The New Moon with the Old (15 page)

He assented eagerly, his hopes springing up. She rose and rang the bell, twice; then turned to him smiling. ‘Once would mean Annie was to show you out; twice means “Bring tea”.’

He had risen when she rose, and had time for a swift glance around. He noted gilt-framed, gilt-mounted watercolours, anaemically pretty. Then his eyes rested on a white-painted cosy comer. Its carved roof was supported by delicate pillars and there were oval portraits let into the blue silk upholstered back. He said: ‘What a lovely room this is!’

‘You like it? I haven’t
quite
got used to it. Our local decorator has always been able to repeat the satin-striped paper but last year he had to make a change in the frieze under the picture rail – the roses are larger and the blue ribbon wider. My mother was distressed; she considered our regular re-decorations were a memorial to my father’s superb taste and liked everything to be just as it was in his day.’

‘When did your parents die?’ asked Drew, puzzled. Surely she couldn’t have meant her mother was alive as recently as last year?

‘Oh, my father died many, many years ago. My mother lived until last March – just after her ninety-fifth birthday. She was a wonderful woman, fully alert until a few days before her death. And my father was a wonderful man. Such admirable characters – and they were both so gifted!’

She went to the glossy grand piano near the semi-circular window and opened the long piano stool. ‘I used to play their songs almost daily until my right hand became arthritic. Such a nuisance – and so unsightly.’

‘I hadn’t noticed it,’ said Drew, truthfully. ‘Though I had noticed the beauty of your left hand.’

She smiled. ‘That’s the hand I
let
people notice – not that I see many people nowadays.’

He joined her in looking through the songs she had taken from the piano stool. Most of the titles suggested
love combined with patriotism.
Stay not if duty calls, love, Beloved, when the trumpet sounds, Love’s Banners Blow
… elaborate penmanship curled itself round ‘Words by Melicent Whitecliffe. Music by Albion Whitecliff’.

‘An unusual name, your father’s,’ Drew commented.

‘It was originally Albert Whitely. He adopted Whitecliff by deed poll and – well, just assumed Albion. My mother felt the whole name so suitable for a composer of such typically English songs. We often laughed about the many “Whites” in our name and address. Ah, here is tea.’

The black fly had entered with a silver tea-tray obviously too heavy for her. Should he offer to help? He was about to when she got the tray down safely, to his relief and her own; her grimly set lips parted to emit a gasp, and her firm tread as she left the room was suggestive of triumph.

‘You must have impressed her,’ said Miss Whitecliff. ‘We never use the silver tea service nowadays and I’m far from sure I can lift the teapot.’

‘Then let me pour out for you,’ said Drew. ‘I’ll always do that if you let me be your companion. And I could carve for you, too. I’m quite good at it.’

‘Really? No joint has been properly carved in this house for many years. Yes, do pour out, please. I hope you don’t dislike Indian tea. I do, but Annie and Lizzie prefer it.’

‘But surely you’ve only got to tell them—’

She interrupted him. ‘One doesn’t wish to. It would be … difficult. You see—’ She looked vaguely distressed and left the sentence unfinished; then, as if pushing the subject away from her, she added brightly: ‘Annie and Lizzie are sisters.’

It seemed to him no valid reason for putting up with tea she didn’t like. But he only said: ‘Oh, our maids are sisters too. They’ve been with us fifteen years and they’re absolute angels.’

‘Mine,’ said Miss Whitecliff, ‘have been here over fifty years. And they’re absolute fiends.’

He took it for granted that she was joking and responded only with a smile, being much occupied in pouring out tea. Undoubtedly a companion ought to be an adept tea-pourer and he was finding the heavy silver teapot more awkward to handle than he had expected. However, he managed without disaster.

Having skipped lunch he was glad to see a plate of solid bread and butter. He handed it to Miss Whitecliff, then helped himself. He found the bread stale and the butter so rancid that it took him all his time to finish his slice. The cakes, in splayed-out paper cases, proved staler than the bread. But what worried him far more than the food was that the conversation had ceased to flow easily. And his hostess, somehow looking thinner than ever, kept avoiding his eye, until, with sudden directness, she not only faced him but spoke in a tone of defiance.

‘It’s no use, Mr Carrington. You mustn’t go on hoping – if you really do want to come here and aren’t just being kind. It’s out of the question, anyway. A cheque will be sent to you, to cover the expense you’ve incurred.’

He looked at her in bewilderment. ‘Dear Miss Whitecliff, what is it? Have I offended you?’

‘No, no, you couldn’t have been more charming. I’d like to have you here – I’m sure of that now. But it wouldn’t work.
No man could live here. Apart from everything else, you’d starve. Hasn’t this tea convinced you?’

He decided to be blunt. ‘It’s convinced me you need looking after. Your maids shouldn’t give you such a tea.’

‘It’s partly my fault – or misfortune.’ Again she avoided his eyes. ‘And one has to economize.’

‘One can be economical without having stale bread and rancid butter, surely?’

‘Oh, that’s just Lizzie’s fiendishness. She decides about the food and does the cooking. She’s much worse than Annie.’

‘Do you really mean they’re fiends?’

‘It’s only since my mother died. And they may not be completely to blame, about the staleness. One can’t any longer do the shopping. One can’t face the pull up the hill.’

‘Don’t the tradesmen call?’

‘Well, sometimes – or one would starve completely. But … oh, it’s all so complicated. And one doesn’t like talking about it.’

‘Then don’t, please,’ said Drew. ‘Let me come to you for a trial month and I’ll find out the difficulties for myself.’ He felt a pang of guilt. The word ‘trial’ implied that he would be willing to stay longer than a month. Well, perhaps he could manage a little longer, especially now he felt she was in real need of help. He added firmly: ‘You leave it all to me.’

‘Do you mean you’re
determined
to come?’

Was he persecuting her? He looked at her anxiously. She now returned his glance, and surely her eyes looked hopefully expectant? She
wanted
him to insist.

He said: ‘Absolutely determined.’

‘Oh, well, then. That’s decided.’ She sounded relieved, if not actually pleased. ‘We must fix your salary.’

She then named a figure which surprised him by its lowness; he could not believe Jane would even have considered it. But he hadn’t Jane’s qualifications as a secretary. And Miss Whitecliff had spoken of having to economize. He accepted
eagerly – on which, she appeared to become
conscience-stricken
: ‘Oh, no, it isn’t enough. Not as much as— And a man expects to get more than a woman.’

‘This man doesn’t,’ said Drew. ‘We’ll consider it settled. I shall be your secretary, your companion – and perhaps I can even help a little with the housekeeping.’

‘Oh, that would be wonderful. But one couldn’t expect it of a man.’

‘You wait and see. Anyway, tomorrow you shall have China tea and anything else you fancy. Remember I can walk up and down the hill and get what you need. Now may I go for my suitcase?’

‘You’ll come at once?’

‘If that’s all right?’

‘Well, yes. It’s all
decided
, isn’t it?’

There was something odd about the way she stressed the word and she was again avoiding his eyes. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said firmly. ‘And this evening we’ll have some music.’

She relaxed. ‘Oh, that will be delightful.’

He rose to go and stopped her as she moved towards the bell. ‘No need to have me shown out. I’m one of the family now.’

She then came to the front door with him and when he looked back, after closing the gate, she was still there smiling.

He strode along Chestnut Avenue feeling triumphant. He had the right to return to that marvellous house, the perfect house in the perfect town for his novel. And for the first time in his life he would be earning – if not, admittedly, much. Of course it was a ludicrous job to have got himself, but really quite a good joke. All that troubled him was a definite uneasiness about Miss Whitecliff.

Her mention of having to economize had worried him. But surely she couldn’t be really poor if she lived in such a large, well-kept house with two maids. What troubled him far more was that he wasn’t certain she was … well, one
hundred per cent right in the head. Would a completely sane woman allow maids of even fifty years’ standing to give her Indian tea when she preferred China? Besides, just occasionally … He pulled himself up. It had only been occasionally that she’d seemed strange. Most of the time – all the time before tea had been served – she’d been both normal and delightful. Really, he quite adored her already, and longed to see that she got a great deal of good food. It positively hurt him to remember how thin she was.

Somehow those fiendish maids would have to be coped with. Actually, he’d quite liked the look of Annie. Perhaps Lizzie, described as ‘worse’, was fiend-in-chief.

He stopped at the post office and wrote a postcard to Richard, giving his address and saying: ‘Got the job. Jane will describe my surroundings which are eminently suitable for me. Will write fully in a few days.’ He then bought a packet of chocolate and ate it exuberantly, walking along the sea front. Judging by tea, it would be as well to spoil his appetite for dinner.

He had already given up his room at the hotel, having intended to leave Whitesea at once if he didn’t get the job. All he had to do was pay his bill, collect his suitcase, and ask the desk clerk to telephone for a taxi. He sat waiting for it in the lounge, where all the crones now beamed on him. He no longer disliked them but still thought their feet should be better shod. Miss Whitecliff had worn thick grey silk stockings and kid shoes trimmed with cut steel buckles. The fact that her feet looked about half a yard long merely added to their elegance.

It was dusk by the time he was again ringing the bell at White Turrets. He now felt more pleasurably excited than nervous. He also felt amused – at himself. Was he not the young governess of some old novel, arriving at a mysterious house?

‘Here I am again,’ he said ingratiatingly, when Annie opened the door.

She didn’t get as far as returning his smile but her tone was respectfully pleasant. ‘Yes, sir. Your room is ready. Let me take your case.’ When he said he would carry it himself she merely said: ‘As you wish, sir,’ and led him across the hall. The banisters of the staircase were giant carved wooden tulips. On reaching the first floor, she showed him into a front room and snapped the lights on. Dinner, she informed him, would be ready in half an hour.

Left alone, he looked around delightedly. Here the wallpaper was entirely covered with roses, life-size, in clusters of three. All the draperies were shell pink, the furniture white; everything seemed shiningly new. He had been a little disappointed to learn from Miss Whitecliff that the house had been frequently re-decorated, but it now occurred to him that any genuine Edwardian interior would be over fifty years old and therefore faded and shabby. He was far nearer to the true atmosphere of the period in this house, which was really an apostolic succession of houses.

The pink silk eiderdown was raised into a strange hill, caused, he found, by a stone hot-water bottle. He could well believe the bed needed airing, for the room felt both cold and damp. The grate did not look as if it could remember a fire and there was no other form of heating available. Life at White Turrets was going to be spartan as regards climate as well as food.

There was a knock on his door. He called ‘Come in’ but no one came, so he opened the door. A large copper can of hot water had arrived. He carried it to the white washstand and surveyed the equipment of rose-sprigged pottery: jug of cold water, basin, sponge bowl, soap dish, and a curious vase – intended for toothbrushes? Below, a mammoth slop pail was flanked by two chamber pots. It was all just a little alarming.

He lifted out the jug of cold water and poured the hot water into the basin, added too much cold water, crashed the jug into the soap dish (thank God, it didn’t break), kicked over the copper can (thank God, it was empty), failed to find any soap (thank God, he’d brought some). Having at last washed his hands, he wondered what he was supposed to do with the water in the basin. Did one leave it where it was or pour it into the slop pail? After considering the heavy pottery in relation to the lightweight Annie, he decided to pour – with disastrous results. He sopped up the flood as well as he could and wrung out his towel. All this to wash only his hands. Pray heaven he could in future use the bathroom.

After his bout with the washstand he unpacked hastily, and had barely finished when a gong sounded. As he went out on to the landing, Miss Whitecliff came from her room, which was next door to his. She now wore mauve, and her velvet head-band was purple. The dress – long, loose, girdled, and heavily embroidered with grapes – suggested no period known to him. Would it be the artistic, as opposed to the fashionable, style of her girlhood? It had, he thought, as he followed her downstairs, an affinity with the giant tulip banisters.

‘The fiends seem quite pleased about your arrival,’ she whispered, before they entered the dining-room. ‘I asked them to make a special effort tonight.’

Judging by the table, they had done so; it gleamed with silver and cut-glass set out on a damask cloth. In the centre was a nine-vased épergne, highly decorative in its own right – which was just as well as it contained no flowers. Above it hung a beaten-brass electrical fitting from which descended a foot-deep red silk frill. In the outer darkness, Annie hovered.

Soup arrived; it looked like weak tea and tasted like weak Bovril. Next came two unusually small frilled cutlets leaning against a little hill of mashed potatoes. The entrée dish in which they were served would have accommodated ten times
as much. He made his cutlet last as long as he could and accepted a second helping of mashed potatoes. Choosing a moment when Annie was absent Miss Whitecliff said:

‘Lizzie couldn’t manage a pudding at such short notice but one understands there’s to be a savoury.’ Two sardines on toast were shortly placed in front of him.

‘One doesn’t often use tinned food,” said Miss Whitecliff.

‘My mother greatly disapproved of it. But even she made an exception for sardines.’

None had been served to Miss Whitecliff. Drew asked if she wasn’t having any.

She looked surprised. ‘Oh, I never take savouries. My mother considered them unsuitable for women.’

The meal concluded. Drew, his appetite stimulated by the tastiness of the sardines, felt hungrier than when he had begun, but Miss Whitecliff obviously thought he had done quite well.

As she led the way from the dining-room she murmured smilingly: ‘That was a better dinner than I expected.’

‘And so beautifully served,’ said Drew, hoping Annie might hear him. He had been fascinated by the little black and white figure moving around swiftly and silently.

The dining-room, heated by a gas stove, had been reasonably warm. The drawing-room was cold by comparison. For a while he stood by the small fire, vainly hoping for coffee. At last he walked manfully to the piano. Now for Melicent and Albion Whitecliff.

At first he wondered which he disliked most. But after doing his best with half a dozen songs, enthusiastically encouraged by Miss Whitecliff, he decided that Melicent was his least favourite. The music, consisting mainly of chords and arpeggios repeated in various parts of the piano, was merely feeble; the verses were both feeble and objectionable. Melicent constantly incited her ‘lover’ to go and get killed in
battle, making it plain she would prefer him gloriously dead to ignobly alive. And she seemed unprepared to allow him even a chance of survival, for when she did refer to a possible return it was always a return on a ‘bier’.

Drew learned, in a snatch of conversation between songs, that Albion himself had not been sent off to any war. But Miss Whitecliff’s three brothers had all been killed in 1914. Had Melicent taken that as well as her lyrics indicated she would?

At last, after responding to encores for nearly two hours, he closed the piano. His hands were tired and his pleasant but quite untrained voice was becoming hoarse.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Miss Whitecliff.

She was sitting in the cosy-corner. He joined her there and looked at the portraits let into the back of it.

‘I call this my memory corner,’ she told him. ‘Here we all are: Father, Mother, my three brothers and myself. They are paintings on opaline – from photographs taken in 1906, the year this house was built.’

She could then have been only in her early ’teens, yet she still looked surprisingly like the portrait, and the fact that in it, as now, she wore her hair looped over a ribbon, stressed the resemblance. But there was a cruel difference between the thinness of youth and the thinness of age. And her expression in the portrait was untroubled; now, unless she was smiling, it was faintly agonized – or was that putting it too strongly?

Perhaps lost, bewildered expressed it better. He had never seen anyone look … so undecided.

He asked her questions about the family and was glad to hear that her elder brother had achieved marriage before his early death; the great-niece mentioned in the afternoon was his grandchild. ‘A beautiful girl – but one is a little nervous of her.’ The younger brothers, children in the portraits, had been killed while still under twenty.