The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

by Eva Rice

  I shoved the mirror away and glanced around me. The room was small and stiflingly hot. A fire had been lit some hours ago, and, with the door closed, I felt suddenly faint. I wanted to take off the green coat, but felt, curiously, that I should not. I sensed it was part of me while I was here. I’ve always felt at my most hungry in the middle of the afternoon and today was no exception; I felt my stomach rumble and hoped that tea would appear soon, though it worried me that there was scarcely room for a saucer. The room was so full of clutter and objects that it almost hurt the eye. Dominating everything (and how on earth it got into the room in the first place I couldn’t think) stood a beautiful grand piano scattered with papers, pens, ink and letters. Naturally nosy (a trait passed down through my mother’s side of the family), I quickly read the first sentence of a half-finished postcard. The handwriting was clear, turquoise and joyous. My dear Richard, it began, You are quite mad and I love you all the more for it. Wootton Bassett was wonderful, wasn’t it? I shifted my eyes to the large table by the window where a faded top hat plonked on top of a stack of crumpled pound notes gave the illusion of a giant monopoly board abandoned mid-game. I had Aunt Clare down as a bit of a Miss Havisham until I noticed that the large windows were immaculately clean and clean windows, my mother was fond of saying, are as important as clean teeth. (She rather shot herself in the foot with this expression as there were more windows at home than one could count and she was never done employing youths from the village to come and clean them. Once an older sort of chap fell from the blue bathroom window and landed in a wheelbarrow of dead roses below. He broke his leg but adored Mama so much that he came back the next week to finish the job, plaster and all. But back to Aunt Clare’s study.)

  There were books, books and more books, stacked in random pile all over the floor and spilling off the shelve, including, I noticed with a shiver of surprise, a beautiful hardback edition of the Darwin book that Aunt Clare’s husband was alleged to have been reading at the moment of his untimely death. The room smelled strongly of learning, but not in the calm, musty, leafy way that accompanies most rooms containing great literature, but in that more disturbing, sticky-palmed, feverish way that implies cramming knowledge for an exam or feeding an obsession. Whoever Aunt Clare was, she had no time to waste. I sat down on a very low red sofa and stretched my legs out in front of me. The clock in the hall struck a melancholy five o’clock and I wondered how long I would have to stay here before excusing myself and boarding the train back to Westbury. Already uncharacteristically nervous, I nearly leapt out of my skin when a huge ginger cat emerged from the shadows and jumped onto my lap purring like a tractor. Now, I don’t like cats, but this one really took a liking to me, or perhaps it was drawn to Charlotte’s green coat. What I remember thinking more than anything that afternoon was that I had never been in such a still house in all my time in London and it made me uneasy; London was not meant for the kind of heavy, low quietness that was pressing down on me now and filling me with the urge to speak out, to declare my presence for all to hear. It felt as if I had been sitting alone in Aunt Clare’s study for at least an hour before Phoebe, Aunt Clare and Charlotte emerged from wherever on earth they had been, but in fact it was less than ten minute. It seemed that quite suddenly they were there, and the unbearable tension that can only exist when one sits alone in an unfamiliar room in a stranger’s house, in a stranger’s coat, was broken.

  Aunt Clare altered the room in the same way that a vast bouquet of spring flowers would, complementing everything around her with a vibrant, arresting beauty and a strong smell of rose water. She was a large woman, but handsome and excellently proportioned, with huge yellow-green eyes, high cheekbones and, like her niece, thick straight hair, a shade nearer to grey than blond, all of it piled on top of her head in a beautiful chignon. Fifty-five, I thought, and only just. (I pride myself on being able to guess people’s age, and I’m rather good at it.) I jumped up at once, outraging the sleeping cat who slunk off under the piano.

  ‘So here she is!, cried Aunt Clare in a sing-song voice. ‘Introduce us at once, Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh — this is Penelope,’ said Charlotte. There was a silence and my eye opened in astonishment. At no point thus far had I told her my name.

  ‘H-how do you do?’ Aunt Clare’s tiny hand was as delicate as a budgie’s claw in my great paw.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Aunt Clare briskly. ‘This is my son, Harry,’ she added, and out of the shadowy corridor emerged a boy. I sighed to myself because Charlotte was right. He certainly was not the most handsome boy in London. He was short, a couple of inches shorter than me, and skinny as a rake in his crumpled white shirt and charcoal grey trousers. His hair was the same dark blond as Charlotte’s, only his was not poker straight, but all over the place. He looked as though he had just woken up from an afternoon nap.

  ‘Hello—’ I began, and the word choked in my throat because when he looked up at me, his eyes threw me completely off balance. I had never seen anything so spooky, so arresting, so brilliantly original in all my life. His left eye was a sleepy bluegreen, while the right was as brown as dark chocolate, and both were framed by thickly black, curling lashes, giving the uneasy impression that he had spent hours in the powder room.

  ‘What, ho!’ he said sardonically.

  ‘How do you do?’ I recovered myself, stretching out my hand. He took it and held my gaze in a deadpan stare until I blushed scarlet, and, noting this, he grinned and actually stifled a snort of laughter. I hated him in that moment.

  ‘I expect you’re hungry,’ said Aunt Clare, eyeing the green coat now covered in ginger hair.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, turning to her in relief.

  ‘Phoebe, we’d like toast, and some of Mrs Finch’s raspberry jam, and chocolate cake, and ginger scone and a big pot of tea please,’ Charlotte instructed, beaming at Phoebe. ‘Ooh, and some of those nice chocolate biscuits, not those ghastly coconut ones please.’

  Coconut! I thought.

  Phoebe gave her a spectacular glare and vanished again.

  ‘Now, come and sit next to me, Penelope,’ Aunt Clare commanded, oozing onto the sofa and patting the seat beside her. Charlotte nodded encouragingly. Harry was lighting a cigarette with long fingers. ‘Harry has dinner with the Hamiltons at seven,’ said Aunt Clare. ‘He’s terribly nervous about seeing Marina again.’

  ‘Am I?’ said Harry in a bored voice. Just then the telephone rang and he shot across the room to pick it up.

  ‘Hello?… She did? The little darling, I knew she could do it … No, thank you… Not at all…’

  As he spoke, Aunt Clare remained as still as a lioness, barely breathing, her face grim with concentration. She certainly didn’t have my mother’s subtlety when it came to eavesdropping. When Harry had finished his call, he replaced the receiver with a bang, hurried across the room and picked up a coat from the back of a chair.

  ‘That tip I had for the four-fifty came good,’ he announced. He spoke very fast, scooping up coins, keys and betting slips from the table beside the door. ‘And please don’t talk about me when I’m gone, Mother, it’s bloody boring.’ With that he left us, banging the door behind him.

  ‘How rude!’ exclaimed Aunt Clare.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ agreed Charlotte merrily.

  ‘Oh, he’s impossible!’ went on Aunt Clare. ‘Penelope — Harry has been madly in love with Marina Hamilton for the past year.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said politely. I knew of Marina, of course, but only from her photographs in the social columns. She and Harry struck me as a most unlikely match.

  ‘They’re a most unlikely match,’ said Aunt Clare. ‘Marina’s parents are that ghastly American couple who bought lovely Dorset House from the FitzWilliams.’

  ‘Ah. Of course.’ I knew Dorset House, and the FitzWilliams were a dull couple, and old acquaintance of my mother’s.

  ‘God only knows what they’ve done to the place; it’s too frightening to think about,’ said Aunt Clare.

&
nbsp; ‘I’ve appalling taste in interiors. I expect I should love it,’ sighed Charlotte.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, girl,’ said Aunt Clare sharply. Anyway, last week Marina became engaged to George Rogerson — who’s a large boy, poor thing, but supposed to be terribly nice and very rich — so Harry’s having to admit defeat, not something he like doing at the best of times.

  I giggled.

  ‘He’s out for dinner with the happy couple tonight, and on December the third they’re throwing an engagement party at Dorset House, naturellement, which I think is too awful for words. Harry’s never been able to take rejection, which is so tiresome for us all. I only wish his father was here to set him straight.’

  It was clear to me that Aunt Clare was the influence behind Charlotte’s way of talking. They both spoke in a fashion that was at once mannered and completely natural. Charlotte groaned.

  ‘Oh, I wish Phoebe would hurry up with tea. I’m half starved.’

  ‘She thinks of nothing but food,’ Aunt Clare informed me. ‘But what of you, child? How exciting to meet one of Charlotte’s friends, and such an attractive young girl! Do I know your parents?’ She cleared her throat and paused in a fashion that the novelist would describe as dramatically. ‘You — you look terribly like — like — Archie Wallace,’ she said.

  For the second time I was rendered almost speechless.

  ‘He’s — he was my father,’ I managed to squeak. ‘He — he was killed. The war …’ I trailed off and looked down at my hands, horribly uncomfortable. Aunt Clare paled and for an awful moment I panicked that she hadn’t realised Papa had died.

  ‘Ye,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes. I am sorry. I read about Archie. I was so terribly sad.’ She pressed her hand to her chest. ‘And you poor darling. His daughter. Good gracious.

  There was something in the way that she spoke these words that made me want to comfort her, to tell her that it was all right, that yes, Papa had died, but that really I had never even known him. Her eye clouded over, suddenly dead, and for a few seconds the room sank back into that weighty silence again. Oh help, I thought. She’s going to cry.

  But she didn’t. Instead she said after a small pause: ‘Of course, he and Talitha were married before they were whelped.’ The clouds lifted again.

  ‘Um — I don’t think I understand,’ I said.

  ‘They were babies themselves.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose they were. My mother was seventeen when I was born,’ I explained to Charlotte.

  ‘Seventeen! How romantic!’ she wailed.

  ‘Oh, Talitha Orr was quite the most sensational beauty,’ said Aunt Clare. ‘Thoroughly thoroughbred, despite being Irish, poor dear. Glorious hair, and always dressed for men, not women. That was the key to her success, you know.’

  I laughed. I just couldn’t help it. ‘It’s absolutely true. She doesn’t really like women at all.’

  ‘It’s a common trait of beautiful women,’ said Aunt Clare pertly.

  ‘Is it? I adore women. I suppose that means I’m not beautiful,’ said Charlotte ruefully. Aunt Clare snorted and rounded on her niece.

  ‘Don’t be so damn silly! Your trouble is that you’re far too trusting for your own good.’

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows at me and Aunt Clare coughed and gave me a slightly salty look.

  ‘You have a brother, don’t you?’

  ‘Inigo. He’s nearly two years younger than me.’

  ‘Does he look like you, dear?’

  ‘I can’t see it myself. He takes after my mother. He’s supposed to be boarding at Sherbourne but he’s forever sneaking home at the weekend.’

  ‘Well! Fancy that, Charlotte. Have you met him?’

  ‘No, Aunt.’

  ‘How horribly casual you are, Charlotte. It really is unbecoming. You must ask Penelope to introduce you to her brother. He sounds perfectly brilliant.’

  ‘Charlotte and I haven’t known one another very long—’ I began.

  Aunt, we met at a party only two weeks ago but we’re already the greatest of friends,’ said Charlotte, shooting me a warning look.

  ‘What party?’ demanded Aunt Clare.

  ‘Harriet Fairclough’s wedding reception,’ said Charlotte, not missing a beat.

  ‘Really? How extraordinarily clever of you, Charlotte, to meet someone as pretty and interesting as Penelope at such a dull affair,’ said Aunt Clare.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ agreed Charlotte.

  I gulped. Five seconds later we were interrupted by the entrance of Phoebe and the tea tray.

  ‘Oh, clear the table,’ Aunt Clare instructed. ‘Just put everything on the floor.’

  Being a self-conscious sort of person, I was very impressed by the fact that she felt no need to apologise for the quite spectacular disorder surrounding us. Phoebe poured tea and gave me a plate with my toast and jam as if bestowing a huge favour the like of which I could never begin to repay. I have to admit that the cake was exceptional, the scones melt-in-the-mouth delicious and the tea weirdly but deliciously smoky. Charlotte ate as if she hadn’t seen food for weeks, stretching over everyone to grab at the scones, shoving cake into her mouth like a child and swigging at her tea as if it were ale, and quite ruining the elegance she had acquired through the use of my coat.

  ‘We never get tea like this at home,’ she sighed mid-mouthful. ‘How would you know?’ I found myself asking. ‘You’re never at home, are you?’

  Aunt Clare snorted with laughter. ‘How true, Penelope dear.’

  ‘Yet what would you do without me, Aunt?’ demanded Charlotte.

  ‘Manage perfectly well, I’m sure.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t. What would you do without me keeping an eye on your errant son?’

  ‘You know, Harry worries me, girls,’ murmured Aunt Clare, absent-mindedly passing me a pack of playing cards instead of the milk. ‘I never imagined I would have a son who gambled! I mean, it’s perfectly acceptable if you can justify it by knowing one end of a horse from the other but Harry simply hasn’t a clue. I lie awake at night wondering what can be done about his behaviour.’

  She sniffed again. Unfortunately for Aunt Clare, she possessed the clear eyes, unlined skin and bright expression of one who drops off for nine hours of uninterrupted sleep as soon as her head has hit the pillow. I fought a desire to giggle.

  ‘He needs help,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘No one can deny that. Aunt Clare helped herself to a slice of cake. ‘It was all well and good when he was a child,’ she said regretfully. ‘We used to laugh about Julian the Loaf back then.’

  ‘Julian the Loaf?’ I asked, bewildered.

  ‘Oh, he kept a loaf of bread called Julian in a wire cage because I refused to buy him a rabbit. Whether Julian was white, brown or sliced, I forget. Harry was quite upset when his father insisted that he stopped behaving in such a silly way. I must say, we all grew quite fond of that loaf.’

  ‘Harry’s always been the same,’ said Charlotte, shoving another scone into her mouth. ‘Full of ideas. An inventor of sorts.’

  ‘Oh! Always inventing. But really, I do wish I had put a stop to it when I could. I should have known from the start, of course. After all, there aren’t many children whose first word is “dumbwaiter”.’ Aunt Clare looked pained and I gulped loudly to avoid laughing.

  ‘He’s training to be a magician,’ explained Charlotte. ‘He’s really rather good.’

  ‘What sort of magician?’ I asked, suspiciously.

  ‘The usual sort. Sleight of hand. Pulling rabbits, or perhaps loaves of bread, out of a hat,’ said Charlotte with a giggle. ‘He has a great talent, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all very impressive indeed,’ said Aunt Clare irritatedly. ‘Very amusing for everyone but his mother. What future is there in fooling people? And how on earth he ever hoped to snare a girl like Marina Hamilton with no fixed income I simply do not know. He must be stark, staring mad.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt!’ said Charlotte airily. ‘You do exaggerate. Anyway,
it’s absurd to talk about such matters in front of Penelope who can be of no help at all.’ Charlotte smoothed crumbs off the lap of my coat. I felt momentarily piqued by her dismissal, yet recalling this part of the conversation later that night, I recognised a challenging tone to what Charlotte had said.

  ‘How is your mother? Did you see her yesterday?’ she asked Charlotte, briskly changing the subject.

  ‘She’s unwell at the moment. A dreadful cold that she can’t seem to shake.’

  ‘Good, good,’ mused Aunt Clare.’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘Still away.’

  ‘Gracious, she’s been gone a long time. Still, they say New York is the place to be.’

  ‘She’s been in Paris for the past two months, Aunt.’

  ‘Has she? How futile. It’s a Frenchman, I suppose?’

  ‘No. An Englishman living in Paris.’

  ‘Worse and worse,’ said Aunt Clare cheerfully. ‘There is no sight so depressing as the English trying to dress French. I should know.’

  Neither Charlotte nor myself ventured to ask her how she should know, but I, for one, didn’t doubt her expertise on the subject. I ate more toast and studied Charlotte. I had never seen a face that altered so much with movement. When she talked, her face took on a slightly lascivious, amused expression, yet when she was listening and still, she looked wide-eyed and innocent, as if an impure thought had never entered her head. She did a great deal of listening (as I imagine was customary for everyone when they took tea with Aunt Clare), but unlike most people who pretend to listen and then show themselves up by forgetting everything two minutes later, Charlotte really seemed to take everything in, almost as if it were an exam and she was going to be tested on it later. Aunt Clare was incapable of staying with one topic of conversation for longer than thirty seconds, though the chat repeatedly came back to Harry, as if there was some game going on where his name had to be mentioned every three minutes. After nearly half an hour of trying to keep up, I decided that enough time had passed for it to be perfectly acceptable for me to go home.