Then he wondered, as he drove, whether Matthew still regretted his lack of a son, whether pushing his grandson into Eton was a solace? One knew from Barbara that Antonia, after the rough time she had had with Clio, had stuck in her toes, gone on strike, refused to try again. One sympathized with her, yet Matthew had so wanted a boy. It would not worry me, thought James, it never has, but Matthew is ambitious; look how he pushed when he was in business, look at him now in Parliament, it’s all go!
Lucky ‘thick as two planks’ Guy is a grandson; Matthew will be indulgent, won’t push too hard. He had pushed his elder daughter Susie all right, and she had gone along with it. Susie Stephenson should definitely have been a man, James ruminated as he drove. Susie was a woman of iron will.
Heavens, thought James, how lucky we have been with our affectionate, tactful, sweet-tempered Hilaria; family life would have been a real pain if Hilaria had had a nature like Susie Stephenson’s.
I can’t stand bossy women, James told himself as he headed out of London. I dare say, he thought, Susie will miss her grandfather Lowther. She doesn’t drink, but in other respects she could not be more like him: bossy, interfering, and often rude. Small wonder her sister Clio has cleaved, if that is the right word, to our Hilaria rather than to her elder sister. Susie-the-know-all would know the correct use of the word or term cleave. I cleave, you cleave, he cleaved, or perhaps clove? James chuckled.
Would Eton teach Susie’s Guy? Perhaps Guy was fortunate in his parents’ ambition? Perhaps his mother’s mania for managing other people’s lives and directing their actions would be curbed by the school? Mind you, James told himself, his essential fair-mindedness reasserting itself, I should not be too hard on Susie; there have been occasions when her interfering bossiness has had the most excellent if unexpected results.
No, James thought, reverting to his old friend, Matthew’s life would not suit me. Gosh, he thought, think of always having to toe the party line and please your constituents. No wonder Antonia—well. He checked himself. It was said, but there was no proof, that Antonia had stepped out from time to time. Maybe she found Matthew a bit boring? From the very beginning she had not hesitated to snap or speak a bit sharpish; it would be small wonder if she had not had the odd canter.
People, James thought, with less than his usual charity, would say anything or, if there was no evidence, they would invent, as Henry’s ghastly wife Margaret had invented. Now her funeral, James’s thoughts came full circle, was a funeral one had been truly glad to attend. Calypso Grant had called it a celebration.
THIRTY-TWO
MATTHEW, DRIVING NORTH OUT of London, was inclined to pity his old friend, whose in-laws, both still living, would not be leaving as substantial a fortune as Antonia’s parent. Antonia would inherit a decent sum now and a lot more when her mother died; why should not Guy’s education benefit?
Poor James was his own worst enemy, thought Matthew. He had not striven as he should have done, had lacked ambition, been content with a moderate law practice and only one child to show for his marriage, a girl at that. I dare say the old boy is more than a bit envious of my grandson, thought Matthew. I am proud of Guy and don’t mind showing it. I shall play an important role in that boy’s life; a grandparent’s relationship can be close.
But I shall not let my closeness to Guy resemble Susie’s to old Lowther, who positively fed and encouraged her bossiness. I bet, thought Matthew, that she is at this moment driving her grandmother and Antonia mad by organizing the funeral, not letting them have a say, ‘knowing best’, as is her way.
Susie has too much push, poor old James not enough; Guy’s push must be moderate, as mine is. Even so, thought Matthew, James might have made an effort. Surely he and Barbara should be coming to the funeral? Wasn’t this non-effort to attend rather insulting? Did it not belittle their long friendship, the closeness of their two wives, not to speak of the children? Our Clio and their Hilaria are thick as treacle, and their two children look like carrying the feeling on.
But there goes James, off for a day’s fishing and a weekend in his grotty cottage, thought Matthew, annoyed, while I, after my father-in-law’s funeral, have to work. Even when we all met every weekend at Cotteshaw I brought work with me, Matthew told himself, and it was surely I who had the bright idea that we should pay our way, go shares, so that we should not be beholden to Henry. It had worked so well.
It was James who split the harmony, thought Matthew irritably; we should be congregating at Cotteshaw to this day if James had not taken it into his head to buy a cottage of his own. All very well for him to point out that Pilar had left; Pilar did not leave until the girls were almost grown-up and Trask, poor old Trask, had latterly been nothing but a liability, an incontinent one at that, thought Matthew, steering his BMW into the fast lane heading north.
James and Barbara came to Trask’s funeral all right, thought Matthew crossly, the whole village came. People came from miles away. Calypso Grant brought Hamish, the Bullivants were there, Pilar and Ebro flew back from Spain and oh dear, thought Matthew, remembering how the children cried, not so much Susie, but Clio and Hilaria, buckets! And the Jonathans, grown men, quite old, had blubbered in the front pew. While Henry, stiff and silent, had looked bereft.
We could have found substitutes for Trask and Pilar, thought Matthew. A living-in couple. Such people exist. Antonia could certainly have found one, if only Henry had allowed. The house was his, one was aware of that, but considering how much one had contributed over the years one had felt entitled to suggest, to have a say. One would gladly have contributed to their wage.
Perhaps making the suggestion so soon after the funeral had been premature. Certainly Antonia—Matthew winced in recollection of Antonia’s forceful rejection of his proposal. She had not lost her talent for making herself disagreeable when so inclined. Even so, if she had helped, we could have preserved the status quo, arranged something better than Henry’s present mode of life, only cared for by daily ladies and Clio and Hilaria on their infrequent visits.
I blame James, thought Matthew resentfully, James and his cottage. I was not yet in the position which I am in now to buy Henry out; that would have made sense. He has no heir, the place is a millstone. One could have sold most of the land, done the place up. Cotteshaw has sentimental attraction. I proposed to Antonia in the garden; I remember the feel of her skin, velvety as a mushroom. Clio was born there, and Susie was nearly drowned.
Cotteshaw had been home to both families. Growing up, the little girls had trailed round the farm behind Henry or Trask, watched Pilar cook, played hide-and-seek round the haystacks, been taught to swim by Henry, taught to ride by Henry. Henry had made them a toboggan when it snowed, taught them to skate; they had sat on his knee while he read them stories. Thinking about it, one owed Henry quite a lot, but small wonder that there had been moments when the children’s worship of Henry had been rather irritating. At times of childish stress, a dog dying or a guinea-pig going AWOL, it had been to Henry they turned for comfort, not to oneself. One was not always there, nor was James.
Henry and Cotteshaw had been extremely useful as a base. It had been handy, when the children were small, to leave them there when taking Antonia on trips abroad; James and Barbara had done the same.
Things had gone stunningly until Susie had taken it into her head to reform Henry’s wife Margaret. One would think, thought Matthew, that after the experience of Margaret letting go of her hands, letting her fall in the lake, Susie would not have wanted much to do with Henry’s wife, but it had not been so. Margaret had held some sort of fascination for the child who, as she grew into her teens, had determined to succeed where everyone else had failed. Effect a transformation in Margaret’s modus vivendi, that was what Susie had called it, flaunting the Latin from her posh school over less educated mortals such as her sister and James and Barbara’s Hilaria. She would, she had said, normalize—dreadful word—Margaret’s life.
So it was his own daughter Susie, nick
named Sewage, with her innate bossiness, her passion for interference, her talent for knowing best, who had irreparably destroyed the happily-balanced set-up at Cotteshaw, not James.
Driving up the motorway to his father-in-law Lowther of Lowther’s Steel’s funeral, Matthew Stephenson made a mental apology to his friend James Martineau and, unable to stop himself, laughed out loud.
THIRTY-THREE
SUSIE STEPHENSON’S INTIMACY WITH Henry’s wife was short-lived but intense. It was in the summer of 1970, when she was fourteen, that she began visiting Margaret. Up to then she had, like the other children, kept out of Margaret’s way, only meeting her on the rare occasions she put in a disruptive and surprise appearance downstairs. These occasions usually brought some unfortunate consequence; there was general relief when she went back to bed.
Susie had had a fight with her sister Clio and Hilaria who had, she thought, selfishly monopolized the ponies. A third animal was hors de combat, lame. Henry, who happened to be passing, hearing the shrill argument, had called out, ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up, girls,’ and, ‘You should be a little less selfish with the younger ones, Suez,’ an accusation Susie took to be profoundly unjust, for Clio and Hilaria went to day school and were able to ride in term-time, which she was not.
Furious, and to demonstrate her thoughtful and caring nature, Susie had then volunteered to carry Margaret’s lunch tray up and spare Trask, who had been about to do it, the trouble. Trask’s legs in his old age were giving him rheumatic gyp.
Arriving outside Margaret’s door, Susie knocked and was told to come in. She did so, feeling a twinge of apprehension, but buoyed by her annoyance with Henry.
Margaret, pale and beautiful, looked Susie up and down. ‘You are the one they call Sewage.’ Her eyes flicked from Susie’s head to her feet. ‘Far too pretty to be Antonia Stephenson’s daughter.’
The room was now pale blue, matching its occupant’s eyes. Susie, expecting angry red and stripes, was both taken aback by the decor and disgusted by Margaret’s use of her nickname. Yet, flattered by the compliment, she said, ‘Oh, er—mm,’ and blushed as she placed the tray across Margaret’s knees.
‘Good legs and breasts,’ said Margaret, and began picking at her lunch. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Try and amuse me. Your hair’s not bad, too long of course. I gather it’s the mode.’
Susie flicked the said hair over her shoulder and sat on the edge of a sofa, mute.
‘Why do you dress in butter muslin?’ asked Margaret, snapping at a chicken bone held in her fingers. ‘Your clothes are terrible. I have seen you from my window. Are you supposed to be a “Flower Child”?’ she asked contemptuously.
‘No!’ Hastily Susie denied her up-to-date ethnic attire. ‘It’s this or jeans,’ she said, sliding the onus elsewhere. ‘My mother—’ She was tempted to say Antonia tried to dress her otherwise, but refrained.
‘So you do not go to these festivals I hear about? King Arthur’s Hump?’ Margaret chewed the chicken.
‘Glastonbury? No.’ Susie shook her head. Matthew had put his foot down. (‘Certainly not—no daughter of mine—far too young.’) ‘No.’ Susie denied her interest in pop festivals.
Margaret sipped her glass of wine. ‘See what you can find in those cupboards,’ she said. ‘Go on, help yourself.’
Willingly Susie explored the cupboards. Within minutes she was trying on Margaret’s clothes.
The seduction, beginning with the lending of clothes, progressed naturally to question and answer. Where had this lovely dress come from? And this? And this? Susie was not a shy girl.
Margaret answered, ‘Egypt.’
‘Egypt?’
‘I lived in Egypt. I was married there.’
‘To Henry?’
‘To someone else first. A monster.’
‘Tell me.’ Like the other children, Susie was only vaguely aware of Margaret’s antecedents. Margaret told.
Susie’s parents had been anxious to spare her young sensitivity, so the saga was fresh to her ear. She listened, goggling, to the allegations of mental and physical cruelty. The drugs, the sodomy and rape. But she was a sensible girl and when the same barbs were directed towards Henry she became less credulous, doubtful even. If she had not been angry with Henry she would not have believed any of it; as it was, she decided that there was something wrong. Henry had been neglectful, did not understand Margaret. Not a girl to let matters rest, influenced by her intellectual and breezy school, Susie suggested reasonably enough that some of Margaret’s malaise might be due to boredom. If this were the case she, Susie, would volunteer to help.
There was never any explanation as to why Margaret accepted Susie’s offer. Others, the Jonathans for instance, had cajoled Margaret into leaving her room without success. Henry had long since given up trying. Susie, of all people, should have known better; her trouble was that she thought she did.
The weather was warm. Susie and Margaret toured the garden. Susie taught Margaret croquet, watched at a distance by Hilaria and Clio, who giggled.
Pilar said, ‘It won’t last. She will go back to bed, she always does,’ and brought Margaret’s meals to the summer-house. Margaret returned to her room for dinner, but continued to rise every morning after breakfast. Susie felt that her sympathy and understanding were having an effect.
The days grew hot. Clio and Hilaria spent all day by the lake, in and out of the water like frogs. From the croquet lawn Susie could see them leaping, watch the splashes. ‘Margaret,’ she said, for success made her bold, ‘why don’t we swim? You have a bikini, I’ve seen it.’
‘My skin does not like the sun, I do not swim well,’ Margaret quibbled.
Susie pressed her to try. The lake was alluring, but she would not abandon her charge. She grew insistent.
That night at supper she announced that she was going to teach Margaret to swim properly; it was a shame that nobody ever had.
Henry said, ‘I would rather you didn’t, Suez.’
Perhaps, he thought later, Susie would not have persisted if he had not called her Suez? If he had not been so busy on the farm. Not been preoccupied with his decision to sell the poor old Bentley to pay off the bank, a wrench he had delayed for too long. If her parents had been there, which they were not, and nor were Hilaria’s. If he had not had a stinking summer cold which made his head feel stuffed with soggy cotton wool. If he had not been so sure Margaret would return to her room as she always had before, for she had never shown the slightest interest in swimming. If he had not, when Susie said, ‘I understand Margaret, Henry. She is quite different with me to the rest of you. I can help her,’ in that superior tone of voice, shouted at her, called her a silly interfering little bitch or words to that effect.
She had tossed her long hair, so like her mother Antonia’s. She had flared up. ‘You don’t know how to treat her, Henry, you simply don’t know. Leave us alone.’
If Clio and Hilaria had not laughed.
Neither Clio nor Hilaria had a stitch on the next day, fooling in and out of the lake.
Margaret, allowing herself to be led to the far side, out of earshot if not sight, by Susie carrying their bathing things, a rug to lie on and a parasol to protect their skin from the sun, remarked that that was how the wretched Fellaheen behaved in the Nile, a pretty disgusting sight.
‘I shall speak to my mother,’ said Susie, disparaging her sibling. (She would remember saying this with discomfort years later.)
Margaret said, ‘You do that,’ and settled on the rug which her acolyte spread for her.
Solicitously Susie smoothed suncream onto Margaret’s shoulders, back and upper arms before rubbing a little onto her own shins. ‘Shall we swim?’ she said.
‘You swim,’ Margaret said, ‘if that’s what you want.’
‘Oh no.’ Susie lay back beside her, then, as Margaret did not relax, she sat up. And so they sat.
Unable after a while to endure the spectacle of her sister and Hilaria disporting themselves, Susie again s
uggested they swim.
Margaret said, ‘You swim, show me whether you can.’ So Susie swam, showing off the crawl Henry had taught her, how she swam on her back, duck-dived and swam under water. Returning to the bank, she said, ‘It is so lovely, Margaret, do come in. I will swim beside you. You can trust me. If you feel in the least uneasy, just grab hold of me.’
‘We did not see her go in.’
‘We were getting dressed.’
‘I had one leg in my jeans—’
‘My head was covered by my T-shirt—I was not looking.’ Hilaria and Clio wept inconsolably; they had been too petrified to scream.
Henry was out of breath when he reached the lake and Margaret, panicking, had dragged Susie under; when he got them out Susie was unconscious and Margaret dead.
All this Matthew remembered as he drove up the motorway.
THIRTY-FOUR
ANTONIA STEPHENSON PICKED UP Barbara Martineau from her house in the street equidistant from the Brompton and King’s Roads in which she and James had lived all their married lives.
‘I can’t imagine you living in any other street,’ she said, kissing her friend as she got into the car.
‘And I, just as I get used to you living in Kew, have to readjust to an address in Bayswater, Hampstead, Barnes or Westminster,’ said Barbara amiably.
‘Matthew accumulated a tidy bit of capital,’ said Antonia. ‘It was worth the nuisance. You and James should have done what we did, bought low and sold high, hard work but profitable.’
‘James would not bother,’ said Barbara. ‘The only move he ever wanted was to our cottage. Moving is not his style.’
Antonia said, ‘Nor it is,’ neutrally. To her mind James lacked gumption. Then she said, ‘Actually, since Father left me some lolly, I don’t suppose we shall move house again. It is quite exhausting. And how,’ she asked, ‘is your menopause? Still sticking to Morning Glory? Susie says you should switch to HRT.’