The New Moon with the Old (3 page)

So world affairs had an innings and Jane thought Richard, Drew and Merry made well-informed comments on them. Cook and Edith also let fall several shrewd remarks. Only Clare remained completely uninterested. When the programme ended she said, ‘I know I’m a half-wit but that kind of thing makes me
ache
with boredom. And now it’s the dreary old News.’

‘Our Clare doesn’t much care for real life,’ Drew told Jane. ‘What she needs is to live in a book, the kind that no longer gets written.’

The News was followed by a play which was generally liked, but Jane still found her own thoughts more interesting and was glad when it ended. Cook then hoisted herself and Burly from the sofa and solicited orders for hot drinks. Nobody wanted any but Jane was glad to accept the suggestion of a hot-water bottle; she had a theory that first nights in a new bed were abnormally cold, though that might not be the case in this most comfortable house. She went up for her bottle and dropped it over the gallery to Edith. Clare came up to press bath essence on her and say that Edith would call her at eight-fifteen for breakfast at nine – ‘If that’s all right?’ Richard, Drew and Merry said friendly good nights, Merry adding: ‘We all think you’re terribly nice.’

‘And I you,’ said Jane, whole-heartedly.

She had, in the course of her numerous resident jobs, lived in the same house with many young people and usually got on well with them. But she had often found them gauche, untidy and even dirty. Never before had she run into beautifully groomed, beautifully mannered youth, reminding her of friends known in her childhood. She felt as if in some pleasant pocket of the past, but one which had full access to the present; for she could not feel that the young Carringtons, with the possible exception of Clare, were
old-fashioned
. The others struck her as completely up to date,
in spite of Drew’s reference to himself as a quaint, old-world character. And if Claire was old-fashioned it was in a very off-key way, seeing that she was uninterested in domesticity and loathed arranging flowers.

‘It’s just that the whole household’s unique in my experience,’ thought Jane with satisfaction, lying in her scented bath.

She was not given to lolling in baths, seldom having achieved baths worth lolling in. The water so often ran cold, bathroom doors were so often rattled impatiently. But she was reluctant to leave this bath and lay listening to someone’s bedside radio; only when the music stopped did she get out. She left the bathroom feeling boiled, guiltily sybaritic and extremely happy. The house was silent now, and dark except for the dull glow from the dying fire below.

What should she think of, on her way to sleep? Her interview with charming Rupert Carrington or her evening with his charming children? Rupert Carrington won by a head. How very comfortable this bed was! Everything was wonderful … too, too wonderful …

She could not remember ever before being brought
early-morning
tea and biscuits and rather feared they had spoilt her appetite for breakfast; after tea and dinner at Dome House she had begun to take more interest in food than she usually did. She wasn’t at all hungry as she opened her door to go downstairs. Then the smell of coffee and bacon was wafted up to her and she was instantly very hungry indeed.

Seeing Merry in the hall, she resisted her desire to clutch the handrail of the staircase.

‘Splendid,’ said Merry. ‘You sailed down like a duchess.’ Drew rose to ask if she had slept well; Clare said, ‘How punctual you are!’ and rang the gong for Richard. He came down and looked at Jane with faint surprise but greeted her pleasantly.

Sunlight flooded in through the hall’s tall windows and into the dining-room. Breakfast was as lavish as she had expected; fruit and cereals were followed by bacon and eggs, though there was not – as, with nostalgic memories of country-house plays, she had faintly hoped – a dish of kidneys kept warm by a spirit lamp.

Drew made her toast on his electric toaster. There was a toaster in front of each young Carrington.

‘Father bought them as a family Christmas present,’ said Clare, ‘because we were always fussing about really hot toast. Of course the wires are a nuisance; so’s the noise.

‘’One should think of it as
musique concrète
,’ said Jane, and felt proud of herself when Richard smiled and said he’d consider a quartet for toasters. While finishing up with toast and marmalade she asked herself if she could manage such a breakfast every day and strongly suspected she could.

‘I must tell you the order of the day,’ said Clare. ‘Cook and Edith are going out. They have to take their time off mid-week in case Father comes home at the weekend. We always give them lunch at the Swan, in the village. The food’s rather good and Burly’s allowed in the dining-room. Then we drive them to stay with their married sister till tomorrow night. They leave us sandwiches for this evening and we get our own meals tomorrow – or go to the Swan again.’

‘I can cook a bit,’ said Jane.

‘How lovely! I’m hopeless at it. This afternoon Richard and I want to shop in our market town. You could come with us but there’ll be a squash in the car until we’ve delivered Cook and Edith and Burly – he goes with them. If you don’t come, you’ll be on your own here as Drew’s going to tea with one of his old ladies and Merry’s spending the afternoon with a friend.’

‘With Betty. I told you about her. You could come too, and talk about theatres.’

Jane would have been glad to, or to go with the others; but even more, she fancied being alone at Dome House. She told Clare she wanted to plan the flowers before they next needed doing. ‘Planning’s half the battle – knowing which vase should go where and what flowers should go in it …’

‘How brilliant of you,’ said Clare. ‘I just fill vases and wander round finding homes for them. What bliss it’ll be to look at flowers I haven’t arranged.’

After breakfast Clare and Merry made the beds so that Edith could help with the sandwich cutting. Jane went round with the girls, dusting. She was fascinated to see how the
young Carringtons’ bedrooms reflected their personalities, and looked forward to a closer inspection when planning the flowers; only Richard’s room was without any. She asked if he did not care to have them.

‘Well, he does if they’re absolutely fresh,’ said Clare. ‘He must have chucked his out yesterday because they weren’t. That reminds me, he needs some in his music room – in the big jar on the floor; never on his piano or his work table.’

‘Won’t he mind my going in?’

‘Only when he’s there. He hates being disturbed.’

The last room they came to was Clare’s own. Jane saw water-colour paints set out and a half-finished drawing pinned to a drawing-board. She went towards it but Clare whisked the board away and turned its face to a wall. ‘Not now, please,’ she said, flushing. ‘There isn’t time. Would you mind getting ready? Merry and I want to show you the village before we meet the others at the Swan.’

‘Oh, do let her see, Clare,’ said Merry. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

But Jane, having noticed Clare’s flush, was already on her way to her room.

The girls were waiting for her when she went downstairs. ‘Look at her lovely suede gloves,’ said Merry. ‘You don’t really need them in the village but they’ll increase our prestige. Are they your best?’

‘Well, I do have a longer pair.’

‘You must show me some time. I’m passionate about long gloves.’

Jane enjoyed the walk to the village, which seemed even prettier than those she had driven through. She had seen them at their dullest, veiled by rain. She was seeing this one in autumn sunshine – and could it, even in spring, look better? Autumn seemed the ideal season for these mellow houses tightly packed along a curving street. Tudor, Queen Anne, Georgian … even the row of Victorian cottages
was attractive. And the council houses, though not exactly handsome, were all on their own in a pleasant little close.

‘I like the Queen Anne houses best,’ Jane finally decided.

‘All inhabited by Drew’s old ladies,’ Merry told her. ‘Don’t exagerate, he only knows three,’ said Clare. ‘But it’s certainly an elderly village. So many retired people.’

Jane was surprised at the number of shops, three of which sold the same things: groceries combined with green groceries, hardware, stationery and even cosmetics.

‘But no baker,’ said Clare sadly. ‘We had one who baked the most lovely bread, but he got bought up by the Co-op.’

Jane’s new dark lipstick was bought.

‘Let me put it on for you,’said Merry. ‘I want to make your mouth a bit wider.’

‘Oh, not here!’ Jane protested.

‘Well, I’ll do it when we show you the church. That’ll be nice and private.’

Jane found the ancient church very beautiful.

‘Yes, it’s all right when it’s empty,’ said Clare. ‘I just can’t stand services. Oh, dear, perhaps you go to church?’

Jane shook her head. She had given up church-going when it became difficult to leave her invalid mother and had never renewed the habit.

‘Oh, good,’ said Clare. ‘I’m afraid we’re a very irreligious family.’

‘But look, Merry’s praying,’ Jane whispered.

‘She always does, before she leaves. There’s a notice in the porch asking one to. She says it’s a courtesy, like clapping after a play even if you haven’t much liked it.’

‘I’ll follow her example,’ said Jane.

‘I just couldn’t. I’d feel a hypocrite.’

Decidedly not an
ordinary
old-fashioned girl …

It was now time to go to the Swan, which they reached as Cook, Edith and Burly were being helped out of the car. Edith was in blue; Cook in green. Both of them were hatted
and gloved. Jane had already decided against gloves in the village and put hers in her handbag.

‘Doesn’t Burly look gorgeous?’ said Merry.

As his red-gold hair, white round the muzzle, matched Cook’s, so his collar now matched her emerald hat.

‘The smartest dog in Suffolk,’ said the manager, coming forward to welcome the party.

The Swan Inn – no inn now but a flourishing hotel – had presented many faces to the world during its four hundred years. Recently it had been returned to its Tudor period, so thoroughly that it looked a fake – and largely was, as regards its façade; but the interior still retained its beams and some panelling, and the Victorian furniture in the dining-room had not yet been replaced by Tudor reproductions. The Carrington party was escorted to a table for seven where an elderly waitress, who had been to school with Cook and Edith, gave advice about ordering lunch. Everyone drank sherry except Burly, who lapped water and then went to the kitchen for a meal of stewed steak.

‘A proper helping, none of your scraps,’ Cook insisted.

Jane, as hungry as if she had missed breakfast, greatly enjoyed the meal. But, even more, she enjoyed the company; she found the relationship between the Carringtons and their maids so pleasant to watch. Cook and Edith, while still retaining their slightly bossy Nanny status, had been turned into honoured guests.

Lunch ended and Drew persuaded them to join him in a liqueur. Jane refused one but was quite glad when it got ordered for her by accident. This outing was going to cost Rupert Carrington a pretty penny, she reflected, as Richard signed the bill.

‘And don’t forget the tip,’ Merry reminded him.

‘See you again next week,’ said the elderly waitress, as the party filed out.

After the car containing Richard, Clare, the maids and Burly had driven off, Drew remembered Jane had no key to Dome House and gave her his.

‘We’ll all be home soon after six,’ Merry told her. ‘You won’t be nervous, will you, alone in the house?’

Jane reassured her and started her walk back feeling cheerful. She was looking forward to exploring Dome House and thinking about the Carringtons. Still, as she entered the drive, she did wish some of them would be in for tea. Absurd, but she was already missing them – she who, as a rule, was so grateful for a few hours to herself. She heard the church clock strike three. Well, the afternoon would soon pass.

Having let herself in, she tested her knowledge of the house’s geography. As she faced the stairs, the dining-room was on her right, with the kitchen at the back of it. The drawing-room, no doubt, would be on her left. She opened a door and found a formal, tidy room – neglected, she guessed, in favour of the hall. At the back, a door led into a study, presumably Rupert Carrington’s. The vast desk did not look as if much work was done at it; the housekeeping books and various bills were on a smaller desk, with her typewriter beside it. Sitting for a moment at the big desk, wondering what flowers she would put on it, she noticed the photograph of a beautiful, dark young woman. This must be the late Mrs Rupert Carrington; her eyes resembled Richard’s and her mouth, delicately sensuous, was very like Clare’s. Sad that she had known her children so little.

Returning to the hall, Jane investigated a room at the back of it which had French windows on to the garden. To judge by the pictures and books, this had been a cross between a nursery and a schoolroom; she visualized those long wet afternoons when, according to Drew, the older Mrs Carrington had fostered a belief in her grandchildren’s talents. A family photograph showed her as a heavy, intellectual-looking woman
who managed to combine a resemblance to her handsome son with personal plainness. This room seemed as little used as the drawing-room, except as a store for garden furniture.

Now for the bedrooms. Rupert Carrington’s, she knew, was over the drawing-room; Clare had shown it to her that morning but allowed no time for inspection. She went in now but found little to inspect – nothing suggesting the vital personality of the man who had engaged her. This felt like a spare room.

Next door was a bathroom and, next to that, Drew’s room – extremely like him, combining tidiness with cosiness. Many photographs, pictures, books … that long row of little red ones would be ‘Nelson’s Sevenpennys’. She studied the faded spines; some of the author’s names were vaguely familiar but she had read none of the books. A strange collection for a present-day young man to cherish. On his desk a bound volume of
Punch
for the year 1905 lay open, with a pile of neatly written notes beside it. He was obviously doing the most careful research as to clothes, furniture and the idiom of the period. What flower arrangement would suit Drew’s interest in Edwardiana? She must think about it.

Richard’s room was as tidy as Drew’s but very far from cosy. Like the whole house it was comfortably, if unbeautifully, furnished. But its owner had added no personal touches at all. And it was as cold as it was bare, with the central heating turned off and the window wide open. Flowers would cheer things up; she remembered Richard was said to like them very fresh. Typical, no doubt – but of what? She found him so much less forthcoming than the others.

At the back of the house there was a spare room, a box room and her own room. She skipped these and turned the corner of the gallery. Passing the bathroom she shared with the girls she went into Merry’s room, the walls of which were
hung with portraits of dramatists, actors and actresses. Jane inspected these only cursorily, deciding that she’d ask Merry to take her on a guided tour. Really, the child’s collection of plays was impressive – one wouldn’t have expected her to understand some of them; indeed, as regards a few of the very modem ones, Jane hadn’t understood them herself.

Now only Clare’s room remained, the large front one that corresponded to Rupert Carrington’s on the far side of the gallery. Entering, Jane wondered if she could permit herself to look at the flower painting that had been whisked away from her. One had every right, as a housekeeper and flower arranger, to enter rooms and look at pictures and books, but one would never, never read anyone’s letter or even a postcard; that would be spying. Would inspection of Clare’s work come into the same category? She was arguing this out with herself when she noticed that the drawing-board was back on the workable again. One could hardly avoid seeing it.

What she saw was a watercolour drawing of roses, painstakingly careful but nothing more. No wonder Clare had said she didn’t really paint! Sending her to an art school must just be a way of launching her into the world. Jane tried to detect even the faintest hint of talent but the more one looked, the more feeble the drawing seemed. Well, never now would she question poor Clare about her work. And she should be given a very special flower arrangement: something formal and in keeping with the pictures, which were mainly Watteau reproductions and small portraits of historical personages. Obviously the girl was extremely romantic – except that she hadn’t yet struck Jane as extremely anything.

Well, that concluded the tour of the bedrooms; except for the maids’ rooms, no doubt up a back staircase. One wouldn’t dream of invading any maid’s room. That – though she didn’t quite know why – would definitely be spying.