Elegy for Eddie (19 page)

T
he door of the mansion in Holland Park was flung open by Priscilla’s eldest son almost as soon as she pulled the bell.

“Good heavens, how you’ve grown! You’ll soon tower over your mother,” exclaimed Maisie.

Thomas Partridge, who had recently celebrated his twelfth birthday, blushed. “About an inch or so to go.” He leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “Hello, Tante Maisie. We’ve missed you.”

Soon they were joined by Timothy and Tarquin, who, Maisie thought, were also shooting up like vines.

“Is Uncle James coming?” asked Tarquin. All the boys were mad about flight and aeroplanes, and the fact that James had been an aviator in the war had given him extra points as far as the boys were concerned.

“Sorry, just me this evening.”

There was a collective sigh of disappointment.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Priscilla as she approached, her arms outstretched to shepherd her sons in the direction of the staircase. “You three toads can just go to the playroom and do whatever you boys do in there, but if I hear one scream, one ‘I’ll kill you’ or the sound of a ball being whacked against the wall, you can rest assured there will be another sort of whacking in the works.”

The boys ran off, and Maisie rolled her eyes. “Just as well I know that you wouldn’t lay a finger on them, isn’t it?”

“I do a very good line in threats, though. Come on, to the drawing room. I’ve been so terribly good for so long that I’ve been looking forward to my cocktail this evening. Join me?”

“I think I might.”

“Oh dear. Now I know there’s trouble.”

Priscilla led the way to the drawing room. Maisie took a seat on a leather chesterfield and looked out at the garden while listening to the sound of Priscilla dropping ice into glasses, pouring gin, and then a brief swish as she added tonic water.

“There you are, mother’s ruin.” Priscilla handed a glass to Maisie and, kicking off her shoes, seated herself at the opposite end of the chesterfield, her legs to one side. She rubbed her feet.

Maisie sipped her drink and sighed deeply as she leaned back.

“All right, out with it. I have the distinct feeling that all is not well with your love life.”

“Not exactly,” said Maisie. “But if you don’t mind, I wanted to ask you something. About Douglas.”

“That’s one way of getting out of telling me what’s going on—mention my husband so I just have to know immediately what on earth you might want to know.”

Maisie rubbed her forehead, her fingers still cold from holding the chilled glass. “I’m curious about how well Douglas knows John Otterburn. I mean, I know he must know him—but to what extent? Does he work for him?”

“Douglas has written for all the big newspapers at one time or another, so he knows Otterburn, and our paths have crossed socially—we were invited to tomorrow’s bash, actually, but had to decline in favor of a supper with one of Douglas’ old army chums and his wife. They went off to live in Greece after the war. Bit like us; they had to get away from it all.”

“But do you know if he’s working for him at the moment?”

“I couldn’t say, though I think he might be beavering away on more than an article. To tell you the truth, I don’t ask questions about his work. If he chooses to show me something or ask me for an opinion or just moan that he can’t quite get something right, I do what I can—read, say what I think, or listen. I couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag, so I fear I can’t really be very constructive in my assistance.”

“Why do you think he might be working on more than an article?” asked Maisie.

Ice rattled in the glass as Priscilla stirred her drink. “Years of practice in the art of being married to a writer. I know it’s something important, and that he’s not saying much. The last time he started a book, he did the same thing—it’s as if he was going into a cave to thrash things out with someone. Fighting with the words, I called it once. He sometimes works at home—his lair at the top of the house—but as you probably know, he also keeps a small office not far from here.”

“Does he ever use the studio at Lancaster Gate?”

“So you know about that?” Priscilla picked up her drink. “Not that it’s a secret, but Douglas doesn’t have much to do with it on a day-to-day basis. It’s part of an estate left to him by an uncle—very handy too, if you’re a writer. He wanted to help other writers who aren’t quite so fortunate as to have the space to work in peace—perhaps they live in a flat and have children at home, something of that order. But go there himself? Never. He said he wants to help support those writers, not do their work for them or be there in an advisory capacity. I don’t think he ever sets foot in the place. There’s an overseer for the building—as well as the studios, there are residential apartments on the upper floors—and one of the writers takes care of administration of places and the waiting list.”

“I see. So you think he’s writing a book?”

“He’ll tell me soon, when he’s wrestled the first chapter or two. And he’ll also be working on his articles and essays. He likes to write different sorts of things, and sometimes at the same time—he says it keeps him on his toes.”

Maisie nodded. “And has he ever mentioned a man called Bartholomew Soames?”

Priscilla stirred her drink again and took a sip before setting the glass on a side table. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Do you want me to ask him?”

“No. No, please don’t. It’s best left alone, and I’ll ask him if need be.”

“What’s going on, Maisie?”

Maisie shook her head. “I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Knowing your work, I do hope there’s nothing frightening going on to do with Douglas.”

“No, not in the way you think. I just happen to be working on a case that involves a writer—Soames—so I thought I’d ask. And as for what Douglas is working on, well, Sandra just happened to mention that she was busy with some important work for him at the moment.”

“Your questions are very specific, though, Maisie. I think you’re fobbing me off.”

“I just wondered how well he knows John Otterburn—that’s at the heart of it. And the young man in question had a desk at the studio, so the two names came up a few times. That’s all.” Maisie felt she had asked too much and hoped Priscilla would accept her explanation. “And I’d be awfully grateful if we could keep this conversation between us. I know that’s a lot to ask—after all, he is your husband. But I wouldn’t want my questions to be of a concern to him when he’s so busy.”

“I see. Well, as long as you don’t think he murdered anyone!” Priscilla stood up, holding up her glass. “Another one?”

“I’m only a few sips into this one.”

“I’ll just have another half-glass, and lots of ice.” Priscilla stood up and went to mix another drink.

Maisie watched as Priscilla stood beside a sideboard of dark wood and mirrored glass, the top reflecting bottles and an ice bucket, as if the designer had intended the effect to resemble a kaleidoscope.

“So, tell me,” said Priscilla, pouring gin into her glass and holding it up to check the measure before adding another splash. “What’s going on with you and James? To tell you the truth, I’ve been expecting a joyous announcement of forthcoming nuptials.”

“That’s far from on the cards.”

Priscilla took her seat once again. “But everything started so well, and he’s a very nice chap—the boys adore him.”

“Yes, he’s lovely—kind and solicitous. But we seem to be arguing over all sorts of silly things. And some not-so-silly things.” Maisie sighed, set her drink on the side table, and ran her fingers through her hair. “And we’re just different. I thought it might not matter so much that our roots are poles apart, but it does matter, and it seems to be becoming quite significant. I’ve been suffocating at Ebury Place, and I’ve come to see my flat as a retreat.”

“Do you spend much time at your house?”

“My house?”

“Oh, for goodness sake! The house that Maurice left you . . . ? The Dower House . . . ?”

“At first I did, because there was a lot to go through. But now—no, not really.”

“I see.”

“What do you see, Pris?” asked Maisie. “What do you see that I can’t see?”

“I’m going to have to be blunt with you.”

“When haven’t you been blunt, Priscilla?”

“Not as often as I would like. I’ve been watching you since Maurice died, and I believe you’ve found it harder than you think, having the responsibility of wealth and property.”

“I have Maurice’s lawyer to advise me,” said Maisie.

Priscilla shook her head. “That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Look, this is just what I’ve seen, what I’ve noticed during the past months, since your inheritance. You seem to be spending an awful lot of money on trying to make other people happy. You’ve essentially bought a house for the Beales in all but name; and, admittedly, you’ve trod very carefully so as not to offend, but you’ve set them up and have barely asked for rent since they moved in. And then Sandra—bless her, she’s a lovely, intelligent girl and she’s been through a lot, but I know you’re paying for her education and her books and everything that goes with it. That’s without your contribution to Maurice’s clinics, over and above the trust he’d set up so that the work may continue. And there’s been other things—I won’t go so far as to say you’ve been spending money like a drunken sailor, because you don’t direct it at yourself, but it’s as if you feel you’re having to apologize for having the money in the first place, and you’re trying to get rid of it so that you can be comfortably strapped for cash again.”

“Priscilla, that’s unfair!” Maisie stood up and began to pace. “I mean, well, if you’re thinking like that, look who—look who acted as a guarantor for me to obtain a loan for the flat? Eh? You thought I wouldn’t find out?”

“How on earth—?”

“I discovered that you’d had a hand in it when I went to pay off the mortgage—which is something I was able to do with the money left to me. And I’m only doing what you did for me.”

“Oh no, Maisie. It’s not the same—and for goodness sake, sit down, will you?” Priscilla raised her voice. “You’re making my head spin.”

Maisie sat down. Priscilla continued.

“Look, you are my most precious friend; you’re like a sister to me. You are dear to my heart, and I knew that even if you found out, you wouldn’t hold it against me.”

“But what do you mean, ‘It’s not the same’?”

“I mean that this . . . this controlling of other people’s futures won’t get you any thanks, you know. In fact, if you go on like it, coming to the rescue all the time, you could make more enemies than friends.” Priscilla paused, then stood up. “Oh, bloody hell. I’m going to have the other half of that G and T, and I might just make it a very large one.” She continued talking while pouring another drink, throwing ice cubes into the glass in a manner that almost caused them to bounce out again. “The fact is, people like a
little
help when they need it, usually because there’s a means to pay it back—perhaps not in the same way, with money, but with a task completed, something like that. If you give people more than they can ever repay, you run the risk of resentment, because then they feel beholden.” She sat down again, but closer to Maisie. “I know this is hard, and it’s only my opinion, but I’ve seen it happen. I would bet anything that in time there will be repercussions from the recipients of your largesse. Those people you’ve helped might distance themselves, or they might decide it’s easier to stop seeing you at some point. You leave them with such a debt, and no one likes to feel in debt. There are ways of helping without doing everything—otherwise you take away the opportunity for them to be proud of something they’ve achieved.”

“But I couldn’t leave Billy and his family where they were, not with the boys always ill, and them cramped with Billy’s mother in that small house.”

“Small by whose standards?”

“They were so happy to be moving.”

“Of course they were,” countered Priscilla. “But give people time to settle, and the obligation begins to weigh on them.”

Maisie bent forward and pressed her hands to her eyes. “I just keep doing everything wrong. I feel as if everything I touch is falling apart in my hands.”

Priscilla placed her drink back on the side table and put her arm around her friend. “It’s all to be understood, Maisie. I may not have your insight, but I know when I see something out of kilter, and I think that’s what’s happened to you, but in a subtle way. Everything good has a dark side, even generosity. It can become overbearing, intimidating, even humiliating—and no one likes to think someone else is pulling the strings, do they?”

“Oh, I’ve made such an idiot of myself. I wish Maurice had left the money to someone else, someone more capable.”

“He did the right thing, Maisie, but it is a change in circumstances you weren’t prepared for—and I think you’ve done a remarkable job, really.”

“I should keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

“Well . . .”

Maisie sat upright. “But I do know one thing, and that is, James and I, we’re on different paths. We have different expectations of what might be and of each other. I think we’re at the end. I just feel it.”

“Now then, now then. The sky isn’t falling in, Maisie. You’ve just got to buck up, take care of your business, take care of your estate, and, above all, take care of yourself. I bet this upset with James is just a storm in a teacup, truly I do. The course of true love ne’er did run smooth.”

Maisie finished her drink. “The fact is, Pris, I don’t think we are each other’s true love. I think we’ve simply been very good company for each other, and we’ve probably helped each other realize that we still know how to love.”

Priscilla looked at Maisie for a moment. “I do wish you would just give it some more time.”

“Anyway,” said Maisie, coming to her feet, “we’ve that Otterburn supper tomorrow, and perhaps a Friday to Monday with them, over Easter. We’ve some other social engagements on the horizon, so we’ll get through them and see where we are.”

“Yes, dear friend. See where you are. Don’t be hasty in your decisions.”

The two bid farewell on the threshold, Priscilla holding Maisie just a few seconds longer than usual. She was aware Priscilla had remained at the door as she walked down the steps to her motor car; and as she turned at the end of the street, she looked back and Priscilla was still there, watching as she drove away. She thought she might feel light-headed following the strong cocktail, but as she negotiated traffic back to Pimlico, she felt alert, her thoughts clearer than they’d been in a long time. She was surprised at how easily she had articulated her situation with James; she could see in Priscilla’s eyes a hint of realization that the intermittent discord was not a storm in a teacup. And yet she was even more surprised—mortified, in fact—by the way in which her friend’s words had echoed the conversation with Elsbeth Masters. But Priscilla’s summing up—one phrase in particular—resonated in a different way: “Everything good has a dark side, even generosity
. . . and no one likes to think someone else is pulling the strings, do they
?”