At one point in those first few minutes after we sat down he glanced directly across at me. I experienced a sharp jolt of embarrassment. He seemed to know that I’d been watching him, and even what I’d been thinking. Not, with his experience, that it would have been hard to do so. My face burned, and I fiddled with the napkin in my lap. I didn’t want to be of the smallest interest to John Ashe; I should have preferred complete invisibility to a single moment of that hard, inscrutable attention.
Thank goodness Paul Marriott was saying something to me. In my confusion, I didn’t catch all of his question and had to ask him to repeat it.
‘I wondered what you were doing, Mrs Griffe, before you came here?’
‘I was working for Osborne’s – the children’s publisher.’
‘I know them,’ he said. ‘How was business when you were there?’ ‘Pretty good, I think. As far as I could tell. I was secretary to the commissioning editor and they seemed to be taking on plenty of new authors.’
‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘before the war in fact, I did some illustrations for one of their books.’ Because of the nature of his current work he must have considered this needed some explanation, because he added: ‘I needed the money, and was very glad of the job. And it stood me in good stead in all sorts of ways.’
‘What was the book?’ I asked. ‘Can you remember?’
‘As if it were yesterday. It was called Jumping Jonah, written by a rather fierce lady who was the scion of a noble house. I suspect her forebears of having been slave traders because it was frightful twaddle about a little negro boy who could jump over anything.
I had a good deal of fun depicting him leaping over elephants, banyan trees, that sort of thing. It was in rhyme, too . .He frowned for a moment as if he all at once, and for the first time, found the whole enterprise rather puzzling.
It was long before my time, but I did remember seeing the book displayed on the shelf behind Roddy Osborne’s desk.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘The book did very well – the author went on to write a whole series, I believe – but a couple of my paintings found a buyer and I decided to concentrate on that.’
‘I meant in the book – to Jonah.’
‘Oh, I see!’ He gave a sharp little laugh. ‘Let’s think – I believe I last showed him jumping over a river, carrying a long rope, so that a whole string of other children could swing across, to escape from an army of man-eating rhinoceroses. Or do we think “rhinoceri” . ..’
‘I shall have to look out for it,’ I said. ‘Is it still in print?’
‘Somewhat surprisingly, it is. I know that because I receive microscopic royalties twice a year.’
We were invited to pass up our empty soup plates, but because mine was still virtually full I got up and volunteered to do the clearing. As I removed John Ashe’s plate I noticed his smell, dry and fresh as clean linen. When he glanced up and said, ‘Thank you,’ I shivered.
I returned to my place. Amanda rang the bell and Dorothy came to take away the plates, and to bring in the main course. It was curiously comforting to see her, albeit very much on her best behaviour, po-faced and straight-backed and, just for once, assiduously not catching my eye.
Christopher Jarvis was deep in conversation with Georgina. This provided my opportunity to express my admiration of Suzannah’s paintings to the artist herself. But I was concerned to strike the right note – to allow that I was far from being an expert, but that my compliments were nonetheless considered and heartfelt.
‘I visited the Sumpter the other day,’ I said. ‘I was tremendously impressed by it all. But yours was the picture that stayed in my mind.’
‘Really?’ She gazed at me, her pale eyes moving over my face as though whatever I said she would be able to read the truth anyway. ‘You liked it?’
‘Enormously. But it was disturbing, too.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You obviously intended it to be.’
She thought about this for a moment, glancing over her shoulder towards the garden. ‘I don’t know that I intended to disturb anyone else, but to find an expression for what was disturbing me.’
This begged an intriguing question which I forbore to ask, saying instead:
‘And I saw two others in one of Mr Jarvis’s back catalogues.’
‘Which were they?’
‘ “The Garden” and “Summer Nineteen Twenty-Seven”.’
She gave a slow nod, remembering. ‘That dog was one of my best sitters.’
‘He was very fine, I noticed.’
‘Did you recognise Georgina?’
‘No.’ I glanced across the table. ‘I haven’t met her till today.’
‘Anyway, it would have been surprising if you had, she was scarcely visible. And sound asleep. It was weather like this. I imagine everyone in the house was snoozing except for me and the dog, and he didn’t stay awake for long.’
‘You captured all that so well.’
‘And “The Garden”?’ she asked.
I was rather thrilled that she should be so interested in my opinion, and warmed to my theme. ‘Where had everybody gone?’ I asked. ‘That was what I wanted to know. All those houses and gardens and not a soul in sight, as if they’d all been spirited away.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, her eyes on my face.
‘Except for one.’
‘That’s right.’
It was clear I was to be offered neither explanation nor insight.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘it was wonderful when I found out that the artist was you.’
‘Hadn’t Christopher told you that?’ she asked, and when I shook my head, said in a low voice: ‘That’s so like him.’
‘Is it?’
‘Playing games with us all.’ Even though she had kept her voice down, and Christopher Jarvis was still turned towards his god-daughter, I was anxious in case he heard us, so I made no comment.
The salmon had been served, and looked delicious. Having so signally failed with the artichoke soup, I was determined to try and eat at least some of it.
I’d no sooner got the first mouthful in when Edward Rintoul leaned across, chewing and swallowing before saying:
‘So you like her work, do you?’
It irritated me that he’d not only been listening, but had no qualms about advertising the fact. But I was determined to be polite.
‘Enormously,’ I said.
‘You know she’s working on me at the moment?’ he announced in a self-satisfied manner.
‘Yes, you told me.’ I couldn’t resist it: ‘I’ve seen.’
‘That’s more than I’ve been allowed to do,’ he said grumpily. ‘She showed you?’
‘I had to take something up to Suzannah’s room.’ It seemed only polite, since we were discussing her so freely, to use the artist’s name. I turned towards her as I said it, but she had joined in the conversation with Jarvis and Georgina and was paying no attention to us.
‘I shan’t ask any more,’ he said. ‘Suffice it to say that it wasn’t my idea. She asked to paint me. Must have something to do with my noble bearing and god-like good looks.’
I smiled, and began to eat, keeping my eyes on my plate to discourage further conversation with Rintoul, and to avoid looking at John Ashe. I did not want to meet his eye, or draw attention to myself in any way. When I’d eaten a little less than half I put my knife and fork together and listened to Georgina, who was telling amusing stories about high jinks at her finishing school. Christopher Jarvis, who clearly adored her, laughed loud and long and even Suzannah smiled, widening her eyes incredulously. It was all very normal – Georgina was so youthful and lively. The phrase ‘a breath of fresh air’ had never seemed more apposite. I was quite content to be on the sidelines, an inconspicuous member of her audience.
But I had reckoned without Amanda’s conscientiousness. With the arrival of the strawberries (handed round by Dorothy), Paul Marriott tapped my arm and indicated that our hostess w
anted to say something to me. What with the heat and the company, her cheeks were pink and her eyes shining; I’d rarely seen her so animated. It was obvious John Ashe’s appearance didn’t dismay her in the least.
‘Pamela, are you all right? Are you being looked after?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m having a wonderful time.’
‘Of course she’s all right,’ put in Rintoul in his boorish way. ‘She’s seen my blasted portrait! I told her she was luckier than me.’
‘Poor Edward!’ laughed Amanda. ‘You feel very much at a disadvantage, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ he said petulantly. ‘But I can’t say I wasn’t warned, so I’ve only myself to blame.’
John Ashe’s eyes hadn’t left my face during this exchange. Now he asked:
‘Tell me, do you have far to come to work each day?’
It was a perfectly straightforward question of the party small-talk variety but, just as when he’d thanked me earlier, something in his tone made it seem startlingly personal.
‘Not very,’ I said. ‘The bus journey’s only half an hour, and I have a short walk either end.’
‘Whereabouts do you live?’
For some reason I didn’t want to tell him, but I could hardly say as much. ‘Near the Tottenham Court Road.’
‘The very heart of town.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘There’s a nice restaurant near there,’ said Marriott. ‘Bernardino’s – do you know it?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
Ashe was still gazing at me. ‘How do you spend your time, Mrs Griffe? When you’re not working?’
‘Poor girl!’ laughed Amanda. ‘What a question! Why should she tell you?’
‘She doesn’t have to,’ he said mildly.
‘There really isn’t anything to tell,’ I said. ‘I live a quiet life.’ The moment I’d said this I wanted to take it back, to swallow the words that made me sound insufferably dreary. I thought of Matthew, and it was as though everything – those words, these people, this place – was a betrayal of him, and of our love. My eyes prickled ominously. Fortunately no one seemed to notice my predicament, and Ashe accepted my answer without comment.
‘If you had one wish,’ he said. ‘What would it be?’
‘May I have a moment to think about it?’
‘By all means.’ He inclined his head politely, but Amanda and Marriott laughed, as though I’d said something clever.
‘Let’s see . . .’ said Amanda. ‘My wish would be for order – yes, order and serenity.’
‘That’s two,’ pointed out Marriott.
‘I’ll allow it,’ said Ashe. ‘It’s a composite single wish.’
‘Either that,’ went on Amanda, ‘or for Pamela to stay here for ever.’
‘Hear that?’ Ashe gazed at me. ‘How does it feel to have made yourself indispensable?’
‘Humbling,’ I said. ‘And rather frightening.’
I saw Amanda’s expression change to one of agonised apology, but as she began to reassure me Ashe cut across her.
‘Why should it frighten you?’
This time I chose my words carefully. It was extremely important to me not to utter a single syllable that didn’t convey exactly what I meant. ‘Because no one wants to feel that they’d be doing harm by leaving a particular person or place.’
Marriott clapped his hands slowly. ‘Very well put.’
‘It was such a silly thing for me to say,’ said Amanda. ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘It’s only a game.’
‘Have you had enough time to consider?’ asked Ashe who, I was beginning to realise, never lost sight of his objective.
‘Yes.’
‘So what do you wish?’
‘To know what I want,’ I said. I was pleased with this answer, and it seemed to satisfy the others, too; particularly Ashe, who inclined his head again, this time in courtly acknowledgement. I was elated.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Precisely. A person who knows what she wants will never waste energy on something she doesn’t. And so is more likely to realise her wish.’
‘Steady on,’ said Rintoul, who’d been listening in as usual. ‘Knowing what you want isn’t the same as getting it.’
Ashe looked at him coldly and remained silent. Marriott said: ‘But it’s a great deal more sensible to ask for the wherewithal rather than the thing itself. Remember “The Monkey’s Paw”?’
‘Oh heavens, yes!’ exclaimed Amanda Jarvis. ‘I was absolutely petrified . . .’ She put her hand to her throat and closed her eyes at the mere memory of it.
The conversation turned to plays, and having precious little to contribute I concentrated on my strawberries.
When lunch was over, I remained behind in the dining room to help with the clearing away. Both the Jarvises put up a token objection on the grounds that today I was a guest like everyone else, but they were sufficiently intuitive to realise that I might have my reasons for offering, and so gave in gracefully.
The afternoon had clouded over and it was cooler; Christopher Jarvis suggested that they might have coffee served in the garden.
‘Edward and Paul can put the umbrella up,’ he announced, ‘under Amanda’s supervision. And I’ll fetch the very acceptable cognac I’ve been keeping for the occasion. Ladies, you know where to go . . .’
Georgina left the room first and could be heard going up the stairs two at a time. On her way out Suzannah paused next to me as I stacked the plates.
‘I’m so glad we’ve got to know each other,’ she said. ‘I don’t have many friends.’
I said, truthfully, that I was glad too. But for the life of me I couldn’t make out whether she meant that she didn’t know many people – hardly surprising, since she avoided company – or whether those she did know didn’t like her, which would have been even more surprising. Most surprising of all was that she should count me among her friends after such a short acquaintance, most of it in company.
John Ashe was the last to go. Rintoul and Marriott were already struggling with the giant parasol out on the grass beyond the window. He studied one of the pictures on the wall and asked, without turning round: ‘Will you be joining us?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll give Dorothy a hand with these first.’
‘This must have been a strange couple of hours for you.’ He turned to me. ‘An occasion at which you must have felt neither fish, flesh, fowl nor good herring.’
He meant no offence, and I took none. ‘It was a bit like that,’ I conceded. ‘But I’ve enjoyed myself.’
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’
He went out as Dorothy came in. She dodged exaggeratedly out of his way as if he were a ten-ton lorry, and made a face as she pushed the door to after him.
‘Old ugly mug!’ she exclaimed in a rather too-carrying stage whisper which made me wince. ‘It’s horrible, why doesn’t he cover it up?’
It was then I realised that for the past half an hour and more I had scarcely noticed John Ashe’s disfigurement.
The afternoon grew darker and darker. By the time we had cleared away the lunch things and tidied the dining room, the temperature had dropped and a scudding breeze had got up, nosing at the doors and windows and churning the branches of the trees. Suzannah came indoors and went up to her room, and Marriott went home, but the rest remained in the garden beneath the umbrella, which shivered and bellied in the wind.
I congratulated Chef, who accepted my compliments laconically.
‘There’s a lot left over.’
‘It’s the heat, it affects people’s appetites,’ I said.
Dorothy undid her pinny. ‘That and having to look at Mr Gruesome Gob. It’s enough to put anyone off their food.’
‘I found it hard to begin with,’ I admitted. ‘But I found I got used to it.’
She shuddered. ‘Anyway, Chef, you ought to be glad there’s leftovers, less work for you tomorrow, eh?’
Shortly after that
the two of them left. I wanted to go myself, but knew it would be rude to do so without making my farewells and thanking the Jarvises. The storm that had been stalking Highgate Hill for the past hour was very close now, snarling and flashing, though there wasn’t yet any rain. Like seamen in the age of sail we fought to get the umbrella down again and ran back into the house as the first drops began to fall. Rintoul was despatched to hail a cab for Georgina, and she asked me if I’d like to share.
‘I’m meeting some friends at the Cadogan,’ she said. ‘It’s off Piccadilly, is that any good to you?’
I asked if she would drop me off at Heal and Son in the Tottenham Court Road, and when the cab arrived we prepared to leave together. Rintoul went upstairs to sleep it off, but John Ashe appeared to be staying for a while. He stood in the drawing-room doorway to say goodbye.
‘We’ll meet again,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘I’m a pretty regular visitor here.’
Georgina kissed his good cheek. ‘ ’Bye, Uncle Ashe.’
During our taxi ride the rain came down in torrents, surrounding us with a hissing curtain of water, riven by shudders of thunder. Georgina’s high spirits were undimmed.
‘Wasn’t that fun? Their parties are always such good value.’
‘Did you know everyone there?’ I asked.
‘Not Paul whatsisname . . . or you. But everyone else. Ashe isn’t really my uncle, by the way. He and Uncle Chris are great chums and Aunt Amanda adores him, but no one’s related. It’s just that I know him too well to call him Mr Ashe, but John would be too familiar.’
The Nightingale's Nest Page 13