‘I checked the oil and water this morning,’ he told her. ‘So she’ll be all right for you to go back to London. She’s done a big mileage this weekend.’
‘Thanks.’ Liz knew he would have filled up with petrol, too; after borrowing the car the day before to go to Pear Tree Cottage, he had returned it with a full tank. He was thoughtful and generous in so many ways, but he held back just when one expected, even hoped, that he might not. She had met plenty of men who were both material and emotional spongers, and Patrick was neither, so she smiled at him, and said again, ‘Thanks very much, Patrick.’
Deciding how to travel took some time. Michael’s Peugeot estate car would hold everyone, for the children were small, but Liz insisted on taking her car so that she could go straight on to London.
‘You come with me, Dimitri,’ she said, disposing of all argument. ‘I’m sure you’ve had enough of Patrick for an hour or two.’
Manolakis climbed eagerly into the Herald, and as the small car drove off the others took their places in the Peugeot. Patrick sat in the back, with Miranda strapped into her seat on one side of him and Andrew on the other. All the way, the little boy kept watching for Liz’s car and crying out ‘There it is, no it isn’t,’ echoing Patrick’s thoughts. When at last they did pass the Herald, the two dark heads looked much too close together, and he was sure Manolakis had an arm along the back of Liz’s seat.
But before they reached the game reserve, Patrick’s conviction that the day would be a failure took a knock, for the approach was through acres of park-land where, in the spring sunlight, herds of deer could be seen grazing among the trees. So it must have looked, centuries ago.
Inside the safari park, however, he began to fret lest some lunatic beast set upon Liz’s car; Manolakis, like all Greeks, would no doubt be valiant, but courage against a lion would not be enough. He was cheered at the sight of a warden in a zebra-striped Land Rover patrolling near the entrance.
‘Animals shouldn’t be taken out of their context,’ he grumbled.
‘But, Patrick, they’re preserving them. They breed here,’ said Jane.
‘Jungle beasts belong in the jungle.’
‘Look!’ said Jane.
Huge animals, weird as creatures from another planet or another age, stood grouped in the sunlight ahead of them, their dull hides dun-coloured, their massive limbs looking as though they were built of armour-plating, not flesh and bone.
‘Rhinoceroses!’ Andrew cried.
The beasts were enormous. They looked peaceful, standing there. Ahead, Liz and Manolakis had stopped beside a pool in which two hippos were wallowing in the manner of the song.
Patrick’s disapproval fell away, and he helped the children identify the other creatures they passed as they drove on. Andrew was intrigued by the electronic gates to the lion area; cars were admitted into a no-man’s-land between two gates, the second, which let them into the section of the park where lions and tigers roamed, not opening until the first had closed behind them. A warden’s cabin overlooked them both, and the whole area was securely fenced.
The first tiger they saw lay on a grassy bank under some trees; its coat shone sleekly, orange-coloured, with its black stripes gleaming.
‘But it’s splendid,’ cried Patrick, in spite of himself. So far he had not seen a single monkey, although Andrew and Miranda kept pointing them out; he hated their all-knowing, human faces. He kept his eyes glued to the tigers. More could be seen, pacing slowly or lying about, impassive.
‘Rhesus monkeys,’ said Jane, and Patrick saw a little creature with a wrinkled old-woman face staring at him from a tree. He looked away, back at the tigers.
‘They must be very well cared-for, here,’ said Jane. ‘They look so glossy, don’t they?’
They did. The lions, by contrast, seemed drab, their colour dull and the males’ manes looking unkempt, like tangled wool.
‘Their ruffs should be made of silky hair,’ said Jane. ‘It’s matted stuff, like sheep’s wool.’
All agreed that the king of beasts looked less spectacular. Patrick was relieved when they emerged into the outer area, leaving the monkeys behind. Liz drove on in front, and after a while stopped so that they could get out and admire the elephants and the giraffes. Michael parked the Peugeot behind her car.
‘Were they not fine animals?’ Manolakis cried.
‘Which did you like best, Dimitri?’ Andrew asked him. ‘I like the tigers. Grrr!’ and he roared in imitation.
Patrick approached Liz.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘You don’t really like this sort of thing,’ she said.
‘You don’t either – at least, you don’t like circuses,’
She was surprised that he remembered this.
‘You can’t equate this with a circus. It’s quite different, and today, with so few people about, it’s rather splendid,’ Liz said. ‘But I wouldn’t like to come when it’s hot and crowded. We chose the best time.’
‘Yes. I’ve quite enjoyed it, in fact,’ said Patrick, and added, ‘to my surprise.’
‘You three go on to the house,’ said Jane. ‘We can’t drag the children round it. We’ll meet you near the entrance.’
They arranged a time, and Patrick clambered into the back of the Herald. He felt isolated, an outcast from the family group in the other car, and now playing gooseberry here. Gloomily, he stared out of the window as they drove past massed rhododendron bushes, not yet in bloom, towards the abbey.
‘The first duke was a Roundhead. Did you know that, Patrick?’ Liz remarked.
‘A Roundhead? What is that, please?’ asked Manolakis.
‘He was against the king,’ said Patrick.
‘Oliver Cromwell served under him,’ Liz said. ‘Of course, he wasn’t made a duke till much later.’
‘We all have relations we’re not too proud of,’ said Patrick. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘It’s in a book I found at Jane’s,’ Liz answered. ‘The abbot of the day and two monks were hanged from an oak for speaking out against the marriage of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn.’
‘Do they haunt the place?’
‘Not as far as I know – but there is supposed to be a ghost,’ said Liz. ‘I suppose there are in all these old houses.’
‘If you believe in them,’ said Patrick.
The abbey, as they approached, lay bathed in sunlight, a mellow building.
‘It is like Oxford!’ cried Manolakis.
Architecturally, it was. They went inside and were at once in the Grotto, an amazing apartment where the walls were covered in sea-shells like mosaics. The house was not crowded and they were able to move at their own pace. Liz particularly liked the porcelain, and Patrick the pictures.
‘These old faces,’ he said, standing on the staircase looking at a portrait of the third earl with his arm in a sling.
‘They are like in the time of your Shakespeare,’ said Manolakis, who was much taken with Lucy Harrington.
There was a minor commotion as they went through one long room, and the other sightseers separated to allow a small group through.
‘VIPs,’ said Liz. ‘Look who’s with them.’
Patrick recognised the tall young man who was personally guiding a party of three men through to the corridor beyond. It is not every day that a tourist sees a member of the peerage in the flesh, so this one had to be pointed out, and Manolakis duly observed the Marquess as he went past with his guests.
‘Why, that’s Senator Dawson with him,’ said Liz. ‘He was at Stratford. Remember, Dimitri?’
‘You are right,’ said Manolakis.
The senator was a slim man with grizzled hair cut neatly in the American style. He peered eagerly round through rimless spectacles as he walked along, hands clasped behind him, and nodded his thanks to the group of sightseers who had made way for his party. Patrick met his eye and thought how alert he looked; only later did he realise that there was a satisfied expression on his face, almost a look of triumph. Well, no doubt it was gratifying to come from the mid-West farm where he had been born to Washington, and eventually to visit this ancient place not like any humble tourist, but as an important guest.
‘How were the Canalettos?’ Jane asked, when they were reunited, and all sitting on rugs eating slabs of veal and ham pie under a huge oak tree.
‘Overwhelming,’ said Patrick. ‘Almost too many at once.’
‘It is very splendid in the house,’ Manolakis said. “You go there, Jane?’
‘Another day,’ said Jane. ‘Let’s wander round the stables – that’s where the antique shops are, isn’t it?’
The children were clamouring to go on the roundabout, so Michael took them off to the playground and the others strolled on through the courtyard towards the pottery and the shops. As they ambled along, they saw Senator Dawson again. His little group disappeared round a corner as they approached.
Patrick, who had been silent for some time, suddenly stopped.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Those pictures!’
‘What pictures?’ asked Jane.
‘In the house – those old ones. Really old paintings are on wood – they’re thick. Canvases are thinner.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Dendrochronology.’
‘Whatever’s that?’
‘Dendro
– it means a tree – and
chronos
is a year,’ said Manolakis.
‘Quite right,’ said Patrick.
‘Tree years?’
‘Ring dating. The weather signatures.’
‘Patrick, please, I do not understand,’ said Manolakis.
‘Ring dating – you mean that method of telling the dates of early paintings from the growth pattern on the wood they’re painted on?’ Liz asked.
‘Exactly.’ Patrick looked at her approvingly. He turned to Manolakis. ‘There is a way of dating early paintings,’ he explained. ‘They were done on wood. The rings marking each year’s growth follow a pattern according to the weather at the time. By recording the rings on various paintings it has been possible to date such paintings more accurately than before, and to prove which are the originals and which are copies.’
‘Before cameras, much importance was for artists,’ said Manolakis. ‘It is what you see, and what I see, that may not be the same. But the camera – it tells the truth.’
Everyone listened respectfully to this remark. Then Liz brought them back to what had raised the subject.
‘But why are you talking about this now, Patrick?’
‘We were looking at those paintings in the house. It reminded me about the solidity of early portraits. Those awful paintings that girl Tessa had – they were solid. I’m wondering about them. The art robberies—’ There had been several lately, all in the Midlands.
‘You mean they could have been painted over, to hide what was really there?’ Jane was used to what she thought of as Patrick’s wild ideas and could follow his line of thought. ‘But that would wreck them.’
‘Not necessarily. Not if they were turned around and the backs painted. Or some sort of covering introduced,’ said Patrick.
‘Well!’ Jane would have mocked the notion, but Patrick had been right about many strange things before. ‘You mean that woman – Tina whatever-her-name-was – might have been mixed up with art thieves?’
‘Perhaps without knowing it. She might have been looking after those paintings for a friend or something.’ It sounded pretty unlikely, said aloud like this. ‘I’d like to have another look at them.’
‘Well, forget it now,’ said Jane. ‘Come on,’ and she led the way into the nearest shop.
Michael and the children were looking at the monkeys in the playground area when they joined them later. Patrick glanced uneasily at the little beasts.
‘Let’s all go and have tea,’ he said.
They sat in the sun outside a rotunda-style building with cardboard mugs of tea, fruit juice for the children, and a variety of cakes. Two peacocks prinked past, flirting their tails.
‘Gorgeous, aren’t they?’ Liz said. The blue and green plumes shone in the sunlight; the birds’ breasts were iridescent. ‘What colours!’
‘Their heads are strange,’ said Manolakis. ‘One—two bristles only.’
Everyone stared at the birds’ heads, which were adorned by sparse feather coronets.
‘They do look rather bald,’ said Michael.
‘These are not English birds,’ Manolakis pronounced.
‘They come from India and Ceylon,’ said Patrick, pleased that he knew the answer. ‘Pheasants of a sort, that’s what they are.’
‘They’re almost too much of a good thing,’ said Liz, who found herself unnerved by the calculating glare with which a nearby bird was eyeing her.
‘Wouldn’t you like to live in a stately home with peacocks on the lawn?’ Michael asked her.
‘No – not with mobs of people everywhere,’ Liz said.
‘But they are happy here, the people,’ said Manolakis. ‘Look at them.’
It was true. Everyone in sight looked thoroughly content.
‘It is good to share this fine place with the people,’ Manolakis went on.
‘It’s the only way they can make it pay,’ said Patrick. He thought the modern, concrete pavilions which ministered to some of the wants of the visitors struck a crude note among the splendid background buildings, but how was such a problem of design to be solved? It was one which faced the university all the time. His eye lighted on a notice staked into the ground near them:
No Picnicing.
‘This illustrious family can’t spell,’ he said, and began to laugh.
‘How very endearing,’ Liz said.
Miranda had been tossing cake crumbs to the peacocks, and a handsome cock advanced towards her.
‘I don’t trust those birds,’ said Jane. ‘Keep away from it, Miranda.’
‘Don’t molest the bears,’ said Liz dreamily.
‘What?’
‘It says that – or something like it – in Yellowstone Park,’ said Liz. ‘In America,’ she added, to Manolakis.
‘You have been there?’ he asked, amazed.
‘Yes.’
‘And Patrick? Have you?’
‘To New York,’ he said. ‘Never the west.’
Manolakis did not attempt to hide his envy.
‘You’ll have itchy feet now, Dimitri, after this trip of yours,’ said Michael.
‘Itchy feet! Ha!’ Andrew liked this. ‘Do they itch, Dimitri?’
‘Like blazes,’ said Manolakis, who had learned this phrase from Andrew earlier in the day.
Liz, who had felt herself suspended, all afternoon, in a limbo of contentment, decided that she must leave; the others, reluctantly, agreed that it was time for everyone to go. ‘You have enjoyed yourself, Patrick, haven’t you?’ Liz asked him, as they walked back to the cars.