Penmarric (37 page)

“No, darling, the hotel manager is changing our suite. Papa decided be didn’t like the rooms and so the manager said we could have another suite instead.”

“Oh, I see …” I fidgeted. “Is the lady staying here with the boy?”

“No, they’ve gone to another hotel. Papa was going to leave too and take us somewhere else but when he heard she was going he decided simply to change suites. So we must wait here until the porters have finished moving our luggage and everything is ready.”

We waited for some time, Mama looking at a magazine and I sitting beside her so that I could see the pictures.

“You’re not still sad, are you, Mama?”

“No, Adrian. Not now.”

Papa came into the drawing room alone at last and, walked over to us. “William’s gone to bed,” he said. “We had a long talk together.” He glanced at me. “You should be in bed too. It’s very late.”

I suddenly became aware of a great emptiness. “I feel hungry,” I said surprised. “Very hungry.”

Mama smiled a little. I was relieved to see her smile again. “I think I’m hungry too! Perhaps we could have a tray sent upstairs for us, Mark.”

“What a good idea,” he said. “I’ll order it straight away.” He took her arm, stretched out to grasp my hand; together we left the drawing room and began the journey upstairs to the privacy of our new suite of rooms.

The evening was over. But nothing was ever the same again.

The next morning I said to William, “Do you mind?”

“Yes,” he said, “but I’m never going to let it show. I’m going to go through life pretending I don’t give a damn.”

I was rather shocked by this swear word although after six weeks at boarding school my ears had become accustomed to this sort of vocabulary. “Why?” I said, not understanding his defiance.

“Because
they
don’t give a damn. They don’t mind not being married—they don’t care what people think. They say they’d like to be married—well, of course they have to say that, but they can’t be married so they don’t care. And why don’t they care? Because they know they’re as good as any husband and wife. Well, I’m going to be as good as any legitimate son, and I shall think of myself as legitimate, but if anyone ever calls me a bastard I shan’t knock his teeth in because that would show I cared, so I’m going to laugh and say ‘what the hell’ and then no one can ever ever insult me because I shan’t care enough to feel insulted.”

I listened to him, dazed. I had never heard William talk with such passionate intensity on any subject before. After a long moment I said, “What’s a bastard?”

“Us,” said William. “It’s a swear word like devil and bitch and bloody.”

I was shocked. “Well, if anyone ever calls me that,” I said at once, “I shall fight him. I’ll knock him down and beat him till he apologizes.”

“Save your energy! It’s not worth it!”

“But I must!” I said, even more shocked. “It’s a matter of principle! Nobody’s going to go around calling me bad names when I’m good.”

“But you are a bastard, you little silly! It’s true!”

“I’m not bad,” I said stubbornly, clinging to my pattern, my neat classification and my immaculate filing system, “and no one is going to go around calling me bad names.”

“Then you’re just asking for trouble,” said William, “Practically begging for it.”

But I did not believe him.

We began to hear more and more about the Castallacks after that. Appalled, we learned that the boy we had seen at Brighton was not an only child; he had two brothers and three sisters, and—most appalling of all—Papa wanted to bring all of them to Allengate to live with us.

“It’s very kind of Papa to think we might like other children to play with,” I said to Mama after she had informed us of this proposal, “but please tell him not to worry. Allengate is just right for you, Papa, William and me. I don’t think we want any other people here, thank you.”

“Absolutely not!” said William loudly. “And I think it’s quite wrong of him to suggest it.”

“Well, really!” said Mama strongly. “Shame on you both! Think how fortunate you are! You have a beautiful home with everything you could possibly want and two parents who love each other. I think you should spare a thought for others less fortunate than yourselves. Those children have been brought up in a dreary isolated mansion with parents who have been too preoccupied by unhappiness to spend much time with them, and now that their mother is seeking a judicial separation from Papa it must seem to them that fate has treated them even more harshly than before. You should be anxious for them to come to Allengate, if only so that you can show them what a truly happy home is like.”

I hung my head in shame but William said abruptly, “I know Papa said he couldn’t divorce their mother, but why can’t she divorce him? If she’s seeking a judicial separation why can’t she seek a divorce? And what’s the difference between divorce and a judicial separation anyway?”

“Divorce is a very drastic step,” said Mama, “and Mrs. Castallack may have found herself unable to take it for moral or religious or social reasons. A judicial separation means that she will remain Papa’s wife—but in name only. He is not allowed to treat her as if she were his wife and she cannot expect him to visit her as he did in the past.”

“That sounds just like a divorce,” I said, puzzled.

“It’s similar in some ways. But in a judicial separation the marriage still exists, while in a divorce the marriage is dissolved so that the parties are free to marry again.”

“She should divorce him!” said William angrily. “What’s the point of insisting on only a judicial separation? It’s not fair!”

“I know her decision—right or wrong—is very distressing for us,” said Mama without hesitation, “but we must all three of us remember that it’s even more distressing for Papa because he hates to see any of us unhappy. So we must be very careful not to complain to him. Also Papa has so many other worries at this time that it’s all the more important that we shouldn’t add to them in any way. For example, I know he’s most concerned about those six children. He and Mrs. Castallack cannot agree where the children shall live now, and that’s why he’s had to make these frequent journeys to London ever since you both came home for the holidays—he was obliged to consult the judge since only the judge can make a firm ruling on the matter.”

“Will the judge decide in Papa’s favor?”

“We don’t know what he will decide yet. But I thought you should know that the children may all be coming here to live. Mrs. Castallack has been behaving a little unwisely and so the judge may even decide that she should not be allowed to keep her daughters with her. But whatever happens to the girls it does seem almost certain that Papa will receive custody of the boys, so—”

“All the boys?” I said. “Even the one at Brighton?”

“Philip? Yes, of course. He’s only a little older than you and so I’m sure you’ll soon become good friends with him.”

I was silent. I knew even then that Philip and I were not destined to be friends.

At the end of the Christmas holidays William became ill and I was not allowed to go back to school until I was safely out of quarantine. He had diphtheria. Mama devoted every hour of the day to nursing him while Papa, looking ill with exhaustion himself, spent his time traveling between the sickroom at Allengate and the courts of law in London. However, at last I was allowed to return to school, and William, who was by this time a little better, was left to recuperate slowly at home. Mama took him abroad to Switzerland for two weeks in March to complete his convalescence. I felt envious of him enjoying himself among the Alps while I was having to work so hard at school.

When I came home for the spring holidays, Papa met me at the station and there on the platform beside him was a thin, pale William recently returned from Switzerland.

“William!” I bounced over to him joyously. “Did you have a nice time? Thank you for your postcard! Is your heart still strained?”

“My blood pressure is high,” said William grandly, “but otherwise I’m well, thank you.”

Papa embraced me and patted the top of my head. “Did you have a good journey?”

I nodded, looking around the platform. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s waiting for you at home,” said Papa, “with the children.”

I stood stock-still. William’s eyes, dark and watchful, met mine for a moment. He made a fleeting grimace.

“All the children,” said Papa casually as an afterthought. “I brought the girls and Hugh up a week ago and Philip and Marcus arrived here from their school in Surrey the day before yesterday. Now let’s find your luggage and start the journey home.”

As soon as we were alone I hissed to William, “Why didn’t you write and tell me? You didn’t say a word about it in your letters!”

“Mama asked me not to, because she didn’t want you to worry when you were so far away at school. Anyway I couldn’t write when I was ill—”

“What are they like?”

“Well, Marcus is a fairly decent sort of fellow, and Hugh’s harmless enough and the girls are just girls; but Philip is the absolute end. He’s the most detestable little brute I’ve ever met.”

The hackles rose on the back of my neck. “I knew he would be,” I said. “I knew it. I shan’t go near him.”

“You’ll have to. He’s sharing your bedroom with you.”

“What!”

“There aren’t enough bedrooms to go around. I’m sharing with Marcus, and Papa said that as you and Philip were the same age—”

I left him. I marched down the platform, accosted Papa and announced in my firmest voice, “Papa, I don’t want to share my room with anyone except William. Could you arrange it so that—”

“Into the carriage, Adrian,” he said abruptly. “We don’t discuss family affairs on station platforms.”

In the carriage I tried again. “Papa, I don’t mind sharing with William, but I don’t want to share with—”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” he said in a sharp, hard voice he had never used to me before, “and no nonsense.”

I was silenced. I stared at him, my cheeks burning, and thought in misery: We don’t matter any more. The other children come first. And the tears pricked unexpectedly behind my eyes as the carriage rolled on toward Allengate.

Mama came out to meet us and embraced me as warmly as ever. She looked so completely unchanged and so utterly serene that I hugged her for a moment longer than usual. When I released her at last and turned to the open front door I saw that two pairs of blue eyes were inspecting me curiously from the doorway.

“Adrian darling,” said Mama, “here are Hugh and Jeanne. Hugh is seven and a half and Jeanne is five.”

I looked at them coldly. The little girl turned and ran shyly away into the hall, but the boy smiled at me. He had a peculiarly sweet smile, open and frank. His golden hair and light blue eyes gave him a look of effortless innocence.

“Come along, Adrian,” said Papa. “Where are your manners?”

My cheeks burned again. “Hullo,” I said to the boy.

“How do you do,” said Hugh with winning politeness, and held out his hand.

After a moment I shook it and turned away. “How are you, Mama dear,” I said clearly. “Thank you for your lovely cards from Switzerland.”

“Did you like them? It was so beautiful there—next time you must come too and see it for yourself.” She took my hand tightly in hers and squeezed it. “Come in and meet Marcus and Mariana.”

Marcus was already in the hall. He was tall and sturdy with an encouragingly friendly smile.

“Hullo Adrian,” he said, also offering me his hand to shake. “William has talked so much about you. It’s nice to see you at last.”

His eyes, light blue like Hugh’s, were so clear and frank and unconcerned. For some odd reason I did not trust them. For a second I imagined myself taken from my mother and from Allengate and sent to live among strangers; it occurred to me that the very last thing I would do in such circumstances would be to feel friendly toward my new companions. I thought: They’re pretending. They hate us as much as we hate them. They don’t really want to be friends.

We went into the drawing room. Seated on the window seat in a classic pose was the prettiest little girl I had ever seen. She had black hair, beautifully arranged, a pink and white skin and those same clear light eyes.

How odd that they should all have those horrid eyes was my reaction, and suddenly I was remembering Brighton, the woman with the flashy gown, her frosty ice-cold stare.

“Hullo,” said Mariana, smoothing the folds of her exquisite white dress, and looked me up and down with a quick flicker of her long black lashes.

I shuffled my feet, overcome by her femininity, and was glad when Hugh said brightly, “Did you see any motorcars on the road, William?”

“Only one.”

“What fun! Mariana, we should have gone to the station with them as Papa suggested and then we would have seen a motorcar!”

“I don’t like motorcars,” said Mariana.

Mama said, “Jeanne! Don’t be shy, dear—come over and say hullo to Adrian!”

But the little girl who was standing behind the sofa only hid her face in Mama’s skirts and would not look at me.

“Ring for tea, Rose, would you?” said Papa, coming into the room. “Marcus, where’s Philip?”

There was an awkward silence.

“I don’t know, Papa,” said Marcus.

It seemed so strange to hear a complete stranger address my father as Papa. I didn’t like it. It made me feel angry.

“Well,” Papa was saying abruptly, “if Philip doesn’t want any tea that’s his business and he can go hungry. Are you hungry, Adrian?”

“Yes,” I said. “Starving.”

I must have sounded unusually belligerent, but he merely smiled at me and suggested that I go to the cloakroom to wash my hands while Finch the parlor maid was bringing in the tea.

I escaped, but instead of heading for the downstairs cloakroom I ran across the hall and raced upstairs to my room.

A baby was crying somewhere. I grimaced and, beside myself with fury at the thought of my own home being invaded by a tribe of unwanted strangers, I kicked open the door of my room with such a savage bang that it nearly fell off its hinges and walked, still trembling with indignation, into my own private sanctuary.