The Continuity Girl (20 page)

Mish stamped her foot. “And then what?”

“I was eventually sent to boarding school. Then to Cambridge for art history.”

“No, I mean with
the Beatles.
”

“Oh right, the Beatles. Well, there we were at the Savoy, just the band and my sister and I, when Nancy—my sister—announces
to the entire room that she’s a virgin.”

“How old was she?” asked Mish.

Meredith kicked her sideways.

“Let’s see.” Chubby counted on her fingers. “If I was six, she would have been, oh, eighteen. She seemed a lifetime older
than me at the time. I’m not sure what she was thinking, bringing me along. But anyway, after a few more drinks and whatnot,
they all decided
to draw straws. To decide—you know.” Chubby opened her eyes very wide.

Nigel took over. “And guess who Nancy got?”

“Who?” Mish’s whole head quivered.

“Ringo.”

“No!”

Chubby lowered her head and shook it miserably. “The truth is...I don’t really want to discuss it any further. It’s too difficult.”

Mish nodded.

“Well, that’s enough of that,” Nigel sang, clapping Mish and Mere-dith around the hips. “Come along, girls. Bring the dogs
if you like. I want you to see what we’ve been doing to the maids’ old quarters.”

By the time they returned to the sitting room, the fire had gone out and Barnaby was sitting alone on the love seat, his long
legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, chin on his chest, gently snoring. Meredith thought he looked like someone trying
to sleep on an airplane. Chubby was nowhere to be seen.

Meredith sat down beside Barnaby and squeezed his arm.

Barnaby started. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

The look on his face was so confused, Meredith felt the urge to pull him onto her lap and rock him back to sleep.

“No, no, it’s fine. Nigel just took us on a tour of the house. You were only asleep for a little while. Not even an hour.”

“Oh.” Barnaby slumped, then pulled himself up and made a serious face. “I couldn’t find Harriet. I called and called but she
wouldn’t come.”

“She’ll turn up.”

“I hope so. It’s highly unusual behaviour. I so rarely have guests. Certainly not women. I think she may have been jealous.”

Meredith looked across the room to where Nigel was pouring Mish more sherry from the crystal decanter. “Surely birds don’t
get jealous,” she said.

“I don’t know.” Barnaby motioned to Didier for another Double Diamond. “They might.”

There was a commotion in the corridor, the double doors swung open and two little girls in white cotton nightgowns trotted
into the room. The smaller child ran up and wrapped her arms around Barnaby’s knees. A plastic comb was snared in her hair.

“Little Miss Titty,” he said.

“Uncle Barnaby, I’m so glad you’ve come. Tatia pulls my hair so hard after my bath it makes me cry, even when I’m not at all
sad.” She lowered her voice and looked back at her older sister, who hung by the door looking bored. “And Petsy’s been
beastly
all evening.”

“Really?” said Barnaby, eyes widening. “Well, you know what you must do to older siblings who torment you?” And he bent down
and began to whisper in the little girl’s ear, sending her into shrieks of laughter—which stopped when a red-haired woman
walked into the room hoisting a fat infant on her hip.

“Girls,” she said in a steely eastern European accent. “Say hello to the guests.”

Petsy and Titty had begun a reluctant but well-mannered round of limp handshaking when Chubby returned, looking like a tired
work pony—all swollen belly, knobby knees and coarse, dry mane. She clopped across the room and placed her girth squarely
between her husband and Mish, who was receiving an involved lecture on the history of the sixteenth-century Florentine door
frames. Nigel’s hand had been resting on Mish’s upper arm, just inches from the side of her left breast, when his wife appeared.
He let it flutter gradually to his trouser pocket, skimming the edge of Mish’s buttock in the process.

“Darling,” Chubby interrupted in a louder-than-necessary voice. “Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. Would you like to
show the guests to the dining room?”

Nigel smiled at his wife. “Of course, my love.”

The Yorkies reappeared from under one of the sofas, where they had been devouring a forgotten piece of lint-covered liver
pâté. They began to yap furiously and pull at the hems of the girls’ nightgowns. The children squealed in delight.

“Girls!” Chubby shouted, “How many times must I tell you—use your French when speaking to the dogs!”

Tatia held out the baby to be kissed while the other girls took turns saying good night to the adults. Petsy, the sullen older
one (who looked about twenty-two but was actually eleven), seemed suddenly reluctant to go to bed. Having to make small talk
with strangers was a bore, her expression said, but being sent to bed at nine-thirty on a Saturday night was downright humiliating.

“Mummy, do you mind if I take the dogs out for a walk around the garden before I go to bed? I think they might need to pee.”

Chubby looked suspicious for a moment, then sighed. The late stages of pregnancy seemed to have pushed her beyond argument.
“Just make sure you put your boots on and mind you don’t get your nightgown wet.” Petsy glowered and sauntered out of the
room with John, Paul and George in tow.

Soon enough, dinner was served. The guests advanced to the dining room, a drafty, music-free chamber dominated by a blazing
electric chandelier.

A woman in a starched apron distributed wedges of mysterious-looking game pie.

The table was a large walnut oval, polished to a reflective gloss. Meredith checked her lipstick while pretending to admire
the china pattern. They were seated in an even spread around the table, so conversation had to be shouted, creating an echo
off the ceiling. Apart from the blazing chandelier, the enormous walk-in fireplace, and the oil paintings of plump, unsmiling
ancestors, Meredith was reminded of her loft back in Canada. Something about the cold rectangularity of the room. She reached
for her napkin but found there wasn’t one.

At the other end of the table, Chubby watched her husband talk to Mish. For a pregnant woman, Meredith noticed, she wasn’t
eating much.

“Your children are so polite,” said Meredith, hoping her words wouldn’t sound disingenuous (they weren’t).

“Oh, thank you.” Chubby seemed to soften a bit, took a sip of her wine. “I’m sorry you didn’t really get to talk to them.
Petsy’s going through a snarky adolescent phase and Titty’s so in love with Barnaby she can’t bear to talk to anyone else
when he’s around.”

“I thought they were sweet.” She smiled at Chubby’s tummy. “When are you due?”

“Any second now. Actually, not for a month. But it feels like any second.”

“You must be an expert at it by now.” Meredith shook her head, awed. “Four. I can’t imagine.”

“But that’s just it.
Neither can I.
” Chubby fiddled with her earring and avoided looking down. “You think it’s something you’re
going to
do,
and then in the end, it just sort of
happens
to you.”

Meredith picked off a bit of gravy-soaked pastry with her fork and chewed it with her front teeth. It tasted like coat lining.

“Do you have any siblings?” asked Chubby.

“No, just me. My mother wasn’t into being a mother.”

“Ah.” Chubby nodded deeply. “A careerist?”

“In a way. She was a poet. Still is, I guess.”

“Ooh, really! I adore poetry. What’s her name? Perhaps I know her.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“Is she famous?”

“Not really. Her name’s Irma Moore.”

“Irma Moore! Of course.
Dirty Girls on Acid,
yes?”

“That’s the one.”

Chubby’s jewelry began to jingle. “Why, Nigel!” she trilled across the table. “Did you know we have a daughter of a famous
poet in our midst? Meredith is the daughter of Irma Moore.”

Nigel removed his gaze from Mish. “Pardon me, darling, what was that?”

“You know Irma Moore? The famous poet?”

“Member at the Club, isn’t she? Absolutely barking.”

“What I was trying to
tell
you is that Meredith is her daughter.”

“No!” Nigel narrowed his eyes as if he were seeing Meredith for the first time. “But you don’t seem...anything like her. Are
you absolutely
certain
she’s your mother?”

“Oh, Nigel, don’t be ridiculous. Of
course
she’s sure. She does
look
like her.” Chubby stood up, a process that involved much
straining and hoisting. “I have one of her collections in my study and if I recall correctly, the author’s photo looks just
like you. It was taken in the sixties, of course, and her hair is bobbed just like yours. Except she’s wearing something eccentric.
An Indian sari?” She squinted at Meredith, who shrugged. “Your mother is
such
an original. I’ll just ring Didier to pop over
to the north wing and get it.”

Chubby worked her way across the dining room and pressed the button on the wall beside the door frame, and just as she did,
a loud, unmistakable
crack
of gunfire came from somewhere outside—but not far from—the house.

Barnaby, who had been silent for the entire meal, jumped up so quickly his chair flew backward and narrowly missed smashing
the glass door of the liquor cabinet.

“Do be careful, old chap,” Nigel said in a shouty voice Meredith hadn’t heard him use but she sensed it was close to his usual
tone. He turned back to Mish. “That cabinet belonged to our cousin, the seventh Earl of Coventry—he brought it back from his
honeymoon in Rome after marrying the daughter of Lord Pemberton. Actually, speaking of Pemberton, did you know he was a great
friend of Octavius Paisley, the cricketer?”

But before Nigel could take a breath and launch into the story, Barnaby shot from the room.

“What on earth do you suppose has gotten into him?” Chubby drawled, leaning back in her chair and rolling her head back and
forth on her shoulders to release tension from her neck. “It’s probably just some local schoolboys.”

Nigel shrugged and returned to eating.

Then they heard the scream. A girl’s. And then another shot.

Meredith rose from the table and rushed outside after Barnaby. The others followed.

The light from the sitting room flooded the topiary garden. And at the foot of a giant hedge in the shape of a chicken was
Petsy, on her knees, her nightdress stained with something thick and dark. Barnaby was bent over, trying, it seemed, to get
her to stand up.

“Paul is dead!” she wailed, yanking her arm away from her uncle and remaining on the ground. “That awful bird just dropped
him on the ground!”

Barnaby stepped back. Meredith saw that Petsy was cupping a fuzzy bulk between her palms—the twitching body of a terrier.

“My God,” said Chubby. But as she moved toward her daughter, there was another blast of gunfire, this time closer. The surviving
terriers pranced in frantic little circles.

Barnaby sniffed the air. He charged over to a bush in the shape of a toadstool and pulled it aside to reveal Didier holding
a shotgun high on his shoulder. The butler aimed and danced back on his feet.

“Move aside,
monsieur,
” he said.

Just as Barnaby made a dive for his arm, Didier took aim and shot again. This time the noise was followed by a fluttering
and a
thump.
Something had fallen out of the night sky. Barnaby walked over and sank to his knees. He sobbed once and went
silent. The rest stood there struggling to grasp what had happened.

It was Chubby who broke the spell by wrenching the dead Yorkie from her daughter’s hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, darling,
put poor Paul down, would you? You’ll only dirty yourself more. You haven’t been smoking, have you? You smell of smoke. Come
inside. Didier is going to put away his gun and make us both hot toddies—aren’t you, Didier?”

The butler blinked as if waking from a dream. He gave a small, deferential bow to no one in particular, handed the rifle over
to Nigel and escorted Chubby and Petsy inside.

As soon as his wife and daughter had disappeared, Nigel turned to his brother, gun in hand.

“How many times have I told you those birds are a danger to everyone, including yourself? And now
look.
” With his free hand
Nigel gestured to the carnage on the gravel between the garden hedges. “Stop sniffling like a girl. If Father could see you
now he’d...” Nigel paused and then finished his sentence with a disgusted guttural noise.

Mish tugged at Meredith’s arm, indicating they should go back into the house, but Meredith stood still.

Barnaby lifted his head. His face was a coiled spring. At first Meredith was afraid he would scream. Nigel might shoot him
if he did. Instead, Nigel walked over to his brother and held out the gun.

“What do you want me to do with that?”

“I expect you to go straight back to the aviary and promptly destroy and dispose of every last one of those blasted birds,”
Nigel directed. “After tonight, surely we can agree they’re a danger to everyone. I simply won’t allow it any longer.”

“But—” Barnaby began in desperation but then stopped, defeated.

“Perhaps you could finally take up tennis,” Nigel offered.

Barnaby got up and, as he did, grabbed Harriet’s bleeding body by the throat. He snatched the rifle from Nigel and set off
without a word, across the winding gravel path through the topiary garden toward Pear Cottage and the aviary.

Meredith followed, and when she finally caught up to Barnaby, he was sitting on a stump outside the aviary draining another
tallboy. Beside him on the ground was a burning oil lamp. Without a word, he shoved over on the stump to give her room. She
sat down beside him. He reached into his jacket pocket and offered her a can, which she took.

For a long time they sat and drank in silence. When Meredith began to shiver, Barnaby took off his blazer and wrapped it around
her shoulders. She leaned her head on his arm.