A Tale of Two Families (16 page)

The light was still on in the hall – probably Walter had left it on for him. He switched it off hoping this might give the impression that Sarah had seen him out. He couldn’t, of course, bolt the door after him but, judging by the rusty state of the bolts, he doubted if they were ever used. He closed the door quietly.

It would be quickest if he went diagonally across the park but he would then be in full view of anyone looking out of back bedrooms of the Dower House – just the kind of thing old Mildew would do. He made for the wood and then turned a sharp right angle. From there, he hoped, various trees would screen him.

Apart from his damp clothes – and his damp shoes were soon damper – he enjoyed the walk in the sparkling morning. There were still troughs of mist but they were already pierced by sunlight. Clumps of trees, rising above the mist, glittered with last night’s rain. Everywhere there was a curious mingling of mist and brilliance. Automatically, he wished that Corinna could see it all. And oh, the relief of knowing that Penny would be looked after – if it wasn’t too late. But he felt it wasn’t; Sarah’s reasoning had been good.

As a token of gratitude to Fate, he wouldn’t say one unkind word to Mildew. The silly old cow couldn’t help herself. Really,
it was pathetic. The sex-starved old woman probably felt that, in letting Penny out to mate, she herself would somehow be mating – though she might not know this was in her mind. Anyway, he’d be pleasant to her, he swore he would.

He had just sworn it when he saw someone come out of the lilac grove and run into the park. At first he thought it was Corinna; she must, after all, have come down by a late train. How angelic of her to come out to meet him! But no, it wasn’t Corinna, though the short, fluttering negligée was very like one of hers. Good God, it was Mildew, and her feet were bare!

He dodged behind a clump of trees. Apart from the fact that he had no desire to see his great-aunt he felt it would embarrass her to see him. But she was coming quickly, doing a kind of running dance, and his cover was inadequate. In a few seconds she spotted him and, far from being embarrassed, ran eagerly towards him.

‘Oh, poor Hugh,’ she called out. ‘Haven’t you found her?’

He hastily assured her that he
had
found Penny and she was now safe at the Hall.

‘There you are,’ said Mildred blithely. ‘I knew she’d be all right. Such a fuss everyone made last night but I
knew
. At the Hall, did you say?’

‘Yes, Sarah’s taking care of her.’

‘Have you just come from the Hall now?’

He noticed the sudden excitement in her tone and said quickly, ‘Auntie, ought you to be out with bare feet? You’ll catch cold.’

‘Dew never hurt anyone,’ said Mildred. ‘Don’t try to put me off, Hugh. There’s no need. You see, I approve.’

‘Approve what?’ said Hugh, anger already surging up in him.

‘That beautiful dark girl’s much more suitable for you than Corinna. And I’m glad you’re not as saintly as I thought you were. But it shall be our secret. I promise you I won’t tell a soul.’

‘You can tell everyone in the world exactly what you bloody well like,’ Hugh shouted, now in a state of blind fury.

Her blue eyes widened and she gasped, ‘Oh, Hugh! Dearest Hugh!’

He was instantly contrite. He’d no right to swear at a dotty old woman, even if she did have a filthy mind. He said quietly, ‘Sorry, Auntie. But you’ve got it all wrong.’

‘Of course,’ said Mildred, sounding as if humouring a child. ‘I admire you for saying that. Any gentleman would. But it’s all right, dear Hugh. In fact, it’s very, very splendid.’

He started to speak but she interrupted. ‘Ssh, dear boy.’ She put her finger on her lips and looked roguish. ‘We won’t say another word about it. And now I must get on with my dabbling in the dew. I’ve so much to think about. But may I just say that I’ve never liked you so much? Dearest Hugh!’

To his dismay she dived at him and kissed him; it would have been on the mouth if he hadn’t dodged her. Then she was on her way, flinging her arms wide, as if she were a liberated spirit.

He gazed after her in sheer horror. Surely she was mad enough to be shut up? But he’d never heard even the most tentative suggestion of it. And presumably she never got violent.

He found it obscene that she should believe that he and Sarah… Did she
really
believe they’d been sleeping together?

He would have been surprised to know that what they’d been doing was of no great interest to Mildred. What mattered was what she intended to imagine them doing. At last she had a new toy. She could take it for walks, think about it before she fell asleep. And she felt sure it would be a lasting toy; she tired of some of them so quickly. But Hugh, this splendid new Hugh who had shouted at her, and that dark handsome girl… she would think about them all the coming week and then take them home with her.

She wouldn’t invent the first story yet. She was a little chilly in her fluttering negligée and she’d jabbed one foot on a stone. But this afternoon, she would take her thoughts about the passionate adventures of dear Hugh and dear Sarah for a very long walk.

In their taxi to Liverpool Street station the following Friday, George said to Hugh, ‘Oh, a bit of good news. Your aunt rang up to say that old Mildred’s going home tomorrow, instead of Monday. Some boarding house jollification she has to be back for.’

‘Lucky us – and unlucky boarding house.’

‘I gather they like her there. Well, she practically supports the place.’

‘Then I suppose we ought to give her good marks for generosity.’

‘If one didn’t feel there was a catch in it somehow,’ said George. He had only managed to keep his patience throughout the past week by turning on a bantering playfulness which frequently made him wince at himself, and he would be very, very glad to see the last of Mildew – that name, far from being outlawed, had increased in popularity.

Corinna met them at Liverpool Street. George thought his daughter looked tired. He asked if she’d been overworking.

‘A bit, perhaps. And it’s been so hot.’

‘Well, a heatwave’s better than the torrents of rain we had last weekend,’ said George. ‘And it’ll feel cooler in the country.’

Once they were settled in the train Corinna retired behind an evening paper, hunting for the notice of some play. Hugh, failing to concentrate on his own paper, found his thoughts about her as unsatisfactory as on the previous Friday’s train journey home.

He had expected her to arrive at the Dower House on the Saturday morning and had planned to tell her all about his adventures at the Hall; but she’d rung up to say she wasn’t coming. May brought this information when she arrived at the cottage to find out if there was any news of Penny. (Hugh’s report
was true but distinctly curtailed; he had returned to the cottage without waking his parents.)

Corinna, it seemed, was to spend the weekend at Sir Harry’s country house – ‘Oh, his wife’s there. It’s all quite respectable,’ May assured Hugh. He had barely taken this information in when Sarah arrived to ask him to lunch at the Hall. ‘Grandfather suggested it. You must have made a good impression last night.’

‘What, thickly coated with mud?’ said Hugh. ‘Not to mention dripping water all over his carpet.’

‘Nothing could make that carpet any worse than it is. Anyway, please do come. It’s so marvellous that he should ask to see someone. If you’d like to come back with me now we could take Penny for a walk together. She’s as good as new this morning – she must have a surprising lot of stamina.’

Hugh went, had an ecstatic reunion with Penny, and quite enjoyed his – very bad – lunch. At least, he enjoyed the first half of it. The old man was gentle and only a little vague. Hugh began to hope that, eventually, it might be practicable to talk about the estate, hint that quite a lot, still, might be done about it. (George thought so and was most willing to give advice.) But long before the meal was over, Mr Strange became quiet and rather more than vague. He even forgot who Hugh was. When reminded, he was apologetic and came back to life for a few minutes, then fell silent and looked unhappy. Sarah rang for Walter, saying, ‘Time for your nap, Grandfather.’ When Walter came it seemed that Mr Strange would leave without even saying goodbye to Hugh, but he finally looked back and said, in a perfectly normal manner, ‘So glad you could come. Come again.’

Sarah, giving Hugh a second cup of truly terrible coffee, said, ‘That’s how it always is. His mind has no staying power. It’s… like clouds passing over the sun.’

Hugh then talked about the estate but, as always, Sarah insisted nothing could be done while her grandfather lived. ‘We’ll just have to go on as we are. At least we shall have a roof over our heads as I’ve recently had some work done on it. Once the roof goes, you’re sunk. But it was a frantic expense and sometimes I think I ought just to let the house fall down. It
is
kind of you to take an interest.’

He had seen her again on the Sunday afternoon when, again, they had walked Penny. Then he’d sat with Penny while Sarah had exercised the spaniels. Penny was safely housed in a dilapidated room that had been a nursery, sunny but melancholy. He found himself thinking of his childhood, and Bonnie – and, of course, Corinna. He decided to return to London that evening as it seemed likely she would come back from her weekend, to be ready for her Monday classes. They could have a real talk.

But she didn’t return on Sunday. And on Monday it was nearly midnight when she came back to the flat. Still, he hadn’t been able to resist telling her all his excitements – about Penny lost and found, Sarah, the old man…

Corinna, of course, listened, and put in various comments, such as, ‘That ghastly Mildred.’ ‘Poor darling Penny!’ ‘How very kind of Sarah!’ but he gradually realised he had a polite, rather than an eager listener – indeed, he doubted if she took in his description of Mildred at dawn. Well, she was obviously tired. And no doubt he was being madly egotistical, doing all the talking. True, he’d begun by asking about her weekend but when she’d answered, vaguely, ‘Oh, it was all right,’ he hadn’t pressed for details. Now he asked again and prepared to show real interest but she only said, ‘It was a bit dull, really. Lots of people – tennis and whatnot. Lady Tremayne’s very nice. Darling, I
must
go to bed.’

He had seen little of her during the week. Night after night she had come home late, owing to her half-term performances. He hadn’t been invited to any more of these – she said she wasn’t playing anything worth his seeing. He’d found it depressing, getting and eating his evening meal alone. But however late she came in, and over their rushed breakfasts, she was always pleasant. It was just that she seemed preoccupied, and unwilling to talk. Oh, perhaps it was simply that she’d been overworking; her father had said she looked tired. Anyway, the weekend was ahead of them – and, comfortable thought, Penny would soon be home. He’d had a postcard from Sarah that morning saying, ‘Penny flourishing and can come out of purdah now. Come and collect her any time. Now that my grandfather knows you it’ll be all right to come in and shout for someone.’

His train of thought was interrupted by ticket inspection. Then he put the evening paper down and his uncle began to talk about business matters. The firm was busy and George was thankful to find how much he could delegate to Hugh. It never ceased to surprise him that Robert’s son should have a flair for business.

As often, it was hot on the train and they were all thankful when they arrived and found the platform, as usual, windy. They had cooled off considerably even before they got to the car. George, on the drive home, said, ‘Wonderful how quickly one unwinds once one gets to the country.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hugh, but he didn’t today feel unwound; Corinna was still so unforthcoming. But it was pleasant to arrive at the Dower House, smell one of his Aunt May’s good dinners cooking, think of having Penny back (perhaps he and Corinna would call for her that evening) and know that – glory be to God – Mildew would soon be gone.

Corinna said she must have a cool bath before dinner. Hugh, who had hoped for a little time with her, went to see his parents. George went to find May, as he always did on his return home, unless she came to meet him.

She was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She said, ‘Sorry, darling. I couldn’t leave this.’

‘No Matsons here?’

‘Only the official one. She’s turning down the beds. Isn’t it bliss about Mildred? And she’s going by a very early train. Do you want to give her champagne as it’s her last evening?’

‘I do not,’ said George. ‘When I gave it her on her first evening she said she’d never really cared for fizzy drinks.’

‘Pity. I rather fancied celebrating – though it’s hardly safe to, until she’s actually gone. She could still burn the house down or something.’

‘You and your “indescribable horror” of her – remember? The poor hag hasn’t really done any harm.’

‘She did her best to, over Penny. I shall have to stay with this sauce for a few minutes, darling.’

Mrs Matson returned. George, after enquiring about her mother-in-law and her daughter (Mrs Matson, senior, was feeling the heat; Miss Matson had gone pillion riding – ‘You know these girls’) went to wash. He then joined Fran, who was in a deckchair on the lawn outside the Long Room. She said, ‘The lilac’s a bit sad now, isn’t it? I wish I’d looked at it more while it was at its best. You do know Mildred’s going tomorrow?’

‘I do indeed. And judging by the general relief, one feels the end of the world’s been narrowly avoided.’

‘Well, I
have
been a bit nervous. You see, I feel responsible, as I fished so hard for her invitation. And she really has got everyone down. The sad thing is that she doesn’t mean to. It’s just that
she never gives a thought to anyone but herself. And now I feel ashamed because I’ve let myself gang up with the others. We’re always getting together and saying things like, “Have you heard Mildred’s latest?” “Have you seen Mildred’s latest?”’

‘Personally, I get a kick out of seeing her latest. What’s she treating us to dinner?’

‘Her pink frills and pantalettes. You’ve seen that outfit.’

‘Disappointing. I hoped she’d still got something up her sleeve – say, Little Lord Fauntleroy or Lady Godiva.’

Mildred, frilled and pantaletted, tripped out on to the lawn. George beamed on her kindly, then said he must go and call for Robert and June.

Dinner had a champagne quality without the champagne. Everyone was particularly nice to Mildred, even May managed a few civil remarks. And for once, Mildred seemed appreciative and spoke of missing them all when she was back in London. Fran thought, ‘If we’d tried harder to be nice, she might have been better. And tomorrow she’ll be at that deadly boarding house while we’re all enjoying ourselves here. Not that I must stay much longer.’ There was quite a lot she wanted to do in London. She spent a few minutes thinking about this and only came back into circulation when iced coffee was being served. May remembered she’d bought some coffee wafers she wanted everyone to try and went to the kitchen for them.

Mildred then complained of the westering sun and asked if someone would draw the curtains. Robert, who particularly liked watching the sun set behind the Hall, rose resignedly. As he reached the west window Mildred, following him with her eyes, said, ‘Isn’t it funny how tall and thin Robert is, when June’s short and plump? June’s one of the
round
people – and George is, too. You know, George, I always think you should have married June
– somehow she looks
right
for you. But I can’t imagine Robert marrying May. Robert…’

‘You’re talking nonsense,’ Fran broke in sharply and then wished she hadn’t. Her tone had helped to give importance to Mildred’s words. And important they undoubtedly were. In little more than a split second Fran had taken in that George and June were looking at each other. June was blushing deeply and George… It was only later that Fran found a phrase to describe his expression. It was as if he had seen a great light.

Robert, having heard Mildred speak his name, turned from the window saying, ‘What was that, Aunt Mildred?’

‘I was saying that – oh, dear!’ She broke off with a squawk of dismay.

Baggy, reaching for the cream jug, had knocked her glass of iced coffee over towards her, deluging her lap.

Fran sprang up. ‘We must sponge it at once or it will stain.’

If there was anything in the world Mildred cared deeply about, it was her clothes. She gave apologetic Baggy one tearful glare and then allowed herself to be hustled upstairs.

Sponging the dress, Fran wondered if Baggy had knocked the coffee-glass over on purpose. It wasn’t like him to be quick-witted but neither was it like him to want more cream. Anyway, God bless him.

‘You’re making me very wet,’ wailed Mildred.

‘Well, take the dress off and put on your dressing gown.’

May couldn’t have heard, from the kitchen; the swing door always closed itself. And Robert had been drawing the curtains. Anyway, Mildred’s idiotic words didn’t much matter. It was June’s blush and, even more, George’s expression – it was then that the phrase ‘as if he’d seen a great light’ dropped into Fran’s mind. Oh, perhaps she was exaggerating… but she was quite sure she wasn’t.

‘I shan’t go down again,’ said Mildred. ‘I’ve got to finish packing.’

‘It looks as if you’d barely begun,’ said Fran, gazing round the untidy room.

‘Well, I don’t like packing. Usually someone helps me.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said Fran. The helping proved to be doing the whole job, while Mildred issued commands. Fran made a bet with herself that she’d keep her temper and this wasn’t too difficult as she found Mildred’s absurdly unsuitable pretty clothes both pathetic and nostalgic. Even as a tiny, exquisite child Mildred had adored her clothes.

‘Well, that’s all we can do tonight,’ said Mildred at last. ‘But you’ll help me in the morning?

‘I will indeed.’ Fran visualised the glorious moment when that frightful trunk would be carried down the stairs.

‘And now I shall go to bed. I must be fresh for tomorrow.’

‘I expect you’re looking forward to your newly decorated room and to seeing all your friends again.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve lots to look forward to,’ said Mildred. At the moment she was looking forward to a bedtime instalment of her latest Hugh and Sarah daydream. Corinna would come into it tonight. Corinna would be jealous. And serve her right; she’d been most offhand before dinner.

Fran, returning to the Long Room, found Baggy alone, reading an evening paper. She enquired where everyone was.

‘Corinna’s in her room studying a part. Hugh’s gone to call for his dog. May’s doing something somewhere. The others have gone to the cottage for some serial on television. They could have seen it here but George said he knew I like to see the news. And very dull it was. Did I ruin Mildred’s dress?’

‘Oh, it’ll be all right,’ said Fran.
Had
he knocked the coffee over on purpose? She didn’t dare to ask him in case he hadn’t,
hadn’t even noticed anything. Mustn’t risk putting ideas into his head. A pity. She’d have been thankful to talk it all over with him.

Baggy happened to be in the same position. He’d have welcomed praise for knocking the coffee over. Never in his life had he done such swift thinking followed by such decisive action. And he’d have liked to tell her how quickly George and June had recovered themselves. By the time Robert was back at the table and May had returned with the coffee wafers (rather good, they were) there had been nothing to see. But Fran might not have noticed anything. Mustn’t risk putting ideas into her head.