The Mistress of Alderley (2 page)

“Couldn't be too far, if I had my way. Don't you ever—?”

Jack had an infinite number of ways of asking whether Caroline missed the stage. The burden of his concern seemed to be that she was forsaking her Art—one of many common-man touches in Jack's thinking. Caroline, as always, laughed.

“No, I don't long to be treading the boards still. I have no regrets about quitting the stage—neither performing, nor all the backstage and offstage stuff.”

“I expect you will, though.”

“Jack! It's as if you
want
me to be frustrated and unfulfilled.”

“Seems such a waste,” Jack muttered. “Anyway, it's as well to have plenty of strings to your bow.”

“I've got quite enough strings to my bow, thank you very much. My life is so
restful
now, Jack: so serene, so rich. I see more of my children than I ever have, and I love that. Even Olivia I see plenty of, though she has been out on her own for years now.”

“I suppose you were building your career when she was young.”

“That's right. And so was Rick, my first husband—the archetypal Thespian nasty. Her life was all nannies and baby-sitters, poor love. It's no wonder that…Anyway, the main thing is, there's a base for all three of the children when they need it. And they all get on so well with Marius—and with his brood, the few times they've met.”

“Everyone would love it if—”

“I know, Jack, I know. But I've been there, done that. Rick, my first, I can hardly bear to think about, let alone talk to. Evelyn, my second, the creature from the swamp, I had to bully my younger two to have the most minimal contact with before he took himself off to an embassy in Central America. I've given up reminding them when his birthday is: I just buy cards for them and guide their hands when they sign. Marriage is a disaster zone I don't intend to stray into a third time. In any case, as you well know, Marius is still technically married.”

“But he could—”

“I don't want him to, and there wouldn't be any point. End of conversation, please, Jack.”

Which effectively put an end to the visit as well. Jack murmured something about “thought I ought to bring it up,” like a rector apologizing for mentioning God every time he paid a visit, and then he went out to his car. As he got into his aging Honda Civic Shuttle he emitted a loud report that sent a passing squirrel scuttling up a tree. Alexander, coming round from the back with—if his mother had only had a stronger sense of smell—a whiff of nicotine about him, looked after the departing car.

“Fart Fart the Bart was looking a bit hangdog,” he remarked.

“He brought up the business of marriage again.”

“Why can't they let you alone to do what you want?”

“Amen to that.”

“You've slaved away on stages and in studios long enough.”

“You know,” she said, looking around her, “I think it's this place, Alderley, that makes people do it. If Marius had set me up in a suburban semi they wouldn't think it half so important that he should make an honest woman of me.”

“There wouldn't be any point in setting you up in a suburban semi: we had one already.”

“True. Anyway, I think the appeal of Alderley is aesthetic to Marius.”

“Don't talk to me about aesthetics, Mum. You know that's my blind spot. I suppose you just mean he likes a good lay in pleasant surroundings.”

And Alexander drifted back indoors to continue his trawl through the fatuities and ego trips on the Internet.

Caroline rather enjoyed his last remark. It was characteristic of Alexander—his instinct to ground everything, to deflate pretensions and pomposities, to prick bubbles. Not something she would have wanted in a lover, but something she found quite useful in a son. She was just turning to follow Alexander back into the house when she saw someone approaching from the direction of the village up the narrow country road outside the gate. So few walked it—it only led by the most roundabout route to the next village—that she stayed outside, wondering if it was a friend of one of her children.

It was a boy, a young man—she soon saw that. He had a smallish rucksack on his back. The shorts and open shirt bespoke a hiker. The
walk
—there was something in the walk that reminded her…of who? Not one of her husbands, thank God. When he got to the gate without seeing her, he stopped and got out a map.

As he stood there peering at it, Caroline got a good view of his face. Of course! What his walk and face reminded her of was Marius.

As she watched him from the shadow of the tree she was convinced he had not seen her, though his face was turned in her direction. After a minute or two with his finger tracing a route on the map, the young man folded it carefully, then continued on his way along the road.

On thinking it over, Caroline became convinced that she would see the boy again.

If she had passed in the street a young man who conspicuously resembled Marius she would have been intrigued, but she would soon have put it out of her mind: there was not an infinite number of facial types or personal features. And if it was not mere coincidence, then the boy could very well be a relative—a nephew, or some kind of cousin. Caroline knew next to nothing about Marius's family, apart from his children, and she cared not a whit about anyone more distant. She had “done” families in the course of her two marriages, and had discovered nobody she particularly liked, apart from the mother of her first husband, who was quite as bemused by the awfulness of the product of her womb as anyone less intimately related to him could have been. Caroline cared about Marius's children, Guy and Helena, and was interested in his wife, but that was it.

But the fact was that she had
not
seen the boy casually in the street: he had come to the gate of Alderley, brought there apparently by a map, and this must mean that he had at least an intention of making himself known, and had decided against doing it at that time. At some stage, surely, he would come back, tell her who he was, and would probably turn out to be the result of one of Marius's earlier indiscretions. In fact, she felt she would be rather disappointed if he did not—if his appearance in the road outside Alderley turned out to be merely the result of a curiosity that was satisfied by a sight of the house in which Marius had installed his mistress. She felt she wanted to talk to the boy, and since Marius had made no secret of several youthful and not-so-youthful entanglements, she saw no reason for embarrassment on either side. Without any conscious decision on her part, Caroline stayed within the house and garden for the next day or two. That was no penance. Alderley was the first place in her life where she was entirely happy.

She had seen the boy on Tuesday. It was Thursday when he rang the doorbell. Caroline was working round the side of the house, waiting for a promised visit from the rector and Sir John, and the windows of Alderley were open to the summer sun. She went round to the front, vaguely wiping her earthy hands, and recognized her visitor at once.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “I wondered whether you'd come back.”

“Back?”

“I saw you when you went past the house before. I was puzzled, at first, by your resemblance to somebody.”

The boy smiled a slow smile. He did not take her up on her words, but went at the matter obliquely, rather reminding Caroline of Alexander.

“I hope you don't think it's cheek, visiting you like this.”

“Not at all. I'm delighted. Do come in and have a cup of tea or coffee. I'm Caroline Fawley, by the way.”

“I know. I'm Pete Bagshaw.”

They shook hands awkwardly, then laughed, and Caroline led the way inside. She regretted that Alexander and Stella were both out, and she hoped she could persuade Pete to stay to dinner, or stay the night even. The children could help with that, and she hoped she could delay him until they were back. She put him in the lounge, found that he would prefer coffee, and asked if there was anything else that he wanted.

“A bath. I'd die for a bath.”

“Bath or coffee first?”

“I should say bath, but I'm parched.”

“Right. There's a paper there if you're interested in the news.”

When Caroline came back with a coffeepot and two large cups and saucers, she saw he was somewhat confusedly finding his way through the various sections of
The Times.
She poured a cup, then said: “Anything particular you're looking for?”

“Sport.”

“Oh, it sometimes has a section to itself, sometimes it's with Business. I'm afraid it's not something I even glance at.” She handed him his cup, and he helped himself to two heaped teaspoons of sugar. Out of tune with his time, she thought. When he tasted the coffee, he had to suppress a grimace of surprise or distaste.

Caroline could have kicked herself. He was a Nescafé boy, and probably a tabloid one. She didn't often put her foot in it when it came to that sort of judgment. She thought perhaps it had come about because she had thought of him as Marius's son, and that she had made the mistake because she was nervous. Silly reaction, she told herself: she had known many gauche but harmless young men, usually friends of her children. She had nothing to fear from the likes of Pete Bagshaw.

“Try some cream,” she said. “It will take away the bitterness. I was a bit lavish with the coffee grounds.”

The cream did seem to make the brew more palatable.

“It's a grand house,” Pete said.

“Isn't it? I just loved it the moment I saw it.”

“And lovely gardens too.”

“They are—small thanks to me. The rector and a neighbor should be here soon to talk about next year's fete. It's being moved to here, which is a great honor. You can disappear to the bathroom if you prefer. It's top of the stairs, then second to your right. I expect Alexander and Stella will be back by late afternoon. I'd like you to meet them.”

Unspoken so far was why she would like him to meet them. The boy remained silent, giving her no opening.

“I suppose you're on some kind of walking tour, aren't you?”

“That's right.”

“Where do you live?”

“Armley, near Leeds.”

“Oh, I know Leeds quite well. It's good for shopping, and I've played there in my time.”

“It's just a small house. My mum works in a supermarket.”

“Is she married?”

Pete shook his head, unembarrassed like all young people.

“No. And no one around at the moment. I did have a sort of stepdad for a time, but it didn't work out. Doesn't bother me. We're all right as we are.”

“I'm sure you are. Still—” But just as she was preparing to get to the heart of the matter, the doorbell rang. Pete said, “I'll have that bath, if you don't mind,” grabbed something from his backpack, then went up the stairs two at a time.

The visiting party consisted not just of Sir John Mortyn-Crosse and the rector, but the rector's wife as well. Caroline was on swap-trivialities terms with Mrs. Watters, and wondered whether she was being inspected for hitherto-undetected depravities or given some kind of social absolution for sin. On the surface, however, Mrs. Watters was notably, almost ostentatiously friendly. Mr. Watters explained that, with the prospect of the much larger grounds of Alderley, he thought his wife could contribute a great deal to the discussion of how they could best be used. As they went around, cordiality and acceptance reigned, and Mrs. Watters tentatively decided on the positioning of the various major stalls, and even began suggesting they could branch out into children's games and races.

“But where are the children to come from?” asked Caroline.

“Oh, the fete is for all of my husband's parishes,” said Mrs. Watters. “There are three villages in all. We'll hope for quite a lot of young people.”

“I must make sure Marius keeps the day free,” said Caroline.

“We shall be honored if he can be with us,” said the rector. “But you of course will be the big attraction.”

“Oh, I'm sure no one remembers—”

“But they
do
remember, Mrs. Fawley. Especially faces. They may not remember the various things you were in on television, or what they were
about,
but they remember
you.
That was notable this year, and will be even more so when word gets around more. A businessman is all very well, and I'm sure everyone is impressed by Mr. Fleetwood's standing in the world of commerce, but in the end, for getting people through the turnstile, so to speak, a businessman can't compete with an actress.”

“I'll tell Marius that,” said Caroline. At that moment Jack let fly with a loud one, and they all moved over to admire the chrysanthemums.

Caroline was wondering how she would introduce Pete when she asked them all in for tea, but luckily the rector had an appointment with a pair of new parents to discuss the christening of their baby son—“though it will probably be the little chap's only time in church if he is anything like his mum and dad”—so Caroline was able to wave them all good-bye in the rector's old car and go back into Alderley on her own.

Pete wasn't in the sitting room, and after poking her head around various doors Caroline found him in the scullery, bending over the washing machine.

“I hope you don't mind—I'm washing a few things.”

“Of course not. I'm impressed you can work it.”

Pete obviously thought that smacked of soft soap.

“Piece o' cake. It's difficult on a walking tour unless you go to one of the bigger towns with a launderette, and you're not supposed to do that.”

“Not supposed to?”

“Duke of Edinburgh's Award. I've done several things for that. August is a good time to do them.”

“Oh…” said Caroline, inevitably vague, because she had little idea of what the Duke of Edinburgh's Award consisted of, or was given for. She was saved from exposing her ignorance by the sound of the front door.

“Hi, Mum. Oh—” Alexander and Stella, coming in from a shopping trip to Doncaster, stopped short at the sight of the visitor.

“Alex, Stella, this is Peter Bagshaw.”

“Pete.”

“Alex and Stella are the children of my second marriage, and we're all called Fawley, which was my stage and maiden name. Pete is on a walking tour for the Duke of Edinburgh's Award. He's just giving his dirty clothes a wash, and I hope he's going to have a meal with us.”

It all sounded unlikely, bordering on the absurd. She wondered if her children saw the resemblance. It was less obvious when he was standing still—it had been his walk as much as anything that had told her who he was. Alexander broke the brief silence by nodding, then turning to his mother.

“They had this new scanner in at Compuware in Doncaster. I paid for it out of the check you gave me for my birthday.”

“What have you got?” asked Pete. He didn't need to explain what he was interested in. Alex thumbed in the direction of the little box room, and they went off together, to be immersed in computerbabble for the two hours until dinner. Caroline sighed.

“He's not bad-looking,” commented Stella. “Mum, there was this skirt in Principles, it was fabulous, and I couldn't resist it.”

So for the women it was clothes until the time for cooking arrived. Clothes was a subject that interested Caroline less and less, but she simulated an interest in them for Stella's sake. Stella tried on the skirt—a short, slit number that was very sexy, and she left it on for Pete's benefit, Caroline suspected. Stella didn't have her elder sister's frank and hungry interest in men, but she was definitely developing an eye for them. Caroline was rather glad than otherwise, in spite of her own earlier misjudgments. Misjudgments were all a vital part of the lifelong sexual game, she thought, and fourteen was about the age to start playing it.

The boys did not emerge from the box room until she shouted that dinner was ready. By then they gave the appearance of being bosom friends without knowing anything whatever about each other except their taste in computer software. They continued their conversation over the soup (which Pete seemed uncertain how to deal with), and their talk could well have been in Hungarian for all Caroline could understand of it. She wished they would get on to something she could follow, so she could make an opening for herself. Stella did understand, but was getting increasingly impatient.

“What do you do, then?” Stella asked Pete, putting down her spoon.

“Degree in computer science,” he said, disappointingly. “At Leeds Metropolitan University.”

“Leeds is a good place to go, isn't it?” Stella persevered. “For clubs and raves and things. I can't imagine Oxford or Cambridge is any good for having a wild time in.”

“Quite apart from the fact that you will never have the remotest chance of getting into Oxford or Cambridge,” Caroline pointed out.

“Oh, I know I'm not aca
dem
ic,” said Stella, as if that were the last consideration when deciding to go to university. “And I don't suppose
you
are either,” she said, turning back to Peter—“computer science and that.”

“Means to an end,” muttered Pete.

“Course it is. Means to the end of having a good time.”

“Getting a good job, in my case.”

“Oh, that. I suppose so. I'm too young to think about getting jobs, aren't I, Mum?”

Caroline made a moue.

“I'd have said so when I was your age. But people seem to think about it from nursery school these days.” She was coming back from the kitchen with a tray of plates containing lamb chops and boiled potatoes (she had forsworn new potatoes when they lost all their taste).