Glittering Images (14 page)

‘Oh, he never thought his son would succeed in living decently, no matter what profession he chose. The old man saw him sinking inevitably into corruption.’

‘But this must have been terrible for Dr Jardine!’ I was now having trouble finding the words to express my horror, and Lyle was looking at me in surprise. ‘Terrible – monstrous – intolerable –’

‘It got worse. The Bishop became vicar of the slum parish in Starmouth, and as he was unable to afford to marry and as he desperately needed a housekeeper he turned for help to his father, who was sitting in Putney being waited on hand and foot by a wife and two unmarried daughters. However old Mr J. refused to let either of the girls go to look after their brother. He had an obsession with female purity and thought they’d be ravished the moment they left his household.’

‘But surely if the Bishop was supporting them all he had the whip-hand?’

‘The old man still wouldn’t budge. Said he’d rather starve than risk his daughters becoming fallen women.’

‘Didn’t the girls have any say in the matter?’

‘Don’t be silly, this was well before the War and he’d ruled them with a rod of iron for years!’

‘No wonder one sister went mad!’

‘Mrs J. thought she’d go mad herself, but of course she came to the rescue. She said to the old villain, “If you won’t let either of those girls go,
I’ll
go”, and when he still clung to the girls she went.’

I dropped my cigarette and scuffled to retrieve it before it could burn a hole in my trousers. ‘But how could Dr Jardine, as a clergyman, justify depriving a husband of his wife?’

‘Oh, the old man wasn’t too deprived – she used to go home for a visit every fortnight. Besides, neither she nor Dr Jardine believed, when she originally went to Starmouth, that the arrangement would be other than temporary; they thought the old man would eventually release one of the girls, but as he wasn’t rational on the subject he didn’t.’

‘So she stayed on?’

‘Yes, she loved it after the gloom and doom of Putney. She involved herself in parish work, met new people –’

‘But what happened –’

‘– in the end? She went back. The elder sister began to go insane, and Mrs J. felt morally bound to go home since her husband’s need for her had become acute. However once she’d gone Dr Jardine couldn’t cope; he was already exhausted by the parish and he couldn’t withstand the loss of her help.’

‘So when he lost her he broke down!’

‘What an extremely ambiguous statement! All I meant was –’

‘What happened next in Putney?’

‘I’ve no idea. Mrs J. skated over that, but a year later the sister died in an asylum and the old man went senile. Old Mrs J. told me placidly it was the judgement of God.’

‘How did the Bishop deal with the new crisis?’

‘By that time he was in North London. The house allocated to the hospital chaplain was small but he rescued his father, stepmother and surviving sister and squeezed them in somehow. The father died six months later. Then old Mrs J. and the sister lived with the Bishop till his marriage.’

I decided it would be politic to prove to her that my mind did not always leap to the most dubious conclusions. ‘I can’t quite see why old Mrs J. made such a fuss about that marriage,’ I said innocently. ‘Surely she wanted her stepson to make a good marriage as soon as he could afford to do so?’

‘She didn’t look upon it as a good marriage. Carrie only had a hundred a year. Also Carrie was a bit old – thirty-two. Mrs J. thought that was suspicious, wanted to know why she hadn’t got off the shelf earlier … But of course the real truth was that although Mrs J. wanted her stepson to marry, no girl was ever going to be good enough in her estimation.’

‘Obviously it was for the best that she decided not to live with them after the marriage. But wasn’t she tempted to move closer to Dr Jardine once he left Mayfair? Radbury’s a long way from Putney.’

‘She was afraid of quarrelling with Carrie. That was why she stayed away until she was too infirm to stay away any more.’

‘I see now,’ I said, unable to resist angling for an indiscretion by using a suggestive remark as bait, ‘that the Starbridge finale isn’t just an edifying resolution of the problem of old Mrs Jardine – it even qualifies as a romantic ending.’

Lyle immediately looked annoyed. ‘It was a happy ending, certainly,’ she said in the tone of voice of someone who considers romance a breach of taste. ‘But romantic? That makes a complex and remarkable relationship seem banal.’

‘Have you got some grudge against romance?’

‘Of course – it’s the road to illusion, isn’t it?’ said Lyle carelessly. ‘Any realist knows that.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I think it’s time we went back to the car – you’ve got that pounce-ish look again.’

‘I suppose you do realize, don’t you,’ I said, extinguishing my own cigarette, ‘that you’re pushing me back with one hand yet beckoning me on with the other?’ And before she had time to protest I had taken her in my arms.

This time I did not have the advantage of surprise and she had her defences firmly in place. As I pulled her towards me she said: ‘No!’ in a voice which precluded argument and shoved me aside as she scrambled to her feet.

I caught up with her halfway across the Ring but before I could speak she swung to face me and demanded, ‘What exactly are you up to? You take me for a drive so that you can get to know me better and yet all you do is ask questions about the Bishop!’

‘But I do know you better now! I know you smoke cigarettes in your bedroom, think romance is the invention of the Devil and have a profound admiration for that formidable lady, the late Mrs Jardine!’

‘I wish I’d never told you about her!’ said Lyle furiously. ‘It’s obvious you think she had some sort of obscene passion for her stepson –’

‘Wouldn’t “romantic affection” be a more accurate description?’

‘It was not a romance!’

‘Not in a tawdry conventional sense, no. But she sacrificed her life for his, didn’t she, and isn’t that really the unsurpassable romantic gesture? Dickens certainly thought so when he wrote
A Tale of Two Cities
but no one’s yet accused Sydney Carton of an obscene passion for Charles Darnay.’

‘I thought Carton sacrificed himself for Lucy’s sake, not just for Darnay’s. Maybe you should start rereading Dickens!’

‘Maybe you should start redefining romance. Cigarette?’

‘Thanks. I feel I need one after that exchange.’

When our cigarettes were alight we wandered on across the ridge. The Ring disappeared behind us as the track led over the brow of the hill, and in the distance we could see my car, crouched like a black beetle beside the dusty ribbon of the road.

‘I did admire old Mrs J.,’ said Lyle, ‘because I knew what hell she’d been through for the Bishop, but I have to admit she could be an awful old battle-axe. During her two visits to Radbury she reduced Carrie to pulp, and what was worse she used to enjoy it. Poor Carrie!’

‘You’re very fond of Mrs Jardine, aren’t you?’

‘She’s the sort of mother I always wanted. My own mother was an invalid – she had a weak heart – and it made her very querulous and self-absorbed.’

‘And your father?’

‘He was a soldier, one of the clever ones, very quick and bright and tough. He was killed in the War, of course, like all the best soldiers, and when my mother died in sympathy I went to Norfolk to live with my great-uncle. He was an ancient vicar who took me in out of Christian charity because no one else wanted me.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Twelve. It was 1914. You were wondering about my present age, weren’t you?’

‘Now that I know you’re thirty-five allow me to tell you that I’m thirty-seven. How did you find Norfolk?’

‘Dreadfully dull. I ended up writing my great-uncle’s sermons just to stave off the boredom.’

‘You don’t write Dr Jardine’s sermons, do you, by any chance?’

She laughed. ‘Not yet!’

We strolled on down the track. ‘Nevertheless,’ I said, ‘you’ve been described to me as the real power at the palace. How would the Jardines get on if you left?’

‘Oh, but I’m not leaving,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘How lucky for the Jardines! But where does that leave you?’

‘Exactly where I want to be – looking after my adopted mother and running the palace for the Bishop. I’m not interested in doing anything else.’

‘No, obviously there’s no time for other interests,’ I said. ‘Keeping that marriage glued together must be a very all-consuming occupation.’

She stopped dead. I stopped too, and as we faced each other I knew I had caught her off her guard.

‘Don’t misunderstand,’ I said swiftly. ‘I’m not calling you a liar. Earlier you made it plain that the marriage, despite its surface irritations, was a happy one involving that well-known phenomenon the attraction of opposites, and I see no reason to disbelieve that. Lady Starmouth also told me she thought the marriage was a success. But its success depends on you, doesn’t it? If you weren’t there to do all the things Mrs Jardine can’t do, the marriage would go to pieces along with Mrs Jardine – just as it did at Radbury before you arrived with your jar of glue to stick the pieces together again. Well, it’s always gratifying to one’s self-esteem to feel that one’s indispensable, but do you really think that once the Jardines are dead and you’re on your own at last you won’t look back and regret a lifetime of missed opportunities? Or are you simply going to say, as old Mrs Jardine said at the end of her life, “It was worth it all for Adam”?’

She was so pale that for the first time I noticed the faint freckles across her cheekbones. It was impossible not to conclude that I had shot an arrow into the dark and scored a bull’s eye, but all she said in the end was a stony, ‘I don’t call him Adam.’

‘Well, I should hope you don’t call him Alex either,’ I said, ‘or my imagination would really run riot. I’ve noticed he calls you Lyle whenever he isn’t referring to you as Miss Christie and I suppose it’s natural enough after ten years that he should follow his wife’s example in treating you as a highly favoured employee, but I’d certainly raise an eyebrow if you started calling him by his Christian name.’

‘Oh, shut up! You’ve made quite enough snide remarks for one afternoon!’

‘I thought I was making some intelligent observations in an attempt to solve the mystery!’

‘What mystery?’

‘The mystery you present to any man who admires you, the mystery of why you’re content to go through life as a mere companion –’

‘I’m beginning to think
you’re
the real mystery here, Charles Ashworth, with your interest in the Bishop and your Don Juan manners and the wife you won’t talk about and the past you gloss over so smoothly! Why are you going through this elaborate charade of making torrid passes at me?’

‘It’s no charade. I knew as soon as we met yesterday that I was deeply attracted to you –’

‘That’s the most unreal opening a sentence could have! You know nothing about me! You’re obviously deep in a romantic fantasy!’

‘Why don’t you tell me about this broken engagement of yours which has given you such a horror of romance?’

‘I’m telling you nothing more!’ She was taut with anger. ‘Take me home at once, please – I find this entire conversation deeply offensive!’

We walked on in silence, she hurrying as fast as she could without breaking into a run, I lengthening my stride to keep pace with her. At the car I said, ‘I’m extremely sorry if I’ve given you offence but please believe me when I say my admiration for you is genuine.’

‘I don’t want your admiration.’ Wrenching open the door she collapsed in a heap on the passenger seat; evidently I had shocked her to the core.

We did not speak throughout the journey back to Starbridge but as I halted my car in the palace drive I said, ‘Please give my apologies to Mrs Jardine and say I won’t be making an appearance at tea. I must do some work in my room on my St Anselm notes.’

‘Very well.’ She had regained her composure and although she was still pale her voice was calm.

I wondered how long it would take her to decide – greatly against her better judgement, of course – that she wanted me to make another pounce.

Upstairs in the cavernous Victorian bathroom I filled the bath to the halfway mark with cold water and sat in it for a while as I sluiced away both the sweat of my afternoon’s exertions and my very carnal thoughts on the subject of Miss Lyle Christie. Then I returned to my room, pulled on some underclothes and cast an eye over my St Anselm notes, but the glance was a mere formality. I wanted only to give a veneer of truth to my statement that I was missing tea in order to work, and eventually, my conscience assuaged, I began to imagine what I would have said to the Archbishop if he had appeared beside me and demanded a progress report.

I now knew very much more about Jardine than I had known before my arrival and I was certainly well on my way to building up a psychological portrait which would enable Lang to decide whether his enemy was the kind of man who could be disastrously exploited by Fleet Street, but I had still elicited no information about Lang’s chief worries, the journal and the possible existence of indiscreet correspondence. I myself was now convinced that Jardine was far too shrewd to commit epistolary indiscretions, but the journal remained an unknown quantity. No one had mentioned it to me yet, but this silence was hardly surprising if the journal were a long-standing hobby which everyone took for granted.