‘And what did Barbara say?’
‘I felt I could kill her. I was drunk, of course, I freely admit it.’
‘And cross with Matthew.’
‘Cross! Murderous!’ Antonia wailed. ‘Don’t laugh, you two.’
‘We are not laughing,’ they said as they dissolved into helpless giggles. ‘It’s a tragic story,’ they cried. ‘Terrible. What next?’
‘I thought, to hell with it, to hell with them all. I went upstairs, I collected Susie, wrapped her in a blanket, put her in the car and drove off into the night, and came to rest in the Grants’ herbaceous border.’
‘But what had Barbara said?’ cried Jonathan ‘What?’
‘Barbara said she couldn’t talk now, she and James were catching the midnight train from Victoria for Paris.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘HERE COMES HENRY, I wonder what he wants.’ Maisie Bullivant watched a car approach up their drive.
‘It isn’t Henry,’ said her husband, glancing up from his newspaper.
‘It’s Henry’s old Bentley, stupid.’
‘Matthew Stephenson’s driving.’
‘But he has his own car,’ said Maisie. ‘I told you it was time to get your eyes tested.’
‘Test or no test, that’s Matthew.’ Peter put his paper aside and rose to his feet. ‘Bye, bye, Sabbath peace,’ he groaned.
‘I wish people wouldn’t drop in before I’ve done my face,’ said Maisie as Peter went to meet Matthew.
‘Hullo, Matthew, what can we do for you?’ Peter had reached the hall.
Matthew came in. ‘You don’t happen to have seen Antonia? Good morning, Maisie,’ he said, looking round the room.
‘I was just going to do my face,’ said Maisie. ‘What’s happened, have you lost her? You look terrible,’ she said, ‘really terrible.’
‘Not lost, mislaid,’ said Matthew. ‘I hoped she’d be here.’
‘She’s not,’ said Peter. ‘Do sit down.’ Matthew was already slumped in an armchair. ‘Where has she gone?’
‘If I knew where she’d gone, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ Matthew raised his voice. ‘God! How stupid can you get?’
Peter Bullivant swallowed. ‘Have you tried the Jonathans?’
‘Of course I’ve tried the Jonathans,’ Matthew shouted.
I must keep my cool, Peter thought. ‘Not there?’ he said.
‘Would I be here if she’d been there?’ ‘No need to be aggressive, Matthew,’ said Maisie, wounded. Matthew said, ‘Sorry, I’m half out of my mind. She took the child with her.’ ‘Took little Susie?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Why ever should she do that?’ ‘She’s its mother,’ said Peter. Matthew said, ‘I wish I had not come here,’ and rose to go—
‘No, no, don’t go, we want to help,’ exclaimed Maisie.
‘Please tell us what happened; we sound stupid because we don’t know. Even stupider than usual,’ she added humbly.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked. ‘Or a drink?’
‘I’ll get him a drink,’ said Peter. ‘He’s had a shock of some sort.’
Matthew watched Peter leave the room and listened to the clink of glass against decanter in the next room.
Maisie thought, He’s too upset to notice I haven’t done my face. ‘Have you tried Mrs. Watson at the Post Office?’ she asked helpfully. ‘She never misses anything.’
Matthew said, ‘I’ve tried Mrs. Watson at the Post Office, I’ve tried the whole bloody neighbourhood, now I’ve come to you.’
‘Last resort,’ said Maisie sadly.
Peter handed Matthew a stiffish whisky. Matthew gulped the whisky, then said, ‘Sorry to be so rude, I am terribly anxious.’
Maisie said, ‘Of course you are. Could you try and—’
‘I love my wife,’ said Matthew violently and took another swallow. ‘I love her.’
‘Did she take the car?’ asked Peter. ‘You driving Henry’s old thing suggests—’
‘Of course she took the car.’
‘Gone to mother?’
‘You don’t know her mother.’ Matthew snorted.
‘Ah. No. We don’t know her mother or for that matter her father,’ said Peter. ‘So you don’t think she’d go to them? The Lowthers?’
‘No.’
‘What about Barbara?’ Maisie brightened. ‘She and Barbara are so close. That would be London, of course.’
‘Tried her first, there was no one there.’ Matthew put his glass down. ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God!’
‘She wouldn’t do anything silly?’ suggested Maisie.
‘Like suicide? No,’ said Matthew. ‘No.’
‘Of course not, not with little Susie.’
‘I don’t see why little Susie should avert it,’ said Peter. ‘One reads—’
Matthew said, ‘I’m drunk,’ and began to cry. ‘You topped me up,’ he accused.
‘Oh dear,’ Maisie said. ‘Oh, Peter, how could you?’
Peter did not reply.
After a bit Matthew said, ‘Henry has no sense of morality.’
Peter said, ‘We are not with you. How does Henry come into this?’
Spacing his words, Matthew said, ‘Henry went to London yesterday, right? Henry goes to London from time to time and he comes back bringing Margaret a present, which Margaret either chucks at his head or at someone else. You with me?’
‘Yes,’ they said, ‘just about. It’s common knowledge.’
‘Margaret’s a beautiful woman; she joined us at dinner.’
‘So she got out of bed?’ Maisie was astounded.
‘Must have done if she joined them at dinner.’ Peter was withering. ‘Go on, Matthew.’
‘I was sorry for Margaret,’ Matthew said. ‘She does not have much of a life.’
‘It’s of her own choosing,’ said Peter.
Maisie said, ‘I chose you and I don’t have—’
‘Shut up, Maisie. Carry on, Matthew,’ said Peter.
‘Henry gave her wine. We’d been drinking a rather good claret,’ said Matthew. ‘I sat beside her and tried to jolly her up. She drank her wine, she may even have had something to eat, I can’t remember. Antonia had cooked a smashing meal, Henry had taken the dogs out, I forgot to say Margaret had smothered them in some expensive scent he’d brought her. Terrible waste of money. The more fool he.’
‘Oh,’ said Maisie, ‘how awful. Poor dogs.’
‘Go on,’ said Peter.
‘There’s not much more,’ said Matthew. ‘When she asked me to help her up to her room—we’d been getting on rather well—of course I did. So we went up, taking a bottle with us, may have been two bottles, that’s what she seemed to want and I’ve always understood that it’s dangerous to their peace of mind to interrupt the flow when someone’s baring their chest. I’m mixing metaphors but I dare say you get the gist? Anyway, reaching her room, Margaret got into bed and I sat on the edge and held her hand—I think I held her hand, it felt as though I did. We talked as people do. I told her how I love Antonia and about the son we are planning to have. Well, I suppose it’s chiefly me that plans him, and she was so understanding, she really was! She thinks it’s selfish of Antonia to hold back, as of course it is, and that although she personally had been spared or deprived, I think she said deprived, of the traumas of parenthood because of Henry being what he is, she’d always understood that any “real man” wants a son. Well,’ said Matthew, sighing, ‘we had this confidential and highly-interesting chat.’
Peter said, ‘I’ve always wondered why she married Henry.’
‘I can tell you that,’ said Matthew. ‘It was pity.’
‘Her pity for him or his pity for her?’ Peter’s eyebrows rose.
‘Henry’s pity for her,’ said Maisie. ‘It’s obvious.’
‘That’s quite a percipient remark,’ said Matthew, ‘for a stupid woman. Any more whisky?’
‘You’ve had enough,’ said Maisie, huffed.
Peter took Matthew??
?s glass and went to refill it. When he came back he said, ‘Go on.’
Matthew drank. ‘Terrible story,’ he said. ‘I mean, for someone who loves their wife as I love Antonia, it’s a terrible story. Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘And I love Maisie, come to that. Do go on,’ said Peter.
‘Not much more,’ said Matthew. ‘When she tumbled to the pity bit, she made up her mind to make the poor sod’s life a misery. Now, I’m not saying she’s right, but that’s what it’s all about, the staying in bed, wringing cockatoos’ necks—shall we ever forget that? And chucking away his presents, she is out for misery for Henry.’
‘But it doesn’t work,’ exclaimed Maisie. ‘Henry is not miserable.’
‘You’ve done it again!’ exclaimed Matthew. ‘Spot on, Maisie. You really are quite bright.’
Peter laughed. ‘So what does she get out of her marriage?’
‘Security, of course.’ Matthew gulped the last of his whisky.
‘Well, yes,’ said Peter. ‘But do they ever—I mean—’
‘I did ask,’ said Matthew. ‘We’d grown pretty intimate. She was so confiding, amusing in her way, you know how it is, yes, I asked.’
‘And?’
‘She said yes, then no, once, just to see if he could, she suggested he try. Those were her words, that he try. They rang rather true. She said come and sleep with me or words to that effect. Prove you are a man? Something like that, perhaps? Henry refused and she, taking umbrage, went for him with a knife and he threw an inkpot at her and missed.’
‘And you believe that?’ asked Maisie.
‘Sounded true,’ said Matthew.
‘He wouldn’t miss,’ said Peter, ‘never. Henry’s got a marvellous eye. She filled you up with a bundle of poppycock, old boy.’
Seeing that Matthew looked annoyed, Maisie said, ‘And what did she tell you after that?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
‘Was it something too awful?’
‘I fell asleep,’ said Matthew.
‘In her bed?’ Maisie asked, wide-eyed.
‘On it, actually.’
‘Pissed,’ said Peter, regretting his waste of whisky. ‘And Antonia?’
‘Vanished.’
‘Telephone,’ exclaimed Maisie as the telephone began shrilling in the next room. She went to answer it. ‘Hullo?’ she said, reaching for the receiver. ‘Maisie Bullivant here.’
‘And Antonia Stephenson here. Have you got my husband, by any chance?’
‘Yes,’ said Maisie, ‘he’s terribly upset.’
‘Still drunk,’ said Antonia. ‘I’m coming to fetch him. Don’t let him drive.’
‘She sounds rather cross,’ said Maisie, returning to the listening men.
Half an hour later, watching a tight-lipped Antonia drive her husband away, Peter said, ‘What do you suppose Matthew means by saying that Henry has no sense of morality? I don’t get it.’
Maisie said, ‘He hasn’t any more than his father had. Like father, like son.’
‘I don’t see the comparison,’ said Peter. ‘Henry’s father was an old do-gooder.’
‘Not in his youth,’ replied Maisie. ‘You can’t have heard the village on the subject.’
‘Gossip,’ said Peter. ‘Henry farms his land very well and keeps an eagle eye on things.’
Maisie snorted. ‘Didn’t keep much of an eye last night, did he? Letting Matthew spend the night with his wife.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Maisie.’
‘No need to,’ said Maisie. ‘Would Antonia have bolted into the night, taking little Susie, if Matthew had come to bed in the normal way? Even I, stupid as I am, can grasp that he woke up in Margaret’s bed.’
‘On Margaret’s bed, he did say on, outside the bedclothes.’
‘All right, outside, a detail which would be lost on poor Antonia. What I’m asking is, what was Henry up to, allowing such behaviour?’
‘I expect he had gone to bed,’ said Peter. ‘But you can ask him when he comes to fetch his old crock.’
‘If that’s a dare,’ said Maisie, ‘I’m not taking you up on it.’
TWENTY-FOUR
THE DOGS, PRESSING AGAINST him, woke Henry with their shivering. He lay, shoulders propped against a bale, in the middle of a hayfield. The sun was not yet up to counter the full moon riding high; looking up, he could see stars. A sheep coughed in the next field and Lysander whimpered, flattening his chin on to Henry’s chest. He was cold except where the dogs pressed against his ribs; he sat up, caressed them. ‘Good dogs, keep still. Listen.’
A wren sang a few loud notes, fell silent, was joined by a robin chortling its aria in full. In the wood beyond the field a pheasant cackled in alarm as a vixen trotted home across the stubble. A jay shrieked. Hector and Lysander followed the vixen with their eyes, straining their necks, noses twitching. Henry said, ‘No,’ and they subsided on to quivering haunches.
He was lying in muffling mist. Spiders were weaving their traps in the stubble; he listened to the pre-dawn silence and then, as the chorus of birds got under way, he got to his feet, dusted himself down and resumed the walk he had begun the night before when he shed his town clothes, put on corduroys, sweaters and an old jacket and took the dogs across the fields to the lake to rid them of the stink of Guerlain and himself of thoughts of his wife, his lodgers, his life.
‘Run, dogs, run,’ he had cried to the dogs as they came splashing out of the dark lake and he had run with them as they circled crazily in the moonlight, crashed through the reeds, startling waterfowl, then rolled and twisted on the grass to dry before following him as he circled his land through the wood and over the hills until, tired, he had stopped in the hayfield and fallen asleep.
Now he walked towards the reddening sky; it was going to be a hot day. As he walked, the mist evaporated and one by one grasshoppers set up their dry chirrup. He forgot his irritation with Matthew. Pilar and Trask would have manoeuvred Margaret back to bed; it had been better to get out of the way. There was nothing he could have done. Anger with Margaret was futile; rather, he thought with wry amusement, he was these days inclined to be grateful to her. For so long he had wished himself free of her; now in some perverse way she represented freedom.
Thinking of this, he stood looking down a narrow valley at the foot of which lay a wood still in shadow. There as a boy he had hidden and dreamed of Calypso, gnawed by love, yearning with all the force of adolescence for the impossible, weeping with frustration, refusing to abandon hope.
Who would have imagined as she broke my brittle heart that she and Hector would become my dear friends? They love each other; it has lasted, Henry thought admiringly. That woman had sense.
Looking down the valley, he hesitated; should he go down? There was work to be done, hay to bring in, another field to cut. He turned back and his thoughts turned dispassionately to Barbara and Antonia, who had shown less sense than Calypso. Their families were no worse, no more boring than Calypso’s had been, and both lots had the advantage of money, whereas Calypso’s had been poor. Those girls could have waited, thought Henry; surely they could have done better for themselves? What a potential mess they are making, he thought. ‘Not that I,’ he said out loud to his dogs, ‘am not quite happy to aid and abet.’
Henry felt at peace this lovely summer morning; he loved his land, enjoyed working it. The house and garden survived, thanks to the Jonathans and his lodger friends. He must not let things irritate him. Life might be a whole lot worse; freedom was precious.
Across the fields there came the sound of a tractor. Trask, coming into view, drove up to stop beside him, quell the engine.
‘You slept out,’ he shouted, as though the engine were still running. ‘You’ll be getting rheumatics.’ His long upper lip worked reproachfully. ‘Or perhaps you was walking back from the village?’
Henry said, ‘I’m fine. We should bring the hay in, cut the top field while this weather lasts, cart the bales this afternoon.’
 
; Trask, still shouting, said, ‘You’re getting to be like your pa when he was young; rutting all night, then comes in all innocent and gives his orders on the farm. Have you had breakfast?’
Henry said, ‘No.’
Trask restarted the tractor. ‘I’ll get on with the hay,’ he yelled. ‘You’ll be wanting to watch them parasites.’
‘What parasites?’ Henry’s farmer mind switched to his sheep. ‘We are not dipping until next week,’ he shouted.
‘I’m meaning your lodgers,’ yelled Trask. ‘Matthew’s taken off with your precious car.’ He laughed, pleased with his bad news.
‘What the hell for?’ Henry was enraged. ‘Was he drunk?’
Trask let the tractor idle. ‘That, too,’ he said, ‘but Antonia’s hopped it with the baby; he’s looking for her. She took their car.’
Henry said, ‘Bugger him.’
‘’Twas he took Margaret up to bed.’ Trask roared the engine and drove off, laughing. Calamity is the spice of life for men like Trask, thought Henry resignedly; people like Trask live vicariously.
TWENTY-FIVE
CROWDED BY HER PARCELS, Antonia looked out from the bus at the people hurrying along the pavement. An autumn gale was playing tricks with their umbrellas. Departing, the French au pair had quoted, ‘Il pleure dans mon cœur comme il pleut sur la ville.’ Had the girl been making fun of her? Literary au pairs were no good. Matthew had said, ‘Get yourself a German.’ How right, as always; Matthew was almost as irritating as her parents. Antonia bundled her parcels onto her lap so that a large woman in a heavy coat could crowd beside her. ‘Cadogan Street?’ the woman enquired, spreading her hips, squashing close. She had an A to Z map in her hand, impossible to spread in the crowded bus. ‘Stop after next,’ Antonia said, turning back to the window, then, ‘Oh. Hi. I must get off.’ Struggling free, clutching her parcels, she lurched down the bus, pushed past the conductor and leapt for the pavement, where she tripped and landed on her knees.
‘Stupid cunt,’ yelled the bus conductor as the bus diminished.
‘What did you do that for?’ Henry bent to retrieve her parcels. ‘Hurt yourself?’