A Fox Under My Cloak (17 page)

“We never shoot that plantation, it’s the Sanctuary. We holds the pheasants there, away from the poachers. There’s another on the south side o’ the park, same purpose.”

“Is all this my Uncle’s, then?”

“What, the park? That’s right. He bought the ’ouse with nigh on four hundred acres, when it was in the market, let me see, twelve year come next Michaelmas. He farms it, under the steward.”

“I knew he had a farm in Australia, in fact, I nearly went there.”

“Go on,” said the driver, adding, “I thought I’d never seen you come here before, I never forgets a face. Well, here we are, sir,” he said, with a return to his original manner, as a red brick Queen Anne house came into sight.

The thought of its bigness made Phillip nervous. Why hadn’t he pressed his trousers? Oh, hell, would they expect him to dress for dinner? And his tall starched collar was frayed a bit at the top. What a fool he had been to put it on, trying to look like Mr. Hollis, instead of one of his narrow pale-blue Hope Bros, collars. And no gloves. His hands were grimy, the nails wanted cutting. He must keep them hidden as much as possible. The motor stopped. He got out.

On the top of the steps, by the open door, stood a woman in a plum-coloured bodice and skirt. Could it be Aunt Beatrice? Her hair was grey, her hands folded in front. “Good afternoon, Mr. Maddison,” she said with a smile, and slight inclination of her head. Behind her, in the hall, stood a maid-servant in blue with a white starched cap. “No luggage, Mrs. Coles,” said the driver.

“Just come back from France, you know,” explained Phillip jauntily, as though he had left his luggage there. Ought he to tip the driver? He felt in his pocket, touched a milled edge among the coppers, wondered if half-a-crown would seem paltry; and was about to turn back to give it to the driver, when the housekeeper said, “I expect you would like to see your room, sir? You can go, Parkins,” whereupon the maid in blue gave a little bob and went away. “Will you come with me?”

The hall had a floor of black and white tiles, with an open hearth and polished steel fire-dogs almost embedded in a mass of grey wood-ash. He vaguely noticed glass cabinets with china in them as he followed the housekeeper up wide polished oak stairs and pale green walls on which water-colours and other pictures were hanging, and pedestals in the corners with statues, the whole place being lit by a wide skylight in the roof. He was shown into what seemed to him to be a very large bedroom.

“Your bathroom is here,” said the housekeeper, opening a gleaming white door, to reveal a bath encased in mahogany, silver rails with thick towels hanging on them with mathematical neatness. “Mrs. Maddison and Mrs. Lemon are in the
morning-room
, and if you ring this bell when you are ready to come down, sir, I will be in the hall, to announce you.” She smiled and went away, turning at the door to give him a slight bow before she went out.

“’Strewth,” said Phillip to an imagined Desmond. “It’s all too damned posh for me.” He cracked his fingers, and did a jig, before going round his bedroom examining it in detail.

The room had big windows looking out on a garden and lawn. It had a soft carpet that was like walking on sand, a
four-poster
bed with gold satin coverlet, bookcase, table with
leather-bound
pad, blotter, and tray with writing paper and envelopes and pens on it, with a tiny matchbox in a silver case, with an unused stick of blue sealing-wax. “All very posh, Desmond, my boy.” Through an open window he heard the remote double-crow of a cock pheasant. Uncle Hilary must be very rich.

The plum-coloured housekeeper was in the hall arranging flowers in a bowl when he went down. Opening a tall door, she said pleasantly, “Mr. Maddison, ma’m!” and he was walking forward to shake Aunt Beatrice by the hand. Then Aunt Viccy,
thin and pale as ever, sitting beside a log and coal fire in a polished steel hearth, gave him her hand, and a slight smile.

“Well, Phillip, so you’ve come back from the war. Let me look at you. Are you quite recovered?”

Aunt Victoria’s voice was gentle, but he could not feel at ease. He stuttered when he spoke, sitting on the edge of a chair by the fire, conscious of the smoothed-out skin around Aunt Beatrice’s eyes—white, very soft skin and frightening china-blue eyes—frightening because their rare blue, like the eyes of Helena Rolls, seemed to hold the secret of the inscrutable mystery of Woman. Aunt Beatrice’s skin was very white and smooth, especially the skin of her slender wrist and forearm. He felt small, almost guilty, as she looked at him, with her brilliant smile; he felt, in a way, less afraid of Aunt Viccy, who was not affectionate in her regard, but remote in an unwarmed way. Between the feelings of the two women he felt rigid; he spoke jerkily, trying to overcome his uneasiness. Was it because the room, and everything about the house, was too comfortable?

Aunt Bee asked him if he would like some beer, after his journey; and when it came, he was surprised to see that the man bringing it, in dark trousers, wasp-striped waistcoat, and black vicuna jacket, was the driver. The bottle of beer and glass, on a little round silver tray, with corkscrew also of silver, was put on a low table by his side, then the man went away. Was he supposed to draw the cork, or wait to be invited? In his
nervousness
, because he had forgotten to say “Thank you”—in the magazine stories he had read, servants were never thanked when they served at table—ought he to have thanked him,
anyway
?—in his uneasiness he found, to his horror, that he was telling lies about himself. Aunt Viccy had never liked him: she had lectured him as a boy, she knew his real self. So he found himself giving a false account of the “boxing match” in No Man’s Land, and unable to stop talking rot.

“Yes, the Germans sent up flares specially to light the ring, which was made of posts and telephone wire. Of course I didn’t stand a chance against Church, who was the company runner-up at the School of Arms before the war. Anyway, the Germans cheered as round after round ended with the bell. What bell? Oh, someone had taken one of those old wire-pull bells from the Red Château, you know, perhaps it was a door-bell, anyway, it ended each round, until I got a biff that sent me down for the
count. I learned to box more or less before the war, you know,” he ended up lamely, avoiding both pairs of eyes upon him, feeling that Aunt Viccy was thinking of the time Father had taken him to her Epsom house in disgrace, after Peter Wallace had called him a coward for getting him to fight Alfred Hawkins for him in the Backfield.

“Do help yourself,” said Aunt Bee; and too quickly he drew the cork, and spilled froth on the carpet.

Dinner that night, served by the driver now in evening dress, was just as awkward for him. That night he could not sleep. The mattress was too soft, Uncle Hilary’s silk pyjamas too large, the bedroom curtains suffocatingly heavy. He selected some books to read, and was wondering if he dared light his pipe—or would it stink out the room afterwards—when there came a soft knock on the door and before he could leap out to switch off the electric light, the glass handle turned and Aunt Beatrice came in with a tray with a tiny teapot and sugar jug on it, and two small cups, almost transparent, they were so thin. She said she always had China tea at night, and would he take a dish with her?

She wore a silvery kind of dressing-gown, which made her rather like a fish; she did not look so old as she had looked downstairs, she looked almost girlish, with her fair hair brushed down her back, but nevertheless with the very smooth skin of her face and the large china-blue eyes she was quite frightening.

“I could not talk to you as I wanted to ‘Mr. Cornflower’, before Viccy. That woman freezes me. Do you remember when you called yourself ‘Mr. Cornflower’, when you ran away with that old dog Joey, to see the races, the Derby wasn’t it, or was it the Oaks, at Epsom? You were such a sweet little boy, Phillip. My heart ached for you, you were such an unhappy little pet. How old are you now, twenty?”

“Nearly twenty, Aunty Bee.”

“Don’t call me ‘Aunty’, there’s a dear boy. ‘Aunty’ has always reminded me of a dressmaker’s dummy, for some reason. Would you prefer some hot milk, instead of tea? You look so thin, my pet. Do say. I want you to be well again.”

“No, really, thanks ever so much. I like tea.”

He tried to conceal his quivering hand as he took the saucer and cup with the grinning mandarin figure and dragons in gold and black. She took his hand between hers, and warmed it on
her lap. “What slender fingers you have, Phillip. An artist’s hand.” She turned it over. “Shall I read your fate? Do you believe in palmistry? I do. I must cast your horoscope, too. Hilary laughs at all occult things, but he’s an old materialist, with no imagination. You don’t like him, do you? Tell the truth, and shame the devil!”

“Yes, I do. He’s been really very kind to me.”

“Yes, I know, in his way. But he wants everyone to be like him.” She sighed. “Are you shocked at my frankness, Phillip? I’ve always said exactly what I think—it’s got me into hot water more than once. ‘The Cornish urchin’, they called me at home when I was a child. We’re Celts, you and I, you know. We know things by intuition, don’t we?” She looked into his eyes, still holding his hand.

Phillip thought that he must hide his intuition; he must pretend that he did not know what she meant. And when, after some more talk, she asked him to kiss her, his pretence broke down, and he felt ashamed that he could not. When she looked at him with another expression, a much older one, he felt sorry for her: and managed to kiss her on the cheek, slightly.

“Dear ‘Mr. Cornflower’, do you know that you have the most beautiful eyes? No, do not look away from me,” she sighed. “God, isn’t life hell? We all have to dissemble most of the time. I knew you were dissembling before Viccy. What a cold woman she is! Are you shocked, dear boy, at my frankness?”

“No. I think I know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. Well, I must not keep you from your beauty sleep. Kiss me again, ‘Mr. Cornflower’. Is my skin soft? Don’t you feel that it is kind to you?” She sighed again, looking very tired.

“Yes, it is very soft. Is that why they call you Honey Bee?” he managed to say.

“‘Honey Bee’, my God! ‘O Bee, where is thy sting?’ I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?”

“No, of course not, really you haven’t!”

“I suppose I’m an old woman to you, Phillip?”

“You look very young, Bee.”

“Do I
really
,” she said, looking at him, with a sad, resigned expression. “You won’t tell anyone I came to ‘drink a dish of tay’ will you, my pet? I came really because you looked so
lost, so lonely. I am lonely, too—everyone is lonely in this world, I think. Don’t you?”

He was not so afraid now that she sat back, away from him. He told her about Helena Rolls. She listened sympathetically.

“She sounds a lovely creature, my pet. You keep your ideals, Phillip! Don’t sell the pass. And thank you for your confidence, dear boy. She must have a heart of stone if she can resist those eyes of yours, and those long dark lashes! She loves you, Phillip, of course she does! Well, I must go now. May I come with you by the river in the morning? I’m quite a good ghilly, you know! An expert with the gaff!” Her voice was ironic. She bowed her head, and to his dismay he saw she was crying. “Now you’ll see what an old hag I am!” she said, smiling at him.

He stroked her head. She took his hand and held it against her bosom. She kissed his hand. She stroked her cheek with it. “Slender fingers, my pet, they should hold a painter’s brush. Did you ever paint?”

“No. I can’t draw.”

“You’re a poet, I think. Is my cheek soft?”

“Yes, it is. Sort of creamy.” He was alarmed by what she might do next. “Do you wash it in special soap?”

“I’ve not used soap since I was a ‘Cornish urchin’. I wash my face in milk.”

“Didn’t Queen Victoria always have a bath in milk?”

“Vinegar, I should think, more like it! You’re very sweet, Phil. Don’t let anyone change you, my pet.”

Then leaning over, she took his face between her hands, and kissed him lightly on the lips. He could not help drawing back slightly. She stroked his hair, got up from the bed, smiled
tenderly
, fluttering her eyelids at him, and whispered, “Now you must sleep, my child! I’ve ordered your breakfast to be brought up on a tray. Come down any time you like. It’s fun, isn’t it, our little midnight party? Till tomorrow, then, ‘Mr. Cornflower’.”

With a last tender glance, she was gone.

*

“Well,” said Richard on Phillip’s unexpected return next day from Hampshire, “this is a surprise! But no doubt you are keen to get into your new uniform, to show yourself to a certain goddess——”

Phillip was sitting in the front room. He had just opened a large envelope, seen that it was his commission scroll, glanced
at his name and regiment, and was skipping the copperplate engraved words, to dwell upon the signature of
George
R.I.,
when his father, on the way upstairs, looked round the door.

“What’s the matter, are you feeling under the weather?” Had the boy been drinking? “Well, tell me about the place down in Hampshire? How did you find your Uncle Hilary?”

“I didn’t see him, Father. He had gone to London on business, Aunt Bee said.”

Richard waited for his son to say more, but Phillip remained silent. “What did you think of Uncle’s place? I’ve not been there yet, you know.”

“It was all right, Father.”

“Oh, I see.” Another pause. “Did you have any fishing?”

“No, Father.”

“I see. Was there anyone else staying there?”

“Aunt Viccy, Father.”

“How was she?”

“All right, I think.”

“Did she send any message?”

“She asked after you, Father.”

Richard remembered that his son had left unexpectedly—run away, in fact—when staying with his sister Victoria at Epsom, years before. Well, he was a funny chap: he didn’t understand him, or his moods when he closed up like an oyster. Phillip held out the commission script.