“Anyway,” said Henry, “have you come up with a plan yet? For getting Montmaray back from the Nasties?”
“Nazis,” I corrected.
Veronica got up and walked out.
“Why does she always do that?” said Henry, her face falling. “Whenever anyone mentions Montmaray—”
“Never mind, Horrid Hen,” said Toby quickly. “Because we need her out of the room while we figure out what to do for her birthday.”
“Aunt Charlotte’s giving her a three-strand pearl necklace,” said Henry. “I overheard her talking to Barnes about it.”
“You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” I told her.
“It’s practice for when I become a private detective,” said Henry. “Toby, can I borrow a shilling? I know what I’m getting her, but it’s a secret.”
“What are we getting her?” I asked Toby as he handed over a coin. “Books, I suppose.”
“Probably,” he said. “But I do have one surprise up my sleeve—I got Simon to look up the address of her Communist paramour.”
“Don’t call Daniel that,” I said crossly. I was starting to regret ever having told Toby about Daniel. “And we don’t even know if he is a Communist.”
“Well, apparently he runs a newspaper distributed by the International Alliance for the Promotion of Socialist Beliefs, so I doubt he’ll be campaigning for the Conservatives at the next election. You’d better write to him—he doesn’t know me.”
After further debate about Veronica’s birthday present, Toby and I decided on a subscription to The Manchester Guardian, because she’d complained that The Times was biased and kept spelling the names of Spanish towns incorrectly. However, given the current state of the world, I hardly think a newspaper will cheer her up. And I so want her to feel better—if not actually happy, then at least as though there’s a point to getting out of bed in the morning. I do think I understand a little of how she must feel. Montmaray would have ceased to function if Veronica had stayed in bed all day, but here there’s Aunt Charlotte to make all the decisions, and a small army of servants to take care of the house and grounds. To feel superfluous, on top of everything else …
For now I wonder if Veronica actually blames herself for what happened to Montmaray. It would explain her refusing even to talk about it. She’s so used to being responsible for everything, perhaps she thinks she could have, should have, done something differently, something that would have changed how it all turned out. Which is absurd, of course. The Germans were always going to come up to the castle, regardless of what she said or did; her father was bound to go berserk when he discovered them; and whether we’d told the truth about Hans Brandt’s death or not, Gebhardt would still have been determined to make us pay for it …
How depressing, the image of the greatest tragedy of one’s life as a series of toppling dominoes, the whole thing started off by the careless nudge of an elbow, and not even one’s own elbow. It almost makes me want to climb into bed and pull the covers up over my head, too. I shouldn’t be surprised that Veronica can barely muster the energy to have a decent argument with Simon nowadays.
It might be easier for Veronica if she enjoyed some of the activities I use as distractions—experimenting with new hairstyles, for instance, or talking Barnes into letting me try on all Aunt Charlotte’s jewelry. But feminine frippery merely serves to remind Veronica that here her value lies in her looks, not her brain (that, indeed, her brain will be a serious liability when it comes to husband-hunting, unless she’s clever enough to disguise how clever she is). But fortunately, Toby has talked Parker into giving Veronica driving lessons. So, between that and Veronica trying to prepare Toby for his exams, she should be too busy to succumb to despair—I hope.
I also wrote to Daniel explaining our new circumstances and reminding him that Veronica’s birthday is on Saturday, adding a subtle hint that he send something cheering, or at least intriguing enough to be a distraction. I then spent some time puzzling over the conundrum of Rupert’s linen handkerchief, now washed and ironed (although not by me). In books, weeping females are often lent handkerchiefs by gallant gentlemen, but hardly ever does the reader find out what happens to the handkerchief afterwards (unless it sparks off some catastrophe, as with poor Desdemona). What’s the correct etiquette for such an occasion? Should I post it back to Rupert with a letter of thanks? Or is he desperately trying to forget all about the incident, and me? He was so easy to talk to, once we got started, but the whole thing’s really quite embarrassing … I suppose I should just give it to Toby and ask him to return it, but I’ll need to brace myself for the teasing that will probably result. In any case, subsequent events pushed such trivial matters as handkerchiefs from my mind.
Firstly, Miss Thompson bolted (on the same early-morning London train as Simon, it turned out). Her resignation letter, brought in at breakfast by a footman, cited a mother who’d suddenly developed a grave illness. While Miss Thompson’s departure came as no great surprise, it did make Aunt Charlotte very cross, because it meant she had to find another governess. The situation, already tense, was not improved when Henry started shrieking at Toby, who’d just put a rasher of bacon on her plate.
“But it comes from pigs!” she cried. “Dead pigs! Pigs who’ve been killed!”
“Better than coming from pigs that haven’t been killed,” he said. “And what about the ham you’ve eaten every Christmas for the past ten years?”
“But I hadn’t met any pigs then!” she wailed. “I didn’t know they had personalities, like dogs! You wouldn’t eat Carlos, would you?”
Toby sighed. “I suppose sheep and cows have personalities, too?” he said, peering inside the remaining silver dishes. “What about chickens?”
“Spartacus had a personality,” she sniffed, recalling our ferocious rooster at Montmaray. “Remember how he teased the cats? Oh, poor, poor Spartacus—do you think he was squashed by the bombs?”
Aunt Charlotte was becoming more and more annoyed, and Veronica looked as though she were about to throw down her newspaper and do a bolt of her own, so I hurried Henry into her seat and handed her my piece of toast.
“There’s scrambled eggs,” mused Toby, still at the sideboard. “They’re not actually chickens. Potential chickens, perhaps …”
After some thought, Henry decided fish didn’t have personalities unless they were extremely large, like Moby Dick, so she had half of Toby’s kippers. Aunt Charlotte, muttering under her breath, stomped away to telephone the agency about a new governess, and Toby and Veronica returned to the declining Roman Empire. I went off to the music room, where I was trying to teach myself to waltz with the aid of Aunt Charlotte’s gramophone and a booklet Julia had lent me. Unfortunately, transforming little black shoe-shapes and curly arrows on a page into actual movement was proving difficult. I was deep in a dizzy muddle when the footman came in to announce I was wanted on the telephone.
“Me?” I gasped, dropping the tasseled bolster I’d been using as a dance partner.
“Mr. Simon Chester expressly asked for Your Highness,” he said.
I followed him to the little room under the stairs where the telephone was kept and gingerly picked up the speaking part.
“Hello?” I shouted, first in one end, then the other.
“Oh, there you are,” said Simon, sounding as though he were in the next room instead of all the way up in London. “Sophia, the clinic called—I’m afraid Mother’s not at all settled, so could you please go over and sort it out? Parker can drive you—”
“What?” I said, aghast. “Simon, how would I be any help? Your mother hates me!”
“No, no, it’s Veronica she can’t stand. And Toby’s supposed to be studying, and I’m stuck here, meant to be meeting the bank manager at noon … But you’re much the best person for the job, anyway. The matron’s expecting you, and there’s a therapist wanting a chat, too.”
“But I don’t know anything about—”
“The address is in the
green book, on the Chippendale table in the library—”
“Simon! Are you listening?”
“—and could you please remind your aunt about that dinner invitation from Lady Bosworth?”
“But—” I started again. “Pip, pip, pip!” said the telephone.
“Sorry, my three minutes are up,” said Simon. “Must go—thanks awfully, Sophia. See you in a few days.” And he was gone, leaving me spluttering into the silence.
I couldn’t see any way out of it. What if they sent Rebecca back? If it were possible to be expelled from a mental asylum for bad behavior, Rebecca could probably manage it. So I ran downstairs to find Parker, quite forgetting that we were supposed to ring the bell to summon a footman if we needed anything. Bursting into the kitchen, I startled half a dozen maids sitting at the table with their midmorning mugs of tea. They all jumped to their feet and started curtseying.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I blurted. “I was just looking for—”
“Quick, fetch Mr. Harkness!” hissed the cook at the tiniest maid, who shot off through a doorway.
“But I only wanted—”
“Mr. Harkness will be here presently, Your Highness,” said the cook, crossing her hefty arms across the bib of her apron and not quite looking me in the eye. “Ethel, stop that racket! Show some respect!” A maid, abashed, put down the bowl of eggs she’d been beating. Meanwhile, I stared helplessly around the room at all the pale faces frozen into deferential masks. At Montmaray, we’d practically lived in the kitchen. It had been the warmest, most welcoming place in the castle. But in this kitchen, I was a fearsome stranger. Fortunately, the butler arrived almost at once, straightening his cuffs.
“May I assist, Your Highness?” he intoned.
I stammered out what I’d wanted, and the bootboy was sent off to find the chauffeur. And I retreated upstairs, my face burning, having learned an unpleasant lesson about Milford Park protocol.
Eventually, Parker sent a message back that he would drive me to the clinic after luncheon. Veronica said she’d come, too, to watch him change gears and deal with traffic. “Don’t worry, I won’t go in,” she assured me. “I’ll wait outside. And we can visit Shaftesbury on the way! King Canute died there!” It was the most enthusiastic I’d seen her since we’d arrived—there’s nothing quite like long-dead kings to cheer up Veronica.
Shaftesbury turned out to be a little town on a steep green hill, its rows of historic houses looking as though they might tumble down into Blackmore Vale. It was all very pretty and Veronica had a lot of interesting things to say about its Anglo-Saxon founders, but I was too anxious to listen attentively. Rebecca had nearly killed Veronica last week, and the woman wasn’t all that fond of me, despite what Simon had said. Of course, there were unlikely to be axes lying around a clinic, but still … The car plunged on towards the coast, and all too soon, the sea appeared, a gray-blue blanket scrunched up on the sandy seafront. It wasn’t the same sea as the one I’d known, though—it was too mild-mannered. It didn’t even smell right.
The clinic was a friendly-looking white building, the front path edged with seashells, a bird feeder dangling from the bare branches of a nearby tree. Inside, however, were the unmistakable signs of an institution—a notice board reminding residents about fire drills, a reception desk littered with ringing telephones, and a lot of women marching about in crisp white uniforms (it was some comfort to think of all those highly trained professionals standing guard between Rebecca and me). It turned out Simon had given them my full royal title, which got me an immediate audience with the matron but also meant lots of heads popping out of doorways to stare as I was escorted to her office. Several people bobbed curtseys and looked mildly awestruck as I walked past, and one woman (presumably a patient rather than a member of staff) asked why I wasn’t wearing my tiara.
The matron’s mind was on sterner matters. “Mrs. Chester is delusional,” she said, frowning over a file. “As are many of our patients, but she’s rather … insistent that others go along with her beliefs, no matter how ludicrous. She got into a very nasty argument this morning with our receptionist, claiming that her son was the King and demanding he be addressed as Your Majesty.”
“Ah,” I said. “Er … well, she’s lived with our family for a very long time, and she may have been a little confused about—”
“She threw a stapler at the girl,” said the matron, giving me a severe look.
“Well, that was very wrong of her,” I said, my voice somehow taking on the exact tones of the matron.
“Indeed,” she said. “And so we really must—Oh. Here’s our head therapist.”
I shook hands with the head therapist, thinking that surely all the therapists must deal with heads. At any rate, she was very enthusiastic about her job.
“Well, Your Highness, this is lovely!” she cried. “To take such an interest in the well-being of your … I believe Mrs. Chester was your housekeeper? You see, we find our residents settle more easily if they can take part in familiar activities, so I was wondering if Mrs. Chester might like to help out in the kitchen. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Not if you want your meals to be edible, I thought. And the image of Rebecca let loose in a room full of sharp knives gave me the shivers. The matron must have been thinking along the same lines.
“I really don’t think—” she began, peering over her spectacles.
“Or hobbies?” the therapist went on, leaning forward and tucking her clasped hands under her chin. “What gives Mrs. Chester pleasure in life?”
Screaming at people? Throwing staplers at them? “Well, she is very fond of her son, Simon,” I offered. “Perhaps if she could have some photographs of him in her room …”
“Oh, but she does! And her son is most welcome to telephone or visit as often as he likes. I must say, she also seems to be getting on very well with her roommate, which is wonderful, because her roommate can be rather …” The matron cleared her throat, and the therapist hurried on. “But is there anything else? Does Mrs. Chester enjoy music or nature walks or sewing?”
I thought hard. “Um … well, she’s quite religious. Is there a church service she could attend on Sundays? And if a clergyman could visit her, I’m sure she’d pay attention if he told her not to throw staplers at people.”
“Of course!” said the therapist, beaming. “She can join the group that walks over to St. Jude’s each Sunday—they’re supervised, of course. And I’ll ask the vicar—a lovely man—if he can pop in and see her. What an excellent idea!” And then she went on about the clinic choral group that Rebecca might like to join, and how she was thinking of converting the old scullery into a meditation room.
“I expect you’d like to see Mrs. Chester now,” interrupted the matron. I couldn’t think of any polite way out of it, so I was shown into a sitting room that smelled of disinfectant, where I had a short, strained conversation with Rebecca.
“Do you need anything?” I asked. “More clothes or … or books or anything?”
“My son brings me everything I need,” she said haughtily. She was wearing a sober gray dress and had her hair scraped back and coiled in braids above each ear, which made her resemble the second Mrs. Rochester more than the first. I can’t say she looked happy, but when had she ever? She seemed well fed and clean, and she hadn’t thrown anything at me. Was happiness—the long-term sort of happiness, not momentary bursts of it—even possible for Rebecca? I had a glimpse of what it might be like to be her: to have given up everything for love and then be tossed aside, to have been taken up again by one’s lover when he’d been abandoned by everyone and everything, even his sanity—and then to be forsaken again, this time for eternity. Contemplating Rebecca’s life was like peering into a bottomless coal pit. But imagine being in the pit, peering up at an impossibly distant speck of daylight! Poor Rebecca! No wonder she spoke to people who weren’t there and lashed out viciously at those who were—and I suddenly recalled that Saint Jude was the patron saint of
lost causes. It was all so disheartening that I was relieved when she said an abrupt farewell and stomped out.
The therapist then insisted on giving me a tour and outlining the clinic’s philosophies (all of which sounded very impressive, although now I come to write them down, I can’t remember a word). I had the distinct impression that she had mistaken me for a member of the British royal family, or at least for someone far more important than I actually am. In the recreation room, we came across Rebecca and a tall, ferocious-looking woman, presumably her roommate, standing by a barred window. They were looking out towards the road, where Parker was pointing out bits of the car engine to Veronica. Rebecca was muttering in a low voice, no doubt pouring vitriol into her roommate’s ear (I could almost see it, a poisonous blue-green stream). Which did make me feel slightly less sympathetic towards Rebecca. But at least she seemed to be enjoying herself, in a Rebecca-ish sort of way. The therapist and I moved on to the music room and the dining room, and then finally, after a cup of milky tea and a digestive biscuit, I was able to make my escape.
“About time,” Veronica said. “We were just about to storm the barricades and rescue you. So they haven’t thrown her out yet?”
“No,” I said. “And the place is very nice.”
“It ought to be, with the fees they charge,” said Veronica. Then we drove home, Parker letting Veronica steer in the flat areas, while I thought about the human mind. I wondered whether mad people would be better off if their memories could be neatened up, or taken off the shelves on which they were stored and replaced with nicer ones, and if they’d be the same people then or completely different ones, and whether dreams were like a vandal rampaging through a library of memories, tearing out random pages and turning them into paper boats … and then I fell asleep and dreamed of the sea, and when I woke up, we were home.
23rd January 1937
It was Veronica’s birthday today. The cook made a chocolate cake, decorated with sugar roses and eighteen pink candles, and Julia and Anthony came over for tea. Julia brought a gorgeous black silk evening gown, which she claimed she’d snapped up for a bargain in the sales, then taken home before realizing it was the wrong size, “so please, Veronica, do take it off my hands.” Anthony gave her a book by Karl Marx, and Lady Astley sent hothouse roses and an enormous box of chocolates. Henry’s present turned out to be a magnifying glass, “because you’ve probably got eyestrain from too much reading, although when you’re not using it, can I borrow it?” And Veronica insisted that Toby’s and my newspaper subscription was “perfect,” exactly what she’d wanted, although I must say it didn’t look very impressive next to the other presents (especially as the actual newspapers won’t start being delivered until next week, so it was just an invoice from the newspaper office).
The FitzOsbornes in Exile Page 6