The Skeleton in the Grass (3 page)

“Ah, Mr. Fowler. Good to see you here again. And your lovely lady wife. You look younger every time I see you, my dear. You know everyone? I'm sure everyone knows you. Fowler sells the best meat in Oxfordshire, so I always say.”

It seemed safe to assume that Mr. Fowler was the only butcher invited to that particular shindig.

Cousin Mostyn was clearly pleased to see the other Hallams. When Helen introduced Sarah she watched him for any signs of displeasure that they had brought along the nursery governess, but even her over-sensitivity could discern nothing—mere friendliness, albeit of an avuncular kind.

“Ah—Sarah Causeley, come to look after little Chloe, is that it? Bit of a handful, eh?”

“A very delightful handful, anyway,” said Sarah.

“Oh, absolutely. Charming child.”

At the mention of Chloe Sarah had seen a look of pain pass over Mrs. Mostyn Hallam's face. She was a well-groomed, well-dressed woman, who nevertheless contrived to present a vaguely washed-out appearance. It was easy to guess that the late arrival of Chloe, to the senior Hallams who already had three children, had been to her a matter of pain and reproach.

“Winifred, my wife,” said Mostyn, waving. Sarah smiled, shook hands, and then they all moved on.

Sarah soon found that, if there were anomalies in her position at the gathering, there were anomalies in the occasion as a whole—as perhaps was inevitable, given that its purpose was political rather than social. People were forced into proximity whose normal contacts were no more than the transmitting of orders and the fulfilling of them. One could hardly use this opportunity to complain about the lamb Mr. Fowler had sent up last week, or the quality of the last batch of shirt-collars some other worthy tradesman had supplied. Instead there was a great deal of heartiness, of kind inquiries about health or children, and the weather was much mulled over.

Sarah felt no kinship with gentry or tradespeople. She thought that even a clergyman would be welcome, but there was none in sight. She felt closer to a young waiter, clearly hired for the occasion and not yet quite sure of the tricks of his trade, who approached her with a tray.

“A drink, miss?”

He was a chunky young man with a slight Oxfordshire burr and an amused eye.

“Yes, I think I would like one. But I'm not sure what to have.”

“I think you'll find sherry quite a safe choice, miss.”

He inclined the side of the tray with the sherries. She smiled and he smiled. Then he was summoned by a horsey voice, and he moved off, his face impassive.

Everyone of importance seemed to have arrived, and Mostyn and Winifred Hallam began moving among their guests. Winifred was diligent in her inquiries after health and children, but she seemed to do it with more concern and more previous knowledge than most of her guests. This was no doubt a consequence of being a politician's wife. Mostyn was doling out “Trade's picking up” to the
commercial interests, and “Weather's no good in your line” to the farmers—this last a safe bet, since even Sarah was aware that weather, for farmers, was invariably of the wrong sort.

At one point, as Mostyn passed regally by, Dennis Hallam took him by the arm and said in a friendly way:

“Some time, when the crush thins out, I'd like to have a word with you about Spain.”

“Spain? Thinking of going there on holiday? Frightfully hot this time of year.”

“Mostyn, civil war is breaking out there.”

“Civil war? Oh no, I don't think so. Comic opera stuff. They go in for that kind of thing down there. Over in a week, you mark my words. Bang-bang, wave a few flags, and it's all over.” He lowered his voice to something lower than a bellow, and assumed a conspiratorial stance that did indeed seem to derive from comic opera. “But I'll tell you something that will interest you . . .”

Everyone in the vicinity pricked up their ears, but Cousin Mostyn was sublimely unaware that he was being listened to.

“What's that?”

“The King's going on holiday. To the Aegean. And he's taking with him that American woman.”

Dennis shrugged.

“I don't expect he'll send me a postcard.”

“But you can't take it that lightly, old man! It's getting to be quite frightful. You've no idea what the American newspapers are saying.”

“I can imagine.”

“The Duff Coopers will be with them. But I never thought Duff entirely sound. And his ways with women . . .”

“I was at Oxford with Duff. I know all about his ways with women. But I thought the danger with the King was that he might want to marry this American woman.”

“It is, old man, it is.”

“If he follows Duff's example he'll go in quite the opposite direction.”

“Well, let's damned well hope so . . .”

“But getting back to Spain—”

Sarah saw Elizabeth raising an eyebrow at her, and nodding in the direction of the garden. The two girls slipped through the morning-room towards the French windows. As they scurried along they heard one of the guests say, in a broad country accent:

“That weren't our King they was talkin' about, were it? Our King i'n't got no woman.”

The fresh air was invigorating. The two girls sipped at their drinks and grinned at each other.

“Daddy is butting his head against a brick wall,” said Elizabeth. “I sometimes think he prefers it that way. First Cousin Mostyn will say that there isn't going to be a war in Spain, then he'll say it's best left to the Spaniards—don't want to get involved with their squabbles, what? Then he'll say anyway the government was a bit red, wasn't it, far as he'd heard, and it might well be good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what a lot of fellers are saying around Westminster. It's much more difficult to argue with stupid people than with intelligent ones, and after all these years at meetings and discussion groups and study groups, Daddy has never realized that. Or rather, he treats everybody as if they were intelligent.”

“Well, it's a nice trait,” said Sarah. Then she added, in an unusual burst of confidence. “My father treats everyone as if they were fools.”

“Oh dear. I wouldn't like that. Including you?”

“Much of the time. We're very used to it—Mummy and me, I mean . . . perhaps his problem is more with himself than with other people.”

It was a piece of understanding of her father that came to her like a gift from the air. She felt she would never have realized it if she had not met the Hallams.

“Well, at least Daddy's fault is on the right side,” said Elizabeth. “But one doesn't want to hear him battle it out with Cousin Mostyn, because one knows so well he will get nowhere . . . Oh golly, there's Fiona Macauley. She's going to ask me if I'm going to do the Season next year, and I really can't decide . . .”

“Why not?”

“Well, it will probably be a frightful bore, but there
are
all those gorgeous and unreliable chaps, and if one doesn't get to know all the bounders early on, one probably falls victim to them in middle age, and really they might be quite
fun . . .
”

“You go and talk to her. I'm quite happy roaming around in the garden. I love gardens more than anything in the world.”

And Sarah wandered off. She liked Elizabeth, but found her somehow unformed. It was exciting in a way: she might turn out to be any number of different things—a campaigner, like her parents, a social butterfly, a perfectly ordinary wife and mother. Perhaps the same is true of me, Sarah thought, and then decided it was probably not. She, at any rate, had no desire to “do the Season,” and thought it would probably be a crushing bore to anyone as intelligent as Elizabeth, and the young men much less fun than she wistfully imagined. But talk of it merely emphasized that there were areas where their lives were so different as barely to touch. Besides, Sarah was a girl who preferred the company of men: she knew that her life would centre on men, not in any courtesan way, but in a companionate one—they being the people with the interesting lives. Sarah intended that her life should be interesting in a male way.

The garden of Cabbot Hall was more enticing than the house. Sarah wondered whether it had been thus when the Mostyn Hallams bought it, or whether it was here that Winifred Hallam exercised her imagination. It was a random garden, full of rough patches, chance flowers or shrubs in unpredictable places; rich corners where you had expected nothing. She enjoyed her ramble, and she only turned back towards the house because she was uncertain how long “drinks” were supposed to last. It was as she was going through a well-stocked kitchen garden, at the corner of the house, that she was unexpectedly addressed.

“Good evening, young lady. You must be the new acquisition in the neighbourhood.”

Sarah jumped. She was nervous anyway, being in a strange environment, and among strangers. But there was something about the voice too . . . It was soft, slightly sibilant, but with reserves of power and harshness, as if the man could very easily play the bully. With the insight that seemed to have taken charge of her that day, Sarah said:

“Major Coffey?”

The man's smile was crooked, yet complacent.

“I have been pointed out to you.”

He had not, but Sarah did not correct him. Perhaps her moment of insight had not been so surprising. The man's back had a parade-ground straightness that made him stand out among all these gentlemen-farmers and tradespeople. He was tall, thin, his face sunken and sallow, with a military moustache and bright, piercing eyes. He looked very fit for his age, which must have been over fifty, but at the same time he impressed Sarah vividly as a very uncomfortable man—not in himself, but for others. He had been standing in shadow, under an apple tree. Was he shunned by the other guests? Had he been waiting for her? Already Sarah wanted very much to get away.

“And you are the new nursemaid at Hallam.”

“Yes,” said Sarah shortly. She did not elaborate on Chloe's being at the stage of emerging from the nursery.

“A remarkable family you have come into. Clan, I almost called them. They keep very close. Very close indeed.”

He made it sound very unpleasant. Sarah immediately felt defensive.

“I don't think Mr. Dennis and Mr. Mostyn Hallam are particularly close.”

“Not politically. I am talking about as a family.” He looked down at her confidingly, as if he were sharing a secret. “Did you know both gentlemen married cousins? No? That's what I mean by being clannish. It's not wise, you know. Not good for the racial stock. It will not have escaped your notice that our host is childless.”

This was too silly for Sarah to let pass.

“Whereas the Dennis Hallams have four children” she pointed out. “You can prove anything if you choose the right example.”

“Ah—a quick-witted young lady! Exactly what I would have expected from someone employed at Hallam. Something of an intellectual hot-house, that establishment, you will find.”

“The Hallams are intelligent people,” retorted Sarah. “That is a pleasanter way of putting it.”

“Ah, you think I am being unpleasant about your employers? Well, there's no denying we have a very different attitude to things. You see, to me they
are
essentially sterile—in their pathetic pacifism, for example. It's very un-English, you know. It doesn't go down at all well with the gentry around here, nor with the village people either. Fortunately the English countryside still produces a very sturdy, patriotic type of lad.”

“I believe I know the English countryside and its people quite as well as you do, Major,” said Sarah. “Tell me, did you stop me just now simply to malign my employers?”

“Malign?” he said, his voice soft and insinuating, his smile crooked. “Not at all, young lady. I am merely trying to make you more aware of the Hallams and their position here. They are very attractive, persuasive people. No doubt you have found them so, am I not right? That makes it so easy for them to infect—is that too strong a word?—”

“Yes.”

“I think not. Infect other people with their own craven, defeatist notions. I believe that people exposed to them should be on their guard—particularly a
young
person, and a young
lady
—”

“Major Coffey, I am not feeble-minded.”

“By no means,” he said, with a sketch of a bow. “You have a strength of mind I admire. I try to gather around me young people with spirit, with pride and patriotism. It would give me great pleasure to introduce you—”

“I'll not trouble you to make my friends for me,” said Sarah, her blood boiling, walking away quickly.

“Remember,” the voice hissed behind her, “the Hallams' notions are not liked. The people here are not lily-livered intellectuals. They may find ways of showing their feelings!”

T
he next two weeks were a time of joy and discovery for Sarah. The only troubled moments were the comings and goings of Will, and the obvious anxiety of his parents.

As the Republican government of Spain began to fight back, young radicals all over Britain began to organize themselves to go to their aid. That much, at any rate, was clear from Will's conversation. But he was careful to confine himself to generalities—names were not mentioned, nor specific projects or plans. He was obviously afraid that his parents would make attempts to stop him if they knew what his intentions were, and who else was involved in them.

“But I don't see how we
can
stop him,” said Helen tearfully to Sarah. “We've always let our children make their own decisions, and he's quite right that in all essentials he is of age. But if only he would
think . . .
”

But Will's mind was on action rather than on meditation.

“This is going to be the testing-ground,” he declared one evening, when he had arrived home on a flying visit. “If all the anti-Fascist forces can get together, get themselves organized and fighting-ready, then we'll be an unbeatable force. We'll turn the tide. If we fail here, we'll fail everywhere.”