The Will To Live (3 page)

“Because he’s a sentimental old fool,” a woman answered coolly. Lydia? Jennifer? Couldn’t tell. “He’s like an ostrich with its head in the sand – as long as he keeps his eyes shut, he doesn’t need to face the truth. He never gives a thought to how difficult it makes things for us.”

The man said bitterly, “If he had his way, we’d all be playing happy families for ever!”

“But frankly, my dear, he’s not long for this world, is he? He’s barely alive. Quite honestly, if he was a dog you’d have had him put down months ago.”

The man laughed. “As soon as he’s safely ensconced in the family vault I’ll start the legal proceedings. With a good lawyer it shouldn’t take long to clear up this stupid mess.”

There was a slight pause and then the woman asked more softly, “You haven’t forgotten…?”

“The codicil? How could I? What a manipulative old sod Grandfather was! Still, at least it takes our beloved cousin out of the equation.”

“Why?”

“He’s married some foreigner. Frightfully sneaky of him! But it makes everything easier for me. I shall do what I have to. Eventually.”

The woman’s tone became mildly teasing. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“One or two irons in the fire, as they say. Jolly
nice
British girls. Good families, you know? Grandfather would have approved.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

There was another pause and then the man asked, “How about you? Do you have plans?”

“Well, as a matter of fact…” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. Graham and I leaned forward but neither of us could catch what she said – which was a pity, because it was clearly something sensational.

“I’d never have believed it!” the man exclaimed.

“You’ll see what I mean later.”

“And he’s keen, is he?”

She giggled. “Not especially. But you know how I adore a challenge. I simply can’t resist him. I’m quite determined. And you know I always get my own way.”

“The fellow won’t know what’s hit him!” The man gave a short laugh and added, “Until Lawrence is dead we’d better grin and bear it. If everything goes according to plan, it won’t be long before we can kiss both of them goodbye for ever.” The floorboards creaked. He was coming towards the door! Graham and I darted along the corridor and pressed ourselves into a recess in the nick of time. The man headed in the opposite direction and we caught only the briefest glimpse of his back before he disappeared around the corner.

“Who were they?” I said, at exactly the same moment as Graham demanded, “What are they up to?”

And then we both looked at each other in mystified silence. They were questions that neither of us could answer.

BY
the time we found our way back to the kitchen, Sally had transformed her wrecked pavlovas into something she told us was called “Eton mess”. She’d dished the whole lot into individual glass bowls and was now putting the finishing touches to her blinis. She was a little startled by our outfits but dug out a couple of spare chef’s jackets from the van. They were too big and we had to roll up the sleeves, but at least they covered the worst of the nylon. Then she instructed me and Graham to carry fifty messes into the drawing-room and set them out on the sideboard along with the rest of the desserts. We did as we were told.

Once we’d finished we headed back towards the kitchen to help Sally with the quiches and canapés. But we had reckoned without Marmaduke.

As we were crossing the entrance hall, Jennifer – who had changed into a too-tight beige trouser suit and a fascinator that made her look as if a chicken was roosting on her head – bustled down the main staircase with Marmaduke in her arms. The baby was now wide awake and bawling his head off. Given the ornate lacy frock he was dressed in, I could hardly blame him.

“Can’t you shut that thing up?” asked Lydia as she followed her cousin down the stairs. “He’ll deafen the vicar at this rate. We’ll probably get sued by the Church of England.”

Marmaduke’s snot and tears pooled into a damp patch that spread over his mother’s shoulder, and the more Jennifer tried to shush him, the more he cried. His father decided to intervene, striding across the hall, plucking his baby from his wife’s arms and swinging him in the air.

“C’mon, Marmite,” he said in his strong Welsh accent. “Cheer up, old son! You’ve got a big day ahead.”

Marmaduke fixed his father with his pale blue eyes and promptly puked all down the front of his suit. Then the baby continued screaming. “He’s got a good pair of lungs on him, I’ll say that,” commented Gethin good-naturedly, handing the baby back so he could clean himself up. “We’ll have him singing ‘Land of My Fathers’ in no time.”

Graham and I were trying to keep a low profile by sticking close to the wall, sidling discreetly kitchenwards when Marmaduke stopped to draw breath. There was a glorious silence for about a millisecond and then he threw back his head, inhaled deeply and opened his mouth to bawl again.

It was then that his eyes fell on Graham, and his rigid little body – until then so full of fury that his mother could barely hold him – suddenly relaxed. Jennifer cuddled him to her but he wriggled away. He wanted to stare at Graham.

It may have been the attractive paisley shirt – the way the huge collar poked out over the chef’s jacket. Or maybe it was the lime-green pantaloons, or Graham’s deodorant or the smell of his toothpaste. Whatever it was, Marmaduke loved it.

He broke into a toothless grin and then launched himself at Graham, arms outstretched, kicking back against his mother as if trying to swim through the air to reach his new-found friend. Marmaduke wriggled so vigorously that Jennifer almost dropped him. There was nothing she could do but cross the hall and place the baby in Graham’s arms.

Graham smiled uncertainly. I’d never seen him look quite so awkward. But Marmaduke didn’t seem to mind. He raised one of his pudgy little hands and grabbed Graham’s lower lip. Graham squealed, more in surprise than pain. Marmaduke chuckled.

“He’s taken a shine to you!” Gethin grinned.

“He’s never done that before,” said Jennifer as her baby blew little salivary bubbles in Graham’s face.

Graham was speechless; I was stunned; Gethin, surprised; Jennifer, extremely taken aback.

But nothing like as taken aback as she was two seconds later when there was a slight creaking of floorboards overhead and what appeared to be a walking skeleton appeared at the top of the staircase.

“GOOD
heavens!” Jennifer gasped.

I guessed the man at the top of the stairs must be Lawrence Strudwick because he looked terrible: as if he was standing on Death’s doorstep, leaning on the bell. And as if any second now the Grim Reaper was going to open the door and welcome him in.

Marmaduke took one look at his great-uncle and buried his face under Graham’s paisley collar.

The old man swayed unsteadily. It was like something out of an Indiana Jones film – I half expected him to tumble down the staircase and then crumble into dust at our feet.

But Gethin was a fantastically quick mover. He leapt up the stairs three at a time, caught Lawrence by the shoulders and said gently, “Steady as it goes. We don’t want any accidents today, do we, sir?”

Jennifer’s mouth had dropped wide open. Lydia’s sneer had temporarily vanished.

“I thought he was too ill to get up!” Jennifer hissed in an accusing whisper. She glared at Lydia. “No visitors, you told me. You wouldn’t even let Lancelot see him!”

“I’m as surprised as you are, cuz.” Lydia was rapidly regaining her composure. She threw a fake smile at Jennifer and called up to her father, “How simply marvellous to see you. Are you coming to watch Jen’s son and heir christened?”

The old man was concentrating on getting safely down the stairs and didn’t answer. His sense of balance seemed to be all over the place and his breath was coming in horrible wheezy gasps. He was hanging grimly onto the banister rail like a sailor in heavy seas whose ship is about to sink. While Gethin watched over him, ready to intervene if his uncle-in-law stumbled, another blonde, blue-eyed Strudwick came bounding out of the drawing-room and hurtled along the corridor towards us.

It was Lancelot, Lydia’s brother.

He took in the situation in an instant and suddenly there was a whole lot of whispering between the cousins about whether Lawrence should be persuaded to return to his bed.

“If Dad wants to see the christening, why shouldn’t he?” Lancelot’s chin was thrust forward, challenging anyone to disagree with him. “He gets precious little fun, after all.”

“Quite,” agreed Lydia crisply. “Let him come along.”

“Uncle’s not well enough,” protested Jennifer. “Anyone can see that.”

Julian backed his sister. “It would be irresponsible to let him come. Especially in this weather.”

The scene made interesting viewing. They were all so alike physically – carbon copies of each other, almost – but personality-wise? That was where the differences lay. Whereas Lydia and Lancelot were edgy and sharp, Jennifer and Julian were like soft-focus versions. It was as if one brother–sister set was made from steel, and the other from Fuzzy Felt. I tried to work out which of them we’d overheard talking upstairs. I suspected it had been Lydia and Lancelot but I couldn’t be 100 per cent sure – their voices were just too similar. It was dead frustrating.

Just as Lawrence and Gethin reached the bottom of the stairs there was a crunch of wheels on gravel followed by the sonorous clanging of an ancient doorbell – a proper bell, I noticed, mounted high on the wall and operated by some sort of pulley system.

“Heavens!” cried Jennifer. “The cars are here already! My goodness, look at the time! We must get going!”

Julian crossed the entrance hall, opened the front door and told the suited chauffeur waiting on the step, “Won’t be a minute.” The wind gusted in, making all the portraits bang angrily against the oak panelling.

Lawrence visibly recoiled from the sudden chill. “Cold,” he muttered faintly. “Cold.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Jennifer decided to take control. “He’ll catch his death if we take him to church in this weather.” She smiled soothingly at the old man and said brightly, “Let’s find you a nice chair somewhere warm, shall we? We shan’t be long. Then you can stay downstairs and enjoy the party. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Not to be outdone in the care-for-the-elderly-relative stakes, Lydia took his free arm. But her nose wrinkled as she did so. “Phew! You’ve overdone the aftershave a bit, old thing. Used the whole bottle, did you? Never mind. You’ll cover up the pong when Marmaduke fills his nappy. We must be grateful for small mercies.” Lydia laughed at her own joke but Lawrence Strudwick didn’t join in.

He looked at his daughter and niece as if they seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place them. Then he smiled at me and Graham. Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure he really knew where – or even who – he was. Maybe it was the effect of painkillers, or whatever drugs he was being given for his illness. Or maybe he was suffering from dementia.

Keeping up a steady stream of cheerful chatter, the two women guided Lawrence into the drawing-room and settled him down in a comfy armchair in front of the open fire.

That done, there was a frantic search for coats and umbrellas. When all the adults were ready, Jennifer tried to prise her baby away from Graham to wrap him in a shawl, but Marmaduke simply refused to be handed back. Every time Jennifer attempted to take him, the baby’s lower lip trembled and an angry wail erupted from his determined little mouth. What’s more, he’d got hold of my hair, wrapping several strands right around his fingers, and was now holding me captive too.

The doorbell clanged again. The chauffeurs were getting restless. “We’re terribly late!” fretted Jennifer. “Everyone will be waiting.”

“You’ll have to cut him loose,” said Lydia, looking at me with a wicked grin on her face. “Don’t mind losing a bit of hair, do you, kiddo?”

“Yes, I do!”

“Looks like we’ve got no choice, cuz. Shall I fetch the scissors?”

Gethin intervened before the situation turned nasty.

“There’s nothing for it,” he declared. “They’ll have to come along too. That’ll be all right, won’t it?” he asked me. Given a choice between being bored or bald, I took the first option and nodded reluctantly. He smiled gratefully and winked. “Good girl,” he said before putting his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “Come on, cariad, there’s plenty of room in the car.”

So Graham and I had to leave Sally to cope with the canapés and go along to the service. We travelled in the limousine with Marmaduke, Jennifer and Gethin. Julian squeezed in too, but Lancelot and Lydia followed along behind.

It was only when we reached the church that it occurred to me that we’d now seen all the men of the family and none of them was wearing a dark suit.

So who had given money to that tramp?

THE
christening of Marmaduke Medwyn Strudwick-Thomas passed off without further incident. It was very dull, really.

When we arrived at the church there were about fifty guests already assembled, all looking pristine in their smart clothes and all speaking with the same exceedingly toffy accent. Not one of them seemed to have a spot of mud on them – maybe posh people have stain-repellent skins. All Graham and I had to do was get out of the car and up the path to the church. But we both got splashed as the limousine with Lancelot and Lydia in it pulled up alongside ours. For the second time that day we found ourselves wiping mud out of our eyes. Marmaduke – who was right there in Graham’s arms – didn’t get a speck on him. Like I said, the aristocracy must have a grime-retardant outer coating.

Marmaduke was still entranced by Graham and hanging onto my hair right up until the moment we entered the church. Then he caught sight of the stained glass and the flower arrangements and the candles flickering on the altar. Finally distracted, he relaxed his grip and Jennifer seized her opportunity, grabbing her baby and marching to the front pew. Graham and I slid into the back row beside a heavily moustached elderly gentleman who introduced himself by the snigger-inducing name of Major Huwes-Guffing.