The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  Charles’s earlier departure meant there was a spare seat in the Wolseley, and having accepted Paul’s offer of a lift back to London, Dan went upstairs to put his things together. When he had finished packing, he went to close the bedroom window and saw Madeleine and Avril sitting by the edge of the fountain in the courtyard below. He watched Madeleine pluck moss from between the stones and crumble it into the pond. Bubbles appeared on the surface of the water as fish gathered greedily, thinking the moss was food. Avril said something, and Madeleine nodded.

  Questions crowded Dan’s mind. Had Avril, hiding in the loft, seen what he had seen? And if so, what could she possibly have made of it, at her age? Was Madeleine swearing the child to silence? The idea seemed far-fetched. If Avril had seen her father and Madeleine together, it had probably made no sense to her. The sight of her father gasping his last breath would probably eclipse every other memory. But maybe Avril had said something to her mother about Madeleine being in the studio. What would be made of that, once the immediate tragedy of Henry Haddon’s death subsided and surrounding events came into perspective? The events of the morning lay on his mind like a heavy weight, one he didn’t know how to shift. That Haddon had been a lecherous old goat was a commonplace – but Madeleine was no more than a girl, the daughter of his wife’s friend, and someone in his charge and care. Even to Dan’s cynical turn of mind, it was a bit much. If others were to find out, it would mean misery all round. He would rather not have been the repository of such deadly knowledge.

  As he took his case downstairs, a small figure emerged from the shadow of the staircase. It was Avril.

  ‘Hello, Avril.’

  She searched his face with her eyes for a few seconds. She really had a most uncomfortably penetrating gaze. He crouched down to bring himself to her level. She might be tiresome, but she was still only a little child, and had seen things that morning no child should. He asked gently, ‘Shouldn’t Madeleine be looking after you?’

  ‘I don’t want to be with her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just don’t.’ She kicked at the newel post with her plimsolled foot.

  ‘Avril…’ Dan hesitated, ‘did you tell anyone about Madeleine being in the barn this morning?’

  Avril stared at him, her mouth turning down as though she might cry, then shook her head. At that moment, Meg came out of Sonia’s room, closing the door gently behind her. Dan stood up, and Avril made for the door. ‘I want to see Mama.’

  ‘Not now, darling,’ said Meg gently, stopping the child. ‘Go up to the nursery. I’m sure Madeleine must be looking for you. You can see Mama later.’

  Avril looked darkly from Meg to Dan, then turned and ran upstairs.

  ‘How’s Sonia?’ asked Dan.

  ‘In a pretty dreadful way. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.’

  There was a pause, then Dan asked, ‘Will I see you in London?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know when I’ll be back. I rather think Aunt Sonia will need me here for a while.’

  He nodded, then reached into his jacket pocket to find paper and pen. He scribbled down his address and office telephone number. ‘Here. Give me a ring when you get back. In the meantime, I might drop you a line, let you know how things are in the teeming metropolis.’

  ‘I’d like that. I think things are going to be pretty miserable here for a while.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Meg glanced up as Paul, Diana and Eve came down the staircase with their luggage. ‘Oh, here are the others. I’ll tell Aunt Sonia.’

  Sonia emerged from her sitting room to say goodbye, overwrought but dignified, determined to take a proper farewell of her guests. In saying his goodbyes, Paul offered a short, gracious tribute to their lately departed host, which Dan had to admit was nicely judged, if rather pompous. But when Paul took his leave of Meg, holding her hand for just a little too long, and then a moment later glancing back at her with a smile of affection, Dan felt an unpleasant and unaccustomed smart of jealousy. It was a pity he hadn’t made greater headway with her, but in a way he didn’t mind. Last night Eve had provided the perfect short-term distraction. Meg presented a more interesting long-term challenge.

  *

  The preparations for the funeral lent Woodbourne House a bleak vitality, keeping Sonia and Meg and the servants busy right up until the day itself – a day unfittingly bright and soft – but in the weeks that followed, after guests and friends had long departed and the great man himself lay stiff and cold in the ground, a deadness fell upon the house. Meg had hitherto assumed that Sonia, whose taste and influence spoke in every room, whose domestic authority directed very meal and social event, was the essence of Woodbourne. But now that her uncle was gone, she realised that it was he who had been its heart and restless soul. Without his existence, nothing mattered. All Sonia’s efforts to make Woodbourne House a charming and restful place in which to live, and to keep it running smoothly, had been for the sole purpose of nourishing her husband’s spirit, so that he could work without distraction or worry. After his death, she scarcely seemed to care what happened in the house from one day to the next.

  ‘Grief takes some people that way,’ observed Mrs Goodall to Meg, on one of Meg’s frequent visits to the kitchen, where at least there was warmth and activity, as opposed the bleak inertia of the rest of the house. Sonia had already had dust sheets draped over the furniture in the guest bedrooms and some of the reception rooms, giving the house a chilly, deserted atmosphere.

  ‘I would have thought she might take some comfort in spending time with Avril,’ said Meg. ‘But she hardly sees anything of her.’ She watched Mrs Goodall chopping the leaves from a bunch of carrots, in preparation for peeling them. ‘Oh, please let me do that. I like to be busy.’

  ‘On you go, then.’ Mrs Goodall handed her the knife. ‘I know what you’re saying, but Miss Avril’s not the easiest of children.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but she’s Aunt Sonia’s daughter, and she must love her. If my husband died, and I had a daughter, I would want to spend all my time with her.’ Meg bit off a piece of carrot.

  ‘Well, like I say, she’ll come round.’ Mrs Goodall began to weigh out flour and butter for pastry. She gave Meg a glance. ‘I would have thought you’d have been back to London before now. Not much of a life for you here.’

  That was certainly true. Although Meg was glad to have been of help to Sonia, the last few weeks had been stultifying. It was already mid-October, and the thought of watching autumn slide into winter in the depths of Surrey was far from appealing. The letters she received from friends in London made her feel almost as though she was living on another, distant planet.

  ‘What I always say—’

  But Mrs Goodall’s next remark would remain forever unuttered, for at that moment Sonia appeared in the kitchen, telegram in hand, more animated than she had been in some time.

  ‘Meg, I will need you to drive Madeleine to the station. The sanatorium have telegrammed to say that her mother is… well, I think she is very near the end. I have been so thoughtless. The poor girl has not been once to visit since Henry died, though she must have been longing to. But of course, she wouldn’t ask, knowing I needed her here.’

  Meg laid down the knife. ‘Of course I’ll take her. What time’s the train?’

  ‘There’s one at eleven twenty. Then when she gets to London she’ll have to get another train from – oh, I don’t know which station. But she’s made the journey before. I must give her money for her ticket. Should I go with her, do you suppose? I really don’t think I can.’ Sonia was flustered, gazing anxiously from Mrs Goodall to Meg.

  ‘Madeleine can manage the journey perfectly well,’ Meg reassured her. ‘As you say, she’s done it before.’ She hesitated. ‘Does she realise that her mother might be…?’

  ‘The telegram was addressed to her, so, yes, she does. Poor thing.’

  Sonia began to cry softly, her hand pressed to her brow. Mrs Goodall ushered her to a chair.
‘You sit down, madam, and I’ll make some tea.’

  Meg went upstairs and found Madeleine in her room next to the nursery, packing the small suitcase with which she had arrived at Woodbourne House six months earlier. Meg could see from her red eyes that she had been crying, but she seemed calm now as she folded her clothes.

  ‘Sonia told me about your mother,’ said Meg. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I’ll run you to the station.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Meg and Madeleine had never really been friends, not for want of trying on Meg’s part, but because Madeleine had never known quite how to respond to Meg’s overtures. She found the older girl’s easy, confident demeanour attractive, yet at the same time intimidating.

  Avril appeared in the doorway, and saw Madeleine packing. ‘Where is Madeleine going?’

  ‘She’s going to visit her mummy,’ said Meg gently. ‘And I’m going to take you down to see your mummy. Come on.’ She took Avril’s hand, adding over her shoulder to Madeleine, ‘I’ll bring the car round.’

  It would be no bad thing, Meg reflected as she took Avril downstairs, for Avril and her mother to spend time together over the next few days. Sonia’s grief had been so self-centred that Meg suspected she had given scarcely any thought to Avril’s own loss of her father.

  ‘You must call me,’ Sonia told Madeleine. ‘And if for whatever reason things don’t go well with your grandmother, remember I am always here.’

  ‘Where will you stay?’ asked Meg, as they drove to Malton station.

  ‘With my grandmother, perhaps.’ Madeleine’s voice sounded remote, wistful. She glanced out at the passing fields and hedgerows. ‘I’ve only met her once. She was there the last time I visited Mother. It was the first time she’d seen my mother since I was born.’

  Meg wondered what it was like to know that you were the source of your own mother’s shame, the reason why her family had cut off all contact. She could not imagine such isolation.

  *

  In the evening Meg and Sonia were sitting listening to the wireless, Meg with her sewing, Sonia toying with a jigsaw which she seemed to have been doing for ever, when the telephone rang.

  Dilys put her head round the door. ‘Telephone call for you, ma’am.’

  Sonia rose and went to the hall. She reappeared a few moments later. ‘That was Mrs Cole, Madeleine’s grandmother. Madeleine’s mother died an hour ago.’ She sank into her chair. ‘It was to be expected, but dreadful nonetheless. Poor Olive. She didn’t have the happiest of lives.’

  ‘What will happen to Madeleine?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Mrs Cole is taking her to live with her. If only she’d done more for her daughter while she was alive.’ Sonia sighed. ‘I’ve grown fond of Madeleine. I hope she will visit sometimes. Avril will miss her. And of course, I shall have to find a new nanny.’

  ‘I don’t mind staying on till you find someone.’

  Although she was itching to get back to her family and friends in London, Meg reasoned that it couldn’t take long to find a new nanny. A fortnight at the outside.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Sonia. ‘I’ll set about finding someone first thing tomorrow.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Do turn the wireless up a little. There’s a rather nice concert coming on in a few minutes.’

  Meg turned up the volume. The fact that her aunt had been reading the Radio Times was a good sign. Perhaps Mrs Goodall was right. At any rate, she liked to think her aunt would cope perfectly well after she was gone, which could not, surely, be long from now.

  7

  FOLLOWING HENRY HADDON’S death, Paul made regular visits to Woodbourne House. He came ostensibly to see Sonia and to assist her with matters concerning her late husband’s estate, but it was plain to Sonia that it was Meg he came to see. On his third visit, when he offered to take both Sonia and Meg out to lunch, Sonia declined, saying that she had correspondence to catch up on, but that Meg must go. Paul drove Meg to the pub in the village, where they lunched on steak pie and beer. Afterwards they took a walk through the woods that skirted the village. Meg was delighted to have Paul all to herself, but was acutely conscious of feeling like a child in his company – he seemed so much a man of the world.

  ‘Lord,’ said Paul, ‘it’s good to get away from London. The air is so much better, you know, and the people are friendlier.’ He breathed in the autumn air with deep appreciation. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking for a while about getting a place in the country – Berkshire probably. Somewhere like Copley Hall.’

  ‘That was a wonderful house,’ said Meg, remembering countless childhood visits to Paul and Diana’s home.

  ‘It was an ideal place to grow up in. I was sorry when Father sold it after Mother died, though it was understandable. Berkshire is a first-rate county, and I’d like to live there again.’

  ‘You sound as though you’re thinking of settling down,’ said Meg, her heart lurching a little at the thought of Paul marrying some society beauty and setting up house on a splendid estate.

  ‘Well, I’ve led a pretty free and easy existence the past few years. About time I started taking life seriously.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘At the moment I’m setting up a racing car business. It’s always been an enthusiasm of mine, and I’m hoping the investment will pay off. We’re designing a prototype, and I’m trying to find a good driver. I need to get an understanding of business, something to stand me in good stead when I eventually enter Parliament.’

  ‘It all sounds terribly grown-up,’ said Meg. ‘I can’t say I feel remotely grown-up.’

  ‘Well, you are. You have to start thinking about what you want from life.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose I want the same things most girls do. A home, a husband, children. Just to be content.’

  ‘You deserve all those things, and you deserve to be supremely happy,’ said Paul, ruffling her hair lightly, then slipping his arm through hers in a brotherly fashion.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m very deserving of anything. I’m just longing to get back to London. That’s the only future I’m contemplating right now. As soon as Sonia finds a new nanny for Avril, I shall be back like a shot.’ Suddenly a clump of wild mushrooms at the base of a tree caught her eye. ‘Look!’ She stooped to gather a handful. ‘I say, Cook will be pleased with these. I’ve never seen so many in one place. I wish I had something to put them in.’

  ‘I’d be careful if I were you. You can’t be sure they’re safe to eat.’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ replied Meg, pleased for a change to know more than Paul. ‘These are wood mushrooms. Have a sniff.’ She held one up to Paul, who smelt it dubiously.

  ‘Smells of aniseed.’

  ‘Exactly. And they’re quite delicious. Now, hand me your cap. I want to gather as many as I can.’

  *

  While Meg and Paul were carrying their harvested mushrooms back to Mrs Goodall, Dan was making his way back to his office from a rather tame Cork Street exhibition of watercolour seascapes to write up his review. He felt mildly depressed. Was he really destined to spend the rest of his life earning a few measly quid a week writing up the work of ‘safe’ society artists? The smaller arts magazines were happy to publish his pieces on avant-garde artists and writers, but they paid next to nothing.

  He glanced up at the heavy sky; spots of rain had begun to fall. Fingering the small change in the pocket of his raincoat, he decided to cheer himself up with a cup of coffee in one of his regular Covent Garden haunts before going back to the office.

  He was sitting by the steamy café window with his coffee and a reflective cigarette, when a familiar figure came hurrying in out of the rain.

  Dan raised a hand. ‘Harry!’

  Harry Denholm returned Dan’s salute and came over. He shrugged off his tweed overcoat.

  ‘Blasted thundercloud!’ He sat down, running his fingers through his hair to shake off the raindrops, then raised a finger to a passing waiter. ‘Coffee,
please, Marco – black.’

  He was a tall, barrel-chested man, a few years older than Dan, with coarse pudgy features, and thick hair worn long over his collar. Although not conventionally handsome, the playful intelligence of his eyes and his dark, drawling voice lent him surprising charm, and he wore his clothes with a style that more expensively dressed men could only envy.

  ‘So, how’s tricks?’ asked Harry. ‘Don’t usually find you in here at this time of day.’

  ‘I’m on my way back from a putrid exhibition of watercolours. I have to write a review for Tuesday’s arts page. To be honest, I can’t think of a single original thing to say.’

  ‘I’m hardly surprised. Why don’t you chuck that lousy job and come and work for me?’

  Harry was the proprietor and editor of a liberal arts magazine called Ire, which brought to the attention of its limited circle of readers the work of experimental poets, writers, painters and sculptors, whose creations might never otherwise receive any critical consideration, and who were mainly friends of Harry’s. It brought in little or no money, so it was as well that Harry had a small private income on which he managed to live precariously.

  ‘Because I need to earn a living,’ replied Dan. ‘You still haven’t paid me for the piece on Oskar Fischinger that I wrote for you last June.’

  Harry rubbed his chin. ‘Haven’t I? I’ll ask accounts to chase it up.’

  Dan gave a wry smile. Harry ran the magazine from a room above a bookshop in Brewer Street and was its editor, features writer, art, theatre, film and book critic rolled into one. His frequent reference to ‘accounts’, when harried by unpaid contributors, was one of those happy little fictions by which he hoped to deceive people into believing the enterprise possessed greater substance than it did.

  Harry’s coffee arrived, and he plucked three sugar lumps from the bowl on the table and dropped them in one by one.

  ‘How’s Laurence?’ asked Dan. Laurence, a twenty-four-year-old artist, was Harry’s lover.