The Granville Sisters

by Una-Mary Parker

  Henry put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I’ll draft some money into your personal account at Child’s Bank, first thing in the morning. As long as Charles doesn’t know about it.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.’ Rosie bit her lip, trying not to cry. She grabbed his arm as he turned to stroll back to the house. ‘Why did it all go so wrong, Daddy? Look at Juliet. Everything’s gone right for her, and yet she behaved so badly. And everything has gone so wrong for me. I feel trapped. Two children. No money. And a hopeless husband. I don’t even love him any more. I wonder now if I ever did …’

  ‘Life’s a lucky dip in some ways, sweetheart. You’ll find that eventually everything resolves itself, though.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can. I’m so tired, Daddy. All the time.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave Sophia and Jonathan with Nanny, and take yourself off for a few days? I’ll stand you a nice hotel, where you can enjoy a bit of luxury.’

  It was more than she could bear; his kindness, his sympathetic understanding. Tears streamed down her face.

  ‘I – I don’t want to leave the children,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t bear to be without them. They’re a-all I’ve got.’

  There was no point, Henry reflected, in discussing with Liza what should be done about Rosie. As long as there was no public loss of face, as long as everyone pretended Rosie and Charles were happy, Liza was unlikely to want to get involved, because she didn’t like to think about unpleasant things.

  Awestruck, Louise stood beside her cousin on the quayside, gazing up at the massive grey stone ramparts and battlements.

  ‘Is this where we’re staying, Aunt Candida?’

  ‘Good gracious, no,’ Candida boomed, standing, feet planted wide, surrounded by several suitcases. ‘This is St Malo. It’s a fortress town; we’ll go round it in a few days. Now, where’s a porter? We need to get this lot into a taxi.’

  Louise continued to gaze around her, entranced. There was hustle and bustle everywhere. Market women in stiff white lace Breton caps were selling fruit and vegetables, while fishermen pushed their catch on long narrow wheelbarrows. The smell of fish, garlic and French tobacco hung in the atmosphere like a tangible veil. Shrill voices drowned each other out. Droves of tourists, tottering down the gangplank of the Isle of Thanet, found themselves instantly immersed in a bygone medieval age.

  ‘Where are we staying, Mummy?’ Marina asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice. Tall, very thin and sallow-looking, and still recovering from her illness, she was already exhausted by the crossing.

  ‘Ah! Here we are. Come along, girls. At the double,’ Candida exclaimed robustly, as a porter heaved their luggage on to his cart. ‘Jolly good show,’ she told him. He stank of cognac and sweat. Un taxi-auto was found, and he tossed their cases on to the roof rack.

  Candida heaved herself in first, her wide girth in a pink dress reminding Louise of a squashy marshmallow. Marina and Louise squeezed in on either side of her.

  She shouted at the driver as if she feared he was deaf.

  ‘Rue des Ecoles, Paramé, s’il vous plait. L’Hotel Château Forêt.’

  Grinding the gears, he started the vehicle, which spluttered and shuddered its way out of the old fortified city, heading north.

  Suddenly Marina gave a piercing scream. ‘Look!’ she gasped.

  A train, with two carriages behind, came chugging along the middle of the road.

  Louise’s heart flipped with fear. It was heading straight for them. At that moment, the taxi swerved to the right, the train trundled past them, and they continued along the tree-lined boulevard, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Oh, my goodness …!’ gasped Marina, shaken. ‘I thought we were all going to be killed.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ retorted Candida. ‘Those trains run at regular intervals. They’re like our trams.’

  ‘Is it far?’ Louise asked. The sea was on their left now, and they could see a golden sandy beach.

  ‘I don’t think so. The reason I chose this hotel is because your grandfather recommended it to me, years ago. He said I should bring Marina and Sebastian here for a holiday. I gather the food is first-rate,’ Candida told them cheerfully.

  Ten minutes later they arrived on the outskirts of Paramé, a small seaside town where rows of shuttered houses, sleepy-eyed in the warm afternoon sun, stood slumbering in the shade of tall lime trees. They saw a sign saying Rue des Ecoles, and at that moment the taxi rattled to a halt, causing them to lurch forward in their seats.

  Candida looked puzzled. ‘We want L’Hotel Châ—’ she began and then she stopped. They could see the figure of an old man watering a dusty bed of geraniums in a neglected and derelict garden. Tired palm trees and a gravel path surrounded a patch of sun-bleached lawn. At the far end stood a villa with peeling paint and broken shutters. The place had the desolate air of having been abandoned several years ago.

  ‘Is this right?’ Louise asked, doubtfully.

  ‘Je vais à Château Forêt …’ Candida told the driver, as if it was all his fault.

  The driver spat out of the window on to the road, and pointed to a broken sign hanging at an angle on the ten-foot-high, rusting wrought-iron gate.

  ‘Mummy, it is the Château Forêt,’ Marina said, appalled.

  Candida swiftly recovered her poise. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected, but you can never tell a book by its cover,’ she remarked undaunted. ‘Never mind. Come along, girls. Chop-chop! If we want a swim before dinner, we’d better get on with it.’

  An aroma of linseed oil and onions hung over the vestibule, which was deserted. Candida, spying a brass bell on the desk, gave it a hearty thump with her fist.

  Marina looked pained. Louise got a fit of the giggles. This was much more fun than the occasional holiday she’d had with her parents, where they checked into very smart hotels with people bowing and scraping around them.

  At that moment, a short, rotund figure, encased in shining black cloth, emerged from the nether regions. She had grey hair and her only jewellery was a wide gold wedding ring which dug into her plump fingers.

  Candida stared at her, and the elderly woman stared back.

  ‘I know your face …’ Candida said uncertainly. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes, we have met, Madame.’ Her English was fluent. ‘You were with your father, Madame, walking down Pall Mall, in London. I used to know your father in the old days, and he very kindly invited me to join you for luncheon. Do you remember? We went to Wheeler’s.’

  For a moment Candida was taken aback by this torrent of information. ‘Goodness, you do have a good memory! It must have been …’

  ‘It was fifteen years ago, exactement, Madame.’

  ‘Was it really?’ Then Candida remembered. They’d met this woman in the street and she’d been so annoyed at her father inviting her to join them, when she’d been looking forward to having him to herself for a couple of hours. They’d been forced to keep the conversation general, of course, and then he’d had to rush back to Hartley, so they’d never had their lunch à deux, because he’d died not long afterwards.

  ‘Well, I never …! So this is your hotel?’ Candida said, forcing the remembered resentment to the back of her mind. ‘Forgive me, but can you tell me your name?’

  The rosy-faced woman smiled. How typically English Candida was; so like her late father. ‘I don’t think I told you my name in the first place,’ she said merrily. ‘I’m Margaux St Jean Brevelay.’

  ‘I suppose you met my father during the Great War; were you in England then?’

  There was a fractional pause before Margaux replied. ‘A little before the war,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, if you would like to register, Madame?’ She placed a form on the counter, and Candida noticed her hands were as rough and worn as a servant, with broken nails and reddened skin.

  Margaux saw her looking. ‘Voilà, Madame. I hope you will find the rooms to your satisfaction. You must ask for anything you
need.’ She began counting on her fingers. ‘I have a staff of ten. There are two scullery maids, a chambermaid, an odd-job man who also tends the garden –’ she rolled her eyes despairingly towards the moth-eaten lawn – ‘and I am the other six!’ she chortled, her vast bosom heaving, her arms gesticulating wildly. ‘Alors! I hope your stay will be happy.’

  ‘Fancy her knowing Grandpa,’ Louise remarked, when they’d been shown to their clean if shabby rooms on the first floor, with balconies overlooking the beach and the sea. Candida had been given a room with a double bed, and in the next room there were twin beds for the girls.

  Candida agreed. ‘That must be why he recommeded this place to me. It’s sad you and Marina never knew him.’

  Louise nodded. ‘I almost feel as if I knew him, because Granny often talks about him, and she has lots of photographs of him in her sitting room.’

  ‘Do you think Madame Brevelay really does most of the work here?’ Marina asked, bemused. ‘Or was she teasing?’

  ‘I don’t think she was teasing,’ Candida replied. ‘From the looks of this place she’s penniless, but it is nice and relaxing; better than some chichi modern hotel.’

  Louise thought of her mother, and nodded sagely. Mummy would have had a blue fit if she had to stay here, she reckoned, and that made it all the more fun.

  ‘Let’s grab our bathing things and go for a swim, while there’s still some heat in the sun,’ Candida suggested in a brisk manner, which Louise quite liked.

  Between the château and the beach there was a dusty coastal road, along which a few cyclists were pedalling lazily. A rusting Citroën shuddered past, honking its horn, going in the direction of St Malo.

  Crossing the road, they walked on to the beach, where the sand was so perfectly rippled it looked as if it had been done by a machine. The only sounds were the swishing of the ever-tumbling waves and the cries of the seagulls as they swooped fitfully above the water’s edge.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ said Candida. ‘Last one in the sea’s a ninny.’

  ‘You can’t be away for the twelfth!’ Cameron exclaimed hotly. ‘It’s the biggest day of the year at Glenmally. You’ve got to be here, Juliet.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve practically got the twelfth tattooed all over my body, to remind me of your bloody shoot?’ Juliet retorted angrily. ‘Only, this year things are going to be different. I let you and your mother organize it all last time, while I found my feet. But I do happen to be your wife, and this does happen to be my house, not your mother’s, and in future things are going to be done my way.’

  Cameron looked at her nervously. This was a new Juliet, and he wasn’t sure how to cope with her.

  ‘But Mother has always made all the arrangements,’ he said fretfully.

  Juliet’s smile was razor sharp. ‘That was before you were married, Cameron. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure all your shooting cronies are invited, but they will be diluted by some amusing friends of mine, so the topic of conversation at dinner won’t only be about how many brace you’ve bagged. We’ll have music, and dancing too, in the evenings, and for those who don’t want to follow the guns, such as myself, there will be alternative entertainment.’

  ‘I don’t want all the usual arrangements messed up,’ he complained. ‘The shooting season is so important up here.’

  ‘Which one?’ She raised her eyebrows and glared at him. ‘Last year’s shooting season? Or the little impromptu one in May? Which landed you in hospital.’

  Cameron flushed an ugly shade of red. ‘That was an accident,’ he said furiously. ‘And keep your voice down. I do not want to talk about it.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed. I wonder why? You might have been killed. Nevertheless, the greatest crime seemed to be that someone was shooting before the twelfth!’ She shook her head in mock scolding. ‘Terrible faux pas, Cameron. Unforgivable. What would the rest of the country say, if they knew? How would we have explained your unexpected demise?’ She tut-tutted mockingly.

  ‘It was an unfortunate incident,’ he replied haughtily, trying to look dignified in spite of his obvious discomfort. ‘Nothing more. It won’t happen again. The subject is closed. I merely wanted to ascertain that you’ll be up here on the twelfth.’

  ‘You assume correctly,’ she said grandly. ‘I’ve come to realize one thing, though.’ Was it fear she suddenly saw flash in his eyes? She couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I hate blood sports,’ she continued. ‘Beautiful creatures flying through the air one minute, then brought crashing down the next. For what purpose? It’s just for the fun of killing and I can’t bear it.’

  He gave a quick nervous smile, seemed relieved. ‘You were brought up in a town. That’s why …’

  ‘I was also brought up at Hartley,’ she retorted, walking out of the library, closing the door noisily behind her, and then going into the garden for a breath of fresh air.

  It was time, she reflected, that she asserted herself. If she’d taken on the role of being a duchess, she might as well start behaving like one, at least at Glenmally. She’d been so wrapped up in Daniel, thinking only of him in the past few months, that she hadn’t cared what Cameron did, as long as she was allowed her trips to London.

  That had changed, after dinner the previous evening.

  Cameron and his mother had chatted to each other throughout the soup, the Angus beef steaks, and the chocolate soufflé, as if she hadn’t been there.

  They took a veritable trip up Memory Lane: ‘Remember your first birthday party, and you wore the kilt …? Wasn’t that exciting, the day you caught that ten-pound salmon …? We must have a big Christmas tree this year. Remember the time the candles caught fire …?’ And on and on it went, as Juliet sat, drinking Burgundy, while they ignored her.

  She hadn’t said anything at first, but a growing rage was welling up inside her as she listened to their reminiscing. Cameron and Iona’s cloying devotion to each other was somehow sickening, their conversation intimate, their secret smiles and shared laughter almost disgusting. They were like old lovers, sharing tender memories.

  At last she could bear it no longer. Taking another swig of wine, Juliet thumped her glass heavily on the polished table, and glared at them.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t marry your mother, Cameron,’ she said bitterly. ‘However, you do happen to have a wife, or perhaps you’d forgotten? Perhaps you’d rather remain a mummy’s boy for the rest of your life? You and Mummy seem so devoted to each other, I’m beginning to feel rather de trop.’

  Her hand, with its long scarlet nails and emerald and diamond engagement ring, was pressed to her chest, as if protecting her wounded heart, but her aquamarine eyes were flashing dangerously. ‘If you continue to ignore me, I just might go to London one day – and not bother to return to this hotbed of incestuousness.’

  Cameron sprang to his feet, face crimson with rage. He was shaking all over. ‘How dare you! Apologize to my mother at once!’ he shouted.

  ‘The girl’s drunk,’ Iona pointed out in a cold hard voice. ‘Go to bed, Juliet,’ she commanded loudly. ‘You’re drunk and talking nonsense.’

  ‘I am not talking nonsense. I’m sick to death of being ignored in my own house.’

  ‘The trouble is, you haven’t had a child,’ Cameron said accusingly. ‘That would give you something else to think about.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ Juliet turned to Cameron, who was still standing, looking as if he’d been winded. ‘If you spent more time in my bed, and less on your estate, I might actually get pregnant!’

  Nanny’s mouth was as tight as a drawstring purse. ‘Louise should never have been allowed to go,’ she fumed, with self-righteous disapproval. ‘I don’t know what they were thinking of. France indeed! It’s asking for trouble.’

  Ruby smoothed her starched apron nervously. Nanny in a rage was not a pretty sight. ‘I thought Louise was in Brittany?’ she ventured.

  ‘Brittany! France! It’s all the same. Haven’t you seen the newsreels at
the Odeon? Or listened to the wireless? The war’s going to start at any moment. London will be flattened by bombs in no time at all. Me? I can’t wait to get to Surrey. Not that we’ll be safe there. Mark my words, Ruby, the Germans will be invading England by the end of the year. Landing on the white cliffs of Dover and all.’ Nanny thumped her fist on the nursery table, where they sat, having their elevenses. The cups and saucers rattled in sympathy.

  Ruby had turned pale. ‘What will happen to Louise?’

  Nanny snorted. ‘Most likely be made a prisoner of war, poor little thing. It was irresponsible of her parents to have let her go. Mind you, I’m surprised at Mrs Montgomery taking Marina. A sensible woman like her should know better.’

  ‘We’ll be off to Hartley Hall soon, won’t we?’ Ruby said, hoping to soothe Nanny.

  ‘Where are we now? July twenty-seventh. Yes, we’ll be off by the first. Can’t be in London in August, whatever happens. Think yourself lucky you work for a rich, posh family, Ruby,’ Nanny remarked severely.

  ‘Yes, Nanny.’

  ‘My father was right about one thing,’ Candida said at supper one evening. ‘The food here is excellent. I think we should stay another week, don’t you?’ She tucked into her plate of grilled sea bass, having demolished a first course of chicken-liver paté with crusty bread.

  Her waist had expanded alarmingly during the past ten days, but she didn’t care. The days here were too perfect to be spoilt by something as stupid as not being able to do up her skirts.

  It was mid-August, and it was warm and sunny, with just a gentle breeze coming off the sea. They had the beach to themselves, and the château was empty except for a young couple with their baby.

  In the evenings, Marina and Louise went to the deserted lounge to play games of Halma, Monopoly or vingt-et-un, while Margaux invited Candida into her private quarters, to share a bottle of wine; the remains of a once superb cellar.

  Alone in the faded plush and worn rococo gilt plasterwork of the petit salon, the two women began to talk, because there was no one else with whom they could have an adult conversation.