A Tale of Two Families (19 page)

‘How about a little flat like mine?’ Of course the idea was preposterous but she hoped it might be stimulating, cheerful. To her astonishment she saw a flicker of eagerness in his eyes.

‘Do you think I could get one – somewhere near you, perhaps? I wouldn’t be a burden.’

‘Of
course
you wouldn’t.’ She hoped heartiness would hide her dismay. Poor, darling Baggy, always wanting to share life with someone, he would be a burden of burdens. But it couldn’t happen, of course it couldn’t, and she must go on cheering him up. ‘We’d have lots of fun – often lunch together.’

‘And I could telephone you in the evenings.’ A chuckle, if a faint one, emanated from Baggy. ‘When we’re both lying in bed reading Agatha Christie.’

‘Lovely,’ said Fran, who hated being telephoned in the evening. It invariably interrupted one’s favourite television programme.

‘Seriously, Fran, would there be any chance of getting a flat in the block you live in?’

‘I’ll find out the minute I get back.’
Oh, no
! She couldn’t have him in the same block. Already she felt a dead weight of liability for him. But she mustn’t let him see. She said brightly, ‘You’re looking better. Shall I help you to your room now and into bed?’ Good God, it was beginning already. She’d probably end up as his full-time nurse.

Baggy said, ‘Not yet. I’d rather lie here for a while and do some thinking – about ways and means. I can afford the rent you pay but… well, it needs planning. Just leave me on my own for a bit. And put the lights off, please, so that I can watch the sunset. I don’t often get the chance to. Never like to hang around in this room after dinner.’

‘You won’t lie here worrying about George and June?’ Damn it, she oughtn’t to have reminded him of that.

But he took it in his stride. ‘Not now, not till I’ve done some thinking about the flat. You see, I want to leave here quickly. Anyway, there’s no point in worrying when I can’t do anything to stop them. And I felt so
ill
when I saw them. One’s got to try and protect oneself a bit.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Fran, switching the lights off. ‘Well, you’ve certainly got a glorious sunset. Now leave the door open and my bedroom door, too. You just call when you want me to help you.’

He thanked her as she went, then lay back looking at the golden sky. Already the first stars were coming out, where it paled to blue above the dark Hall. Wonderful how Fran had cheered him up. Actually, he’d liked the sound of that one-room flat ever since she’d first described it – though it might be better if they found a rather larger flat and shared it; more economical for them both and quite respectable at their ages. Well, well… what was it Mabel used to say? ‘A door never shuts but another opens.’ Mabel would be grateful to Fran now. He heard her open the door of her room… yes, she’d remembered not to close it. She’d come if he called her. It was a comfortable thought.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought to Fran, as she propped her door open. She’d have liked to go straight to bed. Not that she could, so early; May would think she was ill. She’d just lie down
on the bed – but if she did that, she might fall asleep and not hear Baggy call. She must settle for just sitting down.

She sank into the armchair with too much abandon; her back gave a painful jerk. She moved cautiously. It proved to be a warning rather than a rick, but one would have to be careful. And now the open door was causing a through draught. Hoisting herself up she went to close the window. From here she could see the break in the lilac grove that indicated the little sundial garden but she could not see down into it. How could George and June be so reckless? Though, poor loves, if they wanted each other as much as that… But there was such a thing as being too permissive, she told herself sternly, and one must concentrate on protecting May and Robert. Incidentally, what reason could Baggy give for leaving? He’d probably blow the gaff on everything.

She went back to her armchair and thought about Baggy in London. He’d be astounded at what he’d have to pay for a cleaner, if one could be found. Soon she’d have to find one herself. One ought to be able to cope with cleaning a tiny flat but one was, after all, well on into the seventies. (Usually she thought of herself as barely out of the sixties.) She felt old, old, old – and then made a valiant effort to stop feeling it. ‘You’re fantastically young for your age,’ she told herself, ‘and if that poor old man’s got the guts to start a new life, you’ll jolly well help him. Anyway, stop worrying about it and about June
and
George. There’s nothing more you can do tonight, so relax.’ Oh, God, another worry had wriggled its way into her mind: Penny was somewhere out on the loose. She hadn’t given the creature a thought since seeing that tableau by the sundial. Ought one to go out and find her? Well, one couldn’t – in case Baggy called. And surely Penny would come to no harm – she wasn’t on heat now. She’d either return to the Dower House or go to the cottage or, at worst, the Hall.
And there was no traffic anywhere near. But, really, if another catastrophe happened to Hugh’s dog…

Penny, in actual fact, was having a particularly pleasant evening. She had located George and June in the sundial garden not long after Baggy and Fran had turned tail on seeing them; and, far from turning tail, she had wagged her tail ecstatically and then proceeded to break up the clinch. Having almost completely outgrown her original nervousness, she was fast becoming a confident, loving dog who considered that endearments should be exclusively bestowed on her. So she instantly stood on her hind legs and pushed her way between George and June. They capitulated.

‘She doesn’t like people to kiss,’ said June. ‘Silly Penny! There’s enough love for everyone.’

Since then George and June had been sitting on the white painted seat with Penny stretched across their laps. She was more comfortable than they were; they found her painfully bony.

The conversation had been loving, vague and repetitive. Again and again June said, ‘What
are
we going to do?’ and George, in various ways, assured her it would be all right. He also, repeatedly, called her ‘my dear love’, which he had never called anyone before. (May was ‘darling’, ‘sweetheart’, even ‘dearest’ but never before had he felt a positive need to say ‘my dear love’.) June, also again and again, said it mustn’t go on, and George told her that it must – ‘Just give me time to plan. We can meet at the flat – when you come up to London for shopping.’ ‘But May would always come with me – determined to pay for everything – and Hugh and Corinna might come into the flat.’ ‘Well, we’ll manage here. We can go for walks. Perhaps we can find a hut in the woods. We
could
go to the cottage now.’

At this June said firmly, ‘We could not. And it’ll soon be time for you to go to the station to meet Robert.’

‘I’d forgotten that. Let him take a taxi.’

‘He’d wait for ages first – and he’d be anxious. George, I still love Robert.’

‘I know. I still love May. It’s what you told Penny: there’s enough love for everyone.’

‘That’s exactly how I feel, really.’

George, whose arm was around her, clasped her closer. She dropped her head on to his shoulder and looked up at the sky, now pale with dusk. From where they were sitting, the house was invisible and the little circular garden seemed to her a secret refuge from the world. Idly she quoted, ‘A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse’, then added ruefully, ‘Not a fortunate quotation, seeing that my sister is your spouse, and she’ll be wondering where we are.’

‘May will not be wondering where we are. She’ll be making jam.’

‘Which, in this case, will be a dress for my daughter. Oh, George, do you realise how
good
May is?’

‘I do, indeed,’ said George soberly. ‘And so’s Robert. I suppose I
shall
have to think about meeting him. Anyway, this creature’s elbows are crippling me. Get down, Penny. Give her a shove.’ They dislodged the unwilling Penny.

June, rising, said, ‘I know what I ought to do: get Robert to take me right round the world. He’s always wanted to go round the world – it was he who put the idea in Mother’s head. If only I had a lot of money!’

‘I do have quite a lot of money,’ said George. ‘And it’s at your service. But not for that.’

He drew her towards him but Penny instantly intervened.

‘Just as well,’ said June. ‘I’ll take her back to the cottage and try to get my thoughts in order before Robert comes home. You’ll have to say goodnight to May for me.’

George saw them both back to the cottage, then shut Penny in the kitchen and took June in his arms. But he did not kiss her lingeringly. He was suddenly inhibited by the thought that he was in Robert’s house. Ludicrously conventional, he told himself but still… things weren’t going to be easy.

It was now too dark to risk losing his way through the lilac grove. He went by way of the park. There was still a faint golden glow beyond the Hall. It had been a benign sunset, not one of the lurid ones that Robert found inspiring. Not that, as yet, he’d been sufficiently inspired to start work on that projected Gothic novel. It was to be hoped that he soon would and that the work would utterly absorb him. Yes, indeed.

George opened the gate which led from the park to the Dower House front garden. There was a light upstairs in May’s sewing-room. No light yet in Baggy’s room so presumably he was still in the Long Room. Perhaps he’d enjoy a drive to the station. He and Robert could chat on the return journey, George having no desire to chat with Robert. Sad, that. George, who had an enormous respect for his younger brother’s work and intellect (no head for business, though) usually enjoyed a quiet talk with him.

Surprisingly, the Long Room was in darkness. George switched the lights on and then saw that Baggy was asleep on the sofa. Most unusual; unless there was a family gathering or something special on television he was almost always back in his room by this time. George felt a wave of affection for him. Funny, he couldn’t remember ever before seeing his father sleeping. Poor old dear. Actually, he looked younger than usual, so relaxed and faintly smiling. Very, very peaceful…

George, feeling a sudden catch at his heart, hurried to the sofa.

A few moments later he was out in the hall, calling loudly for May.

Baggy’s death came as a shock but not a surprise, to everyone but Fran. If she had ever known that his heart was weak she had forgotten it, and there had been no mention of it during her visit. She remembered his saying that he had been afraid he might not live long enough for his deed of gift to Robert to be satisfactorily completed, but she had taken that to be the superstitious fear she herself would have felt in similar circumstances. Now she learned that his tenuous hold on life had been generally accepted, also that he had visited the local doctor. This transpired only after his death as he had asked that the visits should be treated as confidential.

Well, if he had to go he had chosen a good moment for it, Fran told herself. In his state of health he obviously could not have lived on his own in London and had he even mentioned the idea it would have caused trouble. Either he would have brought what was happening between George and June out into the open, or he would have given the impression that he wasn’t happy at the Dower House, in which case Robert and June would have felt that they ought somehow to have kept him with them. She could only hope that his new interest, impracticable though it was, had given him some happy thoughts, and she hung on to the fact that he had died with a smile on his face.

So exit the living Baggy; and May, with her usual efficiency, made sure that the dead Baggy’s exit from the Dower House was remarkably swift. Her main reason for this was that Prue and Dickon were due home on Friday. She telephoned Dickon on Thursday morning suggesting they should stay at school for this particular half-term holiday but he firmly declined. He was, however, willing that they should spend Friday night in London – ‘We’ll go to a concert – more respectful than a theatre and,
anyway, we
want
to go to this concert.’ May therefore, with determination which overcame all opposition, achieved the minor miracle of arranging for Baggy’s cremation – at some distance – to be on Saturday morning.

Fran, on hearing this, said, ‘But didn’t the children feel they should go to the funeral?’

‘I should hope not,’ said May. ‘And anyway, June and I wouldn’t have permitted it. It took us ages to get over Father’s funeral when we were young. I wonder that you took us.’

‘His family expected it,’ said Fran. ‘In
my
family, women didn’t go to funerals. They stayed at home and pulled up the blinds and got a meal ready.’

‘And we’ll stick to that ruling,’ said May, beginning to plan the food.

Fran said, ‘Goodness knows, I hate going to funerals but I do rather feel I ought to show respect.’

‘Who to? Some officials you’ve never met before? Darling Mother, I won’t let you go.’

Fran was glad to be overruled. She had never been to a funeral without feeling that death took a step nearer. And the older one grew, the less ground death had to cover.

Eventually, George, Robert and Hugh went, the two brothers driving off after the hearse soon after breakfast, Hugh travelling direct from London. Prue and Dickon arrived home mid-morning, by which time May had sorted Baggy’s clothes, which were to be sent to a deserving charity, and was finishing the turning out of his room.

‘Oh, don’t come in here, darlings,’ she said, when her son and her niece routed her out. ‘This room feels depressing.’

Dickon said, ‘We’ve been thinking we might use it as a studio.’ He looked round critically. ‘Pity it’s not large enough for sculpture.’

‘Couldn’t you do some small sculpture?’ said May.

‘Nowadays, dear Mother, small sculpture is a contradiction in terms.’

Prue, picking up Fred the Frog, said she wouldn’t mind having him but was frustrated by the entrance of Fran who, after greeting her grandchildren affectionately, firmly claimed Fred the Frog for herself. She said she wanted him as a memento of Baggy. This was true; but she also wanted Fred in his own right.

‘I must see about lunch,’ said May briskly. ‘Now, no one’s to stop in here brooding.’

No one had the slightest desire to, though Dickon gave one backward glance and said to Prue, ‘Remember coming in here that last night of the holidays? Poor old Baggy.’

Prue said, ‘Where’s Mother?’ at the same moment that Dickon said, ‘Where’s Penny?’

‘They’re both at the cottage,’ said Fran, who had just come from there.

‘Mind you bring your mother back in good time for lunch,’ May told Prue, ‘or Dickon’s favourite cheese soufflé will go flat.’

Fran took Fred the Frog up to her room and then stood at her window looking out at the sunless day. The lilac grove was at its worst now, with all its heads of blossom shrivelled and brown. She felt it was in keeping with her mood.

She had gone to the cottage soon after Robert had left for the funeral. It had been her intention to speak frankly to June, except that she didn’t intend to disclose that Baggy had known as much as he did. That would have troubled June unnecessarily. But as things turned out, she hadn’t troubled June at all. She had found herself incapable of it. The main reason for this was June’s manner which had been… poised, aloof? Perhaps ‘assured’ was a better word. As a rule, June gave the impression of feeling
that others knew more about everything than she did. She was humble when criticised and always vaguely apologetic for being what she had once described as ‘rather a muddle’. This morning she had been surprisingly clean-cut and, though sincerely sorry about Baggy’s death, she had shown no emotion about it. She had, however, shown emotion about Robert.

‘He’s so terribly upset,’ she told her mother. ‘He feels we ought to have gone on having Baggy with us. Not that we could have – he was longing to be with George and May, anyway with George. Robert knows that but… I think he feels guilty because we’ve been so happy on our own. And there are other things besides Baggy troubling him.’

‘Such as?’ Did this mean Robert knew about George?

‘Well, he can’t get started on his novel. And he’s so tired of reviewing. He was tired of that in London but he quite enjoyed it when he first came down here, and he did particularly good work. Now he’s tired of it again. So he feels guilty about that
and
about his novel
and
, now, about Baggy. Robert’s always so hard on himself. But I shall cope. I’ve just got to work things out.’

Would a wife talk like that when on the brink of being unfaithful to her husband? But perhaps it had already happened and June was feeling triumphant rather than guilty. Fran had known women to acquire supreme self-confidence as the result of a consummated love affair. Well, if June
had
, there was nothing to be done about it. And if she hadn’t it didn’t sound as if she was going to. And either way, Fran decided to hold her tongue. Speaking frankly might easily do more harm than good and she didn’t really want to admit she knew anything at all – especially now she would so soon be leaving and wouldn’t have to witness whatever lay ahead. The Monday evening train which took her grandchildren back towards their school would take her back towards her flat.

And, standing by the window, she realised just how desperately she was longing for that flat. Age, in Baggy’s case, had craved company. Age, in her case, craved solitude – anyway, some good, solid dollops of it. Oh, the bliss of being on her own for a while! What joy to escape from the tyranny of regular meals, particularly and most ungratefully May’s superb meals which caused one to feel full, take afternoon naps and put on weight. She reminded herself how often she disliked having to go out to buy food, and then cook it, or get to some restaurant in the pouring rain. Well, she needn’t do either, for a long, long time. She could live on tea and toast. No, tea and starchless rolls.

A delicate smell of cooking cheese wafted up through the open window. She sniffed it with pleasure. Well, three more days of the fleshpots.

The funeral contingent arrived back in the early afternoon, George determinedly cheerful, Robert determinedly ungloomy but noticeably quiet. George reported one touch of light relief: Mildred had turned up for the funeral, looking like Mary Queen of Scots on her way to execution – ‘Somebody asked if she was the widow. By the way, Fran, she said she was looking forward to having you back in London.’

Fran sighed. ‘Well, we all have our crosses. Anyway, it was nice of her to go all that way for the funeral.’ But it was hard not to believe that Mildred had just seized an opportunity for dressing up.

Hugh, though feeling genuine regret for his grandfather, was now mainly troubled by the thought of the weekend ahead of him. Since Tuesday he had only had one conversation with Corinna, during which she had asked him to tell her mother she wouldn’t be coming down – ‘Just say I’m busy.’ She had then
added, ‘Perhaps I’ll write and tell her about us but I may not get the time. If I do write, she’ll speak to you about it. If not, you needn’t say anything unless you want to.’

Since he had gone direct to the funeral, only now did he deliver Corinna’s message to his aunt. May said, ‘I know. Spare me a minute, Hugh darling. In here.’

He followed her into the William Morris drawing room which no one but she ever used. There was an elegant desk where she did her household accounts.

‘This came this morning,’ she said, taking a letter from a pigeon hole. ‘You’d better read it.’

The letter read:

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Hugh, handing the letter back.

‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to amplify at all?’

Hugh shook his head. ‘I think she’s covered the ground pretty well.’

May doubted it. For some time she’d had her suspicions about ‘Sir Harry’ and now felt they’d been more than justified. But she had once said she would welcome anything that prevented Corinna from marrying Hugh and she hadn’t changed her mind. She said now, ‘I won’t pretend I’m sorry this has happened but I am sorry for you. And if there’s anything in the world I can do to help… But she’s probably right in saying you’ll prefer to be left alone. Would you like me to tell the others and warn them all, even your mother, to lay off you? She’d understand.’

‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘That would help quite enormously.’

‘Then I’ll do it at once. Oh, Hugh darling, do please believe I’m truly fond of you.’

Hugh smiled. ‘I know. It was just those idiot grandchildren you were against. Well, you won’t have them now.’

‘Unless Prue and Dickon want to marry. They do seem completely satisfied with each other’s company. Perhaps I ought to separate them.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t put ideas into their heads,’ said Hugh.

‘Anyway, I don’t think I’d
dare
separate them. They’d consider it such an impertinence. Oh, I’ve probably got another nightmare ahead of me.’ She put Corinna’s letter away and then added, ‘Gloomy in here, isn’t it? I sometimes think this house is just the Long Room for eating in and a lot of bedrooms for sleeping in.
And I still haven’t got the right line on the conservatory. Well, I’ll go and see your mother now.’

‘I’ll come too, and whisk Penny out for a walk.’

At the cottage, June greeted Hugh with, ‘Sarah’s just been here, wanting you particularly – you can catch her if you’re quick. Take your mac; it keeps on trying to rain.’

‘All right,’ said Hugh, defending himself from his dog’s ecstatic welcome. ‘Come on, Penny.’

He set out after Sarah, but her stride was as long as his and she was almost at the Hall before he got within shouting distance. Then she turned and came to meet him.

She was wearing her grandfather’s old Burberry which was highly unbecoming to her. It occurred to Hugh that he had never yet seen her in any becoming clothes – except the tent-like silk nightgown, which had made her look a little like a madonna. He had often remembered that.

Her voice as she greeted him managed to be both harsh and tragic. ‘Oh, Hugh, I’m so terribly sorry to bother you when you’ve just come from your grandfather’s funeral, but I simply must talk to you.’

‘Right,’ said Hugh. ‘Talk away. What’s the trouble? Is it
your
grandfather?’

‘Goodness, no. He’s been particularly well. He wanted me to ask you to dinner tonight but you probably won’t want to come.’

Dinner at the Hall would be a way of escaping from his family. Even if May muzzled them all he was going to feel embarrassed. He said at once, ‘I shall be delighted to come. Now tell me what’s upset you.’

‘I meant you might not want to come after I’ve told you I’ve had a letter from Corinna and though she says it’s not my fault in any way – not that I’d have thought it was if she hadn’t mentioned
it but now… What I mean is, has what’s gone wrong between you anything to do with that night you fell asleep in my room?’

‘Nothing whatever,’ said Hugh, convinced he was speaking the truth. Corinna had only used that incident as an excuse for following her own inclinations. ‘Now take it calmly, Sarah. We’d better go indoors and discuss it quietly.’

‘If we go indoors, Grandfather may grab you. We can sit down over there.’

There was an ancient seat built round a far more ancient oak. They sat, with Penny and the spaniels milling around them. Hugh, after a moment’s silence, said, ‘I’m going to tell you something I shan’t tell the others, so please keep it to yourself. She’s chucked me because she’s got someone else. And besides that, she finds me dull.’