Authors: Susan Howatch
I was so surprised that I exclaimed: “Thank goodness Aunt never knew that—she hated having to revise her opinions!”
“But as a woman of integrity wasn’t she interested in truth?”
“Yes, but she didn’t think truth had anything to do with religion.”
“We all have our religions,” said Nicholas. “We all have our ways of grappling with reality in order to make sense of our world. And
didn’t you tell me that your Aunt’s religion was England—or rather, nineteenth-century English patriotism?”
I laughed before protesting: “But England’s real! You can touch it and measure it! Aunt didn’t believe in anything which couldn’t be touched and measured and verified scientifically.”
“And is patriotism something which can be weighed and measured and verified scientifically? And justice? And all those other qualities your aunt believed in so passionately?”
I couldn’t begin to imagine how Aunt would have replied to this, so I just said feebly: “But science is important!”
“It’s very important indeed. But it’s not the only window on reality.”
I suddenly realised he was parking, switching off the engine, and with a shock I saw we were back in Dean Danvers Street. Nicholas paused. He had turned to look at me. His right hand, still resting on the steering wheel, was perfectly still, the long fingers relaxed. His left hand was lying carelessly on his left thigh as he faced me, and the left thigh itself, shrouded with black cloth, was set at an angle which brought his knee within inches of mine. When I could no longer meet his eyes I stared down instead at the gap which separated us and knew it symbolised a gulf which could never be bridged no matter how kind to me he chose to be.
Casually he said: “Come and see me at St. Benet’s some time if you want me to help you find a more sympathetic doctor. I was disturbed to hear of your non-relationship with your GP.”
“Well, I don’t really need a doctor,” I said at once. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a diet won’t cure.”
“Okay, forget the doctor. But come and talk about food. Maybe you don’t need to diet at all.”
I was astounded. “How can you possibly say that?”
“Because you may only need to change your life-style.” He paused before adding: “Think it over. I’d like to help if I can.”
“But I couldn’t afford—”
“There’s no charge. We’re funded by a charitable foundation and private gifts.”
For one long moment the romantic dream consumed me and I dreamed of a future which guaranteed me regular visits to St. Benet’s. But then I remembered the unbridgeable gulf and knew I could go no further. I had to fight against being lured on by well-meaning kindness into a world where he would always be unattainable. Better
to be thankful for these few precious moments and then go on my way alone. I didn’t want to wind up as a pathetic groupie, hanging around St. Benet’s and becoming a nuisance, and I didn’t want to end up in a doctor-patient relationship with him either. I felt too strongly; I knew I could care too much. Either I met him as an equal in his own world or I didn’t meet him at all—and since the very notion of meeting him as an equal there was ridiculous I knew I had to wipe it from my mind straight away.
“It’s very kind of you to want to go on helping me,” I said politely, “and I’m very grateful, but I must stand on my own two feet now.” And in an attempt to divert us both from such a difficult subject I added lightly: “Does everyone at St. Benet’s behave as if even the most insignificant person has value?”
“I should hope so,” said Nicholas dryly, withdrawing his hand from the wheel and opening the door. “We’re supposed to be following a man who believed everyone was special, even those on the margins of society who feel themselves despised and ignored.” And scrambling out of the car he began to feed coins into the meter.
Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know why but I at once hated myself for not controlling my emotions properly. Aunt would have been appalled. Furtively using my cuff as a handkerchief I heaved my bulk from the passenger seat, grabbed my keys from my bag and somehow managed to open the front door.
X
Well
, I got over that bout of stupidity, of course I did, there was so much to do, food to take out of the fridge, wine to uncork, people to talk to—I didn’t have time to give way to turgid emotions, did I, I had to keep up appearances, behave as Aunt would have wished, see that everything was done properly. Anyway, I was brought down to earth soon enough when I opened the first bottle of the wine and found it tasted like paint-stripper. That was a bad start. I noticed that Nicholas only had one sip from his glass and only two of the hors d’oeuvres which I had so enjoyed preparing. When he refused a third I was stupid enough to ask: “Is something wrong with them?” although I knew there wasn’t because the other guests were tucking in happily enough and I myself had already put away at least six. In reply he said: “I’m afraid I never eat and drink much when I’m on
duty in a clerical suit,” which I thought was a clever excuse, putting the blame on clerical etiquette, but I was still oppressed by a sense of failure.
He left half an hour later, but he didn’t leave me without a memento of St. Benet’s; when I went out into the hall to see him off he surprised me by producing from his raincoat pocket an advance copy of the church’s monthly magazine. “Hot from the presses!” he said with a smile. “I brought it because there’s an ad in the back which might interest you. Someone’s looking for a cook.” And before I could comment he had wished me good luck and was gone.
It was as if he knew that the quickest goodbye would be the easiest for me to bear.
XI
By two o’clock
everyone had departed and I was left in the kitchen with the last plate of hors d’oeuvres and several bottles of the paint-stripper. I did have another go at drinking the stuff—getting drunk to blot out the pain of parting from Nicholas seemed to make excellent sense—but the taste was so revolting that I abandoned this project and finished off the food instead. When I finally paused to read the St. Benet’s magazine I found I had a craving for something sweet after all the savouries but I was clean out of rum raisin ice cream. Opening a packet of golden syrup biscuits instead, I began to thumb my way through the magazine to the advertisements at the back.
“Painter/Decorator, experienced, good refs …,” “Carpenter, no job too small …” Where did all these small-time tradesmen come from in the opulent square mile of the City? I supposed they lived in Tower Hamlets, the deprived borough to the east—or perhaps in Islington, the socially mixed borough to the north … My glance travelled on down the column, “
CAT LOST
, Clerkenwell Green area, favourite haunt St. James’s churchyard …” I sighed, both for the lost cat and for beautiful Orlando, now deceased, “
ACCOMMODATION WANTED
…” I skipped this section and zeroed in on “
SITUATIONS VACANT
,” but the first advertisement hardly seemed suitable. “Lady, semi-disabled, requires Christian woman to live in, light cooking, other help kept …” I was sure I didn’t qualify as a Christian, and “light cooking” would hardly test my Cordon Bleu skills, but what was this next one? “Cook
wanted, live in, non-smoker, SW1 area, must be able to cook delicious low-calorie dishes in addition to sophisticated cuisine for dinner-parties, references essential, salary to be negotiated, those without a Cordon Bleu need not apply …”
I was so intrigued that I forgot the biscuits and polished my glasses to make sure I’d read the ad correctly. I myself lived in SW1, the eastern end which, apart from the little Georgian enclave around Smith Square, was hardly considered a choice area of the City of Westminster. But beyond the council estates of Page Street and the charity housing around Perkin’s Rents, beyond the market on Strutton Ground and the church at Rochester Row, lay Pimlico, where the yuppies now exercised their Porsches, and north of Pimlico lay the cream-and-white magnificence of Belgravia, the classiest part of SW1. A person who could afford to keep a live-in cook—not a cook-housekeeper but a cook—and imperiously demand a Cordon Bleu qualification (which meant the salary would be more than peanuts) wouldn’t be living in Perkin’s Rents and doing her shopping on Strutton Ground. Nor would she be renovating some tired terrace house in the Pimlico Grid and making shopping trips to Sainsbury’s, Nine Elms. She’d be living in Belgravia, possibly in one of the Eatons—Eaton Place, Eaton Terrace, maybe even Eaton Square—and doing her shopping in Harrods Food Hall.
I decided I could take to life in Belgravia very happily, but did I have any hope at all of nailing such a glittering prize? Normally I would never have considered applying for anything so upmarket. Rich, beautiful people, I had always told myself, would never want to employ someone who couldn’t mirror their glamour. However … I paused to examine my pre-conceived ideas. Someone who advertised in a church magazine wasn’t going to be a run-of-the-mill rich bitch, and someone who advertised in the St. Benet’s magazine was possibly not going to be a bitch at all. Perhaps she too believed everyone had value, and besides … would Nicholas have mentioned the job to me if he’d felt I had no chance of getting it?
A second later it dawned on me that he’d wanted me to apply—which in turn meant he’d seen no reason why I shouldn’t be successful. Perhaps he’d even seen me as ideally suited to work for this person—but no, I was getting carried away by my dream of living within a stone’s throw of Harrods’ Food Hall and I had to return to earth at once.
By this time I was in such a state of nervous excitement that I had
to have yet another golden syrup biscuit. Almost immediately I paid the price for all my bingeing that day, and as soon as I’d finished vomiting I crawled upstairs, flopped on my bed and passed out in utter exhaustion.
XII
When
I awoke an hour later I knew I had to call the advertiser immediately before I started bingeing again out of sheer fright. Marching downstairs I grabbed the magazine, reached for the telephone and started dialling.
The woman answered on the first ring. I pictured her reclining on a couch in a sumptuous drawing-room while sipping tea—Lapsang Souchong, perhaps—from a Crown Derby cup. Beyond the tall Georgian windows the trees of Eaton Square would be swaying in an exquisitely delicate breeze.
“Hullo?” It was certainly an aristocratic voice, soprano and self-confident, and the manner proved to be aristocratic too, pleasant but steely, making me wonder if her charm was only skin-deep. A polite conversation ensued, effortlessly shaped by this formidable female. It was hard to guess how old she was. She could have been in her thirties but the effortless way in which she directed the interrogation made me suspect she was considerably older.
“What’s your connection with St. Benet’s?” she demanded sharply after asking the essential questions about my qualifications.
“The Rector conducted my aunt’s funeral today.”
Of course she didn’t offer her condolences. What was Aunt to her? She didn’t know me, and the idea that she might make an effort to observe the conventions of middle-class politeness obviously never entered her head. Instead she exclaimed with pleasure: “Ah, so you know Nick!” and for the first time I heard the genuine warmth in her voice.
Briskly she said: “Very well, this is the situation: I have a house in Eaton Terrace—the Eaton Square end—and there’s a tiny flat in the basement for a live-in employee, just a bedroom, sitting-room, bathroom and kitchen. I have the most wonderful cleaner, a treasure who comes in almost every day, so apart from the cooking you wouldn’t have to do anything except clean up after yourself in the kitchen—oh, and keep the basement flat spick-and-span, of course. I like to entertain
a lot but otherwise there’s only me to cater for—I’m a widow and my children are grown up. I go away now and then, and while I’m away I’d expect you to act as a caretaker—which is why I advertised in Nick’s magazine; I’ve got to get the sort of person who’s absolutely honest, even when she’s unsupervised, and I decided my best course was to trawl a Christian community and ask the priest’s opinion of whoever turned up in the net … Nick didn’t mention you, by the way, when I placed the advertisement last week.”
“I’ve only just met him.”
“Never mind, he’ll have summed you up accurately, he’s psychic. Where was I? Oh yes, the caretaking. There’s a burglar alarm—and I’ve also got a dog, but Mortimer goes everywhere with me so he won’t be around to guard you while you’re on your own. Are you likely to panic if you’re alone in the house at night?”
“Not in the least.”
“Good. Now, I’ll pay the going rate and give the usual amount of holiday, but we can talk about that later if I decide you’re suitable. When can you come to see me?”
“Well—”
“Shall we say noon tomorrow? I have a committee meeting in the morning, but I’ll be home by eleven-thirty.”
“Noon—yes—thank you—”
She gave me the number of the house. “Bring your references,” she added, “and your Cordon Bleu certificate. I always believe in checking details—you mustn’t think I intend to rely
entirely
on Nick’s psychic powers. Now, is that all quite clear?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs.—” I paused, waiting for the final piece of information.
“Lady Cynthia Aysgarth,” came the crisp reply. “That’s
A-Y-S-G-A-R-T-H
, like the place in Yorkshire. Thank you, Miss Fletcher.” And she hung up, leaving me still scribbling that unfamiliar northern name.
XIII
I sat
on the sofa, my brain automatically printing out the class-system data which had been accumulating there ever since the day over thirty-two years ago when I had drawn my first breath of English air. Lady Cynthia Aysgarth wouldn’t have mentioned her Christian
name in those particular circumstances unless it formed part of her title. She hadn’t declared herself to be merely “Lady Aysgarth,” so that meant she wasn’t a life peeress or the wife of a baron, baronet or knight. “Lady Cynthia Aysgarth,” requiring to be addressed as “Lady Cynthia,” would be the daughter of an earl or a marquess—or possibly even the daughter of a duke. I had never met such a creature before in my life, but now was hardly the time to feel squeamish about the upper classes.