“Benjamin.”
“Actually his full name is Bentley,” I said. “He was named after a rich relative’s car. His mother is quite open in saying she hoped the gesture might result in a little something showing up in the will. But that didn’t happen. And it didn’t matter because we were extraordinarily blessed in inheriting this house from Uncle Merlin.”
“Who?”
“Another relative on Mummy’s side.”
“Ah!”
“Daddy”—I rescued his brandy glass before it toppled in his lap— “you do remember Mummy, don’t you?”
He roused himself to blink at me. “Of course. A wonderful woman, the salt of the earth, with the most extraordinary flaxen hair.”
“It was auburn.”
“So it was. Ah, memories, what anguished delight they render! But it does no good to lament. Time marches blindly on, and I must make use of the present moment.” He wearily roused himself to a more upright position. “The time has come for me to introduce you to Harriet.”
“Who?” Now I was the one saying it as Ben poured himself a second brandy.
“She who is the exquisite torment of my every waking moment.”
“Daddy, for goodness’ sake, stop talking as if you have a part in the upcoming vicarage play.” I was only prevented from shaking him by the fact that my hands were already fully occupied with their own tremors. “Who is Harriet? And where is she?” I hurried to peer out the window, uselessly, as it happened, because it was now quite dark. “Did you leave her sitting in the car?”
“She is my suitcase out in the hall, Giselle.” My father’s face illuminated like a sun glimpsed after a long, hard winter as he rose an inch at a time to his feet. “And perhaps dear Vauxhall would be so kind as to pour me another drink while I go and fetch her.”
“A funny bloke, your father,” said Ben.
Chapter 3
“Daddy an ax murderer! Whatever will the neighbors say?” I whimpered in Ben’s general direction. My knees buckled, and I had to grab hold of the knob to prevent myself from sliding down the door, which my father had closed on exiting the room as if eager to hail the first passing tumbrel. “I’ve seen those movies, you know, where a mild-mannered fiend of a man chops up the body of some unfortunate woman in the cellar of a seedy boarding-house and packs her up in a trunk.”
“Which he then sensibly abandons at a London railway station.”
“No wonder it was such a large suitcase.”
“Your father lives on the move, Ellie. Here, sweetheart.” Ben’s voice came at me from all sides. “Have another brandy to steady your nerves.”
“I never had a first.”
“Making this one all the more vital.”
“What we have to remember is that Daddy is new to this sort of thing.” I sipped at the glass he was holding to my lips, my mood almost as prayerful as if I had been taking communion at St. Anselm’s on a lovely, untroubled Sunday morning. “At least,” I said, crossing the room to fling myself down on a chair and kick out at a hassock with my feet, “we have to hope that poor Harriet is the first.”
“Ellie, you’re letting your imagination run riot.”
“You’d rather I sat here knitting?”
“Not really.” Ben’s shudder could be felt from across the room. “That sweater you made me was wonderful. I could take my own blood pressure by putting on one of the sleeves. But I’d rather you stuck to doing things you really enjoy.”
“Such as daydreaming about how I will redecorate Sir Casper and Lady Grizwolde’s ancestral home? Forget it. That plum job is over before it began. When word gets out about Harriet, I’ll never again be allowed to set foot on the hallowed grounds where an Ethelwortian monastery once stood.”
“Ellie, surely you don’t believe any of this nonsense you’re talking.”
“Well,” I hedged, “perhaps it is going a bit far to think Daddy chopped her up and put her in that suitcase. He could never take the top off his egg without help.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Harriet is probably still in one piece under presents for the children.”
“Sweetheart!”
“Chloroformed before he put the lid down and turned the key in the lock. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I protested without looking around at him. “I know there can’t possibly be a body in there. But who or what is Harriet?”
“Perhaps she’s a photograph.”
“Of a woman other than my mother?”
“Or of your father’s pet budgerigar.”
“Daddy was never a great animal lover, but then again, look how he’s changed in other ways!” My heart leaped along with the rest of me, and I found myself standing up and heading for the door. “Of course! Harriet must be a pet. Wrenched away from her beloved master by the quarantine laws. Perhaps she’s a cat or a sweet little dog. The important thing is that darling Daddy is out in that lonely hall, probably breaking his heart right now. We should have followed him.”
“He asked us not to, but—never mind. Here he is now.” Ben gave my shoulder a squeeze as once more my father’s corpulence reduced the room in length and breadth. He bore himself heroically erect, but his fleshy cheeks drooped, and he clutched a canvas carrier bag to his chest with trembling hands.
“Thank you, my dears”—his full lips flattened into a melancholy smile— “for allowing me to perform the reverent task of opening my suitcase in benevolent solitude. Although it need hardly be said, I am never completely alone. She who is no longer at my side in earthly form does nonetheless hover ever near. A sanguine presence, more real than the stars or moon now lighting up the sky, more soothing to my troubled breast than—”
“Yes, Daddy.” I guided him over to the sofa and then watched Ben help him sit down. Both he and the springs murmured an acknowledgment. “You must tell us what’s happened and let us help you.”
“Bless you, Giselle.” He freed a hand from the carrier bag and wiped a dollop of tear from the corner of one eye. “You were ever a rare daughter. I spoke of you often, certainly more than once, to my Harriet.”
“Do you have a photo for us to see, Morley?” Ben spoke with painstaking eagerness, very much as if he had been appealing to Abbey or Tam for a glimpse of their latest artwork from nursery school. But my father did not delve instantly into the bag. Indeed, his eyes filled with more tears, which proceeded to roll unchecked down his voluminous cheeks.
“Alas,” he managed, choking on a sob, “the only likeness I have of my exquisite angel is the one I carry in my broken heart.”
“Then what is it you want to show us?” I was growing just a little impatient.
“Who else but my Harriet?”
“In the flesh?” I plummeted onto the chaise longue. “All of her? Or just the odd finger or thumb?” I looked wildly around at Ben. There was no misreading his expression. It was equally clear to him that my father was urgently in need of professional help. Unfortunately, a highly accredited psychiatrist did not magically appear on the spot to spell out an unpronounceable diagnosis, although for a moment, when I saw one of the mullioned windows inch open, I thought we might be lucky.
Unfortunately I immediately recognized the long leg and disreputable boot as belonging to my cousin Freddy. A moment later, the rest of him, scraggy beard, ponytail, and skull-and-crossbones earring emerged over the sill. Tucked under one arm, looking mightily miffed, was our cat Tobias.
“This house is a burglar’s paradise; that window wasn’t even latched,” Freddy announced with his usual misplaced cheer. “I just returned from rehearsal and was sniffing around outside in hopes of inhaling a reviving breath of roast lamb and mint sauce, or at least a Welsh rabbit that had just been popped under the grill, when I spotted poor Tobias sitting forlornly under the lilac bush. Then a horrid thought occurred to me. Had you two starry-eyed lovebirds bunked off tonight instead of waiting for the morning? Didn’t I merit a kiss good-bye? But that’s me and my soppy insecurities! Since you’re still here, I’ll t
ake you up on that unspoken offer of dinner, unless you were really serious about wanting to be alone once the children left. Afterwards, while Ben is doing the washing up, I could run through my lines for the play, Ellie.”
It was Tobias leaping out of his arms that caused Freddy’s head to jerk sideways so that he finally noticed my father sitting on the sofa.
“So this is what you get up to behind my back,” he lamented.
“Luckily playing Reginald in the play has improved my ego no end or I would be sobbing into my hanky at finding out you’ve got company for the evening and I wasn’t included in the invite.”
“Oh, stuff a sock in it!” My irritation was compounded by having to catch Tobias in mid-flight before he could land claws first in my lap. “Surely you remember my father.”
“Which one?” No one could act daft better than Freddy.
“My one and only father.”
“Well, if this isn’t a right turn up for the book.” He peered uncertainly at Daddy, who fortunately sat as if frozen in place by the click of a remote-control button. “I thought you were off riding camels in the Sahara or punting down the Nile. You were always something of a hero to me, ever since my father told me he hoped I wouldn’t grow up to be a ne’er-do-well like Morley. Really quite the mythic figure.” Tiptoeing over to me like a giant daddy longlegs, he lowered his voice to a conscientious whisper: “Wasn’t he thinner when we knew him of yore?”
“Here’s your drink.” Ben pressed a glass into his hand.
“Thanks, mate.”
“Freddy isn’t staying,” I said frigidly. “He’s just remembered he has to rush home and starch his underwear.”
“That’s a daughter in a million you’ve got.” My thick-skinned cousin approached the sofa and beamed a smile at Daddy’s blank stare. “Good to see you again, Morley. Here’s to many chummy times together,” he said, raising his glass.
“And you are?”
“Mummy’s sister Lulu’s son,” I said. “He was an experiment, and she didn’t have any more.”
“It’s because Ellie and I are both only children that we are so devoted to each other.” My cousin did his best to look and sound soulful.
And it was true. We were very close despite the fact that he daily drove me up the wall. There was very little Freddy wouldn’t have done for me or I for him, but even so, did I really want him to stay while my father continued to unburden himself? Or—and I wasn’t sure which was worse—clammed up on the subject of Harriet? But it became clear I wasn’t in charge of this family reunion.
“Stay put, my boy; don’t dream of running off.” Daddy was emerging from his trance. “Alas, given my melancholy state of mind, I cannot say the more the merrier. But I do find that congenial company enables me to face the impenetrable void with a semblance of courage. Before your arrival I was bracing myself to enlighten Giselle and ... her charming husband on the tragic circumstances that necessitated my return to England.”
“Did he always talk like that?” Freddy stage-whispered to me.
“Daddy,” I said, “weren’t you going to make a special introduction?”
“One that fills my heart to overflowing with prideful sorrow.” My father bowed his head before reaching reverently into the canvas bag and placing an object on the coffee table. “My beloved Harriet, meet your new family!”
There was a moment of profound silence.
“It’s a clay pot,” Freddy helpfully informed the room at large.
“A very handsome one.” Ben stood nodding over by the fireplace.
It was a rather ugly-shaped pot with a lid.
“It is not a pot.” My father fingered it tenderly. “It is an urn.”
“Oh, one of those!” Freddy cocked an artistically knowledgeable eyebrow.
“And it contains?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“The mortal remains of the love of my life.”
“Is that what she was?” I stood up but sat back down again. It wouldn’t do to give into a childish urge to hurl the urn at my father’s head. Even if it didn’t break, the contents would spill everywhere, and Mrs. Malloy would complain about the dust when she came tomorrow. Far better to behave like a grown-up and count my blessings. The situation might be morbid, but there was nothing sinister about it. No murder. Probably not even a customs violation. For I was sure Daddy had made the appropriate declaration. If for no other reason than he would have found it impossible not to break down when asked if he had packed the trunk himself and could attest to its whereabouts since that time.
Regaining my voice, I continued: “I do hope poor Harriet didn’t die a lingering, agonizing death of some rare tropical disease that they will find a cure for next week.” I avoided Ben’s eyes as I spoke but could feel his look.
“Harriet and I didn’t meet in the tropics.” Daddy folded up the canvas bag as if it were the Union Jack and laid it beside him on the sofa. “She entered my life on a glorious evening in September. But, alas, I little guessed how soon she would be taken from me.”
Chapter 4
Settling his bulk into the sofa, my father began his story.
“On the very day I arrived in Schonbrunn, a small town in southern Germany, I was seated at a table for two in a biergarten recommended by my landlady, Frau Grundman. It was a Student Prince type of establishment, with flourishing window boxes and an old dog soaking up the sunset in the doorway. A man who looked as though he might be a goatherd by day was playing the accordion with all the usual zest of the breed. The rosy-cheeked waitress with the plait down her back had just set a foaming stein of the wheat-based Edingerbier at my elbow when in she walked.
“Oh, most heavenly creature! All heads turned. All eyes, including mine, watched her cross the cobblestones and wend her way between the rustic tables. She wore a soft, flowing dress of violet blue. It exquisitely denned her womanly figure and was the perfect foil for her platinum-blond hair. Just as she was about to glide past me, I found myself upon my feet. For the first time in my life I wished I spoke two words of German.
“ ‘Sprechen sie English?’ My voice drowned out the accordion. Or it may be that the chap had taken a well-earned beer break. All I knew was that I was lost in the glow of her brown eyes.
“ ‘Thank God!’ Her laugh was deliciously warm and throaty. ‘A voice from bloody home. It’s my birthday, and just like a stupid kid, I’ve been pining all day for everything that had me fed up to the gills when I left the U.K. On holiday, are you? Or did you come over for the international yodeling convention?’ As she spoke, she sidled onto the chair across from me and laid her white handbag on the table. ‘Is there a wife about?’ She smiled impishly. ‘Calm down; I promise to beat a quick retreat into traffic if she comes surging out of the loo with fire in her eyes and a toilet brush in her hands.’
“ ‘Regrettably, I am a widower,’ I heard myself telling her.
“ ‘Oh, one of those poor souls.’ Her expression changed from merriment to tender melancholy. ‘How brave of you to come abroad in your bereaved state.’
“ ‘She ... my wife has been gone a good many years.’
“ ‘Then you’re over the worst, I suppose. A man as handsome as yourself will have women throwing themselves at you from all angles even in Schonbrunn.’
“ ‘Indeed, no. I lead a solitary existence.’
“ ‘Not tonight you don’t.’ She tapped the table with a playful hand. Tonight you get to buy me a birthday beer. So sit yourself down, Mr.... ?’
“ ‘Simons.’ I lowered myself gingerly onto my chair, which seemed to want to go one way as I went the other.
“ ‘I’m Mrs. Brown. But let’s forget about being stiff and starchy and plunge right in. I’m Harriet. Sounds like a Victorian nursemaid, doesn’t it?’ Laughing and shrugging her violet-blue shoulders, she reached for my beer.
“ ‘Harriet!’ The very sound of it flooded my soul with music. ‘No other name would do you equal justice.’
“ ‘Aren’t yo
u nice!’ Her eyes did not leave my face as she lifted a hand and flicked one finger, bringing the rosy-cheeked waitress over in a hurry to receive the order for another Edingerbier. ‘But you don’t seem eager to spill the beans. Surely it can’t be that bad. Let me guess?’ She tilted her platinum-blond head to one side and fixed me with a mischievous smile. ‘Horatio? Alginon? Rupert?’
“ ‘Morley.’
“ ‘Ideal.’
“ “You don’t think it’s just a little stuffy?’
“ ‘Not in the least. Distinguished, of course, but with playful overtones.’ Harriet laid her hand on mine.
“ ‘How kind.’ I cleared my throat and shifted in my chair. A soft breeze rustled the plum trees against the garden wall. The air was heady with the scent of oleander, and the moon hove into view as if bowled along by an unseen hand.
“ ‘I sense that you’re a romantic, Morley.’
“ ‘Do you?’ I stammered.
“ ‘Oh, yes!’ Her laugh was as light and frothy as the foam spilling down the sides of the stein that the waitress set on the table. ‘I’m very good at reading people, Morley. It’s one of my remarkable talents. But for now let’s talk about you and what I sense has been an extraordinarily fascinating life.’
“ ‘I have traveled a good bit,’ I told her.
‘ Tell me!’ She leaned forward to wrap my hands around the frosty stein. Her perfume was sultry and exotic, like hot sun on wild red flowers blooming triumphantly in a desert oasis. I found myself telling her about my travels in the Sahara. My meeting with Sheik Abu el-Pukabbi and how only the most privileged of his wives were allowed to use the oil from those red flowers to concoct ... certain lotions for nighttime use. Then I spoke of my days in the Australian bush, my sojourn in the Amazon, my trek through Nepal, and how I had idled away a summer in Hawaii.
“ ‘My sort of man! Indomitable and carefree.’ Harriet was starting a second beer and dabbed at the foam mustache she had grown that in no way diminished her charms.
“ ‘After my wife’s death there was nothing to tie me to the flat in St. John’s Wood.’
The Trouble with Harriet Page 3