Beggar Bride (25 page)

‘I really don’t know about that.’

‘Well, think it over, anyway. But I would be perfectly happy with those arrangements.’

‘Shouldn’t we look about a bit? I mean, what’s the fellow like, for God’s sake? And I would like Nanny Barber to meet her and give an opinion.’ Fabian was thinking of Murphy O’Connell. He does not want to get lumbered with yet another scoundrel living under his own roof.

‘I haven’t met him yet,’ Angela said lightly, ‘but I’ll ask Tina to bring him along, and the children, when I take her to see Hurleston next Tuesday. By the way, Fabian, would it be all right to take the Rolls?’

And that gave Fabian the perfect opening to explain about the car he has organised to carry her about when she is in England. With a child at her side, she will need transport of her own. She doesn’t like to travel by road, and Fabian understands that after that frightful childhood crash, but she must try to overcome her fears and a comfortable motorcar like the new Range Rover he has ordered will surely go some way to alleviate the distressing situation. All he needs now is a driver.

Perhaps this character, this fellow attached to Nanny Tree, would like the job. Kill two birds with one stone, that’s if the chap hasn’t got a job already and these migratory types tend not to have.

He doesn’t mind admitting he had been a little nervous about Angela’s reaction to a motorcar, but his fears were unwarranted. She sensibly took his point. Yes, with a baby and a nanny and all that entails she would certainly need her own transport. If Nanny Tree’s partner cannot drive, then Nanny herself probably can.

Snow covers the ground at Hurleston. Streamers of mist like hurrying ghosts fly by the steamy windows. Inside Halcyon Fields the fire burns brightly, flickering its shadows on the walls and seeming to increase the darkness outside.

Nanny Barber’s knitting is blue.

‘There goes Honesty,’ says Maudie Doubleday, stooping to see out of the small leaded window with the pretty chintzy Austrian blind above. She rubs her cold, leathery hands. ‘And on an afternoon like this. She’ll freeze to death, poor thing. She certainly does love her riding, but the poor horse seems to be steaming already.’

Nanny Barber tuts to herself and it sounds like a stick crackling in the flames. ‘Silly girl. Silly, angry girl, just like her mother I’m sorry to say, with her grudges.’ She turns to Maudie. ‘Do come and sit down.’ Maudie has done a fine job on the new curtains and covers for the nursery, the fabrics chosen by Angela of course, hens and ducks in all the glorious colours of Smarties. So sweet, and Martin the hall-boy oversaw the complete redecoration of the old wing. You should see it now. Every comfort…

‘I suppose they’ll be down here soon,’ says Maudie, not too happily. She prefers life to go on undisturbed. Boredom allows her imagination to flower.

Nanny Barber leans back on the pretty little sofa and sighs. ‘I am so looking forward to it, you cannot imagine.’

‘You can’t mean that. All those people? It will be worse than an invasion! Very odd, it seems to me, employing what is virtually an entire family!’

‘But not so odd when you think about it,’ says Nanny. ‘The young man will drive the car and do any general heavy work around the house and the gardens. Martin is getting very doddery now. The children will be no problem, rather charming, actually, to think of that huge nursery echoing with laughter and singing again.’

Maudie gives the fire a poke.
‘But what sort of children,
Gwenda dear?’

‘I’m sure they are perfectly fine,’ says Nanny firmly, Maudie was always a snob. ‘I only saw the daughter of course, funny little thing, and terribly quiet, the younger child was tucked in the pram and he never came out while I was there. And Tina Tree is good fun.’

‘Since when has “good fun” been a relevant attribute for child rearing?’

‘Good fun, Maudie, is extremely important, actually. And the girl certainly has had a great deal of experience. Yes, as I told Master Fabian, I liked her, and Lord Ormerod was terribly taken with her.’

‘So I believe,’ says Maudie tartly.

The Old Granary next, and Lord Ormerod is putting his collection of flies in order, his christening present for Archibald, the new heir of Hurleston. His cramped old fingers pluck at the bright feathers that burn like glow worms under the lids of the small, compartmented boxes. It has taken him a lifetime to put this specialist collection together.

Elfrida rushes indoors having just been to see to the bird table and her double row of footprints can be seen large and steady in the snow. She returns to the table beside the window where a half-finished enamel teapot she bought from a recent car boot sale waits to be painted navy blue.

Pieces of snow add to the grey of Elfrida’s hair. She starts to sort out her brushes, blowing hard on her fingers as she does so. ‘We ought to have stopped her, Evelyn. The weather is getting quite wild out there.’

‘They certainly forecast it,’ he says. ‘They forecast blizzards at one o’clock.’

‘What can the girl be thinking of? D’you think there is something the matter?’

‘Some mental problem d’you mean? Like her mother?’

‘Well, we all love horses, we all like to ride, but Honesty seems to be totally obsessed. Nothing, not even a hurricane, would stop her these days.’

‘She certainly doesn’t seem all that keen on staying in London.’

‘No wonder, when you think what has happened to her poor mother. When Fabian and the baby come down I do think it’s time we mended this breach between them.’

‘I don’t see why, old horse,’ says Evelyn. ‘Nothing the matter with a jolly good feud…’

No. Elfrida muses, sucking on a Horlicks tablet and forming the swishing base of a large red rose on her teapot. Like the feud which still exists between Evelyn’s cousin Rufus, in America, and his son Giles. What a good thing, for her husband’s sake, that Giles is no longer set to inherit, that Evelyn has a grandson of his own at dear last. It would have been painful, there’s no denying it, for Evelyn to die knowing the son of his arch-enemy was going to come into all this. And that fifty-year-old feud was all over a stag which Evelyn was supposed to have bagged but Rufus, the bounder, known for his poor eye at the sport, stepped forward to claim the prize. An unforgivable slander. Only once has Rufus visited this house since his banishment fifty years ago and that was without invitation. They did not stay long. He brought his eldest son with him, ‘the blackguard,’ said Evelyn, ‘to taunt me’. They went away accusing the twins, only five years old at the time, of bullying the lad, but he must have been in his early teens. A bit of a bloody wet, as she and Evelyn agreed afterwards.

It was good to see that old gleam in Evelyn’s eye when he caught sight of that new nanny. A hopeful sign. Perhaps his pain is easing.

‘Well I still think we should have stopped Honesty from going riding in this lot,’ says Elfrida firmly. ‘She’ll freeze to death, and that’s if the horse doesn’t slip in the snow on those dangerous rhododendron roots.’

A
ND NOW, WITH EACH
day that passes, they seem to be taking more risks, laying themselves on the line, gambling that little bit more dangerously as if the adrenalin is taking them over. This state of affairs cannot last. At any time Ange expects this long-running, bare-faced fraud to be exposed in some explosive fashion, they’ll find themselves splashed luridly over the front pages of the papers, they’ll lose everything they have achieved.

Which is certainly not to be sniffed at.

Ange keeps careful accounts, and now, bearing in mind that they manage to live very well on Billy’s small wage, all expenses paid, they have quite a respectable sum stashed away in the bank.

Maybe it would be better to give it up now while they’re winning, just disappear.

They still pay the rent on the two flats in Willington Gardens in case they have to return one day, God forbid, they don’t want to burn their bridges. Both Tina and Billy have stopped their giros, the last thing they want is to get caught on a stupid little issue like that. Billy driving about without a licence is quite worrying enough. But Ange finds she is constantly having to warn Billy and Tina that walls have ears, ceilings have eyes and somewhere there must be noses sniffing… Ange is constantly on edge. Totally exhausted sometimes, after so many sleepless nights.

And over such silly, unnecessary things. ‘Did you go and see Sandra Biddle before we left, Tina?’

‘Nah, old bag.’

‘I asked you to go! This isn’t fair! You’ve got to keep thinking back, covering your tracks all the time. We don’t want someone starting to wonder where we’ve all disappeared to so suddenly. Asking questions. She asked about you when I last went and I told her nothing had changed, you’d be in touch.’

Stupid cow.

Hell. But at least Billy seems to be co-operating more sensibly. He sees his probation officer regularly, gives all the right answers. Now they believe he’s got a job on the roads down in Devon.

But why should Ange be the one who has to worry for their safety?

Can neither of them imagine how it would be if this scheme collapsed round their ears?

All three are tanned and healthy after returning from a month on Fabian’s Island—Indigo—near St Lucia in the Windward Islands, white sands, purple mountains, palm trees and rum, an experience close to perfection—they were alone, Fabian couldn’t get away—that it was far, far closer to a dream than any reality. Petal, a pixie under a palm-woven sunhat, had to be coated with lotions all day or she’d burn, she is such a fair child. Archie stayed in the shade under a palm umbrella while little Jacob had the time of his life splashing in the shallows, playing in the sand. Ange and Billy watched with joy, nothing had ever happened to him so special as this before. His eyes shone, his appetite was ravenous, he stopped his snuffling, and he seemed to grow six inches in that short time.

Passports would have been a problem if they had travelled with Fabian. It couldn’t have been done, not for Billy, not in the name of Harper, that would have raised some eyebrows and Ange, of course, was meant to have a passport as blue as the tattooed woman at the fair. When the time came hers was comparatively simple, she’d never had a passport before and she sent off her birth certificate in the name of Angela Brown, having changed her name on the form to Ormerod. Tina was starting from scratch as well, and she and the children travelled on hers. And since nobody needed to see his, Billy’s said simply Billy Harper.

For convenience, although everyone knows they’re not married, at home the new nanny and her entourage all go under the name of Tree.

The large white house was on the beach, not yards from the sea, and all the rooms had terraces riotous with bougainvillea and butterflies. The young native couple who kept house were discreet and efficient. Ange, Billy and Tina ate on the terrace all the time, sheltering under vast umbrellas and laughing when the rains came, quickly over, and you could smell the scents again, stronger than ever.

Sometimes they swam in the lagoon by moonlight, water the colour of mercury and surrounded by silvery fishes. Under the water, looking up at the moon, you felt you were a diamond.

Once they found a pile of white bones—some beached, bleached sea-going creature—‘That could well be where he stashed another wife, one that nobody knows about.’

‘Don’t even jest, Billy,’ said Ange.

‘He’s mad. If I had this island I’d never leave it. I’d call myself King, pay no taxes and live in heaven.’

‘Well, then you’d run out of money, Billy,’ said Ange.

‘Not if I had what he’s got I wouldn’t,’ and he rubbed a drip of rum off his scorching chest. He smelled of rum mixed with coconut oil, a pungent concoction, and he rattled the ice in his glass. ‘I reckon that would last ten lifetimes at least.’

‘Fabian couldn’t bear to do nothing, lounge around all day like we do,’ said Ange. ‘He’d need to bring his fax along, and his mobile, and his assistant and his secretary. He hardly ever comes here.’

‘Why did he bother to buy it then?’

‘Ffiona insisted, years ago, it was the sort of thing she adored. She probably used to bring her men friends here. Helena never bothered. There aren’t any green issues here. And I don’t think Fabian has got round to doing anything about it.’

Tina was topless. Once again Ange thought to herself, she wouldn’t be so flagrant if she and Billy had something going, not without shaving under her arms she wouldn’t. ‘God, wouldn’t I love to send that bleeding Ed a card, just to show the wanker…’

If only Tina would practise more control over her English. She and Billy are as bad as each other, they don’t even try, and all the bad language, it’s bound to slip out in front of one of the Ormerods one day, or Nanny Barber, almost worse. Ange put her own postcards down and snicked the pen. ‘Well don’t, for God’s sake, Tina.’

‘I wouldn’t, silly. I won’t.’

But sometimes Ange has to wonder…

The idea might have been foolhardy, but Ange wanted Billy and Jacob around her, she missed them so much, and she was willing to take the additional risks for the sake of having them near. But there are more problems than she bargained for. Luckily, when Ange is in London, Billy goes home with Jacob, because it is at Cadogan Square that Ange feels most threatened, not that there’s any real reason for her paranoia. It’s just the way Murphy O’Connell looks at her sometimes, and some of the insolent remarks he makes, although, as Tina reassures her, he’s exactly the same to everyone, he is just a wholly unpleasant person.

But can you believe this? Ange even had to make Tina remove her make-up the other day.

‘What is this?’ she’d shouted at Tina, who was dolled up like a tart. ‘Are you mad?’

‘I just can’t bear going round looking so sodding awful. I mean, look at this dress! Look at these shoes!’

It’s a good thing that in both houses the nursery wings are completely cut off from the main goings on, both structurally and socially, so that Tina can mostly stay out of sight with Jacob, while Ange tries to carry off the proprieties downstairs.

In spite of the age difference the similarities between the two children are startling. If Jacob was just a year younger he and the bouncing Archie could almost be identical twins but so far, thank God, no one has shown any particular interest in the older boy. Well why would they? The son of the handyman/driver? And it’s not as if he’s demanding or noisy or pushing himself forward in any way, he is not that sort of child. Jacob is sweetly shy, a quiet little kid who likes to amuse himself with his blocks, scribbles with his crayons and happily looks at the pictures in his books.