The Chandelier Ballroom (9 page)

The man promptly reached over, hand extended. ‘Albert Hessington, by the way.’

‘Arnold Johns-Pitman,’ Arnold supplied as he took the offered hand.

‘This is my wife, Patricia,’ Hessington went on, she in turn reaching out her hand, her somewhat plump form half rising to do so.

‘So,’ said Hessington as his wife sat back in her chair, ‘settling in are we?’

‘Very much so,’ said Arnold, half glancing towards where Joyce had disappeared through a rather ramshackle doorway.

‘Of course I suppose you know the history,’ Hessington was saying, leaning forward again in a confidential sort of way.

‘Just what we read in the agent’s leaflets,’ Arnold said.

There came a nodding and gnawing of lips from the other man, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘You know the owner, Mr Butterfield, odd sort of fellow, from the East End of London as far as could be told, terribly eager to make friends in the community, anyone of any importance, liked to throw huge parties nearly every other week or so – he was drowned in his own pond, you know. His wife left him when he took up with some young woman, flighty sort. When she walked off with a younger man, so it’s said, Butterfield was found days later face down in that pond, drowned. Police said it was an accident, but some around here believe it was suicide. But there, all in the past,’ he concluded as Joyce reappeared from the toilets, negotiating her way between the few rather well-used empty tables.

Nothing more was said as the others moved back in their seats with a nod to Joyce, who again inclined her head without smiling and took a sip of her whisky and ginger.

There was a round of goodbyes and good-lucks-in-the-new-home as the other two eventually got up and left. Joyce’s grey eyes followed their departure. ‘What did they want?’ she asked coldly.

‘Nothing much,’ he said, ‘just welcoming us into the neighbourhood, that’s all.’

He wasn’t prepared to tell her what they’d said about a suspected suicide. The estate agent, crafty so-and-so, had vaguely pointed to a matter of the previous owner having died some time back in an unfortunate accident. ‘Which is why,’ he had added jovially, ‘the widow has put the house up for sale.’

Obviously eager to sell the property, what the agent hadn’t mentioned was that the accident had been by drowning in the property’s very own pond. As Arnold saw it, the man’s object had been ‘the least said the better’. After all, his job was to sell houses, not put people off.

He’d had no cause to question the man about it at the time. The death of the previous owner was one of the many reasons for the wife to sell their home and he had thought little about it. Now it seemed that what had been supposed an accident had been seen by the locals as suicide, with a plausible cause for it, and even he felt a little disconcerted. He didn’t feel happy keeping these suspicions from Joyce, flimsy though they were, just village gossip no doubt. But she being of a nervous, somewhat superstitious nature, it was best not to mention any of it to her.

What was done was done and having already developed a keen love for the place, he wasn’t prepared to have her worrying herself, peeking into nooks and crannies of which there were many, jumping at each crack of the furniture when the sun was on it or night cooled the wood, she interpreting every unnamed sound as sinister. It was best for both of them that she remained ignorant for the time being. Let her get used to the sounds that older houses were apt to make, at least that older part of theirs.

‘You must have talked about something!’ Joyce said as she sat back to sip at her drink.

‘Not really,’ he lied. ‘They merely wished us both every happiness in our new home, then got on with their drinks and left.’

That seemed to content her, except to remark, ‘I hope we don’t get too many locals knocking on our door, wishing us every happiness, hoping that we’ll invite them in so they can have a look round. People can be so nosey!’

‘Perhaps they were among those who used to be invited to all the parties that were held here, according to the estate agent. He said the place was perfect for parties.’

‘Well, I don’t care much for holding parties merely for other people’s benefit,’ Joyce remarked huffily. ‘If they are contemplating that, they are going to be very disappointed. This is our home and I do not intend to hold open house for any Tom, Dick and Harry. I hope you agree, darling.’

Even as he nodded, he hoped that didn’t include their own friends. Joyce could border on the unsociable at times, a private person, but he had no wish for the house to be turned into a prison. But her parents tended to be people unto themselves and he guessed it was only natural for her to be of the same ilk. Married for such a short while, he was finding out that he still had a lot to learn about her.

Summer had gone by like a dream. They were well into autumn and it had taken all that time to have the wall to the hallway rebuilt, parts of the house redecorated and others modernised to their own taste. He’d also enlarged the conservatory leading off the room that held the chandelier and extended the patio where they would be able to sit next summer, looking for a nice tan. If the days weren’t quite so warm of course they’d benefit from the comfort of the conservatory.

The new area had also given them the advantage of broad, open views over the countryside right to the horizon which the gentle elevation of the village enjoyed. As an access to both conservatory and patio he had had the large window on that side of the ballroom – the name stuck despite Joyce insisting on calling it the big room – formed into a French window. It still hadn’t made her like the room and in fact she only ever entered to go through to the patio on fine days.

‘I do wish you would get rid of that chandelier,’ she suggested when the hall wall was eventually rebuilt, making the room less vast. ‘It does look quite ridiculous now the room is that much smaller. It’s so out of place now and, as I see it, only adds to the cold feeling I keep getting in here. I can never feel comfortable in here, no matter how I try.’

She was probably right about the room. He had to admit it never quite seemed an easy place to relax in. It held a vaguely lonely feeling, no warmth to it, as if it lamented the days of music and dancing and scores of guests. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed to retain an air of forlorn remoteness, as if bemoaning some sort of fall from grace.

Imagination, he told himself, and dismissed it from his mind. Yet he was loath to do anything about it – why, he didn’t know – even more loath to get rid of the imposing chandelier. Even his parents seemed to have fallen in love with it and when he spoke of having it taken down they had been appalled. Joyce’s father didn’t seem to care if it came down or not, but her mother had shuddered and said it should be got rid of, though she wouldn’t say why.
Women
! he thought as he dismissed his mother-in-law’s reaction.
He
liked it and this was his home – he would decide what to keep and what to get rid of. It was a beautiful thing and maybe it was a strange sensation for a level-headed stockbroker to feel, but every time he looked at it his skin would tingle pleasantly

No, he wasn’t prepared to take it down, no matter what Joyce and her mother said.

Florence Evans, whom the newly-weds had engaged as a cook/housekeeper as soon as they’d moved in, had found them to be a decent couple. The man was indeed very nice, though she’d not been quite sure about the young lady.

A year later she’d become used to Joyce’s somewhat aloof nature. Though she took it that she couldn’t help being the way she was, Florrie sometimes wished she’d unbend a little, be more at ease with her, a bit more friendly and natural. But that was her nature and nothing one could do about it.

She’d expected to be called Florrie as time went on, but it remained Mrs Evans still, though Mr Johns, as he liked to be called – ‘bit of a mouthful every time you address me,’ he’d said – did use her first name. It seemed silly not to, she living in, but Mrs Johns-Pitman couldn’t help being what she was. She’d still not made any friends around here and it must have felt very lonely at times. But as they say: each to his own or her own.

Even so, it was a good salary. She got one day off a week as well as Saturday afternoons when she went visiting. A widow with no children, there was only her sister’s family, but she had plenty of friends. If only Mrs Johns-Pitman could relax a little, she too would find friends. But that was her affair of course.

After almost a year Joyce was finally acclimatising to her new home, certainly these last three months now that the weather had improved and daylight was began to linger a little later each evening.

She still had some serious doubts about the move. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might feel lonely. All her life had been spent with her parents, her schools and at her college for young ladies. In the company of others if not all that close to them, they’d been there all around her, the buzz of conversation, the sudden peals of laughter, the constant movement of people, something going on every day, occupying every hour, the passing of time unheeded. Living here had come as rather a shock.

Their first summer had been nice, she and Arnold going here and there, exploring the surrounding areas and showing their parents around. But winter had proved a trial, she finding herself completely alone for the first time in her life, he going off to the city each morning, parking his car at Shenfield to take the train the rest of the way and not coming home until seven in the evening. The days had dragged.

‘You ought to find something to occupy yourself,’ was his response to any complaint she made. He loved it here, but he wasn’t here all day.

‘You’ve got Mrs Evans and Doris for company,’ he said. Doris, their general help, came from the village each day except for Saturday afternoons, her half day off, and Sundays. But as an employer there was only so much one could talk to them about.

‘Find yourself a few hobbies,’ Arnold had said brightly, confident that his advice would solve her problems.

But there hadn’t been that many things to do, particularly in winter. Reading, of course. Writing letters, but the few young women she’d once made friends with in her teens had moved on. The same went for telephoning them. She’d tell them they were free to visit any time they fancied, though not with the house still to be finished. It was finished now but she hadn’t pushed her invitations. If any had come she wouldn’t have known what to say to them.

With the finer weather, there had been more to do. The swimming pool cleaned and refilled, she’d taken advantage of it on one or two warmer afternoons. At weekends she and Arnold had spend time clearing the tennis court, which during the winter had accumulated a green hue of moss, and they could now use it, she as good a player as he was. They seldom had occasion to go out other than visiting either parents and sometimes his two brothers and their wives. Other times they’d go to see a film at nearby Brentwood or Romford, occasionally to one of the big London cinemas – Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were her favourite stars with their dancing and his singing, especially in the film,
The Gay Divorcee
.

It was now May and Sunday would be their first wedding anniversary.

‘I thought I’d take you up to London for the whole weekend,’ Arnold told her. ‘I have it all planned, darling. I thought I’d surprise you. We’ll take in a London show, have a wonderful dinner at the Ritz hotel and stay overnight, then on Sunday I’ll take you sightseeing.’

Joyce frowned. She didn’t want to sound churlish, especially as he looked so eager, but over the year she had become a little cloistered. It was all right for him, he was at home there, living all his life in London and working there with his stockbroker father. She’d spent hers in the countryside. Even when at finishing school she had been well away from any large town. They made her nervous. It wasn’t too bad just for the one afternoon, shopping maybe or even seeing a show and then home, but to stay overnight, all that bustle and hubbub for a whole weekend …

‘I’d rather not,’ she said more bluntly than she’d intended, quickly altering her tone. How could she upset him after such a generous idea? ‘I was thinking more of throwing a dinner party on the Sunday and inviting just the family, our parents, maybe your brothers and their wives. It’s our first wedding anniversary and I don’t really want to spend it going out and sleeping in a strange bed and having to eat with lots of strangers around. It would be so much nicer here in our own home.’

It sounded selfish and for a while he looked disappointed, but then he brightened. ‘Just as well I’ve not booked anything up. But if that’s what you want, darling, that’s what we’ll do. Though it could mean a lot of hard work for you.’

‘Why?’ She had begun to feel excited, her first dinner party. ‘Mrs Evans is here. And I’m sure Doris will be happy to wait at table over the weekend for a little extra money.

‘It will be nice having our families here together,’ she went on. Her parents often visited them and had been to stay at Christmas, most likely would spend Christmas here for many years to come. His parents had been only the once, as had his brothers, Howard twenty-six and Douglas twenty-eight, both a little older than he – nice people but she didn’t really know them that well, even though his brothers were very sociable, as were their wives, Evelyn and Barbara.

Howard had a son, and Douglas a son and daughter, all under twelve, consequently having proved a bit of a trial during their visit, scampering around, getting in the way, filling the air with piercing, animated voices, fingering her precious ornaments that could get broken. She’d been glad to see them go. But now, having disappointed Arnold’s plans to take her up to London, it was only fair to have his family here for their anniversary, though she would request that all three children be left at home, perhaps in the care of a relative, this being a celebration for adults only.

She had yet to become a mother, though there was little sign so far of that happening. Every now and again she did feel vaguely broody, but with quite a tidy mortgage sitting on his shoulders, the house far larger than two people should need, Arnold had insisted they wait at least another year or two. It wasn’t really a bother but it didn’t sit well with her mother.