
one.’ He had noticed that she looked both flushed and tired. ‘Shall I take it upstairs?’

‘Oh, do. I simply must get some peace before dinner.’

He got the drinks and carried them up to the bedroom. The evening sun was shining on the windows, which stood wide open. There was enough breeze to stir the flowery chintz curtains and the air was both warm and fresh. He could smell newly cut grass; May had persuaded a retired gardener to come out of retirement for her.

She came in smiling cheerfully but obviously hot and tired.

‘Lie down for a bit,’ he told her, putting her drink on her bedside table.

‘Yes, I think I will. I’ve got a couple of Matsons here. They’ll dish up for me.’

She took off her dress and lay down in her slip, closing her eyes. George got out of his town suit, washed at the fitted basin, and put on a short-sleeved shirt and some thin slacks. He said nothing as he thought she might have fallen asleep, but eventually she opened her eyes and said, ‘What sort of a day?’

‘Pretty good. How about yours? Has the old girl been worse than usual?’

‘Not really. And we got a nice long rest from her this afternoon. Then she strolled in saying she was gasping for tea an hour after it was cleared away. Still, that wasn’t much skin off my nose.’

George looked at her closely. ‘Then what was?’

‘I suppose it’s just sheer dread of having her here for a whole fortnight. She’s never actually stayed with us before – one advantage of having no spare room in the flat. Oh, I’m probably being ridiculous but…’

She left the sentence trailing so long that he prodded her. ‘Well?’

‘I feel… a sort of indescribable horror of her. It’s a bit as if she had leprosy or something – except that I’d feel sorry for a leper and I don’t feel one bit sorry for her. I just feel she’s a repulsive kind of menace. Go on, tell me I’m being fantastically silly.’

‘Well, of course you are,’ said George, kindly. ‘And you’re also being fantastically unlike yourself.’ So much so that he felt worried about her. May did not go in for vague horrors. ‘Now you take it from me that she’s an annoying old thing but perfectly harmless. Do you know of any real harm she’s ever done anyone?’

‘Yes!’ said May instantly, then avoided his eyes. ‘That is, Fran’s told me things.’ Untrue, and most unfair to Fran who rarely said a word against Mildred. What would he feel, May wondered, if she disclosed that her first jealous suspicions of him had been awakened by ‘harmless’ old Mildred, who had thus forever
deprived her of peace of mind? ‘Oh, well, sorry to be a bore.’ She sat up and drank her drink.

George sat down beside her and stroked her neck soothingly. ‘Anyway, don’t bother with Mildred this evening. Don’t talk to her, don’t even listen to her. Leave her to me.’

‘You are kind.’

‘Good. I
feel
kind.’

She was smitten by a tiny anxiety. George was never less than kind; kindness was the keynote of his character. But she had come to realise that he was especially kind when about to embark on an affair. (Not that, even mentally, she used that word. She still, in spite of bloody, bloody Aunt Mildred, thought in such terms as George’s ‘goings-on’, ‘nonsenses’, still hoped that she hoped for the best.) She didn’t believe the extra kindness was an attempt to lull her suspicions. She guessed he was lovingly trying to compensate for any unhappiness he might cause. She accepted the love lovingly – but was apt to become, as it were, alerted. Ought she to be alerted now? She doubted it. He surely couldn’t have the time for nonsense, coming home every night and every weekend and with most days not long enough for all the work he had to do. This was kindness without strings to it, and she very much liked having her neck stroked. But she had to get ready for dinner.

She got up, saying, ‘Well, you’ve done me a power of good. Bless you, darling.’

‘Do you want another drink?’

‘Not till we go down. I’ll have to hurry. Keep a look out for Robert and June, will you?’

George went to a window. ‘They’re just arriving. June’s got a lovely new dress. Golden satin.’

‘
What
?’ May dashed to the window. ‘Oh, that! It’s only one of the new satinized cottons. I’ve got a blue one, made the same
way. We ran them up together.’ This really meant that May had run them up while June kept her company.

‘Well, wear yours tonight. I like my women to swish around in long evening dresses of satinized cotton or what the hell it is. Let’s ask Fran to wear a long dress too.’

‘I doubt if she’s brought one. She doesn’t like hiding those spectacular legs.’

Fran came out through the French window and went to meet Robert and June. She was wearing a long-sleeved white shift that just covered her knees, and heavy gold jewellery.

‘Anyway, she looks very nice,’ said George. ‘Wonderful woman, Fran. Good God!’

Almost on Fran’s heels came Mildred, in pink, frilled mousseline de soie, the waist up under her arms which dangled from little puffed sleeves. The dress reached to her calves and below it were frilled pantalettes and pink dancing sandals with crossed elastics. Ignoring the group now formed by Fran, Robert and June, she tripped over to the lilac grove, stood on tiptoe with her feet close together, and pulled down a spray to smell. The pose perfectly suggested an illustration to some long-ago child’s picture book.

‘I tell you, she’s round the bend,’ said May.

‘Is she doing it for effect or just to please herself?’

‘Well, she can’t know we’re looking at her and the others haven’t noticed her. I honestly believe she just likes the thought of herself doing it. She’s abnormal, George.’

‘She certainly looks abnormally young. It’s miraculous.’

At that moment she tilted her head farther back and the wings of silvery fair hair fell away from her cheeks, revealing her temples, cheek bones and jawline, all of which were strongly illuminated by the sunset. For an instant the delicate bones
looked skull-like; the face, in the dramatic lighting, became that of an ancient woman. Then she lowered her head and the soft hair fell into position again.

‘That was a painful moment,’ said George.

‘Looked like a zombie, didn’t she?’

‘Piling it on a bit, aren’t you?’ But the truth was that, although he had been stabbed by pity, he had momentarily experienced some of May’s revulsion. There
was
something… uncanny, unnatural about Mildred’s composite childhood and old age. But he pushed the idea away from him. ‘Are we giving her champagne, as it’s her first night?’

‘Oh, sure. I knew you’d want to. I should think she’d get tight ever so cutely.’

‘Well, put on your lush satinized cotton and let’s go down.’

The following Friday Hugh was not able to get away from London until mid-evening and then he was minus Corinna. He had been to see her perform at her drama school, expecting that they would afterwards start for the country together. But he found she had been invited to some party given by a fellow student, to which she felt she ought to go; and though she offered to ask if he might come with her, he doubted if she really wanted him to, and he had no desire to. On the few occasions when he had met her friends at the drama school he had felt ill at ease with them. Besides, he wanted to get back to Penny. His Uncle George had, that morning, reported that she was doing a good deal of whimpering; also that three large dogs had been seen in the lane. Penny obviously needed consolation and a man to protect her when she was exercised.

The next available train was a slow one without a buffet car. Hugh planned to get a sandwich at Liverpool Street Station but did not get time for it; he barely caught the train. He hadn’t even time to pick up an evening paper so, throughout the tedious journey, he had nothing to do but think. And he didn’t enjoy his thoughts.

He was worried about Corinna. He had just seen her playing Celia in
As You Like
It
and she had undoubtedly made a success; indeed, judging by the comments he had overheard, she had outacted the Rosalind. He, himself, couldn’t judge. He had always found it embarrassing to watch Corinna act. Earlier, he had taken it for granted that this was because she wasn’t any good and he was distressed for her. But now she was obviously very good indeed, yet he was still embarrassed. Why? The nearest he could get to an answer was that he didn’t like seeing her pretending to
be someone else. Utterly unreasonable, of course; there must be more to it than that. Perhaps he was jealous of the men she acted with. He didn’t feel he was but he did, somehow, resent them. They were all so ill-groomed. (He was rather particularly well-groomed; he felt this was expected of him in his Uncle’s City office.) Perhaps Corinna liked ill-groomed young men.

Anyway, he now knew for certain that she liked ‘Sir Harry’ far more than she had ever admitted. What was more, she had given quite a false impression of him, making him sound like an old man to whom she was pleasant only in the interest of her work. Hugh had twice seen him act but only in classical, bewigged roles and had been unprepared for the barely middle-aged man with an extremely with-it hair cut whom he had met for the first time that evening. Corinna, at the end of the play, had come down to the auditorium of the school’s little theatre to talk to Hugh, and Sir Harry had come to congratulate her on her performance. And if Corinna admired Sir Harry any less than Sir Harry admired her she was a better actress off the stage than on it – which Hugh simply didn’t believe. She’d always had difficulty in hiding her feelings and was as bad at – to use their childhood’s phrase – ‘acting a lie’ as at telling one.

What was she up to? Hugh didn’t for a moment fear that she had fallen for Sir Harry. The idea was too revolting to contemplate and an insult to Corinna. But she hadn’t been behaving with her usual transparent sincerity. Perhaps, thought Hugh gloomily, she’s frightened of making me jealous. If so it was idiotic – and also worrying, for surely their joint ideal had always been perfect honesty with each other? And a Corinna who wasn’t sincere wasn’t really Corinna.

He began to think back. Had she been at all different lately? He hadn’t seen much of her during the past week; she’d had a lot
of evening rehearsals. But last weekend, surely she had been herself then? They had listened to the nightingale together, after that long discussion about Aunt Mildred. (Oh, God,
she
lay ahead of him.) He thought back to other weekends, Easter especially. How sweet Corinna had been about Penny. Oh, he was imagining things, because he was disappointed that Corinna wasn’t coming down with him. After all, if she’d become a good actress on the stage she could have become one off it, and all her admiration for Sir Harry had just been cleverness. Perhaps she really did see Sir Harry as an old man. Surely she couldn’t be attracted by that awful hair which looked more bitten than cut. Anyway, she’d be down tomorrow and they’d straighten everything out.

The train stopped. He remembered that he had to change – this train, as well as being slow and minus refreshments, didn’t go all the way. The train he changed into was even slower, extremely jerky, and made alarming creaking noises. And when he finally arrived it was raining heavily, there was a shortage of taxis and the one he finally got didn’t know the way to the Dower House so took longer and charged more than was normal – all very unlike the usual Friday evening journeys when he, Corinna and Uncle George all came home together looking forward to one of May’s dinners.

The front of the Dower House was in darkness. Glancing up at the window of Penny’s prison he thought, ‘Well, they might have left the poor love a light’ – but perhaps she’d be less restless without one. As he entered the hall he heard the television in the Long Room. He’d better let them know he was back before going up to Penny.

He opened the door so quietly that no one heard him. The room was in darkness except for the television screen, but he took in that his parents, his uncle and aunt, Baggy and Fran
were there; and there was someone else, a young girl – or was it a child? – sitting on the floor, close to the screen. Good God, it was his Great-Aunt Mildred, in some kind of fancy dress. She must be madder, even, than his Uncle George had reported.

The person nearest to him was his mother who, that moment, turned and saw him. He sat down on the arm of her chair, kissed her, and whispered, ‘I’m going up to Penny,’ then hurried upstairs looking forward to an ecstatic welcome.

Would she bark or instantly recognise him and thump her tail? He opened the door quietly. No sound came from her; she must be very heavily asleep. Then he saw, by the light from the landing, that her basket was empty. Was she in the armchair? He switched the light on.

She wasn’t anywhere – and as the room only contained her basket and the armchair for her visitors there was nowhere she could be hiding. He dashed to the window, a heavy, sashed window and open only a few inches, at the top. No danger there.

Could someone have taken Penny out? But surely not in this rain – besides, they’d all been in the Long Room, watching television. Perhaps Penny was with them. If she was with Fran, who was sitting at the back of the room near the door to the kitchen, he wouldn’t have been able to see her. But wouldn’t his mother have told him?

He went down to the kitchen, which for once was free of Matsons, quietly opened the door to the Long Room, and approached Fran. She looked up at him and smiled.

He whispered, ‘Is Penny here?’

‘No, she’s upstairs,’ said Fran.

‘But she isn’t. Her room’s empty.’

Fran looked startled, then said, ‘Ssh. I’ll come out.’

They both went into the kitchen where Fran said, ‘I simply can’t believe I left her door open.’

‘You didn’t, darling. It was firmly closed. Could one of the Matsons have let her out?’

‘There was only the official one here today, and I’m sure she wouldn’t. She was saying only this evening when Penny was howling, “Better howl now, my girl, than howl later.” Oh, I’m certain Mrs Matson wouldn’t have done it.’

‘Then what?’

For a moment Fran was silent. Then she murmured, ‘
Oh, no! She couldn’t!
’

‘Who couldn’t?’

‘Mildred. She
has
been moaning about the cruelty of keeping Penny shut up but I can’t believe – Wait! No, don’t come with me. Wait!’

Fran went back to the Long Room and made her way to Mildred who was still sitting on the floor. Stooping, Fran said quietly, ‘Mildred, did you let Penny out?’

Mildred took no notice.

Fran knelt and repeated the question more loudly.

Mildred said, ‘Ssh! I’m watching television.’

‘The hell you are,’ said Fran. ‘Did you or did you not let Hugh’s dog out?’

‘Is Hugh back?’

‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘Mildred…’

Mildred interrupted her, ‘Then you can tell him from me that it’s time he knew the facts of life. His poor dog’s craving to be mated.’

Fran, still speaking quietly, but very forcefully, said, ‘Answer me. Did you let her out? And I warn you that, unless you answer, I shall slap your face.’ Half a dozen times in her life Fran had slapped Mildred’s face and it had always been a great success.

Mildred let out a shriek, ‘George, George! Save me!’

George rose hastily. Owing to the noise made by the television he had no idea what the row was about but it seemed to him likely that the two small, elderly ladies were about to batter each other. He reached them quickly, saying, ‘What is all this?’ and turned the television sound down.

Mildred instantly clasped him round the knees, wailing, ‘Don’t let her hurt me – please!’

George, almost overbalancing on top of Mildred, said, ‘For God’s sake! Now stop it, Aunt Mildred. Nobody’s going to hurt you.’

Fran said, ‘I’m sorry, George, but they are, that is, I am – unless she tells me if she let Hugh’s dog out. Now come on, Mildred, and be quick about it.’

Mildred clasped George’s legs even tighter, murmuring into the knees of his trousers, ‘No, no! She’ll kill me!’

‘Leave this to me, Fran,’ said George and then tried to get away from Mildred. Failing to do so, he addressed the top of her head. ‘All right, Aunt Mildred. I won’t let her hit you. But if you don’t answer her question you’ll leave this house tomorrow and you’ll never come into it again. Now: did you let Penny out?’

Mildred instantly released him, flung back her head and looked up at him with flashing eyes. This was magnificent. She was all the rebellious heroines she’d ever longed to be. And she was thrillingly defying her hero, George. ‘Yes, I did!’ she cried. ‘And I’d do it again. And you, of all people, should understand.’

George, wisely ignoring the last sentence, said, ‘How long ago was this?’

‘It was after dinner. I happened to go upstairs and I heard her crying most piteously so I went in to comfort her. And when I left, the door didn’t quite close itself so she followed me.’

‘And you closed the door behind her so that none of us would suspect,’ said Fran furiously.

‘I don’t remember. Perhaps the wind closed it. Anyway, she followed me downstairs and went to the front door. So I flung it open. I let her go free.’

‘Into the pouring rain?’ said Fran.

‘As if that mattered. I sent her to find her mate.’

Fran reckoned up. ‘She must have been out in that deluge for well over an hour. Have you any idea which way she went?’

‘Certainly not. And I’m not talking to you any more. I’m only talking to George – and Hugh, yes, talk to Hugh. I’ll tell him…’

‘You will not,’ said Fran. ‘George, don’t let her out of this room. Go on watching television, all of you. Leave Hugh to me.’

She turned the television up full volume – most suitably, gun fire came from it – then dashed towards the kitchen, just in time to intercept Hugh as he came through the door. She pushed him back into the kitchen, asking him how much he’d heard.

‘Enough,’ said Hugh. ‘Fran, didn’t she understand? Didn’t anyone explain to her why Penny couldn’t be mated yet?’

‘We explained everything – all about Penny’s smallness and nervousness, not to mention that one doesn’t want a pure-bred bitch to have mongrel puppies. I told her again and again. Mildred’s simply not normal – not that I usually admit that. Oh, my dear Hugh, I’m so terribly sorry.’

‘I must go out and search,’ said Hugh.

Fran glanced at the kitchen window. ‘But it’s raining harder than ever. You can’t go out in this.’

‘
She’s
out in it. And Sarah warned me never to let her get wet through. Oh, God damn that crazy old hag.’

Angry though she was with Mildred, Fran winced at such a description. ‘It’s just that she’s a bit childish, and wrapped up in a sort of dream world.’

‘It’s kinder to think of her as crazy,’ said Hugh. ‘Hell, my mackintosh is at the cottage.’

‘Take George’s. He won’t mind.’

‘And I must find a torch.’

They went into the hall. Fran, helping him into George’s Burberry, said, ‘But where are you going to look? Surely it’s hopeless tonight?’

‘I must do something. It’s most likely she streaked for the Hall – she’s apt to do that at any time. Anyway, there was no sign of her in the lane as I came home – and no waiting dogs. Perhaps the rain drove them away. Were there any earlier on?’

‘I didn’t see any when I took her out before dinner but we only went in the lilac grove. If she’d gone to the Hall, wouldn’t Sarah have telephoned?’

‘Penny might have taken shelter in some stable or outhouse. Anyway, I’m going to hunt.’

He found a torch and was testing it just as May and June came from the Long Room. Fran said hastily, ‘Don’t let Mildred out.’

‘It’s all right,’ said May. ‘She’s now busy telling the men how right she was. Gosh, I was disappointed when George stopped you slapping her.’

June said, ‘Darling Hugh, you
can’t
go out in this downpour.’

‘No arguments, Mother dear. And please don’t wait up for me. Just leave the cottage door unlocked.’

As he hurried out May called after him, ‘Hugh, wait! Have you had any dinner?’

He took no notice, beyond rather wishing she hadn’t reminded him of food. It was at least nine hours since he’d had any… not that he was hungry.

He went some way along the lane, flashing his torch and calling Penny’s name. But it was much more likely that she’d
dashed into the park – unless, horrible thought, she’d got as far as the road and been run over. Well, if she had, it was too late to help her. He must concentrate on the thought of her alive and find her before she caught her death of cold. But suppose she’d been hit by a car and only maimed, was lying in the road suffering… he tried to put the idea out of his head. The park and Hall must come first. If he had no luck there, he’d walk all the way to the village, searching.

He turned into the park. Now that he was away from the dripping trees in the lane the rain was less heavy than he’d thought it was, but the grass was soaking wet. Of course he needed rubber boots. He’d get some at the cottage – and see if Penny, by any glorious chance, was sheltering in the porch. But she wasn’t and, for once, his parents had locked both the front and back door. No rubber boots.