Death of a Gay Dog

by Anne Morice

‘Oh, the cottage is only a detail. He could spend a couple of thousand on putting it in order and sell out for ten times as much. It’s the site which is worth such a packet. An acre of copse and paddock, with a stream running through it and seventeenth-century barn thrown in. Can’t you see them queuing up?’

  ‘But you mean to hang on, in spite of him?’

  ‘You bet. I’d probably do it, anyway, just to annoy the old bastard, but the thing is it suits me. I was here ages before bloody old Brand took over, and I like it here. Besides, I’d never find anywhere half so good as the barn for storing Dan’s pictures. That’s dry and solid enough, and it’s all that matters. Now, about your portrait? Shall I have a bash?’

  ‘If you like. Will it take ages?’

  ‘God, no. I work very quickly, once I get going. I’ll either finish it in three or four sessions, or I’ll find it’s no good and chuck it in.’

  ‘I expect it’ll be all right, then. If necessary, I could stay on for a few days, after Robin goes back to London. I’m supposed to be working, but we’ve got a stalemate at the moment. Our leading lady refuses to appear before the cameras until the director is sacked and vice versa.’

  ‘Who’ll win?’

  ‘Oh, I think he will. She’s pretty bucked with herself, but it’s a minority view and if she hasn’t climbed down by next week I have a feeling they’ll cut their losses and get someone else for the part. Whichever way it goes it’s likely to be a week or two before they get around to me again.’

  ‘In that case, how about Monday for a sitting?’

  ‘By all means,’ I agreed. ‘I shall feel I am beginning a whole new career in pictures.’

  (ii)

  Despite the earlier reservations, the charm of my grey-brown quietness began to grow on me as I dawdled along the bridle path which provided Mill Cottage’s sole access to the main road. A decidedly flattering vision of the completed work floated into my head, a sort of cobwebby effect with me at the centre of it, a shadowy Madonna type, radiating all this terrific stillness. I saw, too, how quickly it could become a cult, and to the first daydream was added another showing the jostling crowds as they hurtled into the Tate to catch a glimpse of this celebrated portrait.

  Robin had taken the car to the golf-course and I had intended to catch the bus back to Burleigh, but these delightful fantasies naturally slowed down my pace a little and I saw the green double-decker go sailing past, while I was still fifty yards from the end of the track.

  However, my newly acquired serenity was not to be ruffled by so trifling a setback and I stood patiently by the road side, quietly thumbing a lift from the first comfortable-looking car that came along. It was lucky for me that Robin was not travelling close behind it, for he strongly disapproved of such practices, but I told myself that he would hardly expect me to slog the whole four miles back to Burleigh on foot. Furthermore, there was something so sedate and confidence-inspiring about this well-groomed motor-car that I did not falter, even when the driver pulled up with suspicious alacrity and promptly revealed himself to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or, more literally, a wolf in a Rover. He must have been quite old, sixty at least, but was stunningly well set up, with gleaming black hair and gleaming teeth, not to mention a gleam in the eye signifying that all passion was far from spent.

  It was a relief to discover, a moment later, that there was a granddaughter, or something of that category, buried under a fur rug in the back seat. Having stated my destination and accepted the driver’s effusive invitation to hop in beside him, I swivelled round to address myself to this young person. She was about fifteen years old and the fur rug turned out to be a golden retriever, stretched out across the seat, with its head in her lap. Its one visible eye stared at me unwinkingly, overflowing with self-pity.

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

  ‘Printh. Heeth hurt hith leg.’

  She did not make a very good job of it, but her mouth was so full of brassware that it was quite an achievement to speak at all.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Thwath an athident.’

  ‘Poor chap got run over,’ the driver interposed. ‘He’ll be all right now, though. We’ve just been along to the vet to get the plastic splint off.’

  I regretted his taking over the dialogue, as it would have been interesting to hear what the girl did with the last set of sibilants.

  ‘If you could drop me at the crossroads,’ I said, ‘that would do fine. No need to go right into the village, if it’s out of your way.’

  ‘Oh, I think we should take our charming passenger right to her front door, don’t you, Annie?’ this flash Harry of a driver said, raising his silvery voice. ‘Easy enough to go round by Burleigh, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yethercorth,’ she answered, doing her best.

  I could have banged their heads together, because the last thing I desired was to be seen by Robin or Aunt Moo alighting from a perfect stranger’s car, but the greyish-brown mood was still dominant and I quietly expressed my gratitude, while even more quietly working out the counter measures.

  We swept through the village and, a few hundred yards beyond it, I said:

  ‘Here we are! Just ahead, on the left.’

  ‘Here?’ he asked, sounding rather startled, and with good cause, for what I had taken to be a single building proved, as we drew level, to be one of those mean little cluster of dwellings which are often to be found on the outskirts of even the most self-consciously picturesque villages. It consisted of a flyblown sweet-shop, a barber and tobacconist and a red-brick Edwardian chapel.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said firmly, opening the car door and not specifying which of these desirable residences was mine, ‘and thanks for the lift.’

  ‘It was a great pleasure, I assure you. Any time at all.’

  I stood on the grass verge and flapped a hand at Annie, before turning away. It was perhaps natural for the driver to assume that, in asking to be dropped at this spot, we had actually overshot my real target and that I should begin walking back to it. In fact, The Towers still lay ahead, and it was this small miscalculation which revealed something more about my highway Don Juan than had been intended for my eyes. Glancing once again inside the car, I saw that he had turned round and had one arm outstretched over the back of the seat. He could, of course, have been caressing the dog, but his face was half-turned towards me and its expression was by no means one which is normally bestowed on the four-legged friends. It occurred to me that, if the girl were really his granddaughter, then what we had here was a right old incestuous grandpa.

  Two minutes later the Rover started up and overtook me, but my greyish-brown outfit must have merged into the landscape, for neither occupant paid me any attention, and, by the time I had covered the few remaining yards, I was narcissistically hovering round the Tate Gallery again, to the exclusion of all other preoccupations.

  (iii)

  For all its pretentious name, Aunt Moo’s residence was only a moderate-sized house, of the variety which has nowadays often been converted into flats or a maternity home. It stood about fifty yards back from the road, fronted by a manicured lawn and a circular gravel drive, and had a slightly larger and less formal garden behind. Its sole distinguishing feature was the quartet of squat, purposeless turrets with which, luckily for the present incumbent, some architectural maniac had adorned the roof. These had provided all the excuse she needed to discard the name of Cedar Lodge, which had been one of Uncle Andrew’s devices for indicating the modesty of his establishment, and replace it with Burleigh Towers.

  There were two cars in evidence as I trudged up the drive, a shabby old station-wagon and Aunt Moo’s ancient but immaculate Austin Princess. Harbart, her chauffeur, was polishing up the chromium, a job which in fine weather constituted the major part of his day’s work. On wet days the Princess was not allowed to be taken out, and he spent them inside the garage polishing up the engine.

  It had not entered my mind to ask Aunt Moo to allow
Harbart to drive me to Mill Cottage because, in the first place, she disapproved of Christabel and her hocus-pocus way of life; and, in the second, the Princess was never permitted to leave the tarmac and venture into country lanes.

  The latter ban extended to the house, whence all trace of country lanes was rigorously excluded, and the sight of my dusty shoes tramping into the hall sent Dolly scuttling about like a terrified mouse.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ll just pop up and fetch your slippers, shall I? No, you stay where you are, there’s a good girl. Dolly will see to it. Just let’s get those muddy things off, shall we, before Auntie catches us? Which pair shall I bring down? Those pretty red ones?’

  ‘No, the grey pair, please. Is Aunt Moo in the drawing-room?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve just taken the sherry in. She’s got company.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’ I asked, as Dolly came scampering down the stairs.

  ‘Let me see, dear. It’s Mrs Robinson; Zany, as they call her. Had they come, last time you were down?’

  ‘No. At least, I think I’d have remembered the name.’

  ‘It’s Russian, you see. She’s one of them Russian royalty that got away, oh years back it must be. She bought up Nicholls, the grocers, when the old man had his stroke. A year ago last July that would be. Doesn’t time fly, though? Must be getting on for two years since you married your boy.’

  It was rather impressive to be staying in a house where the groceries were personally delivered by a member of the Imperial Family, and I remarked on the fact, adding that it was small wonder that Aunt Moo brought out the sherry for her. Dolly quickly disillusioned me:

  ‘Oh no, dear, we have to get everything from the Inter these days. Nicholls is one of them antique places now. Junk shop, as your Auntie calls it. Does well, too, I believe, though goodness knows who’s got the money for that sort of thing in this day and age.’

  ‘Aunt Moo, for one, presumably?’

  ‘Well, dear, if you were to ask Dolly, I’d say she sells more than she buys. Bert’s up and down there twice a week with some bit of china or glass that she’s taken a fit in her head she’s tired of. Then, half the time she forgets what she’s sent, and there’s old Dolly turning the house upside down to look for it. Goodness knows where it’ll end.’

  Bert being Dolly’s name for Harbart, I could see there were real grounds for concern. If the Princess were being pressed into service, Aunt Moo’s latest craze must have got a formidable grip. It was a breathtaking situation from every point of view because, although she had got her hands securely on the whole of Uncle Andrew’s property, she had only been left a life interest in it and when that terminated every last teaspoon reverted to his watchful family. I reminded myself to ask Robin if she were not in fact liable to prosecution and imprisonment; but, being in the meantime agog to meet the Grand Duchess Zany, I put on my clean shoes and padded forth to the drawing-room.

  I greeted Aunt Moo with a respectful peck and she commanded me to say Hahdidoo to Mrs Robinson.

  She always addressed me as though I were four years old, a custom which I had bitterly resented at the age of fourteen, although now, pushing twenty-four, found rather endearing.

  This drawing-room, which exactly reflected her style and taste, achieved in a masterly degree the feat of being neither fashionably period nor fashionably modern. The carpet was patterned with dollops of pink roses and the curtains were of heavy lilac brocade. Every flat surface was stuck all over with filigree, tortoiseshell and enamel knick knacks, and every inch of wall space festooned with watercolours, ornate mirrors and china plates clamped into brackets. There were even silver-framed photographs dotted about on the piano, which itself was draped in a fringed Spanish shawl.

  Aunt Moo herself was handsomely decked out in beige silk, with several fat coils of pearls cascading over the front of it, and cut a regal figure. Conversely, her companion was much more my idea of a female grocer than a Russian aristocrat. She was quite old, sixty at least, solidly built, with streaky grey and orange hair, and dumpy legs encased in woollen stockings.

  The initial disappointment was partially compensated for by the fact that Exeniah, as Aunt Moo called her, whether royal or not, was unmistakably Russian. She demonstrated this by peeling off phrases in French, whenever she thought it would give her an advantage, and also by the uninhibited way in which she flatly contradicted any views which conflicted with her own. In this department, she was evenly matched by Aunt Moo, who also permitted herself certain social privileges and was equally self-opinionated.

  The subject of the current argument, which they were going at hammer and tongs, was a Chippendale mirror that Xenia was intending to bid for at a forthcoming sale. She had brought the catalogue, and the main point of conflict was the price it would fetch at auction. Aunt Moo put this around the three-fifty mark, whereas Xenia, with many a ‘ma chère’ and ‘dis done’, placed it at twice that figure.

  Luckily for them both, my greyish-brown mood was still in control and I was content to sit back and sip my sherry in silent, sweet tranquillity. However, as the battle thundered on, I was alerted by the name of Sir Maddox Brand being flung into the arena and, with a revival of interest, discovered that the twin brother to this mirror was to be found at Haverfield Court.

  Anything pertaining to this character being what Robin called grist to his mill, I was enchanted to learn that Sir Maddox had as good as admitted to Aunt Moo that his own specimen was somewhat dubious. It had been knocked together, so he claimed, by some skilled operators in a London basement and was no more authentic Chippendale than Xenia herself.

  Surprisingly enough, this disclosure brought an immediate cessation to hostilities, and Xenia proclaimed herself only too ready to believe it, holding the lowest possible opinion of Sir Maddox’s integrity. She begged Aunt Moo for the details, beginning, if possible, with the name and address of these shady merchants. I regarded this as a smart move on her part, as she stood not only to gain some scandalous information about an important neighbour, but also the means to get some fake Chippendales run up for herself, should the need arise. However, before any more data could come my way we were joined by Robin, very fetching in the blue pullover, and Aunt Moo adopted a different manner in the presence of beautiful young men. Playing up nobly, he bent over her hand with a courtly bow, which I had not even known was in his repertoire. She asked him if he had done some nice golfing and ordered me to pour his gin and bittahs.

  On the other hand, even this mellow mood brought no relaxation of the ban on smoking in the drawing-room, and as soon as I saw the cigarette case emerge from his pocket I whipped him out of the room, on the pretext of taking a stroll in the garden, to work up an appetite for lunch.

  ‘We don’t want to undo all your good work with one false move,’ I told him. ‘Only Toby is occasionally allowed to smoke in there, and then only on sufferance. She keeps a silver crumb-tray at the ready, in case he drops ash on the carpet.’

  ‘I wish Toby were here to give me a hand now,’ he said despondently. ‘It’s such a chore trying to make out what she’s talking about. Most of that bowing and scraping is simply to disguise the fact that I haven’t understood the question.’

  ‘Never mind, it goes down a treat. And I’ve got news for you. I picked up some interesting items about Sir You-Know-Who, while you were out doing your nice golfing.’

  I repeated Christabel’s remarks about the so-called half-million art-collection and then told him of the workshop for the assembly of fake furniture.

  ‘So, one way and another,’ I concluded, ‘he is turning out to be a regular old swindler, which is very satisfactory.’

  ‘My nice golfing wasn’t entirely wasted, either,’ Robin said.

  ‘Oh? You played a good game?’

  ‘One of my best. It so happened that I was golfing round the course with the Chief Constable, so it behoved me to be on my toes.’

  ‘How brilliant of you to wangle that! Oh, I see! It was all part of the pre-arra
nged plan? Not just a lucky fluke?’

  ‘Well, I was aware, of course, that you could handle the case quite adequately on your own, but I am all for giving you a helping hand, whenever the chance comes my way.’

  He looked mildly put out when I did not respond with a stinging retort to this witticism, but I had omitted to tell him about my new quiet personality. I was about to bring him up to date on this development when Dolly came scuttling out with instructions from Aunt Moo to wash our hands for luncheon, and we obediently trotted after her into the house.

  Three

  (i)

  The news that I was to sit for my portrait did not get a rapturous reception from Robin:

  ‘She’ll give you three vertical eyes and bathroom tiles for hair,’ he complained. ‘And we shan’t know where on earth to hide it.’

  ‘Oh, never fear, darling! Christabel is perfectly capable of painting conventionally when she puts her mind to it. She’s done some stunning portraits in her time. It’s only lately that she’s become hooked on the abstracts.’

  In the end it was agreed that we should make a joint descent on Mill Cottage on Sunday morning, so that Robin could inspect her work and also pin her down, in his efficient, masculine way, to the number of sittings she would need.

  We found her drinking tea in the kitchen, watched over by two cats, who looked noticeably sleeker and better fed than she did herself. Instead of the usual squashy cigarette-pack she carried around, there was an equally squashy package of chewing-gum, and she explained that she was out of fags. Robin offered her the contents of his case, but she shook her head, saying that it would do her a power of good to give up smoking until the pubs opened.

  ‘Rather careless of you to run out on a Sunday?’ I suggested.

  ‘Bloody careless, but I’m always doing it, and it so happens that I’ve been up half the night coping with the breakers and enterers.’

  ‘You mean burglars?’ Robin asked, looking round the kitchen. He sounded concerned but not much surprised, and, indeed, the state of the room, had it belonged to anyone else, could most easily have been accounted for by a gang of robbers having spent the previous three weeks camping out in it.