A Change of Pace (17 page)

At this point Don Stewart decided he’d had enough, at least for the time being. He was beginning to feel like a character in a Chekhov play, his role, he reflected gloomily, that of the drunken doctor. ‘Look, I must be going, I’ve stayed far too long as it is, I’ve the proofs of my book to go through and a man’s coming to look at the chimney at six.’ Simon roused himself. ‘It’s time I went too.’

‘Oh, do not go yet, Mister Morris, let us play another game. It is early.’

‘No, really, I must get back.’ He smiled at Bet. If this was his idea of making amends, he had another think coming; she turned away to collect up the cups. ‘I tell you what,’ Simon said, taking no notice, ‘why doesn’t anyone who can, come over to tea at the Manor tomorrow? Cyn will be out, but Alfonso and I between us could probably rustle up the odd stale bun. I could look out the croquet gear and perhaps we could have a return match.’

‘Oh, Mister Morris ... to ‘ave tea in an old English Manor ... that would be marvellous.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t like old houses, Liza?’ ‘This is different, Mrs Brandon, this is Mister Morris’s manor ‘House.’

*

‘There is a spider in my bedroom, Mrs Brandon.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I do not like spiders, Mrs Brandon, please arrange for it to go away.’

‘My dear Liza, I’m not particularly fond of spiders myself, but in the country you simply have to learn to get used to them.’ JP and Diz had gone to the pub, the Sparsworths, worn out from quarrelling, were having an early night, and Liza had just emerged from one of her interminable baths. ‘Spiders I cannot get used to.’

‘In that case I really don’t know what to suggest. Perhaps you’d better wait downstairs until Diz and your brother get back, they shouldn’t be long, but please don’t wake the others, Nell needs all the sleep she can get.’ Liza, looking as if she would like to have said a whole lot more but didn’t quite dare to, shrugged, and stalked off downstairs, the heels of her little gold slippers clacking aggressively on the bare boards. She was wearing orange towelling pyjamas, and her hair, wet from the bath, was tied in a topknot on her head; she looked totally and utterly stunning.

Shortly afterwards, Bet was sitting by her open bedroom window looking out on the moonswept grass and sniffing the scent of honeysuckle, when she heard Pol’s voice — Pete must have been called to the rescue and she wasn’t letting him out of her sight. ‘Really, one would have thought there might be somebody in this house not afraid of spiders. Now I come to think of it, what about Bet, she loves them, it’s bats she doesn’t like ... ’

Bet smiled into the darkness.

Chapter Thirteen

In the end no one played croquet. When the somewhat depleted rectory party arrived at the Manor the following afternoon — Nell had put her foot down, and the Sparsworths had stayed behind — they were informed by Simon, who for some reason looked rather jaded, that the grass was too long; Old Tom, whose job it was to cut it, was away on his annual summer holidays. The revolutionary idea that Simon himself might perhaps have stepped into the breach and done the mowing, had plainly never occurred to him, and even Pol lacked the gall to suggest it. ‘Anyway,’ he told them as they ranged themselves round the rather charming summerhouse in which the tea had been laid out, ‘there seems to be only one croquet mallet, and most of the hoops have disappeared. How about a tour of inspection instead?’

Tea, to everyone’s surprise, turned out to be pretty impressive; wafer-thin bread and butter, seed cake and sandwiches, two different jams, and the tea itself served in a silver teapot, scented and delicious. ‘Not quite the stale buns you promised us, Morris?’

‘Well, you see, Alfonso’s currently anti Cyn; when he’s anti Cyn, he’s pro me; that’s how he operates. Now, if Cyn were to have had a tea party today, it would have been stale buns and the tin teapot; probably used tea-bags to boot. He once served that up to Bonzo Harrington, and the poor old devil nearly had a seizure.’ Pol sniffed. No menial of hers would be allowed to exercise temperament in such a way. The Westovers, however, seemed to think it all frightfully funny. Never mind, she had to admit that the man certainly knew his business when in the right mood.

After tea the Duponts and Diz accepted Simon’s offer of a tour, but the others opted out, Pol because she felt it smacked of the bourgeois to tramp round other people’s property, even though one’s guide was a member of the family; Pete because he couldn’t be bothered, and the sight of Liza’s bottom under her tight pink jeans bobbing up and down in front of him might prove too great a strain on a hot afternoon. And Bet because she was fed up.

‘Come on, Titania, don’t be a spoilsport, you’ll enjoy it.’ Simon held out his hand, and Bet was about to change her mind when Liza butted in and spoiled it. ‘Titania, Simon, why do you call Dizzy’s mother this?’ she said, putting an arm round his waist and smiling mockingly at Bet. ‘It would take too long to explain.’ Simon was still looking at Bet, but as she refused to look at him, the moment passed. ‘Mrs Brandon is tired, Simon, can you not see? She does not want to come.’

‘Well, and do they have anything like this in France, then?’

*

The question was, of course, purely rhetorical; he was quite sure they didn’t. Simon, torn between attraction and distraction, was alone with Liza in the old melon and cucumber house, a long, low, brick building, warm and dim as the inside of a cow, so choked with memories of past entanglements —indeed ‘I took her (or him) to the cu’ house’ in the days of their youth had been his and Cyn’s secret code for illicit sex — it was suffocating. ‘When I was a boy,’ he went on as Liza remained silent, ‘the melon and cucumber plants climbed right up to the roof like a vine. Hundreds of cucumbers there were, all hanging down like great big phalluses. When we were small, Cyn and I played jungles in here. Later on ... well ... other things.’

Liza, bored by all these reminiscences, picked up a feather used by Old Tom for the purposes of pollination, and tickled Simon’s ear with it. ‘Why do you not make love to me, Simon?’ Simon took the feather away and removed her questing hand, the sense of déjà vu now so powerful he wanted to scream. ‘Because I have things on my mind; anyway not now and certainly not in here. Anyone might pop in at any minute, and what about the boys?’

Liza’s face took on an ill-tempered expression and she began to tear the leaves off a melon plant. ‘It is Dizzy’s mother you are afraid of, not the boys. I see the way she looks at you — me, I know these things.’ Simon closed his eyes. God, how he hated women sometimes! ‘Don’t talk rubbish, and for Christ’s sake leave the melons alone. Old Tom will kill us both if anything happens to them, they’re all he has left.’

‘You are master here, Simon, not this Old Tom.’ Liza put her arms round his neck and wiggled her hips against his. ‘In France we do not treat our servants in this way.’

‘I’m not master here, my cousin is, and anyway Old Tom’s not a servant. Now, for heaven’s sake stop being tiresome and come and help me find the boys.’ Liza searched crossly in her shoulder bag and produced a crumpled packet of Gauloises: ‘It is you who are tiresome! Go then, if you wish, but I shall remain here and smoke my cigarette.’

‘All right then, I will! But aren’t you being rather childish?’ Feeling slightly silly — odd how often this seemed to happen these days — and hoping that at the last minute she would change her mind, Simon made for the door. She didn’t, but sitting herself down on an upturned bucket, watched him derisively through a cloud of smoke. ‘Go then, and find your Mrs Brandon, Simon, it is sure she will be waiting for you!’ And Simon, who could cheerfully have garrotted her, shrugged his shoulders and went.

Liza, listening to his receding footsteps, puffed at her cigarette and waited confidently for his return. Men never walked away from her — never. Especially men who looked at her in the way Simon did. He was playing a deep game, that one! Never mind, it was more fun this way ...

Five minutes later, with still no sign of Simon, she was not so sure. She got up from the bucket, stretched, threw her cigarette stub on the floor and decided to pay him out — and incidentally boring Old Tom as well — by plucking a few choice melon flowers to put in her hair. It was just as she’d finished doing this and was admiring her reflection in a handy pane of glass, that once again there were footsteps on the stone path outside the shed. So ... he had given in, he could not keep away from her! How delicious to have power such as this. She waited in triumph for the door of the shed to open.

But when it did open, it was not Simon who stood there framed in the doorway, but a young man Liza had never seen before. A young man incomprehensibly carrying a pair of scissors, and of such surpassing good looks that he quite took her breath away. It was Alfonso, come to cut a melon for that night’s supper — but she did not know that until later.

For a long moment they looked at one another, the gorgeous Spaniard twirling his scissors, and the equally gorgeous French girl fingering the yellow melon flowers in her hair. It was Alfonso who spoke first, his voice, as Liza had known it would be, low, thrilling and sexy, his English no better than her own.

‘The senorita, she is lost? I show her ... ?’

Liza shook her head, and proffered her packet of Gauloises. ‘No, I am not lost,’ she said in tolerably fluent Spanish, grateful for once to Maman for those six months spent in Madrid with boring Dr Gonzales and his even more boring family; at the time she’d vowed vengeance on Maman for such an act of treachery to her only daughter, however, for once Maman had been proved right. But do, please, show me ... ’

*

‘Dizzy, we should return, perhaps?’

‘I suppose so, but honestly, J.P., what a place! This stuff must have been here since before the First World War.’ Diz and JP were in the old harness room; Diz, with cobwebs in his hair, was peering into a cupboard. ‘Christ, here’s a bottle of the Westover horse stuff! That’s what they made their money in, you know.’ He emerged from the cupboard, triumphantly clutching a large bottle filled with what looked like green slime. However, a yellowing label still adhering to the side proclaimed its contents to be Hopton’s Magic Equine Elixir. And, just to make sure no one was in any doubt as to its magical powers, there were two pictures, one showing a horse lying down in the last stages of terminal illness, the other the same horse, presumably having been dosed, jumping exuberantly over a five-barred gate.

‘I say, I wonder if Simon knows about this cupboard, it doesn’t look as if anyone’s opened it in years. Let’s go and find him, he and Liza must be around somewhere.’

Cautiously JP pulled the cork from the bottle and sniffed, but Hopton’s Magic Elixir had somehow lost its potency; it simply smelt of nothing. ‘Let us return to your mother and Mr and Mrs Redford,’ he said, carefully replacing the cork, ‘they will be wondering where we are.’ He had no desire to hunt for Liza. He knew his sister, he’d come upon her once before in a compromising situation and she didn’t like it.

‘No need to go back yet, JP, after all Simon did take us on a tour of the place and there’s masses more to see ... ’ Arguing amicably, they emerged into the sunlit stable yard. Of Liza and Simon there was no sign; only Alfonso in mufti, a cigar between his teeth, watching them from his flat above the kitchens, and an elderly labrador lying asleep in the shelter of the barn door.

Bet, alone in the summerhouse with the remains of the tea, was feeling sorry for herself. She’d refused to go with Pol and Pete, who had wandered off round the garden on their own tour of inspection, and there was no sign of the rest of the party. For a while she’d heard distant shouts and laughter, but these had died away long since, and now there was only silence. She felt like a naughty child put in the corner, the only difference being — idiot that she was — that she’d put herself there. Mothers of grown-up children weren’t supposed to behave like this; childish sulks were simply not on the agenda. She watched miserably as a fly settled on the remains of the seed cake, and tried unsuccessfully not to think what Simon at this very moment was doing to Liza — or what Liza was doing to Simon; who did it to whom was immaterial. Oh God!

‘Good heavens, it’s Mrs Brandon — I thought I saw somebody.’ It was Cyn, radiating health and smelling slightly of cow dung. Bet leapt to her feet. ‘Miss Westover.’

‘Call me Cyn, my dear, everyone does.’

‘Er, Cyn, Simon asked us to tea, I don’t know if he told you? We were supposed to be playing croquet, but there didn’t seem to be any mallets and he said the grass was too long, so he’s taken the others on a tour of inspection instead. I do hope that’s all right?’ Cyn gave one of her raucous laughs. ‘Of course it’s all right, although there’s precious little to see these days, the whole place seems to be going to rack and ruin. The thing is, I’m up to my ears in horses all the time, and Si’s never here.’ Bet was aware of being scrutinised, and that Cyn’s brown eyes were surprisingly like Simon’s; odd she hadn’t noticed it before. ‘Left you behind, did they, the meanies, or didn’t you fancy a tour of inspection?’

‘Well, I felt a bit tired actually — having a houseful of people can be rather exhausting.’

‘Wouldn’t know, thank God, I leave all that sort of thing to Alfonso, bless him. By the way, what sort of tea did he produce?’ Bet pointed silently to the sumptuous remains laid out on the summerhouse table. Cyn whistled. ‘So that’s the way the wind blows. We can only hope he’s still on form when the Lord Lieutenant comes next week — for all our sakes.’ She gave Bet another sharp look. ‘Now then, my dear, you look as though you could do with a drink and I’m damned sure I could, I’ve had the most ghastly afternoon.’

‘Should I clear up a bit?’ Bet gestured timidly towards the tea things, now buzzing happily with flies. ‘Heavens no, that’s Alfonso’s pigeon. If he was stupid enough to bring all this stuff out here, he can jolly well take it back. Come on.’

Pleased for any diversion, Bet followed her hostess back across the little lawn, where in the middle Eros still danced away on his pedestal. Only today he seemed to be laughing. Had he been there too that summer in the far away thirties, when Simon’s parents made love? He looked as though he’d witnessed a good many strange goings on in his time; the prolonged effect of wind, weather and countless bird droppings had combined to give his face a slightly raffish, slightly lascivious air which Bet was sure the sculptor hadn’t intended.

As she followed Cyn through the French window into the morning room, she tried not to look at the broken-down sofa on the verandah on which Simon had made love to her; that too seemed to be mocking her, and she didn’t think she could bear it.

Cyn waved an arm. ‘Sit down — that’s if you can find a space, I’m afraid the place is a bit of a shambles.’ Bet, obeying, became aware of something hard and sharp sticking into her behind that on investigation turned out to be a minute tin racehorse, a brightly-coloured jockey crouching on its back. She held the thing up. ‘I seem to have sat on something.’

‘Hurray — another one’s turned up! It’s that wretched Simon, he lost his temper the other night playing Totopoly and threw the whole lot at me — he simply loathes losing, you see. It’s a bloody nuisance, the dice have completely disappeared and we’ve still only managed to find half the horses. I think Alfonso must have hoovered the rest up. Drink all right?’ Bet gulped her gin and tonic, and the strength of the gin made her eyes water. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, stroking the marmalade dog’s ears. Unlike most other people, he seemed to like her, and had placed a tentative paw on her knee. ‘Kick him off if he’s a bore. Oxford’s one of those dogs who find it impossible to believe there are people around who actually don’t think he’s the best thing since sliced bread.’

‘Please don’t worry — I love dogs. They always seem so simple and straightforward ... compared with people.’

‘Don’t let you down, yes, I know what you mean.’ Cyn took a swig at her drink, and plonking herself down in a green armchair that had seen better days, smiled across at Bet. Bet smiled back, then looked at the floor; she felt like a fourth-former waiting to have a pijaw with the head prefect.