Dark Angel (113 page)

“There’s no other husband I’d prefer. Ever. None. You know that.”

Jane gripped his hands. Acland, seeing the old fierceness in her face, a strength he sometimes felt he no longer possessed, bent his head. He rested it against her breast. Jane stroked his hair. The coals in the fire shifted. Acland thought:
I am at peace.

After a while he straightened up. He kissed his wife. “I’d better go, I suppose. Freddie and Steenie will be impatient. We’re going on a long march—to the top of Galley’s Field. Promise me you’ll try to sleep. Shall I ask Jenna to come in and sit with you?”

“Yes. I like it when she’s here. She knits. I can hear the needles click.”

“You and she—you’re very close.” Acland looked at her, his expression puzzled.

“She’s my friend, Acland. I feel that. I’m glad she’s here now. I hated it when she had to live in that cottage—”

“Yes. Well. Maybe you’re right.” He hesitated. “I’ll ask her then, on the way out.”

“Thank you. Oh, I feel so sleepy. Look, my eyes keep shutting. I can’t stay awake….”

“I love you.” Acland kissed her once more. “I love you,” he said, “and I hate it when we quarrel.”

Of the three brothers, Acland walked the fastest. Slightly ahead of them as they passed through the woods and crossed the bridge, he gained a greater distance when they reached the hill beyond. He walked ahead; the gap between them widened. Steenie strolled behind him, gazing about him with a bemused air, as if he found the country startling. Freddie, by then rather stout, brought up the rear. He was already puffing.

Steenie was wearing a preposterous coat, two silken mufflers, and a pair of pigskin gloves very similar to the ones that had so offended Boy, years before. Steenie had just flown in from Paris, where he had had another of his perennial fights with Conrad Vickers. He complained, volubly, first about the defects in Vickers’s character, then about the flight.

Freddie was trying to decide whether Steenie’s walk would be better described as a mince or a glide. It somehow contrived to be both. Freddie frowned at the yellow gloves. (He disapproved of them as strongly as Boy had.) However, his silent criticisms of his brother were mild. Freddie liked family gatherings; he liked to return to Winterscombe when he could.

Toward the top of the rise, Acland paused. He waited for his two brothers to catch up. He looked, Freddie thought, both happy and carefree, much fitter than Freddie had seen him for years. His face was tanned from outdoor work on the estate; he walked with long strides. With great enthusiasm, he had begun to discuss cows.

Freddie was pretty sure that, two years before, it had been sheep. And he was pretty sure the sheep had not been a great success. Freddie did not mind that. Bouts of misguided and often short-lived enthusiasm were something he understood; he himself was currently between engagements. When Acland spoke of cows, Freddie nodded in a sage way. He felt a kinship with his brother.

Steenie did not. Steenie was quite happy to accept funding—his own money having been used up years before—but funding Steenie’s expensive tastes (and Acland must do that, Freddie assumed, since no one else did) was no way to gain protection from Steenie’s tongue.

“For God’s sake, Acland,” he said when they had stopped near the top of the hill. “Do we have to listen to this? You sound like a farmer.”

“I am a farmer. I try to be a farmer. Something has to be done with all this land.” Acland climbed onto a fence. He lit a cigarette.

“Well, it doesn’t suit you. You don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure. And you’re far too optimistic. Proper farmers are never optimistic. They are men of unremitting gloom.”

“I can’t be gloomy. Not today. I’m a father. Freddie understands—don’t you, Freddie?”

“Give me one of those cigarettes. A father?” Steenie inserted the cigarette in a holder. “I can’t imagine why you should sound so smug about that. Lots of men are fathers. Most men are fathers. Where’s the distinction in that?”

“Nevertheless. That is what I feel. I shall … halloo her name, to the reverberate hills.” Acland, standing on the fence, did so. “Victoria,” he shouted. “Victoria.”

As Acland shouted, the woods called back. The hills resounded to a name. Acland, embarrassed by this, knowing his gesture had been extravagant, climbed down from the fence and leaned against it. He narrowed his eyes. He measured the dimensions of his fields. He felt he loved these fields. They were no longer something to grapple with, sullen, difficult places that never produced an adequate crop, fields that resisted his flocks. They were something to pass on. He wondered whether he might say this, and—catching Steenie’s cold blue eye—decided better not.

“Papa liked this place.” Freddie, too, rested against the fence. “He liked to stand just here. I came up with him, once or twice.”

“He would. You can see the whole estate from here. It looks big. He liked that—being kingpin.”

“Shut up, Steenie. He was all right in his way. He wasn’t such a bad sort.”

“Did I say he was? I just said he liked to be kingpin, monarch of all he surveyed. Which happens to be true. I loved him too, Freddie. He drove me ’round the bend—however, I did love him. Just a bit. Well, more than a bit.” Steenie sighed. “I don’t think he noticed. My hair distracted him. I don’t think he liked it so blond. I think its
exceptional
blondness distressed him. Still, there you are.” He drew on his cigarette. “When does Wexton arrive? It will be nice to see Wexton again.”

“In the morning.” Acland did not look around. “Constance is coming then too. And Winnie. Maud motors down separately. She comes to the ceremony, then goes straight back. It might be quite a good idea, Steenie, if you didn’t remark on that.”

“Would I?” Steenie gave both brothers a look of injured innocence. “I can be tactful, you know, when I want to be. Deeply tactful. I shan’t mention Montague once.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right,” said Freddie in his comfortable way. “It was ages ago. Maud will be fine. She always is.”

“Darling, I’m sure Maud will be dignity personified. It’s not Maud I’m worried about. It’s Constance. Constance
adores
scenes. She’s bound to do something perfectly ghastly. It’s probably why she’s here—”

“She’s here to be Victoria’s godmother. She insisted, and I agreed. She’s not staying long, anyway. Two days, three at most. And you exaggerate, as usual, Steenie. Constance has stayed here umpteen times. She comes over every year, and there has never been a scene.”

“Ah, but that was with Stern. He keeps her in check. And Stern isn’t coming.”

“Her husband is not the only person capable of keeping Constance in check.” Acland sounded irritated. “I can do it, if need be. Freddie will help—won’t you, Freddie?”

“I suppose so.” Freddie did not sound confident. “I’ll try. But I haven’t seen her in years. I’m not sure I remember what she’s like.”

Steenie made no comment. He smiled in an enigmatic way, perhaps intended to irritate. He leaned on Freddie’s arm as they returned downhill. Freddie puffed in the effort to keep up with Acland.

By the time they reached the bottom of the rise, the light was failing fast. They crossed the river, took the path that led past Jack Hennessy’s cottage, back toward the village and the woods.

The garden of Hennessy’s cottage was very overgrown: Weeds encroached on the path and the walls. Its roof sagged. Its uncurtained windows were dark.

“What a beastly dump,” Steenie said, once they were safely past. “Acland—wait for us. Does Jack Hennessy still live there?”

“Yes. He likes it.” Acland glanced back. He shrugged. “He asked for it, when he came back from the war. It seems to suit him. You know, he’s not quite normal. He’s something of a recluse.”

“But what about Jenna? Is it true he hit her? Hennessy the wife-beater! Well, I’m not surprised. He always gave me the creeps.”

“He hit her the other week. I don’t think it was an habitual thing. There’s only trouble when he drinks. Anyway, Jane dealt with it. Jenna will live in the house now—she’ll look after Victoria. It’s convenient, all ’round. Come on.” Acland began to move off.

“You ought to do something about that place, Acland,” Steenie said, trotting to keep up with him. “It’ll fall down on Hennessy’s head one of these days. And these houses, too.” They stopped. They had reached the village green. Steenie peered about him. He gave a sigh.

“It does look a mess, Acland. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been back for a while, but it looks so horrid. Half the houses look empty.”

“Half of them
are
empty.” Acland gave a gesture of annoyance. “Would you like to know why, Steenie? They’re empty because half the work force has left. Because I can’t afford the wages of men to live in them. No one wants to buy them, you know—”

“Well,
someone
must want the houses, surely? Writers, painters, poets—those sorts of people. Potters! Potters love places like this. You could do the houses up. I remember how it used to look. It was particularly charming, in a feudal sort of way. There were vegetables. Lines of runner beans, and hollyhocks—”

“Jesus Christ, Steenie.”

“Well, there
were,
Acland! I’m just remarking. It’s true. You’ve let the place go downhill.”

“Steenie. There was a
war
.” Acland gave a sigh of exasperation. “Do you understand that? I wonder sometimes if you do. Just try and think about it, will you? All those men who worked here, who planted the runner beans and the hollyhocks—do you know how many of them ever came back? No, you don’t, of course. You’re too busy gadding about.” He turned away. “There’s a memorial in the church. You can look at it tomorrow. Count the names of those who never came back. Work it out for yourself, why don’t you?”

“Oh, the war, the
war
!” Steenie’s voice rose. “I’m sick of the bloody war. You harp on about it. Jane harps on about it. Even Wexton harps on about it. For God’s sake, the war’s
over.
It’s been over for twelve
years
—”

“Over? You think it’s over?” Acland turned back. He caught hold of Steenie’s arm. He turned his brother back, in the direction of dereliction. “Just look, Steenie. And think for once. The war didn’t end in 1918. That was just the beginning. Look at your village, Steenie. Go on, look properly. You know what it is? A little war zone, all of its own, right in the heart of Winterscombe. You know what kept this place going? Investment income. Low taxes. Cheap servants. Ridiculous, misplaced, feudal loyalties. All that has changed. I’m even glad it has changed. And yet, I can’t let it go. I keep propping it up, trying to make it work again. My wife provides the money, and I provide—I try to provide—the energy. It gets harder and more expensive to do so every year. And you get more expensive too. You might remember that as well, Steenie.”

“That’s not fair!” Steenie gave a wail. “I hate it when you talk like that. You sound so quiet and so grim. I try! I said I’d economize. I try to economize. If Papa had managed things better, I’d have been all right. How was I to know half the money would disappear? Mama always said …” Steenie’s voice hit a high note. It cracked. Tears spouted suddenly from his eyes. They plopped down his cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve made me cry. Oh,
hell
—”

“You cry very easily, Steenie. You always did.”

“I know I do. I can’t help that.” Steenie blew his nose. He wiped his eyes. He gave both Acland and Freddie a dignified look.

“It’s my nature to cry. When people are beastly to me, I cry. There’s not a lot of point in my trying to be manly, is there? And the tears are sincere. If you want to know, I’m crying for the hollyhocks, and an idyll that never was—”

“And yourself, Steenie—don’t forget that.”

“All right, myself as well. I know I’m weak. But it isn’t awfully nice, being a remittance man—”

“Steenie, you’re impossible.” Acland’s voice had softened. He gave a small shrug, as if to shake off the last of his anger. He turned. “We’d better go back anyway. There’s no point in arguing. Come on—it’ll be dark in a minute.”

“Say I’m forgiven.” Steenie hurried after Acland and caught his arm. “Go on. Say I’m an idiot and a horrible social butterfly and selfish and impossible—and you forgive me.”

“You’re a pain in the backside.”

“And I’m your brother—”

“Oh, all right.” Acland sighed. “You’re a pain, and my brother. And I forgive you. Why not?”

“Say something nice too.” Steenie put his arm through Acland’s. “Say … Oh, I don’t know. Say you like my yellow gloves.”

“Steenie. I cannot tell a lie. Your gloves are bloody awful.”

“
That’s
better.” Steenie gave a chirrup. “I feel quite cheered up now. Come on, Freddie. Look at the three of us, marching along! Three brothers!
Isn’t
that nice?” He gave them, in turn, a mocking glance. “What shall we do now, do you think? Go back to the house for tea—or talk about Moscow?”

Freddie’s theatrical tastes had never run as far as Chekhov. He did not grasp the reference, but knowing a further quarrel had been averted and animosity healed, he began to grin, then whistled. He disliked contention. He began to dwell on the question of tea.

“Shall we cut through the woods?” he suggested as they came to a fork in the paths. “The quick way—through the clearing? Let’s. I’m starving.”

At this, to his surprise, both Acland and Steenie hesitated.

“It’s not that much quicker …” Acland began.

“It is. It’s a good ten minutes quicker. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Acland hesitated. “Nothing really. I don’t usually go that way—”

“The vengeful ghost of Shawcross!” Steenie gave a somewhat nervous giggle. “I
hate
going that way. I don’t mind admitting it. I’m a terrible coward—especially when it’s dark. That part of the woods is distinctly creepy—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Freddie turned down that path. He considered toasted crumpets. A warm fire. Tea—perhaps cake. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you both? I don’t believe in ghosts, and neither do you. Come on, hurry.”

He set off down the path to the clearing. Acland followed, with reluctance. Steenie let out another affected wail, which made Freddie jump.