by Mary Wesley
Somewhere up there, thought Barbara, looking up, is Henry’s bedridden wife. The idea of Henry’s bedridden wife was suddenly creepy; she wondered whether she wanted to meet her and, should she do so, what she would be like? There was something white up there on the banisters, something white looking down. A face? Barbara drew closer to Antonia.
The girls jumped when they heard the screech. Barbara clutched Antonia’s hand. As the screecher came towards them they backed away from the banisters and pressed themselves against the wall to let it pass, then gasped with amusement. Pilar, leaning over the rail and screeching too, yelled, ‘Ebro! You catch animal or tell Henry. ‘E teach it wicked tricks, the ladies are not amuse.’
‘Gosh,’ said Antonia, letting go of Barbara. ‘Did you see it?’
‘Look at it now!’ Barbara pointed as a white cockatoo dropped from the banisters and waddled and hopped towards the open front door. ‘It’s going out!’ she exclaimed. ‘It will get lost.’
‘No, no,’ said Pilar, “E go out, ‘e come in this slide, it ‘is latest amusement. You frightened?’
‘Oh no,’ said Barbara. ‘Surprised, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting a cockatoo to slide down the banisters.’
‘Happens in all the best houses,’ said Antonia. ‘Should be written up in Homes and Gardens.’
‘Shut up,’ said Barbara. ‘Don’t be tactless.’ But Pilar was calling down to Ebro, who had appeared in the hall and was loading himself with their suitcases.
Like his mother, Ebro was short, dark and very strong; he came up the stairs smiling. He had the same parrot jaw and outsize teeth.
‘Which rooms?’ he asked his mother. ‘For which cases? I am Ebro,’ he introduced himself.
‘Hullo,’ said Barbara. ‘I thought that Ebro was a river.’
‘Where my father died fighting Franco,’ said Ebro cheerfully. ‘I am named for it. This room?’ He deposited the cases. ‘And this?’
The girls’ rooms were next to each other with a bathroom between. The sun, streaming through open windows, made rooms already pretty charming.
‘When you are ready there will be tea on the terrace,’ said Pilar. ‘You find your way down?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Barbara, ‘thanks.’ But presently, as they descended the stairs, she whispered, ‘In that half-light looking up I thought that white thing was a face. Just for a moment—’
‘Your imagination,’ mocked Antonia. ‘Mistaking a cockatoo for a face. Honestly! But I must admit it made me jump.’
‘Half out of your skin,’ said her friend.
They crossed the hall into a drawing room, whose windows opened on to a terrace where the young men sat by a table laid for tea. Noting the starched white table-cloth, silver tea set, pretty china and plates of cakes, Antonia said, ‘How lovely,’ pausing in the doorway beside her friend.
Henry’s dogs, lying by his chair, raised watchful heads. Henry, seeing the girls, thought that they paired very well with his friends; they were pretty, uncomplex, nice-mannered girls. He was generously pleased for Matthew and James. Yet with part of his mind he wondered which of the two would be most fun in bed, a speculation that was academic since both were bespoke.
‘Come along,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Sit down.’ He indicated chairs. ‘We are waiting for the cucumber sandwiches, Pilar has pulled out all the stops.’ The girls sat together, facing the garden. ‘Pilar tells me my wife’s cockatoo gave you a fright.’
‘Oh no, not at all.’ ‘We thought it was your wife.’
The girls spoke together. Matthew frowned and James looked uneasy but Henry, watching the girls blush, said easily, ‘There may well be a similarity; I had not thought. Actually, although I gave her the bird, they don’t get on.’
‘Does it always live loose?’ James hoped to cover the girls’ gaffe. ‘I don’t remember him when I came before.’
‘He lived in Trask’s part of the house, but now he honours me. Ah, here come the cucumber sandwiches.’ Henry smiled at Pilar. ‘Sit down, Pilar.’ He made room for her beside him and she, placing the plate of sandwiches on the table, viewed her oeuvre with satisfaction. ‘Shall I pour?’ she asked.
‘Please do,’ said Henry. ‘Where is Ebro?’
‘Gone with Trask to fetch the tables for the party. Milk?’ she asked Antonia. ‘Sugar?’ she asked Barbara.
Annoyed with herself, Barbara avoided James’s eye, drank her tea and looked at the view.
‘How beautiful,’ she said, ‘how lovely,’ taking in the lawn which sloped from the terrace to a lily pond, the beds of iris which bordered it and the spring green of the woods beyond. ‘There’s a cuckoo,’ she said, ‘the first I’ve heard this year.’
They listened to the cuckoo.
Henry passed the sandwiches. Pilar watched them eat. One of the dogs pushed himself up into a sitting position and stared at Barbara as she ate. A thin stream of saliva slipped from his mouth to swing like a spider’s thread. Matthew, unable to endure this spectacle, gave the animal a piece of cake.
James passed his empty cup to Pilar for more tea. Antonia searched her mind for a safe subject. Nobody seemed prepared to speak. She wondered whether one of the windows in the house behind them was the window of Henry’s bedridden wife; whether Henry’s wife, lying in bed, could hear the chink of cups and the absence of talk. Or was she, too, listening to the cuckoo?
James, angry with himself for minding Barbara’s tactlessness, studied the dogs sprawling round Henry’s feet. They smelt a bit gamey, he thought, and wondered whether anyone bothered to bath them. One dog in particular, which was scratching its ribs, its lip curled in an agony of appreciation, could do with a wash. He watched it stop scratching, prick its ears and, following its eye, he saw the cockatoo approach along the terrace in a sort of nautical roll. The cockatoo said, ‘Hullo,’ its voice high, vulgar and feminine. Then, ‘Have some tea?’
Everyone laughed. Matthew offered it a sandwich, which it ignored. Barbara had more success with cake; they stopped listening to the cuckoo.
‘What’s its name?’ asked Antonia. ‘Did your wife give it a name?’ It was ridiculous, she thought, to ignore Henry’s wife; she was somewhere in the house. She didn’t care what Matthew thought, it was better to bring things—like a bedridden wife, for instance—into the open.
‘I don’t think she did,’ said Henry. ‘She had it removed p.d.q. There would not have been time to consider a name for it. Why don’t you ask her? I was wondering whether you would like to meet her; she doesn’t meet many people.’
‘Of course we would,’ said Antonia.
‘Love to,’ said Barbara, ‘any time.’
Henry smiled in a way they would remember afterwards. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘There’s no time like the present.’
They followed him into the house and up the stairs. Henry walked fast; they had to hurry to keep up. At the end of a corridor he knocked at a door and opened it immediately. ‘Here are our visitors, Margaret. Antonia and Barbara,’ he said and stood aside to let the girls go in.
‘Come in, do,’ said Margaret. ‘An expected treat. Sit down.’
Henry closed the door and they heard his footsteps retreating.
FOUR
AS HENRY’S FOOTSTEPS PADDED rapidly away, the girls stood for a moment, silent and dazzled.
It was an extraordinary room, a bright, light room, a golden room silvered by mirrors. Gold wallpaper, pale gold carpet, gold curtains and blinds, a gold bed with gold satin sheets and gold silk pillows. Neither Antonia nor Barbara had ever seen anything like it. They gaped.
Antonia’s eye, seeking relief, was rebuffed by gold chairs, a golden sofa and gold hangings round the bed. She was tempted, she told Matthew later, to bolt back to the congenial shabbiness of the rest of the house.
Beside her Barbara, startled by a superfluity of mirrors, surprised her own reflection and Antonia’s and beyond them the occupant of the bed, full face and in profile watching them. With an effort she turned towards th
e bed and said, ‘Hello. I am Barbara and this is Antonia. How do you do?’
Margaret Tillotson lifted an arm from the counterpane and extended pale fingers. ‘Barbara,’ she said, ‘and Antonia. Clement weather. Sit down,’ and let her arm drop.
Obediently Antonia and Barbara sat on a sofa facing the bed and affected not to stare. If she had not moved, Barbara said later, it might have been supposed that Margaret Tillotson was part of the decor. Pale red-gold hair toned with the wallpaper, white arms and shoulders reflected the sheets, silvery eyes glittered palely, as did the mirrors. Why had they not been warned?
‘How do you like it?’ Margaret Tillotson had a pleasant husky voice as she quizzed her visitors.
‘It’s—er—it’s extraordinary.’ Antonia found her voice. ‘So different from the rest of the house.’
‘Oh, that.’ Margaret Tillotson watched them. Antonia felt Barbara stiffen. ‘I have just had it done up,’ said Margaret. ‘I got people from London. It is amusing watching them work.’
‘Watching?’
‘They have to work round me, I can’t get out of bed.’
Barbara shifted uneasily. Was the woman a cripple? Nobody had prepared them for a cripple.
‘Before this,’ said Margaret Tillotson, ‘the room was elegant, but I tired of it.’
Thinking how nice it would be to get back to her shabby guest room, Antonia asked, ‘Was it like the rest of the house before you, er—?’
‘God, no! It had black walls, the carpet and ceiling were white and the bed and sofas striped black-and-white. The mirrors were the same, of course. I like my mirrors.’
Barbara murmured, ‘Ah, the mirrors.’
‘Such dear liars.’ Margaret laughed a small breathy laugh. ‘I can see you don’t like my room,’ she said. ‘Two ordinary healthy girls.’
Antonia might have let this pass, but Barbara could not. ‘You look pretty healthy to me,’ she said.
‘I am,’ said Margaret coolly, ‘but not ordinary.’ She waited for her visitors to assess this fact.
Antonia, dodging, asked, ‘Before the black-and-white, how was the room then?’ She had scented a game.
‘Every shade of fuchsia. Not a success. I found it tiring.’
‘What does your husband think of it?’ Barbara tried to fit Henry into the colour scheme.
‘I wouldn’t know. I have not asked.’ Margaret waited for the girls to make the next move.
‘It is wonderfully feminine,’ ventured Antonia. ‘Shall you wear a gold dress at the party?’
Margaret narrowed her eyes. ‘What party?’
‘The party tomorrow. Dinner by moonlight in the garden—’ said Antonia. ‘Your father-in-law used to have these parties.’
‘I know nothing about it,’ said Margaret.
‘Your husband must have been planning a surprise for you. We have blown the gaffe,’ said Barbara, distressed, yet volunteering to share the blame with her friend. ‘We did not know it was a secret,’ she stumbled on. ‘How awful of us, now his surprise is spoiled. How could we be so stupid?’
Margaret Tillotson watched her. ‘I would say,’ she said, measuring her words, ‘that you take to stupidity like ducks to water.’
Antonia let out a shout of laughter.
‘What have I said that’s so funny? If you look over there on my dressing table, you will see a bottle of nail varnish. You can paint my nails for me.’ Margaret’s tone implied that Antonia’s entertainment value was spent and that, this being so, she might as well make herself useful. She held out her hand. Antonia took it.
‘Your nails are too long,’ she said, and dropped it.
‘They are not. Paint them.’
‘Gold?’ asked Barbara, getting to her feet. ‘Paint them yourself,’ she said bravely. ‘You have nothing else to do.’
Margaret Tillotson let her hand drop and for a minute none of them spoke.
Then Antonia, mindful of her manners, asked, ‘What shall you wear at the party?’
‘If I come.’
‘Is there any doubt?’ Antonia was prepared to forgive. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘you do not look ill. What is there to prevent you?’
Barbara felt a mist of negative thought emanate from Margaret. She shifted uneasily, wishing James was beside her to give moral support.
‘I have had nothing new since I married,’ said Margaret. ‘Other than nightdresses, of course.’
Hearing an explosion of girlish laughter, Henry Tillotson, on the terrace, glanced up. James, lolling in a deck-chair, said, ‘At least she has not swallowed them whole.’
Henry said, ‘If I warn people—well, you know what happens. You got nowhere.’
‘Only so far as to be told that her previous husband’s friends were of a higher intellectual standard than yours,’ remarked Matthew. ‘Bit sad for one’s ego.’
‘Listen, they are laughing again.’ James sat up.
‘Could Margaret have cracked a joke?’ murmured Henry.
‘It sounds as though they have found something in common,’ said James.
‘That would be stretching it too far,’ Henry demurred. ‘They are gutsy girls, though,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Look, you two, I have things to discuss with Trask. Will you stand guard? Stay within earshot?’ Without waiting for James or Matthew to answer, Henry walked off, followed by his dogs.
‘What are we supposed to stand guard against?’ questioned James uneasily.
‘No idea,’ said Matthew. ‘You’ve met her; what did she do to you?’
‘Told me I bored her, asked me to open the window to clear the room of my odour. Odour was the word she used.’
‘So you fared no better than me?’
‘Worse, I’d say,’ said James modestly. ‘To smell bad and bore must be worse than to compare unfavourably with a divorced husband’s cronies.’
‘Oh, so she divorced, did she? I had the idea that she’d killed him off’
‘It was divorce. I definitely remember Henry’s father telling me that Henry was marrying a divorcee.’
‘Henry’s father is dead,’ said Matthew.
‘Patently,’ James, anxious for his girl-friend, snapped. ‘Can’t hear a thing,’ he said. ‘We’d better shut up and listen.’
They listened, Matthew with his head tilted sideways, eyes squinting along his nose, James with his head thrown back. In the woods behind the house the cuckoo called.
Matthew whispered, ‘I don’t like this.’ Leaving his chair, he climbed on to the seat Henry had vacated. ‘Hush,’ he said, motioning James to keep quiet. ‘I can hear someone talking.’
‘?’
‘It’s not Antonia.’
‘Barbara?’ James whispered.
‘No.’
‘M—?’
‘You all right?’ Pilar came through the french windows. ‘I take away tea things. Found a bird’s nest, Matthew? Henry say is flycatcher nest in the vine.’ She began stacking cups and saucers on to a tray. ‘All cucumber sandwiches gone,’ she said with satisfaction.
‘They were delicious, Pilar,’ Matthew stepped awkwardly down from the seat. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘No, no.’ Pilar picked up the tray. ‘Is all right.’ As she walked away with the tray, she called over her shoulder, ‘When you hear window shut, audience is over. The girls escape.’ She pushed the french windows open with her foot and sidled through them.
‘Escape?’ asked James.
‘She’s making fun of us.’ Matthew got back on the seat. ‘It’s Margaret,’ he whispered presently, ‘it must be. It isn’t Antonia or Barbara, I know their voices.’
‘Well, sit down,’ said James, ‘before Pilar catches you snooping.’ Then, when Matthew resumed his seat, he said, ‘Does anyone know the origin of Pilar? Was she Henry’s, well, you know? Was she?’
‘I can tell you that,’ said Matthew. ‘Nothing to do with Henry; his father got embroiled in the Spanish War succouring refugees. It was he brought Pilar and her baby to Cotteshaw. It was supposed
to be for a few weeks, to get over the death of her husband, but the old man got ill and eventually died—’
‘When?’ asked James.
‘A year or two into the war. Pilar nursed him, Henry told me. The old man was very idealistic, I believe; anyway, she took root and Ebro, too, I rather gathered when Henry told me that he had committed himself to looking after them. I remember Henry saying, “My father’s ideals could turn into tripwires.” Funny thing to say. And it wasn’t to do with Pilar.’
‘Oh.’
Matthew and James sat on in the late afternoon sun, ears cocked for sounds from the room above. Once Matthew glanced at his watch and whispered, ‘They’ve been there nearly an hour.’
James whispered back, ‘Still talking, I can just hear. Can’t make out any words.’
And Matthew, growing impatient, said, ‘And that bloody bird is still cuckooing.’
In the field beyond the garden Henry reappeared, his body casting an exaggerated shadow in the evening light. He waved and one of the dogs keeping him company barked.
James asked, ‘How well do you know Henry?’
‘As well as Henry allows.’ Matthew smiled. ‘I suspect his dogs know him a lot better than we do,’ he said.
‘And Margaret?’ James asked.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think she knows him at all.’
‘Do you suppose the girls are getting to know her?’
‘That would be rather interesting,’ said Matthew thoughtfully. ‘And do you suppose they will tell us what they know?’
‘Of course they will,’ said James. ‘Barbara tells me practically everything now, and when we are married she will tell me the lot.’
‘What an optimist you are,’ said Matthew. ‘Do I take it that she accepted you in the hayfield?’
‘As good as,’ said James.