Maid Service (20 page)

“Uncle Charles?” he asked as he approached, painfully aware of the sudden catch in his voice.

His uncle turned, his face registering surprise, with recognition dawning only slowly, but when he began to speak it came in a rush.

“Good Heavens, Peter, the black sheep himself! No, don't take offence. I'm very pleased to see you, but what are you doing here? Are you a member?”

“I'm being put up for membership,” Peter answered, now fighting to hold back tears as the old man extended a hand in greeting. “I was lunching with some friends and I saw you pass the door. I had no idea …”

“That I was still alive,” his uncle filled in for him. “Well I am, and I aim to be for a few years yet. Sit down, tell me what you've been up to all these years, or do you need to get back to your friends?”

“I'll join you if I may,” Peter answered. “My friends will be coming through in a moment and I'm sure they'll understand.”

He sat down, nearly overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude stronger even than when he had met Ben Thompson on Westminster Bridge. So strong was this unexpected response that he was obliged to use the menu to hide his face until he could recover. His uncle seemed genuinely pleased to see him and tactfully avoided any mention of Peter's disgrace as they began to talk, getting on so well that when the others came in they simply joined the same table. Only then did mention of Broadfields become inevitable.

“They take girls nowadays, you know,” Charles remarked. “A good thing too, if you ask me.”

“My daughters are down for Grove House,” Ben replied. “We put their names down as soon as the rules were changed. Daniel's Clementine was one of the first year's intake … no, the second or third, I think.”

“I put both the boys down as soon as they were born,” Gabriel supplied. “You have to, or there's a fair chance they won't get in. Mark you, it's all about money these days, and by the time they're through university I don't suppose having been to a decent school will mean all that much anymore.

“Look at Robertson,” Charles put in. “Started as a private, and a servant before that, ended up as Chief of the Imperial General Staff. Mark you, when he was about you couldn't get into Broadfields unless you were the son of a gentlemen. It's in the statutes, or it was at the time.”

The conversation continued with lunch, growing gradually more nostalgic and gradually more indulgent, until it seemed as if the only really worthwhile thing to be doing on Saturday at lunchtime was sitting in a British gentleman's club eating lunch with old friends, ideally from the same school. Never once did the conversation exclude Peter and, although his sense of detachment remained, the desire to see Broadfields again grew stronger with every rose-tinted reminiscence and with every glass of wine. By the time they had retired to the smoking room for brandy and more of the Cuban cigars, his mind was made up.

Looking down on the rooftops of Broadfields, Peter's feelings of nostalgia had reached the level of physical pain. Little had changed, save for a cluster of new buildings in the valley, but Grove House looked exactly as it had when he'd stared back from the window of the police car twenty-one years before. He could see the window of his bedsit, and above it the gray lead on the roof where he'd climbed up to carve his name below that of his Uncle Charles and others who'd had the courage to climb up from the fifth form dormitory window. The headmaster's house was also visible, although he knew Porter had long since retired. Other landmarks included the river, leading away to the west, although St. Monica's was invisible beyond the low, wooded ridge of the hill, where he could just make out the line of an all too familiar railway cutting.

He had timed his trip with care. The summer term had ended a few days before and not many people were around, allowing him to drive down the hill and in through the main gates to park in the spaces normally occupied by masters' cars. Close up, the place had an unfamiliar, sleepy air. The changes were more evident, with the new buildings raw against the familiar weathered brick and flint. Only the very heart of the place seemed unchanged, with the great ironbound doors standing wide, just as they had when Daniel Stewart escorted him through them on his final walk so many years before. Inside was no different either, although strangely quiet. The doors to the refectory and Grove House were unchanged, while the notice boards beside the masters' common room were the same as ever, down to the notices announcing what had presumably been the last games of term.

Peter stepped closer, smiling at his own foolish feelings as he read the list and remembered how he'd always scanned the names with the hope that his own would not be included, thus allowing him to make a trip to a nearby village for drinks and cigarettes, or to make for St. Monica's to watch the girls at play in their gym knickers. The memory made his smile grow broad and wicked, only for his mouth to come open in surprise as he read down the names on the list for the senior hockey game. Right at the bottom, penned in as if it had been an afterthought, was one name that had haunted his dreams for years—Rhiannon O'Neil.

Bitter disappointment followed close on the heels of his surprise. As a senior girl at Broadfields she couldn't possibly be more than nineteen, which meant she was not his daughter, something he'd long suspected and hoped for. He swore gently under his breath, and was about to take the hockey list as a memento when a voice spoke almost in his ear.

“Can I help you?”

Peter spun around to find a man looking at him. He was young, of middling build and dressed in slightly scruffy tweeds, suggesting that was a master.

“I'm an old boy, Ben Thompson,” he replied, deciding it was probably better not to reveal his true identity. “Sorry, I was just having a look around.”

“That's fine,” the man replied “But you are supposed to make an appointment for a monitor. I'm busy myself, but there are a few senior pupils around, if …”

“I don't suppose Rhiannon O'Neil is here,” Peter asked on sudden impulse. “I used to know her mother.”

“O'Neil?” the master answered. “Yes, she is as a matter of fact. Her parents are out in Saudi. He's an engineer, I believe.”

“Yes, of course,” Peter answered. “Although it's been years since I saw either of them.”

“One moment,” the master said, and disappeared through the doors of Grove House.

Peter stood waiting, his heart hammering in his chest, at once full of expectation and apprehension for his impulsive query, but very glad indeed he'd had the sense to claim to be Ben Thompson. He also felt a lot of guilt, for breaking his promise not to interfere in any way with Tiffany's new life. He kept telling himself he ought to make straight for his car and leave, yet he found himself fixed to the spot until at length the doors of Grove House swung open once more. The master stepped through, followed by a girl a good two inches taller than him, so slim she seemed more gawky than elegant. She had bright, copper colored hair tied up in a high ponytail and a pale, delicate face marked by a splash of freckles. Still, she was painfully familiar and he found himself gaping like a goldfish. As the master made a brief introduction, her initially mildly irritated expression changed to open exasperation, as though she thought she'd been asked to show the school to some halfwit.

“I must be on my way,” the master said and he was gone, leaving Peter desperately searching for something to say as Rhiannon's expression changed once more, to wide-eyed astonishment.

“Peter Finch!” she exclaimed. “You're Peter Finch!”

“Don't scream!” he begged. “Please don't scream!”

“I'm not going to scream,” she told him, now with laughter in her voice, which also carried a soft Irish lilt. “Why do you think I would scream?”

“I, uh … no reason,” he managed. “You recognize me, obviously, but …”

“Mum keeps your photo in her diary,” Rhiannon answered. “The picture from the newspaper, outside the court.”

“Ah, yes, that one,” Peter said. “I …”

“She's always talking about you,” Rhiannon went on. “Especially if she's had a drink, or been arguing with Dad. But what are you doing here?”

“I came to look around,” he told her, “and I saw your name on the notice board. Sorry, I couldn't resist the chance of meeting you.”

“I'd better show you around then,” she offered. “As that's what I'm supposed to be doing, Peter Finch.”

There was a glitter in her eyes as she beckoned him to follow her, making him wonder exactly how much she knew. While the knowledge that Tiffany still kept his picture had him on the verge of tears. Indeed, so strong was his emotion that he barely noticed the sweet rotation of Rhiannon's neat little rump beneath her skirt as she led him up the stairs, nor the impressive length of her pale, slender legs. Her own reaction to their meeting was very different—happy, excited chatter and bright-eyed smiles that occasionally gave way to a curious, almost calculating look. She was like Tiffany in many ways, vivacious, mercurial, openly rebellious in her attitudes, and even if she lacked her mother's easy poise she was full of confidence.

“That's about it, really,” she was saying as they finished their brief tour of Grove House. “The same old dump, I expect?”

Peter had been walking in a daze, taking in every detail, changed and unchanged, and simply nodded.

“Why don't you take me to lunch then?” she asked, as bold and easy as if he'd been a favorite uncle.

“With pleasure,” Peter answered, fascinated as much as disconcerted by the quality of her attention. “Is your housemaster or somebody around? We probably ought to ask if it's alright, or at least tell somebody.”

“Term's over,” she answered. “I've left, really, or I would have done if I'd been able to get an earlier flight. Who cares, anyway? I make my own choices.”

“I'm sure you do,” he answered, reflecting that as an adult she could do as she pleased. “Okay, how about the Oak at Yattendon?”

“We never go there. It's always full of teachers. You've got a car, haven't you? Why not drive up to Goring? There's a lovely place, right on the river, where we'll be safe.”

“Safe?” Peter queried.

“Oh, you know what they're like,” she went on. “Always in a fuss over nothing. I … I'm supposed to be gated
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. But I don't see how I can be, when term's finished and I'm leaving.”

“That's true,” Peter said, somewhat doubtfully. “What were you gated for?”

Rhiannon gave him an arch look and her cream pale skin took on a touch of color as she replied.

“I expect you know what a toasty girl is?”

“Yes,” Peter answered, fascinated, despite his best efforts to appear otherwise.

“I made mine wash her mouth out with soap,” Rhiannon went on blithely. “For calling me a bitch. She didn't mind, really, but Miss Laindon came in while I was doing it, and of course Clemmie couldn't tell the truth. So I got gated.”

“Clemmie?” Peter asked. “Not Clementine Stewart?”

“How did you know?” Rhiannon demanded. “Oh yes, you and her dad must have been here at the same time. I should have taken a leaf out of your book, really, shouldn't I? I should have taken her out to the old railway cutting and given her a good spanking.”

Peter didn't answer, rendered speechless not only for what she had said, but for the immense relish she'd put into the final word. She threw him another of her odd, sidelong looks and then carried on as they left the main buildings.

“Oh, I know all about you, Peter Finch. It's all in Mum's diaries.”

“I didn't know she kept a diary,” Peter managed.

“Well she did, and it's hot stuff, as I'm sure you can well imagine! Of course she doesn't know I've read it, and Dad would freak out completely if he knew. Come on, quick, in case somebody sees us.”

She took Peter's hand, towing him behind as she ran for the short line of cars parked just inside the main gate. He was already having visions of a fresh visit to the local police station and quickly drew ahead, helping her into his car and driving away as fast as he felt he decently could. Only when they were clear of the college buildings did he begin to relax, while she was obviously enjoying herself immensely, glancing back over her shoulder as they accelerated.

“I suppose you'll have to bring me back,” she said, half-regretfully. “But I so wish that was my last ever view of the place. And just think, abducted by the terrible Peter Finch!”

“But I haven't abducted you, have I?” Peter pointed out. “And what do you mean ‘the terrible Peter Finch'? Anyway, don't you like Broadfields?”

“That's three questions all at once,” she said, her voice switching to a playful and faintly admonitory tone. “Now let me see … No, of course you haven't abducted me, but it's nice to think that you might have,” she laughed. “Kidnapped and carried off over your shoulder to a life of depraved sex in your secret lair! And yes, you do have quite a reputation, didn't you know? Nobody else in the whole history of Broadfields ever got expelled for assaulting a nun, let alone for a night of dirty passion in St. Monica's convent with eight different girls.”

“Eight?” Peter queried. “I didn't …”

“Don't spoil the story,” she interrupted. “I know it was just Mum, and you watched Vicky Trent spank some stuck up Indian girl. But the rumors are much juicier. Now you've made me lose my train of thought … Do I like Broadfields? I used to. I used to think it was the most wonderful place in the world, but as I got older I came to resent all the rules, all the restrictions. I mean, here I am, a grown woman, and I still have to sneak away as if I was just a kid.”

“I felt exactly the same,” Peter told her. “So did your mother, but she was at St. Monica's which was far worse. It was supposed to be progressive, just because they allowed make-up and that sort of thing, but they had endless rules and regulations, mainly designed to stop them having any real fun, especially sex. But then they had to do sports in just their knickers! Well, and tops of course, but you know what I mean.”