Death is a Word (5 page)

‘Well, I do think Eva should be careful. After all, we know very little about him.’

‘Honestly, I do think Eva’s capable of looking after herself.’

‘Mother says she’s in a very vulnerable position so soon after Alan’s death. And I’m inclined to agree with her.’

I sighed. The fact that Rosemary said that she agreed with one of her mother’s opinions really did indicate just how worried she was about her cousin.

‘That really was most interesting,’ I said reluctantly. Anthea had been going on for ages about this genealogist and how lucky we were that
she
had got hold of him for Brunswick Lodge.

‘Quite a coup,’ Anthea was saying. ‘He’s very much in demand, you know, gives talks all over the country.’

‘What a pity he had to leave so early to get his train,’ Alison Shelby said. ‘There were such a lot of things I wanted to ask him.’ She turned to Eva. ‘Don’t you agree – it was absolutely fascinating?’

‘I must say it did make me think,’ Eva said. ‘I’ve always wanted to know more about the family. I don’t know much about either side, my father’s or my mother’s. My father never talked about his family in Australia and I expect it would be difficult to find stuff
there, but
his
father came from round here and I’d really like to know about them.’

‘And there are so many ways you can find out,’ Alison broke in. ‘All those places on the Internet – not that I’ve ever been able to make head or tail of computers – Maurice looks after that side of things!’

‘I think I might give it a go,’ Eva said. ‘And my mother’s family too. Her maiden name was Lydia Castel – quite an unusual name, which might help.’

‘Oh do!’ Alison said enthusiastically. ‘And you must let us know how you get on. Who knows what you might find, though perhaps you might not want to know – all those people on television discovering their ancestors were murderers or ended up in the workhouse. I always say—’

‘Alison,’ Maurice Shelby broke in, ‘we really should be going. I’m expecting an important call and I need to be home to take it.’

‘Yes, of course, dear, I’ll just get my coat – I took it off when I came in, the room was so hot. I
think
I left it in the lobby.’

Her husband raised his eyebrows slightly but made no comment, following his wife who was still wondering where she might have left her coat.

‘Have you ever investigated your family?’ I asked Donald Webster, who had been to the talk – sitting next to Eva and deep in conversation with her as
usual, which had caused Maureen to give me what she would have called one of her Looks.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘My family lived in Zimbabwe for several generations, when it was Rhodesia, that is. They were farmers and left when things got difficult over there. So there wouldn’t be any records here.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘It must have been awful.’

‘I’d already left by then. Off to get a job that would let me see the world.’

‘I suppose you might be able to find your more remote ancestors,’ I suggested. ‘You know, before they went to Africa.’

‘That might be fun,’ Eva said, ‘we could tackle all those websites together. I’m sure you’re better at that sort of thing than I am.’

‘I’d be delighted to give you a hand,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I want to investigate my lot. Like Alison said, you never know what you might find!’

I didn’t see Eva for a while to find out how she got on. I had a difficult review article to write about a book written by a friend which, while full of excellent research, I found almost totally unreadable. So I shut myself away to wrestle with it.

When I emerged, I asked Rosemary how Eva was.

‘I saw her yesterday,’ Rosemary said. ‘She certainly seems very absorbed with this genealogy thing.’

‘Has she made any progress?’

‘Not really. She says it’s all very complicated, going through endless census things, especially when you don’t have much to go on.’

‘She never asked her mother about the family?’

‘No, well, you don’t, do you? You think they’ll always be there, and by the time you want to ask, it’s too late.’

‘I don’t really remember much about her, do you?’

‘Not a lot. Well, with Eva away at school I only saw her parents occasionally in the holidays, and my parents didn’t see them often. Mother quite liked Uncle Richard (in spite of his being an Australian) but she didn’t approve of Aunt Lydia (I always called them Aunt and Uncle, though of course they weren’t) for some reason, I can’t remember the ins and outs of it – you know what Mother’s like, it’s usually something quite irrational.’

‘I only met them a couple of times. I remember being impressed by the fact that he was the first Australian I’d ever met – an interesting man, and she was very nice, very warm and friendly. And I’d never known anyone called Lydia before. It’s an unusual name, though I suppose it might be a family name. Oh well, I suppose Eva may find out – that is, unless she finds it all too difficult and gives up.’

‘Not with Donald Webster round there urging her on.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I hesitated for a minute. ‘Well, he did say he’d help.’

‘Any excuse.’

‘Oh, come on, Rosemary,’ I said coaxingly. ‘Is it so very bad? He seems a nice enough chap and they do get on very well; they’ve got a lot in common, after all.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Perhaps I’ve been a bit unfair. But it’s only been a short time since Alan died …’

‘Nearly a year. And Eva’s so much happier since she’s been seeing Donald. I’m sure Alan would want her to be happy.’

‘Yes, you’re right. I’m probably making a fuss about nothing. It’s just that he’s so
charming
!’

‘I know what you mean, but it’s not fair to condemn him for being nice to people.’

Rosemary told me that Dan and Patrick were coming to stay for a few days. Dan was doing an article about new (and expensive) restaurants in the West Country and they were calling in on Eva on their way down to Cornwall where, apparently, the most glamorous ones were to be found.

‘I’d really like to see Dan again,’ Rosemary said, ‘so I’ve invited them to supper, and Eva, of course, and I hope you’ll come too.’

‘I’d love to. I’ve always wanted to meet Dan and Patrick. But isn’t it brave of you to invite them to a
meal
?’

‘Oh, I specifically said supper and not dinner. And, actually, Dan is very tolerant of what he calls “proper cooking” – not a bit what you’d expect from his reviews.’

‘What will you give him?’

‘Sausages and mash, by special request – he’s very keen on our local sausages. Eva once took him some as a present. And apple crumble.’

‘It sounds delicious.’

‘I did think of asking Donald Webster too, but I thought perhaps Eva would rather introduce him to Dan separately, if you see what I mean.’

Dan, tall and shambling, was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the legend ‘Most Cooks Spoil the Broth’. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, almost obscuring the gold-rimmed spectacles he wore balanced halfway down his large nose – Alan’s nose. Patrick, on the other hand, was small and neat, with smoothed-down fair hair. He wore a well-cut dark suit and a very handsome silk tie.

‘So you haven’t found any suitable restaurants in this part of the West Country?’ I asked Dan.

He shook his head. ‘No, thank goodness. It remains pure and unsullied. Like these delicious sausages.’ He smiled at Rosemary. ‘No, I’m delighted to say that the tradition of proper cooking still holds sway. The occasional gastropub pops up from time to time, but
they never last long. But, please, don’t let’s spoil this splendid occasion by talking about such things.’ He turned to me. ‘I greatly enjoyed your book on Mrs Gaskell and there’s so much I want to ask you about the novels of the period. Where, for instance, would you place Mrs Oliphant? Personally I found
Salem
Chapel
a quite remarkable book.’

He then embarked on a survey of the Victorian novel, obviously based on such an extensive knowledge of the genre that I found I had to dig deep to match it. We disagreed over some authors (‘You must admit that Mrs Cholmondley’s
Red Pottage
is exceptional’) but came together over a mutual passion for Charlotte Yonge (‘A complete page-turner if ever there was one’). We parted reluctantly at the end of the evening with a promise on my part to send him a spare edition I had of
The Monthly Packet.

‘You and Dan certainly got on well,’ Rosemary said.

‘Oh well, when you get two people obsessed with the same author …’ I replied.

‘He’s a very kind person underneath that rather peculiar manner. He’s devoted to Eva – he was wonderful when Alan died. I don’t think she could have coped without him and Patrick.’

‘I didn’t have a chance, really, to talk to Patrick. What’s he like? He didn’t say very much.’

‘He never does, but
when
he does it’s always something to the point. He sits there taking everything in. He’s very good at summing people up.’

‘Do we know what he thought about Donald? I imagine Eva introduced him to both of them. How did they get on?’

‘Eva seemed pleased,’ Rosemary said. ‘I gather it was all quite easy and casual.’

‘Did Dan know how much they’d been seeing each other?’

‘Oh, I think so.’

‘So everything’s fine? I mean, if Dan approves.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And Patrick?’

‘I think he said something vague and impersonal.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then.’

‘Yes, of course it is,’ Rosemary said. ‘I’m sorry Sheila – I’ve been a bore about this Donald thing.’ She thought for a moment and then went on, ‘I think I was jealous. You know, when Eva came back down here it was lovely to see her again and I suppose I rather took over her life – well, she is family – and I sort of resented it when Donald suddenly became such a part of it. Then Mother kept going on about how short a time it was since Alan died. Of course
she
was jealous because Donald wasn’t paying as much attention to her. All absolutely ridiculous!’

‘Eva’s a big girl now,’ I said. ‘And she hasn’t exactly led a sheltered life.’

‘I know. I’m an idiot.’

‘I can see how you felt – she really is a rather special person.’

For a town house, Brunswick Lodge has quite a big garden. Sheltered by high brick walls, it’s been lovingly planted and cared for by a team of passionate gardeners and, once a year, they grudgingly allow us to have a garden party. Like everything else, this is the source of considerable friction, the gardeners’ committee placing every obstacle they can think of in the way of the general committee’s plans. Naturally Anthea tries to pull rank (‘Enid Williams has absolutely no idea of organisation – if things were left to her the whole thing would be a complete shambles!’), but Enid is equally strong-minded. She knows that just once a year she has the upper hand.

‘Of course we have to have the little tables on the lawn,’ Anthea said. ‘It’s ridiculous to say they will damage the grass. Anyone with a grain of common sense would realise that there’s no way they could go on the paths.’

‘No,’ I agreed, ‘the paths are much too uneven and, anyway, if the tables were there people would have to walk about on the grass much more.’

‘Exactly!’ Anthea said triumphantly. ‘Now then, do we have tablecloths on them? Last year, if you remember, it was very windy and the cloths kept blowing about. No,’ she went on, answering her own question as she frequently did, ‘better not; besides, people tend to spill things on them and then there are all the laundry costs.’

‘What are we doing about the urn?’ Maureen Philips broke in. ‘If it rains like last year I don’t want to have to carry it in – it was really quite dangerous and if Derek hadn’t lent me a hand I don’t know how we would have managed.’

‘No, no,’ Anthea said impatiently. ‘You remember we said we’d have iced tea and iced coffee and have it all done in the kitchen.’

‘I still think,’ Maureen replied stubbornly, ‘that a lot of people would like a nice cup of tea.’

‘Well, if they actually
ask
for one,’ Anthea said irritably, ‘Sheila can make them one in the kitchen.’

I had resigned myself to spending a lot of the garden party in the kitchen since I’d rashly offered to make the iced tea from a splendid recipe given to me by an American friend. I wasn’t entirely sorry because the garden party often took place in unsuitable weather and it was no small thing, at such a time, to be warm and dry.

Unusually, the day dawned to bright sunshine and
showed every sign of being A Perfect Day For It, as everyone said as they crowded out into the garden. There was no peace, however, in the kitchen as Anthea kept putting her head round the door with new instructions and comments.

‘Was it really necessary to actually
buy
all that ice from the supermarket, Sheila? Surely people could have brought some from their own refrigerators.’

I murmured meekly that it made things easier and that I’d paid for it myself.

‘I don’t think we should take the sandwiches and sausage rolls out yet – the sun is really quite strong and will spoil them.’

‘How many people are there now?’ I asked. ‘They’ll be wanting food.’

‘Quite a few, but they seem to be hanging about inside – I’d better go and move them on.’

She rushed off, leaving the door open as usual. A buzz of conversation indicated that she hadn’t been successful in chivvying people outside.

‘So,’ Alison was saying, ‘how far have you got?’

‘Not very,’ Eva said, laughing. ‘I kept getting sidetracked – all sorts of fascinating stuff in those census things. And Donald wasn’t much help; he was just as bad, haring off after unusual names.’

‘But you must persevere,’ Alison said enthusiastically. ‘We’re all longing to know how it
turns out. I wanted Maurice to do ours, but he said he didn’t have the time and, of course, I’d be absolutely useless. Well,’ she continued proudly, ‘I wouldn’t even know how to switch the computer on. I’m an absolute duffer at anything mechanical. Maurice will tell you – the trouble I’ve had with the tumble dryer …’

‘I think we’re required outside,’ Maurice Shelby said drily, and just then Anthea returned and shepherded them firmly into the garden.

I’d squeezed some lemons and was just fishing out the pips when I heard Donald’s voice.

‘Thank goodness they’ve gone. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘What is it?’ Eve replied.