Authors: Mary Wesley
Henry stopped, waited for Basil to catch up. Then he said, ‘Jealous?’ There was astonishment in his voice, but when he repeated the word the pain was almost palpable.
When, presently, they stood by Basil’s car outside the house, Henry had asked, his tone disinterested, ‘Shall you stay with the Jonathans?’
Basil said quickly, ‘Only long enough to collect my bag. I don’t wish to linger.’
Henry had said, ‘Thank you.’
J
AMES MARTINEAU AND MATTHEW
Stephenson, meeting by chance at a garage in Sloane Avenue as they filled their cars with petrol, exchanged chat.
‘Off to the country?’ James eyed Matthew’s BMW, smarter and sleeker than his Volvo estate.
‘On my way to my constituency surgery, via my father-in-law’s funeral.’ Matthew’s tone was of vicarious importance; Lowther of Lowther’s Steel was, or had been up to now, a household name.
Hastily James said, ‘Of course. I’d forgotten it was today. Alas,’ he said mendaciously, ‘we cannot attend.’ Why can’t I be truthful, he asked himself? Why can’t I admit I relied on Barbara to tell a wifely lie? Why can’t I admit I never knew old Lowther well enough to feel I should go to his funeral?
‘We sent a wreath,’ he said. ‘Is Antonia cut up?’ He remembered as he spoke that Barbara, replying to the same question had said, She is delighted. It would be in poor taste to repeat this to Matthew, so he said again, ‘Is Antonia cut up?’
‘Not so that you’d notice. They were not all that close,’ said Matthew guardedly.
‘And her mother? She bearing up?’
‘Actually,’ said Matthew, giving way, ‘we all think his death comes as a relief. My father-in-law could be—er—difficult.’
For difficult read fond of the bottle, thought James. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Antonia and her brothers—’ (I wonder how much the old man has left? Must be a tidy sum even after death duties.)
‘They will rally round,’ said Matthew. ‘We all will. Antonia’s with her mother now. Susie and Clio will be there, of course, and Susie’s boy Guy. My son-in-law’s in the States; can’t get back in time, he says. We all thought Clio’s little girl a bit young, she won’t be coming. Did we tell you that Susie’s boy Guy is going to Eton? Antonia’s inclined to call it a retrogressive step,’ he said, laughing.
But you are pleased, thought James. ‘I had heard,’ he said. ‘Scholarship?’ It was fun to tease Matthew—Guy, a dear boy, was not scholarship material.
Matthew laughed. ‘No, thick as two planks. Good at games, though. My son-in-law,’ he said, ‘is pro-Eton, considers it the best springboard, and so does Susie.’
A trifle out of date there, thought James, but then Matthew had scrambled and sprung in his day. ‘Well, good luck to him. If you
had
had a son, would you have sent him to Eton?’
‘If we could have afforded it, it’s possible. I might have wanted to, but Antonia would not have stood for it. It’s a hypothetical question, James. Susie and Clio—’
‘Are girls,’ said James, ‘and jolly attractive.’
Matthew said, ‘Thank you, and so is your Hilaria, a smashing girl.’
‘Our lot did not do badly with state education,’ James remarked, in a bid to lure his old friend away from dreams of grandeur. ‘The end result can’t be faulted,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said Matthew. ‘My Clio and your Hilaria could not be nicer young women. I often wish, though, that I had not allowed old Lowther to pay Susie’s fees at that boarding school. It was a mistake. All she learned were expensive tastes and bossiness and now we are expected to dig deep in our pockets to finance Guy at Eton. A comprehensive school would save a lot of bother and holidays at Cotteshaw would—’
James said, ‘Times have changed, old friend. Pilar is long gone, and Trask is dead. Henry is grown old and ill. Things have altered since our young days.’
Matthew said, ‘True, but how our children loved it. And whatever the changes, their kids love it now; when Clio tries to take her Katie abroad, all the child does is nag to get back to Cotteshaw.’
James laughed. ‘It’s the same with Hilaria’s Eliza, but it can’t last for ever. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must get on. Let’s meet soon.’
‘I’ll get Antonia to telephone,’ said Matthew. ‘You sailing this weekend?’ he asked, having noted James’s casual clothes and earlier white lie.
James said. ‘I gave up sailing many years ago. Barbara never took to it. I am fishing, then joining Barbara at the cottage.’ He got into his car and fastened his seat-belt.
Matthew and I are out of touch, he thought as he drove; then he thought, Matthew has aged, gone bald, doesn’t keep as fit as he should, and was glad that he himself still had his head of hair, albeit white, and was pretty fit at sixty-five. Then, as he drove, reminded by his meeting with Matthew, he remembered the good times they had all had when they were young at Cotteshaw, their weekends and holidays, Henry teaching the children to ride and swim, letting them tag behind him on the farm. What fun those children had running wild in the country.
It had been good for Barbara and Antonia too, an idyllic period lasting until Pilar got it into her head to go back to Spain when Franco died. When was that—1975? What possessed us all to let her take the three girls with her? Anything might have happened, but of course it hadn’t; one could trust Pilar. She had sent them back speaking fluent Spanish and boasting that they had joined with her in spitting on Franco’s grave. It was about then that one had stopped hesitating, bought the cottage and moved out of Cotteshaw.
Hilaria had never taken to the cottage, and now continually took her own child back to Cotteshaw. Had Barbara, loyal Barbara, missed the place? If she had she would not say. Had she really agreed that they had imposed on Henry for long enough, and that it was time they had a place of their own? Difficult to say. There were depths in Barbara, James thought uncomfortably. Had she agreed to please him? How can I doubt her? James asked himself. We have been so happy; we may only have the one child, but what a pearl! As great a joy to us as Barbara has always been to me. I have never loved any other woman, James assured himself.
Then he wondered, as he drove, whether Matthew still regretted his lack of a son, whether pushing his grandson into Eton was a solace? One knew from Barbara that Antonia, after the rough time she had had with Clio, had stuck in her toes, gone on strike, refused to try again. One sympathized with her, yet Matthew had so wanted a boy. It would not worry me, thought James, it never has, but Matthew is ambitious; look how he pushed when he was in business, look at him now in Parliament, it’s all go!
Lucky ‘thick as two planks’ Guy is a grandson; Matthew will be indulgent, won’t push too hard. He had pushed his elder daughter Susie all right, and she had gone along with it. Susie Stephenson should definitely have been a man, James ruminated as he drove. Susie was a woman of iron will.
Heavens, thought James, how lucky we have been with our affectionate, tactful, sweet-tempered Hilaria; family life would have been a real pain if Hilaria had had a nature like Susie Stephenson’s.
I can’t stand bossy women, James told himself as he headed out of London. I dare say, he thought, Susie will miss her grandfather Lowther. She doesn’t drink, but in other respects she could not be more like him: bossy, interfering, and often rude. Small wonder her sister Clio has cleaved, if that is the right word, to our Hilaria rather than to her elder sister. Susie-the-know-all would know the correct use of the word or term cleave. I cleave, you cleave, he cleaved, or perhaps clove? James chuckled.
Would Eton teach Susie’s Guy? Perhaps Guy was fortunate in his parents’ ambition? Perhaps his mother’s mania for managing other people’s lives and directing their actions would be curbed by the school? Mind you, James told himself, his essential fair-mindedness reasserting itself, I should not be too hard on Susie; there have been occasions when her interfering bossiness has had the most excellent if unexpected results.
No, James thought, reverting to his old friend, Matthew’s life would not suit me. Gosh, he thought, think of always having to toe the party line
and
please your constituents. No wonder Antonia—well. He checked himself. It was said, but there was no proof, that Antonia had stepped out from time to time. Maybe she found Matthew a bit boring? From the very beginning she had not hesitated to snap or speak a bit sharpish; it would be small wonder if she had not had the odd canter.
People, James thought, with less than his usual charity, would say anything or, if there was no evidence, they would invent, as Henry’s ghastly wife Margaret had invented. Now
her
funeral, James’s thoughts came full circle, was a funeral one had been truly glad to attend. Calypso Grant had called it a celebration.
M
ATTHEW, DRIVING NORTH OUT
of London, was inclined to pity his old friend, whose in-laws, both still living, would not be leaving as substantial a fortune as Antonia’s parent. Antonia would inherit a decent sum now and a lot more when her mother died; why should not Guy’s education benefit?
Poor James was his own worst enemy, thought Matthew. He had not striven as he should have done, had lacked ambition, been content with a moderate law practice and only one child to show for his marriage, a girl at that. I dare say the old boy is more than a bit envious of my grandson, thought Matthew. I am proud of Guy and don’t mind showing it. I shall play an important role in that boy’s life; a grandparent’s relationship can be close.
But I shall not let my closeness to Guy resemble Susie’s to old Lowther, who positively fed and encouraged her bossiness. I bet, thought Matthew, that she is at this moment driving her grandmother and Antonia mad by organizing the funeral, not letting them have a say, ‘knowing best’, as is her way.
Susie has too much push, poor old James not enough; Guy’s push must be moderate, as mine is. Even so, thought Matthew, James might have made an effort. Surely he and Barbara should be coming to the funeral? Wasn’t this non-effort to attend rather insulting? Did it not belittle their long friendship, the closeness of their two wives, not to speak of the children? Our Clio and their Hilaria are thick as treacle, and their two children look like carrying the feeling on.
But there goes James, off for a day’s fishing and a weekend in his grotty cottage, thought Matthew, annoyed, while I, after my father-in-law’s funeral, have to work. Even when we all met every weekend at Cotteshaw I brought work with me, Matthew told himself, and it was surely I who had the bright idea that we should pay our way, go shares, so that we should not be beholden to Henry. It had worked so well.
It was James who split the harmony, thought Matthew irritably; we should be congregating at Cotteshaw to this day if James had not taken it into his head to buy a cottage of his own. All very well for him to point out that Pilar had left; Pilar did not leave until the girls were almost grown-up and Trask, poor old Trask, had latterly been nothing but a liability, an incontinent one at that, thought Matthew, steering his BMW into the fast lane heading north.
James and Barbara came to Trask’s funeral all right, thought Matthew crossly, the whole village came. People came from miles away. Calypso Grant brought Hamish, the Bullivants were there, Pilar and Ebro flew back from Spain and oh dear, thought Matthew, remembering how the children cried, not so much Susie, but Clio and Hilaria, buckets! And the Jonathans, grown men, quite old, had blubbered in the front pew. While Henry, stiff and silent, had looked bereft.
We could have found substitutes for Trask and Pilar, thought Matthew. A living-in couple. Such people exist. Antonia could certainly have found one, if only Henry had allowed. The house was his, one was aware of that, but considering how much one had contributed over the years one had felt entitled to suggest, to have a say. One would gladly have contributed to their wage.
Perhaps making the suggestion so soon after the funeral had been premature. Certainly Antonia—Matthew winced in recollection of Antonia’s forceful rejection of his proposal. She had not lost her talent for making herself disagreeable when so inclined. Even so, if she had helped, we could have preserved the status quo, arranged something better than Henry’s present mode of life, only cared for by daily ladies and Clio and Hilaria on their infrequent visits.
I blame James, thought Matthew resentfully, James and his cottage. I was not yet in the position which I am in now to buy Henry out; that would have made sense. He has no heir, the place is a millstone. One could have sold most of the land, done the place up. Cotteshaw has sentimental attraction. I proposed to Antonia in the garden; I remember the feel of her skin, velvety as a mushroom. Clio was born there, and Susie was nearly drowned.
Cotteshaw had been home to both families. Growing up, the little girls had trailed round the farm behind Henry or Trask, watched Pilar cook, played hide-and-seek round the haystacks, been taught to swim by Henry, taught to ride by Henry. Henry had made them a toboggan when it snowed, taught them to skate; they had sat on his knee while he read them stories. Thinking about it, one owed Henry quite a lot, but small wonder that there had been moments when the children’s worship of Henry had been rather irritating. At times of childish stress, a dog dying or a guinea-pig going AWOL, it had been to Henry they turned for comfort, not to oneself. One was not always there, nor was James.
Henry and Cotteshaw had been extremely useful as a base. It had been handy, when the children were small, to leave them there when taking Antonia on trips abroad; James and Barbara had done the same.
Things had gone stunningly until Susie had taken it into her head to reform Henry’s wife Margaret. One would think, thought Matthew, that after the experience of Margaret letting go of her hands, letting her fall in the lake, Susie would not have wanted much to do with Henry’s wife, but it had not been so. Margaret had held some sort of fascination for the child who, as she grew into her teens, had determined to succeed where everyone else had failed. Effect a transformation in Margaret’s
modus vivendi,
that was what Susie had called it, flaunting the Latin from her posh school over less educated mortals such as her sister and James and Barbara’s Hilaria. She would, she had said, normalize—dreadful word—Margaret’s life.