The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (2 page)

fifty years. In that
sense, she reminded me, very strongly, of my brother. I felt I was staring in
at the taxi from the street and I saw myself beguiling, intriguing — because I
was in Charlotte’s company, and a girl like Charlotte would not have singled me
out for tea without thinking that there was something interesting about me,
surely? She had quite the reverse effect on me that had the Alicias and Susans
and Jennifers of the debutante circuit. With those girls, I felt myself
diminish, sensed my shadow growing smaller, my vision narrowing, until a great
dread came over me that if I wasn’t careful, I would lose sight of every
original thought I had ever had. Charlotte, however, was all possibilities. She
was the sort of person one reads about in novels yet rarely meets in real life,
and if this was the beginning of the novel — well! I was pretty certain I wasn’t
supposed to get out of the cab until we pulled up outside the mysterious Aunt
Clare’s house for tea. I had always been a great believer in fate, but it had never
believed in
me
until that afternoon. But I didn’t want Charlotte to
think she had won me over
that
easily…

‘You’re
very persistent. I’m not sure that I should trust you one bit,’ I said loftily.

‘Oh,
you don’t have to
trust
me. I’ve always considered trustworthy people
to be very boring indeed, and oh my gosh I know some boring people. I just want
you to
help
me. There is a difference.’

‘Have
you no other friends you could take along with you?’ I asked.

‘No
fun.’

‘What
do you mean?’

She
tutted with frustration. ‘Look. I can’t
make
you come with me. If you
can’t bear the thought of it, well, that’s just fine. Only you’ll always wonder
about it, won’t you? You’ll be lying awake tonight thinking, “Hmmm — I wonder
what Aunt Clare was wearing? I wonder if she really was a monster? I wonder if
Harry is the most handsome boy in London?” But you’ll never know, because it
will be too late, and I won’t come looking for you again.’

‘Is he?’
I asked, full of suspicion.

‘What?’

‘Is he
the most handsome boy in London?’

‘Oh no!
Of course not!’ At least Charlotte had the grace to laugh at herself, a
surprisingly loud, harsh sound like a motorcycle starting. ‘He’s not at all
handsome, but he’s by far the most
interesting
boy you’ll ever meet. You’ll
love him,’ she added simply. ‘Everyone does, after a while. He’s irritatingly
addictive.’

‘Don’t
be silly.’ I was cross with myself for asking about him.

‘Aunt
Clare always has excellent tea,’ went on Charlotte, ‘stacks of butter and
raspberry jam and Eccles cake and all the ginger scone you can eat. My mother
has never understood the importance of a good tea.’

The cab
was rocketing along Bayswater Road now.

‘Well I
can’t stay for long,’ I said unconvincingly.

‘Of
course not.

We sat
in silence for a moment, and I thought that she would ask me my name next, but
she didn’t and I later realised that it simply wouldn’t have occurred to her
that she should have. I had experienced, for the first time, Charlotte’s great
gift for circumnavigating normal behaviour.

‘I knew
you would take the taxi with me,’ she was saying now. ‘I saw you waiting for
the bus from the other side of the street, and I thought now
there’s
a
girl who would be
perfect
for tea with Aunt Clare and Harry.’

I wasn’t
quite sure how to take this, so I frowned.

‘Just
perfect!’ said Charlotte again. ‘And gosh! I adore your beautiful coat, too.’
She fingered the fur collar. ‘What craftsmanship! I make my own clothe. It’s
become an addiction. My poor mother can’t understand me at all. She says it
will frighten any sensible men off if they think I spend long hours at the
sewing machine like some spinster from D. H. Lawrence. I told her that I don’t
mind as I’m not in the least bit interested in sensible men in any case.’

‘Quite
right,’ I agreed. ‘So what do you make?’

‘Well,
I made this coat out of an old travelling rug,’ Charlotte confessed. Aunt Clare
tells me I’m terrifically enterprising in a voice that means she thinks I’m
terrifically vulgar.’

‘Travelling
rug?’ I said in amazement. ‘But it’s a wonderful coat!’

I
looked at her with new respect. There was obviously a steely work ethic beneath
her flighty exterior, and a steely work ethic (being something I am entirely
lacking) is something I admire greatly in others.

‘It
took me for ever and the pockets are a bit shabby but it’s not a bad job,’ said
Charlotte. ‘But when I see a coat like yours! Well! It’s in another league
entirely.’

‘You
can wear it to tea, if you like,’ I was astonished to find myself saying.
Charlotte hesitated.

‘May I
really? You don’t mind? It would be such a treat.’ She began unbuttoning her
green coat before I could change my mind.

‘Here!
You try mine,’ she said, handing it to me. Charlotte’s coat was exquisitely
comfortable and warm. It seemed a little slice of her had stayed hidden in its
lining, and it felt strange, like putting on a mask. She wriggled into my coat,
pulling her mass of hair over the collar. The effect shocked me, not least
because she possessed the actress’s ability to change the aura around her
simply by altering her clothing. It was as if she had been given her costume
for the evening and she was instantly immersed in her part.

‘Thank
you,’ she said softly. ‘Do I look a little richer?’ She giggled.

‘Yes,’
I answered truthfully.

‘Oh!
Here we are!’ said Charlotte happily. ‘How extraordinary. No, no, I’m paying.
It’s the very least I can do. I feel a great generosity of spirit has come upon
me.

We had
stopped outside one of those large, rather ugly red brick houses off Kensington
High Street. As I stepped out of the cab, the wind whipped right through the green
coat and seemed to cut right through me. Sure enough, Charlotte paid, dropping
a shoal of coins from her long fingers into the hand of the driver with the air
of a princess bestowing thanks on her footman. I swear I saw the driver bow his
head to her before he drove off again. She took my arm and led me up the steps
to the house and rang the bell.

‘Aunt
Clare lives on the top two floors of this monster, explained Charlotte. ‘After
Uncle Samuel died and she’d dealt with all his debts, it was all she could
afford. She’s quite happy here. Like all intelligent people, she functions very
well in extreme disorder.’

The
door was answered by a plump girl in her late teens who offered a very dirty
look before leading us up two flights of grubby-looking stairs and into Aunt
Clare’s flat before vanishing, wordless.

‘Phoebe,’
said Charlotte. ‘Silly girl. She’s madly in love with Harry which is too
pointless for words.’

‘Poor
thing,’ I said sympathetically.

‘Not at
all,’ scorned Charlotte. ‘Aunt Clare took her on to help her out for a few
months after my uncle died and she’s still here now, earning more than she’s
worth, I can tell you. She never speaks to me, though I gather she quotes long
passages from
Paradise Lost
to Harry whenever he sits still.’ She smiled
up at me. ‘Now don’t run away, for goodness’ sake. I’ll be back before you know
it.’

Then
she vanished. And that was how I came to spend my first afternoon in Aunt Clare’s
study.

Chapter
2

AUNT
CLARE AND HARRY

Now I am not the sort of
person who usually jumps into cabs with strangers — that behaviour is more my
younger brother Inigo’s style of operating than mine. I tried to consider what
had made me act in such a reckless fashion, and couldn’t put my finger on it at
all. After all, up until the moment that I first saw Charlotte, my day had
progressed in much the same way as every other Monday that year — I had taken
the 8.35 train from Westbury to Paddington in the morning, drifted through my
Italian and English Literature classes in Knightsbridge until three o’clock,
then strolled through Hyde Park dreaming of Johnnie Ray and new clothe. Admittedly,
the decision to take the
bus
from Bayswater to Paddington was
uncharacteristic. But I was here now, and for the next half an hour there was
very little I could do but follow Charlotte’s lead. I was half nervous, half
curious, and entirely surprised at myself. Maybe they’re kidnapping me, I
thought hopefully. They would soon throw me back onto the streets once they
realised that under the expensive coat lurked a girl with no trust fund, no
guaranteed income and no decent jewels. I pulled out the powder compact I had
stolen from Mama’s dressing table and blinked at myself. My hair needed a comb
(I hadn’t one) and there was an ink smudge on my chin, but my eye flashed back
at me, defiant. Make the most of this, I thought. I was aware, for the first
time in a long while, that I was alive.

I
shoved the mirror away and glanced around me. The room was small and stiflingly
hot. A fire had been lit some hours ago, and, with the door closed, I felt
suddenly faint. I wanted to take off the green coat, but felt, curiously, that
I should not. I sensed it was part of me while I was here. I’ve always felt at
my most hungry in the middle of the afternoon and today was no exception; I
felt my stomach rumble and hoped that tea would appear soon, though it worried
me that there was scarcely room for a saucer. The room was so full of clutter
and objects that it almost hurt the eye. Dominating everything (and how on
earth it got into the room in the first place I couldn’t think) stood a
beautiful grand piano scattered with papers, pens, ink and letters. Naturally
nosy (a trait passed down through my mother’s side of the family), I quickly
read the first sentence of a half-finished postcard. The handwriting was clear,
turquoise and joyous.
My dear Richard,
it began,
You are quite mad
and I love you all the more for it. Wootton Bassett was wonderful, wasn’t it?
I
shifted my eyes to the large table by the window where a faded top hat plonked
on top of a stack of crumpled pound notes gave the illusion of a giant monopoly
board abandoned mid-game. I had Aunt Clare down as a bit of a Miss Havisham
until I noticed that the large windows were immaculately clean and clean
windows, my mother was fond of saying, are as important as clean teeth. (She
rather shot herself in the foot with this expression as there were more windows
at home than one could count and she was never done employing youths from the
village to come and clean them. Once an older sort of chap fell from the blue
bathroom window and landed in a wheelbarrow of dead roses below. He broke his
leg but adored Mama so much that he came back the next week to finish the job,
plaster and all. But back to Aunt Clare’s study.)

There
were books, books and more books, stacked in random pile all over the floor and
spilling off the shelve, including, I noticed with a shiver of surprise, a
beautiful hardback edition of the Darwin book that Aunt Clare’s husband was
alleged to have been reading at the moment of his untimely death. The room
smelled strongly of learning, but not in the calm, musty, leafy way that
accompanies most rooms containing great literature, but in that more
disturbing, sticky-palmed, feverish way that implies cramming knowledge for an
exam or feeding an obsession. Whoever Aunt Clare was, she had no time to waste.
I sat down on a very low red sofa and stretched my legs out in front of me. The
clock in the hall struck a melancholy five o’clock and I wondered how long I
would have to stay here before excusing myself and boarding the train back to Westbury.
Already uncharacteristically nervous, I nearly leapt out of my skin when a huge
ginger cat emerged from the shadows and jumped onto my lap purring like a
tractor. Now, I don’t like cats, but this one really took a liking to me, or
perhaps it was drawn to Charlotte’s green coat. What I remember thinking more
than anything that afternoon was that I had never been in such a still house in
all my time in London and it made me uneasy; London was not meant for the kind
of heavy, low quietness that was pressing down on me now and filling me with
the urge to speak out, to declare my presence for all to hear. It felt as if I
had been sitting alone in Aunt Clare’s study for at least an hour before
Phoebe, Aunt Clare and Charlotte emerged from wherever on earth they had been,
but in fact it was less than ten minute. It seemed that quite suddenly they
were there, and the unbearable tension that can only exist when one sits alone
in an unfamiliar room in a stranger’s house, in a stranger’s coat, was broken.