by Bill James
Ember said: ‘I’ve been thinking back, Mansel, and to my astonishment I believe this is the first time you’ve ever been to Low Pastures.’
‘That so?’ Sybil said.
‘Yes, I’m more or less certain,’ Ember said.
‘Well, of course it is,’ Sybil said. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Sorry?’ Ember replied.
‘I wondered if you were really astonished,’ Sybil said. ‘To me, Ralph, it always looked like your policy.’
‘In what sense?’ Ember said.
‘To shut Manse out,’ Sybil said. ‘Sort of apartheid.’
The method of inviting Shale had given problems. Eventually, though, Ember decided a phone call would be all right, even if intercepts operated. This was only one businessman asking another friendly businessman and his companion to a meal at the first businessman’s home. Iles on an intercept would not find much in that, surely. Of course, Iles might know Ralph usually barred Shale and would wonder about the alteration. But he could not do more than that, could he – wonder? Just the same, Ralph rang from the public call box at the Monty, hardly ever used since the mobiles revolution. This precaution probably wasn’t one. If they had a tap on Manse the call would be heard, no matter where it came from, and Ralph’s voice recognized.
A woman had answered when Ember phoned the rectory. He was ready in case this happened, and meant to be very guarded. Although he’d asked around and knew all three names of Shale’s women now, Ralph must not give him heavy trouble by guessing and guessing wrong. And a mistake of that kind could lead to unpleasant tension at the Low Pastures dinner table ultimately. Neither he nor Margaret would like this. ‘Hello, there!’ he’d said. ‘All well and so on? I wondered if Mansel’s around?’
‘Is that Ralphy Ember?’
Ember hated to be called Ralphy. He thought it made him sound half baked or juvenile. Which of those three short-contract consorts imagined she had the right to use that name? And which could identify him from a dozen words? He’d never spoken to any of them. ‘Yes, Ralph Ember,’ he said.
‘Ralphy! I thought so.’
And then he thought he could identify from even less than a dozen words: ‘Is that Sybil?’
‘As ever was.’
‘How good to hear you!’ he cried. This really fucking threw him. Had she arrived on another day visit or returned as a permanency now? Was something intimate under way, like last time when Harpur and Iles called? He tried to remember the layout of the rectory drawing room. Did Sybil pick up the phone because she lay closer to it than Manse on the rug? ‘It’s been a while, Sybil,’ Ember said.
‘Yes, a while.’
‘And quite a drive over.’
‘Yes, quite a drive.’
Was she dressed? He thought Syb would look quite good stripped – unburly shoulders, breasts in proportion, non-sag behind so far, long legs. ‘But perhaps you don’t mind driving. Some don’t.’
‘Driving’s so subjective.’
‘I’ve always said that.’
‘Manse isn’t here now,’ she replied.
‘Ah.’ He thought it must be a permanency, then. Shale wouldn’t go out, would he, if Sybil were only on another visit? God, what kind of woman somehow got herself virtually clear of Manse and then decided to come back? So, not the rug, and she’d have her clothes on. He managed to hang on to the other image, just the same, for a minute more. ‘Nothing crucial. I’ll ring again,’ he had said.
‘Try his cell phone.’
‘That’s possible.’
‘But insecure?’ she said.
‘I’ll call later.’
‘From a booth?’
He considered it would be stupid to talk on the phone about trying to counter phone intercepts, when a phone intercept might be taking place while he talked now.
‘What’s it to do with, the call?’ she had asked.
Yes, that sounded like permanency. Yes, that sounded like wifedom. ‘A certain topic or two,’ Ember said.
‘Well, yes, I’d guess this. Which?’
He realized he’d have to tell her. If he waited until he spoke to Manse before mentioning the invitation, and Manse then informed her, she’d know Ralph had been holding this back now, from uncertainty that she would be the one out of four Shale wanted to bring. ‘Dinner with us at Low Pastures, if you can fit that in.’
‘Really? Really? When?’
‘When suits.’
‘That’ll be all right. I’ll talk him into it if he’s shy.’
And they’d come to Low Pastures, Manse in his splendid suit that one day might have been a duke’s or topmost bookie’s of pretty near Manse’s measurements, Sybil wearing black trousers tucked into calf-high brown boots and a plum-coloured, round-necked cashmere jumper. Tonight he could add some items to his picture of her bare. She was about thirty-eight or -nine, small-nosed, dark-eyed, wide-faced, slim, the long legs, her hair fairish and seemingly without any grey yet. Ember had met Syb several times before, of course, during her and Manse’s first spell together. He remembered Sybil for a strong tranquillity that always seemed about to drift into something else, though. To him, she appeared the sort of woman who’d leave a man as soon as she felt like it – leave her children, too – and return as soon as she felt like that, also. Syb would assume there’d still be a welcome for her. And maybe she assumed right. Manse was obviously content, even excited, to have her with him now.
Ralph wondered why someone as obviously confident and blunt as Sybil had not forbidden that fucking mauve shirt. Manse would be fine wearing it on holiday in Prestatyn, or checking around his pushers down the Valencia Esplanade area. But that shirt did not chime with Low Pastures. Perhaps, though, she’d deliberately persuaded Manse to put it on, to demonstrate through its soaring naffness that they did not feel daunted by Low Pastures – the same kind of silly impudence as made her wear those high boots and tuck her trousers in, regardless of the occasion and setting.
She said: ‘Ralph sounded so confused when I answered the phone at the rectory, poor old thing.’
‘I wouldn’t say confused,’ Ember replied, ‘but –’
‘Utterly understandable,’ Sybil said. ‘If you were expecting a woman at all it would be one of those bed-warmers, Lowri, Carmel or Patricia. It was, “Hello, there, whoever you are and could I speak to Mansel, please?” They stand by each other, these laddies, don’t they, Margaret? Ralph knew he mustn’t drop Manse in it by getting the name wrong – faux pas of faux pas.’
‘A marriage will shine through,’ Shale said.
Like blood through sauce? Ralph did not say it.
‘Yes, if a marriage has anything to it at all, it will shine through,’ Shale said.
‘That’s a lovely, lovely idea, Mansel,’ Margaret said.
Ralph wondered if she wanted him to think a bit about Manse’s words, though she didn’t look Ember’s way. He nodded twice, however, good, firm nods covering a tidy distance, chin towards chest.
‘Those other women at the rectory – I’ve always known they were only temps,’ Sybil said. ‘If one of them became pushy and proprietorial, she’d be banished. Well, one of them did become pushy and proprietorial, didn’t she, Manse, and so he had every rectory lock changed to keep her out, including internal doors. This was decisiveness.’
‘It seemed the simplest thing,’ Shale said. ‘A safeguard.’
‘He won’t specify which woman,’ Sybil said, ‘but that’s all right. They’re all very ex now, Carmel, Lowri, Patricia.’ She gave the names big contempt, especially the i sound at the end of Lowri, which Syb turned into a high squeak, and the hissing soft c in Patricia.
‘Ex, yes, just like it got to be,’ Manse said.
It amazed Ember that someone in that shirt could get away with talking so much virtue. ‘I expect you had the internals done as well, Manse, in case she – whoever, as they say – in case she got in somehow – for example, through a window – and defaced the art for revenge. I imagine the
drawing room’s new lock is there above all to make sure the paintings remain untroubled, though the lock could have other uses, obviously.’
‘My thinking was along them lines, yes, you’ve hit it, Ralph. I feel like a custodian of the paintings, not just their owner, like caring for them on behalf of Art itself. What we all know, don’t we, is a woman who thinks she been rejected can get so outright uncomradely and dwell on things.’
‘Those famous lines – “a woman scorned”,’ Margaret said.
‘They think they been scorned when they have not be scorned at all, only told they got to go. I don’t call that scorning. I wouldn’t say I’m a scorning sort of person. That’s just telling them “Cheerio” plus proper, generous thanks.’
‘I believe the cheap cows themselves should be scorned,’ Sybil said.
‘Quite a room this, in my opinion,’ Shale replied. ‘Just the kind of room I would imagine for Low Pastures.’
‘Yes, and you had to imagine until now, didn’t you, Manse?’ Sybil said.
‘The bare stones in the walls – it’s such a thing to think of them going right back into old times,’ Mansel said. ‘When them stones was dug out and brought here for building a house it must of been by people who really wanted a house to last, not for theirselves, but going on and on. Like genuineness throughout. When they was choosing them stones they’d say, “This one, and this one, not that one,” because it did not look like it would last the required centuries.’
‘This house, plus the grounds, Ralph,’ Sybil said, ‘the whole spread – £2.5 million? Planning permission with any of the land?’
‘A good family home,’ Margaret said.
‘When Britain ruled the waves and suchlike,’ Shale replied. ‘The country knew what it was then, was sure of itself. You can tell this from the stones. That’s where a house like this goes back to. I got a rectory that goes right back, but this really goes back. We carry on something from that grand past, and we are proud to do it, the two families, I’m so sure of that. Like taking things over from that fine history, such as them stones for the walls, or my den room where many sermons was created – we take them over, these properties, with true respect and look after their changed life in the twenty-first century. A changed life, yes, and yet also linked to them previous days.’
‘Manse had some redecorating done and new stair carpet, as well as the locks,’ Sybil said.
‘Perhaps a kind of touching welcome home to you, Sybil,’ Margaret said.
‘This is what I mean, the twenty-first century, but still keeping the properties connected to them historical periods,’ Manse replied. ‘When I think of our families in these properties I think of that idea of the way Man – signifying also women and children these days, of course – I think of the way Man didn’t go under, despite like the Ice Age and disease and wolves and food so scarce – berries and that’s all, unless you killed something and ate it.’
‘Survival of the fittest,’ Margaret said. ‘Darwin’s Origin of Species.’
‘Right,’ Shale said. ‘I like that. We are the species who look after these good old homes because we are the fittest. We’ve proved it over and over. We are the fittest through our good businesses and the way our families are. These homes are in good hands.’
‘When I’m in bed now I sometimes wonder which one of those three was last lying where I’m lying,’ Sybil replied. ‘I sniff at the pillow, though everything’s been washed, naturally. But I’d like full fumigation. Would you fancy having your head on a pillow where some fly-by-night called Carmel slept, Margaret? Toenail clippings. Oh, yes. In one of the bathrooms. They’re not mine or Manse’s or the children’s – I’ve checked them against their feet. If I ever meet Carmel or Patricia or Lowri, I’ll say to her in a completely considerate fashion, woman-to-woman, “Did you leave anything behind at St James’ rectory, following your last residential turn, blossom?” She’ll get all flustered and jumpy in case it’s something intimate and I’ll bring out a little box lined with purple velveteen, the kind for earrings, and take the lid off suddenly and shove the open box up to her fucking eyes so she can see parings.’
‘And we gladly spend cash on these residences,’ Manse replied, ‘– modern here-and-now cash – preserving them, sort of nursing them, because we got the funds to do it through being fittest, so our houses can get that survival. New stair carpet, new wallpaper, they might seem only about the look of the house inside, but the look is important because it shows we will take care of the rest, also. It’s a pointer. The locks – that’s really looking after the place, isn’t it? This is security. All right, it was brought on by one bit of trouble, but them locks will be good against all sorts. This is also about survival.’
‘Mansel likes to put things into a wide context,’ Sybil said. ‘I missed that when I was away temporarily.’
‘Well, you would,’ Margaret said.
The room they had pre-dinner drinks in was called in some of the older plans of the house the Round Room. Ralph liked this and they kept the name. The caterers sent two waitresses as well as the cook and her assistant, but Ralph handed out the aperitifs himself. He thought this would destroy any feelings in Sybil and Manse that Ember might have been lordly, arrogant, refusing to ask them to Low Pastures. He’d do his penance bit as a fucking waiter.
The Round Room was not totally round but had two curved walls, two straight. Margaret chose the furniture, mostly large, old pieces bought at auction. Ralph considered they suited well – a late nineteenth-century chiffonier, a heavy four-leaf table, also Victorian, some big Edwardian armchairs, and a chesterfield that she’d had reupholstered in patterned moquette. Ember thought that in his crude but earnest way, Manse had it right about how these old places – the rectory and Low Pastures – were now looked after and esteemed by people who could afford properly to preserve and improve them.
Ralph had mixed bloody Marys earlier and served them from large jugs. He’d read somewhere that, when it came to aperitifs and table wines, the proper thing was for the host to choose, not ask people’s preferences. With liqueurs, options could be offered, though generally Ralph noticed guests went for his own favourite, Kressmann armagnac from its interesting black-labelled bottle.
As a matter of fact, they were on to the liqueurs in the dining room after their meal, and the caterers and waitresses had left when Ralph heard a car approach on the drive and pull up. Someone rang the front door bell. Shale put down his glass and seemed to grow anxious. He glanced towards Ember as if to ask whether he expected callers, and as if to say, ‘What the fuck goes on, Ralph?’ Manse’s hand did not get in under those sweet lapels nor into a jacket pocket, so Ralph’s guess that he had come unarmed, owing to the glory of the occasion, might be correct. Perhaps quality drinks made Shale jumpy.
Sybil said: ‘What is it, Manse?’
‘What?’ he replied.
‘What is it?’ Ember said.
‘What?’ Shale said.
Sybil leaned across the table towards him and, dripping evil, said: ‘Mansel, is this one of those hot-arsed, possessive birds? You told the children we were coming here.’
‘Well, in case they needed to get in touch,’ Shale said.
‘She’s called at the rectory looking for you and been sent on by them,’ Sybil said.
‘That’s crazy,’ Shale said.
Sybil sat back and turned now towards Margaret Ember: ‘What I have to take into account is that those women could have built all kinds of understandings with my children – with my children,’ Sybil said. ‘Matilda, Laurent, they’d think it all right to tell any of them where Mansel might be.’ She switched back to him. ‘They’ve witnessed you in closenesses to them, haven’t they? Haven’t they?’ Ember thought she might weep. So, perhaps it had been an error to bring Manse and her into Low Pastures after all. Demonstrations at the dining table he always found very off key. At least Sybil kept her voice reasonably down, yet it was damn vehement. She said: ‘By turn, these women became part
of the day-in, day-out, night-in, night-out nature of my children’s lives. They actually feel they have a loyalty to them. Isn’t it appalling? Isn’t it, isn’t it?’
‘But you could be betting . . . I mean be getting all this . . . this all wrong, Syb,’ Manse said. It was no big statement, but Manse stumbled. You could believe he might also stumble with a bottle of sauce on stairs. Occasionally, Ember spotted hints in Shale of that breakdown Chandor spoke of lately. This made Ralph feel strong. Who should be called ‘Panicking’ now, then?
Ember’s daughters, Venetia and her sister, Fay, were in one of the other downstairs room watching television and Ember heard them go out to the hall and look at the closed circuit monitors showing the front porch. Then, Venetia opened the dining-room door, no knock, and said: ‘Two women, dad.’
‘Two?’ Sybil said. ‘My God, this is intolerable. Isn’t it intolerable, Margaret?’
‘Youngish,’ Venetia said. ‘One is, anyway.’
‘At this time of night and on someone else’s property, valuable property. I apologize for him, Ralph. I absolutely voluntarily return to Mansel, and is this the kind of behaviour I should have to meet? Is it? Is it?’
‘Shall I let them in?’ Venetia said.
‘This is Venetia,’ Ember said, ‘and Fay in the background. Mr and Mrs Mansel Shale from the old St James’ rectory. They are long-established friends, oh, yes.’
‘Hello,’ Sybil said.
‘Hello,’ Manse said.
‘But I comprehensively worship the shirt, Mr Shale,’ Venetia replied. ‘In fact, the whole panoply. So on song!’
‘I’ll deal with the front door, shall I?’ Ember said.
‘Don’t let them in,’ Sybil said. ‘Tell them it’s over. Tell them it’s no good coming here in an alliance. That’s only evidence of how unmeaningful each of those relationships was.’
‘What’s over?’ Venetia said. ‘Are these scrubbers? They want to be awkward?’ She pointed one finger: ‘A shirt like that, Mr Shale, seems to cosset and yet project the wearer’s neck while at the same time declaring its wearer so much a part of the today world.’