Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (23 page)

Dimpsie smiled, rubbing the place which had turned red. ‘I expect she thought I was taking liberties.’

Petula hopped on to Nan’s magazine, deposited a white blob on the face of Princess Michael of Kent and then flew up to the top of the cupboard.

‘Dad! That damn bird’s done it again!’ Nan wailed.

Mr O’Shaunessy zoomed over with a hanky and scrubbed the princess’s face clean. Then he covered the table with a clean cloth which, though unironed, was as white as the snow outside
and put on it blue and white striped mugs and plates with a matching sugar bowl and milk jug. He set a brown teapot in front of Dimpsie and indicated with a nod of his head that she should pour. I was so hungry I could not take my eyes from whatever was beneath the checked tea towel. He lifted it to reveal a Singin’ Hinny, which is a speciality of Northumberland, a cross between a cake and a large flat scone filled with currants. He cut it into four pieces, split each one and buttered it. I shut my eyes to savour fully the taste of childhood, sweet and rich and satisfying.

‘This is perfection.’ I opened my eyes to smile at Mr O’Shaunessy.

He gave me a doubtful look. ‘Ye don’t disdain our simple food t’en?’

‘Certainly not.’ I felt rather indignant at the imputation that I was a snob. But I reminded myself that people who live unconventionally must often be in receipt of slights and snubs. ‘It’s one of my favourite things.’

Nan looked up. ‘My favourite thing’s smoked salmon. I’ve only ate it once. I suppose ye eat it all the time.’

‘No, I don’t. I can’t afford it.’

‘Ye canna be poor. Yer fatha’s a doctor.’

‘Yes, but I support myself. Anyway, my father isn’t interested in food. He’d be furious if we spent his money on things like smoked salmon.’

‘If I had any money, I’d eat smoked salmon every day. I’d never look at another Singin’ Hinny. Daft name, anyways.’

She returned to flicking through the magazine while eating the despised Hinny, her little finger extended to express disgust. Mr O’Shaunessy looked annoyed but said nothing. The warmth of the heater condensed on the windows in silvery trickles. The cosy cheerfulness of the caravan ought to have put anyone in a good mood, yet it was clear that father and daughter were not happy. I wondered what had happened to Mrs O’Shaunessy. Above the sink was a plate-rack that held two plates and two glasses. A Tilley lamp shed light on a tidily folded pile of blankets and two
pillows. Presumably each night the banquettes became beds. I tried to imagine myself living in such proximity with my father, sleeping, dressing and undressing in the same room and shivered inwardly at the thought.

‘Are your clocks for sale, Mr O’Shaunessy?’ asked Dimpsie.

‘Aye. Twice a year a man comes from t’e USA and takes t’em all away.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t think of trying to sell them locally? I have a craft shop in the village.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid most of the things are pretty awful. But if I could get people to supply me with nicer things it might do better in the summer when the tourists come.’

‘The Americans send me the innards, the clock mechanism, see. I’d have to pay for the parts.’

‘Well, couldn’t you do that? Or better still, let me. We could try just one to begin with.’ Dimpsie looked eager.

Mr O’Shaunessy stuck out his lower lip, debating inwardly. ‘Well, Mrs Savage, I don’t know—’

‘Oh, do call me Dimpsie. It’s a nickname – so silly, isn’t it, but it’s what my father called me because I was a fat little baby covered with dimples.’ Mr O’Shaunessy looked taken aback. I could see my mother was going on too fast for him, but that was her way when she liked people. She wanted to know everything about them immediately and to tell them everything about herself. She clasped her fingers together. ‘And may I call you Cuckoo?’

Mr O’Shaunessy looked affronted. ‘I know t’at’s what t’e bastards call me behind me back.’ He clenched his fist, a scarred gorilla’s paw. ‘I’d like to see t’e man who’d dare say it to me face!’

Dimpsie looked dismayed. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mr O’Shaunessy.’ She put her small hand on his arm where it was immediately lost among thick black whiskers. ‘It was stupid of me.’

Seeing contrition in every feature of her gentle face, Mr
O’Shaunessy relented. ‘I was baptized John. But me friends call me Jode.’

‘Jode!’ My mother beamed, relieved to be forgiven. ‘So suitable. A very manly name.’

Mr O’Shaunessy – Jode, as he was from that moment on – squared his shoulders and looked gratified.

‘That’s settled then,’ she said. ‘You’ll write and ask them?’

He seemed to shrink a fraction. ‘I can’t read nor write. Nan deals wit’ letters and t’at.’

‘Oh … well …’ Dimpsie looked uneasy. There seemed to be so many opportunities for giving offence. ‘Why don’t I save Nan the trouble and send the letter myself? What do you say, Nan?’

She had been deep in an article about the best way to store fur coats. When the matter was explained to her, she shrugged characteristically and said, ‘Okay.’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Dimpsie lifted her mug of tea. ‘May this be the beginning of a fruitful partnership. A pity we haven’t anything stronger to celebrate with.’

‘Dad don’t approve of drink,’ said Nan, not looking up.

‘Oh, no, of course not. Neither do I, actually.’ She caught my eye and blushed.

Jode exposed teeth like anti-tank bollards. ‘What say we have a singsong instead? Not’ing like a hymn for lifting t’e spirits.’

Dimpsie and I exchanged glances of alarm. Neither of us could sing a note.

‘Grow up, Dad!’ Nan growled. ‘Who wants te yawl their lungs out on a pissin’ awful day in a van in the middle of a clarty field? Anyway, you’ll wake the babby.’

Jode frowned momentarily, then rubbed his face with his hand to restore an expression of good humour. ‘Have another bit of cake, Nan. Maybe it’ll sweeten yer temper.’

‘It’ll take more’n a bit of cake to do that!’ Nan flashed out.

‘You’ll forgive her kittle humour.’ Jode turned to Dimpsie. ‘She’s been disappointed in love and there’s no pain so sore.’

‘Dad! Give over talking about me as if I woren’t here!’ Nan’s
eyes filled. ‘I hate men and I don’t want owt more to do wi’ them.’

Casting about for a diversion, Dimpsie remembered the things we had brought with us. After a cursory glance Nan showed little interest, but Jode exclaimed politely over each article as though we had opened a casket of precious jewels, which made their awfulness more embarrassing. While he was admiring the kitten-pig, the involuntary beneficiary of the craft-shop cast-offs began to cry. Tenderly Jode lifted the infant from the box and brought him over to the table. He offered the bundle of waving arms and legs to Nan, but she turned to stare out of the window.

‘May I?’ Dimpsie held out her arms. Her expression as he laid the baby in them made me feel that every step of the way had been well worth it.

Little Harrison Ford’s face was salmon-coloured with emotion. His mouth was wide open, showing pale pink gums and a uvula that trembled proportionally with the volume of his crying. Jode gave the feeding bottle to Dimpsie with the air of one bestowing the freedom of Newcastle on its most illustrious citizen. My ears rang in the sudden silence as the baby stopped howling and sucked urgently, opening and closing its tiny fists, its entire body tense with concentration. Jode watched dotingly as the child consumed the bottle’s contents, while Nan read an article about shopping in the Brompton Road, which could only serve to embitter. The baby lay still for a few moments, at peace with the world. Then his face turned from salmon to crimson. Even his eyes seemed to redden.

‘He’s filling his nappy. Regular as clockwork,’ said the happy grandfather. ‘Give him te me.’

He took him to the other end of the caravan, which was not far. Nan held her little upturned nose while the changing was going on. I tried to breathe through my mouth. Dimpsie looked as delighted as though her nostrils were assailed by the sweet gums of Araby. She and Jode were under a spell woven by Nature to ensure the upbringing of at least some of her progeny.

I glanced out of the window at the darkening sky.

‘We must go,’ I said to Dimpsie.

‘Oh dear, yes.’ She stood up. ‘Goodbye, Nan. Thank you so much for letting me see your lovely baby.’

Nan put her finger on a word to keep her place and looked up. ‘Seeya.’ Her head went down again, her mind absorbed by what was described in the headline as a raw silk pants suit.

Jode would not hear of us setting off alone and he was not a man to be argued with. He insisted not only on seeing us to the car but also on carrying me, as in his view I was looking all in. I put my arms round his neck and clung to him like the child on the back of St Christopher. He set out with seven-league strides across the moor, beneath a white whirling sky, while Dimpsie, her face hidden by the hood of her red duffle coat, ran behind carrying my crutches like an attendant dwarf. From time to time he shook his head to dash the flakes from his eyes, and strands of wet hair and particles of ice would fly into my face.

‘Well,’ said Dimpsie as we drove away, narrowly missing an oncoming milk float. ‘That was a fascinating experience.’ I was delighted to hear a note of buoyancy in her voice. ‘What an adorable baby! And such an interesting man! Poor little Nan, such a pretty girl but she seems rather lost. We must see what we can do to help her.’

I made no reply. I was watching in the wing mirror as the milk float twirled like Odile on a patch of sheet ice and slid gracefully to a standstill in the hedge.

‘I wish you girls would stop screeching.’ Rafe slowed to climb an almost vertical hairpin bend. ‘It’s not like you to be nervous, Isobel.’

‘Fear’s contagious.’ Isobel was sitting next to him. ‘Every time Marigold screams I feel sure there must be something to worry about.’

‘Sorry.’ I was sharing the back seat with Buster so I could put up my leg. ‘I really can’t help it.’

‘Close your eyes,’ suggested Isobel.

‘They are closed.’

‘At least Buster isn’t barking. Usually I have to put my fingers in my ears to stop myself going completely crazy.’

‘All he needs is a little firmness and consistency.’ Rafe sounded satisfied.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him the reason Buster wasn’t barking was because I was holding his paw. I only had to relax my grasp slightly for him to make the little growling sound that was preparatory to a good howl.

‘Whoever built this road was impatient to get to the top,’ said Isobel. ‘I’d have been inclined to make it more gradual. Think of the poor horses having to drag carriages up here.’

‘And from what I can remember it gets worse,’ said Rafe. ‘It doesn’t help to have a fresh layer of snow over last night’s ice.
The surface is like glass. Even the snow chains aren’t gripping properly.’

I don’t believe he meant to torture me. Other people’s neuroses are baffling if you do not happen to share them.

‘I suppose there’s so little traffic they don’t bother to send the gritting lorries up,’ Rafe continued. ‘Or the road-menders, come to that. The verges are so broken down it must be dangerous at the best of times.’

‘This is probably a pimple compared with the mountains of Bavaria,’ said Isobel dreamily. ‘Anyway, I expect Conrad’ll have a new road made and fences put up.’ These days all her waking moments seemed to be spent in contemplation of Conrad’s fabulous wealth and how they were going to spend it.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Rafe, ‘I remember this. It used to be as far as you could get. Those gates have always been chained and padlocked.’

I risked a peek through spread fingers. A fence looped with barbed wire straggled down to the aforementioned gates, which stood open. The track was darkened by trees. Rafe put the headlights on and proceeded with extreme caution. Overhanging branches scraped the roof and sides of the car with teeth-jarring squeals.

‘There!’ Isobel pointed ahead. ‘I saw a light through the trees.’

‘It’s a godforsaken spot to have chosen!’ said Rafe a little crossly, perhaps thinking of his paintwork. ‘I hope there’ll be some form of heating.’

‘Darling, you’re beginning to sound like an old, old man,’ Isobel reproved him.

‘I’m beginning to feel like one. Could it have something to do with the extravagant whimsicality by which I’m surrounded? What was
that
scream about, Marigold? We’re going about three miles per hour.’

‘Sorry. I was afraid you were going to run over that rabbit.’

‘I thought at least you’d seen an army of Berserkers coming through the forest waving axes with bloodcurdling ferocity.’

‘You see, you too are capable of extravagant whimsicality.’ Isobel tugged her brother’s ear lobe affectionately.

‘I must put up a sign. It is an offence to molest the driver.’

‘I never met a man yet who disliked being molested.’

This sort of friendly bickering was what I chiefly remembered about Rafe’s and Isobel’s relationship. There was never any teasing in my family. Dimpsie was too easily hurt and my father and Kate instantly rushed from the defensive to the violently offensive. I suppose we were none of us confident of being loved.

‘Bloody hell!’ Rafe jammed on the brakes. We slid to a stop where the trees ended and the ground fell away. On a rocky promontory in front of us stood Hindleep House, its fairytale turrets, buttresses and pinnacles wreathed in mist that was purplish in the fading light. Spanning the gap of perhaps two hundred yards between us and the house was a narrow bridge. The floor of the valley was a terrifying distance below. ‘Did you ever see anything like it? Look at the drop! No wonder the sale went through so quickly. Whoever owned it must have been delirious with joy that someone was insane enough to want to buy it.’

‘I think it’s thrilling.’ Isobel sounded a little annoyed. ‘And very romantic.’

‘I can see why Conrad wanted it,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit like a smaller version of that castle belonging to Mad King Ludwig. We were taken to see it when we were dancing
Symphonic
Variations
in Munich. I can’t remember what the castle was called but it’s near a lake called Schwansee, which means Swan Lake. He built it to stage Wagner’s music because he was nuts about him.’

‘I’ve always thought insanity was a necessary qualification for liking Wagner’s music,’ said Rafe. ‘All that emotional wallowing. Give me Mozart any day.’

‘I’m beginning to resent this harping on madness,’ said Isobel. ‘Conrad’s just about the sanest person I’ve ever met.’

‘Well, of course you know him so much better than I do,’ said Rafe. ‘Two and a half weeks, is it now, that you’ve actually spent in his company?’

Isobel snorted huffily and did not deign to reply.

Rafe said, ‘I wonder if it’s safe?’

The bridge looked far from well, with potholes in what had once been a metalled surface and gaps in the stone balustrade.

‘Perhaps we ought to leave the car here,’ I suggested, ‘and just tiptoe across one by one.’

‘Don’t be a baby,’ said Isobel, ‘of course it’s safe. Conrad’s expecting us. You don’t think he’d let his future wife tumble miles to her death from a wonky bridge?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Rafe. ‘Not on such a short acquaintance, anyway.’

Isobel giggled and put her arm behind his neck to pull his other ear in retaliation.

‘Ow! Don’t be so rough! I need to be in good shape to drive us safely over this collection of crumbling stones and rusty girders.’

‘They must have taken the Bentley across and that’s a much heavier car than this one.’

‘It may have been heavy enough to weaken the bridge fatally.’

‘Don’t tease poor Marigold. Can’t you see she’s really frightened?’

‘How can I see her when she’s sitting behind me? Now, Marigold, you choose. Shall I dash across on the principle that it’s better to skate fast over thin ice, or shall I crawl so as not to create shock waves like a marching army?’

‘Let’s assume the ice is the only thing holding it together,’ said Isobel. ‘I vote we go as fast as we can.’

‘Oh, please!’ My arteries seemed to jam at this idea. ‘I’d much rather we crawled.’

‘All right. Here goes.’

Rafe put the car into gear and we moved slowly forward. Though I had tried to enter into the joke, I really was terrified,
and one glimpse of the tiny pinpoints of light from Gaythwaite fathoms below made my head spin and my muscles contract painfully. I shut my eyes again. If I was going to trust any man with my life it would be Rafe. And it would be a merciful death, a sensation like going down fast in a lift and leaving one’s stomach behind, perhaps oblivion before one hit the ground—‘Good God!’ said Isobel’s voice. ‘Look at those statues!’

‘Don’t clutch my arm when I’m driving to the inch.’

‘But did you ever see anything so creepy? Looming up in the dusk like the reproachful ghosts of suicides. They’re sending shivers down my back.’

‘Darling, you’re exaggerating as usual. But I admit they do look rather sinister.’

I felt the car slow and I
had
to open my eyes to see what they were talking about. A slightly larger-than-life-sized figure of a woman stood on the parapet. Her stone face frowned down at us, her cheeks and robes blackened by the rain and storms of a hundred years. In one hand she held what might have been a spear. The still-falling snow and the failing light made it difficult to be certain.

‘She looks fiendishly bad-tempered,’ said Rafe.

‘She looks positively sunny by comparison with this one,’ said Isobel a few seconds later.

About fifteen yards further on, on the other side of the bridge, was the statue of a woman dressed in tattered robes, holding one hand to her mouth as though she was eating something. I thought I saw a snake coiled round her body. Even allowing for the depredations of weather, her face had a savage look of pain that was disturbing.

‘She’s horrible,’ said Isobel, ‘drive on quickly.’

Every fifteen yards there was another statue.

‘I shall ask Conrad to get rid of them. I think they’re beastly,’ said Isobel as we neared the other end of the bridge.

‘Well, I don’t know … they’re magnificent in their way … but they must weigh a ton apiece so it might be wiser … thank
God! Dry land.’ We drove beneath a turreted archway into a courtyard. ‘
Phew!
I don’t mind admitting that was pretty nerve-racking …’ He started to laugh.

Parked in the middle of the courtyard was an enormous pantechnicon. Its reversing lights came on as it started to shunt to and fro to turn round, a manoeuvre made more difficult by the Bentley parked in one corner. Rafe pulled over to let him go by. The driver grinned at us and gave the thumbs-up sign as he set off across the bridge at a spanking pace.

‘We’d better agree to keep quiet over the funk we were in,’ suggested Rafe. ‘Especially Marigold.’ His voice was affectionately teasing and I felt better at once.

‘Isn’t this heavenly?’ said Isobel.

It
was
heavenly. Though I knew, because Rafe had told me, that the castle had been built in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, it had a glorious air of medieval mystery about it. All the doors around the courtyard were pointed at the top, including the most important-looking pair at the head of a flight of stone steps. Everything was a little crooked and dilapidated, just as though it had endured five hundred years of weather and wars and the inconstancy of the human heart. It was the distillation of romance.

‘Let’s go in!’ cried Isobel. ‘I must see inside!’

The steps were steep and slippery, and more than ever I felt the frustration of my crippled state.

‘You’ll manage better without these.’ Rafe took my crutches and propped them against the wall, then put his arm round my waist and half carried me up.

The door at the top was lit by a pair of hurricane lamps hanging on iron hoops obviously intended for something far grander, like blazing torches. He looked down at me and smiled. ‘Light as a feather.’ The flames cast dramatic flickering shadows on his face, deepening the creases each side of his mouth. I had that feeling again, and very delightful it was, that being with him made me feel terrifically happy and safe.

‘Do help!’ said Isobel impatiently as she struggled to turn the huge iron ring.

‘Should we knock?’ I asked.

‘Don’t be an idiot. When I marry Conrad this’ll be home, sweet home. One of them anyway.’

Rafe grappled with the handle and the door opened with a spectral groan.

‘My God! It’s like the House of Usher,’ exclaimed Isobel.

‘Nothing that a spot of WD forty won’t cure.’ Rafe had evidently appointed himself the voice of reason. ‘Good Lord!’ he murmured less certainly as we entered a room panelled and carved to within an inch of its life. Some of the wood was rotten and leant out at an angle, exposing the stone behind. What light remained had to penetrate lace-like veils of dust-choked webs that draped the cracked and missing panes of glass. Despite the freezing wind that whistled through the gaps, there was a powerful smell of damp and decay.

Unexpectedly, strains of music came through a doorway ahead of us. I recognized
Parsifal
. One of my first roles as a member of the corps de ballet had been as a flower maiden in Act Two. Considering we had just been talking about Wagner, the coincidence seemed remarkable, but Rafe said afterwards when I mentioned this that anyone with the vaguest knowledge of German Romanticism would have made the connection.

The open door led us into the room that Dimpsie, Kate and I had picnicked in all those years ago. Now it was blurred by candlelight. When I saw Conrad standing with his back to the stone fireplace in which several tree trunks were emitting flames and sparks like fireworks, I could not help thinking of Klingsor, the sorcerer in
Parsifal
who lives in the Magic Castle. The plot of
Parsifal
, as I remembered it, was a cross between a children’s bedtime story and a depressing morality play about lust. But as our production had been set in modern Communist China – the flower maidens had worn denim caps and black pigtails and our faces had been painted sunflower yellow – probably the
opera had not been given a fair chance. Sebastian, a devoted Wagnerian, had been withering in his condemnation of the director’s arrogance, but we needed the money.

Conrad kissed Isobel on both cheeks and shook hands with Rafe and me. He looked thoroughly relaxed, even pleased with himself. Had I been in his shoes I should have been tearing out my hair. Bits of plaster hung from the walls, exposing bare lathes, and the ceiling was black and bulging with damp. More plaster had been swept into heaps on the floor. One wall was composed of stone pillars and glass doors, the panes all broken, of course. But the view … I had forgotten the view, and when I saw it again all my reservations about the wisdom of buying Hindleep House vanished as quickly as smoke in a stiff breeze.

The nearest slopes were spiked with fir trees dusted with snow. Dun and amethyst-coloured clouds loured above them, marbling the surface of a lake that curved into a letter S. Beyond the lake rose hills that were blue in the hesitant light. Despite the icy streams of air that made my eyes water until tears ran down my cheeks, I could have gazed for hours.

‘Do look what Conrad’s just had delivered,’ called Isobel. ‘Isn’t it
won
derfully impractical?’

She was sitting on the stool of a grand piano. This, the long table I remembered from my last visit, and two deckchairs were the only furniture.

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t disappear through the floor.’ Rafe kicked with his toe at a rotten section of floorboard.

‘Don’t be such a killjoy,’ said Isobel. ‘Look, it’s standing on a sheet of steel. If
it
goes down, the entire floor’ll go with it.’