The Stratton Story

by Elizabeth Cadell

  She was aware that Mrs. Westerby was standing on the other side of the oval dining table and holding out a photograph in a large silver frame.

  “This . . . this was my brother,” she said.

  Gail took the frame and saw a handsome, kind, rather weak face. She stared at it with a kind of wonder filling her mind; there had been so much of his widow in the fat files in the office, so much discussion, so many interviews. And after his widow, his sister had entered the scene, creating as much or more interest. But of the link between the two women—this man whose likeness she held in her hand—little or nothing had been heard. And nobody had been interested.

  “He was a splendid-looking man,” Mrs. Westerby said. “That doesn’t do him justice. Everybody who met him liked him. The photograph was taken just before he met Anita. He’d been staying with friends who had some connection with the theatre. They gave a party, and she was there. Three weeks later, they were married.” Mrs. Westerby took the frame and replaced it on the sideboard. “A thunderbolt.”

  There was a pause.

  “Why?” Gail asked.

  Mrs. Westerby, taking table mats out of a drawer, looked at her enquiringly.

  “Why what?”

  “Why a thunderbolt? I mean . . . men do marry, even men who leave it as late as your brother did.”

  “Yes, they do,” Mrs. Westerby assented readily. “Of course they do. And in nine cases out of ten it turns out extremely well, as in my brother’s case, except that he fell ill the year after they were married. She nursed him devotedly, and he was devoted to her. All the same, it was a risk—and for the people nearest to them, it’s a shock. He and I had no close relations. I was an only child for twelve years, and then, to the astonishment of my parents, Edward appeared. As I told you, he and I lived at the Lodge all, or almost all our lives. We didn’t go to school; sometimes I think I must be the last surviving child to have been educated by a governess. I was taught at home, and well taught. Edward had a tutor; he was too delicate to be sent away. He—” She broke off. “Look, my dear Gail, you mustn’t let me ramble on; you must be starving. We must eat. I hope you’ll like what I’ve made for you. I don’t claim to be a cook.”

  Gail followed her into the kitchen wishing very much that she had eaten something before leaving the farm. She had had no breakfast, and the cold had given her a wolfish appetite which she saw no prospect of satisfying. But when she stepped into the miniature kitchen, she saw with relief that it was really a kitchen and not a furniture warehouse. What was more, a savoury smell was issuing from the oven.

  “The only thing I ever attempt,” Mrs. Westerby said, putting on a voluminous apron and seizing an oven cloth, “is a casserole. I simply chop up anything I can lay my hands on out of the garden, add some meat or chicken or fish, cover it up, put it into a moderate oven, count seven thousand and take it out again. There!” She took off the lid of the casserole, sniffed, and nodded with satisfaction. “All right, I think. It’s been in perhaps a little bit too long. Now follow me and make a good meal; this is all I shall give you. I hope I didn’t forget the mushrooms? No, there they are, the dear little things. Just find a chair somewhere, will you, and let me fill your plate.”

  It was even better than it looked and smelled—and it was also a treasure hunt, for Gail located not only mushrooms but leeks, tomatoes, red and green peppers, small cubes of chicken and veal, shreds of bacon, slivers of olive and thin slices of savoury sausage. The dish was deep and at first full; Gail dipped, and dipped again, and Mrs. Westerby watched her with a face pink with gratification.

  After lunch, two more logs were thrown on to the dying fire; by the reviving warmth, Gail sat cradling a large cup of coffee. Drowsily she recalled the purpose of her visit.

  “Paper?” Mrs. Westerby looked blank. “What paper?”

  “The paper you’re giving me for Mr. Frank.”

  “Oh—that!” Mrs. Westerby waved airily. “Just remind me before you go. And now tell me about your brother—this brother you’re going to meet in Spain.”

  “Navy.”

  “Did you say your grandmother brought you up?”

  “Only after my parents died. She lives in Scotland, and we go up for holidays. My sister and my brother and I took a flat in London; Noelle doesn’t use it now, and Tim’s away a good deal, but I’ve kept it on.”

  “And he stays with you when he comes home?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “You sound very united. So were we—Edward and I. That is, until he married. After that, I scarcely saw him.”

  Gail put a question with characteristic directness.

  “Why didn’t they come up here on visits?” she asked.

  Mrs. Westerby stared at her as though the answer was to be found on her face.

  “They came once,” she said slowly. “But only for a day—and never after that. Not once. I try to look back and reconstruct their visit, to find out what went wrong—because something did go wrong. I think perhaps it was myself. I know I’m a rather tiresome old woman, even an absurd old woman. I suppose she couldn’t . . .”

  Gail wondered if, on that sole visit, Mrs. Westerby had appeared as she was today—sensible, likeable, normal—or if she had arrayed herself in the collection of garments which she had worn at the Beetham Brothers’ reception. If the latter, it was easy, remembering Mrs. Stratton’s look of cold distaste, to imagine her dismay at the first sight of her sister-in-law.

  “I thought at first,” Mrs. Westerby was saying in the same slow, puzzled tone, “that Anita and I would have had a lot in common—particularly our love of beautiful furniture and ornaments. The day they came, I showed her round the house and she admired its contents very much—they are beautiful, you know, though perhaps you can’t see them properly when they’re all so crowded together. I sometimes wonder if she felt that the Lodge, and the land round it, and the furniture, should have been Edward’s and not mine; she must have seen that they all had considerable value. But my parents left them to me—not only the Lodge, but also the little cottage near my mother’s old home in France. Edward was left the bulk of the money; they thought that a fair division. The only furniture Edward got—and it’s worth a great deal—is in the cottage in France, where my mother put her most cherished pieces. Anita is going out there to look them over.”

  “Didn’t she ever go there when your brother was alive?”

  “Never. You see, it was my cottage—as she kept reminding Edward when he mentioned it and suggesting a visit. I realised that she felt deeply about . . . well, about property. I think she thought the division unjust. I made over a great many valuable pieces—miniatures and so on—to them when they married, but perhaps it would have been better to ... What does it matter, now? They never came again. And later, of course, Edward found travel tiring, and couldn’t have stood the journey.”

  “Why was he delicate? I mean, did he have anything the matter with him specifically, or—”

  “All his life, he was subject to terrible coughs. My parents always nursed his lungs. But it wasn’t in the lungs, as it turned out, that the trouble lay; his stomach was the weakest part. It was that, in the end, that killed him; not his lungs.”

  Mrs. Wester by had carried her coffee cup to the window and was staring out into the wooded garden. She seemed to have forgotten Gail.

  “I suggested making this house over to them,” she said, “but Edward wouldn’t hear of it. Neither would Anita. She said it was damp round here, and he would be better in the south. So they rented a cottage in Cornwall. I went down to visit them there—but they never came here again.”

  She turned to stare at Gail, but Gail knew that she was seeing something far away.

  “A cottage in Cornwall can be charming,” she said after a time. “That’s how I imagined it—on a cliff, perhaps, overlooking the lovely tumbling sea. Or in a little village, the sort that artists paint. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was a bleak house—not a cottage at all, of the kind I�
�d imagined. It was at the end of a dismal little village, very windy and—I couldn’t help thinking and saying—very damp. And also too big for them, but Anita said that the one thing Edward dreaded was having other people’s things round them, and so they had brought their own furniture. There was quite a lot of it, and I could see it wouldn’t have fitted into a little cottage, but I thought the whole place so ... so cheerless. I begged them to come and live at the Lodge, and said I would live somewhere else—but Anita is very proud, and they wouldn’t accept the offer. When I went to see them, I realised that money was getting short. Anita wouldn’t take any from me, because she pointed out that my income, like Edward’s, might dwindle to nothing. So there they were, in that comfortless house. I can see, now, how irritating I must have been—I used to suggest remedies that my mother had used when Edward was a boy; quite useless. I wanted them to go and live at the cottage in France, but Anita said that nothing would induce Edward to leave Dr. Belldon, who attended him—our own family doctor, who had moved down to Cornwall for his wife’s health. When I spoke myself to Edward, he said Dr. Belldon was worth more than a Mediterranean climate.”

  There was silence—a prolonged silence, though Gail did not notice it. Edward Stratton seemed to have moved out of the shades and had come forward to enable her to place him between the two women to whom he had belonged. It was almost possible to feel his presence, for so much in the room, she recognised now, was his. She had felt no interest in Mrs. Stratton and—before today—none in Mrs. Westerby, but her imagination was stirred by the picture of the trio—brother and sister and wife—which had become so clear while Mrs. Westerby had been speaking.

  But Mrs. Westerby offered no more comments on the past. She took Gail round the herb garden and the rose garden; they made a leisurely tour of the empty rooms of Vizcaya Lodge. Returning to the cottage, she turned out the contents of two cupboards and three drawers before coming upon the map she was seeking; having located it, she spread it on a table and traced the route which Gail was to follow from Bordeaux.

  “Some people might tell you to go down to Mont-de-Marsan; don’t. Go to Langon, and from Langon to Pau. Here.” Her fleshy forefinger stabbed it. “Are you following? Castres-Gironde, Podensac, Preignac—lovely sounds, aren’t they? Now here you are at Langon. Now you make for the road to Pau—practically a straight line. You go, at first, through Les Landes; after a time, you’ll get some magnificent views of the Pyrenees. Do not enter Pau. Forget about your map from this point, and let me give you this little sketch I’ve drawn for you. You see? You take this fork and begin to climb-rather steeply after a time. You’re in the Basses-Pyrenees, and ahead of you are the old smuggler’s passes—but you won’t be going as far as that. At this point here, you take the curve to the right, and soon you’ll come to my mother s old house, which is now an hotel. The road goes on and skirts a little lake and brings you to the cottage. It’s all quite, quite lovely and you won’t regret having come out of your way to take Anita there.” She folded up the map. “Have you made all your final arrangements with her?”

  “I’m going to lunch with her at her hotel—the Flamingo—on Friday, to tie things up. Could I have the paper now? It’s time I—”

  “Paper?”

  “The paper for Mr. Frank,” Gail said, and was struck by the uncomfortable conviction that no such paper existed, or that if it did, it had no great importance and had been used merely as a means of getting her to the house. Yet the thought was so absurd that she could not entertain it for long. She watched drawers being pulled out once more, and their contents turned over.

  “It should be in here, in this . . . no,” Mrs. Westerby muttered. “I do so wish I had more room to keep things. I distinctly remember putting it—oh, come in, Julian,” she called with obvious relief, as the door of the cottage opened. “Come in!”

  Gail looked up to see the doorway almost filled by a man’s large form; she saw with surprise that he was much younger than she had expected. She had been expecting someone middle-aged, but this man was only in his thirties.

  He could not see her; she had retreated behind a cupboard door to allow Mrs. Westerby more room for the paper-hunt. He glanced round the room and spoke briefly.

  “Hello, Blanche. I see that girl didn’t turn up; just as well. I’m in a hell of a hurry.”

  Gail came into view and spoke in a cool tone.

  “I did turn up, but if you’re in a hurry, you don’t have to wait for me,” she said.

  “Oh—sorry. I didn’t see you,” he said in a tone far from contrite. “I’m having car trouble; I’d be glad if we could get off at once.”

  “Of course, of course, of course,” Mrs. Westerby assured him. “But wouldn’t there be time even for a little cup of tea?”

  “I’m afraid not, Blanche.”

  “That’s a shame. This is my godson Julian Meredith, Gail; Julian, this is Gail Sinclair, who works for Anita’s publishers.”

  He nodded, but did not relax his impatient attitude; Gail thought he looked like a horse pawing the ground. She felt that a friendly smile would not have delayed him unduly, and found herself resenting his arrogant assumption that she would fling on her coat and dash out to his car, panting her gratitude for his condescension in stopping to pick her up.

  “I’m waiting for a paper,” she said. “Mrs. Westerby was just trying to find it.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “If it’s only a paper, surely it can be posted?” he suggested.

  Gail wished she had proposed this sensible plan when Mrs. Westerby and Mr. Frank had approached her at the reception—but she was here, and this pawing horse would have to wait.

  “The paper,” she said, “is what I came here for. It’s for someone in the office.”

  “If Blanche posts it tonight, it’ll get to the office almost as soon as you will,” Julian said. “But if you insist on waiting for it now, perhaps it would be as well if I went off and—”

  “Wait! Wait a moment!” Mrs. Westerby cried. “I think I know where it is. One moment, Julian, one moment.”

  She went with hurried, shambling movements to a corner of the room and began to pull at a heavy chest that barred her way. Julian went to her assistance and dragged it aside, but irritation gave him a strength that sent the sharp edge against his shin. He said a word which made Mrs. Westerby gasp.

  “Julian!”

  “I’m sorry. The blasted thing’s torn my trousers.”

  “It could happen to anyone,” Gail said, and saw with satisfaction that they were very expensive trousers. It served him right for over-dressing on a Sunday. He was probably in a mad hurry to get back to town to take a girl out to dinner. No, not a girl; he was clearly one of those sophisticates who took mature and successful actresses to expensive restaurants and pretended not to notice when the photographers came and crouched beside the table. He ought to be in shirt and jeans, using this nice day to do something active, like Alan. You wouldn’t find Alan in a natty lounge suit on a Sunday afternoon straining to get back to stinking London and onto the nearest plush sofa.

  “No, I was wrong,” Mrs. Westerby said ruefully, standing ankle-deep in papers she had dropped in her search. “It isn’t here.”

  “Let me pick those up,” Gail said, crossing the room and dropping on her knees.

  She handed the assortment of papers up very slowly, one by one, raising her eyebrows in contempt whenever Julian seized a handful and pushed them roughly into the nearest drawer.

  “Could the paper be in that desk over there?” she asked Mrs. Westerby as she rose.

  “It might,” Mrs. Westerby said hopefully. “How kind and helpful you’re being.”

  “I give you both exactly five minutes,” Julian said. “After that, I’m afraid Miss Sinclair will have to make other arrangements for—”

  “Don’t be bad-tempered, Julian.” Mrs. Westerby was pushing her way past obstacles, and at last reached the drop-front desk. She opened it, and a shower of documents fe
ll to the floor.

  “Let me,” said Gail.

  “Oh, thank you, Gail. Just push them in anyhow; I’ll tidy it all later, when you’ve—got it!” she shouted in triumph. “Got it! Now do you see, Julian? It only needed a little patience. You don’t find things by standing in the doorway and harrying everybody. If Gail hadn’t been so—”

  “Three minutes,” he said. “Do we go, or don’t we?”

  Gail found her coat and he held it for her; not with so rude a jerk, she told herself resentfully, would he drape the mink round the shoulders of all his sleek mistresses. She thanked Mrs. Westerby, took the paper and put it into her handbag, and then accompanied Julian to the car he had parked outside. Powerful and expensive, she noted—as was only to be expected—and plenty of room in the back for picnics.

  They drove away, leaving Mrs. Wester by waving on the gravel. Julian said nothing; frowning, he listened anxiously to the engine and now and then tested the controls. Gail leaned back and conceded unwillingly that the cushions were superbly comfortable. Then she sat up with a jerk.

  “That’s not the way!” she exclaimed. “You should have taken that left-hand turning.”

  He slowed down and turned to look at her.

  “I’m on the London road,” he pointed out. “Or I will be once I get past—”

  “But I’m not going back to town! I’m going to Downleigh.”

  He brought the car to a halt and looked at her with loathing.

  “My godmother asked me to give you a lift back to town,” he said. “That’s what I’m doing—once I’ve called in at a garage to ask them to fix—”

  “I don’t care what your godmother told you,” Gail said. “She came in a so-called car to fetch me from my brother-in-law’s and knew I was going back there. All you’ve got to do is stop at a garage, as planned, and I’ll arrange a lift from there to Downleigh, and thank you for all your kindness and courtesy, and let’s agree that this is the last time I’ll give you any trouble, and I hope your engine falls out just as soon as they fix it.”