Goodnight Sweetheart

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Katherine looks beautiful all right,’ Trixie agreed, grimly, ‘but being beautiful is another thing. Now take Mrs Garland: this evening, she looks beautiful and she is beautiful, which is more than can be said, saving your presence, of Miss Katherine.’

  ‘I know but you see, Trixie, Katherine is still a young beauty, and that’s quite difficult, because everywhere she goes people sigh in admiration, and we don’t know what that’s like, truly we don’t, do we?’ Caro informed the maid in a kind voice. ‘It must be very difficult, so we can’t expect her to be nice too, really we can’t.’

  She said this in such a matter-of-fact voice that Trixie had to laugh.

  ‘You’re a one, you are, Miss Caro.’

  ‘You bet I am,’ Caro agreed, standing up and, to Trixie’s relief, at last smoothing out the wrinkles in the silk bedcover. ‘Now come on, let’s get reading before someone finds out where we are …’

  As they read together, Trixie kept one ear open for the downstairs bell, and Caro, one ear on the departing guests, both girls worried in case someone came up and found them together in Mrs Garland’s room.

  Caro said, ‘I say, this is nice and cosy, isn’t it, Trixie? And this story is really exciting, don’t you think? It’s actually one of my favourites.’

  Trixie looked up, at the same time stabbing her finger under a word on the page to keep her place.

  ‘It would be more exciting if you’d stop interrupting, now wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, I suppose it might,’ Caro agreed, pulling a little face. ‘But do admit these little detours add a lot to our sessions.’

  Trixie looked down at the words again.

  ‘You’ve been born with charm, you have, Miss Caro.’ She looked up, remembering what Mrs Garland had said to her. ‘You’ve got Irish blood, I expect; kissed the Blarney Stone too, I dare say.’

  Caro smiled, and sighed with contentment, if only because the attention was back on herself.

  ‘I say, Trixie, did you know the painter person has arrived?’

  ‘Course I did.’

  ‘He’s downstairs now, in the Long Room – “setting up”, I think he called it.’ A dreamy look came into Caro’s eyes. ‘I think painting is the most exciting thing in the whole world, don’t you, Trixie? Imagine being able to make a whole new excitement out of paints, all that colour at your fingertips; or like this man will be doing, painting for posterity, so that everyone will know how we looked now, in early summer 1939.’

  Trixie looked vastly unimpressed by this idea.

  ‘I just hope he puts down the dustsheets I left, that’s all,’ she said shortly. ‘We don’t want any nonsense in the Long Room, not if Miss Katherine’s going to have her twenty-first birthday party there.’

  ‘Oh, Katherine’s twenty-first birthday’s not for ages and ages; anything can happen between now and then. But, you know, the Long Room is going to look so exciting with a great big wall painting with all of us in it. You and me, and Betty, and Miss Berenger, and Mrs Grant, and your father, and my father, and the boys, and even Katherine, if she’ll deign to sit for it. Everyone will be in it, which means it will take quite a time, I should have thought.’

  Trixie banged her finger back down under the words on the page.

  ‘Come on, Miss Caro, we must get on with the story, because I’ll have to go and help downstairs in a second, which is what I’m meant to be doing anyhow.’

  Caro sat back and listened to Trixie reading, her finger now moving swiftly under the words on the page in front of her. She hardly needed to use her finger any more, although Caro would be the last to say so because, knowing Trixie as she did, she was certain that pretty soon this would be something that the maid found out for herself. Trixie had always been what Cook would call ‘monkey quick’, not to mention as sharp as Cook’s best knife.

  Of course, they both knew that Trixie reading out loud was about Trixie learning to speak properly. It was about leaving Chevrons, getting away from her upbringing, becoming something better than just a maid. In this Caro was at one with her, realising that while Chevrons might be nothing short of a country paradise to its younger daughter, for someone like Trixie it must serve only as a stepping stone to something better.

  Caro held up her hand. ‘No, Trixie, not “lie-lack”; no, you have to swallow the “lack” and make a sound more like “lake” except –’ she frowned – ‘except not like “lake” either.’

  ‘Well, make up your mind, Miss Caro. Either the blooming flower is a “lie-lack” or it’s “lie-lake”. Which is it?’

  Caro frowned, momentarily stumped by the vagaries of correct standard English pronunciation, something that had never really bothered her until Trixie had collared her for their evening sessions.

  ‘It’s said more like “lie-luk” – that’s it.’

  Trixie, as she always did, got the point.

  ‘Ssh!’

  Trixie’s hearing was so good, she could pick up the slightest sound, particularly that of a creaking stair.

  ‘It’s Mrs Hitler.’

  They sprang up as one, and within a few seconds Caro was out of the room and passing their housekeeper, Mrs Grant, on the stairs, while Trixie, flushed but, as always, the picture of innocence, was found to be busy tidying Mrs Garland’s clothes, the treasured copy of The Lilac Tree by Rosalie Gresham well hidden under Mrs Garland’s bed.

  Downstairs, Caro passed as swiftly as she could across the hall and into the Long Room. As she closed the first of the two doors that led into it, she could hear more guests arriving and the twins’ laughter. She noted the sophisticated chatter of Katherine and her friends as they gathered for drinks before going on to the Lord Lieutenant’s annual ball. Caro knew that David Astley, Katherine’s great love, would be among the guests. Soon she would be able to smell cigarettes and imagine the admiring glances that her elder sister, in her ravishing blue and silver dress, would be attracting. In her mind’s eye she could see the young men all crowding around her rather than any of the other girls, imagine Katherine stalking from the drawing room, closely followed by her clique of admirers.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Caro was so busy closing the door silently that she almost jumped at the sound of the male voice in the long wooden-floored room.

  ‘I am Caro Garland, and goodness, you very nearly gave me a fit,’ she said, turning round quickly. ‘I mean, I knew you were there but—’ She stopped.

  She could not remember exactly what the painter had looked like without his hat, but now he was without his straw hat she saw that not only was he tall and slim, but also startlingly handsome. His features were not over-regular, so he did not look too pretty-pretty to be masculine. His nose was strong and straight; his mouth attractive, curving upwards at the side as if he smiled a great deal. But the main attraction of his face was undoubtedly his startling eyes. They were large and dark, and the look in them, it seemed to Caro, must surely mirror a passionate soul.

  ‘I’m Walter Beresford. How do you do? I’ve already met your sister, Katherine.’ He stared down at Caro momentarily. ‘You don’t look at all alike – but you know that.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Caro agreed cheerfully. ‘Katherine is Proud Beauty, whereas our father always says I am quite the opposite – a tomboy in skirts.’

  Walter stretched out his hand and shook Caro’s, barely touching it before walking down the room, already caught up in the excitement of creation.

  ‘I was talking to Miss Garland a little earlier about how and where I would like to start, and it seemed to me that the ideal place would be here.’ He pointed towards the large empty part of the wall. ‘I made sketches last time I was down, and took measurements, but you were all on holiday. Now I have met your sister and your twin brothers, I think I must place them hereabouts, against the backdrop of the house, the water, and the garden. And I would certainly like to paint Proud Beauty in that blue dress she is wearing tonight, with the great silver wings – a bird of p
aradise indeed.’

  He looked at Caro, who was now standing by his side, staring up at the blank wall and frowning as she tried to imagine what he had in mind.

  ‘You’re already quite famous, aren’t you?’ she asked factually, still studying the wall, her head on one side. ‘I know I saw something about you in the Tatler about six months ago.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’

  He glanced at her briefly and without interest; indeed, his look was so vague that Caro immediately felt piqued.

  ‘Yes, I did, I saw something about you in the Tatler.’

  ‘Really?’

  He was still staring at the wall, not really listening to her, but starting to walk up and down the room, treading on the dustsheets that someone had had the foresight to put down already.

  ‘Yes, I saw all about you in the Tatler,’ Caro continued, raising her voice slightly. ‘I particularly liked the pale turquoises you used for the mural for Bryan McMahon’s house in Chelsea. They were very subtle, and not a little mystical, and combined with the unicorns, and so on, it was, I thought, all very Ancient World in feeling.’

  If Mr Painter had known Caro at all he might have been alerted by her look of thoroughgoing innocence, but as it was he did not, so he walked straight into the trap.

  ‘A young woman like you should be reading something better than the Tatler,’ he joked absently, his back to her, as he once more went to work on preparing the surface in front of him.

  ‘Really? Well just as well, for your sake, that I don’t read something better, Mr Painter person,’ Caro retorted sharply.

  It must have been the tone of voice that she used, because at last he turned to look down at her instead of at the wall.

  ‘For my sake? Just as well, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, just as well.’

  ‘Because … ?’

  ‘Because it was me who pointed the piece out to Papa, which was why he asked you to Chevrons. Papa only reads accounts, and books on fishing and birds, which are actually his hobby, you see.’

  Walter went to reply, and then shook his head and laughed instead, pulling at his forelock as he did so.

  ‘In that case, thank you very much, Miss Garland. Now I know that it’s you I have to thank for the commission, I shall have to show more respect for you, won’t I?’

  Caro crossed her arms, staring at him with a determined look in her eyes.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes, Mr Painter.’

  ‘And so will it be you then, Miss Garland, from whom I have to take orders?’ Walter asked, adopting a rural accent.

  ‘Not orders, no,’ Caro retorted. ‘But you will have to accept my help.’

  He frowned. ‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’

  ‘I’ll hand up your paints to you, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, you will, will you?’

  ‘Yes, because you’re going to need someone to do that, I should have thought.’ She pointed to the height of the wall. ‘Not only that, but you will need some stepladders, which I will get Betty to bring in for you, now I come to think of it. We can trust Betty.’ Before Walter could reply Caro went to the chimneypiece, and tugged at a brass bell pull. ‘Betty is the best person to ask things from – either her or Trixie,’ she went on factually. ‘I am marking your card, you see, because at Chevrons, although we are not grand like some of the houses around here, nevertheless there is a way of going on. The servants, you see, they rule us, and we have to let them, otherwise we would all be living in one room, with Mamma doing the cooking, which would mean bread and gruel, Papa says.’ As Walter stared at her, she went on, ‘If, for instance, you should ask Mrs Grant for some stepladders, which if you’re doing a mural, you will surely need, I know that she would make quite sure to give you her very wobbly pair, because she will be hoping that you will immediately plunge to your death, or at the very least sustain terrible injuries, and so be forced to return to London to be put in plaster and bandages, never to return.’ As Walter stared at her, she added gleefully, ‘Mrs Grant doesn’t like painters, or anyone else, as a matter of fact. She only really likes people plunging to their death off cliffs, or ladders, as I just said. That’s all she reads out to Betty and Trixie – and me, of course – at tea-time: bits in the papers about murder and suicide and that sort of thing. Just now she is very cross with me for getting Papa to ask you down, because she knows you will be here for ever and ever, and that means that she will have to have either Trixie or Betty bring you trays of sandwiches, and cups of coffee. To her, you see, you’re not a gifted painter, but just another mouth to feed, just someone making a horrid mess on the Long Room wall.’ She produced a key from her skirt pocket with a flourish. ‘I should lock the Long Room door at night too, if I was you, Mr Painter, or you might find that she has done a bit of her own decorating on your mural painting, with a pail of whitewash!’

  Walter didn’t laugh. He stared first at the key and then at Caro.

  ‘Is the housekeeper really like that?’

  ‘Do cats eat mice? Is Hitler beastly? Will there be a war? Life is more than a little interesting at Chevrons, Mr Beresford, and the sooner you find out, the better. Now I’ll go and get some safe stepladders for you to climb, not wobbly or broken. I will get Smith’s ladders; they are the only ones to be trusted.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Walter stared after Caro, frowning, half wanting to turn on his heel and leave Chevrons, which now struck him as going to be a great deal of trouble, what with housekeepers waiting in the wings with buckets of whitewash to wipe out his work, and daughters who couldn’t wait to put him in his place.

  The real reason that he stayed on at Chevrons was, however, more powerful than any risks hinted at by Caro Garland. The reason he was staying was because he could not wait to paint the beautiful Miss Katherine Garland, of the haughty manner, the dark hair and the stunning figure, with whom, along with the rest of the world it seemed, he had fallen in love at first sight.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Katherine!’

  ‘Yes, Daddy?’ Katherine was at pains to look at her most innocent.

  ‘Come into my study at once.’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  Katherine followed her revered father into his large, book-lined study.

  Anthony Garland went behind his desk and sat down. He did not invite Katherine to sit down, he merely leaned back in his chair and stared at her, his face – not unlike that of his elder daughter – looking pensive.

  ‘You’ve been at it again, Katherine, and I have to be honest with you, I will not, I repeat, will not tolerate such behaviour.’

  ‘No, Daddy.’

  Katherine looked through her father, thinking only of what David had said to her as dawn broke that morning while Anthony wondered why she was the only one of his children to address him and Meriel as ‘Daddy and Mummy’. Not that he minded, not that Meriel minded, but he knew that these subtle differences in his elder daughter meant that she was being influenced by someone outside the family. Doubtless the Astley man addressed his parents in such a manner.

  ‘What is it that I will not tolerate, Katherine?’

  Katherine hesitated. She had not returned from the ball until well into the small hours, having been enjoying herself far too much with David and his friends, plus she could not bear to miss out on the midnight supper of kedgeree and ham, of smoked salmon and delicious pies of every kind. The food at Haddington was always utterly, but utterly delicious, most especially compared to Chevrons’ fare, which was plain to the point of being extraordinarily dull.

  ‘You won’t tolerate my bad behaviour?’ Katherine volunteered, determined not to give herself away unless, and until, it was absolutely necessary.

  ‘Can you imagine what would happen if this got out, Katherine?’

  ‘No, Papa, I can’t,’ Katherine said, in an attempt to flatter him.

  Anthony felt a small sense of relief at not being addressed in the modern manner, while Katherine found herself thin
king hard. Who could have seen her returning as the dawn sky broke into what had seemed like a thousand pieces of pink and grey and white and blue? ‘A piece of broken china of a dawn’, David had called it. It could only have been that wretched Mrs Grant, whose cottage she had passed on her way to climbing in at the pantry window at half past five in the morning, which was all too probably about the time the housekeeper started to busy herself cooking ahead for her own family.

  ‘You have got to control these unholy activities of yours, Katherine.’

  Katherine frowned. She was not quite sure that ‘unholy activities’ would be a fair way to describe a late return from a ball. However, perhaps her father was becoming puritanical now that another war seemed to be looming so large.

  ‘I can be sympathetic about anything, really almost anything,’ Anthony continued, ‘except the feeding of fox cubs. Can you imagine what would happen if any of our neighbours got to hear of it?’

  Katherine went to say something but realising that if she did she would probably give way to giggles, she merely lowered her eyes and stared at the Persian rug on which she was standing.

  ‘Papa?’ she asked, once again returning to her childhood habit of address, having exercised huge control over her desire to collapse with laughter. ‘Papa?’

  ‘Yes, Katherine?’

  ‘Do you think –’ she pointed down at the carpet – ‘this is why people are always described as being “carpeted”, Papa?’

  Her father frowned, momentarily distracted, as indeed he was meant to be.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think it was because one is always standing on a rug or a piece of carpet in front of someone’s desk? Do you think that is why one is described as being “carpeted”?’

  Her father frowned, then quickly stood up, waylaid, distracted but also immediately fascinated, as his daughter knew he would be, by such a question. He darted towards his bookshelves and, taking down a huge volume, started to thumb through it.