Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  He scarcely finished speaking when the massive double doors slowly opened to reveal a brilliantly lit hall and a man dressed in a decent black suit, who respectfully inclined his head as Sheridan Croxley strode forward.

  "You were on the ball, Grantley," he said genially. "We've only just this minute driven up."

  The man again inclined his head and stood respectfully to one side.

  "I have sharp ears, sir."

  Caroline thought that if size were any criterion, his ears should have detected a pin drop in a thunderstorm. They resembled monstrous, tapered wings that stood up on either side of his narrow head and were not enhanced by the thick, black hair which was combed up into a thick pile, thus adding another four or five inches to the man's height. His face was deadly white and the slanted eyes ebony black. When he smiled - a respectful smirk - the unnaturally thin tips parted to uncover great yellow teeth though his appearance was repellent, even sinister, he was not unhandsome in a grotesque, nightmarish sort of way.

  He gave Caroline one swift glance, then murmured with his husky voice: "Good evening, madam. May I take the liberty of welcoming you to Withering Grange?"

  She could do no more than acknowledge this gracious greeting and was again rewarded by that yellow-toothed, but respectful smirk. When they had entered the large, oak-panelled hall, he clapped his hands and as if by magic, a green baize lined door opened and two persons entered.

  "May I," requested Grantley, "present my wife, who combines the duties of housekeeper and cook?"

  Mrs Grantley had all the attributes that are needed to make a beautiful woman - plus a little extra. She was tall, dark, with splendid brown eyes and a mass of black hair which she wore shoulder length, and her full, mature figure was calculated to excite any man's interest. But it was the little something extra which drew Caroline's wide-eyed attention and forced her to involuntarily cry out. Mrs Grantley was endowed with a full, rich, and very luxurious beard. It began as a drooping moustache and spread out over the pale cheeks and chin, to flow down over the shapely bosom, where it terminated in a few straggling hairs that quivered slightly when their owner spoke.

  "I will endeavour to give satisfaction, madam."

  Caroline was incapable of speech and could only stare at the housekeeper's unusual appendage, while unconsciously shaking her head in disbelief.

  "Women of our kind are not permitted to shave," the butler said softly. "This," he motioned a young man to step forward, "is my son, Marvin. He can act as footman when the occasion demands, but is normally employed as odd job man."

  Caroline switched her gaze from father to mother, then to the youth who stood a little in front of them, and instantly it changed to one of unstinted admiration. The expressions - good looking -handsome - flashed across her mind, then were dismissed as being totally inadequate. He was beautiful. There was no other word to describe the perfect, pale features, the wonderful blue eyes, the long, blond hair, the white, even teeth and the muscular, but slim, body. There was nothing feminine in that beautiful face; on the contrary, Caroline was aware of an animal magnetism that made her forget his bizarre parents and the presence of her husband who had been watching her previous discomfort with sardonic amusement.

  "I think, Caroline, Mrs Grantley is waiting for your instructions regarding dinner."

  "What!" She tore her gaze away from the beautiful face. "Oh, yes. Whatever is convenient. I…"

  "For God's sake!" Sheridan broke in impatiently. "Not what - but when? I should imagine dinner is almost ready."

  "Oh… in about an hour."

  Grantley was the epitome of a perfect butler.

  "Would eight o'clock be satisfactory, Madam?"

  "Yes… that would be fine."

  "Then permit me to show you to your room."

  "Surely," she overcame her reluctance to address this strange creature, "you must have some help with the housework. It seems too much for three people. I mean the house is so big."

  Grantley was leading them up the great staircase and answered without turning his head.

  "We manage quite well, thank you, madam. It is simply a matter of keeping to a system and my father comes up from the lodge each day to do the heavy work."

  "Your father!" She remembered the awful old man who had opened the front gates and shuddered to think that he would actually enter the house - perhaps even walk up these stairs. "Surely he's too old…"

  "He's very strong, madam," Grantley stated suavely, as he opened a door and stood to one side so that they could enter. "The blue room, sir. You expressed a preference for this one, I believe."

  "Yes, this will do fine." Sheridan Croxley walked across the room and then turned and looked round with evident satisfaction. "Used to be old Sir Harry's room. Used to sleep his after dinner bottle of port off in here, while my old dad was pigging it down in the village."

  "Will that be all, sir?" Grantley enquired.

  "We would like a bath," Sheridan replied.

  "Of course, sir. Marvin is running them now. The bathrooms are on the opposite side of the passage."

  He went out and closed the door with respectful quietude and they heard his soft footsteps recede along the passage. Caroline sank down on the bed and mopped her forehead with a lace handkerchief.

  "Good heavens, where did you find them?"

  "I didn't." Sheridan removed his jacket and walked to the dressing-table. "They came with the house. Old Sir Harry Sinclair died some twenty years ago and I gather it has been empty off and on ever since, with this lot acting as caretakers. But I should say they are worth their keep. You can see how the place is kept and Mrs Grantley's cooking has to be sampled to be believed."

  "But she looks like something that has escaped from a fairground," Caroline protested. "Did you hear what he said? 'Women of our kind are not permitted to shave.' Sheridan, we can't have a bearded lady about the place."

  "I see no reason why not," Sheridan growled. "She's a good cook and can't help having an - an unusual growth. Don't suppose she enjoys it."

  "But what about him? Grantley, for God's sake! Those ears and that great pile of hair! And that thing on the front gate!"

  "Not to mention the young one," added Sheridan caustically. "I saw you giving him the once over."

  "Now you're being ridiculous. Although how that pair produced a son like that is beyond me. Sheridan, this place gives me the willies. Let's get out of here."

  "We will. On Monday morning. But not one minute sooner. So have your bath, put on some glad rags and make the best of it."

  He was glaring at her with that cold, baleful stare she knew so well - and she flinched.

  "If you say so. But surely we don't have to dress for dinner when there are only the two of us?"

  He grinned and Caroline felt the familiar surge of loathing and desire that seemed to originate somewhere in the region of her stomach and set her brain on fire. She trembled and his grin broadened.

  "Not now, my little slut. As my old man would have said - we have company coming. The local sky-pilot. Bloody old fool, but he's been here for over forty years and it'll be fun to let him know how the world has changed."

  Caroline felt the blood drain from her face and thwarted passion curdled and became unreasoning rage.

  "You bastard! You dirty, bombastic bastard. You haven't an ounce of decent feeling in your entire body."

  He leaned over her and she had a close-up view of the veined cheeks, the pouched eyes and the small, brutal mouth. He playfully slapped her cheek.

  "But you wouldn't have me any other way. Would you, little slut?"

  She pushed him away and he went laughing into the dressing room, to emerge a few minutes later wearing a towel dressing-gown and beaming with obvious delight.

  "Look at this!" He spread out the skirts of the dressing-gown. "I found it in the wardrobe. Must have belonged to old Sir Harry. Little did he realise that one day the son of his cowherd would be wearing his dressing-gown."

  "Big deal. If
you rummage round, you might find a pair of his old socks."

  She ducked as Sheridan flicked a towel at her, then relaxed when he left the room. Scarcely had the door closed when there was a soft tapping on the panels, then after an interval, it opened and Marvin entered carrying two large suitcases. Caroline felt her heart leap when she again saw that flawless face and sensed the strange magnetism that seemed to radiate from the clear eyes and slim, upright figure. He spoke in a low, beautifully modulated voice.

  "Your bath is ready, madam."

  "Thank you… Marvin."

  "Where would you like me to put the luggage?"

  "Oh," she managed to laugh, "on the bed will do."

  She watched him as with effortless ease he laid the heavy cases on the bed, then turned to face her. "Would you like me to unpack, madam?"

  "Eh… yes. Unpack my husband's - and lay out his dinner jacket."

  "Very good, madam."

  He worked silently, gracefully, every movement of his long-fingered hands was an act of poetry, and Caroline cursed herself for a fool when she found her legs were trembling.

  "What does…" It was such an effort to speak clearly, "… a good-looking boy like you do in a dead and alive hole like this?"

  Marvin looked back at her over one shoulder and she had a perfectly ridiculous feeling that he was peering into her soul. That clear, cool glance had ripped aside the silly pretensions, and the ugly sores of warped sensuality, the scars, the blemishes - all were revealed and she was as naked as a sinner on judgement day. He turned his head away and continued to unpack Sheridan's case.

  "I read a lot. But mostly I like to work in the garden."

  "Do you really?"

  He held up Sheridan's dinner jacket and brushed out an imaginary crease with the back of his hand.

  "Yes, madam. I like to make dead things grow."

  Caroline got up and walked slowly towards him and no power on earth could have stopped her laying a hand on his arm. He expressed no surprise at this act of familiarity, or in fact gave any sign that he had noticed. Her undisciplined mind allowed the words to come tripping off her tongue.

  "You are very handsome. You must know that."

  He piled two shirts, two vests and a spare pair of pyjamas over one hand, then walked slowly to the tallboy.

  "Thank you for the compliment, madam. But I have always understood that I am singularly plain."

  "Who on earth told you that?"

  "Those who have real beauty. The beauty that is born of darkness and suffering."

  "You must be a poet. A beautiful, slightly mad poet."

  He closed a drawer, gave one quick glance at Sheridan's dinner jacket and frilled shirt which was laid out on the bed, then backed gracefully to the door.

  "You are very gracious, madam. Will that be all?"

  "Yes… yes, that will be all. For the time being."

  He inclined his head, then turned and quietly left the room.

  Caroline went back to her chair and for some reason began to cry.

  The Reverend John Barker was a scholar first and a clergyman second. A more bumbling, inarticulate, woolly-minded old man would have been hard to find, but he also had a built-in compass that directed him to the local houses that employed the best cook and kept a distinguished cellar. He rode up to Withering Grange on an ancient female bicycle, and having propped this under the nearest window, removed his trouser clips and pulled the massive bell-handle.

  Caroline, eye-riveting in a silver dress that revealed more than it concealed, heard his high-pitched, rather squeaky voice, as he instructed Grantley as to the disposal of his outer garments.

  "Hang the coat on a chair back near the kitchen fire, there's a good fellow. And wrap the muffler round one of the hot-water pipes. Delicate chest, you know."

  Caroline advanced into the hall, looking like one of St Anthony's more difficult trials. She smiled sweetly, although the sight of this thin old man, with stooping shoulders and the face of an inquisitive rabbit, did not forecast an entertaining evening, and extended her hand.

  "I am Mrs Croxley, you must be…?"

  She paused as Sheridan had not bothered to inform her of the expected guest's name, but the clergyman hastened to repair this omission.

  "John Barker, dear lady. Barker - canine proclamation - doggy chatter - Fido protest. John - as in - but alas - not divine."

  Caroline said: "Good Lord!" then hastily composed her features into an expression of polite amusement.

  "Both my husband and I are delighted you could come, Mr Barker. Would you care to wash your hands before dinner?"

  The Reverend John Barker waved his hand in an impatient gesture.

  "Good heavens, no. I had a bath before I came." He began to wander round the hall, peering at the panelling, fingering the scrollwork. "Wonderful old place this. Always wanted to see inside, but old Sir Harry never let anyone cross the door mat. I once tried to sneak in the back, but that bearded horror in the kitchen stopped me."

  "Would you care for an aperitif before dinner?" enquired Caroline in a voice which suggested she was not far from desperation. "Cocktail or something?"

  Mr Barker shook his head violently.

  "Thank you, no. Rots the guts and ruins the palate. Which way to the dining room?"

  "First door to the left," said Caroline weakly.

  "Right." He shuffled quickly in the direction indicated and presently Caroline heard his little cries of pleasure as fresh antiquarian delights attracted his attention. He poked his head round the door.

  "Dear lady, do you realise that you have a genuine Jacobean sideboard?"

  "No." Her smile was like a faulty neon sign. "How marvellous."

  "And the dining-table is at least early Georgian."

  "Really!" Caroline cast an anxious glance at the staircase. "Would you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Barker?"

  "Of course. I want to examine the fireplace. Take your time, dear lady."

  Caroline found Sheridan in his dressing room where he was adjusting the angle of his bowtie.

  "Sheridan, that clergyman is here. He's mad."

  "Eccentric."

  "Well, whatever he is, I can't control him. He keeps running about examining the furniture."

  "Wait until I jog his memory and let him know who owns it."

  When they entered the dining room, Mr Barker was seated at the table with a napkin tucked in his shirt collar, and an expectant expression on his face. He beamed at his host and rose quickly to his feet.

  "You've dressed, my dear fellow! Upon my soul, I did not realise that people still did that sort of thing. Haven't seen my monkey suit and boiled shirt for years."

  " 'Evening, Barker." Sheridan held the ecclesiastical hand for a brief second, then released it. "Glad you could come at such short notice. Sit down. Grantley tells me dinner is ready."

  Indeed, at that moment the butler entered pushing a food trolley, followed by Marvin who assisted his father in piling dishes on to the sideboard. Mr Barker watched the operation with lively interest.

  "First class staff you've got here, Mr Croxley. Efficient and unusual."

  "They seem to know their job," Sheridan retorted briefly.

  Mr Barker raised his voice and addressed Grantley.

  "Passed your father by the front gate, Grantley. He seems hale and hearty."

  Grantley watched his son serve each of the diners with iced melon before answering. "He keeps very well for his age, thank you, sir."

  "Should think he does." The vicar sampled his melon, then nodded his approval. "The old chap looks now as he did twenty years ago. Come to think of it - you all do."

  Grantley adjusted the flame under a hotplate and turned his head away so that his face was hidden from the old man's sharp-eyed gaze.

  "It is very kind of you to say so, sir."

  "Well, Barker," Sheridan filled his guest's glass with some fine old claret, "I don't suppose you ever expected to see me in this house."

  The clergyma
n sipped his wine, then after reluctantly removing his gaze from Grantley, looked at his host with some astonishment.

  "I must confess I had not given the matter any thought. I am sure you and your beautiful lady grace the Grange admirably."

  "But damn it all," said Sheridan with some heat. "I told you who I was. My father was George Croxley - the cowherd. I went to the old church school. You used to come every Wednesday morning and put us through the catechism."

  "So I did." The Reverend Barker smiled indulgently. "I gave up that pastime years ago. Doubt if I could recite the catechism meself now. 'Fraid I don't remember you. Remember your father though. Used to get drunk every Saturday night."

  "Well, now I'm here," Sheridan insisted.

  "So you are." The clergyman nodded gently. "Nothing extraordinary about that. I mean to say, we all sprang from humble origins. Goodness gracious, who would have thought that a species of monkey would take over the kingdom of the world?"

  "Yes, but…" Sheridan tried to bring the conversation back to a mundane track, but the reverend gentleman was astride a hobby horse that was not easily checked.

  "I cannot but help feel that the monkey was not a good choice. Surely one of the cat family would have been much more satisfactory. They have a much less emotional approach to life…"

  "Grantley," Sheridan unceremoniously broke into the clergyman's discourse, "when you have served the first course, you may leave."

  "Very good, sir."

  The tall, oddly featured man and the handsome boy served the roast beef, placed the vegetable dishes in Caroline's vicinity, then silently departed. The Reverend Barker watched the door being slowly closed, then exploded into an excited torrent of words.

  "Extraordinary! Fantastic! Unbelievable, but possible. Quite within the realms of possibility. Goodness gracious, yes. Thought so for years, but never dared believe. May I be forgiven for my lack of faith."

  Sheridan glanced at his wife, then screwed his face up into a scowl.

  "Don't follow you, Barker. You're not making sense, man."