‘Fucking hell, it’s a palace!’
Bruno, not letting on that he hadn’t been before, played it cool.
‘Her husband’s really rich.’
‘You’re not kidding …’ breathed Sean. ‘I mean, fucking hell.’ He peered at the metal console on the gatepost. ‘They’re not taking any risks either.’
Bruno affected nonchalance. ‘Let’s find a beer.’
Sean described himself as being ‘in the music business’ but they both knew that a) his work life was fluid and b) he was a not-even-glorified gofer to a couple of hard-living A and R men who treated him like shit. But it would do for the moment, and the A and R men had cash to spray around so the job, though low status, was surprisingly well paid.
He didn’t think much of Bruno’s college plans.
‘That’ll bore the scuds off you, man. What are you doing that for?’
‘It’ll pass the time,’ said Bruno loftily.
‘I’d have thought you’d have had enough of being a student.’
‘I’d had enough of school, being a student’s different.’
‘If you say so.’
‘If something comes up I can always drop out.’
Sean shook his head. ‘I couldn’t do it, I fucking tell you.’
‘All that cheap booze and women?’ Bruno never said ‘girls’ – he had his reputation to think of. Sean gave him a sardonic look.
‘That what they told you?’
Nobody had told Bruno anything, but he was perfectly happy with the current plan. He had no burning ambition to do anything in particular, and the prospect of two or three years in London subsidized by his parents and the government, was quite appealing. Academically he’d always been able to cream the competition without much effort, and he was pretty confident he could do so now with English, Media and Religious Studies. Sean thought this last was particularly hilarious.
‘You’re having a laugh!’
‘Doesn’t mean I’m religious.’
‘No, but – come on, dude!’
Teasing of this kind was water off a duck’s back to Bruno. ‘And you know what, I might be a vicar, they’re always looking for those, it’s like the army.’
The thought of this was so excruciatingly funny they’d both cracked up.
They stayed in the pub till quarter to five, consuming another pint each and in Sean’s case a chilli sandwich, the house speciality.
‘You not eating?’ he asked round a large dark red mouthful.
‘Don’t need to,’ Bruno reminded him. ‘I’m having my dinner at the big house.’
Much later they left the pub and went their separate ways. It was a fair walk to the TS’s, and Bruno had already done it once that day, so he spent some of the train fare money on a taxi up the hill, and pressed the button by the gate. A young woman – not his sister – answered.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘It’s Bruno.’
‘Oh hi there. Push and enter.’
The gate swung open slowly, and closed just as majestically, and soundlessly, behind him. He crossed a wide sweep which seemed to be made of white bricks in a herringbone pattern and as he did so the front door opened. At least something opened, less a door than a vast sheet of cloudy glass that slid back to reveal a tall red-haired young woman, presumably the one who’d answered the intercom, with a seriously cute small girl beside her, dressed in dungarees and blue desert boots. This he assumed was his niece Cissy, whom he hadn’t seen for over a year.
‘Welcome Bruno. I’m Ellie. I’m the nanny.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ They exchanged a handshake. Bruno grinned. He was preternaturally gifted at sniffing out an ally.
As the plate glass slid shut behind him, the little girl said, ‘Is your name Bruno?’
‘That’s right.’
‘My bear’s called Bruno.’
Bruno had little experience of small children but sensed Ellie’s eyes on him. ‘I’m in good company then, aren’t I? I know your name, you’re Cissy.’
‘Cecilia called Cissy,’ she said, no doubt parroting what she’d heard others say about her.
Ellie said, ‘I’ll show you your room. Felicity should be back any minute.’
‘I want to come.’ Cissy was already heading for the stairs at the far end of the hall. The staircase was wide and shallow, made of blond wood, curving in an elegant sweep past a window that stretched from floor to ceiling. ‘I know where it is.’
‘You probably know anyway, don’t you,’ said Ellie. ‘You’ll have been here before.’
‘No.’ Bruno felt a squeak embarrassed to admit it. ‘I remember their old house. This is a bit different.’
‘Not everyone’s cup of tea,’ said Ellie, crossing the enormous white-carpeted landing. ‘But I really like it.’ She wore loose fatigue-style trousers with many pockets, a black T-shirt and Birkenstocks, an ensemble that seemed to declare unequivocally that though an employee she was in no way subservient.
Beyond the landing was another short flight of steps of normal size. Below this was a second landing with four doors. Ellie pushed open one, then another. ‘Family bathroom, that’ll be you, separate loo’ – she waved a hand at the other doors – ‘airing cupboard, sewing room, don’t suppose you’ll be needing those.’
They went up another couple of steps beyond which was a short corridor with broad, low windows on either side which made it feel like a bridge. From here Bruno could see a big garden, laid mainly to grass, with a central round patio, roofed but open-sided like a bandstand. A large structure covered by a waterproof cover, a barbecue probably, stood next to the patio on which was an assortment of black rattan furniture.
‘This is your room! This is your bed!’ announced Cissy.
They were now in a whole separate part of the house, with what appeared to be several bedrooms. Opposite was an open door, with beyond it a double bed with grey-and-white striped linen, on to which Cissy was attempting to climb.
‘Down off there, young lady,’ Ellie shooed, ‘you’ve got your boots on.’
‘Can I take them off?’
‘Sure, but you still can’t jump around on the bed.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Bruno. Cissy began yanking at the velcro on her boots and he went in and set down his rucksack. The room was less palely glamorous than what he’d seen of the rest of the house, but it was still chic in its way, with pale grey linen curtains that puddled on the floor, a rough-woven cream rug, and a bedside lamp like a sinuous chrome snake. There was just one picture, a huge rectangle of variegated blue swirls.
‘Cupboards, drawers, wash basin …’ Ellie tapped and tweaked various doors, all with concealed handles. ‘Bathroom you know about.’ She stood with hands raised. ‘All OK?’
‘More than.’
‘I’ll leave you to dump your stuff, come down when you’re ready. Cissy’ – she held out her hand – ‘you come with me.’
‘I want to stay and help Bruno.’
‘He doesn’t need help.’
‘It’s fine, I’ll come down now,’ said Bruno. Ellie cocked an eyebrow and he added, diplomatically, mostly to Cissy, ‘I might not find you otherwise.’
So it was that when Felicity got home with the boys fifteen minutes later she heard voices from the kitchen and found the three of them sitting round the island. Bruno slipped off his stool.
‘Hi Fliss.’ They exchanged a cautious, skimming kiss.
‘Welcome, when did you arrive?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘All well, Ellie?’
‘Fine. Cissy’s got a new friend.’
Thundering footsteps heralded Noah and Rollo. Bruno had to suppress a slight sense of shock as his sister affected the introductions. These vivid, restless, unpredictable small people were the first boys in the family since his own arrival. Did he have anything in common with them? Had he ever been like this, so crackling with energy, so confident, so … entitled? Noah was slim and fair like his mother, with a cool regard
. Rollo had a mop of brown hair and was brown-eyed too, a sweet-looking boy. From old photographs Bruno knew that Rollo looked a little as he had at that age.
‘How long are you going to be here for?’ asked Noah, opening the fridge, which Ellie immediately closed again. ‘Oh come on! Are you staying here?’
‘Just for a while.’
‘Are you next to me?’ This was Rollo.
‘Umm …’ Bruno didn’t understand the question but Felicity answered for him.
‘He is, yes, but no pestering.’
‘I wasn’t going to pester.’
Noah looked at his mother. ‘When’s supper?’
‘When Daddy comes back. We’ll have it early this evening, all together.’
Ellie said, ‘I’ve put it in a low oven, and the veggies are ready on the top.’
‘Thanks, Ellie.’ Felicity looked at her watch (Tag Heuer Bruno noticed). ‘You can drop out now if you like.’
Bruno heard the reluctance in her voice, and saw her face brighten as Ellie said, ‘Tell you what, Cissy, if you’re going to have grown-up dinner why don’t you and I go and get you bathed now, and you can have it in your PJs?’
‘Ellie, you’re a star,’ said Felicity. ‘It can be bedtime straight after.’
‘Will you be having supper?’ asked Cissy.
‘I hope so,’ said Bruno. She looked at her mother.
‘Of course he will,’ said Felicity. ‘He’s staying here.’ Ellie and Cissy left and she added, ‘Boys, why don’t you show Bruno around?’
‘Want to see the garden?’ enquired Noah, as if this were the least-worst option.
‘Lead on.’
Robin, still in his return-commute kit of suit trousers and sweatshirt, took a beer from the metallic Smeg fridge, snapped off the top with the opener beneath the rim of the island, and stood next to his wife, both of them looking out into the garden.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Felicity, ‘but it won’t last.’
Bruno, Noah and Rollo were kicking a ball around. Or at least Noah and Rollo were kicking the ball and Bruno was somewhat unsuccessfully keeping goal.
‘You think he’s just ingratiating himself with us.’
‘Or with them, anyway.’
‘He’s letting them win’ – Robin took a swig – ‘which is a step in the right direction.’
‘What do you mean “letting”? He’s never been any good at sports. Not that kind. He skis well, swims … Show-offy things.’
Robin stroked her hair. ‘Let’s take what we can get.’
Marguerite put the phone down with a sigh which Hugh, attuned to both moods and sighs, recognized as one of cautious relief (he was alive to the nuances).
‘Well?’
‘All is calm, all is bright.’ She held up crossed fingers. ‘At the moment.’
‘No reason why that should change,’ said Hugh. ‘And it’s not for very long. I mean, he could find somewhere tomorrow, that’s what the college noticeboard is for.’
There hung between them a moment of silence while they both tried to imagine Bruno sensibly studying the noticeboard, notebook and pencil in hand.
‘Hm,’ said Marguerite. ‘Times have changed. Anyway, Felicity says they’re going to give him a day or so’s grace and then send him out to get on with it.’
‘Did you speak to our hero in person?’
She shook her head. ‘He’d gone out for a walk with Robin.’
‘Really? How far is the nearest pub?’ Marguerite ignored this, and he went on, ‘I still think it’s a pity he didn’t get into hall,’ said Hugh.
‘We both know he didn’t not get in as you put it, he didn’t want to and didn’t try.’
‘Still much the simplest option and less bother all round. Charity liked being in hall as I recollect.’
‘Yes, she did.’ Marguerite gave another sigh, this time containing a distinct tremor of anxiety. ‘But that was Charity.’
Bruno reckoned he would stay ten days with the TSs. To stay for the full fortnight might be pushing his luck, and ‘finding’ somewhere on the very last day might give rise to suspicion. Also, he wasn’t going to wait to be chivvied. On the morning after his arrival he got up at a time he barely recognized and presented himself in the spaceship-like kitchen for breakfast. It appeared that Robin had already left. The household was in transit. Ellie was at the sink. Felicity, immaculate in faded jeans, cream shirt and a camel-coloured blazer was clearly about to set off somewhere. The boys were wolfing down Nutella toast, Cissy was sitting next to them drawing with a felt-tip pen.
‘Bruno, look at my picture of you!’
He glanced obediently at the giant-headed stick man with its explosion of corkscrew curls and mad grin.
‘That’s very good.’
Felicity said, ‘Morning. On a weekday it’s a case of help yourself, cereal or toast, yoghurt and whatnot in the fridge.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Plans for the day?’
‘Thought I’d go down to college, see what goes on. Start looking.’
‘Right.’ He thought he detected a note of surprise. ‘Super. OK, Ellie, I’ll be off.’ Felicity kissed the children. ‘Have a good day and I’ll see you later.’
When she’d gone, Ellie said, ‘You can cook eggs or whatnot if you want to.’
‘Toast is fine. Where do they keep the coffee?’
‘Instant or real thing?’
‘Don’t mind.’
She popped open one of the invisible cupboards. ‘In here.’
‘Where’s your mum off to?’ Bruno asked the children.
Rollo shrugged. Noah said, with the air of one who’d learnt his lines, ‘She does loads of charity work.’
‘No, really,’ added Ellie as if he might not believe it. ‘Hospice, NSPCC, clean water … what else?’
‘Loads,’ repeated Noah.
Once Ellie had left with the children for their various destinations Bruno made two slices of French toast and ate them in his fingers, wandering about the ground floor of the house. There was something pleasantly transgressive in knowing that if he dropped even a morsel of the delicious, greasy slabs they would leave a mark and show exactly where he’d been. Everything was spotless. At least there was a playroom, and it was pretty normal, untidy with toys and gadgets, but with a sofa and a telly of a size you wouldn’t normally find in a kid’s room. The drawing room was on the first floor, with a sliding glass door on to a big rounded terrace – on top of the extended kitchen, he worked out. From here there was an incredible view of London, from this distance a city of dreams. He felt suspended between worlds. Free as air, ready for anything, alive with possibilities. His mother had rung last night, but he was quite glad he hadn’t spoken to her. He had fled Heart’s Ease and its comfortable expectations. All of this seemed as strange as any of those sticky, lurid places he’d visited on his travels – stranger in some ways, because his family actually lived here.
He heard a soft hum, and turned to see someone in the drawing room. A cleaning lady, stocky, dark, not so much as sparing him a glance as she hoovered. The two of them were socially invisible to one another. As Bruno came back in she glanced up briefly and he raised a hand and mouthed, ‘Sorry’, but she didn’t acknowledge him, continuing to hoover as he walked discreetly round the edge of the room.
Felicity had provided him with a key, and instructions about the security gate. As he closed it behind him and set off down the hill towards the bus stop, he felt almost lightheaded with freedom. London lay quite literally at his feet.
On the bus as it thrummed its way into the centre of town, another thought floated into his head and hovered there, not troubling him exactly, but giving him pause. That big, shiny house was currently empty except for the saturnine cleaning lady. Robin was adding to his millions, Ellie had taken the kids to their respective destinations. His sister was out Doing Good. There was a kind of contradiction in there. Felicity was obviously some kind of Lady Bountiful, but her kids were
left largely in the care of someone else.
Was doing good, Bruno wondered uncritically, the same as being good?
Nine
Honor considered it a privilege to look after the old. She was aware that twentieth-century Britain was not a culture where old people were automatically accorded respect and care, rather the reverse, and she liked nothing more than in some small way to redress the balance. The respect bit came naturally, and she didn’t find the personal care onerous or distasteful as many did. Even people in the business, so to speak. She had from time to time worked shifts at Lilac Tree House and it had been an eye-opener what some of the staff got away with. There was quite a lot of casual, impatient roughness, and often a neglect born of hastiness – food removed uneaten, water not topped up, beds imperfectly made and so on. She had also noticed a loud, bracing, impersonal way of talking that had nothing to do with conversation and was in fact a sort of verbal bullying. She wasn’t by nature a whistle-blower, but she had tried to make good as she went along, and when each locum period came to an end she returned to her private work with a sense of relief. She could never beat the system, but she could provide a much nicer alternative.
She had learned that biological age was relative. Some of her lovely people (she hated the term ‘clients’) were barely there at seventy, others had full command of their faculties, and their memory – if not always of their waterworks – at a hundred. Life was a lottery, and some people drew a fortunate gene pool. What life wasn’t was a competition. Honor hated the judgemental school of thought which decreed that people who’d smoked, or drunk, or eaten too much along the way were responsible for their decline. Many of those people in her experience were generous souls who’d led full lives and had good stories to tell. And if people were picky and stroppy, well, if you were in constant pain or discomfort, or chronically lonely, you had some excuse.
She tried not to have favourites, but she always looked forward to seeing Mrs Butterworth, who could remember the German airship raids of 1915 as well as the Dunkirk evacuation and the Battle of Britain. She had lost her childhood sweetheart at Ypres, but had been married three times since: first to his older brother who had died in 1921 from TB contracted in the trenches, then to a dance band musician who had proved to be a ‘wrong ’un’ and from whom she’d been divorced in short order, and most recently (forty years ago) to ‘a lovely gentleman’, Arthur Butterworth, editor of the local paper, to whom she’d remained happily married until his death in 1971. None of these unions had produced children, but this was not a cause of regret for Mrs Butterworth. Avis, as Honor had been invited to call her was warm, worldly, and in spite of terrible legs, failing eyesight and the aforementioned unreliable bladder, unfailingly good company. Honor recognized a woman even now at ease with herself, without rancour, guilt or jealousy, satisfied with a rich past but still interested in the here and now.
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