Letter To My Love

by Elizabeth Cadell

  He had got into the car, and Claire saw his hands tighten on the wheel.

  “All the rooms?”

  “Not Lotty’s; that was too much to undertake. Mine and yours and Richard’s. I’ve made Richard’s room into a guest room and that’s where I’m putting Claire. I’ve moved into your old room and I’ve put Richard into my old one. He won’t like it, but for the amount of time he spends here, it won’t make much difference. You’re in your mother’s room; I thought you’d rather.”

  It was clear to Claire that he would rather, far rather not—but Mrs. Peel had closed the front door and was directing her towards the stairs, snatching up her suitcase as she went.

  “Oh no! Give that to me, please!” protested Claire, and was waved on by a huge, authoritative hand.

  “Up with you! Do you think a small case like this worries me? If I waited”—she was beginning to pant—“for somebody to come and pick up things for me, I’d wait a very . . . long . . . time. Ah!” She stopped on the landing and gave a long sigh of relief. “Too . . . fat,” she gasped, and drew a long breath. “That’s it; got my wind. Third door on the right.”

  They walked up a long corridor carpeted in an unattractive shade of purple; Mrs. Peel opened a door and they went inside.

  “There we are.” She dropped the suitcase with a thump. “I asked Pierre to light the boiler; the house had got cold.”

  Claire thought it almost as cold as it had been on her previous visit, but she made no comment.

  “Not much view,” said Mrs. Peel. “You live by the sea, don’t you?”

  “Practically on.”

  “Then you’ll probably feel a bit shut-in here. I did when I first came, but I got used to it. I always think the value of a view is a bit exaggerated; it’s all very well if you’ve time to sit down and admire it, but the only time I go to the windows is when I’m shaking rugs. Now”—she looked searchingly round the room—“have I forgotten anything? Yes, flowers. I meant to have a nice little floral welcome for you in here, but my mind doesn’t run to fancy touches; I’m strictly brass tacks. Breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, shopping and taking care of the house; not much time for little flower arrangements.”

  “You don’t surely” — Claire turned to look at her in surprise — “run the house alone?”

  “I don’t do the actual chores like dusting and sweeping and washing-up; I’ve got a sort of rota of women who come in and do all that. I cook—and organize. I’m so glad you’ve come down at last. Our last meeting was hardly a social occasion, and I’ve been longing to have another look at you. But I knew I wouldn’t get it for some time.”

  “How did you know?” Claire asked.

  Mrs. Peel raised shaggy, surprised eyebrows.

  “How? My dear, I’ve known Grant since he was born. On and off until he was five, and since then more or less non-stop. I know him better than his mother ever did. After her funeral, he fled the house—surely you saw?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “—you hoped he’d get over it, and come back? Well, Grant needs more adjustment time than most people. Things go deep, and he doesn’t always know where they’ve gone, so you have to wait until he finds out. His mother’s Will shocked him, and he had to have time to get over it. I didn’t mind waiting—why should I? While he was debating, I still had a home and so did Lotty. But it was hard on you. Did you,” she asked, “put off your wedding, or did Grant?”

  “It wasn’t a case of putting it off. It was never really on. We didn’t make any definite date; it was just understood that it would be in or around March. After Mrs. Tennant died, there wasn’t very much said about dates; Grant didn’t seem to want to—”

  “— go into it? You needn’t tell me; I know him too well. And wasn’t I there, in that room, when that Will was read out? If she could have seen his face then, she would have been sorry, because she loved him. But all her life she did just that: acted without a thought of whether, in getting her own back on somebody she was angry with, she was going to hurt someone who hadn’t done her any harm. She always had a terrible temper, all her life; she just lashed out, but sometimes she didn’t hit the offending party.”

  Claire, seated on the bed, spoke in surprise.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said, “that you’d known Grant’s mother for so long.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “He isn’t much good at painting word pictures, is he? I think he thinks, very often, that he’s given out a whole spate of information when he hasn’t in fact opened his mouth. He—” She paused. “That was the front door. Will you go down to the drawing-room when you’re ready? I want to take Grant to his mother’s room; it’ll be hard for him the first time.”

  She hurried out, and Claire unpacked her suitcase and made her way downstairs. In the drawing-room, she stood looking round her at a confusion of furniture, hangings, small statues, large ferns, ornaments, pictures, chairs upholstered in a tight, uncomfortable-looking, bulge-and-button manner, photographs and decorated screens, and reminded herself that taste was very often a mere matter of fashion. This clutter was the Victorian matron’s dream of perfection; what was more, many of the hideous objects she was now looking at, having been swept into junk shops, were now being eagerly sought and brought back as collectors’ pieces. The only mystery was how the women of that period, with their long, sweeping skirts, could have made their way through these rooms without knocking over the countless hazards that stood in their path.

  “I suppose,” said Mrs. Peel, coming in, “you think this is all very over-full and ugly. Don’t forget that this craze for big, bare spaces is just as extreme. Personally, I prefer this kind of thing because you can see what you’ve got, by which I mean that you can see what you’re worth. Ugly, maybe, but solid. What I don’t understand is why—disliking it inside and outside as you do—you didn’t talk Grant into selling it. Or perhaps you tried, and he wouldn’t.”

  “I had an idea—a silly idea, I’m beginning to think—that I ought to wait for him to make up his own mind.”

  “And if he’d decided to live here, you’d have come?”

  “This sounds crazy,” Claire said slowly, “but I’d honestly never got as far as thinking of myself here. You see, the thing became a ... a fixation.”

  Mrs. Peel sat on an inadequate-looking chair and turned her good-humoured face up to Claire’s.

  “You mean that you waited and waited, and Grant never said a word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to live here?”

  There was a second’s pause.

  “No,” Claire said. “I don’t. I think the house is ugly, outside as well as in; I could make changes inside it, but I could never alter that barrack look. When I first saw the place, I thought it looked like a … like an institution.”

  “So did I, but I’ve spent twenty-seven reasonably happy years here.”

  “How long did you know Grant’s mother?”

  “I was at school with her. I—this life history is no doubt fascinating, but it can wait till after tea.”

  Claire sat on the sofa.

  “It isn’t-tea-time. Go on.”

  “As you like. Well, we were at school together, and I don’t know why I liked her. She wasn’t popular; in fact I seemed to be the only girl who could stomach her. But like her I did, right to the end. She had a cruel tongue, but I’m well-cushioned; hard words bounce right off me. Perhaps one reason I was fond of her was because any treats I ever got in my life, came through her. My parents were badly off; my first glimpse of the life of the rich came when I spent school holidays in this house. I’d never seen anybody spending money before—spending, as opposed to having to squeeze it out for essentials like food and clothing. I used to come here year after year—whenever I was asked, in fact. Later on, I married, and saw another kind of spending—my husband spent all we had in the bank, and then went on spending from sheer habit. When he died, I was thirty-eight years of
age and had no profession and nothing to live on. Grant’s mother offered me a job, and I took it. She wanted me to be a companion, but I said no, I’d take on the house and run it for her. I didn’t think it would be an easy job, and it wasn’t, but I’m good at keeping essentials in mind; it gave me shelter and good food, and my own way in my own department. I was useful—I took on the job just about the time when servants discovered that they had rights, and were beginning to demand them. She didn’t believe in rights, and so you see in me the sole survivor of a large residential staff. I became more useful than either of us had anticipated. She said if I stayed with her for her lifetime, she’d leave me a comfortable income. We were about the same age, but she had an idea her heart was weak. Well, that’s what she promised, and maybe that’s what I would have got, if it hadn’t been for that letter, whatever it was.”

  Claire stared at her.

  “Letter?”

  “Didn’t Grant mention it to you?”

  “No. He wouldn’t talk about his mother at all. If he did, it was only to say that she must have gone out of her mind that last day. He certainly didn’t mention a letter.”

  “Well, he’ll tell you about it; he’s on his way downstairs.” Mrs. Peel got up and went to the door. “You’ll hear a bell ringing soon—will you go to the dining-room? I’ve put tea in there; it saves trundling all the things all the way to the drawing-room.”

  She went out, Grant having to retreat in order to allow her the full width of the door. He came in and stood looking round him, and Claire waited for him to speak.

  “I’ve never thought of it as ugly before,” he said slowly, “but of course it is. But when you’ve known something all your life—isn’t there a phrase about the mellowing effect of old associations?”

  “I never had any old associations,” Claire pointed out. “Every two or three years, our house was more or less renewed. If my father had ever had a profession, I suppose it would have been interior decorating. He directed it all from his arm-chair.”

  “Mrs. Peel seems to have made a complete change-over upstairs,” Grant said. “Richard won’t like being turned out of his room. What’s she been talking to you about?”

  “She mentioned a letter,” Claire said, and at once regretted the words. At the sight of Grant’s change of expression, she went swiftly forward and put her arms round him.

  “Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about the Will.”

  He held her tightly; his clasp, as always, seemed to her not that of a lover, but of someone seeking strength and reassurance.

  “Let’s forget it, Claire.”

  “Anything you want to do,” she said, “will be all right.”

  “Even if”—he hesitated—“even if I decide not to keep the house?”

  “I don’t mind what you do just so long as you do it for the right reasons, Grant. I don’t like the house, but I’d rather live in it than watch you giving it up just because you can’t bring yourself to turn Mrs. Peel and Lotty out of it. If you love it and if you want it, you ought to claim it—without waiting for any assistance from Richard.”

  The sound of the bell made it unnecessary for him to reply; they went into the dining-room, to find an ample tea laid at one end of the vast table.

  “Richard,” Mrs. Peel said, as they entered the room, “is going to be later than he expected.”

  “Did he ring up himself?” Grant asked. “I would have liked to—”

  “The car firm gave the message. Bit of delay about the papers, they said—but with Richard, you never know. He might have found a girl who wanted to go to a nightclub.”

  Busy at the head of the table with teapot and kettle, she had spoken without thought, and in her tone Claire heard strong dislike, and saw Grant frown. She broke the pause that followed by explaining to Mrs. Peel that after the picnic provided by her aunts, it was impossible for Grant or herself to attempt to eat anything more.

  “I got it ready in case Lotty brought Ronnie Pierce over,” Mrs. Peel explained. “He eats like one of his own horses.”

  “Who’s Ronnie?” Claire asked.

  “Grant!” Mrs. Peel’s voice was high with surprise. “Do you mean to say Claire doesn’t even know that? Good heavens, haven’t you told her anything about us all?”

  There was expostulation, exasperation in the words, but nothing could disguise the underlying affection. She had spoken frankly of his failings, but it was clear that she regarded them with maternal indulgence. This love for Grant, Claire realized, did much to explain her patience with his mother and her long years of service in this house.

  “Ronnie,” she was explaining, “is Ronnie Pierce, who’s thirty-four or five, very rich, single, and madly in love with Lotty. That’s who Ronnie is. His farm’s worth seeing: all white paint and immaculate. Not a speck on anything—not even the hens. What’s called a model farm. Ronnie’s what they call a gentleman farmer. I don’t know how much other gentlemen farmers know about their business, but all Ronnie knows is that a cow’s got a tail at one end. I didn’t wait tea for them because I wouldn’t dream of keeping a meal back for anybody as unpredictable as Lotty. Claire, you musn’t expect much of a dinner tonight. I cook plain, not fancy.”

  “I could help,” Claire offered.

  “No, thank you. I don’t like people round me when I’m working. You can help me out with the tea things, but there’s no washing-up; the women see to all that. I’ll take you round the house, if you like—unless you’d rather take her, Grant.”

  “I’d like to go out and see Pierre,” Grant said.

  When he had gone into the garden, Claire looked across at Mrs. Peel.

  “You sounded just now,” she said, “as if you disliked Richard. Do you?”

  “I didn’t know it actually sounded—but no, I don’t like him. Or perhaps I’ve never stopped to worry about like or dislike; all I know is that I’m happier when he isn’t here. He’s a trouble maker. He won’t leave well alone. He drags out things that would be better undragged, long-buried bones, and rattles them at you. He says he likes to let in the light, and I could never make him understand that some things can’t stand light. He says unforgivable things in a commonplace, how-d’you-do tone and changes the subject before you’ve had time to believe you really heard them. He gets you up to boiling point and then—flick—he turns off the gas and leaves you simmering.”

  “Grant likes him.”

  “Grant loves him. One reason for that, of course, is that Richard says a lot of the things that Grant would like to say himself, but can’t. Right from the beginning, those two got on; it was one of the things Grant’s mother could never bully him out of. She thought Richard’s influence was bad, but she could never make Grant see it. I don’t know what you’ll make of him.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got time to take you on a quick look round the house, if you’d like to come.”

  They wheeled the loaded wagon into the kitchen—a very large, bare, stone-floored room which was nevertheless, Claire noticed, warmer than any other part of the house. Mrs. Peel pointed to the source of the warmth—an old-fashioned range.

  “I couldn’t get the hang of it when I first came,” she said. “But now I wouldn’t be without it. Let’s go upstairs.”

  She led Claire up to a large room whose windows faced east and south—but the sun which might have brightened it was shut off by trees whose branches almost touched the house.

  “Grant didn’t like my putting him in here—as you saw. But there was no point in shutting it up. When people die, they die and one has to understand that they won’t comeback, however much one would like them to. Or not like them to. This room was her bedroom. In there was Grant’s father’s dressing-room; when he died, she turned it into a bathroom.” She looked round slowly. “My word! I’ve had many a bloodless battle in here. But she couldn’t frighten me, although she managed to frighten most other people.”

  “Did Lotty like her?”

  “Like, with Lotty, is a strong
word. Lotty was lucky; Mrs. Tennant took to her from the beginning. But in the end, Lotty got thrown out of the Will like everybody else.”

  “You mentioned a letter. Grant didn’t want to talk about it. What was it?”

  “It wasn’t anything that led us anywhere,” the other woman said regretfully. “Dead end. A pity, because I’d give a lot to know just what it was that went wrong with her that morning.”

  “You think that something did go wrong?”

  “I don’t mean that she went stark, staring mad—although that was my first conclusion, and the conclusion that most people are sticking to. If she did go crazy, it was during that last morning. She’d been all right the night before, and she was all right when I brought her breakfast into this room. She had breakfast about nine; she used to get up early, but she liked to make her own morning tea. I always went in sharp at nine with her breakfast tray and her letters. I used to take the letters out of the box in the hall and sort them, but I never had the time, even if I’d had the inclination, to get out a magnifying glass and look at all the postmarks. Now I wish that’s just what I’d done. I sorted them as usual that morning, just like dealing cards, and hers—five or six of them—went up on her tray. I saw her give a quick glance through the letters and I saw her frown, but that simply meant that young Paul hadn’t written his weekly bulletin; that could make or break her day. I reminded her that it was Monday, not Tuesday—meaning that Tuesday was the day his letters came. She…I suppose Grant told you how she doted on young Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “She thought the world of his father, Geoffrey Summerhill. Geoff was her godson, and he and Lotty lived here after they were married. Whenever they talked of going away, Mrs. Tennant got so upset that they agreed to stay. Geoff had a comfortable income apart from his salary, but I think he realized that staying meant a pretty bright future for young Paul. Never, never, never could anybody have made me believe that Mrs. Tennant would have left Lotty and Paul out of her Will. Never.”