The Skeleton in the Grass (6 page)

Because the whole family was now preoccupied with making Chan's stay a happy one, with erasing memories of its beginnings. They found he was rather good at tennis, and Oliver took him to tennis parties at neighbouring families. They chugged around the countryside visiting beauty spots, and they took the Wolseley into Oxford, to dinner at the Randolph and theatre afterwards. They had their political friends round for drinks, and the young Oxfordshire gentry round for tea on the lawn.

It was one day when Chloe was away at a birthday party (she had looked enchanting in her short, frilly frock, her hair shining and be-ribboned) that Sarah managed to have her walk and talk with Chan. They did talk about Indian independence, as Sarah had planned, but they also ranged over the world social and political scene, for Chan was very well-informed. Sarah was a good listener, and genuinely
interested, and Chan was by now, after a week with the Hallams, a confident and fluent talker on topical matters. As they came to the village and people passed them in the streets they saluted Sarah, by now a familiar figure, and looked curiously at Chan. Sarah saw out of the corner of her eye that little triangles of curtain had been delicately raised, to afford the inhabitants of the cottages a glimpse of that most curious of phenomena, a dark-skinned man. Sarah was sure that Chan had not noticed, and was glad. They stopped and looked in shop windows, lingered outside the baker's to relish the smell, and they popped together into the newsagent's to fetch the Hallam copy of the
New Statesman and Nation,
and to purchase a bag of bullseyes. They were, Sarah informed her companion solemnly, a very British institution.

Many years later, in the ‘sixties, when Chan was Mr. Chandrakant Naran Desai and Deputy High Commissioner for India in London, Sarah found herself sitting beside him at a stuffy Whitehall dinner, and they laughed as they remembered the bullseyes, and the way they had walked through the village sucking them, while Chan had read to Sarah what Kingsley Martin had to say about the civil war in Spain.

“And all the village people looking at me and then down at the ground, and the ones inside twitching their curtains up to get a look,” laughed Chan, by now a portly figure, and one of great confidence and dignity. The other diners, who were brought together by a trade mission that seemed destined to achieve nothing whatsoever, looked at the pair and wondered what anyone at such a function could find to laugh at. Soon Chandrakant Desai became serious.

“But you know, Sarah—may I still call you Sarah? We are such old friends!—those two weeks at Hallam were the happiest times I ever had in Britain. I look back and I remember them as all sun, and teas on the lawn, and
happy games. They were—how do you say it?—halcyon days for me, the most wonderful time of all my student days.”

“Yes,” agreed Sarah, “the Hallams had the gift of making people feel at home.”

“Did they ever find out who killed that poor dog?” asked Chan, and Sarah realized that he was quite unaware of all that had befallen the Hallams after his departure. How strange that events which had shaped her own life, shadowed others, should have remained totally unknown to Chan.

The topic of the dog was to surface again, on that walk the two of them took in August 1936. When they got to the end of Chowton, they turned to walk back home. There was to be tea on the lawn again that day, with friends invited. But before they had gone more than a few steps, they were accosted by a gaunt woman in a shabby frock and apron, leaning over her cottage garden gate.

“Miss—Miss—I don't know your name, but you're up at the Hall, aren't you?”

“That's right. I'm Sarah Causeley.”

The woman's manner was rough enough, in its country way, but underneath was an undertone of the desire to please, or perhaps of the old respect for the “quality.” Sarah thought she had seen her once, doing cleaning work at Hallam.

“Will you be so kind, miss, as to say to Mrs. Hallam, and Mr. how sorry I am that my owd dog was used to play that nasty trick on them. Give them a nasty turn, that would.”

“Oh, you must be Mrs. Battley. I know Mrs. Hallam was
very
sorry about your dog. She knew how upset you would be. That's really disgusting, killing an animal like that.”

“That's right. They didn't ought ter ‘ave done that. ‘Tworn't like as if it were a rabbit, or a stoat. He had no
harm in him, that owd dog. But you tell Mrs. Hallam I'm right sorry.”

In spite of her words Liz Battley seemed to have a stoical lack of indignation: the dog was dead, and that was it. Sarah had a sharp vision of village life in which death stood shoulder to shoulder with life in strange intimacy, in which stoats and rabbits were natural prey and their carcases had a grim familiarity. Suddenly she saw how the village lads had gone over the top into the mud of France and Flanders, to a death that was all but certain, with a dogged acceptance of the inevitable, without thought of resistance or mutiny.

Both she and Chan were quieter on their way back.

When, heavy-footed, they came up to the house, they saw that the company had arrived. The familiar tables were set out on the lawn, and Pinner and Mrs. Munday were going backwards and forwards, taking out crockery and goodies. From the deckchairs talk and laughter came, floating across the lawn to them. As she turned and walked with Chan towards the assembled group, Sarah felt no twinge of nervousness, no sense of strangeness, as she had so recently on her first day. She was part of this scene, a member of this company. The vicarage in Derbyshire seemed very far away. She was at home.

T
owards the end of Chan's stay the Hallams had a postcard from Will. Sarah was reading a letter from home, in which her mother was worrying over some dizzy spells she had had recently, but she put it aside when Helen began reading Will's message. He was near Hendaye, where they were setting up a camp for refugees and wounded from Spain. There was a tremendous spirit among the Republican supporters, and if it was enthusiasm that counted, Will said, they couldn't lose. He would be going to Spain in a week or two's time, to join up with some foreign volunteers already there, with the pro-governmental forces. He sent his love to all of them—and he showed himself a typical Hallam by including Sarah by name.

They were quiet for a few minutes after this. Then, as if by mutual consent, they resumed their breakfast and their discussion of neutral topics.

Elizabeth was still agonizing over whether to “do the Season” next year. Fiona Macauley was putting pressure on her, and really she did think it might be rather fun.

“Of course, I know you'd rather I didn't do it,” she said to her parents.

“There's no question of us preferring that you didn't,” said Dennis. “Of course you must do as you want.”

“Well, you'd rather I didn't want to do that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps it's something you have to get out of your system,” said Helen comfortably.

“I don't think Elizabeth realizes the appalling and unsuitable young men she will have to mix with,” said Dennis.

“It's the unsuitable young men who are the main attraction,” drawled Elizabeth.

The topic dissolved in laughter, but Dennis added:

“Actually you'll find that most of them are younger versions of Cousin Mostyn.”

Men, one way or another, were on Sarah's mind too. She had ascertained that the picture shows at the Willbury Village Hall were on Thursdays and Saturdays, and she had begged Thursday evening off from Helen, should she need it. She looked into the telephone book and got the number of Matchett the baker, and was just about to ring him and leave a message for Roland when she realized that she did not know his surname. Chloe apparently just knew him as Roland, and beyond the fact that he lived next door to the baker's she knew embarrassingly little about him. Elizabeth would probably know, but Sarah shrank from the girlish confidences that might be expected from her if she asked. Oliver certainly knew, but to ask him was out of the question. Mrs. Munday always knew everything that was to be known about the characters and doings in the villages, though how she found out when she seemed to be on her feet and bustling around at Hallam from morn to night Sarah did not know. But she was a frightful gossip, and Sarah shrank from providing her with material for conjecture.

In the end she just picked up the phone and managed as best she could.

“Oh, I'm sorry to bother you, but I believe you're willing to take messages for next door . . . For Roland.”

“Oh yes, miss. Mrs. Bradberry will be in later. Can I give it to her then?”

“Yes . . . Yes, I'm sure that will be all right. Could you say that Sarah says she can be free on Thursday evening?”

By the afternoon the whole thing had been arranged.

Before she had her night out, Sergeant South had paid another visit to the house, and had brought the Hallams up to date with his inquiries.

“I've got as far as I can go with the boys,” he said, sitting rather gingerly on the chintz sofa in the sitting-room, which was in panelled oak and apparently taken over by books, which stretched up the walls and littered all the table-tops and most of the chairs. Sergeant South approved of the panelled oak, but he didn't see how even a literary gentleman like Dennis Hallam could possibly have read all those books. “Short of actually finding the culprit, which I don't think at the moment I'm going to do, I've done all I can. Luckily there's a number of young men, as we said, who've been subject to the Major's influence and have come out—what's the word I want?—”

“Unscathed?”

“That's it. Or rather like going down with the measles and coming through, and never likely to have it again. To these chaps the Major's something of a figure of fun. On the other hand, there's a sort of clannishness . . .”

“We know, we know,” said Dennis.

“And that means that those who've gone through that stage don't feel inclined to split on those lads who are still going through it. Still, I'm pretty sure I know the leaders in the Major's little pack now, and I'll be keeping an eye on them.”

“Who are they?”

The sergeant hesitated.

“Well, I'd say Christopher Keene, Bertie Marsh and Jim Fallow. It's them I've had a word with. Separately. Told them they're being watched, and that the moment they step out of line I'll be down on them like a ton of bricks.”

“Why?” Dennis's voice was tired, disappointed. “Why do you think they should do this to us?”

Sergeant South seemed puzzled how to reply. He was not always good on the whys of village life.

“They're three very different boys,” he said hesitantly. “So I think there's a different answer in each case. A bit of fun in the one instance. Under influence in the second. Rebelliousness in the third.”

“And do you think your ‘word' with them will do any good?” asked Helen.

“I don't know,” admitted South. “Ten years, five years ago, it would've, no question. Somehow there's not the same respect any longer. The villages have gone the way of the towns. There's a new spirit, a spark—which is not all bad—”

“No, no,” put in Dennis.

“—but still it means I can't rely on my telling-off having the effect it once had. We'll hope that, combined with the feeling that I've got my eye on them, it will make them watch their step.” He stood up. “You can be sure I'll keep it very much in mind—and the whole situation with the Major.”

“You haven't spoken to him?” Dennis asked, following him to the door.

“No. I'm going to, that's for sure. But I want an occasion when I've got him at a bit of a disadvantage, when I've got something on him that I can bring up, if necessary. I want to catch him on the hop.”

“That sounds very sensible.”

Sarah, who was crossing the landing from her bedroom to the schoolroom, saw what happened next through the deep oaken well of the staircase. On the table by the sitting-room door Pinner had put a silver tray with the mid-morning post on it. Absently, still paying farewell courtesies to Sergeant South, Dennis picked up a light blue envelope.
It seemed to be of a somewhat superior brand: inside it was lined with dark blue paper, on which had been stuck a large white feather which stood out against the sombre background. Dennis gazed at it for a second or two.

“Too absurd,” he said, handing it to Sergeant South. “But I suppose it means the campaign goes on.”

South took the envelope gingerly by its edges. Silently, almost sheepishly, he went through the door, and got on the bicycle which he had left against the wall of the house.

The whole business, Sarah decided, as she went through her day, was silly rather than anything more menacing. The Hallams had said nothing to other household members about the feather, and they were right to say nothing. Of course they had had to call in Sergeant South about the dead dog, so Dennis had had to show him this new manifestation. But as far as the others were concerned it was better to meet these lesser persecutions with a dignified silence. Whoever it was would soon get tired and go on to find their amusement elsewhere. She didn't intend to let it interfere with her enjoyment of the cinema show.

Which, Mrs. Munday informed her with the relish of a connoisseur, would be a great treat. It was
Grand Hotel
with Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, and a host of lesser stars. It was by now three or four years old, but excitement in the villages was none the less intense. Mrs. Munday herself would be going to the Saturday showing, with her sister, and they intended buying a box of chocolates to make the occasion complete. Chocolates, Sarah gathered, were a treat that both Garbo and Crawford warranted, even separately. They would not have been indulged in for, say, “that Bette Davis,” or Katharine Hepburn.

Roland and Sarah had arranged to meet at the crossroads in Chowton, and walk the two and a half miles to Willbury. They would not be the only ones doing so, not by a long chalk, Roland had said over the phone. So when they met
by the signpost they were in a small way part of a village celebration, though they were also conscious of being watched. It gave Sarah quiet satisfaction that she was wearing the summer frock that was the nearest approach to prettiness in her whole wardrobe. She thought Roland looked rather handsome too, and unmistakably intelligent. His sports jacket and flannels sat well on his tough frame. They dawdled a little on the way there, because Roland was a friend of the projectionist (who was the son of the Willbury garage owner), and he was going to save them two good seats. Nobody quarrelled with the prerogatives of the projectionist. Sarah and Roland talked about the villages, about their plans for the future, and the political scene. Would Mr. Baldwin retire soon, and would it make any difference if he did? Sarah deliberately said nothing about the Hallams and the spate of persecution they were being subjected to.