by Joan Aiken
“Come on, Barney,” said the father. “Let’s go home and see what Granny has for tea.” To the girl he said, “Thanks, you were a big help. You certainly know how to manage children. Got any of your own?”
“Heavens, no,” she said. “I don’t think I ever met one before.”
“Well, thanks again. Say goodbye, Barney.”
“Don’t want to go home to Granny,” muttered Barney, but without conviction, allowing himself meanwhile to be strapped into the front seat. Then he looked out of the car window and said to the girl, “What’s your name?”
“Lucy,” the girl called as the car reversed and moved away. She waved, then turned and vanished below the front portico.
Max let out his breath. Next moment the inner door burst open and Dee Lawrence elbowed her way in with the tray of tea. She was big, buxom, and pink, her flaxen hair done in a classic knot; she had looked after all his physical needs for the last thirteen years.
“Sorry to be so long,” she said, kicking the door to behind her. “Those fools in the kitchen! Ginger cake again; you’d think they’d know by now you hate it. I had to go all the way down. Want to move inside?”
He had intended to but now changed his mind.
“No, I’ll stay out here. It’s still quite warm.”
“Better have your rug then,” said Dee, and brought it with his cup and plate. “Here’s the letters to sign; I’ll put them on the table till you’re ready. Regent Television rang; they want to know if you’ll appear on their Sunday night charity spot and make an appeal for the United Kingdom Cancer Research Fund.”
“No,” he said, and then, “no, wait. Tell them I’ll think about it.”
“Hobson rang to say he’ll be here tomorrow for the last Forty-Eight recording. Half-past eleven. And the tuner’s arriving at nine. That’s all.”
Somebody knocked; Dee opened the door and moved quickly out into the passage, pulling the door to behind her. Benovek heard indistinct voices. Presently Dee returned.
“Another of these girls hoping for piano lessons. Honestly it really is extraordinary the way they track you down. Little ghouls—”
“What did you say to her?”
“The usual thing. I can’t think how she got past the porter’s desk,” said Dee vexedly. “I said you were a sick man and hadn’t the strength to take on any new commitments. After all, why should you?”
“Why indeed?”
“Well, good heavens, you wouldn’t have wanted to, would you? After all, we don’t know a thing about her.”
“Who was she?”
“Oh, somebody’s star pupil, as usual. Might have been American, from the accent.”
After a pause he said, “I mean, what was her name.”
“Who?” Dee was checking through his engagement diary. “Oh, that girl? Culpepper.”
“No, her first name.”
“Her first name? Why? I’m not sure. Does it matter?”
“I just wondered.”
“Now I come to think, I believe she said it was Lucy.”
“After all I might as well see her,” said Benovek. “Would you mind going after her? I don’t suppose she will have got very far.”
Dee was puzzled and more than a little affronted. “You’re crazy, Max! You really can’t afford to scatter your energy like this, you know. What’s the idea?”
“Call it a whim, my dear Dee. I just happen to like the sound of her. Lucy Culpepper. A pretty name, don’t you think?”
“She’s not pretty,” said Dee shortly. “As you’ll see. Oh well, have it your own way.”
She left, with something of a flounce, and returned after about five minutes, preceding the girl.
“Miss Culpepper to see you,” she announced brusquely, and, to the girl, “you’ll be careful not to tire him won’t you, Miss Culpepper. He’s a very sick man, remember.”
“All right, thanks, Dee,” said Max. “I’m not sure that you need keep reminding us. Sit down, Miss Culpepper. Dee, I’ve signed these letters. Would you be an angel and take them down with you—I’d like this one to catch the five o’clock post.”
Dee left, battening down her exasperation.
The girl sat, without saying anything. Benovek studied her. Over her high forehead fell strands of lint-pale hair, very different from Dee’s corn-coloured abundance, and she certainly was not pretty; Dee had been right so far. She was undersized and puny, but her hands, Benovek noticed, were good: long, strong, flexible fingers. Her face was too thin, too pale; the sprinkle of freckles on her nose looked almost black in contrast with its wanness. But the mouth was wide and firm. Not a particularly prepossessing girl, but there was something tough, wary, and resourceful about her. She looked steadily back at Benovek, waiting on his mood.
“How old are you?” he said at last.
“Eighteen.”
“Who has taught you?”
“Mrs. Bergstrom. At the Cadwallader School in Boston.”
His expression became a little less detached.
“Hella Bergstrom? Good heavens, is she still alive?”
The girl smiled at that, looking up at him through her forelock; the smile revealed slightly crossed incisor teeth which made her resemble a squirrel, Benovek thought. Squirrels are manic creatures and have no sense of humour; this girl had little, he suspected, but the capacity might be there. When she smiled her eyes tipped up at the corners.
Come to think of it, he reflected, he had very little sense of humour left himself.
“Yes, she’s alive. Live and teaching.”
“And she told you to come to me?”
“She gave me a letter for you.”
He skimmed rapidly through the note she handed him. It was warm, grubby, and slightly convex from having been carried in her trouser pocket all the way from Boston.
“Hard up, are you? How did you get over from America?”
“Worked as a stewardess.”
“That won’t have done your hands any good.”
“They’re okay.” She flexed her fingers. “I used to play the piano in the tourist lounge at night.”
Benovek shuddered.
“And then you made your way here . . . It was pure chance, really, that you got in to see me. Miss Lawrence generally guards me like a bulldog.”
“I would have managed to see you in the end,” she said with calm certainty. “I would have taken a job here as a ward maid.”
“To earn enough to pay my fees?”
She made no answer to that. It was interesting, Benovek thought, how much communication seemed to pass between them without the need for speech.
“I’d better hear you play, hadn’t I,” he said. “Help me inside, will you?”
It was like being helped by a mouse, or a leveret; he could feel the bones of her arm, brittle as charcoal, under his hand.
“What shall I play?”
“Bach, of course.”
“I don’t play Bach at all well.”
“Naturally not.”
She played the preludes and fugues in C and C sharp major and minor, then several pieces by Couperin.
“Now some Chopin,” he said.
“Chopin? Why?”
But he did not answer, and she played the sonata in B minor.
“Okay,” said Benovek when she had finished. “That’s enough.”
“‘You play a little, I see; perhaps rather better than some, but not well.’”
“I did not say so?” For the first time she had surprised him.
“Nor did I; it’s a quotation.” Playing seemed to have liberated something in Lucy; she turned on the piano stool and linked her hands together, waiting, looking at him attentively.
“So; all right; I’ll teach you. You have a lot to learn.”
“I know. I know I have.�
�� Now she was subdued, but it was, he understood, by the thought of what lay ahead of her, not by his reputation or gesture. She had a right to learn from him, and they both knew it.
“What about fees?”
“Never mind them. And you are not to go taking some stupid job that will ruin your hands. Besides, you are going to need most of your time for practice. I will arrange an allowance for you.”
“I don’t like charity—” Lucy began.
“Don’t be silly, please.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Money is not an object. I am very rich, as it happens, and I am dying, as you probably know,” he said irritably. She nodded. “But I still—believe it or not—have a strong urge to impart as much as I can of what I know before it is too late. And I think—I think you and I have qualities in common that would make you a suitable choice. But there is not much time, and what there is must not be squandered on idiocies. You can rent a room in the village and come here every day.”
“Why did you make me play the Chopin?”
“I will play it for you now; listen.”
She helped him to the piano stool and he played it; by the time he finished he was very pale and sweat was trickling down his concave cheeks.
“Now then: you see the difference? You see why it is?” He moved heavily back to his armchair.
“I see what it is, but not why.”
“Who is it that you hate so?”
This was so unexpected that she stared at him, quite silenced.
“Well, it is so, isn’t it?” said Benovek. “What ought to be free and running in you is all tied up in a knot. And that is because of this strong hate, which is using up nearly all of your energy. As for love, where is it? You have the capacity, no doubt; anybody who can hate can love also; but you hardly seem aware of it. You are all tense, like some creature at bay; I tell you, you will never play the piano properly until you have your emotions more in equilibrium. And for the hate, chuck it out. Hate is no good; it is a self-destructive emotion.”
“Well, but supposing the person you hate deserves to be hated?”
“Ah, so you admit it. Who is he, then?”
“My uncle.”
“The wicked uncle.” Benovek lay back in his chair and looked dreamily at the ceiling. “Let me see now. He has embezzled all your fortune, seduced you when you were twelve, forced you to marry your illegitimate, mad half-cousin, and now he is attempting to murder you. Am I right?”
She gave a reluctant grin. He caught the flash of the crossed incisors.
“I can’t prove that he has embezzled all my money. But he says horrible, untrue things about my dead father. And he’s trying to swindle my poor old great-aunt out of her annuity.”
“Ah, so, who cares? Just forget it all. Clear it out of your system. Or if you can’t do that, then you will just have to quickly prove that he has committed all these crimes and see that he receives his deserts. But that might take too long, and I want you to start lessons on Monday.”
“I shan’t be able to start quite as soon as that.”
“Why, pray?”
“I promised my uncle that I would go and visit my great-aunt. He has even given me the fare, so I must. He wants me to find out if she is still alive, or if some other old lady is impersonating her in order to draw the annuity. And he wants me to beg or buy up cheaply all her embroidered pictures because he believes they might soon be worth a great deal of money.”
“Indeed?” said Benovek. “What sort of pictures are these?”
“Oh, beautiful!” said Lucy. She described them; the crossed teeth flashed again. Benovek listened absently, lying back in his chair; a vague pageantry of biblical figures moved like the Bayeux tapestry across his mind’s eye.
“. . . sort of village wise woman, too, I guess,” Lucy was saying. “She collects herbs.”
“Herbs and simples. What is a simple, tell me?”
“I think it’s a plant used for medicine, as opposed to a kitchen herb,” said literal Lucy.
“Disappointing. I had hoped it was a kind of one-shot panacea, a cure-all. Do you suppose your wise great-aunt could put me on my feet again?”
Lucy bit her lip.
“No, you are right, she could not. Never mind, you will go to this village—”
“Appleby, pronounced Appley.”
“You go to Appleby, you unearth the great-aunt, or uncover the fraud as the case may be. That should not take very long.”
“No, it shouldn’t. But I’d like to find out, too, if she remembers anything about my father.”
“A very natural wish. So as to give the lie to the wicked uncle’s calumniating accounts.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her thoughtfully; she was squatting now, like a gargoyle, on the piano stool, knees under her chin, her hands clasping her crossed toes.
“Might not that be a mistake?”
“Why?” The pale forelock fell back raggedly as she looked up at him.
“Suppose your uncle told nothing but the truth?”
“That man never told the truth in his life,” said Lucy with bitter emphasis. “Unless it was by accident.”
“It is useless to warn children,” mused Benovek. “In any case you are tough, I can see; unwelcome disclosures should not throw you off course.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” agreed Lucy. “But why should there be any?”
“Because events never turn out as simple as one would wish. Not even with the herbal grand-aunt. You should smile, I have made a pun.”
“Hardly? Also, I want to make sure the old girl is comfortable and well looked after,” pursued Lucy. “After all, she’s about my only relation, apart from Wilbie’s lot.”
“Another wish most natural and proper. Good. I will expect you back, then, in, say, one week. That ought to give you time for these various purposes.”
Lucy nodded.
“It should be enough. I’d better go, then; I’m afraid I’ve tired you.”
“Wait.” He was reluctant to have her leave, and said, “How do you propose to get to this Appleby?”
“Hitchhike. Uncle Wilbie’s given me the train fare, but I’m going to keep it for food and lodging.”
“Not a good plan,” pronounced Benovek. “No, no, I am not worrying about whether you are raped or not,” as she opened her mouth to protest. “It is merely that people who pick up hitchhikers are generally the worst drivers. I don’t wish your hands to be injured at this juncture in some stupidly avoidable car smash. Better go by train or car—do you drive yourself by any chance? Have you a licence?”
“Sure; international; we had an all-round education at the Cadwallader.”
“In that case take this blank cheque which I made out to Simon Goldblossom; you will find his car show-room up behind Goodge Street; mention my name and he will see you get something with the brakes and big end intact that will take you to Yorkshire at not too ruinous a price.”
“But—” said Lucy. “I mean, you needn’t really—” A faint pink tinge coloured her pallor and then receded, leaving the freckles even darker than before. She looked doubtfully at the cheque, rubbing her prominent cheekbone with the back of one hand. “Anyway, how d’you know I’m not one of the worst drivers?”
“Then when you come back,” Benovek went on, disregarding her, “the car will also prove useful, for you will need transport from the village to here every day; needless to say the bus only runs once a week.”
“Oh well, in that case—thanks. It’s very kind of you,” she said gruffly. “I can’t think—no one’s ever—”
“Yes, you can think. I give you lessons because you should have them. That is clear.”
“But a car.”
“Oh well, say that it is because you make me think of a Poe tale.”
She looke
d puzzled.
“I’ll explain another time. You had better go now; I really am rather tired. Wait, though—”
She paused again in the doorway, looking at him inquiringly, and he said quickly, “Write to tell me how you get on in your researches.”
“Yes—okay!” she said, rather astonished, went out and closed the door behind her.
Benovek lay back, more exhausted than he had been for weeks, and stared at the ceiling.
“H’m,” remarked the medical superintendent, Dr. Rees-Evans, when he came for his usual evening chat, “pulse slightly better than usual. What have you been doing today?”
Benovek said, “The walls of my prison have expanded to take in a persecuted orphan, a wicked uncle, a village witch, Great-aunt Moses, I should say, and a collection of Three-D Bible pictures.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the medical superintendent.
When she left the hospital, Lucy walked quickly down the long drive until she was out of sight round a bend, then turned aside into the thick, unpruned shrubbery, flung herself down on the ground, and cried as if her heart would break.
But she soon jumped up again, having failed to notice that the undergrowth she had cast herself into was thickly interwoven with nettles.
Misfortunes of this kind constantly occurred to Lucy.
IV
Lucy travelling north: rediscovering England, as the stubby little A.30 vibrated along second-class roads through the shires; she had no intention of trusting herself on motorways yet awhile. So she battled up hills and down; along the crests of ridges where on either side extended a limitless view of elm-fringed, church-studded plains; through tidy red-brick villages and small manufacturing towns, famous for pies, boots, or fox-hunting; and as she advanced the names of places on signposts rang their mnemonic chimes; it was like leafing through a dictionary of quotations.
Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross; Battle of Naseby 1645; Sherwood Forest, carrying its echo of Robin Hood; Gainsborough, Hatfield, Pontefract—