‘She … moved away—abroad.’
‘Didn’t she return, though?’
‘Return?’
‘Yes, I heard a rumour fairly recently. It was probably total moonshine. One hears so many rumours in this job and most of them are way off-beam.’
Matthew jerked forward in his seat. ‘Who was it who told you?’
‘I can’t remember now, to tell the truth. I meet scores of different people every week and …’
‘Not people who know Ellen, though. It wasn’t Annie, was it—Mrs Croft?’
‘Good heavens, no! She hardly talked coherently at all. That’s why I was so intrigued to hear of your little session with her. Did she mention Ellen then?’
Matthew paused. ‘Only in passing.’ He pushed his chair back, gestured for the bill. ‘I’m sorry, Rowan, but I’ll have to call a halt now. Jennifer’s expected at Portland Place in less than fifteen minutes.’
‘Another round of radio? How nice! It’s a pity to have to stop, though. I was so enjoying our chat.’
‘We could always meet again—just the two of us. Perhaps you’d allow me to buy you lunch next week? There’s one or two things I’d like to touch on …’
Rowan snapped her handbag shut. ‘Next week’s a stinker, I’m afraid. I’ll give you a tinkle, though.’ She swivelled back to Jennifer. ‘Thrilled to have met the Country Girl! I’m recommending the book to all my friends.’ The smile was blinding. ‘Best of luck with your interviews. It’ll be hard to top those tears!’
Jennifer could still smell Chanel and Cartier as Rowan whirled through the revolving doors and out into the sunshine. She and Matthew were standing in the foyer, awaiting Jonathan’s Porsche.
‘Matthew, what’s she up to? I don’t like the sound of it. I mean, if she’s been pumping all the locals, they might well have …’
‘She’s simply bluffing, I suspect.’ Matthew ran a finger beneath his collar. There were beads of perspiration on his neck. ‘I’ve told you already, no one up in Fernfield knows anything at all.’
‘Yes, but Annie worked for Mrs Ainsley, lived in the same house. She can’t have missed much, surely? Anyway, what if Rowan’s simply guessed—put two and two together, or followed a hunch or something? And how about the sister? I mean, she’s bound to know about the baby, and if she has come back to England, then …’
‘Impossible! Ellen’s almost eighty now and when I made my own enquiries, I was told she had some chronic ailment and rarely went out at all. She’s hardly likely to travel five thousand miles when she can’t even make it to her nearest village shop. Anyway, why should she return after all these years? She made her home in India, permanently.’
‘Then how d’ you explain the rumour?’
‘There’ll always be rumours, Jennifer—as long as there’s human beings. Rowan admitted herself that most of them are groundless. The trouble is with journalists, they have so few hard facts to go on, they often resort to the flimsiest sort of hearsay. Rowan herself was pumping me, in fact—trying to see what I knew. She’s obviously in the dark herself, just groping about for any straw she can.’
‘Yes, but she must be suspicious, Matthew, or why should she bother at all? And it’s worse in a way to have no facts because it gives her an excuse to start spreading rumours herself. It’s not just Hester I’m worried about—it’s Lyn as well. If he picks up some sordid story after all we’ve done to …’
‘Look, my dear, you concentrate on your interviews and leave Rowan Childs to me. I’ll follow the matter up, of course—invite her to my Club and try and pump her. But I doubt if she’s heard anything at all beyond the harmless local chit-chat she’s collecting for her article.’
‘Well, what about that business of Hester leaving home? You could see she smelt a rat there! I mean, she actually said …’
‘Leave it, I said.’ Matthew sounded sharp. ‘Journalists are a law unto themselves, Jennifer. Asking awkward questions is simply part of their job. Now, let’s go over my Golden Rules for Radio. The voice is all-important, don’t forget, so … Ah! Here’s Jonathan. I’ve asked him to drive you back to Putney when the interviews are over. Anne has planned a celebration dinner.’
‘Celebration?’ The single mouthful of toast Jennifer had swallowed seemed to have swollen in her stomach and set solid like cement. ‘What are we … celebrating?’
‘How can you ask? The book has sold twenty thousand copies already and looks set to beat all records. We’ve just negotiated a sale of another fifty thousand copies to the Book Club. And you and Lyn are coming to stay with us at Putney.’
‘Oh, I … see. That’s … er … settled then?’
‘Yes, my dear. There’s too many problems at Hernhope, and you’ve enough on your plate at the moment without rushing into property negotiations somewhere else. You want to take your time, find a place you really like. You’ll be better off at Putney, anyway—at least for a while. It’s closer in to London, so you won’t have so much travelling to your interviews.’
‘But they’re finished, Matthew. You said only a week or so, and I’ve done double that already.’
‘That’s marvellous, Jennifer. It shows how much interest you’ve aroused. It’s only a matter of days now, anyway. Every book reaches saturation point and then one has to stop, but it would be very foolish not to see it through. Now hurry up, my dear. Jonathan’s being hooted by at least a dozen .taxis. Best of luck and remember to relax. I’ve arranged Radio Merseyside after Radio Ireland. Jonathan’s got the details. He can phone me at the office when they’re over and let me know how you got on. I’ll see you later this evening, back at Putney. Anne’s bought a splendid turkey.’
Chapter Twelve
‘I don’t like turkey.’
‘You hogged enough at Christmas.’
‘That was different. I’m a vegetarian now.’
‘You can’t be a vegetarian. You’re always eating sausages.’
‘Sausages aren’t meat.’
‘Yes they are.’
‘They’re not.’
‘They are, aren’t they, Auntie Jennifer?’
Jennifer laid her fork down. Matthew’s two elder boys were both appealing to her, often used her as a referee. It was hard to be fair, when Charles was her favourite, a second, smaller Lyn. ‘Well, you can get meatless ones.’
‘Oliver’s weren’t meatless. They were prime pork. It said so on the packet.’
‘What’s prime pork?’
Anne tapped a serving spoon sharply on the table. ‘Be quiet, boys. Your father will be back soon and he won’t want all this noise.’
‘It’s not fair. Daddy almost kills us if we turn up late for meals, yet he’s always late himself.’
‘That’s different, Hugh. He’s working. Eat nicely, please. We don’t spend all that money on your school fees just to watch you pig yourself like that.’
Jennifer looked anxiously at Lyn. He had hardly said a word. The boys distrusted him because he couldn’t joke or chatter or relax. Too much like their father, in that respect. Lyn hated family gatherings, the strain of being surrounded, the effort of smiles and small talk. She wished she could reassure him, catch his eye or squeeze his hand, but they had a mile of mahogany table looming between them. Disconcerting for him to move from a Cobham doll’s house into a London mansion, to swap his peace and privacy for a table set for nine. It was easier for her. She wanted a family and Anne’s was at least a substitute—the only family she had ever really had.
She glanced around the table at the four dark heads. Outwardly, they were grave and solemn children like their father, sitting straight in their neat school uniforms with their short-cropped hair and earnest, formal names. Yet it amused her, somehow, that Anne and Matthew, with all their seriousness, all the drive and effort of their combined and forceful genes, could still produce children who muffed exams or squandered their allowances on horror comics or made silly, flagging jokes.
‘Auntie Jennifer, what’s another name for a ve
getarian cannibal?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I expect he’d soon be hungry.’
‘Susie’s boyfriend’s a vegetarian. He told me so.’
‘That’s not her boyfriend, stupid. She hasn’t got a boyfriend.’
‘Who is it, then?’
‘Some man who brought her home.’
‘If he brought her home, where is she now?’
‘She went for a ride on his motorbike. He’s got a Kawasaki Z 400.’
‘Cor! I wish he’d give me a ride.’
‘You’re not allowed to say ‘‘cor’’. Daddy says it’s vulgar.’
‘Susie says it all the time.’
‘Well, Susie’s vulgar, then.’
‘She’s not.’
‘Is.’
‘That’s enough now, boys.’ Anne frowned them into silence. ‘You haven’t met Susie, have you, Jennifer? She’s helping me out in the house. I can usually manage on my own, but I seem to be working later and later at the moment and with the school holidays approaching, I’ll need someone to look after the boys. She should be here, in fact. I like her to be in for meals, but I’m afraid she’s not the most punctual of people. She needs a little … training, I suppose. More turkey for you, by the way?’
‘No thanks.’ Jennifer mopped her forehead with her napkin. It was far too hot to eat. Although it was evening, the close muggy stupor of the afternoon still hung like a tarpaulin over the house, the smell of turkey fat entangled with the scent of roses. Matthew’s Crimson Glories were shadowed by the dark swarthy trees which patrolled the garden—dense and ancient yews with distorted trunks, scraggy conifers shutting out the sun. Even in the summer, the place was sombre. Every window had its blinds and shutters, its heavy velvet curtains, double-barred with nets. The furniture was Victorian mahogany, formal and oppressive, the floors and walls panelled in dark oak. You could enter the house in August from a light sun-dappled street and feel gloom and winter close around you. It was worse with Matthew there. When he came in, the whole house stood up straighter; jokes and chatter faded into silence.
Jennifer could see Anne listening for him now, like a dog trained to greet its master. She had never got to know Anne, or only her exterior. That seemed pleasant enough—always welcoming, polite, subservient to Matthew, but sometimes she suspected hidden depths in her sister-in-law, hidden resentments, even, towards the man she lived her life round
‘Ah, there he is.’ Anne got up to greet him, take his briefcase, pour his glass of Perrier.’
All four boys stopped talking as Matthew took his seat at the head of the table—the only chair with arms—smiled across at Jennifer, nodded at his sons.
‘Enjoying your turkey?’
‘Yes,’ said Robert, taking care to finish his mouthful before he spoke, and not to make it just an Mm.
‘Yes, thank you,’ corrected Matthew.
There was silence for a moment.
‘Finished the drawings, Lyn?’ Matthew tried again.
‘Not quite. I spent half my time packing up and getting here.’
‘Settled in now, I hope? How was your maths test, Charles?’
‘OK.’
‘What do you mean, ‘‘OK’’?’
‘Well—OK—all right. Hey, Dad, did you remember my stapler?’
‘I’m sorry, Charles, I didn’t have time to look it out today.’
‘You said that yesterday.’
‘We’re very busy at the moment, aren’t we, Jennifer?’
Jennifer mumbled something indecipherable. She disliked siding with Matthew against the boys.
‘Jonathan told me your interviews went well, especially Radio Ireland.’
‘Yes … er … thanks.’ She wished she could answer ‘OK’ and grin at Charles. He and his brothers seemed to have dwindled and diminished in their father’s presence, yet their names were never shortened. Each of them had three Christian names apiece, all grave, dignified or regal, to match their grave regal father and his dark earnest house.
‘Robert, I’ve told you before, I will not have you picking up your bones.’
‘Susie’s boyfriend does.’
‘Don’t answer me back, please.’ Matthew carved himself a turkey wing, while Anne brought hot broccoli and potatoes from the kitchen. ‘Anne, what’s this about a boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know much about it, I’m afraid. The boys appear to have met him here.’
Oliver put his fork down. ‘He’s called Sparrow and he’s got tattoos all over his arms. Snakes and dragons and things.’
‘Sparrow? What a crummy name.’
‘Be quiet, Hugh.’ Matthew frowned. ‘I don’t encourage boyfriends, Anne.’
‘I’m sorry, but if I’m working in your office, I can’t really oversee what’s happening at home as well.’
Oliver wriggled on his chair. ‘I thought this was meant to be a celebration. Everyone’s so gloomy, it’s more like a funeral.’
‘It is a celebration. In fact, I thought we’d open a decent bottle of claret, if it’s not too late. Lyn, some wine for you?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I‘ll have Uncle Lyn’s.’
‘No you won’t, Robert. Eight-year-olds should stick to water. A little claret for you, Jennifer?’
‘Yes, please.’ Jennifer sipped. The wine looked dark and heavy in her glass—dark like blood. Her period had just begun. Every period was a wasted baby now. She couldn’t even hope that she was pregnant, unless you could conceive a child without a man—what Anne had done, perhaps. It seemed almost less miraculous than the fact that Matthew had taken off his clothes and thrust in and out on top of her. Anne and Matthew had had their children late. The first six years of their marriage they had concentrated on building up a business rather than a family. She should take heart from that. Anne had had all four sons in her thirties. Still time for her and Lyn. Perhaps they ought to …
‘Hi, folks! Sorry I’m late. Met a friend.’
Suddenly there was light and colour in the room. The door had heaved open and a beam of sunlight flickered through it, flinging its yellow arm across the face and shoulders of a young tousled girl in scarlet dungarees.
‘Ah, Susie, you’re back. We do like to eat at half-past seven, you know. That’s quite late enough for the boys.’
‘Sorry, boys! Gosh. I’m starving. Any turkey left? Hey!’ She swivelled round. ‘You must be Jennifer—the famous one! Great to meet you! I’m Susie.’
Jennifer mumbled hallo. Anne was making more formal introductions. Names like Susie didn’t belong in Matthew’s house. They were too lightweight, too informal, Susie herself too dazzling. Her sneakers were peacock-blue with tartan laces. An African violet tee-shirt shouted at the scarlet. Every nail was varnished a different colour, her lashes spiky with navy blue mascara.
She was staring at Jennifer as openly and directly as a child. ‘Cor! You’re completely different from what you were on telly. I thought you’d be more—well—you know …’
Jennifer did know—more talented, more beautiful, more artistic, more impressive. Susie would have done better in her place. She was like a commercial for shampoo—one of those young, healthy, bouncy girls who manage to look appealing even dressed in sackcloth or overalls, or with their hair soaking wet and clinging to them. Susie’s hair was long and thick. You couldn’t truthfully call it blond, but it had streaks and highlights in it which glittered in the light. The sun moved across the room with her, so that she was alive and golden when everyone else was drab. Her features seemed to leap out of her face and fling themselves towards you—huge grey eyes, large mobile mouth—open, laughing, gabbling—eyebrows lifted astonished or delighted, hands like little darting animals. Anne looked like a portrait beside her, a rigid composition darkened by age and varnish, which had hung on the same spot of wall for nearly half a century. Susie was an impressionistic sketch, lines dashing off the page, colours splashed at random and clashing with each other. She had thin gold chains around her wrists and neck,
a row of metal badges on her tee-shirt—‘Consenting Adult’, ‘Teachers’ Pet’, ‘Dominate me’, ‘Get ’em down’. If Matthew’s sons had worn them, they would have been told to leave the table.
Jennifer glanced at Matthew. He looked sombre and inscrutable like a piece of his own furniture. Anne was trying to smile, but she was stiff and rigid where Susie sparked and sparkled. Her hair was coiled up smoothly round her head with no stray curls or disobedient wisps. Her face and figure had no spare flesh on them, as if she had given all her curves away to build her sons. She wasn’t unattractive. She had a dark earnest stillness, which made you turn round and look at her again. She was like a Spanish ballet dancer who had never danced—taut, lean, steely, her body trained and disciplined, but never letting go. But Susie made her plain. Susie made them all plain. The table had gone dead, the dinner cold, while all the light, life and heat poured into Susie. She was a sweetmeat, a soufflé, something frothier and lighter than the grave substantial Wintertons.
Jennifer had never met a girl with such a presence. Susie was a magnet, pulling you towards her, keeping you in orbit. The sunbeam had shifted a little, so that now it fell across the table, trapping them both inside it, yoking them together, the only two fair heads in a room of dark ones.
Susie pulled out a chair and shattered the sun into fragments, disunited them. She was sitting in Lyn’s shadow now—turned to face him. ‘At least you haven’t finished yet. I hate eating on my tod. You must be Lyn. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Lyn picked up his fork and put it down again.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve heard?’
‘Well, I …’
‘You are the artist, aren’t you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Shame! I was hoping you’d paint my portrait.’
‘I don’t do portraits, I’m afraid.’
‘Only a joke. I’m learning to paint myself, in fact—at night school. It’s a hoot! The teacher’s very old and shrivelled and … Hey, can I have a leg, Anne? I hate breast.’
Jennifer glanced at Susie’s own breasts. They were full and firm, emphasised still further by the packet of Woodbines stuffed in the top pocket of her dungarees and bulging over them.
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