The Runaway Visitors (7 page)

‘Oh dear,’ she said, now wondering herself about Sebastien’s safety. Perhaps Giorgio
was
too daring, perhaps Sebastien was at risk. ‘He does enjoy it so much.’

‘He wouldn’t enjoy being in hospital with broken limbs, or a broken head. From now on, you can let him know, it’s forbidden to ride on the bike.’

‘But if Giorgio promised to be careful, not to go so fast?’

‘Still forbidden,’ said Charles firmly. ‘You’ve got a car—you can take him where he wants to go.’

‘That isn’t the same thing at all. Giorgio could be a friend to him. The Beltonis are the only people who’ve been kind to us here.’

That gave Charles pause. He looked surprised. Then he put the thought away for future consideration and returned to the topic under discussion.

‘Your parents have handed to me the responsibility for you all,’ he said. ‘To what extent
they
were irresponsible in doing so isn’t the point at the moment. The fact remains that while you’re here, I’m responsible for seeing that Sebastien doesn’t run an unnecessary risk of being killed, that you don’t run the risk of being raped, and so on.’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Victoria said stiffly, ‘I absolve you of all responsibility. I’ll look after myself.’

‘And Sebastien? You’ll tell him that I forbid riding on the back of that motor bike?’

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Then I think that’s all,’ said Charles.

Victoria was silent. So that’s all, she thought. It was quite enough. He had set the cat among the pigeons with a vengeance. Sebastien wasn’t going to like this.

She turned slowly round. While they had been talking, she had noticed the work he had been engaged upon when her arrival interrupted him. In front of him was standing a large armature of cables and wires, and on to this armature he was building up a mess of clay, presumably a full-scale model of the maquette which stood on a table to one side, which seemed to Victoria to represent a group of miners just emerged from the coal pits. The maquette was striking in its force and character. She liked it at once and wanted to look closer; but not only was the moment not opportune, but Charles had not, for a second, realised her interest or seemed to want it. He seemed to be concerned only with the responsibility he had been saddled with in bringing the Fenn family into his house.

So, in spite of her interest, and her longing to explore the multitudinous objects arranged on wide shelves along one wall, Victoria turned to the staircase to leave the studio. It would have been kind, she thought, had he allowed her to look round, had he explained what he was doing. At the top of the staircase, she looked back at him.

‘I’m sorry you think my parents are irresponsible,’ she said stiffly. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we went back to England. I’m perfectly capable of looking after the family there.’

‘Good God! ’ he exploded. ‘Now you’ve taken offence. My dear child, your parents are the most delightful people in the world.
I
know they’re both doing useful work. They’re my friends, and they’ve asked me to give you hospitality during the summer, and that’s what I intend to do. But I don’t want to send them news in New Guinea or wherever it is, that Sebastien is smashed up, or that any evil has befallen any of you.
Do
try to see my point of view, Victoria.’

‘Oh, I see it,’ she said. ‘ I see it very well.’ And she negotiated the narrow iron stairway with care, crossed the room she had thought so welcoming at first, though it had given
her
no great welcome, and found her way back to her own part of the house. Sebastien was out again. Walking, Amanda thought. Amanda was

day-dreaming by the fountain.

‘Haven’t you got anything to do?’ asked Victoria with unaccustomed sharpness.

‘Such as what?’ asked Amanda, looking up.

‘Well, you’ve got plenty of books with you. You’ve got your bird embroidery, and you’ve got your paints.’ For Amanda was always said to be the artistic one of the family.

‘Oh, I don’t want to do any of those things,’ Amanda replied. ‘I’m all right. Don’t bother about me, I’m quite happy.’ And this was a surprise for Victoria, for it was rarely that Amanda was quite happy.

She sat down with her own book, but she did not read. She was dejected, almost despondent. Why had they come here? Why had she not followed her first reaction to her parents’ plan, and stayed at home, to spend the summer in London? Charles Duncan did not want them, that was obvious. He thought her parents irresponsible, and
he
did not want the responsibility for their safety. If it were true that Giorgio had taken risks, had been travelling much too fast with Sebastien on the back, then Victoria too was worried. She never had liked motor bikes. Why, she herself had said to Charles when he came to her aid that other morning that Italian drivers were all mad. Well, she would have to tell Sebastien that it was forbidden in future, but he was not going to like it. That was certain.

CHAPTER IV

Sebastien did not like it. He rebelled instantly, and remained in a state of rebellion. ‘Why should we do what
he
tells us?’ he demanded.
‘He
hasn’t done anything to entertain us ever since we’ve been here.’

‘He doesn’t look on it like that,’ said Victoria. ‘He was asked to put up with us, and that’s what he is doing. If we expect anything further, we’re going to be disappointed.’

She remembered all too clearly the various things that Charles had said about them. On that first occasion, when she had unwillingly overheard his conversation with friends, he had said he would leave all of them to Jeanie. Jeanie, the redoubtable Miss Jameson, did what she had to do, and no more. She fed them, and she fed them well. In spite of Victoria’s offer, it was nearly always Miss Jameson who insisted on cleaning their rooms and washing their dishes. Further than that, she did not choose to go. Charles himself had given them hospitality, and he also saw no need to do more. This was proved in no uncertain fashion on the night that he gave a party to his friends.

It was impossible for Victoria not to know that he was giving a party. Every time she went near the kitchen, something was going on in preparation for it. The enormous deep freeze came into its own as dish after dish went into it, to be produced on the night. There would be too many guests, apparently, for a sit-down dinner party; but a splendid buffet would be arranged in the dining room. When, on the morning of the great day, masses of flowers arrived to decorate the hall, living room and dining room, Victoria offered to arrange them for Miss Jameson, and rather to her surprise her offer was accepted. She took the greatest pleasure in making several arrangements of great beauty, taking most of the morning over the task.

She had taken it for granted that she would be asked to this party. Not Sebastien, who at sixteen was too young. Certainly not Amanda, on the eve of her fourteenth birthday. But Victoria was almost twenty, and probably several of the guests would be no more than that. So that it was a great surprise to her when Miss Jameson said:

‘I’d be glad, Victoria, if you’d get your own supper to-night, with all I’ve got to do.’

This was quite a shock to her. Surely Charles wouldn’t have a party right here in the house without inviting her to it.

‘You mean for Sebastien and Amanda and me?’ she asked.

‘Well, you don’t think I’d leave one of you out, do you?’

Victoria was suddenly deflated. At once, all her pleasure in the day was gone. She wished she could take all those lovely flower arrangements and throw them out on the rubbish heap. She said flatly: ‘Oh yes, I’ll get the supper; you needn’t think you have to bother about
us,’
and was unaware that Miss Jameson was looking after her as she left the room, with a very strange and speculative expression.

It was the simplest thing in the world to prepare that supper, for the kitchen was so full of good things. ‘You can have some of
that,
if you like,’ Miss Jameson told her, indicating a dish of vegetable salad; ‘and some of that,’ and that was a rice salad with sultanas and apples and more exotic fruits; ‘and you can have a few of the prawn vol-au-vents . . .’ and went on until Victoria had on her tray a delectable cold supper for three. ‘And you can come back for some of the sweet things when you’ve got through that lot,’ Miss Jameson told her.

Victoria spread a cloth over the terrace table and set out their supper. She was emphatically reminded of several occasions when her parents had given dinner parties, and, to get the children out of the way, had arranged a small buffet for them to enjoy themselves in what was sometimes called the ‘workroom’ or the ‘playroom’ or simply the children’s room.

She felt that, similarly, they were being kept out of the way tonight. In the case of Amanda and Sebastien it was to be expected.

For herself, she resented it bitterly. How could he possibly still think of her as a child, when girls were free to marry whom they chose at eighteen, free to vote for whom they chose? Or did he even think of her at all? That was more likely, she decided. He had his own circle of sophisticated friends, his own absorbing work, and the Fenn family hovered only briefly, occasionally at the edge of his consciousness: when he had to worry about them, when some small thing reminded him of his responsibility.

She had an excellent opportunity to see those sophisticated friends that evening. If she put her chair at one corner of their terrace, she could see the cars arriving at the main door of the house; and she was sufficiently interested, or curious, to do so. They had finished their delectable supper some time ago. Amanda and Sebastien were inside in his room, which had also become their living room, playing Scrabble with the usual amount of argument. Victoria waited. She knew that the house was looking its best, that the flowers lived up to the occasion; but she was too proud to ask Miss Jameson if she could go and look at the completed buffet.

The guests began to arrive, in a succession of cars that indicated the status of their owners; Ferraris and Aston-Martins, Rolls-Royces and Mercedes and Jaguars and Jensens. The light over the main door revealed them all too clearly to Victoria. The men rivalled the women in the beauty of their apparel. Italian men were very vain in any case, Victoria had decided, and here tonight there were plain white tuxedos, silk suits, velvet suits, and a perfect rainbow of silk, plain or ruffled or embroidered shirts. But if the men were groomed to the hilt, the women went one better with their make-up and coiffures and jewels. Victoria thought every couturier in Roma, Firenze or Milano must be represented here; in long dresses of gauzy billowing materials, masses of finely pleated silks or sheaths that were marvellous in their simplicity.

She knew only three of the guests. The Contessa, wearing a purple gown which emphasised her height and slimness, and a fine showing of diamonds; the elderly cousin, in orthodox black evening wear, trying to efface himself behind the Contessa; and Margarita, who arrived with a distinguished-looking man much older than herself, who might possibly be her father. Margarita wore white, cut daringly low, emphasising not only all those luscious curves but the dark quality of her dazzling beauty. She wore enormous emeralds in earrings that swayed and swung with every movement of her head, and a wide emerald bracelet. Her beautiful neck and bosom needed no adornment. Victoria could hear Charles’s deep voice welcoming her, but she could not see him. She wondered what
he
wore on such an occasion; for he seemed to be at home in plain trousers and pullovers, or shirts with short sleeves or his working smock. Was
he
wearing a silk suit or a white tuxedo? Did he manage to tame that thick brown hair, or did he simply remain himself among so much peacock vanity?

She was obviously not to know. Cars ceased to arrive. A few chauffeurs gossiped together, the glow of their cigarettes showing where they sat in the darkened garden. The Scrabble game inside ended in heated argument, as it so often did. Amanda had lost again. She said to Victoria from inside: ‘Well, I’m going to bed, Vicki, good night,’ and did not come out on to the terrace. Sebastien went out to look at the cars, ambled around for a while, and then said he thought he’d go to bed too. So Victoria was once more left on the terrace alone, and the sounds of the party mounted in a steady crescendo. Surely there was nothing that emphasised one’s loneliness more than the sounds of a successful party nearby? the hum of talk, the laughter, the sudden outbursts of merriment that made one wonder what was going on.

And she
was
lonely. She longed for somebody to talk to. Not Sebastien with his mind temporarily set on cars and motor bikes; nor Amanda, so naively adolescent. She felt cut off from her friends, with few opportunities in this rather remote spot to make new ones. Briefly, she resented her parents and this situation they had got their children into. This was the last time, she resolved, that she would be shunted around: she wouldn’t have considered it this time but for Amanda. When would they realise that she had a life of her own to live? She felt excluded, abandoned, in this one quiet spot of the house; and against her will, tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill.

‘Oh, don’t be so damned sorry for yourself,’ she told herself, but it was no good. She was miserable, and all the sounds of talk and laughter made her more miserable. She put her face into her hands, and wept; and after a few moments, leaned her arms on the railing of the terrace and her head upon her arms, trying not to give way to this fit of crying.