Summer's Awakening (16 page)

'That house is No 1, London—the home of the Iron Duke,' he told them. 'And the monument is the Wellington Arch.'

'How do you know which way to go?' Emily asked, as he steered the car through the converging and diverging streams of vehicles, many of them the distinctively high-built London taxis.

'I've been to London a number of times in the past ten years. Now we're going down Constitution Hill. Inside that high wall on your right is the garden of Buckingham Palace. You'll see it in a minute. If the Queen is in residence, her standard will be flying from the flagpole.'

As Emily and Summer gazed at the imposing façade of the Royal Family's London home, she wondered what had brought him here before. Business perhaps. Or could it be that he had renewed his connection with the portrait painter, and she would be one of the 'interesting, distinguished people' with whom he was to spend Christmas.

From the Palace it was not far to the flat which Emily's parents had kept as their London
pied-à-terre.
The block had a porter who took charge of the luggage while James drove away to return the car to the nearest office of the company which owned it.

On the way to London, he had told her that the flat had two double bedrooms and a single one. She and Emily were to share the room with twin beds.

Unlike Cranmere, where much of the décor remained as it had been when the great house was new, with some changes superimposed by each succeeding generation of Lancasters, Summer could see that the London flat had been decorated by
a
professional designer, and one whose style she recognised because Lady Edgedale had commissioned him to do up her bedroom at Cranmere.

The geometric-patterned carpets, the use of colour, the 'tablescapes' of carefully chosen collections of objects were all the hall-marks of David Hicks, the husband of Lady Pamela Hicks, younger daughter of the late Lord Mountbatten.

By the time James reappeared, Summer had un- packed their overnight things and Emily, exploring, had found
a
saucepan of vegetable soup on the kitchen stove and an attractively arranged platter of smoked salmon salad in the refrigerator.

'I rang up an organisation which does rather civilised catering and asked them to lay on a light lunch,' her uncle said, when she told him about these discoveries. 'Tonight we're going to sample the flesh-pots so we don't want to spoil our appetites.'

Summer wasn't sure whether this plan included her. If it did, she had nothing to wear and she knew
a
meal in
a
restaurant was sure to present the temptations she was trying to avoid.

She said, 'Emily has outgrown the dress she had for special occasions last winter. Perhaps, after lunch, we could go shopping for a new one.'

'I was joking about the flesh-pots,' said James. 'Neither of you needs to dress up for the place I'm taking you to tonight.'

'It's kind of you to include me, but I'd be quite happy to spend the evening here. I can watch television—it's a novelty for me.

'Don't be silly, of course you must come. We shan't enjoy it without you,' Emily insisted.

'No, you can't spend your first night in London watching TV,' James agreed.

She felt sure that, had Emily not butted in, he wouldn't have objected to her suggestion. Even if where they were going was not an elegant place, he couldn't want to be seen with a fat frump.

After lunch they took a taxi to Grosvenor Square to collect her passport from the American Embassy. Another taxi took them to the British Passport Office in Petty France where Emily's document was waiting for her. From there it was a short walk to see the Houses of Parliament and, close by, Westminster Abbey.

It wouldn't have surprised Summer if the excitement of sight-seeing combined with the unaccustomed fumes of heavy traffic had brought on one of Emily's bouts of wheezing. Throughout the afternoon she kept a discreet look-out for the first hint of difficult breathing. However, Emily's enjoyment of the wonders of London was far from flagging when James announced, 'Time for tea,' and hailed another cruising taxi.

Back at the flat they took off their outdoor clothes and Emily switched on the television and started to curl herself comfortably on the sofa.

A programme appeared. And disappeared, as James touched the OFF button.

'Why have you switched it off?' she asked him.

'Because you didn't ask Summer if you might switch it on, and because you have work to do.'

Her forehead wrinkled. 'What work?'

'Making some tea for her. She's tired.'

Emily turned to her tutor. 'Are you? Oh, Summer, I'm sorry. I didn't know that.'

Summer was about to deny her weariness when, over the top of Emily's head, James gave her a look which silenced her.

He said to his niece, 'Your packing was done for you. She had no one to do hers. This morning she had to get up much earlier than we did, cook her own breakfast and leave the cottage clean and neat. People don't always say when they're feeling bushed, Emily. You have to notice it. Come on, I'll show you how to make tea.' He swept her off to the kitchen.

Left alone, Summer collapsed on the sofa with
a
thankful sigh. It had not only been a long day—it had been a long, weary week with a good deal of mental stress on top of the extra physical exertion; and the drastic cut in her calorie intake was another drain on her energy.

Presently he returned, by himself.

'She has to learn that from now on she won't always be waited on,' he said. 'That was quite a hard lesson for me, and I was a lot more self-sufficient than Emily. Don't spoil her, Summer. You'll get short-shrift from me if I catch you over-indulging her.'

The peremptory tone in which he said this swiftly dispelled her gratitude for his uncharacteristic show of consideration a few minutes earlier.

She said defensively, 'Emily has never been spoilt, certainly not by me. She's very unselfish for her age. But she's not an angel. Who is? Everyone has moments of thoughtlessness.'

'Which they may get away with later, but not at thirteen,' he said dryly.

'Are you sure she can handle the kettle? It's a large one and she has such thin wrists. It would be awful if she scalded herself,' Summer said anxiously.

'She can manage. Don't fuss. A girl of thirteen can still have her character shaped, but she's old enough to cope with boiling water and sharp knives. For God's sake, in the old West girls her age dressed wounds and helped deliver babies. The young do whatever's required of them.'

'Yes... they do.'

She was thinking of herself, spending the summer evenings on the extra home-work set by her aunt instead of playing tennis like the vicar's teenage children, or flirting with boys on street corners like the milkman's daughter.

The place where he took them for supper was in
a
basement off Hanover Square.

'A foretaste of America,' he said, as they entered the restaurant, its walls hung with old posters and street signs.

The busboys and waitresses were young people, informally dressed with friendly manners. The list of drinks included American beer and a St Valentine's Day Massacre cocktail. Before Summer could demur, James had ordered Coca Cola for Emily and a bottle of red wine for them.

The menu, as Emily soon discovered, was a souvenir she could take away with her.

'The Chicago Pizza Pie Factory—Purveyors of Chicago pizza to London, Bath and the World,'
she read out.
'Deep-dish Chicago pizza was first served in Chicago about 40 years ago; since then it has been duplicated by scores of restaurants in and out of Chicago. Our very own recipe has been created to capitalise on the best of the Chicago versions but with special attention to the taste of our London patrons. Radio tapes from Chicago's best station, WFYR, arrive regularly.'

Summer had already noticed that as well as an inexpensive side salad, the menu offered a more elaborate chef's salad. She wondered if she could ask to have that by itself without incurring sardonic comments from James.

Emily had discovered another section of the menu.

'Please allow us 20-30 minutes to prepare your pizza,'
she read out.
'It takes a bit longer to make this wonderfulness'—
here she paused for a giggle—
'but we think you will agree it's worth waiting for. A regular pizza serves up to two people. A large serves three to four people. Don't worry if you can't finish it all, we'll give you a doggie bag to take home.'

Summer said, '
I
think I'd like to try the stuffed mushrooms and the chef's salad while you two share a regular pizza.'

The stuffed mushrooms—
We stuff 'em with butter, breadcrumbs, sherry, parsley, grated Italian cheese and more than a hint of garlic. You won't soon forget them
—weren't slimming food, but they sounded less fattening than the cheese-laden pizzas.

It was Emily who argued that she couldn't come to a pizza pie factory and not have pizza.

James said, 'Why don't you and I share a half and half pizza, Emily? I like the cheese and pepperoni. Which filling do you fancy? How about the speciality—cheese and sausage?' When she had agreed, he added, 'If Summer is going to have garlic in her mushrooms, you and I'd better have some as well. I'll order some hot garlic bread to eat while we're waiting for the pizza.'

'Garlic is the thing the French use which makes your breath smell, isn't it?' asked Emily. 'That was the thing Daddy didn't like about French food.'

'More fool him,' James said shortly. 'Garlic is one of the reasons French food is so delicious, and if everyone eats it the smell isn't noticeable.'

Summer felt it was bad form for him to speak scathingly of his dead brother. But probably bad form or good form were not matters of great moment to him. That he had given her a homily about Emily's character-training didn't mean he applied the same principles to his own conduct.

'You must try a teeny bit, Summer,' said Emily, when the half and half pizza arrived, the cheese bubbling gently and giving off a savoury aroma.

'I'm quite happy with my mushrooms, thank you.'

'Just a taste,' Emily persisted.

A glass of what the menu called
Chateau Chicago,
while they were waiting, and the sight and smell of other diners' pizzas being carried past, had undermined Summer's resolve. If James hadn't been there, she would have said, 'All right—a small piece.' But he was there, watching her, a hint of a derisive smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

It was that which made her say firmly, 'I don't wish for any, thank you. I have tasted pizza, when I was little. You mustn't press people to eat things, Emily. They may have refused because they're allergic to it, or it gives them indigestion.'

The child, unused to being spoken to in that governessy tone, looked so crushed that Summer couldn't help smiling and saying, in her normal voice, 'But it was nice of you to offer to share some with me. Would you like a little of my salad?'

'No, thank you.' Emily gave her a look which reminded Summer of a puppy which has been punished but is now back in favour.

She felt a rush of protective tenderness towards her. Poor little thing: it was rotten for her, having no one but an uncle and a tutor, neither of whom could take the place of loving parents. Not that her parents had been particularly loving, but merely by their existence they must have given her a greater sense of security than she had now.

When, some time later, their waiter returned to their table, he asked, 'Would you care for some dessert? Cheesecake... or ice cream?'

He sounded Australian and looked about seventeen—the age when James had left home.

'Not for me, thank you,' she said.

'I'm not sure if I have room,' said Emily.

'They serve two forks with each order of cheesecake. How about sharing one?' James suggested. 'It says here that their cheesecakes are
'a little bit of heaven, made with cream cheese, sour cream, other fresh goodies and lots of love. All served with honeyed whipped cream and almonds.'

Was he suggesting she and Emily should share one? Deliberately tempting her? Or had he meant he and Emily?

The child decided she still did have a corner to fill.

'Two coffees and one cheesecake, please,' James said to the waiter.

When her dessert was placed in front of Emily, she said, 'Who's going to have the other fork?'

'Not I,' said Summer firmly.

But, oh, how she longed for a taste of the delicious sweet goo into which Emily was dipping her fork. James shared the last of the wine between her glass and his, then he picked up the second fork and sampled the cheesecake.

'Mm... not bad... in fact good,' was his verdict. He had another forkful.

Summer forced herself to ignore them and to concentrate on reading the posters on the walls and studying the other diners. But a part of her mind was conscious that it would be years before she could share the pleasure which they could enjoy with impunity.

It might be that, like an alcoholic, she would
never
be able to eat pizza or cheesecake. It was a dreary prospect.