Last Act of All (7 page)

Neville,
with a cool, sidelong glance at her, was fetching drinks; she, busy with her introductions, did not notice the next guest letting himself in until arms as muscular as a stevedore’s came round her waist from behind.

‘
Nella, darling, you’re looking sexier than ever. Village life obviously suits you.’

Chris
Dyer, only begetter of Harry Bradman. How was it he always contrived to take her at a disadvantage? She freed herself and turned with distaste to greet him.

He
was a great bull of a man, thick-set and short-necked, swarthy-skinned and with a taurine poll of tight greying-black curls that grew low on his forehead and, at the back, almost down to the top of his spine.

‘
Don’t call me Nella, Chris. And if that’s meant to be flattery, forget it. I don’t feel cut out for village life.’

Taking
up a plate of
crudités
gave her an excuse to circulate, and once Mr Tilson, whom Neville would persist in calling Mr Tiggywinkle, arrived, she could relax a little, since that entirely unselfconscious gentleman seized on Dyer as the only unfamiliar person, and therefore a source of fresh interest.

Edward
Radley was looking in need of rescue. Ten minutes of Jennifer Morley undiluted tended to induce structural stress in even the most robust male, and Edward, Helena surmised, had fewer social defences than many.

‘
Don’t you think Helena’s been most awfully successful in toning down the worst excesses of this perfectly ghastly room? Neutral shades and those fabulous Persian rugs — isn’t it funny how they pick out the colours of the fireplace, and yet they’re so pretty?’ Jennifer was saying as her hostess approached.

Edward
was taking it remarkably well, agreeing with a slight smile, but he looked relieved when Helena intervened.

‘
Jennifer, you are appalling. It’s dreadfully rude to say that to the former owner.’

‘
Darling, I know I’m appalling. I was born that way. But I’m paying Edward a compliment. His taste is far too good to have liked it the way it was.’

At
this, he laughed outright, and Helena was forced to join in. Jennifer, satisfied with her tactics, cast about for her next victim.

‘
Helena, who is that sensuous-looking brute with the cruel mouth who came in and made a pass at you?’

Annoyingly,
Helena could feel her face redden. ‘Chris Dyer. He’s the creator of “Bradman”, and apparently he’s trying to lease a cottage here. It would be very convenient for him to be near Neville when he’s working on ideas for a new series.’

‘
Judging by the way he’s still watching you, it’s not Neville he wants to be near. He’s — good gracious, who on earth is this?’

A
slightly grubby child of about ten, probably, though not certainly, female, had materialized beside them and was staring up at the adults with round, black, boot-button eyes, and the expression of one waiting, not very hopefully, to be entertained.

‘Oh, it’s one of the vicar’s children!’ Helena exclaimed, hailing the distraction as if it were the bugles of rescuing cavalry. ‘How nice to see you, dear.’

A
faint look of surprise crossed the child’s face. It was not often that the appearance of one of the vicarage children provoked any sign of enthusiasm.

‘
Tell me your name again — I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. It’s very stupid of me.’ She knew she was gushing, and deserved the reply she got.

‘
Yes, it is. I’m Tamara.’ The child spoke without moving that fixed stare from their faces.

‘
Are your parents here? — Oh, there they are!’

The
group standing awkwardly in the drawing-room doorway gave her an excuse to move away, leaving Jennifer skewered by the redoubtable Tamara’s gaze, and, for once in her life, outfaced.

Peter
Farrell, the vicar, was hovering, anxiously rubbing his hands when Helena reached him.

‘
Ah, Mrs Fielding! The door was open. We just... So kind of your husband to invite us. I do hope you don’t mind the children — baby-sitters, you know, such a problem…’

The
other two vicarage children, differing from Tamara only in height and, in the case of the younger, gender, stared up at her from identically grubby faces with identical round black eyes.

‘
Of course not,’ Helena assured them with the closest she could come to sincerity. ‘It’s Nathan, isn’t it — and — and Diana?’

‘
Dinah.’ When Marcia Farrell smiled, her short upper lip disclosed a row of unfortunately crooked and prominent teeth, as well as more than the usual expanse of gum. ‘I don’t know why it is that Peter always feels obliged to apologize for the children, do you, Helena? As I always say to him, our blessed Saviour didn’t think anyone needed baby-sitters, did he?’ She laughed her determined, religion-needn’t-be-solemn-now-need-it laugh, and went on without waiting for a reply. ‘I said to Peter, Helena’s just such a sweet person, and a mother herself, and I expect having sent her own little girl away from home, she’ll love to see some youngsters about the place.’

‘
Of course. Now do come and meet people. I think perhaps you know everyone, except Chris Dyer—’

She
moved them smoothly on, setting the children on Neville for orange juice. Marcia Farrell was the kind of person she found it hardest to like, the kind who put so many people off religion; sugary-sweet at surface level, with always the sting of pure poison somewhere. Helena was meant to be feeling guilty now about having sent Stephanie off to school, but fortunately, though she missed her, she had no ambivalence about the decision. Removed from the tensions at home, Stephanie was thriving, and besotted about a school which let you keep your very own pony.

Helena
derived vindictive pleasure from leading Marcia across to Chris Dyer. He, priding himself on being a connoisseur of feminine charm, would suffer merely from looking at the vicar’s wife with her straggling black hair scraped into an elastic band at the back and her aggressively Oxfam couture. The vicar followed, his dark, sad, spaniel’s eyes on his wife, contriving to look left out of the group even before he got there.

She
found Neville at the drinks table, and hissed humorously, ‘Did you have to ask the Farrells? You know they always bring those wretched children, and I dread to think what they may do if the mood takes them!’

He
could have laughed with her. But his eyes were hard and bright as he said, ‘Perhaps I should have spiked their squash — I hate it when parties get dull, don’t you?’

He
picked up the vodka and orange he had been mixing, and steered across the room to where Sandra stood, trying not to look as if she were eagerly awaiting his return.

Sandra
took her drink with a lingering, suggestive glance, fluttering her heavily-mascaraed lashes, with her silly little mouth moist and parted. Neville looked down into the vapid brown eyes too long and too intimately, and when he brushed her bare arm, Helena saw her jump as if his fingers were red-hot. At that moment she caught Helena’s eyes upon her, and her cheeks flared guiltily.

Angry
with herself, and with Neville, Helena spun away. How many foolish, dazzled little girls had she seen? Too many even to remember, she thought tiredly. These conquests meant nothing to Neville: they were as anonymous to him as the pawns in the decorative chess set in his study.

The
game with Helena was darker altogether. He had always loved to see her jealous, and despite her carapace of indifference, he seemed still to see through to the delicious, shrinking vulnerability underneath.

To
cover her confusion, she seized a tray of canapés, and, turning, noticed Mr Tilson installed in the wing-chair by the fireplace, and unattended.

*

He had been watching them all shrewdly from under shaggy grey brows, his bright and quizzical eyes, frizzy grey hair and age-rounded shoulders giving him the cosy look of the nursery figure Neville had mentioned.

But
there was nothing cosy about the cool, active brain which still operated, almost casually, the business end of his electrical components factory at Limber, from theoretical retirement in Tyler’s Barn, next to the Red House.

Half-hidden
in the big chair he had chosen, he could indulge his favourite occupation of playing fly-on-the-wall. This, he had discovered, was one compensation for growing old; given the flimsiest of excuses, people pretended not to see you. They were afraid of boredom, afraid you might talk and they be forced to listen, trapped, like the wedding guest, by interminable reminiscence.

But
you didn’t learn talking, whereas under silent observation, human dramas would always unfold, more absorbing because of their authenticity than any that might pass across a screen.

He
knew a lot about Radnesfield. He was not part of it, nor could he ever be — an incomer of only ten years’ standing — but he knew all that anyone could know by watching, listening, and rarely, very rarely, asking the strategic question.

Tonight
he was inundated with a delicious wealth of new material, in an atmosphere of oddly heightened tension. Emanating from host and hostess, he surmised, observing the interaction, or lack of it, between Neville and Helena. This intrigued him, and he observed with keen anticipation that Helena, lovely, poised, and with a hostess’s proper concern for a neglected guest, was approaching him.

She
was a bit too perfect, that girl. With her cast in the angelic role, lapped in universal love and admiration, there wasn’t really another starring part for her husband, except Lucifer.

*

‘Can I fetch you another drink?’ she offered now with a smile, indicating the old man’s empty glass.

‘
No thank you, my dear. I’ve had quite as much as is good for me already. That husband of yours is mixing some very powerful drinks this evening. I wonder why.’

It
wasn’t exactly a question, and he saw her, glancing round, realize that he was right. Voices were rising, Jennifer had two bright spots of colour in her cheeks, and even Marcia was laughing immoderately at something Chris had said.

‘
Oh dear,’ she said helplessly. ‘I wonder if I should—’

‘
Comfort yourself with the reflection that adults, in my experience, are usually well aware when they are being plied with strong drink, and only Charles Morley, who is a sensible man, has come by car, so you may as well relax.’

‘
I suppose you’re right.’ Helena, balancing the tray, sank on to a stool at Maxwell Tilson’s side.

‘
That’s when you learn all about people, when their guard is down.’ Blinking amiably about the room, he said, ‘For instance, Jack Daley thinks he is impressing your friend Mr Dyer — but Mr Dyer isn’t really listening.’

Helena
followed his gaze. ‘Oh, he’s getting copy.’ Her tone was unfriendly. ‘I don’t know if you watch “Bradman”, Mr Tilson, but I would bet that the next series will feature an engaging young salesman, living on his wits, who will naturally be filleted by dear Harry going, oh-so-smoothly and elegantly one better.’

His
interest made him incautious. ‘How fascinating. Now, either you don’t like Mr Dyer, you don’t like the series, or you don’t like your husband. Or perhaps all three.’

Her
gasp of outrage alerted him. ‘Oh dear, my wretched tongue! I forget, you know — as one grows older, people’s reactions become so transparent that it’s hard to remember that one’s responses should be veiled.’

Helena
’s face still burned. ‘You’re a very dangerous man,’ she said wryly.

‘
I watch, and people talk to me sometimes, because I’m interested, but I don’t judge, and I don’t gossip. But yes, I suppose it is dangerous in its way. Knowledge is power, and really the only sort of power that still interests me.’

A
little silence fell, and his gaze went back to Neville, talking to Sandra Daley. ‘But when you’re still young — well, there are so many temptations.’

‘
Talking of temptations.’ Helena was becoming desperate. ‘Can’t I persuade you to have a vol-au-vent? And shall I get Charles Morley across to talk to you? He’s clearly a friend of yours.’

Jumping
to her feet she made her escape. Why would people persist in trying to force her to look at things which it had taken a lifetime’s practice to ignore? And this party seemed to be going on forever. Would they never leave?

Like
an answer to prayer, Edward approached her, his face full of concern. ‘I must be going — I’ve certainly outstayed my welcome, and it’s time some of these others remembered they have homes to go to. You’re looking tired.’

She
looked up gratefully, only to find his eyes fixed on her in a way that depressed her further. She had seen that look before, and it always meant trouble. Now she would have to avoid even the most harmless intimacy, and that, in this barren social environment, would be a real deprivation.