Authors: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
‘Bet they’re good ones,’ said Kay, and went indoors.
In the quiet of her own shabby kitchen, Kate had two cups of tea, and toast and lime marmalade, and when she had cleared it up she thought about what work in the house she ought to do. It was then she discovered that her taste of the high life last night had made her restless. She didn’t want to put on her working clothes and get dirty, and spend the day alone scraping wallpaper.
Get used to it, girl
, she told herself.
You didn’t come down here to hobnob with the nobs
. Jack said he wanted to see her again but he hadn’t made any specific date, and apart from him she only knew Kay and the Royal Oak crowd, and it was too early to be going for a pint.
Suddenly she remembered her childhood visits to Granny and Grandpa Jennings, and how they had always all gone to church on Sunday morning, the whole family clean and shiny in their best, walking off together to the dear little stone church of St Salvyn (at least, old folk like Granny and Grandpa called it that, although it had been renamed St Mary Magdalene’s, because the Church wasn’t even sure St Salvyn was really a saint). Somehow, she always remembered St Salvyn’s with daffodils blowing in front of it, their yellow brilliant against the grey stone.
That’s what I’ll do this morning, she thought. I’ll go to church.
She repeated it out loud and it still sounded like a good idea, so she went off to bath and dress.
There were lots of churches in Somerset dedicated to All Saints, which presumably saved having to make a choice and risk offending anyone in Heaven; but the good folk of Bursford must have been even less decisive than the norm, because the parish church was called St Mary and All Saints. It didn’t get more inclusive than that. It was bigger than St Salvyn’s, mostly fifteenth century, and its square stone tower was much taller, perhaps because, being built in the valley, it needed a higher tower to be seen from a distance and over the trees.
Kate had made an effort, put on her smartest pair of trousers and a decent top, even polished her shoes – or buffed them, at least, with a cloth, since she couldn’t find any shoe polish among her boxes, wasn’t even sure she owned any. Her hair, amazingly, was still unfrizzy from last night, and she tied it neatly in a tail behind, and put on the minimum of make-up for self-respect.
It was such a nice day that she decided to walk, which was almost her undoing as it was further than she had realized, down the hill, through the village and up the Withypool arm of the crossroads. She heard the five-minute bell start and had to hurry, and got in just as the procession was entering up by the altar. A rather severe-looking sidesman gave her a prayer book and hymn book and directed her to a penitential pew at the back and to the side. The church wasn’t full, of course, but there was a fair turnout, and a good number of hats, always an indication of a wealthy parish.
At the end of the service the vicar stood at the door and shook hands with everyone as they passed out, which caused something of a traffic jam as many of the parishioners wanted a leisurely chat. When her turn came Kate said a quick, embarrassed, ‘Good morning,’ and got a clerical smile and an interested inspection from the vicar. Most people were still hanging around the churchyard, having a natter – the parish church in rural places like this was often an important part of the social life of the area. Kate planned to slip away quietly, but as soon as she stepped out into the sunshine, her name was called with loud enthusiasm, and Jocasta came bounding up and flung her arms round her waist in greeting.
‘How
nice
you came!’ Jocasta cried. ‘When did you think of it? You didn’t say anything, or I’d have saved you a place by me. What did you do to your hair? It looks fab! Mummy’s still inside talking to Mr Braithwaite. She always talks longer than everyone else so she’ll be ages yet. Did you have a nice time last night? I haven’t seen Jack this morning, but Mrs B – our housekeeper – says she heard you were a wow, and everyone wanted to dance with you. I wish I’d seen what you wore. She said you were all got up like the Witch of Endor. It must have been epic!’
‘You’re looking very smart,’ Kate said, blinking at the Witch of Endor remark, and deciding the questions really weren’t designed to have answers. Jocasta was wearing tight pink pedal-pushers with a matching pink cotton jacket and ballet flats, and her hair was loose and held back by a pink Alice band.
‘I like pink,’ Jocasta said. ‘You could wear it too.’ She took hold of a length of Kate’s hair and held her arm up against it. ‘Look, it goes with your hair. Oh, here’s Mummy. Gosh, that was quick. She’s usually in there for half an hour once she gets started.’
‘I’d better go,’ Kate said. She wasn’t sure whether she was up to meeting Jack’s stepmother yet.
‘Oh, don’t go,’ Jocasta said with evident disappointment. ‘You should say hello to Mummy. You said she mightn’t want to let you ride with me if you were a stranger, and you won’t be a stranger if you meet her now, will you? Anyway, it’s too late, she’s seen you,’ she concluded with satisfaction.
Kate turned, and couldn’t work out who she was supposed to be looking at. Unless – no, surely it couldn’t be? – was it this slim young-looking woman coming rapidly towards them? There was nothing in the least like a Lady Blackmore or a mother about her. But of course, Jocasta being only twelve-ish, her mother might easily be no more than thirty-five – could even be younger.
‘Mummy!’ Jocasta cried, putting it out of question. ‘This is Kate!’
The woman who halted beside Kate was fashionably slim – almost thin – with perfect, enamelled make-up and golden hair expensively cropped into the modern version of the 1920s shingle. She was dressed in a short-skirted daffodil yellow suit so beautifully tailored, it would make you faint – surely a designer label? Kate thought. Her handbag Kate was able, thanks to Jess, to identify as Prada; her shoes were nude platform court heels which looked very similar to the Yves Saint Laurent pair Jess had been admiring on the Internet (and which, Kate remembered, with shock that such things could be, had cost £683).
The whole outfit looked gorgeous, wickedly smart, and effortlessly superior. Looking as she did she could have walked in through any door, into the most elite and expensive establishment in the world, and been admired for her appearance.
And she could have passed for twenty-eight, Kate added in her mind, in envy.
She was looking Kate over with a very sharp and noticing eye, and Kate almost withered, feeling a lumpy and ill-kempt mess beside this bird-thin paragon. Only her pride kept her from visibly shrivelling up and dropping to the floor like a discarded snakeskin.
But apparently something about her was right, because Lady Blackmore suddenly smiled (perfect teeth) and thrust out her hand (exquisitely manicured) and said, ‘This child of mine has done nothing but talk about you for days. And Jack’s no better. You saved that wretched dog from starving to death. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are. Jack must have told you how Theo dotes on it – we’d never have heard the last of it if anything had happened to it. There’d have been floods and tantrums and no doubt blame cast about for not making sure it was tied up properly. So, really, you are a complete saviour.’
Jocasta was giving her a ‘there, told you it’d be all right’ look.
Kate said, ‘Really, it was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.’
‘I wouldn’t have approached a strange dog in those circumstance,’ Lady Blackmore said. ‘You certainly have courage. Anyway, the fact is, whether or not anyone else
would
have done it,
you
did, so please accept our grateful thanks.’
Kate smirked and muttered something. She had worked in PR where she was known for her ability to talk to anyone and deal with any situation, but for some reason this elegant woman was making her feel like a fumbling gnome. She was sure her feet were growing as she spoke.
Fortunately Jocasta was not lost for words. ‘So now, Mummy, it’s all right if we go riding, isn’t it, Kate and me?’
Lady Blackmore raised her eyebrows at Kate. ‘Do you really want to? You mustn’t let her be a nuisance.’
‘I’d like to very much. And she couldn’t be a nuisance. I enjoy her company,’ Kate said. Out of the corner of her eye she could see how pleased Jocasta was by the words. In front of her, the eyebrows went even further up.
‘Well, if you’re sure … We’d all be grateful to have her occupied. School holidays are so long.’
Kate smiled. ‘I only remember them being much too short.’
Lady Blackmore shuddered. ‘But then you’re not a mother.’ Something occurred to her. ‘Where are you off to now?’
‘Just home,’ Kate said.
‘Well, then, come back with us to The Hall for lunch.’
‘Oh, Mummy, yes!’ Jocasta cried, jumping up and down. ‘Brill!’
‘Oh, well, really, I—’ Kate began.
‘You haven’t anything else planned?’
‘No, not at all,’ Kate had to admit. And, though she didn’t say it, she would like to see the inside of The Hall, see where Jack lived.
‘So, then, do come. Please, we should like it very much.’
‘Well, if it’s no trouble – you’re very kind, Lady Blackmore.’
‘Oh, Camilla, please. Call me Camilla. “Lady Blackmore” makes me feel like Sybil Thorndike, or who ever it was. You know, Lady Bracknell.’
‘Edith Evans,’ Kate supplied.
Camilla looked as though she didn’t enjoy being corrected.
‘The car’s just over there.’ They started walking down to the road, with Jocasta still frisking like a lamb. ‘You can meet the other dogs,’ she told Kate, ‘and I can show you Chloe, and after lunch we could try them out, if you like.’
‘She won’t want to ride after lunch,’ Camilla said, indifferent to her daughter’s excitement. ‘She’s a grown-up, not a child. And do walk properly, Jocasta. A piece of gravel just hit my shoe. If you’ve scratched it … What’s the point of sending you to ballet and fencing and deportment lessons if all you can do is lumber about like a cow?’
Kate had just been admiring the way Camilla managed to walk downhill, over an uneven surface, and on gravel, on five-inch heels, even with an inch of platform to help out. She felt less well-disposed, though, when she noted Jocasta’s crestfallen look. No-one likes to be told off, especially in front of a third party.
To take the attention away from her, Kate said, ‘I hope I won’t be putting anyone out.’
‘Of course not,’ Camilla said. ‘It’s practically open house on Sunday. We never know how many are going to turn up at table. Everyone invites someone. Besides, Ed, my stepson, is here, so really, the more the merrier. Anything to distract him. He won’t be able to go on nagging me and being a complete bore in front of a stranger. I’m glad you’re coming.’
So Kate was able to stop feeling oppressively grateful, and to wonder instead what sort of ménage she was about to be plunged into.
There were the remembered gateposts (a bit shabby now, some of the rendering chipping off and one of the balls that topped them missing) and beyond was a wide gravel sweep with most of the gravel missing, on which several cars were parked. The house proved to be Victorian Gothic: tall, red brick, all angles, very steep gables with ornately carved bargeboards and finials, and even taller chimneys.
The first thing that struck her – literally – as they stepped into the entrance hall was a wave of dogs. They came charging out of the room to the right and flung themselves, tongues and tails waving, on Kate and Jocasta – Camilla avoiding them with a very nifty sidestep that spoke of years of practice. There was a black Labrador, an English setter with a sad, freckled face, a Jack Russell, an Italian greyhound, and a large black hairy thing like a small bear that Kate recognized, and who shouldered his way effortlessly through the crowd to claim her as his new best friend. Bringing up the rear was an enormous ginger tabby, which sat down at a safe distance to wait for recognition.
Jocasta embraced and saluted them all, and told Kate their names. ‘The Lab is Milly, the setter is Ralph – isn’t he adorable? He looks so sad, but he’s not really. They’re supposed to be Ed’s. The Jack Russell is Jacob – he’s a terrible thief. Never leave anything edible at Jacob-level. He’s supposed to be Jack’s. And the greyhound is Esmé. She’s Mummy’s. She always gets left out because she’s so shy – don’t you, darling? Yes, you do, you do my little poppet,’ she interpolated in a cooing voice while dragging the dog close for an embrace. ‘So you have to make a point of petting her, or you’ll hurt her feelings.’
‘Supposed to be?’ Kate queried.
‘Well, they’re all everyone’s, really. They sort of belong to the house. And you know Chewy.’
‘He seems to know me,’ Kate said, trying to push him off her legs, where he was leaning so hard that it was difficult for her to stand upright. ‘And who’s the cat?’
‘He’s Sylvester. He’s—’
‘Kate doesn’t need the whole menagerie,’ Camilla interrupted in a bored voice. ‘If you’re going to let the dogs slobber on you, go upstairs and change before you ruin that jacket. Kate, don’t let the dogs be a nuisance. Everyone in this house seems to be mad about animals, and lets them run wild. Shove them off, or kick them if they won’t leave you alone. That’s what I do.’
Kate noted that the pack seemed to have a healthy respect for the area around Camilla’s feet.
‘Come and have a drink,’ Camilla continued, turning away, ‘and see who’s here.’
Kate followed, pausing when her hostess couldn’t see to caress the cat, who stood on tiptoe and erected his tail like a flag pole to receive her, and purred so loudly, Kate was afraid Camilla would hear.
They went through the door to the right into an enormous room, a Victorian’s idea of a baronial hall, oak panelled, with an elaborately moulded ceiling, a vast inglenook fireplace, and tall narrow windows. There were old, much worn Turkish rugs on the oak floorboards, heavy red velvet curtains that had seen better days at the windows, bookcases full of books and in a far corner a grand piano on which Kate could see the undisturbed dust even from this distance. A number of old sagging sofas and armchairs were dotted about, with footstools and pouffes, and a variety of tables of varying size and height were loaded with newspapers, magazines, and empty cups and glasses. The remains of a log fire were grey in the fireplace, and on the hearth stood a vase full of dead flowers, an apple core, some screwed-up balls of paper and more empty glasses.