The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

  ‘Hurry up!’ he muttered, leaping back into the car. ‘Grove Family.’

  Inigo is addicted to the Grove Family, but we don’t have a television so he has to go and watch it at Mrs Daunton’s house in the village. She talks through the show and Inigo ignores her. It’s an arrangement that seems to suit both parties rather well.

  We sped off home, arriving back in the village in no more than seven minutes. My mind drifted to Christopher and Aunt Clare’s perfectly accurate comment on his ability to gossip. What on earth had happened between him and Aunt Clare in Rome? I would be far too shy to ask him straight out. And wasn’t Aunt Clare still married until last year? I was so deep in thought that I didn’t even notice that Inigo had stopped the car at the bottom of the drive.

  ‘If you whizz out here, I can still make the start of the programme,’ said Inigo. I opened the passenger door.

  ‘How kind. It’s such a mild evening,’ I yelled, as the wind whipped the words out of my mouth.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  I glared at my brother, but he just grinned at me so I walked away before he could see me smiling too. Inigo is impossible to stay angry with for long. In fact, I felt like a walk. The drive is almost my favourite part of the whole estate, though walking up to the house on a stormy night can be a little bit scary. That evening I rounded the corner that gives the first proper view of the house and imagined what Charlotte would think of Magna. It is a house with a dual personality. Once you have taken in the thrill of the medieval building, there’s the extra bit that was added to the equation in 1625 — a vast wing stuck onto the side of the house where Renaissance panelling replaced bare stone and marble replaced oak. My Great-Aunt Sarah recorded in her diary that the East Wing looked as though someone’s starry-eyed friend had arrived at Magna with a new quill and a fresh sheet of paper and instructions to ‘lighten the place up a bit’. I think she thought she was being funny — after all, she was referring to Inigo Jones, my brother’s namesake. It wasn’t until I was about fourteen that I realised how famous he had been, how important his work was. Until then, aunts, uncles, historians, servants, tenants and trippers all had opinions on Magna that ensured we knew the house was more important than its inhabitants.

  That’s one of the oddest things about living in a house of Magna’s size and reputation — everyone feels entitled to air their views about the place. Indeed it inspires the most awkward questions from people who should know better than to ask. I will never forget my first-year art mistress quizzing me over the remarkable Stubbs in the study and did I know precisely which year it had been painted? Oh, the rearing pony with the funny fetlocks? I said brightly. That was sold last year to pay for the roof Miss Davidson’s thin face paled and I realised that perhaps this was the sort of information I should be keeping to myself.

  Eight years later, there was little of any worth left at Magna. The only way to pay for the damage done by the army, who had requisitioned the house during the war for four long years, was to sell what was left inside to pay for the outside. When Papa died it set the clocks ticking throughout the house with an added chill — death duties came even to the families of those who died heroes. I did not understand this at the time, only that it seemed odd to have to give away money just when we had lost Papa. And Mama was hopeless with money — she never stopped finding ways to lose it.

  I flung open the hall door and shivered. The Great Hall at Magna is the first thing that anyone sees when they arrive at the house, and it takes some getting used to. I have to remember every time someone new arrives that they are likely to take a few minutes to get accustomed to it. Steadfastly medieval, and weighty with dark, panelled wood and low windows, it is dominated by ten life-size wooden figures, arms stretched up to support the ceiling. Apparently, they were carved to represent the master masons who built Magna, a motley crew indeed. Inigo always says that the hall is the sort of place that any self-respecting ghost would avoid like the plague. Suits of armour stand to attention in every corner, and where there is no room for another family portrait a set of antlers hangs proud. A huge bearskin rug covers the floor in front of the fireplace, teeth bared, eyes wide open and staring. The bear was a present from my great-great-grandfather to his future wife (‘No wonder she died young,’ said Mama) and its long claws used to scare me so much that I could never be in the room on my own for fear that it would come back to life, just to get me. As a result of my fear, Mama made sure that when we had a telephone installed in the hall, it was placed right next to the bear skin, so convinced was she that he would encourage me to finish my calls quickly. She wasn’t wrong. There were other stuffed animals scattered about the room — a polar bear by the staircase, a zebra skin by the front door — all of which served to make the hall not exactly welcoming, but also not the sort of place that anyone forgets. The whole effect is pulled together by a vast fireplace — five children could stand upright inside it during the summer, yet during the winter, despite being constantly on the burn, it seemed incapable of throwing out much heat.

  I stood in the hall and yelled out that I was home and no one responded with any interest at all, so I poked at the fire for a bit until I realised that if I didn’t hurry up, I wouldn’t have time to change before supper, something about which Mama was fanatical. I raced up the stairs, two at a time, and careered into the East Wing. ‘Thank God for Inigo Jones,’ Mama used to say to us, and I rather agreed with her. In the East Wing, one didn’t feel as though there were ghosts listening through keyholes to your every word; or at least, if there were ghosts, they were likely to be well dressed and elegant with an eye for a good bit of plasterwork.

  Splashing cold water on my face, I wondered whether to mention my peculiar afternoon to my peculiar family. Best not to, I decided. I didn’t want my mother to tell me that Aunt Clare was a ‘ghastly woman’. All women were ghastly in my mother’s opinion, and those whom she had not met (or could not recall meeting) sounded ghastly. Men were either ‘very plain’ or ‘devastating’ and there was simply no in between. I pulled on a clean skirt, squirted on some of the scent Uncle George had brought me from Paris and applied a slash of red lipstick to my mouth and cheeks. My mother liked me made up.

  ‘It’s duck,’ called Inigo from outside my bedroom door, ‘so expect the worst.’

  I groaned. There is always a scene when there’s duck for supper.

  I ran downstairs to the dining room. The dining room feels about as medieval as you can get — rows of gargoyles peering down from the ceiling and that sort of thing — but it’s surprisingly light with tall windows that were forced into the nine-foot-thick walls when siege warfare went out of fashion. The stony silences of Duck Suppers don’t fit the room at all; its atmosphere recalls the sound of tankards clanging together, merrye musick from the lute and people shouting across the table as they gnaw on the bones of ye suckling pig. I found Mama already seated at the table. Wearing her least favourite dress — a long, grey wool number that itched and brought her up in a rash — she succeeded in looking both livid and bored. I sank into my chair (fearfully uncomfortable; no wonder no one ever lingered over their port at Magna) and beamed at her.

  ‘Duck tonight,’ she announced heavily.

  ‘Why, Mama? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Apart from that appalling, cheap scent you’re wearing? I cannot even begin to think when my head is swimming in French Ferns.’

  ‘You said you liked it last weekend.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Inigo waltzed in, shirt half unbuttoned and black hair flopping over his eye. I braced myself.

  ‘Lovely evening,’ he said, kissing my mother on the cheek ‘Don’t you just adore this time of year?’

  He pulled out his chair and sat down. Inigo is the sort of person who makes a big performance out of the simplest of tasks, exaggerating every move until those in the room with him start to wonder when on earth it will end. That night he chose to elongate the act of stubbing out his cigarette
so that by the time the deed was done, I felt quite exhausted just watching him. Once he had finished this, he moved on to the equally dramatic act of placing his napkin on his lap; unfurling it from its neat folds, whipping it into the air, then spreading it carefully over his trousers. We watched all this with irritation (Mama) and suppressed giggle (me). By the time he had finished, our housekeeper Mary had served us the wretched duck, tonight combined with boiled potatoes and whole roasted onions. Mary knew Duck Suppers meant trouble and bolted back to the kitchen as fast as her arthritis would allow. I was not hungry, but knew that the sooner supper was over, the sooner I could get on with the important business of pondering over Charlotte, Aunt Clare and Harry. I thought I would look them up in Debrett before I went to bed. Where was our copy of Debrett anyway? Duck Suppers were a terrible bore, I thought. But tonight I was certain that nothing my mother said was likely have much impact over the resounding din of my imagination.

  ‘How was your class today. Penelope?’ Mama asked me, her voice soft and steady. I looked her in the eye, which tends to unnerve her in these situations.

  ‘Pretty bearable, thank you, Mama. I think I’m getting to grips with it all.’

  Mama said nothing, but speared a ring of onion on to her fork.

  ‘What I mean is that I’m starting to understand what he’s trying to say,’ I added.

  ‘And what is he trying to say?’ she asked absent-mindedly.

  ‘In Antony and Cleopatra, I think he’s telling us that love conquers all. Fear, death, war, age — everything kneels, humbled, in the presence of love.’ I felt Charlotte cheering me on.

  ‘What soupy rubbish you talk, Penelope. I don’t know where you get it from,’ said Mama, glaring and shaking the salt liberally over her plate.

  ‘Actually, I quite like that,’ remarked Inigo.

  I chewed on a boiled potato. The draught blew energetically around my feet and I scrunched them up in my shoes. I thought wistfully of Aunt Clare’s suffocating study. Mama took a deep breath.

  ‘I took your dress shoes into town to be mended today, Inigo,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And I’ve ordered you two new pillowcase to march the pair I gave you for your birthday. Penelope. Harrods had them in a green and white check as well as the pink and white. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘I don’t mind, Mama.’

  She stared at her potatoes, offended.

  ‘I think perhaps the green and white,’ I added hurriedly. ‘They — they go beautifully with my nightie.’

  Inigo snorted. Then my mother put down her knife and fork with a clatter and bit her bottom lip. I glanced at Inigo who nodded his head slightly. It was coming. The reason for tonight’s Duck Supper. I held my breath.

  ‘Johns was up on the roof this afternoon assessing the damage above the Long Gallery,’ said Mama. ‘It seems the storm did more harm than we thought. He’s talking of attempting the repairs himself, but it’s impossible. Everything’s impossible.’

  Here was the theme of tonight’s meal. I suppose I should have expected it, but it alarmed me all the same. Money. Or the lack of it. Of course we had heard her talking about it before, but never as the subject of a Duck Supper. This was something quite different. This required a proper reaction.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, idiotically.

  She looked at me, her face suddenly soft and full of an emotion I dimly recognised as pity.

  ‘Darling, we have no money,’ she repeated. ‘Can I make it any easier for you to understand?’ Like the curious pause that takes place before blood seeps out from a cut finger, we all sat quite still, listening to the wind bashing the lower branches of the cherry tree against the window, waiting for the inevitable to happen. She sniffed and pulled a hanky from her woollen sleeve.

  ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.’ Inigo could never bear to see her undone. Personally, I found it strangely comforting. She rarely cried, actually. He dragged his chair close to hers and put his arm round her. A great, silent tear dropped from her eye and onto her untouched duck. She twisted her hanky into a ball.

  ‘I miss him,’ she whispered. I don’t think that Inigo heard her, but I did. My stomach seemed to lurch with love for her then; my ridiculous, beautiful, confusing mother. I pushed away my chair and crouched down on her other side, pulling her close to me.

  ‘It’s nearly summer,’ I said in a shaking voice. ‘Then we won’t mind about the cold and the garden will look wonderful. We could hold another fête here, couldn’t we? Or a gymkhana? Didn’t everyone say what a success the gymkhana was last year? Magna won’t let us starve.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Inigo. ‘Magna won’t let us starve.’

  My mother kissed my hand. ‘Darling girl,’ she said. She kissed Inigo’s forehead. ‘Darling boy.’ she said.

  I held on to that moment for as long as I could. If I close my eyes I can see us now, three crouched-up little figures so tiny in the vast dining room, raking up so little space round the long table, dwarfed by the high ceiling and the long, rattling window panes of the dining room. I imagined my father walking into the room and seeing us there; his children lost without him and his darling Talitha looking up slowly as if she knew all along that he was going to come back to her. I had got into the habit of picturing him as a sort of cross between James Stewart and James Dean, in beautifully cut dinner jacket, dressed for a wonderful party, shoes polished, a cigarette in one hand, glass of whisky in the other. Yet I knew the image was wrong because Papa never smoked. The shrill bell of the telephone caught all of us unaware. Inigo spilt my mother’s glass of wine, and she sat bolt upright, green eyes flashing. She thinks it’s him, I thought, just as we all do.

  A moment later, Mary announced that there was a young lady on the phone, calling for Miss Penelope. Inigo raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘May I take the call, Mama?’

  ‘Who on earth calls at this time?’

  But I had already shot out of the dining room.

  ‘Hello?’ I was back in the hall again, teeth chattering with cold and curiosity. The colder the hall, the shorter the call was one of my mother’s favourite mantras.

  ‘Hello? Penelope? Is that you? It’s Charlotte here. Charlotte Ferris. We met today at tea, you came with me to—’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. I’m sorry to call so late. Were you in the middle of something?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

  ‘It does. You were having supper, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But really, it’s quite all right.’

  ‘What were you eating?’

  ‘Duck.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a pause, then Charlotte spoke again, her voice as clear and calm as it had been at the bus stop.

  Aunt Clare thought you were quite the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I just thought I’d telephone and tell you so. It’s always nice to hear that one’s made a good impression, isn’t it?’

  ‘Gosh, I suppose so.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Well, that’s that then. I just wanted to thank you again. You know — for sharing the taxi and coming to tea and everything. And to say I’m sorry if you found Harry difficult. We caught him at a tricky time this afternoon.’

  I could hear Mama’s heels clicking on the dining-room floor and felt suddenly desperate. What if I put down the phone and never spoke to Charlotte again? I took a deep breath.

  ‘Why don’t you come and stay? Next weekend perhaps. It’ll be — it’ll be — fun.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘At Milton Magna Hall?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Heavens, Penelope, we’d love to.’

  ‘We?’ I asked stupidly.

  ‘Oh, Harry would love it so much. It’s just the thing to take his mind off Marina’s wedding. It would be perfect if we could come together.’

  ‘You’re both absolutely invited,’ I said firml
y, pushing aside my horror. ‘The train on Friday night arrive at Westbury at five twenty-nine. I’ll send Johns to meet you. Look out for the beaten-up Ford.’

  ‘Oh, the thrill of it all!’

  ‘Oh, and Charlotte—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How on earth did you know my name? I forgot to ask you when we said goodbye.’

  ‘Name tape, darling. Sewn into the label of your coat. I saw it when we swapped. Penelope Wallace. Seconds House.’

  ‘Oh.’ Something in me was disappointed that there was such a logical explanation.

  ‘I wish I’d been to boarding school. You have no idea how dull it was to go to school in London. I always longed to be gossiping in the dorm and organising midnight feasts around the swimming pool.’

  ‘You’ve read too much Enid Blyton. It was nothing at all like that.’

  ‘At least humour me,’ sighed Charlotte, ‘and please tell me what I should bring with me.’

  ‘Twelve pairs of socks. It’s colder than the Arctic Circle at the moment,’ I said, remembering what Aunt Clare had said about Harry’s stamina.

  ‘Socks. Twelve pairs. I’m writing it down now. Anything else?’

  The bear skin was eyeing me evilly, and Inigo, who was almost as nosy as Mama, was hovering only a few feet away from me.