The House of Vandekar (27 page)

‘All right, darling. I'm sorry. I worry about you, that's all.'

‘I know, but you needn't.' She came round to her mother and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. Thank God Daddy was still upstairs.

She said, ‘I do like him. I really do. It's funny, we used to play when we were little. I remember the very first time we went over to Ashton and he swung me up on a swing so high I nearly fell off. I'll remind him of that. Now I must fly, I'm meeting some of the gang for lunch.'

Anne Brayley poured herself a cup of coffee. Richard Vandekar. She had never seen Diana so naturally happy. It was too good to be true. Nothing would come of it. And if it did, how long would Alice Vandekar be fooled? She looked up as her husband came into the room.

‘Sorry I'm late,' he said.

She knew he avoided Diana as much as possible. Did he never blame himself, she wondered. Perhaps loving kindness and patience in the early stages might have helped. She regretted her disloyalty. She knew what he had suffered when their only son was killed, the hopes he had had that the little daughter might grow up to compensate. And the blind horror and disgust that drove him to cruelty. He was a simple man, with rigid views and little imagination. Diana had been too much to ask of him.

‘Has she gone?' he said.

‘She's getting ready to go out. She met Richard Vandekar last night. They seem to have hit it off. She was bubbling over this morning. Have some coffee, Bill. I'll make some fresh toast.'

‘Vandekar,' he said. ‘Son of that MP fellow with the American wife. Never liked either of them much. I thought he was a pompous prick.'

‘Well,' his wife said, ‘I don't think we need get excited. With all that money, the boy's probably got dozens of girls chasing him. Here, darling, have some toast. The honey's good.'

He looked up at her and suddenly reached out for her hand. He was not a demonstrative man by nature and she was surprised.

‘God knows what I'd have done without you,' he said. ‘You've been marvellous. I just want to get her off our hands. Then you and I are going to make up for all this and have some happy times again together.'

‘I love her, Bill,' she said. ‘I wish you could see there's sweetness and goodness in her. She can't help this dreadful thing.'

‘When I look at her,' he said, ‘I think of our boy cut down before he'd had a chance to live at all. She's like a curse come on us. And she's the last of us. Don't let's talk about her any more.'

‘I remember that swing,' Richard said. ‘I was really pissed off having to play with you. I was hoping you'd scream.'

‘Well, I didn't,' Diana said. ‘I loved it.'

It was so romantic of him to get a picnic and hire a little motor launch for the day. They had found a pretty place and moored the boat. She helped him unpack the food and wine. It was peaceful and private. She was so happy he hadn't asked anyone else. They had the launch and the isolated spot on the river all to themselves.

The gentle rocking was agony. It was agony to sit beside this beautiful man and not reach over to stroke him and guide him to stroke her. He mustn't know what she was feeling. She drank too much wine and giggled. When he started kissing her she nearly passed out with the ferocity of her response. But he mustn't know. He mustn't know what happened when she was kissed or touched, or just held too close.

Richard looked down at her. She was so pretty, so amazing, with her little body quivering in his arms and her eyes closed as if he was the best kisser in the world. He was so excited by her he could have seduced her in five minutes flat. But he wouldn't. It would be a lousy thing to do, after she'd drunk so much wine – she was so helpless and unsophisticated. Some of the other girls he knew, no problem, but not Di. He called her Di, and she said it was sweet because no one else had ever called her that.

‘We'd better stop,' he said. ‘I'm out of control as it is.' He smiled, a little embarrassed by the admission.

‘Are you?' He didn't see the look in her eyes – they were open now, staring at him. ‘Let me see.'

‘No,' Richard said. ‘Come on, you're a bit pissed, darling. I'm going to start the engine. That'll take my mind off it.'

She sat up. She was damp with excitement, flushed and heavy-eyed.

‘How many girls have you had, Richard?'

‘Quite a few. Why?' The engine was throbbing. He wound up the little anchor of its chain.

‘I just wondered. I bet you've had lots and lots.'

She found her bag and saw herself in the compact mirror. She powdered her face hastily, smeared lipstick on her mouth. Stop it, she told herself. You'll say something in a minute. You'll let him know … And he's not like the others. He's not John, who wants you to talk about it and gets driven mad when you pretend to be a first-timer. Richard is different. You love him. You want him to love you.

She plunged her arm into the icy river water up to the elbow.

Richard saw her and called out, ‘Don't lean over like that. I'm going to open up a bit, you'll fall in.'

She laughed. ‘I wouldn't mind,' she said. ‘I've had such fun with you.'

He glanced back at her. ‘I've had fun with you too,' he said. ‘Do you want to stay and have dinner? There's a new restaurant opened in Maidenhead. Why don't we go there and try it?'

‘Why not?' Diana called back. ‘I was doing something else but I can phone and cancel him.'

Richard steadied the little boat. He frowned. ‘Who's him? Anyone I know?' He was quite surprised to feel jealous. Of course she had other boyfriends. She was so pretty and such a funny little thing, she must have half London running after her. ‘Anyone I know?' he asked again.

‘I don't think so,' Diana answered. Not John tonight – John, waiting for her in his flat in Knightsbridge, with the whisky on his breath and the dirty pictures set out. He needed the pictures, he needed the little-girl dirty talk. Richard didn't need anything like that, she knew. He was young and beautiful. She loved his blonde hair and those blue eyes. He would be like a god to sleep with. ‘He's rather a bore. I'd much rather have dinner with you.'

‘Good,' he said. He was glad she had made little of the man, whoever he was. Glad he'd changed the plan from lunch at Windsor with friends who had a grace-and-favour house in the Great Park to a picnic on the river with just the two of them. It was one thing to see a girl with a crowd of others. Spending the day alone was different. How often he'd been bored. Not this time. She made him laugh. She was quaint, he thought – the old-fashioned word suited her. A good sport too, not spoilt, and never bitchy about anyone. He hated bitchy girls.

As much as he hated the greedy ones, who always asked for champagne and the most expensive things on the menu because they knew he could afford them. Di didn't seem to care what she ate. She was sitting by the side of the boat, trailing her fingers in the water, watching the little tides spreading out behind. His mother had liked her, he remembered. As a child, of course. She always said she was as pretty as a picture. It might be fun to ask her down to Ashton for a weekend.

Brian Kiernan's first major exhibition at the Waddington Gallery was a sensation in the art world. The serious critics hailed him as the new Graham Sutherland. The nastier gossip columnists hinted that he owed some of his success to the influence of his in-laws. Hugo had bought them a small house off the King's Road. He thought it was a dreadful, shabby district, but Fern insisted that Brian wouldn't accept anything in a smart location. The north-facing attic could be turned into a perfect studio. Hugo gave way, and Fern hugged and kissed him with her old fervour. He was so wonderful, he understood how Brian felt … She was so blissfully happy.

Except when she came down to Ashton. Even Hugo, who didn't trouble about atmospheres so long as the surface was calm, noticed how tense Fern became when her husband and Alice were together. They got on, that was the trouble, and Alice couldn't help overshadowing her daughter. She took the centre of the stage instinctively, leaving Fern a sullen spectator of the wit and the wordplay that went on between them.

Brian sparked Alice and she in turn sparked him. They argued, they disagreed, they debated, and their friendship grew. Hugo remained aloof, glad to spend time with his daughter, trying to revive their old intimacy. But she had changed. She had grown away from him and closer to her husband. It was difficult for Hugo to understand because he couldn't see that they had anything in common. Except sex. That thought displeased him. It diminished Fern in his eyes if she was subject to Kiernan because of that. He consoled himself with the thought that she was happy with him and he seemed devoted to her.

The only flaw in their relationship was her failure to make him hate Alice. ‘Oh, come on, darling,' he'd say when she began a tirade about her mother, ‘she's been very good to us. She's doing her best for you now.'

‘Daddy's been the one,' Fern countered angrily. ‘All she does is play up to you. She's so vain and self-centred. I never thought you'd fall for it.'

Then she would cry, and he'd be overcome with guilty feelings, which he resented afterwards. He loved her, but she was still so insecure. And possessive. He didn't mind that. He wasn't interested in other women. After five years of marriage he was just as much in love with Fern as ever. Closer, he felt, because he understood her so much better. And he owed so much to her support and enthusiasm for his gifts. She believed he was a great artist and her faith never faltered. One day he would win recognition.

She admired his ideas and tried hard to follow the intense intellectual approach he brought to his work. It wasn't easy, because she was not very clever. She never once suggested that he should seek help from her family connections. When his early work was hung in tiny galleries, he sold very few, attracted little notice. He went back to teaching, and Fern made a point of living on his salary. Her allowance accumulated unspent, and nothing Alice or Hugo could say would make her humiliate Brian by using her own money.

When the breakthrough came for him it was sudden and by chance. A major modern-art critic from the United States was staying with friends in London during the summer. The friends liked to patronize unknown painters, frequenting the fringe galleries and exhibitions. The critic suspected they were motivated by an inverted snobbery because so much of what they bought was worthless. Except for one exceptional nude that hung in his bedroom. He asked about the artist, contacted the gallery which had sold them the picture, and discovered Brian Kiernan. An introduction to the director of the Waddington followed.

There were stacks of canvases in the attic studio. Fern waited downstairs in a state of such apprehension that she put coffee in the teapot. The time passed – it seemed they would never come down. When they did, one look at Brian's flushed excited face told her that the news was good. The gallery would mount an autumn exhibition for him.

The critic began talking about him in New York. One or two articles appeared in select newspapers and magazines. By the time his connection with the Vandekars had been discovered, his pictures were selling on their own merits.

The private view was a triumph. It was only marred for Fern by the photographers who clustered round her mother. If only Alice hadn't come. Fern had hinted that it was really Brian's evening, and it would be awful if attention was taken away from him. But she couldn't have Hugo without Alice. And she wanted her father to see that Brian was a success. She knew how much Hugo valued achievement. She wanted her father to be proud of him.

She left her husband's side for a few moments, linking her arm thorugh Hugo's. She looked radiant with pride and happiness as she gazed up at him. ‘Well, Daddy, didn't I tell you? Isn't it wonderful? Half the exhibits have been sold already.
Everyone
important is here!'

‘I'm so glad,' he said. ‘And you were right. He's very gifted.' He smiled at her. ‘I still don't see it, but everyone says so. Anyway, you're happy, darling, that's the main thing. Look, there's Richard.'

Fern saw her brother moving through the crowd. He paused to look at one of the pictures. A small, very pretty red-headed girl was hanging onto his arm.

‘So it is,' she said.

Diana Brayley again. She was staying at Ashton the last time they were there. Fern didn't like her. Not that Diana bothered her or Brian. All she did was follow Richard around. After the money no doubt. Everyone knew that the Brayleys didn't have a penny.

Fern turned away and went in search of her husband. He was encircled by admirers. She paused for a moment. He was famous at last. Now they could begin to live well; he need never feel inadequate because she had money. And they could have a child. She had wanted a child very badly, but not until they could afford one. The thought of Alice sweeping in to interfere killed her maternal yearnings dead. There, she said to herself, she's over there with Richard and the girlfriend. She's happy now. She's got her baby boy under her wing. I haven't dared tell Brian about that. But one day I will. Then he'll see what she's really like.

‘Darling,' Richard said, ‘what did you really think of the pictures? Truthfully now.'

Diana pulled a face. They were having dinner in his flat after the exhibition. They had been lovers for the last three months and they spent every spare moment together. He was absolutely marvellous and she was beside herself with happiness. ‘Truthfully, I thought they were pretty ugly,' she said, and he roared with delighted laughter.

‘So did I. But all the arty people are raving about them, and I could see dozens of red stickers, so that's all right. Brian's quite a nice chap when you get to know him. I couldn't stand him at first, but he's really not bad. Even Dad rather likes him now.'