Dubious Legacy (28 page)

Barbara said, ‘Go on.’ Then she said, ‘Please.’

Jonathan cleared his throat. He said, ‘He found Henry standing on the doorstep blinded by tears.’

Barbara said, ‘Oh, my God,’ and began to weep.

Antonia, leaning forward, asked quietly, ‘What else did this Basil tell you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘There must have been—’

‘Henry and he went for a walk.’

‘And?’

‘Basil said he and Henry talked and talked. Basil said it was like strangers meeting on a train. He talked about his sister—’

‘And Henry?’

‘Basil did not tell us what Henry talked about.’

‘No?’

‘Basil said what Henry told him was private.’

‘And you are aggrieved,’ said Barbara gently.

‘Yes,’ they said, sighing, shamefaced. ‘Yes. We are.’

M
ARGARET’S BROTHER BASIL HAD
had to hurry to keep up with Henry, who was at least a head taller, had long legs and walked fast. If I drop behind, he thought, I shall look ridiculous and may fall foul of one of those awful dogs. He lengthened his stride and managed to keep abreast by putting in a stride in the nature of a leap every so often. Doing this, he was aware that the dogs, trotting with ears and tails depressed, hastened too. He was reminded of the pains of childhood when, outpaced by impatient adults, he had wailed, ‘Wait for me, Daddy, wait!’ and forced his legs into a tired trot.

Henry had seemed unaware of him. I should catch his attention, talk. Talk about what? Talk about what I came to talk about, he chid himself, as they progressed across a couple of fields until their progress was halted by an intractable gate. While Henry wrestled with the gate, which sagged on its hinges and had to be lifted clear, Basil said, ‘Your dogs are rather lugubrious.’

Henry said, ‘What?’

Rather breathless, Basil said, ‘I said your dogs are lugubrious. They look unhappy.’ He was embarrassed to see that Henry still had tears running unchecked down his thin cheeks, splashing on to his chest as he lifted the gate to close it.

Henry said, ‘It’s sympathy. Poor old boys, cheer up, no need to put on your Humble and Cringe act. It’s
not
your fault,’ he said and leaned down to pat flanks and stroke heads. The animals’ ears rose and tails lifted, they sneezed in appreciation, and the younger dog pranced away for a few paces before resuming station.

Leaning on the gate, Henry exclaimed, ‘It is so awful. They were comical young creatures when they first came here, and now they are women in labour, for God’s sake! Oh dear!’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘And I am lachrymose.’ He stopped crying. ‘Did you say you were Margaret’s brother?’ he asked, remembering his manners.

Basil said, ‘Yes. But don’t let it bother you.’

Henry said, ‘I won’t,’ and resumed walking, but not as fast as before.

Basil said, ‘What on earth possessed you to marry her?’

Henry had walked on without answering and Basil thought, I’ve lost him again, but he went on talking. ‘I live in the States,’ he said. ‘I have not seen my sister since before the war. News of her marriage to you took time to reach me. I am an American citizen. I move around a lot.’ His voice grew nasal as he reminded himself of his adoptive country.

‘Margaret’s a lot older than me,’ he said, ‘and frankly I never liked her. And she drove our parents mad. I was glad when she got off her butt and left home. She always spent all her time in bed; I gather she’s not changed overmuch. Then she suddenly got a job in a beauty salon. Father was furious; he wanted her to do something “worthy”. Father himself was worthy, or aspired to worthiness, actually. He was a bit of a snob, didn’t think “beauty” a worthy occupation, but worthy or not it took her to Egypt and in due course she married Clovis. That didn’t please Father, either; he was rabidly anti-German. Anti-semitic, too. Clovis was both, German and Jew. The marriage didn’t last, of course. Margaret’s devotion to bed was for sleeping solo and Clovis is like me, he—Well, let’s say we are of the same persuasion.’

Basil had risked a glance at Henry. Was he listening? If I go on talking, it will give him time to recover from whatever hit him, he thought.

‘So there Margaret was,’ he said, ‘a German national in Egypt in wartime. The only friend she had was some sort of Pasha who was pro-Nazi—a purely non-sexual relationship, of that I am sure. Anyway, when the Brits interned him, Margaret must have taken fright; actually I know she did. I heard this from your chums the Jonathans. We all know the rest. Your father was a great guy, I hear, given to acts of kindness to women in peril, but—but he seems to have committed his last act by proxy.’ Basil’s voice sank to a whisper.

They had reached another gate; the younger of the dogs, cheerful now and jolly, leapt it, showing off. The older dog slid through the rails.

Henry, frowning, said, ‘I am not wanted at the hospital, I shall not go. Curse it. Curse it.’

It was Basil’s turn to say, ‘What?’ Then he said, ‘So why on earth did you marry Margaret?’ Standing in Henry’s way as he opened the gate, looking up, he had raised his voice; it had occurred to him that Henry might be deaf.

Henry said, ‘I am not deaf,’ and closed the gate. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he asked rudely. ‘But of course, you said you are her brother,’ he said more pleasantly. Then he smiled. ‘There’s a strong resemblance. I trust it’s only skin deep.’

Basil said, ‘I sincerely hope so.’ They walked on. Basil wondered how far Henry was in the habit of walking. If only I’d known, he thought, I would have worn more suitable shoes.

He said, ‘Our parents left a muddle with their wills, it’s taken years to sort it out—’

Henry said, ‘Jarndyce and Jarndyce.’

And Basil had said, ‘Oh good, you are listening,’ allowing himself a tinge of sarcasm. ‘Shall I go on?’

Henry said, ‘Why not?’

‘I could have got the lawyers to write,’ said Basil, ‘but frankly I was curious to see what sort of fellow would get himself embroiled with my sister. I was even more anxious when I discovered that you were not one of us. Anyway,’ he said hastily, seeing Henry look surprised, ‘I came to tell Margaret that she’s in for a lot more dough than she has already. She’ll be well able,’ he had said, chuckling, ‘to have that awful red room redecorated without bothering you. I suggested blue for the next—’

‘I would not dream of letting my wife spend her money on Cotteshaw,’ Henry shouted. ‘I never have and I never shall. I don’t give a damn for her money,’ he yelled. ‘It would be obscene to—Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I apologize. Do forgive me. You are my brother-in-law. I should not be so offensive. It is just,’ he said quietly, ‘that you look so like her, it’s, well—’

Basil said, ‘I quite understand,’ and wished that he did.

Henry began walking again. Basil followed.

Henry said, ‘Of course it would be quite different if I liked her. I’d use it then, gladly.’

Basil laughed. ‘I still would like to know why you married her,’ he said.

Henry said, ‘Oh—you must forgive me, I’m so—It’s Barbara and Antonia. I find it difficult to think of anyone else.’

Basil said, ‘Those girls will be all right, I’m sure they will. Of course they’ll be all right. Their husbands were pretty fussed, that’s natural, but you were splendid. So calm. So outside it all. So practical.’

Henry murmured, ‘I have treated them lightly, irresponsibly, as a sort of joke. I had no right.’

Basil saw that he was again distraught. He said, ‘Margaret? Marriage? Why?’

‘What a gadfly you are.’ Henry had stopped in his tracks to look at Basil, taking in his stocky build, wide smile, a mouth so different from Margaret’s which was more like a knife wound than anything else, hazel eyes the antithesis of her cold and silver slits, a nose brave rather than elegant, good but slightly wayward teeth. His hair was the same colour, though gingery gold. Unlike Margaret, he felt he could trust him.

‘If one put your face and Margaret’s together,’ he said, ‘you would look like the masks of tragedy and comedy.’

‘Except that Margaret is not tragic’ Basil smiled.

Henry said, ‘You think not?’

Basil said, ‘No way,’ laughing. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘even if I am her brother I think you should tell me firstly why you married her and, more importantly, why you stay tied? That really throws me.’

‘Paradoxically,’ Henry said grimly, ‘the situation provides me with a sort of freedom.’ He resumed his walk at a pace Basil could comfortably match, and the dogs, sensing a relaxation of tension, began circling round, sniffing at feral smells and indulging in mild play.

‘So the Jonathans told you of their part in my marriage,’ Henry said. ‘I have long suspected it, never been sure. I dare say,’ he said, ‘that they feel a bit funny on that score.’

Seeing no reason to protect the Jonathans, Basil said, ‘Who wouldn’t? The way they present their case is that they were helping your father, whom they revered, do his bit in the war effort.’

‘He was dying,’ Henry interposed.

‘They say it was his attempt to minimize the suffering of innocents,’ Basil explained.

Henry laughed.

At that Basil, laughing too, said shrewdly, ‘No doubt at the time they did not realize you were such an innocent.’

Henry said, ‘Not so much innocent as sorry for myself, I am ashamed to say. I had had a surprise.’

Basil hazarded, ‘A disappointing surprise?’

Henry said, ‘Yes. And,’ he said, ‘I had the idea, common to a lot of us at that time, that I would not survive the war. People were getting killed; why not me? So I thought, What the hell, and married your sister. Can’t say I take any pride in it,’ he said, glancing at Basil, who kept quiet, glad that he had succeeded in goading Henry into speech. ‘When I found I had not been killed or even wounded,’ Henry went on, ‘and the chance came to get Margaret back to England, I brought her here to Cotteshaw. I was trying by then to make a go of it. I thought I must try; that if other people made unsatisfactory marriages work, it should be possible for me.’ Henry sighed, then he said, ‘I love Cotteshaw. Naively I thought she would too, that here we could start afresh—’

They had reached the top of the hill behind the house. Henry stopped and looked down across the tops of trees to the house, its gardens and fields stretching down the valley to distant hills.

‘She went to bed,’ Henry murmured, ‘and there she stayed.’ Basil bit his tongue. Henry said, ‘The medical people say there is nothing wrong with her. I have tried to entice her out of it,’ he gave a short laugh and said, ‘with various and diverse results. She seems happiest in bed, not that so positive a word as happy can be applied to your sister. And when she does get up of her own accord—well, look at today.’

‘She seemed to be enjoying herself,’ said Basil, ‘a bit perverse—’

Henry said, ‘The Jonathans and other friends try their luck; she isn’t easy. Pilar and Trask are wonderfully patient. Ebro redecorates her rooms when she wants a change. It’s an odd set-up.’ He resumed walking and Basil kept pace. ‘I tried once,’ Henry said quietly, ‘I knew it was a gamble but I had to try, I suggested we sleep together. I thought it possible that she might want a child.’ Henry winced at the recollection; he had thought that with an effort of will during the act he could pretend he was making love to Calypso; he shuddered and Basil wondered whether he was ill. They had come to another gate and Henry opened it to let Basil through. ‘I must have a go at these gates,’ he muttered. ‘They are dropping on their hinges.’

Basil thought then that he had stopped talking; he watched him close the gate and latch it, then ventured, ‘So?’

‘She went for me with a knife,’ Henry said.

Basil said, ‘My God!’

‘Oh,’ Henry said, ‘it was stupid of me.’ Then he said, ‘You may not know you want a thing until it is denied you,’ and Basil realized he was not referring to any need of Margaret’s. ‘Your sister,’ Henry said, ‘is a prime example of the stronger sex; by doing bugger-all she has a whole household dancing attendance, indulging her whims.’

Basil said, ‘How do you survive? I mean—’

And Henry, detecting a note of prurience in the other man, answered drily, ‘There are other women, friendly and complaisant, and call-girls. I manage. I can’t waste my time wishing your sister dead,’ he said roughly.

Basil swallowed. ‘You suggested earlier that she gave you a sort of freedom.’

‘And a precious element of privacy,’ Henry agreed, and Basil thought, but could not be sure, that he had then muttered, ‘but which has now gone sour.’

Henry had then suddenly increased his pace, walking as though he were alone with his dogs, or perhaps hoping to shake his companion off. Basil ran a few steps. ‘So what do you do?’ he asked.

‘Do?’

‘Yes.’

‘I work. I run my farm. The Jonathans work the vegetable gardens along with their smallholding and, since Matthew and James brought their girls and became permanent features, they have paid their share. It has helped to keep the wolf at bay.’

‘A commune?’

‘I suppose you could call it that. It’s not an appellation my father would have enjoyed. I don’t know what will happen now. It started with a foolish attempt at reviving a pre-war custom, a posh dinner party. There was a bird I had given Margaret, a cockatoo, she—The party went sadly wrong. And now—I don’t know.’ And Basil thought he whispered, ‘I am excluded,’ or, ‘I must exclude myself.’

Basil said, ‘I am not with you.’

‘You seem very much with me, to me,’ said Henry rather nastily. ‘Do forgive me, I am not usually so rude.’

He was looking white and miserable again, but Basil could not stop now. He said, ‘So what’s your bother now?’

‘Antonia and Barbara, of course. Their babies.’ Henry shouted, ‘What a mess, what a worry.’

‘You seem absurdly worked up about those women and their children.’ Basil, too, raised his voice. He was losing patience, for he much disliked the thought of women pregnant, women in labour, indeed the whole gamut of women’s sexual functions was repugnant—not that I dislike women, he told himself; I have many women friends. ‘It’s perfectly natural,’ he assured Henry, ‘it happens all the time.’ One just wishes it were out of sight, he thought. ‘What’s the fuss?’ he asked loudly, rather more loudly than he intended, for it occurred to him that this man, his brother-in-law, had suggested that Margaret should go through ‘all that’. Perhaps she and I have more in common that I imagined, he thought. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, still speaking loudly, for Henry was again beginning to outdistance him, ‘that you should be grateful to your father and the Jonathans for their proxy act of kindness. It seems to me that you have been saved a helluva lot of pain.’ He shouted to make sure Henry heard. ‘It seems to me,’ he cried, ‘that you are jealous.’