There were two doorbells. Neither of the faded labels had Bruno’s name on, so she rang both. After only a few seconds the door was opened by a fat middle-aged man in a tropical shirt.
‘Hello, yes?’
Felicity bestowed on him her most dazzling smile. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, I was looking for Bruno Blyth.’
‘No idea, mate,’ said the man. Felicity wasn’t accustomed to being called ‘mate’ but she sensed that the smile had worked.
‘I wonder if he could be in the other flat.’
‘Might be. They come and go up there if you know what I mean.’
Sweetly imploring, she asked, ‘Do you think I could go up and knock on the door?’
Tropical Shirt considered this. He had a Zapata moustache, as well. Then he seemed to reach a decision.
‘Hang on!’ He leaned past her and pressed the top bell again before bellowing up the stairs, ‘Sean!’ An impatient pause. ‘Sean! You deaf?’
A door opened on the landing and a figure, Sean presumably, stumbled out.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Steady! Lady here’s looking for someone called …?’ Tropical Shirt looked at her for assistance.
‘Bruno Blyth.’
‘He’s out,’ said Sean. He came to the top of the stairs, a ferrety young man, barefoot, in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Seeing Felicity he said, a squeak more emolliently, ‘Can I give him a message?’
Beaming, Felicity started up towards him. ‘I’ve got something for him, that he left behind – I’m his sister? He’s been staying with us over Christmas.’
Tropical Shirt muttered something about leaving them to it and went back into his own lair. Sean gave way a little in the face of Felicity’s fragrant advance, but held his ground in the doorway.
‘It’s alright, I’ll give it to him.’
‘I’d like to leave them in his room – it’s his headphones, he’ll be lost without them.’
‘That’s OK, I’ll take them—’
‘Just show me where.’ She brushed past him into what seemed to be a living area. ‘Oh, and Sean, you wouldn’t be an angel and put the kettle on, I’ve had a pig of a day and it took forever to park …’ She pushed back a frond of hair and gave a little sigh. ‘Would you?’
It was the only way she could think of to keep the impetus going, to shamelessly use her sexual capital on this unprepossessing young man. ‘So’ – she gazed around in pretty bafflement – ‘where?’
He nodded. ‘There. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just a little milk – sorry, where?’
‘Sofa, for the moment. Just a temporary arrangement. Put them on there, he’ll find them.’
Still holding firmly on to the headphones she sat down on the end of the sofa where there was some space next to an empty Jaffa cake box being used as an ashtray. Now she could see Bruno’s rucksack tucked behind it. A tiny kitchenette opened off the room and she could see Sean examining mugs, presumably for alien life forms. She reminded herself to put the tea down and forget about it.
‘So who else lives here,’ she asked, her expert gaze raking the horrors of the room, ‘just you?’
‘Me and another lad. Bruno’s a sub-let.’
Felicity considered this a pretty grand term for the lumpy, sagging lump of wadding and wood on which she was parked. Sean brought a mug of tea and handed it to her with his fingers around the rim.
‘Mm, thank you.’ She held it to her face and sniffed the steam with an expression of appreciation before placing it on the floor. Sean, himself without a cup of tea, sat on one of the chairs at a small gateleg table – Felicity could tell it was a table because she could see the legs, the top was invisible beneath dishes, cutlery and clothing, all of which appeared to have been used. She had the impression that everything in the room remained exactly where last left until there was a pressing need to re-use it, or someone needed to sit, or lie down. Hanging in the air was a gamey cocktail of odours, among which not the worst but the most identifiable was weed. She had once had a nanny who during her short stay was partial to a nocturnal puff in the garden, and had never forgotten the smell.
‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ll put the headphones in his rucksack, will you tell him that’s where they are?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks.’ She leaned behind the sofa and unzipped the top of the rucksack, pushing the headphones down on top of the jumble of unfolded clothes. There was the plaid shirt he’d worn on Christmas Day … She experienced a pang of sympathy. How could Bruno stand this, after their house? How could he stand it at all? And presumably he had work assignments from college – where did that happen? She decided against asking Sean this, but she did have one other question.
‘You said this was only temporary – do you happen to know where he’s moving to? I think he may have mentioned something but what with Christmas, and a houseful …’ Her smile invited sympathy with her domestic plight.
‘No idea. It’s not ideal,’ he conceded, ‘for anyone.’
‘No.’ She sighed. ‘Oh well, I mustn’t keep you.’ Truth be told she was taking a mischievous pleasure in talking to Sean as if he were some hectically busy Hampstead housewife.
‘No worries.’ This had been one of Ellie’s catchphrases, but whereas that had always been a comfort, in Sean’s mouth it sounded more like ‘Clear off’.
At the door, she said, ‘What do you do, Sean – I mean when you’re not entertaining uninvited visitors?’
Flattered, he bridled a tad. ‘I’m in the music business.’
She managed to get out of the door, and out of the house, before exploding with laughter. But back in the car (the shopkeeper gave her a cheery thumbs-up so she bought a bar of chocolate in recognition of his efforts) her mood changed. She could feel her organisational muscle twitching. She was beginning to see that this could be sorted, and in a way that was beneficial to everyone.
‘It all sounds a bit radical,’ said Robin later that evening, when she’d outlined her plan for Bruno to take up residence in return for a modicum of childcare.
‘It’s not just the squalor,’ said Felicity. ‘He’s sleeping on the sofa, he’s got nowhere to work—’
‘My darling, that may be of more importance to you than him.’
‘I don’t like to think of him being there.’
‘Again, I have to say it, my love, but that has more to do with your feelings than his.’
‘I realize that. I do.’ Felicity pressed her palms together, fingers against her mouth, eyes closed for a moment. She was about to make an admission – a confession – and this was something new for her. ‘The truth is …’
There followed such a long pause that Robin cocked his head and peered at her. ‘What? Spit it out.’
‘I feel bad about Bruno. No—’ She raised a hand to silence Robin as he began to laugh. ‘Do listen. Please. And he’s not the only one.’
Because he sensed what was coming, Robin was suddenly desperate to stop her. He’d never loved her more, he didn’t want her to eat humble pie. He wanted her to remain his shiny, confident, adored Fliss.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you?’ She gave him a wry look, both amused and a little sorrowful. ‘I know I’m neglectful—’
‘Tell that to a hundred friends and acquaintances, and see how they react.’
‘Oh I don’t mean all this!’ She spread her arms, and let them fall again. ‘I don’t mean running things. I’m good at that.’
‘And that’s not nothing,’ he pointed out.
‘No, it’s not. But it’s admin, the same as I do at the Water Foundation and the hospice and all the other things.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of giving those up,’ said Robin. ‘You’re a powerhouse, what would they do without you?’
‘They’d manage perfectly well, but that’s not the point. Cliché coming up, but charity begins at home. I hope …’ She broke off, and Robin realized to his dismay th
at she was struggling, close to tears. ‘I hope you all know how much I love you.’
‘We do! My darling, we do!’ He wanted more than anything to reassure her, now that he was himself reassured. ‘And we’re so proud of you.’
‘I’m not fishing. The children aren’t proud – they shouldn’t be, either. I’m just their mother, they don’t know any different.’
‘They liked your singing.’
‘Did they?’ She herself looked childishly pleased, he was touched.
‘Absolutely. They told me about it.’
‘That’s nice, how sweet … Well, anyway – let’s just say I want to do better. Get my priorities right. And that starts with giving my little brother a leg up. I think he’s in a muddle, Rob. It may be a muddle of his own making, but it’s too easy just to say “Oh, that’s Bruno”. We’ve all been saying that for ever, ever since he arrived, me more than anyone.’ She looked at him directly, her mouth set – he knew that look. ‘So what do you think?’
‘In principle I think it’s worth suggesting, provided we’re absolutely clear about the terms of the agreement.’
‘Of course.’
‘And if we’re reasonably sure he won’t take advantage.’
‘In what sense?’
Robin shrugged pleasantly. ‘Any sense you care to mention.’
‘He’s been an absolute diamond recently – before when he was here, and over Christmas. And the children would absolutely love it.’
‘I agree. But you asked. And then, Fliss, if you’re determined to go ahead with this, you have thought that even if it works perfectly you’ll have far less time – for your work, and for yourself.’
‘That’s alright. Part of the deal would be me spending more time with my family.’
‘As the misbehaving MPs continually do cry.’
She smiled, they laughed. It was agreed.
Sean was totally, gratifyingly, gobsmacked.
‘You what?’
‘I’m moving in with my sister for a bit.’
‘What? That one who came round?’
‘That’s her.’
‘Why?’
Bruno continued stuffing books and papers into supermarket carriers. ‘A, she asked me, B, you haven’t seen their place.’
His eyes never leaving Bruno, Sean scrabbled among the clutter for a fag packet, found one, and lit up. ‘I mean why would she ask you?’
Bruno had been asking himself this, and was still thinking about it. ‘She’s not just being kind. I’m going to sing for my supper.’
‘Oh right, how much coal you got to heave for champagne and caviar?’
‘Funny man.’
‘So?’
‘I’m going to help out with the kids, when I’m around. For as long as I’m there.’
Sean removed his fag so he could gape without dropping it. ‘Now you’re being funny.’
‘No.’ Bruno shrugged on his coat. Suddenly he’d had enough of Sean. ‘They’re nice kids. Thanks for the sofa.’
Loaded down as he was, as Bruno set out he had never felt lighter. He was heading not just for the tube station but for the hills, the sunny uplands … He was on his way!
Twenty-Four
1996
The hounds of spring were definitely snuffling around, thought Honor as she drove in through the gate – there were big clumps of snowdrops in bloom in the grass outside the garden fence, and bravely massing green spears beneath the fuchsia hedge just inside. This was one of those soft late January days when spring seemed a distinct possibility. Even though there were probably weeks of harsh weather ahead, the solstice was behind them and the world was slowly and steadily turning back to the light.
There were no other cars in the drive. As she closed the front door behind her she could feel the edges of her presence breaking the stillness, sending out little ripples and eddies into the emptiness. This was when she was most conscious of the distinctive atmosphere of Heart’s Ease, and its smell – comprising lemons, polish, boots, embers and a general woodiness. This was when she half expected to come across the brigadier and his young wife. Especially him. She pictured a tall, dignified figure walking quietly from room to room, winding the long-case clock, tapping the barometer, pouring himself a whisky … In the dusk of this winter’s afternoon she could almost fancy she saw him sitting out in the loggia, a hat on his head – fedora, tweed cap, panama – enjoying the pleasing prospect of the sloping enclosed lawn with the Fort presiding over it. She had always suspected the house was haunted, but that any ghosts were entirely benign.
The truth was, she thought, as she went along to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, that she herself didn’t belong here anymore. The brigadier was entitled to his peace, and had more claim to the house than any of them – it had been his parents’ anyway, so he’d grown up here. There had been a square of ancient yellowish newspaper inside the big clock, on the floor beneath the pendulum. Honor could remember her mother taking it out, holding it carefully between fingers and thumbs because it was so fragile.
‘Oh do look,’ she’d said as if addressing a roomful of people though there had been only Honor there. ‘It’s about this house! “A gentleman’s residence … five bedrooms including housekeeper’s accommodation”. Isn’t that wonderful? “Three quarters of an acre with mature shrubs and trees and kitchen garden …”’ She and Honor had sat down together on the uncomfortable not-really-for-sitting-on bench in the hall, on top of the slithering pile of coats that were always slung down there in spite of the row of hooks in the porch. Marguerite had gone through a few more details. ‘“… All the usual offices” – love that – “kitchen wing … garage and stabling …” Stabling – where was that, I wonder?’
Honor used to love those afternoons with her mother, when she was at nursery school in the morning only and the others didn’t get back till later. They’d gone out into the garden to try and work out where the stabling had been. Marguerite quickly decided it must have been where what was now known as ‘The Sheds’ stood – Honor always imagined them with capital letters. The garage, a more recent addition, stood between The Sheds and The Yard, and now they could readily picture a horse being led out and saddled up before being ridden if not by the brigadier then certainly by his father. Honor had asked whether there would have been a carriage, and her mother had said, ‘Good point …’, which had been very nice, and broached the subject with Hugh that night when he came in.
‘Honor was asking if long ago the people here would have had a carriage?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought they’d be rich enough for that,’ he said. ‘It’s not that big a house, not for that time – just a nice middle-sized one.’
‘So did they ride everywhere?’ asked Honor, to some not unkind eye-rolling from her sisters.
‘I doubt it. Perhaps they had a pony and trap. And bicycles, cycling was a big thing. The ladies in those rather fetching bloomers …’ He began to sing, ‘“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …”’ until quelled by the others. ‘Outnumbered by females’ as it amused him to say.
Honor had loved the house then, and still did. But since Christmas she’d felt indefinably different about it. This was a special house, no doubt about it. A place that had acquired a patina over time. But entertaining Avis and Mr Dawson here had reminded her that she was only playing house. There was a sense in which Heart’s Ease belonged to no one, people simply passed through it leaving, perhaps, a trace of their essence behind to linger in that special atmosphere, redolent of the past.
She carried her mug through the loggia and stepped outside. There was no wind but the garden seemed to breathe softly around her. She wondered if the old soldier’s young wife had loved it here, or had she always been longing for something, or someone, else?
From the far side of the lawn she stood and looked back at the house. She had only turned on one light, in the kitchen, and that was at the back, and the curtains were not yet drawn, so the windows looked dark and mysterio
us. She’d always thought that houses, like cars, had faces. Some were snappy and sharp, some grinning, others frowning, or supercilious – Heart’s Ease was always welcoming. And perhaps a little wry, tolerant of the goings-on of its various occupants.
She walked up on to the Fort from where she could see the lights of Salting beginning to appear. Beyond it the buttress of red cliff between this bay and the next, topped by a fringe of scotch pines, distant companions of those that stood sentinel around the Fort. The tide must be low because she could make out the broken black line of rocks that marked the mouth of the river. She heard the secretive rustle of an animal in the shrubbery by the drive. And – what? Her peripheral vision was caught by a movement in one of the upstairs windows, the window of her parents’ bedroom. Honor stood with breath held, a faint ringing in her ears. Someone was looking out, then raised an arm, as if about to draw the curtain – then gone. Though transfixed, she wasn’t frightened. And she was equally sure she hadn’t imagined it. If that had been a ghost, it was the spirit of Heart’s Ease.
Back inside the house she went upstairs. As always the door of her parents’ bedroom stood open, and she went in. The curtains were open, everything undisturbed – or at least not by any mysterious outside agency; Marguerite and Hugh were untidy. Honor caught sight of her reflection in the dressing table mirror. For the first time she formulated the thought clearly, and resolutely.
I need a place of my own. It’s time.
Next time she encountered the dreaded Graham at his father’s, he made an elaborate dumbshow of beckoning her out into the kitchen ‘for a word’. But it was nothing ominous, far from it.
‘Thank you for entertaining Dad on Christmas Day – we never expected that.’
‘Of course not, but I was going to be on my own and it seemed like a good idea.’
‘Well, it certainly was. Perked the old chap up no end.’ Graham was smiling, but his rather pebbly eyes were tracking over her face as he spoke. ‘And you had another guest too, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ said Honor, ‘three’s more of a party, so I thought why not?’
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