by Douglas Hurd
He would never see Laura again, and would hardly think of her. But he remembered what she had said about the Islands doing him a good turn. He thought of that rugby tackle on Sea Lion Island. He took out of a drawer his research material and first notes for his book ‘The Falklands Falsehood’, together with a folder of his recent press articles.
Slowly but without regret he tore them up and dropped them in the crested wastepaper basket of the spare bedroom at Government House.
8 Helter Skelter
It was the rule of the villa that the largest and oldest faded pink umbrella was allocated to the Duchess. One of Angelo’s first duties each morning was to slot it into its pedestal under the olive tree at the edge of the clearing, where her elder son had built the swimming pool. From this vantage point the Duchess commanded a full view of all poolside activity. The house itself, skilfully scooped out of the mountainside, stood at the top of two miles of steep winding drive. The tennis court and the swimming pool both required a further climb, seven minutes for fit 30-year-olds, up steps lined with pink and white oleanders. The Duchess rarely visited the tennis court, but each day for three weeks in August, unless the weather had broken, she took 15 minutes to climb to the pool.
Below in the valley the clock of San Leonardo in Compito began to strike 12. On the eleventh note of San Leonardo the clock of San Ginese in Marinaia, visible on the next spur of hills, took up the message. This was normally the best time of the day. The heat was already strong enough to work its trick of wrapping each human being in a cloak of solitude. Life had slowed down. Only the cicadas competed in noisy activity.
No one was in the pool, and the Duchess surveyed the four figures reclining beside it. Her eye found first the cause of her present strong discontent. So strong indeed that she had almost decided on a headache, which would keep her in the total shade down below on the terrace. There her husband and the elderly novelist Francis Litherland spent their mornings, the Duke snoozing over a thriller, the novelist scribbling, in an exercise book, glass on table. She had exerted herself up the steps in the cause of duty, only to find her discontent massively increased. For the girl, Linda, was sunbathing topless. Her generous breasts showed by their colour that this was the rule rather than the exception. Her golden hair was arranged in long ringlets spread decoratively over the dark blue towel on which she lay.
The Duchess, an honest woman, had to admit that this was not the first time a girl had shed her top round the pool at La Freddiana. Alexander, the child of her middle age, was dear to the Duchess, but his taste in girls had certainly deteriorated in the past three years. Alexander had picked this latest brassy specimen off some boat at Porto Ercole, and brought her at once to his brother’s villa, even though he had already invited a guest for that week in the form of his pleasant friend Nicholas. Last night, being her first at La Freddiana, Linda Pallett had drunk too much, argued loudly about matters of which she knew nothing, and been offensive in turn to everyone in the room. She had even called the Duke useless, not once but several times. It had been an interminable evening. Alexander had defended her for an hour or so, then fallen silent, and finally marched her out saying, ‘Goodnight all. I know how to put a stop to this.’
The girl was quiet enough now, soaking in the sun, not snuggling close either to her elder son or to the Grevilles at the far end of the pool. Of Alexander there was no sign, though yesterday the two had been inseparable.
Of course it was the Prime Minister’s visit that made the difference. The Duchess was not narrow-minded. A blonde of Alexander’s could pass through La Freddiana, argumentative and slightly drunk, without leaving permanent harm behind her. The disaster lay in the coincidence. Up to now the Prime Minister’s arrival tomorrow had been worried about in terms of ordering a better wine than the villa itself produced, testing and retesting the relevant bathroom and lavatory, scrubbing the window seat cushion where, years ago, Alexander had spilt Coca-Cola. But of what use was good wine and safe plumbing with Linda Pallett in the house? She would certainly, on last night’s form, attack the Prime Minister at all points. And yet so much hung on the night and two days which the Prime Minister was to spend with them.
The Duchess felt the need to break out of the zone of solitude created by the heat and communicate with her elder son.
‘Thomas,’ she called.
Her son at once left the shelter of his umbrella by the pool and came towards her, as if glad to be relieved of the tedium of his own company.
‘Filthy’ said Alexander Ruthven, kicking a crumpled cigarette packet. ‘Why have the Italians become such pigs?’
‘Why are you in such a ludicrous temper?’
They sat on the edge of a rampart on the walls of Lucca, legs dangling like schoolboys. In fact the occasional litter and dog mess did not spoil the general pleasantness. The old city of Lucca stayed agreeably contained within its pink walls, crowned by an avenue of plane trees. To the north the hills grew hazy in the heat. Below them small boys kicked a football in the green meadows between the walls and the roaring ring road.
They had been turned out of the Duomo because Alexander’s shorts were too short. Over the years his shorts had grown shorter and his hair longer, whereas in both respects Nicholas remained the same. As undergraduates at the same Oxford College, they had more than once travelled Europe together, sometimes with girls, sometimes not, trying not to lose their Euro-rail passes, making no plans, educating themselves despite themselves. Then their paths separated. It was far from clear why after this gap in friendship Alexander had asked Nicholas out of the blue to spend a week at La Freddiana.
At 24 Alexander still dressed like a messy 18, and this was an error. His shorts cut into his thighs, his fair hair was bound into a pigtail at the back, his chin showed signs of doubling.
‘You didn’t shave this morning.’
‘I hate that bloody girl.’
‘You swept her off last night as if you loved and owned her.’
‘She insulted everyone round the table, one by one, even Dukey. Then she insulted me in private.’
‘I don’t ask for the details.’
‘You’d have had them once, without asking.’
So, for a moment, Alexander recognised the distance which had grown between them.
‘Shall we go?’ Nicholas stood up. They had failed to view the Cathedral, had bought the English newspapers, and ordered a fish for the Prime Minister’s lunch the next day. There was no further reason to stay in Lucca.
As they walked to find Alexander’s battered BMW, Nicholas reflected that he owed something more to people who had been kind to him over many years.
‘Don’t forget the Prime Minister is coming tomorrow.’
‘Hence the fish. How could I forget?’
‘Hence the need for some restraint.’
Alexander laughed. ‘After all these years you get me so wrong. The Dutch is mad to suppose she’ll get Tom promoted by inviting the PM to savour the Ruthven charm in its summer habitat. But behind the scruff and the sex I’m a high Tory, and always will be. Once the PM’s in the house my mouth is shut, and so is my bedroom door.’
Francis Litherland, veteran of letters, looked across the terrace to the sleeping form of the Duke of Stirling. If the two young men had asked him to go with them to Lucca, he would have accepted. It was galling that everyone should assume that he, like the Duke, had geriatric tastes. He had no intention of climbing the steps to the swimming pool, having some time ago lost any relish in taking off his own clothes or seeing women largely without theirs. In his view swimming pools and tennis courts were enemies of civilisation. Francis Litherland had masked his disappointment by claiming to have much work to do, and indeed three novels stood on the ornate white iron table beside him, ripe for reviewing. But he found it difficult to read or write, and the sight of the snoozing Duke a few yards away added to his irritation.
What an ass the man had been the night before, failing in his first duty of protecting his gues
ts from attack. That slut Linda should never have been allowed in the house. She had found a copy of his poems in Alexander’s room and had brought it down to dinner, having marked passages which she read out with mockery over the coffee. Twenty years ago, when Francis had taught Tom and signed that book for the Duchess, his tastes and his style had been more florid. That poem which she had singled out about Greek athletes preparing for contest, for example – he would not have written it now.
The Duchess and Tom had proved quite inadequate in turning the talk, and the Duke, flushed and incoherent, had intervened only with some obscure reminiscence about his fairground experiences as a boy in Scotland. Who had said that a Lowland Duke was the lowest form of intellectual life? This one was degenerating fast. How to get rid of the slut? He resolved to speak to the Duchess at lunch and not to take no for an answer.
‘Have you asked her to go?’
The Duchess shifted her chair a little so that her elder son, now sitting beside her, could have some shade. By that hour the olive was already ineffective.
‘She’s going on Friday anyway. Alex is taking her to Pisa airport.’
They both knew this was a feeble reply to give on Tuesday, with the Prime Minister coming tomorrow.
But Tom went on. ‘I wish you hadn’t asked the PM here at all. I promise you it will make no difference.’
‘It’s your house, Tom, not mine. You asked her. Whether it works will depend on what impression we all give.’
Neither wanted to pursue the argument. It was hot, and they were allies. The Duchess gazed down with affectionate irritation at the bald spot on her son’s head. That bald spot signified five years as a Parliamentary Under Secretary, first at Energy, now at Health, the junior form of Ministerial life. Tom had worked hard, made no mistakes, remained wholly loyal and received no promotion. He had renounced his father’s title, so that could not be the problem. Indeed, the Duchess knew there was no problem, because by now she would have ferreted it out if it existed. A newspaper had written that her son was dull. The Duchess had admitted to herself the grain of truth in the remark. Tom was not really dull. On a good day, when he got his nose out of his official paper, he could talk well, think imaginatively and make his friends laugh, including Italians in their own language. Privately she saw Tom as No. 2 in the Foreign Office, but only if he put his wares in the window.
‘Get Alex to persuade her to go.’
‘But he wants to bed her.’
Tom knew his mother was not prudish and was surprised at her strong reaction.
‘Don’t be vulgar. Anyway he’s left her here this morning. That’s hardly devoted.’
‘Only because he’s in a sulk. He’ll be buzzing around the hive again by evening.’
‘Then it’ll have to be you, Tom. You must tell her at lunch that she’s got to pack.’
The Grevilles were known to the world and to each other as highly organised. They had no children, and the organisation of their finances, their pleasures and their occasional good works took up the whole of their time. In August, they were usually invited to La Freddiana for a week – the Ruthvens banked at Grevilles – and they always accepted. At La Freddiana, they swam, slept and ate, contributed moderately to the conversation, and generously to the tip for Lena and Angelo at the end of the week. Their lives were so evenly conducted that any disturbance, however mild, affecting one partner was noticed by the other.
‘It was almost as if she knew you,’ said Leonora. They shared an umbrella by the deep end of the pool. ‘She gave you a sinister smirk.’
Julian Greville was uncharacteristically cross. ‘She was a secretary in the City. I can’t be expected to remember every secretary I bump into in a lift.’
‘There are bumps and bumps. So you do remember her.’
‘The face is vaguely familiar. The bosoms I never saw until today. I’m pretty sure she never worked at Grevilles.’
Leonora had to be content with that.
The object of this attention lay face down in the full sun, her back shining with cocoa butter. From time to time she propped herself on her elbows to read Cosmopolitan, and to show the Grevilles, Tom and the Duchess what she was made of.
Ignoring this provocation, the Duchess moved down the agenda.
‘I wanted a word about your father.’ Tom sat still.
‘You saw how he was last night,’ the Duchess continued. ‘An hour of silence, then he weighed in with a wholly irrelevant story about the Kelso Fair in his boyhood. Sitting on a mat, hurtling down round and round a tower, shooting out rather scared at the bottom, still going at a great rate. He took me once and I cried. It had all gone by the time Alex arrived.’
‘Just as well. It was definitely dangerous. Helter Skelter it was called. I think I signed a Liberal petition against it.’
‘But there was more to it than that yesterday. I’m worried about him.’
‘Dukey looks well.’
‘He hates being called Dukey. Yes, he always complains about coming here, and thrives once he’s arrived. But yesterday afternoon …’
For some reason the Duchess decided not to end the sentence. Afterwards she regretted this.
Lunch, on which much dramatic expectation had been fixed, proved an anticlimax. Not in the culinary sense, for Lena had tested as main course the pasta which she intended as a preliminary for dinner with the Prime Minister the next evening. An outer ring of zucchini enclosed the rice which in turn enclosed the special ‘sugo’ devised by Lena’s Venetian grandmother.
This completed the colours of the national tricolour and put everyone in a slightly exalted mood. Alex sat next to Linda, though whether as her protector or her jailer was not clear, for he said little, and ate largely.
Grapes and peaches and cheese, the local white wine in a yellow bottle without label, and the fizzy mineral water circulated steadily. The gaps between spoken words became longer, until the cicadas made most of the conversation. The sun filtering through the thick leaves of the trellised vine had a soporific effect. Then Linda stood up. She had put a pink wrap over her pink and green bikini, and wore huge dark glasses with a pink frame despite the shade of the vine.
‘I would like to make a short announcement. I have been invited to stay here until Friday, and until Friday I shall stay. Only the Carabinieri could move me, and I doubt if they could get up the sodding drive. So, Your Graces, my Lord, Ladies and Gentlemen, you are stuck with me, and I shall now take my siesta.’
Because La Freddiana was built into a vertical hillside, the main bedrooms were at the same level as the terrace where they lunched, the sitting room and a lesser terrace being below. They could hear the clack of the girl’s heels along the corridor, then the loud slam of her bedroom door.
Alex put his head in his hands and stared at his peach stones. The Duchess considered whether the necessary action should be concerted among those present, and decided not. Tom had told his mother that he intended to speak to Linda over the coffee, drawing her aside from the others. Linda had outwitted him by taking no coffee.
‘A thoroughly vulgar girl,’ she said, dismissing the subject and ending the meal.
Nicholas lay on his bed in his swimming trunks reading an Agatha Christie. He had schooled himself against the siesta, and so captured two hours for light reading. Heavy reading in the form of his law books lay around him, but between three and five he felt absolved from them. What an amazing flow of books that amiable Mrs Christie had produced. She was at her best when describing a small, closed world of people thrown together, say in a train or a hotel, without knowing each other well. Out of the ordinary, when subjected to pressure, sprang the extraordinary. Take La Freddiana for example …
He was prevented from dozing by the sound of Alex swearing and kicking at a locked door. It was a tedious sound, and there were no prizes for guessing which door and why. Within a minute of the rebuff Alex was with him. He threw himself into a chair by the open window.
‘There’s never been a lock on t
hat bloody door. There are no locks on any doors in this bloody house, not even the downstairs loo.’
‘Were you thrown out or did you never get in?’
‘She must have begged a key from Lena. I didn’t know they existed.’
‘Scrap her, Alex.’ Nicholas closed his book. ‘Whatever happens this week, you will have forgotten her by Christmas.’
‘What d’you think I am?’ Alexander came and stood over Nicholas, hand on hips. ‘D’you think I’m one of those bums who serves at bars along the coast, picking up a different girl each week from under the ombrellini?’
In his unbuttoned faded shirt and tight shorts, grubby fair hair now loose around his neck, that was exactly what Alex did look like.
‘The trouble with you, Nicholas, is you’re just passive, a spectator, a voyeur. You never do anything. You’re the only person in this house who’s never achieved anything in his life. And at this rate never will. Have you ever considered that?’
A good, strong exit line, followed by silence. The rest of the house was still, obedient to the siesta. After a few minutes’ looking into himself, Nicholas also snoozed.
But the siesta at La Freddiana did not run its course. The inhabitants were disturbed by two different phenomena which occurred at about the same time, namely about half-past four. Those, like Francis Litherland and the Grevilles, whose rooms looked up the hill to the rough scrub, were woken by an ominous crackling, and, so Francis added, by a pungent smell of burning which led to a rapid dream of Hieronymus Bosch and hellfire, causing him to leap from his bed, shouting for water.