She thrust the clothes on him and bustled him into the bathroom which, he found, was as Edwardian as the bedroom, all fancy tiles and once-gleaming plumbing. Now some of the tiles were cracked and the silvery metal was peeling off the exposed pipes. He got out of his wet clothes with relief, towelled himself, and found he could wear Sarah’s pants and sweater but not her bedroom slippers, an ancient quilted satin pair, minus one rosette. He belted the tweed dressing gown and returned to the bedroom.
Penny was now lying in front of the fire on a dry towel. Sarah was pouring milk from a Thermos into a saucer. She said, ‘Lucky I fancied hot milk tonight – well, it’s been such a damn dispiriting day, and it’s nice to have something to look forward to when you go to bed. This’ll have to cool a bit, of course. And I’m not sure about the brandy. Most dogs hate the taste and if you force it on them they’re liable to be sick. Anyway, I think she’s going to be all right. She’s stopped shivering and she’s got quite a bit of warmth in her. Feel her.’
Hugh sat down on the hearthrug and stroked Penny’s stomach. She whimpered, but with pleasure, not complaint. He was thankful that she’d outgrown turning on her waterworks when fondled.
Sarah stood by, blowing on the milk. When it was eventually offered, Penny gave it one delicate, suspicious lick, then drank it avidly.
‘Poor lamb, now she’ll have to wait while some more cools,’ said Sarah, pouring out another saucerful and blowing on it fiercely. ‘I wonder if she needs solid food.’
‘I’m sure Aunt May’s been feeding her handsomely.’
‘Still, she might like some bread in the milk. I’ve got a loaf in my sitting room. And how about you? Did you get any dinner?’
‘Well, no. But I can get plenty when I’m home.’
‘Oh, I’ve masses of food. I often eat up here. You blow on Penny’s milk while I see what I can find.’
She hurried out and very shortly returned with most of a loaf, some butter, jam, biscuits and chocolate, also some plates and cutlery. She then offered to go down to the kitchen for some cold meat but he dissuaded her. ‘Bread and jam will be marvellous – if you don’t mind me eating all your food. And Penny’s drinking all your milk.’
‘I have the milk more for company than as a drink, and now I’ve got you and Penny for company. I’ll just take a slice of bread for her and then please tuck in.’
Penny made it clear that she preferred the milk without bread. She drank two-thirds of a Thermosful and then went to sleep.
‘I swear she’ll be all right,’ said Sarah.
‘But suppose she’s been – well, caught,’ said Hugh, through a mouthful of bread and apricot jam.
Sarah, after thought, said, ‘I’d make a bet that she hasn’t been. Bitches are very choosy and you’d be surprised how they can fend off unwanted dogs. And she’s fond of the spaniels – she’s always coying with Rufus. And I had them all in the wood, when the rain let up this afternoon. I bet she was on her way to the Hall when she picked up the scent of them and dashed into the wood. And if any dogs had chased her, I don’t think they’d have left her.’
Hugh, comforted by food and warmth, began to feel hopeful. He leaned back in the armchair Sarah had made him take and held out his bare feet to the fire, saying, ‘You’ve been marvellous to us both. Will it be all right to take her home now?’
‘Not tonight – you might get her wet again. And why not let me keep her for a week or so? Your mad aunt might let her out again.’
‘She might indeed. But how about the spaniels?’
‘I can shut her up far away from them. Oh, I’ll guarantee there’ll be no accidents here. I never had one when we still had our bitches.’
‘Well, if you really don’t mind…’
‘Love it, really. Do have some more to eat. I wish I’d a drink to offer you. Oh, the brandy!’
Hugh, who rather liked brandy after meals, said, ‘I will, if you will.’
‘All right, to keep you company. We’ll have to use my hot milk cup and the Thermos cap. Oh, there’s my tooth glass but that always smells of peppermint.’
‘I rather fancy the Thermos cap.’
She poured the brandy out and they sat sipping it. Hugh decided it wasn’t as good as the brandy his Uncle George sometimes gave him but it raised a pleasant glow. He said, ‘When I’ve finished this I must take myself off. It must be midnight.’
‘Not quite. We shall hear the stable clock. Oh, will Corinna be anxious about you?’
He explained about Corinna’s party. (She’d be at it now, of course; it seemed much more than a few hours since he’d seen her.)
Sarah said, ‘I might have guessed she wasn’t here or she’d have come with you to hunt for Penny. Have a spot more brandy.’
‘Hold hard, you’ll have me tight,’ said Hugh, unseriously. He prided himself on having rather a good head.
Sarah, having poured out the last of the brandy, settled on the hearthrug beside the sleeping Penny, with her tent-like garment spread around her. She had put on no dressing gown, and certainly none was needed over that vast, opaque nightgown of her grandmother’s. He must remember to describe it to Corinna – also to tell her about hearing Sarah practising unclenching. He decided not to tell Sarah he’d overheard her; it might embarrass her. Poor girl, she must mind a lot about her voice – as if it mattered, once one got to like her. Had she been clenching since he arrived? Probably, though he hadn’t noticed. He listened now, as they chatted. She was talking quietly but undoubtedly clenching.
It struck him that never before had he heard her talk so freely. As a rule, she was apt to prod him and Corinna with rather humble questions and hang on their answers; he had known little more about her than that, orphaned early, she had been brought up by her grandparents. Now, as she volunteered information, he realised what an isolated life she had led. She had been away to boarding school but only for three years. ‘Then I got ill and my grandmother decided I had outgrown my strength – whatever that may mean. So she kept me at home and got a governess – imagine! She was an antique but very highly qualified and she taught better than anyone at school had. Alas, the poor dear died when I was sixteen – and my grandmother died two years later, and my great-aunts died last year. Heavens, how I must be depressing you!’
But, curiously, it wasn’t depressing. Indeed, when she rattled on about the difficulties of her present life, she was often funny – not deliberately funny, he was sure; it was her flat statements and lack of self-pity which gave things a comic slant. Still, her quiet, clenched voice made for a certain monotony. Once he caught himself on the edge of sleep. He finished his brandy and set the Thermos cap down. He’d make a move just as soon as she came to the end of her story of last winter’s burst pipes.
He was awakened by a shaft of sunlight between incompletely drawn curtains. After a dazed few seconds he took in that the fire was out and that Sarah had now transferred herself and Penny to the bed. Both were fast asleep.
The shaft of sunlight obligingly showed the time by the clock on the mantel: 4.15.
Why hadn’t Sarah wakened him? Presumably she hadn’t had the heart to. He wondered how long she had gone on sitting by the fire. Probably not long; one soon got tired of sitting on the floor. It then occurred to him that if he could leave without waking her she might think he’d gone long before this. Not that it really mattered but it would be more, say, conventional to have cleared out while it was still dark. If one went before the sun rose, one had merely stayed until late at night. If one waited till dawn, one had stayed for the night.
He tiptoed to the bathroom for his clothes, which were nowhere near dry. He would, he decided, keep Sarah’s woollen pants, which were now split in several places; he’d ask Corinna to buy Sarah some more. Should he keep the sweater on, too? And could he possibly go home in the dressing gown? That, he felt, would not be a good idea, supposing anyone saw him. No, he must face his damp suit and shirt – and very uncomfortable they felt, and his half-dried shoes felt worse.
r />
Before leaving the bathroom he tore a sheet out of his pocket diary (damp) and wrote on it with its damp pencil.
Dear Sarah,
Please do forgive me – why ever didn’t you wake me up and sling me out? Thank you more than I can say. I won’t worry you tomorrow but please do come over if you can spare a minute. Again thank you,
Hugh
He hoped that ‘tomorrow’ might imply that he was leaving during the night – as he would have been, had it been winter.
He tiptoed to the bedside table and left his note. Dear Sarah was sleeping with her beautiful mouth slightly open. She had an arm, in its voluminous sleeve, holding the quilt in position over Penny, the top of whose head was just visible. There was a suggestion of mother and child which Hugh found both funny and moving.
Now to get out of the room – and he must close the door in case Penny got out or some spaniel got in. The handle – china, painted with rosebuds – turned almost silently. The hinges squeaked only a little.
Out in the corridor he listened: no sound came from the bedroom, he didn’t think he’d wakened Sarah. He hurried down the wide stairs.
The light was still on in the hall – probably Walter had left it on for him. He switched it off hoping this might give the impression that Sarah had seen him out. He couldn’t, of course, bolt the door after him but, judging by the rusty state of the bolts, he doubted if they were ever used. He closed the door quietly.
It would be quickest if he went diagonally across the park but he would then be in full view of anyone looking out of back bedrooms of the Dower House – just the kind of thing old Mildew would do. He made for the wood and then turned a sharp right angle. From there, he hoped, various trees would screen him.
Apart from his damp clothes – and his damp shoes were soon damper – he enjoyed the walk in the sparkling morning. There were still troughs of mist but they were already pierced by sunlight. Clumps of trees, rising above the mist, glittered with last night’s rain. Everywhere there was a curious mingling of mist and brilliance. Automatically, he wished that Corinna could see it all. And oh, the relief of knowing that Penny would be looked after – if it wasn’t too late. But he felt it wasn’t; Sarah’s reasoning had been good.
As a token of gratitude to Fate, he wouldn’t say one unkind word to Mildew. The silly old cow couldn’t help herself. Really, it was pathetic. The sex-starved old woman probably felt that, in letting Penny out to mate, she herself would somehow be mating – though she might not know this was in her mind. Anyway, he’d be pleasant to her, he swore he would.
He had just sworn it when he saw someone come out of the lilac grove and run into the park. At first he thought it was Corinna; she must, after all, have come down by a late train. How angelic of her to come out to meet him! But no, it wasn’t Corinna, though the short, fluttering negligée was very like one of hers. Good God, it was Mildew, and her feet were bare!
He dodged behind a clump of trees. Apart from the fact that he had no desire to see his great-aunt he felt it would embarrass her to see him. But she was coming quickly, doing a kind of running dance, and his cover was inadequate. In a few seconds she spotted him and, far from being embarrassed, ran eagerly towards him.
‘Oh, poor Hugh,’ she called out. ‘Haven’t you found her?’
He hastily assured her that he had found Penny and she was now safe at the Hall.
‘There you are,’ said Mildred blithely. ‘I knew she’d be all right. Such a fuss everyone made last night but I knew. At the Hall, did you say?’
‘Yes, Sarah’s taking care of her.’
‘Have you just come from the Hall now?’
He noticed the sudden excitement in her tone and said quickly, ‘Auntie, ought you to be out with bare feet? You’ll catch cold.’
‘Dew never hurt anyone,’ said Mildred. ‘Don’t try to put me off, Hugh. There’s no need. You see, I approve.’
‘Approve what?’ said Hugh, anger already surging up in him.
‘That beautiful dark girl’s much more suitable for you than Corinna. And I’m glad you’re not as saintly as I thought you were. But it shall be our secret. I promise you I won’t tell a soul.’
‘You can tell everyone in the world exactly what you bloody well like,’ Hugh shouted, now in a state of blind fury.
Her blue eyes widened and she gasped, ‘Oh, Hugh! Dearest Hugh!’
He was instantly contrite. He’d no right to swear at a dotty old woman, even if she did have a filthy mind. He said quietly, ‘Sorry, Auntie. But you’ve got it all wrong.’
‘Of course,’ said Mildred, sounding as if humouring a child. ‘I admire you for saying that. Any gentleman would. But it’s all right, dear Hugh. In fact, it’s very, very splendid.’
He started to speak but she interrupted. ‘Ssh, dear boy.’ She put her finger on her lips and looked roguish. ‘We won’t say another word about it. And now I must get on with my dabbling in the dew. I’ve so much to think about. But may I just say that I’ve never liked you so much? Dearest Hugh!’
To his dismay she dived at him and kissed him; it would have been on the mouth if he hadn’t dodged her. Then she was on her way, flinging her arms wide, as if she were a liberated spirit.
He gazed after her in sheer horror. Surely she was mad enough to be shut up? But he’d never heard even the most tentative suggestion of it. And presumably she never got violent.
He found it obscene that she should believe that he and Sarah… Did she really believe they’d been sleeping together?
He would have been surprised to know that what they’d been doing was of no great interest to Mildred. What mattered was what she intended to imagine them doing. At last she had a new toy. She could take it for walks, think about it before she fell asleep. And she felt sure it would be a lasting toy; she tired of some of them so quickly. But Hugh, this splendid new Hugh who had shouted at her, and that dark handsome girl… she would think about them all the coming week and then take them home with her.
She wouldn’t invent the first story yet. She was a little chilly in her fluttering negligée and she’d jabbed one foot on a stone. But this afternoon, she would take her thoughts about the passionate adventures of dear Hugh and dear Sarah for a very long walk.
16
In their taxi to Liverpool Street station the following Friday, George said to Hugh, ‘Oh, a bit of good news. Your aunt rang up to say that old Mildred’s going home tomorrow, instead of Monday. Some boarding house jollification she has to be back for.’
‘Lucky us – and unlucky boarding house.’
‘I gather they like her there. Well, she practically supports the place.’
‘Then I suppose we ought to give her good marks for generosity.’
‘If one didn’t feel there was a catch in it somehow,’ said George. He had only managed to keep his patience throughout the past week by turning on a bantering playfulness which frequently made him wince at himself, and he would be very, very glad to see the last of Mildew – that name, far from being outlawed, had increased in popularity.
Corinna met them at Liverpool Street. George thought his daughter looked tired. He asked if she’d been overworking.
‘A bit, perhaps. And it’s been so hot.’
‘Well, a heatwave’s better than the torrents of rain we had last weekend,’ said George. ‘And it’ll feel cooler in the country.’
Once they were settled in the train Corinna retired behind an evening paper, hunting for the notice of some play. Hugh, failing to concentrate on his own paper, found his thoughts about her as unsatisfactory as on the previous Friday’s train journey home.
He had expected her to arrive at the Dower House on the Saturday morning and had planned to tell her all about his adventures at the Hall; but she’d rung up to say she wasn’t coming. May brought this information when she arrived at the cottage to find out if there was any news of Penny. (Hugh’s report was true but distinctly curtailed; he had returned to the cottage without waking his
parents.)
Corinna, it seemed, was to spend the weekend at Sir Harry’s country house – ‘Oh, his wife’s there. It’s all quite respectable,’ May assured Hugh. He had barely taken this information in when Sarah arrived to ask him to lunch at the Hall. ‘Grandfather suggested it. You must have made a good impression last night.’
‘What, thickly coated with mud?’ said Hugh. ‘Not to mention dripping water all over his carpet.’
‘Nothing could make that carpet any worse than it is. Anyway, please do come. It’s so marvellous that he should ask to see someone. If you’d like to come back with me now we could take Penny for a walk together. She’s as good as new this morning – she must have a surprising lot of stamina.’
Hugh went, had an ecstatic reunion with Penny, and quite enjoyed his – very bad – lunch. At least, he enjoyed the first half of it. The old man was gentle and only a little vague. Hugh began to hope that, eventually, it might be practicable to talk about the estate, hint that quite a lot, still, might be done about it. (George thought so and was most willing to give advice.) But long before the meal was over, Mr Strange became quiet and rather more than vague. He even forgot who Hugh was. When reminded, he was apologetic and came back to life for a few minutes, then fell silent and looked unhappy. Sarah rang for Walter, saying, ‘Time for your nap, Grandfather.’ When Walter came it seemed that Mr Strange would leave without even saying goodbye to Hugh, but he finally looked back and said, in a perfectly normal manner, ‘So glad you could come. Come again.’