‘Bad shock,’ he said. ‘But he’s going to be all right?’ Then he added as an afterthought: ‘By God, I don’t think I would have wanted to face those dogs in that way in a strange house – and they know me, after a fashion.’
‘You just have to do some things, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He placed the buttered toast on an oak table stool between us, and dropped into the opposite chair. ‘You’d better eat. You must be famished. I’ll be cooking some bacon and eggs for the boys in a few minutes, and you can have some of that.’
After a night of cigarette smoking I had thought I couldn’t eat, but the atmosphere of this house, and Nat Birkett himself, had broken down those kind of nervous defences one erects at times of strain. I felt it was now safe to lay down the night’s burdens. I ate like a hungry child, licking the dripping butter from my fingers, and holding out the mug for more coffee and brandy.
‘I don’t suppose you have brandy for breakfast every day, do you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I don’t have champagne at eleven, either.’ We laughed at the memory of it; it seemed much farther away than yesterday. ‘I felt a right fool, I’ll tell you. That elegant pair, Askew and his beautiful Condesa, really put me off my stride. I’ve handled champagne glasses before – I’m not quite an oaf – but I suddenly felt as if the damn thing was going to break in my hand, or that I’d knock over one of those silly little tables. I was afraid to move. And then you and Stanton came in, and I felt even worse. The experts up from London – fine art dealers, knowing all there was to know. You looked as cool as the Condesa, only a bit more useful. And I felt as if I must still faintly smell of the cow byre or the lambing parlour.’
I gulped the coffee. ‘I don’t look like that now, though?’
He shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. You don’t look at all like that. You look ... well ... human. As if something got out of you that you’ve been keeping locked up.’
Without meaning to I found myself talking about Vanessa, about the way the wreckage had looked in the snow, about the arrival of my father and the weeks at San José. ‘It’s all been so unreal. I haven’t had time to get used to it. Last night I was terrified I was going to lose Gerald. I didn’t know I could bear that so soon ...’ The words were spilling out of me as if they had thawed from some place frozen at the centre of myself. I hadn’t been able to speak even to Gerald of some of these things; it was not the sort of talk I would have offered to any of the people I knew in London. I remembered the day I had gone back to Hardy’s, and everyone had been so kind, but I really hadn’t been able to speak Vanessa’s name, and had taken refuge in the shop talk which was our lives and our passion. But to this man, a stranger in a strange world, I was saying things I had not even known were there – the jumbled mosaic of Vanessa’s life, the acquaintance with my father which had become a friendship in so short a time, a little even of my stumbling search to find my own self – the self that surely must exist apart from Vanessa and my bits of ceramic, my peregrination all over Europe to look at works of art, and somehow missing myself on the way. I think I even talked about Harry Peers – wondering if Harry saw me as the cool creature of Nat Birkett’s description, but still a person who stood in Vanessa’s shadow, and even could permanently be identified with my role at Hardy’s. All this spilled out in the half hour or so that I sat there with Nat Birkett, and the sun grew stronger at the windows, a cat scratched at the door to be admitted, and a collie dog arrived with it, both of them taking their places without question near the warmth of the Aga.
‘My God,’ he said at last, ‘you know what you need – you need a couple of weeks walking on the fells just as badly as you needed that couple of weeks in the sun in Mexico. But getting to know a father at your age is a bit of a strain – sun or no sun. So in the time you’re here you just get yourself a pair of decent walking boots – real boots, not fancy gear – and an anorak, and get up on the fells and walk. Walk until you want to drop. You’ll be too tired to think. Just one thing, though. Stay where you know your landmarks. Don’t go too high. Stay on the trails. It’s an awful waste of time going out and finding these daft people who think, on their first day out, that they’re polar explorers. And remember it’s always rather hard-working people who have to go out and find them – people who’d rather be back doing what they should be doing.’
‘You think I’m going to stay?’
‘Askew said you should. And Stanton has to have someone with him.’
‘Yes ... yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll have to telephone one of the directors. Someone at Hardy’s has to know at once what’s happened to Gerald.’ I pushed myself from the chair with effort. ‘I’ll have to go. I should telephone at once ...’
I felt his hand pushing me back, so that the chair rocked wildly. ‘Time enough,’ he said. ‘None of your directors is out of bed this time on a Sunday morning. Stanton’s all right, isn’t he? So don’t drag anyone out of their sleep. Might as well shove some breakfast into you while you’re here. Judging from the elephant noises above, the boys will be down in a few minutes.’
‘You were up early yourself – or to bed late.’ I told him about seeing the lights on the way to the hospital.
He grinned. ‘I’d like to tell you to mind your own business, and pretend I had a roaring night out. But it wasn’t – a heifer had a hard time calving. Our animals sometimes need more looking after than our kids. And if there’s anyone a bit more hard-worked than a doctor, it might be a country vet. That’s why we keep the brandy bottle around. Nothing quite like it after you’ve just pulled a calf out with the rope.’
He was interrupted by a kind of rumbling noise on the stairs, as if a couple of rocks were being rolled down. The kitchen door was flung open, and two young boys stopped dead in their paces as their eyes fell on me.
‘Strawberry had her calf,’ Nat said. ‘And this is Miss Roswell. She’s staying at Thirlbeck and got locked out.’
‘Jo is my name,’ I said. ‘What are yours?’
The older one straightened himself. ‘I’m Thomas. He’s Richard.’ And then added with complete seriousness: ‘We thought there might be a Harry, but Mother died.’
‘Shall we call the new calf Harry?’ the younger one asked.
‘You’d have to call her Henrietta,’ Nat replied. ‘No, I don’t think you should call her Henrietta. We might sell her one day. And then Harry would be gone. You wouldn’t like that.’
‘No, that’s right. We wouldn’t like it.’ Thomas looked expectantly towards the Aga. ‘Will we start breakfast? It’s almost time. But Richard’s lost his Sunday tie ... I gave him one of my old ones.’ The talk flowed on, and I was accepted without question, as if I were the new calf who had walked in during the night. They were beautiful, these boys, as Askew had told us. The older was about ten years, the younger about eight, and they still had that soft rosy bloom that healthy children wear, their badly combed, still-damp hair was a wheat-coloured blond. They looked like their father, but I knew that their mother had had intensely blue eyes, and a spiky fringe of lashes. They moved gracefully, and yet had the slap-dash quality of young children. They each knew their appointed tasks as Nat got out the frying pan. The eggs and sausages and bacon came out of the refrigerator, the cups, saucers, and plates were set on the table, the bread ready for the toaster. They did it as if they were all used to it as a prescribed ritual, something they did every morning of their lives, not just on Sundays. At last the younger came close to me, patting the collie as he spoke, a gesture that protected his shy eagerness. ‘You’re going to stay for breakfast, aren’t you, Jo? I’ve laid your place.’
We all sat down, and I ate as much as the boys did, and more than Nat. I watched him as he moved from stove to table, and the eggs were dished straight from the pan. ‘Sorry about all this,’ he said. ‘But this breakfast bit is done to a tight schedule. The boys have to get off to school every morning, and the bus doesn’t wait for late-comers – Thomas, elbows off the tabl
e.’
‘Does the bus come this far?’
‘No, just to the crossroads a mile up the road. They go to the elementary in Kesmere. Three of the Tolson grandchildren are young enough to go with them, so there’s quite a bunch.’
‘Dad, here’s Mr Tolson now, coming up the drive.’
‘Then you’re late. Get upstairs and get your jackets. Richard, try to get that egg off your mouth.’ There was a clatter again on the stairs, and almost at once it was repeated as the two came down again. They were struggling into jackets, hampered by the large Bible each carried. Nat gave a last-minute twitch to Richard’s tie and straightened his socks. ‘There – out you get.’
‘Dad, you’re not going to come?’ Thomas said.
‘Thomas, being up half the night to bring a calf into the world is as much the Lord’s work as going to church.’
‘Can I not go sometimes?’
‘When you’re older you’ll decide yourself whether you want to go. Until then, you’ll go with Mr Tolson – and me, when I decide I want to go.’
‘I’ll bet I’m grown up pretty soon.’
‘I’ll bet you are,’ Nat replied.
And then the door opened and Tolson stood there, clad in a severe grey suit that looked oddly out of place on his big body, as if a bear had tried to assume the camouflage of a mouse. His hair, also, had been greased in an attempt to tame it, without much success. He just stood there, without greeting, and stared at me. Jessica came to the door behind him.
‘Miss Roswell ...’ His tone was a rumble of displeasure. ‘I was surprised to see Lord Askew’s car here. I thought you were at the hospital.’
‘You’d shut her out, Tolson,’ Nat said.
‘There is a phone, isn’t there?’ Jessica observed. She looked like a spun sugar fairy in a pink suit which she managed to make look elegant, even though it wasn’t expensive; her shoes and gloves and handbag were plain. Sensibly, she wore no ornament about her; she knew enough not to gild the lily.
‘Yes – there’s a phone. But I decided to invite Jo to breakfast.’ He cut off Jessica’s talk as if to remind her to mind her own business. ‘Well ... you’ve all had quite a night over at Thirlbeck.’
Tolson still looked at me as if the trouble were somehow my fault. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very unfortunate. But Lord Askew says Mr Stanton is doing well. Will you be leaving today, Miss Roswell, as planned?’
‘I don’t know. Lord Askew thinks it would be better for Mr Stanton if I stayed. But I must telephone some of the directors of Hardy’s about what’s happened to Mr Stanton ...’ I was more than ever aware that none of the Tolsons wanted me at Thirlbeck; they possibly saw Gerald’s illness as a great inconvenience, a reason why both of us would stay on. As I saw Tolson’s dark eyes boring in on me through the pebble lenses, a sense of resentment grew. This man dominated too much at Thirlbeck; he was its guardian, not its owner, and he had no power to turn me out. My body, which until then had seemed limp with fatigue and strain, was recharged with energy. If I couldn’t face this man, for Gerald’s sake and my own, then I was nothing, and I might as well crawl back into my cupboard at Hardy’s. ‘I will make that decision when I have consulted Mr Stanton’s colleagues,’ I said crisply. ‘But I think you may take it that I won’t be leaving at once.’
‘Well, that’s nicely arranged.’ Jessica’s heels tapped sharply on the floor as she moved back to the door. ‘Grandfather, we’ll be late if we go on with all this talk. Thomas ... Richard ...’ What she had to say to them was lost as the three moved to the car. Tolson stood looking at me for a moment longer, and for the first time I sensed a sort of helplessness in him. Something in his planned and careful world had been upset, and he did not know how to adjust. In that moment his strength seemed diminished, and my own grew.
‘I shall need to get into Thirlbeck, Mr Tolson,’ I said. ‘Would you be good enough to lend me a key?’
‘A key?’ His head went up like an old lion whose territory had been challenged. ‘That won’t be necessary, Miss Roswell. My daughter-in-law, Jessica’s mother, is now back at the South Lodge. All you have to do is sound your horn. Good morning, Nat. I’ll see you when I bring the boys back from church.’
‘You might not,’ Nat replied. ‘I’ll probably be in bed. But I’ll be over during the afternoon ... some things about the new fencing to discuss.’
‘In that case,’ Tolson said, as he turned to the door, ‘I’ll keep Thomas and Richard with us. They can have their lunch with us. I’ll tell Jessica’s mother there won’t be any need for her to come here today – leave you to rest undisturbed. My wife will have cold food ready for you to bring back for supper.’
His big frame darkened the sunlight at the doorway, and then he was gone.
I waited until the sound of the Tolsons’ car had died away. I went to where I had left my handbag on the floor by the rocker, and took Askew’s cigarette case out. As I extended it to Nat I saw his eyes linger on it. ‘No – ’ I said. ‘I don’t run to gold. It’s Lord Askew’s. He left it with me at the hospital. Thanks ...’ as he struck a match and held it for my cigarette. ‘They seem to have arranged things very nicely for us all. Do you always let them run your affairs like that?’
Nat pushed back his chair, and swung it on its back legs. ‘I suppose it does look that way.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to see how not to do it. And it works. Things were in a pretty bad state after Patsy died. The whole centre was gone from our world – for all of us. I could have found a live-in housekeeper, or I could have married again quickly just to achieve the same thing. I didn’t care for either of those solutions. As it’s happened, the Tolsons – all of them – have provided a continuity for Thomas and Richard that no outsider could have given them. I haven’t tried to thrust anyone into their mother’s place. In every crisis that’s arisen the Tolsons – one or other of them – have been here to help, some times to cope completely. Jessica’s mother comes up here every day and does some cooking and cleaning, and she’s not a woman who would normally do that. Except that to the Tolsons the boys and I already count as family – that is, they’re simply beginning a little early a service that they’d normally be giving to the Earl of Askew. And that’s what I’ll be some day, whatever I may do to try to dodge it. So why resist? It could be worse. The boys have friends in the younger Tolson grandchildren, mothers of a sort in the Tolson wives, uncles in the Tolson sons. And there’s Tolson himself, the patriarch of the clan. Things could be worse ... and I see no better solution.’
The chair legs rapped against the floor as he swung upright again. ‘It isn’t ideal. But then nothing’s been ideal since Patsy died. I go along because they’ve made it easy for me.’
‘And that includes taking your sons to church every Sunday?’
‘It includes about everything. Tolson has strong ideas about how my sons should be brought up. Church is one of them. School is another. He’s even at me to send them to Eton when they’re old enough. He’s been dropping heavy hints about a prep school. Eton! My God! They’ll just have to be good enough to get into the Kesmere Grammar School, and that will do them. But Tolson doesn’t think that’s fitting for the sons of the future Earl of Askew. And yet he knows my income and how much I owe the bank ... and he’s offered to finance the whole thing from the Birkett estate. I gave him a flat “no” on that – and still, even in the last week, he’s said that all he has to do is to get Askew to write to Eton, and there’ll be a place at least for Thomas. He’s got very old-fashioned ideas, Tolson has. And he really can’t believe how much I loathe the idea of moving into that niche that’s all carved out for me.’
I was standing by the window while he talked, staying very quiet because I had not wanted the flow of his words to stop. There was the kind of anguish of a lonely man in them, a man who had surrendered a part of a cherished independence so that his children would have a family, and the roots which that family gave them. I saw the two rosy faces of those children as part of his sacrifice,
and as a reward for it, and I couldn’t blame him. I remembered all the years when all I had known of my father was that he sent money to Vanessa for me, and now when I knew Jonathan Roswell myself, I knew what I had missed. But Nat Birkett was not a loner as Vanessa had been, as my father was. He could not be expected to live all his life alone. And then, coldly, I wondered if Tolson had already selected the woman that Nat Birkett should marry – as he probably had selected the wives for his sons. In the warm sunshine of that window, I could barely repress a shiver.
‘I didn’t realise how well you could see Thirlbeck from up here. That frieze around the top, and the tower.’
The sunlight had made the lake a shimmering cloth of gold behind the buildings, the pasture about it seemed soft green velvet, the animals like toy creatures beneath the great oaks and beeches – the England of storybooks it seemed now to be, and no one could have guessed the dark spots of its history. ‘Will you go and live there, Nat?’
‘Live there! You’re daft – just daft. You and Tolson might make a good pair. I’ll never live at Thirlbeck.’
‘Then what will happen to it?’
‘It isn’t mine yet. I’ll worry about that when it happens. Do you realise ...?’ He paused, and poured himself more coffee. I heard the coffeepot banged angrily on the table. ‘I suppose all women are soft about things like that. They see a great pile of stones, and just because it’s got a bit of history wrapped around it, they think it’s got to go on for ever, no matter what. Tolson got to Patsy that way. He began to get her over there ... any excuse at all. When the boys were very small they used to play all over the house. Tolson wanted them there, wanted Patsy to begin to think of it as her home. He even got them crazy about those blasted wolfhounds of his. The boys actually used to ride on their backs when they were small enough. It was insidious, the way Tolson planted things in Patsy’s mind. He meant it for the best, of course, but it turned out for the worse. She actually died there, my Patsy. She died in that wretched place. And now it seems like a mausoleum to me.’
The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets. Page 17