by Caron Allan
‘I think they do all know,’ Dottie told her. Her “aunt’s” attitude helped to bolster her courage. This was not the sweet, wistful, and loving reunion of separated mother and child after all. This was an angry, resentful woman being reminded of an unpleasant episode from her past, and a young woman who was still rather afraid of someone she had always thought of as a cold, uninterested and distant relative.
I’m just one insignificant, regretful incident, nothing more, she thought. If only I’d realised this before I came, I certainly wouldn’t have accepted the invitation. Then she reminded herself that the invitation had come from lonely, ridiculed Imogen, not from this brittle, chilly woman in front of Dottie now. That makes it easier, Dottie thought to herself. We have no reason to be part of each other’s lives except in the normal way of distant relations. I shall be able to go home in a few days and never spare her another thought.
This braced her too. Her marshmallow heart hardened, the tears that hovered on the brink of being shed now dried.
‘Somehow,’ Dottie continued, ‘I believe they do all know. Guy, Imogen, certainly. Perhaps even Uncle Lewis, Leo and June too. The only way they could know is if you told them. You or the man who is my father.’ She took a deep breath, readying herself to ask the unaskable. ‘Who is that, by the way?’
Cecilia ground out her second cigarette in the ashtray and got to her feet. She stared at Dottie with undisguised dislike.
‘How dare you ask me such a thing.’ Cecilia Cowdrey walked out of the room, leaving the door wide. Clearly their short, ‘open’ discussion was at an end. They returned to the drawing room and the other ladies.
‘After we’ve had our coffee, Guy and Imogen will give you a tour of the house,’ Cecilia pronounced, taking a seat now on one of the silk-covered sofas. She patted the space beside her as she spoke, and Dottie obediently went to sit down next to her, somewhat surprised after the note their talk had ended on.
‘Lovely,’ Dottie replied, and she meant it. If the house was grim and cluttered, then it also intrigued her. She spared a brief moment to wonder how much it cost to heat the place during the winter, it was so sprawling. There was a noticeable draught on the back of her neck from the French doors behind them. Only now did Dottie notice that the other ladies all wore light drapings around them: a shawl in Imogen’s case, a short silk jacket in Cecilia’s and June effected a carelessly thrown scarf about her neck. Dottie realised these were not purely decorative. She also noticed the worn seams on the silk covers of the sofas, and a threadbare patch on the carpet, not quite disguised by a small rug thrown down over the top. Clearly the family were not as well off as the size of the house and their self-conscious propriety had implied.
The door of the drawing room opened, and a maid entered the room, a maid Dottie hadn’t yet seen. She bore a huge tray of coffee things. Drysdale came in directly behind her to attend to the fire. Cecilia, ignoring them completely, continued to address Dottie:
‘Hopefully the gentlemen will not take too long over their port and cigars. They know I expect them to return to the drawing room promptly.’
Dottie produced her smile again. Drysdale finished with the fire, wiped his hands on a plain white cotton handkerchief, then came over to assist the maid. He handed Dottie a cup of coffee. This set, she was relieved to see, was a little more robust than the tea service of the afternoon.
‘We’ve got a few things planned for your visit,’ Imogen told her excitedly as soon as the staff had departed. This then was what her cousin had been practically bursting to tell her, Dottie was certain. ‘Even though some of it might have to be cancelled or rearranged.’ Imogen darted a doubtful look at her mother. ‘I—I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you for another week.’
Dottie’s cheeks felt hot at the reminder.
Imogen raced on, ‘And how can we forget, it’s not just the weekend, but a special weekend!’
June chipped in, ‘My father always has a big party for New Year’s Eve, and Leo’s family always attend—after all, you’re all nearly as close to Father as our own family. I’ll let Father know the Cowdrey party will be bringing an extra guest this year, I’m sure that won’t cause any difficulty, one guest more or less at these things makes no difference. It’ll be lovely—we’ll dance, there’ll be lots of food, we’ll all count down the seconds to midnight—it will be such fun!’
Dottie felt unaccountably depressed at the idea, but she made herself smile at June and Imogen, both sitting on the edges of their seats opposite her like eager puppies, waiting for her reaction. She thanked June, and said it was very kind of the family to include her. Inspiration came in the form of a question about June’s family.
‘Oh yes, Father lives about two miles over that way.’ June pointed in the direction of the lake at the bottom of the hill. ‘He’s all alone since my mother died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Dottie said, feeling sorry she’d asked. But June didn’t seem especially upset. ‘
‘Oh it’s all right. She’d been ill for a while so in a way it was for the best.’
‘And do you have brothers or sisters?’ Dottie asked.
‘No, it’s just me. As a matter of fact, Father and Mother adopted me when I was a baby, they didn’t actually have any children of their own. Quite a shame really.’
‘How sad,’ Dottie said. ‘And do you and Leo have any children?’
‘Not so far,’ June said, and there was regret in her voice.
‘Soon, I’m sure,’ Dottie said.
‘Follow us!’ Imogen leapt up ten minutes later, grabbing Dottie’s arm and hauling her along, at the same time as she grabbed Guy by his arm. Dottie couldn’t help but laugh at Imogen’s excitement.
Out in the hall, Imogen skipped about. ‘Where shall we go first?’
Dottie watched her, amused by her childlike behaviour. Guy gave his sardonic smile, shrugged and shoved open a door behind him.
‘Might as well take a look in here. You’ve seen the dining room and the morning room. This is the study. Or library as Mother prefers to call it. It’s really more or less both, I suppose, though the rest of us just call it the study.’
‘Our father doesn’t use it for working anymore. Daddy’s more or less handed management of the estate over to Leo,’ Imogen explained.
Lucky old Leo, Dottie thought and followed them into the room.
It was comfortable, that was her first impression. Cool and relaxing after the chaotic clutter of the other rooms. A small carriage clock ticked softly on the mantelpiece, the only ornament there. Bookshelves covered one wall, the books neat in their rows. In front of the windows a large desk had been placed, business-like and tidy, one leather chair behind it and three smaller, highly polished wooden chairs on this side.
And that was it. No ornaments, no knick-knacks, no photos, pictures, brass animals, trays, stuffed birds or fish in glass cases, no fans, no china dogs, no elephant or rhino tusks, no silk flowers and no porcelain jugs. Nothing. Dottie found it restful.
‘Daddy used to work in here, and we’d play on the floor in front of the fire,’ Imogen reminisced. ‘But obviously not anymore.’
‘No,’ Guy added grimly, ‘he’s far too busy elsewhere these days to be bothered with his family.’
Dottie shot him a surprised look. His bitter tone made her immediately want to know what he meant by that. Perhaps Imogen might tell her more when they were alone together.
The three of them returned to the hall.
‘Next,’ Imogen said brightly, ‘we have the billiard room.’ She darted a look back over her shoulder at Dottie and wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s really somewhere Leo and Guy could go to drink and smoke with their friends when we were growing up. It smells awful in there, goodness knows what they used to get up to.’
Dottie’s senses were overwhelmed by the stench of old cigars, leather, beer and sweat. It was rather like walking into a proper public house, she thought. The billiard table stood in the middle of the room, but t
here was no sign of the balls or the cues, although the rack for the cues still stood, like an oddly denuded tree, near the door. There was a scoring frame on the wall, and a couple of tall seats stood in front of the French doors with an equally tall small round table, the curtains only half-closed behind them. Otherwise the place seemed half empty and held an air of neglect.
Imogen crossed the room to throw aside the curtains, unlocking and opening the doors. ‘It reeks in here. Drysdale ought to open these every day to air the place. Or better still, it should be redecorated and we could get rid of the billiard table completely. No one ever comes in here anymore.’
‘Well,’ Guy said, taking over, closing the French doors his sister had just opened, and leading them out into the hall once again, ‘the kitchen and back areas are along this corridor and through the door at the end. There’s also the back door... But of course you won’t need to know any of that. Except the telephone is here, if you need to telephone.’
‘I would like to phone to my mother,’ Dottie ventured. ‘She would probably like to know that I’m actually here, after the—er—mix-up.’
‘Good idea. I’ll mention it to Drysdale, he can get the call put through for you,’ Guy said. Then with another of his seemingly habitual shrugs and a glance around him, he said, ‘Well that’s it. Upstairs there’s a veritable warren of bedrooms, bathrooms and quite a few rooms that are no longer used. So...’
It was clear the grand tour was at an end. Dottie gave them both a brilliant smile and thanked them. She looked about her.
Her eyes took in the suits of armour that edged one side of the large entrance hall, eerie in the gloom, like people lurking just out of sight. Through the glass panes of the front door, she could see coach-lamps burning, and beyond that all was darkness.
The walls here were covered in paintings and wall-hangings of great age and considerable grime. Everything in this house seemed to be in desperate need of cleaning. Once more Dottie wondered if the family was so very well-off after all. In London they had always thought the Sussex part of the family were wealthy, living in their great, and ancient, family seat. But she was beginning to question that assumption.
On either side of the stairs that descended into the centre of the hall, there were a number of tables covered in all kinds of effects, mainly of a military type. Row upon row of tattered and moth-eaten-looking medals lay ranged on once-white linen. There were cups and trophies, ivories and other carvings. And most intriguing, she spied a little pyramid of orange-sized round objects on one of the tables.
Beside the table was something that could only be a type of cannon, a little smaller than the ones she had seen before in museums. Dottie realised that the pyramid on the table was formed of cannonballs, rusted and pitted with age.
‘I always wanted to play with these as a child,’ Guy said. ‘I got into a hell of a row when I pulled them all down once. Hell of a racket they made too, I can tell you. Mother was furious at the damage they did falling onto the wooden floor. This whole section had to be replaced. Cost a packet, I can tell you.’ He indicated with a sweep of his arm a newer looking section of the decorative wooden floor. ‘Of course, Father was just glad I didn’t hurt myself. He said one of these landing on my foot would have crushed it.’
‘Pick one up,’ Imogen urged. With her right hand, she reached out and took hold of a cannonball. ‘See how heavy they are!’
She passed it to Dottie, placing it in her left hand. Immediately Dottie had to support her left hand with her right. She was astonished at the weight.
‘Solid iron,’ Guy said. ‘I think.’
‘They smell wonderful,’ Imogen said. ‘The smell reminds me of something.’
Dottie sniffed the heavy rough cannonball. ‘Is it sulphur? It smells like fireworks. Or that smell you get when you first strike a match.’ Then, looking at Guy, ‘Could you?’
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ He relieved her of the cannonball and returned it to the heap with something of a thud. He wiped his hands on his trousers. They spent a few more minutes admiring various lethal-looking daggers ranged about a small round shield. Guy explained:
‘One of the ancestors—don’t ask me which, because I’ve no idea—was at Culloden. On the side of the Jacobites, no less. He escaped, as they say, by the skin of his teeth, bringing these colourful mementos with him. Now over here, there are a number of muskets and some ramrods. Father loves these things as if they were his children. In fact, he may well love them more than his children.’
‘Guy!’ Imogen hissed, her voice lowered.
He shrugged. He moved along the hall, and showed Dottie a group of spears leaning against a wooden wall panel. The spears had rubbed the varnish off the panel, their tips rusted like the cannonballs and rough, the shafts greasy and caked with cobwebs. ‘People fall over these about twice a week on average. I don’t know why they can’t be put in a cabinet of some sort.’
‘Or better yet,’ Imogen suggested, ‘thrown into the lake.’
‘Mother hates them,’ Guy said. ‘But in spite of that, she hero-worships this stuff. All the old reminders of the family’s glorious past.’
‘I thought these were all your father’s—er—collection?’ Dottie said, surprised.
‘Heavens, no!’ Guy laughed. ‘The daggers over there, and the muskets, but that’s all. The rest is all stuff from Mother’s family, handed down from one generation to the next. Oh those geese, too, are Father’s.’
‘Our famous St Martin’s geese,’ Imogen said, waving a hand at some huge glass cases. The stuffed, moth-eaten looking birds stood glassy-eyed and depressed-looking in their tiny prisons, their previously white feathers now greyish and dull.
Dottie couldn’t repress a shudder. ‘Why exactly are there all these geese?’
‘Oh that’s just the legend of St Martin. The original saint chappie,’ Guy said.
‘It doesn’t even make sense,’ Imogen commented. ‘I mean, the goose is supposed to be the emblem of St Martin, but in fact, he hid in a barn or something and was given away because of the noise the wretched geese made. If anything you’d think a goose was the last thing he’d want to be associated with.’
‘Oh.’ Dottie couldn’t think of anything else to say. She stepped away from the cases quickly.
‘Anyway, they are all over the place, real ones and decorative,’ Guy said, ‘Watch your step when you go outside, though I’ve never known them to go for anyone. Usually if you get too close, they hurry off in the opposite direction.’
‘Don’t they just fly away?’ Dottie asked.
‘No. Some fool had the idea of clipping their wings years ago, so they can’t fly away. They’re stuck here,’ Guy said, and wandered over to the drawing room door, holding it open for both ladies to precede him.
Cecilia poured them more coffee.
After the long day, Dottie wanted nothing more than to sink into bed and sleep. She undressed, put on her nightgown with a warm wrap over the top, and hurried along the hall to the bathroom.
When she returned, she fetched her briefcase with the designs, because tired though she was, as she had stood brushing her teeth, an idea had come to her. She knew if she didn’t make a note immediately, by the morning she’d have forgotten all about it. She sat on the bed, cross-legged, and pulled out the sheets. She spread the designs out around her on the bed to find the one she needed, but at that moment there was a tap on her door and it opened. Imogen came in, a little shyly, but clearly keen for a girly chat. Dottie smiled at her.
‘Is it too late?’ Imogen asked. ‘You must be worn out. Oh, what a lovely picture...’ She held one of the sheets in her hand, and began to look at some of the others.
Dottie began to tidy the sheets away into the briefcase and said, echoing Imogen’s own old-fashioned words from earlier that evening, ‘So tell me Imogen, do you have a beau?’
Imogen, it turned out, was bursting to tell her about the man she loved ‘more than life itself’. ‘His name is Norris Clarke, and h
e has an antiques shop in Horshurst. He’s such a sweet man, and he’s thirty-five. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, on a scholarship, Dottie, he had no money but he’s so very clever!’
Dottie said, perfectly sincerely, that she hoped she’d meet him soon.
Chapter Eight
‘I hope you slept well, Dorothy?’ Uncle Lewis asked her as soon as she sat down.
‘Oh, please do call me Dottie. I prefer that, it’s not quite so formal as Dorothy. Which also makes me sound about forty.’ He smiled at that, and she decided she liked him. She said, ‘Yes, I slept well although I heard the geese a few times.’
He pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid it takes a while for visitors to get used to the racket the wretched geese make. I don’t notice anymore, having been here all my life.’
Over breakfast Dottie discovered the plan was to go to Leo and June’s house for lunch and tea, then bring them back for dinner at St Martins. She politely said she was looking forward to it, though really she felt rather depressed by the prospect. And she couldn’t see the sense in going there, then Leo and his wife coming back again, only to have to go home after dinner. But it seemed to be a perfectly normal arrangement for the two households. It was clearly their habit to go back and forth between the two houses all the time. Dottie wondered if the family had any other friends.
Standing by the window after the breakfast was cleared away, she could see the geese basking on the lawn in the thin winter sun. She felt sorry for them, trapped here, unable to live a normal life and migrate to warmer climes during the cold months as their instinct would prompt them to do. She shuddered, an unexpected shadow falling across her imagination as she thought of living in this miserable place for years on end. No wonder Imogen was so desperate for company.
Lunch was better than she’d expected. She was placed between Guy and Imogen. And if Guy could be sarcastic, he could also be funny and entertaining. He and Imogen kept Dottie busy for the whole meal. When lunch was over, the family returned to the drawing room, much larger and less crowded with ornaments than its counterpart at St Martins. Dottie appreciated the near-bare mantle-shelf and the notable lack of small tables.