Dubious Legacy

  James said, ‘What magnanimity! Gosh!’

  ‘No gosh about it. Common manners.’ Barbara spread butter and marmalade while James stared at her, thinking, Valerie would never in a thousand years have thought of this. Valerie—

  ‘And speaking of manners,’ said Barbara, biting her toast, ‘you haven’t even said good morning, James, sitting there stuffing bacon and eggs.’ She laughed, aware that on the snakes and ladders of courtship she had moved up one.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to take a picnic to the lake and swim,’ suggested James, ‘after visiting Margaret? Just us. Walking hand in hand?’ He watched her reaction. ‘Spend the day?’ he said. ‘Together?’

  ‘Love to, but first we must go up there.’ Barbara pointed in the direction of the ceiling.

  James said, ‘Very well,’ and, leaning across the table, kissed her. ‘Good morning, Barbara.’ Barbara looked pleased. She had walked with Henry holding her hand last night and it had been strangely agreeable, yet earlier, sitting with Hector and Calypso, he had been as cruel as his wife made out; James would not be cruel. Inept, yes, but not cruel. Nor would he indulge in call-girls.

  Matthew said, ‘If it’s OK by you, Pilar, Antonia and I will picnic. Or we could get lunch in the pub if you’d like that?’ Antonia nodded. ‘We can sit on one side of the lake while you sit on the other,’ he said to James. ‘But what about Henry? Shouldn’t we—’

  ‘’E is working on the hay with Trask. ’E said, you amuse yourselves.’ Pilar grilled bacon for Matthew’s toast.

  ‘And Ebro?’ Matthew asked. If James had not absorbed Barbara’s hint about manners, he would show that he was not lacking. ‘How is Ebro?’

  ‘’E cleared up last night’s mess and went back to London. ’E has work.’ Pilar, amused, let her eyes travel from Matthew to James. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘with this good start you all have as happy marriage as Hector and Calypso. Your breakfast.’ She put Matthew’s plate in front of him.

  ‘But Calypso only married Hector because he’s rich,’ Antonia and Barbara chorused. ‘She was not in love with Hector, Pilar.’

  ‘That’s what she says.’ Pilar showed her horsey teeth. ‘Is joke.’

  ‘He loves her, that’s possible, she did after all give him a son. But she? Oh no, Pilar, it was for money, definitely.’

  ‘Is good marriage,’ said Pilar tartly. ‘See if you can do as well.’

  ‘She is foreign, of course,’ said James as he climbed the stairs with Barbara. ‘Foreigners have peculiar standards.’

  Barbara said, ‘Hum. Yes, I dare say.’

  Left with Matthew, Antonia said, ‘All the same, there is something about the Grants that is enviable. Apart from their money, I mean.’

  Irritated, for his stomach was still unsettled, Matthew said, ‘One might as well envy that pair of queens who were here last night.’

  Antonia grinned. ‘They seemed happy, though.’ Tamping down a smidgin of doubt, faint residue of last night’s rage, she said, ‘Come on, eat up, Matthew. Let’s get cracking and have a wonderful day.’

  ‘Shall we get it over, then?’ James caught Barbara’s eye as they stood, hesitating, at the top of the stairs.

  Barbara, taking a deep breath, said, ‘Yes,’ and nerving herself tapped on Margaret’s door, then without pausing for an answer walked in. She would show James that she was strong, not to be trifled with, that she was not in the same league as Valerie, if indeed Valerie existed. She would show James that she was no nincompoop who believed tall stories invented by a dangerous lunatic who danced on tables, strangled cockatoos and ripped up Dior dresses.

  ‘We have come to see how you are,’ she said, advancing into the room, ‘after the party. Not too tired, we hope?’ she said, trying to keep her voice sympathetic and non-belligerent.

  My word, thought James, she’s plucky, she has a splendid nerve. Bully for her, that’s my girl.

  ‘Oh, do come in,’ said Margaret. ‘How nice to see you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Wasn’t it a splendid party? I did enjoy it. Isn’t Henry wonderful to plan a surprise like that? He is so good to me, so kind.’ She lay against her pillows and smiled at her visitors. ‘It’s lovely to see you, do sit down, my dears. How are the other two?’

  ‘Gone out,’ said James and sat quickly on a small gold chair to enjoy the spectacle of Barbara coping with this volte-face.

  Barbara, fearing for the small chair, positioned herself on the sofa and drew a deep breath.

  ‘They are so in love, those two,’ said Margaret. ‘As you must be.’ She smiled at Barbara and then at James. ‘It is good of you to come and see me, I am pleased.’ Margaret watched them. She looked rather younger than last night and more beautiful. Her hair lay loose on her shoulders, her eyes sparkled like silver in her pale face, her mouth this morning wore no lipstick. ‘It’s a joy to watch young people in love,’ she said. ‘Rewarding.’ She savoured the word and repeated it. ‘Rewarding.’

  James crossed his legs and cleared his throat. Barbara said, ‘We—’

  ‘I have been thinking,’ Margaret said, ‘in the night. I am not a good sleeper, you know. How nice it would be if you all came more often. It would be wonderful for me, and company for Henry. He gets lonely. Not that he complains, oh no, but with me always in bed, and he works so hard on his wretched farm, he needs people of his own sort, not just Spanish servants and poor old Trask—’

  James cleared his throat. ‘Didn’t Trask work for Henry’s father?’

  ‘If you call it work, yes. Some people say, or shall I say, it has been said? There’s a subtle difference. I believe that Trask is really Henry’s uncle. You know how those old country families get mixed up with their tenants. Tenanting is the word, I think.’

  ‘I think that’s rubbish,’ said Barbara from the sofa. ‘They aren’t in the least alike.’

  Margaret said, ‘No, of course they are not. Silly me. I just love a bit of embroidery. What a nice literal girl you are. I got a rise, though, didn’t I?’ And she winked at James.

  James uncrossed his legs.

  ‘What it amounts to,’ said Margaret, ‘is that Trask should be pensioned off, but Henry won’t hear of it, he’s too soft. The man’s got his old age pension, but no, Henry won’t. He can’t afford a proper man, he spends so much on me, the house is shamefully shabby, and last night was pathetic or should I say bathetic; he wore his grandfather’s clothes because he can’t or won’t afford new ones. Then he gives that party! So generous. So kind! His generosity is boundless. How can I repay him?’

  Barbara opened her mouth.

  James said, ‘I—’

  ‘I do try to economize,’ said Margaret. ‘I only have my face done once a month, and that’s for Henry’s sake. I tell him he should let part of the house or take paying guests, but he won’t hear of that. He insists he will only have his friends. I tell him other people make their friends pay, but he won’t listen. Good Lord,’ Margaret went on, ‘if all his friends who bring their girls for weekends paid their whack—and it’s not always the same girls—are you uncomfortable, James?’ she asked, for James had risen.

  ‘Afraid my weight would break the chair,’ said James urbanely. ‘My mother used to scream at me if I sat on unsubstantial but precious chairs. I was about to move to the sofa and put my arm round the girl I bring down for weekends.’ And he suited the action to the word, encircling Barbara with his arm. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we mustn’t tire you; we only popped in for a minute. We are going to picnic by the lake and swim, if it’s warm enough.’

  ‘Then I mustn’t keep you. Have a good time.’ Margaret seemed to lose interest.

  ‘I couldn’t get a word in edgeways,’ said Barbara as they walked downstairs.

  ‘One would think,’ said James, as they set off across the fields to the lake, ‘that nothing out of the ordinary took place last night.’

  ‘I do mourn that dress,’ said Barbara.

  ‘I promise I will buy you one. You are a brave and spl
endid girl.’ James stopped, put his arms round her and kissed her warmly.

  Barbara said, ‘That’s nice, do it again.’

  ‘I feel,’ said James, ‘what the French call emu. What’s the word in English?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Barbara, kissing him. They walked on hand in hand.

  James said, ‘Actually, it’s rather a good idea.’

  Barbara said, ‘What is? Buying me a dress?’

  ‘No. What she suggested. Coming here as paying guests, we could sort of share. It would be cheaper than a cottage and Pilar keeps it running, anyway.’

  Barbara said, ‘James!’

  James said, ‘If we did pay, just a bit, not all that much, we could come whenever we wanted, not wait to be invited.’

  ‘James, she’s a crazy woman.’

  ‘It isn’t a crazy suggestion. I shall think it over. We could come here often and bring the children.’

  Barbara said, ‘What children?’

  ‘Ours, silly. I shall talk to Matthew. Henry may have discussed it all with Margaret.’

  ‘They are not on those terms,’ said Barbara.

  ‘You never know what goes on between married people,’ James said sententiously.

  Barbara grinned and said, ‘What a funny mind you have.’

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’ James eyed her sharply.

  ‘You’ll find out when we are married.’ She laughed.

  ‘And if you don’t like sailing, you could come here while I sail.’ James spoke half to himself.

  ‘Or go shopping chez Dior,’ said Barbara. ‘Super!’

  James made no reply but took her hand.

  ‘There’s the lake,’ said Barbara, ‘over there, look.’

  James said, ‘I wonder what it’s like to swim in?’

  Barbara said, ‘Let’s find out,’ remembering and keeping to herself her magical swim of the day before.

  ‘There are the others,’ said James. ‘Let’s go the other side; they will want to be on their own. I dare say Antonia wants to make it up to Matthew, she behaved rather badly last night.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Not liking her tone, James said, ‘She called him—’

  ‘Wet,’ said Barbara, ‘and he was.’

  ‘Barbara.’ James was stirred by masculine loyalty. ‘Matthew is not the sort to be wet—’

  Scenting trouble, Barbara said, ‘Why don’t we strip? I can see that the others have.’ And I wonder how I compare with Valerie, she thought, as she took off her clothes.

  But James was not comparing her with Valerie. ‘You are lovely,’ he said, ‘absolutely smashing,’ and tried to catch her before she dived. I am a lucky fellow, he thought, nipping out of his trousers.

  Catching up with Barbara in mid-lake, James trod water. ‘Let me kiss you,’ he said, and when they had kissed, ‘I shall ask Matthew what he thinks.’

  ‘About what?’ She shook the water from her ears.

  ‘Sharing Henry’s house.’

  ‘Not a good idea.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Antonia won’t think so,’ Barbara jeered.

  ‘I bet you are wrong there and Henry—’

  ‘Do we share Henry as well as his house? I’m getting cold, I’m going in.’ She swam for the bank.

  James shouted, ‘Don’t be like that,’ and followed her. ‘It would help Henry,’ he said as he climbed the bank.

  Barbara said, ‘I don’t see how, and I am like that.’

  James said, ‘I don’t want to argue.’ It suddenly seemed of vital importance to get his own way. He had rarely got his own way with Valerie.

  ‘Ask Matthew then and see what Antonia says.’ Barbara. dried herself and stepped into her knickers. ‘Hand me my sweater,’ she said, ‘I am cold.’

  ‘Matthew will see the sense of it, leap at the idea. And Antonia—’

  ‘Antonia will say, You must be joking,’ scoffed Barbara. ‘That you are out of your tiny mind.’ Suddenly an argument which had started half-joking became serious. It had not occurred to James that men in couples engaged or married did not run the show, but here was Barbara overruling him.

  ‘Let’s go and ask them,’ said James, who had put on his shoes. ‘Race you round the lake.’

  Barbara, with one shoe on and one shoe off, watched him run; he ran well, she thought. He looked rather splendid. She pulled on her shoe and ambled good-naturedly in his wake. ‘I should have hurried,’ she said later to Antonia, ‘put on a spurt.’

  ‘It would have made no odds,’ her friend replied.

  Arriving, Barbara found that James had set his idea in train and Matthew was listening. One of the things Barbara had yet to discover about James was that in matters of business he could be both brief and imaginative. Matthew, sitting by the lake on a hot summer day, was enthusiastic.

  ‘It could work a treat,’ he said. ‘Save everybody a lot of trouble.’

  ‘How d’you work that out?’ asked Antonia.

  ‘And money,’ said Matthew, ignoring her. ‘Syndicates are the thing these days.’

  James said, ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Nice to be near friends,’ said Matthew.

  ‘What friends?’ asked Antonia.

  ‘The Grants—’

  ‘You hardly know them,’ said Antonia.

  ‘Don’t quibble, darling.’ Matthew stretched out and took her hand.

  ‘What about Margaret?’ Barbara had not yet spoken.

  ‘You saw her yourself this morning,’ said James.

  ‘And how was she?’ asked Antonia.

  ‘As kind and normal as any country house hostess I’ve ever come across. Barbara will bear me out on that. Very concerned for Henry. She thinks he overworks; she thinks he’s lonely. Actually, in a way, it was she who started the idea. I suspect she worries about the place getting run down and leaps at the idea of putting a bit of life into it.’

  ‘That’s not what she said,’ said Barbara.

  ‘It’s what she meant,’ said James.

  Barbara, thinking of Margaret and the insinuations she had made when she and Antonia had visited her first, opened her mouth to speak but closed it; it was not for her to resurrect Valerie or spread rumours of Henry’s sexual mores.

  ‘You must admit,’ James was saying, ‘that she couldn’t have been nicer this morning.’

  ‘But what about last night?’ said Antonia.

  ‘Some sort of crise,’ said James. ‘A joke which turned sour, something like that.’

  Antonia and Barbara exchanged glances.

  ‘No harm in putting the idea to Henry,’ said Matthew, yawning. ‘Are you going to swim again? There’s a lot to be said for a private lake. I’m going in. Race you across, James.’

  Barbara stood with her friend watching the young men swim naked, racing like seals.

  Antonia said, ‘They shrink in cold water.’

  Barbara said, ‘What?’ and as Antonia did not reply she said reproachfully, ‘You did not put up much of a fight.’

  ‘Because I’m not altogether against it,’ said Antonia and began to laugh. ‘Oh my, my!’ she said, laughing. ‘I foresee repercussions.’

  PART THREE 1958

  NINETEEN

  ‘DON’T LET HER TAKE all the best veg this weekend, you know what she’s like.’ Jonathan eased his back and leaned on his hoe.

  ‘Don’t hoe any deeper than that,’ said John. ‘Remember the carrot-fly.’

  ‘She’s avaricious,’ agreed his older friend. ‘My poor back,’ he said, ‘is giving me gyp. What time are they coming?’

  ‘They usually arrive about six to suit infant Susan’s bedtime, as you well know,’ sighed John.

  ‘Ah,’ said the older man, ‘that baby! If we don’t watch out, she will have those carrots. It isn’t only your back; mine is in sympathetic agony,’ he said, stretching. The friends laid their hoes aside and relaxed on a seat under a fig tree.

  It was four years since the summer dinner party; ther
e had been changes at Cotteshaw. For eighteen months now the Jonathans had rented the walled garden from Henry, adding its produce to that of their own cottage and retailing it from a stall at the local market, along with their hams, sausages, bacon, eggs, chickens and herbs.

  ‘If we don’t watch out she will have those carrots,’ repeated John crossly. ‘I spotted her eyeing them last week. It’s a sin to mash baby carrots, let’s fob her off with spinach. It’s supposed to be good for infants.’

  ‘An exploded myth,’ said the older man. ‘But she won’t know,’ he added cheerfully.

  The ‘she’ the Jonathans referred to was Antonia Stephenson, who nowadays came regularly with Matthew and their baby for weekends to occupy a pair of bedrooms they had redecorated with Ebro’s help, and make free with the drawing room and other downstairs rooms, as did James and Barbara who came less regularly, but whose foothold at Cotteshaw was equally strong.

  ‘She told Pilar that she wants another child,’ said John, puffing out a moustache longer and more luxuriant than it had been at the party; it almost concealed his lower lip.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Jonathan. ‘As if the world was not over-populated. I bet it’s Matthew, not Antonia, who wants it. Antonia’s not particularly maternal.’

  ‘Matthew wants a son; poor little Susie is the wrong sex,’ said the younger man. ‘Does Antonia know Henry is away, one wonders?’

  ‘The absence of Henry is balanced by Pilar,’ said Jonathan. ‘Their au pair has the weekend off and Pilar is potty about babies and takes the little mite off her parents’ hands.’

  ‘Lucky mite.’ The two men surveyed their rows of spring vegetables: trim, neat, succulent, geometric; their oeuvre.

  ‘We shall get a fine crop of figs,’ said the younger man, looking up into the tree. ‘Babies don’t like figs.’

  ‘Nor do they like artichokes,’ said his friend.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t we pull these carrots now? Then, what the eye doesn’t see, the heart won’t miss.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Jonathan, getting to his feet. ‘She has to learn. Last year she and Matthew scooped the lot. We’ll tell her they had carrot-fly and we lost the crop; she knows nothing about gardening.’