‘Margaret’s a lot older than me,’ he said, ‘and frankly I never liked her. And she drove our parents mad. I was glad when she got off her butt and left home. She always spent all her time in bed; I gather she’s not changed overmuch. Then she suddenly got a job in a beauty salon. Father was furious; he wanted her to do something “worthy”. Father himself was worthy, or aspired to worthiness, actually. He was a bit of a snob, didn’t think “beauty” a worthy occupation, but worthy or not it took her to Egypt and in due course she married Clovis. That didn’t please Father, either; he was rabidly anti-German. Anti-semitic, too. Clovis was both, German and Jew. The marriage didn’t last, of course. Margaret’s devotion to bed was for sleeping solo and Clovis is like me, he—Well, let’s say we are of the same persuasion.’
Basil had risked a glance at Henry. Was he listening? If I go on talking, it will give him time to recover from whatever hit him, he thought.
‘So there Margaret was,’ he said, ‘a German national in Egypt in wartime. The only friend she had was some sort of Pasha who was pro-Nazi—a purely non-sexual relationship, of that I am sure. Anyway, when the Brits interned him, Margaret must have taken fright; actually I know she did. I heard this from your chums the Jonathans. We all know the rest. Your father was a great guy, I hear, given to acts of kindness to women in peril, but—but he seems to have committed his last act by proxy.’ Basil’s voice sank to a whisper.
They had reached another gate; the younger of the dogs, cheerful now and jolly, leapt it, showing off. The older dog slid through the rails.
Henry, frowning, said, ‘I am not wanted at the hospital, I shall not go. Curse it. Curse it.’
It was Basil’s turn to say, ‘What?’ Then he said, ‘So why on earth did you marry Margaret?’ Standing in Henry’s way as he opened the gate, looking up, he had raised his voice; it had occurred to him that Henry might be deaf.
Henry said, ‘I am not deaf,’ and closed the gate. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he asked rudely. ‘But of course, you said you are her brother,’ he said more pleasantly. Then he smiled. ‘There’s a strong resemblance. I trust it’s only skin deep.’
Basil said, ‘I sincerely hope so.’ They walked on. Basil wondered how far Henry was in the habit of walking. If only I’d known, he thought, I would have worn more suitable shoes.
He said, ‘Our parents left a muddle with their wills, it’s taken years to sort it out—’
Henry said, ‘Jarndyce and Jarndyce.’
And Basil had said, ‘Oh good, you are listening,’ allowing himself a tinge of sarcasm. ‘Shall I go on?’
Henry said, ‘Why not?’
‘I could have got the lawyers to write,’ said Basil, ‘but frankly I was curious to see what sort of fellow would get himself embroiled with my sister. I was even more anxious when I discovered that you were not one of us. Anyway,’ he said hastily, seeing Henry look surprised, ‘I came to tell Margaret that she’s in for a lot more dough than she has already. She’ll be well able,’ he had said, chuckling, ‘to have that awful red room redecorated without bothering you. I suggested blue for the next—’
‘I would not dream of letting my wife spend her money on Cotteshaw,’ Henry shouted. ‘I never have and I never shall. I don’t give a damn for her money,’ he yelled. ‘It would be obscene to—Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I apologize. Do forgive me. You are my brother-in-law. I should not be so offensive. It is just,’ he said quietly, ‘that you look so like her, it’s, well—’
Basil said, ‘I quite understand,’ and wished that he did.
Henry began walking again. Basil followed.
Henry said, ‘Of course it would be quite different if I liked her. I’d use it then, gladly.’
Basil laughed. ‘I still would like to know why you married her,’ he said.
Henry said, ‘Oh—you must forgive me, I’m so—It’s Barbara and Antonia. I find it difficult to think of anyone else.’
Basil said, ‘Those girls will be all right, I’m sure they will. Of course they’ll be all right. Their husbands were pretty fussed, that’s natural, but you were splendid. So calm. So outside it all. So practical.’
Henry murmured, ‘I have treated them lightly, irresponsibly, as a sort of joke. I had no right.’
Basil saw that he was again distraught. He said, ‘Margaret? Marriage? Why?’
‘What a gadfly you are.’ Henry had stopped in his tracks to look at Basil, taking in his stocky build, wide smile, a mouth so different from Margaret’s which was more like a knife wound than anything else, hazel eyes the antithesis of her cold and silver slits, a nose brave rather than elegant, good but slightly wayward teeth. His hair was the same colour, though gingery gold. Unlike Margaret, he felt he could trust him.
‘If one put your face and Margaret’s together,’ he said, ‘you would look like the masks of tragedy and comedy.’
‘Except that Margaret is not tragic’ Basil smiled.
Henry said, ‘You think not?’
Basil said, ‘No way,’ laughing. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘even if I am her brother I think you should tell me firstly why you married her and, more importantly, why you stay tied? That really throws me.’
‘Paradoxically,’ Henry said grimly, ‘the situation provides me with a sort of freedom.’ He resumed his walk at a pace Basil could comfortably match, and the dogs, sensing a relaxation of tension, began circling round, sniffing at feral smells and indulging in mild play.
‘So the Jonathans told you of their part in my marriage,’ Henry said. ‘I have long suspected it, never been sure. I dare say,’ he said, ‘that they feel a bit funny on that score.’
Seeing no reason to protect the Jonathans, Basil said, ‘Who wouldn’t? The way they present their case is that they were helping your father, whom they revered, do his bit in the war effort.’
‘He was dying,’ Henry interposed.
‘They say it was his attempt to minimize the suffering of innocents,’ Basil explained.
Henry laughed.
At that Basil, laughing too, said shrewdly, ‘No doubt at the time they did not realize you were such an innocent.’
Henry said, ‘Not so much innocent as sorry for myself, I am ashamed to say. I had had a surprise.’
Basil hazarded, ‘A disappointing surprise?’
Henry said, ‘Yes. And,’ he said, ‘I had the idea, common to a lot of us at that time, that I would not survive the war. People were getting killed; why not me? So I thought, What the hell, and married your sister. Can’t say I take any pride in it,’ he said, glancing at Basil, who kept quiet, glad that he had succeeded in goading Henry into speech. ‘When I found I had not been killed or even wounded,’ Henry went on, ‘and the chance came to get Margaret back to England, I brought her here to Cotteshaw. I was trying by then to make a go of it. I thought I must try; that if other people made unsatisfactory marriages work, it should be possible for me.’ Henry sighed, then he said, ‘I love Cotteshaw. Naively I thought she would too, that here we could start afresh—’
They had reached the top of the hill behind the house. Henry stopped and looked down across the tops of trees to the house, its gardens and fields stretching down the valley to distant hills.
‘She went to bed,’ Henry murmured, ‘and there she stayed.’ Basil bit his tongue. Henry said, ‘The medical people say there is nothing wrong with her. I have tried to entice her out of it,’ he gave a short laugh and said, ‘with various and diverse results. She seems happiest in bed, not that so positive a word as happy can be applied to your sister. And when she does get up of her own accord—well, look at today.’
‘She seemed to be enjoying herself,’ said Basil, ‘a bit perverse—’
Henry said, ‘The Jonathans and other friends try their luck; she isn’t easy. Pilar and Trask are wonderfully patient. Ebro redecorates her rooms when she wants a change. It’s an odd set-up.’ He resumed walking and Basil kept pace. ‘I tried once,’ Henry said quietly, ‘I knew it was a gamble but I had to
try, I suggested we sleep together. I thought it possible that she might want a child.’ Henry winced at the recollection; he had thought that with an effort of will during the act he could pretend he was making love to Calypso; he shuddered and Basil wondered whether he was ill. They had come to another gate and Henry opened it to let Basil through. ‘I must have a go at these gates,’ he muttered. ‘They are dropping on their hinges.’
Basil thought then that he had stopped talking; he watched him close the gate and latch it, then ventured, ‘So?’
‘She went for me with a knife,’ Henry said.
Basil said, ‘My God!’
‘Oh,’ Henry said, ‘it was stupid of me.’ Then he said, ‘You may not know you want a thing until it is denied you,’ and Basil realized he was not referring to any need of Margaret’s. ‘Your sister,’ Henry said, ‘is a prime example of the stronger sex; by doing bugger-all she has a whole household dancing attendance, indulging her whims.’
Basil said, ‘How do you survive? I mean—’
And Henry, detecting a note of prurience in the other man, answered drily, ‘There are other women, friendly and complaisant, and call-girls. I manage. I can’t waste my time wishing your sister dead,’ he said roughly.
Basil swallowed. ‘You suggested earlier that she gave you a sort of freedom.’
‘And a precious element of privacy,’ Henry agreed, and Basil thought, but could not be sure, that he had then muttered, ‘but which has now gone sour.’
Henry had then suddenly increased his pace, walking as though he were alone with his dogs, or perhaps hoping to shake his companion off. Basil ran a few steps. ‘So what do you do?’ he asked.
‘Do?’
‘Yes.’
‘I work. I run my farm. The Jonathans work the vegetable gardens along with their smallholding and, since Matthew and James brought their girls and became permanent features, they have paid their share. It has helped to keep the wolf at bay.’
‘A commune?’
‘I suppose you could call it that. It’s not an appellation my father would have enjoyed. I don’t know what will happen now. It started with a foolish attempt at reviving a pre-war custom, a posh dinner party. There was a bird I had given Margaret, a cockatoo, she—The party went sadly wrong. And now—I don’t know.’ And Basil thought he whispered, ‘I am excluded,’ or, ‘I must exclude myself.’
Basil said, ‘I am not with you.’
‘You seem very much with me, to me,’ said Henry rather nastily. ‘Do forgive me, I am not usually so rude.’
He was looking white and miserable again, but Basil could not stop now. He said, ‘So what’s your bother now?’
‘Antonia and Barbara, of course. Their babies.’ Henry shouted, ‘What a mess, what a worry.’
‘You seem absurdly worked up about those women and their children.’ Basil, too, raised his voice. He was losing patience, for he much disliked the thought of women pregnant, women in labour, indeed the whole gamut of women’s sexual functions was repugnant—not that I dislike women, he told himself; I have many women friends. ‘It’s perfectly natural,’ he assured Henry, ‘it happens all the time.’ One just wishes it were out of sight, he thought. ‘What’s the fuss?’ he asked loudly, rather more loudly than he intended, for it occurred to him that this man, his brother-in-law, had suggested that Margaret should go through ‘all that’. Perhaps she and I have more in common that I imagined, he thought. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, still speaking loudly, for Henry was again beginning to outdistance him, ‘that you should be grateful to your father and the Jonathans for their proxy act of kindness. It seems to me that you have been saved a helluva lot of pain.’ He shouted to make sure Henry heard. ‘It seems to me,’ he cried, ‘that you are jealous.’
Henry stopped, waited for Basil to catch up. Then he said, ‘Jealous?’ There was astonishment in his voice, but when he repeated the word the pain was almost palpable.
When, presently, they stood by Basil’s car outside the house, Henry had asked, his tone disinterested, ‘Shall you stay with the Jonathans?’
Basil said quickly, ‘Only long enough to collect my bag. I don’t wish to linger.’
Henry had said, ‘Thank you.’
PART FIVE 1990
THIRTY-ONE
JAMES MARTINEAU AND MATTHEW Stephenson, meeting by chance at a garage in Sloane Avenue as they filled their cars with petrol, exchanged chat.
‘Off to the country?’ James eyed Matthew’s BMW, smarter and sleeker than his Volvo estate.
‘On my way to my constituency surgery, via my father-in-law’s funeral.’ Matthew’s tone was of vicarious importance; Lowther of Lowther’s Steel was, or had been up to now, a household name.
Hastily James said, ‘Of course. I’d forgotten it was today. Alas,’ he said mendaciously, ‘we cannot attend.’ Why can’t I be truthful, he asked himself? Why can’t I admit I relied on Barbara to tell a wifely lie? Why can’t I admit I never knew old Lowther well enough to feel I should go to his funeral?
‘We sent a wreath,’ he said. ‘Is Antonia cut up?’ He remembered as he spoke that Barbara, replying to the same question had said, She is delighted. It would be in poor taste to repeat this to Matthew, so he said again, ‘Is Antonia cut up?’
‘Not so that you’d notice. They were not all that close,’ said Matthew guardedly.
‘And her mother? She bearing up?’
‘Actually,’ said Matthew, giving way, ‘we all think his death comes as a relief. My father-in-law could be—er—difficult.’
For difficult read fond of the bottle, thought James. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Antonia and her brothers—’ (I wonder how much the old man has left? Must be a tidy sum even after death duties.)
‘They will rally round,’ said Matthew. ‘We all will. Antonia’s with her mother now. Susie and Clio will be there, of course, and Susie’s boy Guy. My son-in-law’s in the States; can’t get back in time, he says. We all thought Clio’s little girl a bit young, she won’t be coming. Did we tell you that Susie’s boy Guy is going to Eton? Antonia’s inclined to call it a retrogressive step,’ he said, laughing.
But you are pleased, thought James. ‘I had heard,’ he said. ‘Scholarship?’ It was fun to tease Matthew—Guy, a dear boy, was not scholarship material.
Matthew laughed. ‘No, thick as two planks. Good at games, though. My son-in-law,’ he said, ‘is pro-Eton, considers it the best springboard, and so does Susie.’
A trifle out of date there, thought James, but then Matthew had scrambled and sprung in his day. ‘Well, good luck to him. If you had had a son, would you have sent him to Eton?’
‘If we could have afforded it, it’s possible. I might have wanted to, but Antonia would not have stood for it. It’s a hypothetical question, James. Susie and Clio—’
‘Are girls,’ said James, ‘and jolly attractive.’
Matthew said, ‘Thank you, and so is your Hilaria, a smashing girl.’
‘Our lot did not do badly with state education,’ James remarked, in a bid to lure his old friend away from dreams of grandeur. ‘The end result can’t be faulted,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said Matthew. ‘My Clio and your Hilaria could not be nicer young women. I often wish, though, that I had not allowed old Lowther to pay Susie’s fees at that boarding school. It was a mistake. All she learned were expensive tastes and bossiness and now we are expected to dig deep in our pockets to finance Guy at Eton. A comprehensive school would save a lot of bother and holidays at Cotteshaw would—’
James said, ‘Times have changed, old friend. Pilar is long gone, and Trask is dead. Henry is grown old and ill. Things have altered since our young days.’
Matthew said, ‘True, but how our children loved it. And whatever the changes, their kids love it now; when Clio tries to take her Katie abroad, all the child does is nag to get back to Cotteshaw.’
James laughed. ‘It’s the same with Hilaria’s Eliza, but it can’t last for ever. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must get
on. Let’s meet soon.’
‘I’ll get Antonia to telephone,’ said Matthew. ‘You sailing this weekend?’ he asked, having noted James’s casual clothes and earlier white lie.
James said. ‘I gave up sailing many years ago. Barbara never took to it. I am fishing, then joining Barbara at the cottage.’ He got into his car and fastened his seat-belt.
Matthew and I are out of touch, he thought as he drove; then he thought, Matthew has aged, gone bald, doesn’t keep as fit as he should, and was glad that he himself still had his head of hair, albeit white, and was pretty fit at sixty-five. Then, as he drove, reminded by his meeting with Matthew, he remembered the good times they had all had when they were young at Cotteshaw, their weekends and holidays, Henry teaching the children to ride and swim, letting them tag behind him on the farm. What fun those children had running wild in the country.
It had been good for Barbara and Antonia too, an idyllic period lasting until Pilar got it into her head to go back to Spain when Franco died. When was that—1975? What possessed us all to let her take the three girls with her? Anything might have happened, but of course it hadn’t; one could trust Pilar. She had sent them back speaking fluent Spanish and boasting that they had joined with her in spitting on Franco’s grave. It was about then that one had stopped hesitating, bought the cottage and moved out of Cotteshaw.
Hilaria had never taken to the cottage, and now continually took her own child back to Cotteshaw. Had Barbara, loyal Barbara, missed the place? If she had she would not say. Had she really agreed that they had imposed on Henry for long enough, and that it was time they had a place of their own? Difficult to say. There were depths in Barbara, James thought uncomfortably. Had she agreed to please him? How can I doubt her? James asked himself. We have been so happy; we may only have the one child, but what a pearl! As great a joy to us as Barbara has always been to me. I have never loved any other woman, James assured himself.