A Tale of Two Families (15 page)

He went back to the park. The rain, praise be to God, had now actually stopped but there was a ground mist so thick that the beam of his torch only penetrated it for a few yards. He could not see the Hall at all, and in a few minutes he felt almost directionless. He looked back and could still see the roof of the cottage. He retraced his steps and got his bearings. It would be better not to make diagonally for the Hall but to walk in a straight line towards the first little wood. When he reached it he felt sure he would be able to see the Hall. Incidentally, Penny just might have gone to the woods as she was sometimes taken for walks there, as were Sarah’s spaniels, it having been many years since old Mr Strange had preserved his pheasants.

Now that the rain had stopped the night was surprisingly warm. Hugh, striding towards the wood, felt stickily hot – except for his feet, which were most depressingly cold. He took off his uncle’s very superior Burberry – he must try not to damage it
– and felt better, though he had never known air to seem so airless. Ah, there was the wood, looming ahead of him. And believe it or not, the nightingale was singing. What a night to choose for it! Though, now he came to think of it, he’d once heard a song about nightingales in the rain. Perhaps it was pleased the rain had stopped.

Only last Sunday he and Corinna had stood here listening… Well, at least his anxiety about Penny had driven his worries about Corinna out of his head. But they’d come back, once he found his dog – if he ever did. Oh, of course he would, sooner or later but… Standing at the edge of the wood, with the nightingale giving a star performance, he made himself face the fact that Penny’s chances were far from good. A delicate bitch, in her first season, exposed to such rain as there had been… and even if that didn’t kill her, a too-early pregnancy might. It was going to be Bonnie all over again, only worse than Bonnie as she, herself, had come out of it all right. Oh, blast that crazy old Mildred! Even over Bonnie she’d made things worse, by prying into the misery he’d been trying to hide and then telling him to be a manly little boy. Loathsome Mildred!

He pulled his thoughts up, shone his torch into the wood, called Penny’s name and whistled. He wasn’t a very good whistler.

The nightingale stopped singing; perhaps it resented competition. Anyway, he was grateful to it for giving his dog a better chance to hear him. If she did, surely she’d bark or whimper or he’d hear her coming towards him? He listened, silently. No sound came from the wood. He called and whistled again. Still he heard nothing in reply. She wasn’t there. He’d have to go to the Hall, search the stables…

And then, just as he turned away from the wood… surely that was a whimper? Or had he imagined it? He called again but got
no response. He achieved the most piercing whistle of his life. Yes! That was more than a whimper, it was a wail – but so faint, so distant. Again he whistled.

The nightingale, surprisingly, restarted singing, giving a performance worthy of Covent Garden. Really, he couldn’t hear himself whistle. He banged his torch against the trunk of a tree and shouted, ‘Shut up, you bloody bird.’ All the talk about nightingales being timid must be rubbish. Still, it did at last stop singing.

And now the wailing changed to Penny’s yap, though it was only a weak one. Oh, God, was she caught in some trap? He had never seen any traps and he doubted if there was anyone attached to the Hall who would set one. But did country people still set rabbit snares? Penny’s yap seemed so far ahead that she might be beyond the wood, on some farmer’s land. But at least she was alive.

There was a path through this wood, he remembered, but he couldn’t waste time trying to locate it. He plunged in between the trees, swinging his torch from side to side though he was sure she was still some way ahead. Walking wasn’t easy but the wood wasn’t deep and fairly soon he came to a grassy clearing where he hoped to spot Penny, but there was no sign of her.

Beyond him now was a real thicket where it would be easy to miss her but he felt sure that her yappings, now continuous, were straight ahead. And surely they were nearer?

He struggled on through the thicket until he came out into the open again – as represented by a treeless mist. And now her yappings seemed near at hand, really close to him. He swung his torch into the mist. Why couldn’t he see her? He stepped forward a few paces.

And then he stepped on air, found himself sliding down the bank of a mist-obscured pond, and only stopped sliding when
he was knee-deep in water. The torch shot out of his hand and fell with a splash – and on its way, just for an instant, it showed him Penny. She was only a few yards away from him, her hindquarters in the pond, her front paws scrabbling at the steep, muddy bank.

The torch was still shining at the bottom of the pond but it gave no useful light. Still, he now knew more or less where Penny was. He heaved himself on to solid ground and made his way towards her, calling endearments and encouragements. He couldn’t see her but he knew when she was below him by the noise she made. He reached down, felt her scrabbling paws. She was nowhere near the top of the bank and he feared she might slip backwards into the water. He slid down the bank again, managed to get a fairly firm foot hold, got his arm under her behind and heaved her up. At the last second his foot-hold gave way and he slid down into the pond up to his thighs. He struggled out, frantically groping for Penny. Had she fallen backwards? To his enormous relief he found she was now on dry land – even if she and it happened to be sopping wet.

The torch now went out. Without its eerie glimmer he was in utter darkness. He hugged Penny, murmuring comforting words, tried to dry her head on his handkerchief. Much good that would do; every inch of her was soaked. He wondered if he could get her inside his jacket. Then he remembered he’d been carrying his uncle’s Burberry. Had that gone into the pond when he fell? Holding tight to Penny he crawled to the place where he had first slipped down the bank – at least, he hoped it was the same place. He was in luck. He found himself on top of the Burberry. It must have shot off his arm.

He sat on the ground and wrapped Penny in it, patting it against her, hoping its dry inside would blot her a little. It wouldn’t
do much. She needed to be dried completely, given a warm drink, perhaps brandy. But it was all he could do for the moment.

How the hell could he get her – and himself – through the thicket in this pitch blackness? It had been none too easy making his way, even with a torch. He told himself his eyes would get used to the darkness – but not enough, he felt sure. Could he
crawl
through? It was conceivable, if he had both hands free to feel his way. But not if he had to carry Penny and he was sure she wouldn’t be able to follow him. Even if he had remembered to bring a leash he couldn’t have dragged her through the thicket. Indeed, he doubted if she could keep on her feet. He began to fear they’d have to stay where they were until daybreak.

How long would that mean? Recently he had woken up at 4 a.m. and there had been a glimmer of daylight then. But he doubted if, as yet, it could be much past ten o’clock. The thought of sitting here for six hours was sheer horror and might be fatal to the shivering Penny. He
must
get home. Would there, by any glorious chance, be a moon? No, not on a night like this.

He went on crooning to Penny and patting her until one of his pats came against something hard. He patted again, felt the shape of the hardness, remembering that he had seen his uncle carrying a small red torch. Could it be…? He fumbled his way into one of the Burberry’s pockets. Heaven be praised, there
was
a torch: tiny, giving only a pencil of light but a fairly bright one. By contrast with utter blackness it was a blaze of glory.

He took a look at Penny’s head, protruding from the Burberry. She, seeing his face, tried to lick it and he was almost sure he felt a feeble flick of her tail. ‘We shall be all right,’ he assured her, then struggled to his feet with her. Holding her in the crook of his left arm, like a baby, and keeping the torch in his right hand, he stepped into the mist.

Almost at once he was faced with the thicket and it proved worse, even, than he had expected. Eventually he found it best to proceed on his knees, forcing the lower shoots of the bushes aside with his head as well as with the hand holding the torch. He cheered himself on by remembering that the going would be much easier once he was through the thicket and that, in actual distance, the park was quite close – by daylight, and unburdened by Penny, he could probably have reached it in five minutes. But this thought didn’t speed his gruelling progress through the thicket and he had begun to fear he was going round in a circle before he at last came to the grassy clearing.

Here he took a rest, setting Penny down. Undersized she might be but, when last on the bathroom scales, she had weighed thirty pounds; and though highly co-operative, leaning against him and not struggling, she was a dead weight and a cold one. But it was easier to carry her, once he could walk upright. He got through the clearing swiftly and then had the luck to find the path through the nightingale wood. From then on it was plain sailing – though Penny seemed to grow ever heavier – until, with relief, he reached the park.

And now the snag was that it had begun to rain again, so heavily that he hastily returned to the wood – not that the trees would for long protect him from this deluge. Should he wait or at once brave the walk back to the Dower House? It would take him ten minutes – longer, in fact, burdened with this ton weight of darling dog. He snapped the torch off while he thought; for some time its tiny beam had been growing dimmer.

If only he could go to the Hall! He was near enough to see its lighted windows dimly glimmering through the mist. But Sarah had made it so clear that she mustn’t be called on. He’d better go home. At least Penny, wrapped in the Burberry, would be protected from the rain.

He snapped the torch on. But its bead of light was now no brighter than a glow-worm, and within a couple of seconds the so-miraculously-discovered little torch had finally burned out.

That settled it. He’d have to go to the Hall. If he tried to reach the Dower House he was liable to knock himself out against one of the trees in the park, especially in this dementing deluge. There were no trees around the Hall and he could reach it in two minutes; the lighted windows would help and as some of them were downstairs the household couldn’t have gone to bed. Sarah, he was sure, would want to help, and he particularly wanted her advice about Penny. And surely her grandfather wouldn’t mind in such circumstances?

Penny chose that moment to give a miniature whimper. Hugh whispered to her, ‘We’ll be under cover in a couple of minutes,’ and then set off for the Hall.

The journey, if short, was drenching and even when he was under the pillared portico the rain was driving in. He hunted for a bell – and found one dangling from a foot-length of wire. No use trying to ring that. There was a knocker but he hated the idea of pounding on it. That really might alarm the old man.

He tried the front door and found it unlocked so he decided to go in, quietly open the door to the library, where Sarah was likely to be sitting with her grandfather, and see if he could attract her attention. Stepping over the threshold he, for the first time, saw the inside of the house.

The hall, dimly lit, struck him as suitable for a horror film. No, it wasn’t romantic enough for that. There was a stone floor, far from clean, a damp-stained wallpaper, some bad murky paintings of fruit and slain animals, some moth-eaten antlered heads and a mammoth stuffed fish behind splintered glass. A wide staircase mounted into darkness.

The library, Hugh believed, was on the right of the hall; anyway, that was the room where he had seen light behind the drawn curtains. He went towards the double doors and quietly opened one of them. He saw a long, book-lined room lit only by a standard lamp. In the pool of light below this sat an old man in a brown velvet dinner-jacket. There was no sign of Sarah. Hugh was wondering if he should retreat when the old man looked up and said pleasantly, ‘Hello, do you want something? Come in.’

Hugh went in. Penny surprisingly, put her head out of the Burberry and barked.

‘Oh, have you brought back one of our dogs?’ said the old man.

Hugh began to explain, became conscious of incoherency, stopped short and said, ‘If I could just see Sarah, please –’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the old man. ‘She’s upstairs – some job she’s working on. Is that the Dalmatian she had here? Too small but otherwise perfect, I thought. Were you just telling me she’s been running loose while she’s on heat? Bad business if she’s got caught at her age.’

‘And she’s wet through. I’m afraid she may get a chill.’

‘Sarah had better give her some warm milk and brandy.’

A door at the far end of the room opened and an elderly manservant entered.

‘Ah, my bedtime,’ said old Mr Strange. ‘It’s always welcome. Now you go up and see Sarah. Turn left at the top of the stairs and hers is the third door. And take the brandy – if there is any. Don’t often drink it myself now. Give it to him, Walter.’

Walter brought a decanter from the dim recesses of the room and handed it to Hugh, saying, ‘There’s only a little, sir.’

Hugh said it would do splendidly. Walter now helped Mr Strange to his feet; when standing, his great age was more apparent. Aided by Walter he moved slowly to the door at the
far end of the room, then turned to say, ‘You’re from the Dower House, aren’t you? Seen you walking with Sarah. Hope your bitch will be all right.’

‘Goodnight, and thank you,’ said Hugh, with feeling. That lion hadn’t taken much bearding. Now to find Sarah’s sitting room – she’d once told him she had one, that had been her grandmother’s boudoir. Clutching Penny and the decanter he went back to the hall and mounted the stairs.

Turning left where the staircase branched, Hugh found himself in a wide corridor which was lit only by a feeble glimmer from the hall below. He could not see beyond the first door. And which side of the corridor would Sarah’s sitting room be on? He walked slowly, hoping to see a crack of light under a door. Yes, there was one.

As he drew near to it he heard someone talking. Presumably she had some friend with her, which made him feel apologetic about barging in. But when he paused outside the door he realised that it wasn’t talking he had heard but Sarah, in her ‘unclenched’ voice, declaiming Shakespeare. He recognised the Casket scene from
The Merchant of Venice
; Corinna, in the early days of her training, had played it – very badly, poor love. Sarah’s voice was certainly improving:

For the last two lines she had reverted to her ‘clenched’ voice. She broke off and said, ‘Oh, blast!’ Hugh knocked on the door.

She said, ‘Come in,’ and he entered what was certainly no sitting room, and saw her sitting up in bed supporting a large Shakespeare against her knees. ‘Hugh!’ she cried delightedly, then looked concerned. ‘Whatever’s been happening to you and Penny?’

‘I’m most terribly sorry,’ said Hugh. ‘I’d no idea you were in bed.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter.’ She sprang out of bed and came towards him. ‘Let me have Penny. I suppose she got out. You both look half drowned.’

‘Penny very nearly was. That pond beyond the nightingale wood…’

‘Poor love, we’ll have to get her dried.’ Sarah dumped Penny, minus the Burberry, on the bed. ‘You roll on the blanket, pet, while I get some towels.’

She dived through a door and came back with a couple of bath towels. As she approached, Hugh took in the astonishing garment she was wearing. It was of heavy cream silk, with long sleeves and a high neck; and tall though she was, it trailed for several inches on the ground. Hugh vaguely supposed she had gone to bed in some kind of house-coat.

Kicking the trailing inches out of her way, she said, ‘Excuse this frightful nightgown. It was one of a dozen unused ones I found after my grandmother died. They’d been part of her trousseau but she’d fancied something more skittish and who could blame her?’ She tripped, then added, ‘They all need shortening – grandmother was nearly six foot – but they do keep my feet warm. Now, Penny, love – Here, you do one half of her while I do the other.’

Penny had not had the energy to roll and objected to standing up while she was dried.

‘I think her legs are weak,’ said Sarah. ‘Well, let her lie on her side and we’ll roll her over. The great thing is to get her dry underneath – that’s where she’s likely to catch a chill. Dalmatians have so little hair underneath.’

While they dried Penny, Hugh poured out his story. Sarah said she wasn’t surprised about Mildred. ‘That’s a dotty old girl if I ever saw one. I suppose it’s arrested development or something,
and she’s frightfully conceited. The way she dresses up! She was Little Miss Muffet the day I went to tea. Look, I’m going to get some more towels. And we’ll light the fire – it is laid. You do it, will you? Matches on the mantel.’ She picked up a torch from her bedside table. ‘Light switches are few and far apart in this house. The linen cupboard’s a couple of miles away but I shan’t be long.’

Hugh, after an anxious glance at the far from lively Penny, went to light the fire. The small fireplace, with its art nouveau tiles and brass fire-irons, looked out of place in the high, nobly proportioned room with its elaborately moulded ceiling. But so did the faded pink and silver wallpaper and the elaborate bedroom suite, which was of some yellowish grey wood, much decorated with gold. The bed-head was of gilded canework.

He had got the fire to burn and was looking round the room when Sarah returned.

‘This was my grandmother’s room,’ she said. ‘The furniture’s sycamore, used to be a lovely silver-grey, she told me. I moved in here after she died because it’s the only room with its own bathroom. Grandfather used to be next door but, for a long time, he’s slept downstairs. Now I’ll go on drying Penny while you dry yourself. Go into the bathroom and take everything off – yes, everything, Hugh – and get yourself really dry. Here are some towels. I wish you could have a hot bath but our water’s never warm at this time of night.’ She got a woollen dressing gown from a wardrobe. ‘This used to be grandfather’s so it’ll be large enough. And I should think you could get into one of my sweaters and my winter pants. Anyway, try. And don’t mind if you bust the pants; they’re full of holes already. Oh, and you can try my bedroom slippers – I do have big feet. Anyway, it’s a nice thick carpet.’

She thrust the clothes on him and bustled him into the bathroom which, he found, was as Edwardian as the bedroom, all
fancy tiles and once-gleaming plumbing. Now some of the tiles were cracked and the silvery metal was peeling off the exposed pipes. He got out of his wet clothes with relief, towelled himself, and found he could wear Sarah’s pants and sweater but not her bedroom slippers, an ancient quilted satin pair, minus one rosette. He belted the tweed dressing gown and returned to the bedroom.

Penny was now lying in front of the fire on a dry towel. Sarah was pouring milk from a Thermos into a saucer. She said, ‘Lucky I fancied hot milk tonight – well, it’s been such a damn dispiriting day, and it’s nice to have something to look forward to when you go to bed. This’ll have to cool a bit, of course. And I’m not sure about the brandy. Most dogs hate the taste and if you force it on them they’re liable to be sick. Anyway, I think she’s going to be all right. She’s stopped shivering and she’s got quite a bit of warmth in her. Feel her.’

Hugh sat down on the hearthrug and stroked Penny’s stomach. She whimpered, but with pleasure, not complaint. He was thankful that she’d outgrown turning on her waterworks when fondled.

Sarah stood by, blowing on the milk. When it was eventually offered, Penny gave it one delicate, suspicious lick, then drank it avidly.

‘Poor lamb, now she’ll have to wait while some more cools,’ said Sarah, pouring out another saucerful and blowing on it fiercely. ‘I wonder if she needs solid food.’

‘I’m sure Aunt May’s been feeding her handsomely.’

‘Still, she might like some bread in the milk. I’ve got a loaf in my sitting room. And how about you? Did you get any dinner?’

‘Well, no. But I can get plenty when I’m home.’

‘Oh, I’ve masses of food. I often eat up here. You blow on Penny’s milk while I see what I can find.’

She hurried out and very shortly returned with most of a loaf, some butter, jam, biscuits and chocolate, also some plates and cutlery. She then offered to go down to the kitchen for some cold meat but he dissuaded her. ‘Bread and jam will be marvellous – if you don’t mind me eating all your food. And Penny’s drinking all your milk.’

‘I have the milk more for company than as a drink, and now I’ve got you and Penny for company. I’ll just take a slice of bread for her and then please tuck in.’

Penny made it clear that she preferred the milk without bread. She drank two-thirds of a Thermosful and then went to sleep.

‘I swear she’ll be all right,’ said Sarah.

‘But suppose she’s been – well, caught,’ said Hugh, through a mouthful of bread and apricot jam.

Sarah, after thought, said, ‘I’d make a bet that she hasn’t been. Bitches are very choosy and you’d be surprised how they can fend off unwanted dogs. And she’s fond of the spaniels – she’s always coying with Rufus. And I had them all in the wood, when the rain let up this afternoon. I bet she was on her way to the Hall when she picked up the scent of them and dashed into the wood. And if any dogs had chased her, I don’t think they’d have left her.’

Hugh, comforted by food and warmth, began to feel hopeful. He leaned back in the armchair Sarah had made him take and held out his bare feet to the fire, saying, ‘You’ve been marvellous to us both. Will it be all right to take her home now?’

‘Not tonight – you might get her wet again. And why not let me keep her for a week or so? Your mad aunt might let her out again.’

‘She might indeed. But how about the spaniels?’

‘I can shut her up far away from them. Oh, I’ll guarantee there’ll be no accidents here. I never had one when we still had our bitches.’

‘Well, if you really don’t mind…’

‘Love it, really. Do have some more to eat. I wish I’d a drink to offer you. Oh, the brandy!’

Hugh, who rather liked brandy after meals, said, ‘I will, if you will.’

‘All right, to keep you company. We’ll have to use my hot milk cup and the Thermos cap. Oh, there’s my tooth glass but that always smells of peppermint.’

‘I rather fancy the Thermos cap.’

She poured the brandy out and they sat sipping it. Hugh decided it wasn’t as good as the brandy his Uncle George sometimes gave him but it raised a pleasant glow. He said, ‘When I’ve finished this I must take myself off. It must be midnight.’

‘Not quite. We shall hear the stable clock. Oh, will Corinna be anxious about you?’

He explained about Corinna’s party. (She’d be at it now, of course; it seemed much more than a few hours since he’d seen her.)

Sarah said, ‘I might have guessed she wasn’t here or she’d have come with you to hunt for Penny. Have a spot more brandy.’

‘Hold hard, you’ll have me tight,’ said Hugh, unseriously. He prided himself on having rather a good head.

Sarah, having poured out the last of the brandy, settled on the hearthrug beside the sleeping Penny, with her tent-like garment spread around her. She had put on no dressing gown, and certainly none was needed over that vast, opaque nightgown of her grandmother’s. He must remember to describe it to Corinna – also to tell her about hearing Sarah practising unclenching. He decided not to tell Sarah he’d overheard her; it might embarrass her. Poor girl, she must mind a lot about her voice – as if it mattered, once one got to like her. Had she been clenching since he arrived? Probably, though he hadn’t noticed.
He listened now, as they chatted. She was talking quietly but undoubtedly clenching.

It struck him that never before had he heard her talk so freely. As a rule, she was apt to prod him and Corinna with rather humble questions and hang on their answers; he had known little more about her than that, orphaned early, she had been brought up by her grandparents. Now, as she volunteered information, he realised what an isolated life she had led. She had been away to boarding school but only for three years. ‘Then I got ill and my grandmother decided I had outgrown my strength – whatever that may mean. So she kept me at home and got a governess – imagine! She was an antique but very highly qualified and she taught better than anyone at school had. Alas, the poor dear died when I was sixteen – and my grandmother died two years later, and my great-aunts died last year. Heavens, how I must be depressing you!’

But, curiously, it wasn’t depressing. Indeed, when she rattled on about the difficulties of her present life, she was often funny – not deliberately funny, he was sure; it was her flat statements and lack of self-pity which gave things a comic slant. Still, her quiet, clenched voice made for a certain monotony. Once he caught himself on the edge of sleep. He finished his brandy and set the Thermos cap down. He’d make a move just as soon as she came to the end of her story of last winter’s burst pipes.

He was awakened by a shaft of sunlight between incompletely drawn curtains. After a dazed few seconds he took in that the fire was out and that Sarah had now transferred herself and Penny to the bed. Both were fast asleep.

The shaft of sunlight obligingly showed the time by the clock on the mantel: 4.15.

Why hadn’t Sarah wakened him? Presumably she hadn’t had the heart to. He wondered how long she had gone on sitting by the fire. Probably not long; one soon got tired of sitting on the floor. It then occurred to him that if he could leave without waking her she might think he’d gone long before this. Not that it really mattered but it would be more, say, conventional to have cleared out while it was still dark. If one went before the sun rose, one had merely stayed until late at night. If one waited till dawn, one had stayed
for
the night.

He tiptoed to the bathroom for his clothes, which were nowhere near dry. He would, he decided, keep Sarah’s woollen pants, which were now split in several places; he’d ask Corinna to buy Sarah some more. Should he keep the sweater on, too? And could he possibly go home in the dressing gown? That, he felt, would not be a good idea, supposing anyone saw him. No, he must face his damp suit and shirt – and very uncomfortable they felt, and his half-dried shoes felt worse.

Before leaving the bathroom he tore a sheet out of his pocket diary (damp) and wrote on it with its damp pencil.

He hoped that ‘tomorrow’ might imply that he was leaving during the night – as he would have been, had it been winter.

He tiptoed to the bedside table and left his note. Dear Sarah was sleeping with her beautiful mouth slightly open. She had an arm,
in its voluminous sleeve, holding the quilt in position over Penny, the top of whose head was just visible. There was a suggestion of mother and child which Hugh found both funny and moving.

Now to get out of the room – and he must close the door in case Penny got out or some spaniel got in. The handle – china, painted with rosebuds – turned almost silently. The hinges squeaked only a little.

Out in the corridor he listened: no sound came from the bedroom, he didn’t think he’d wakened Sarah. He hurried down the wide stairs.