The New Moon with the Old (33 page)

Richard smiled. ‘You couldn’t be intolerant, Drew. And just because
you
never dislike anyone—’

‘But I do. And I can be intolerant.’

Drew’s tone was so cold that Richard looked at him in surprise and saw, by the light of a street lamp, that his brother’s expression was rigidly implacable. Then the moment passed and their usual liveliness returned to voice and face.

‘l
must
go, Richard. Do write.’

‘You, too. And tell Merry to.’

Richard waited until Drew was back in the taxi and on his way; then looked around, none too sure of his route out of London. Strange that Drew and Merry could always find their way about here, when Clare and he were so hopeless at it.

He wasn’t conscious of any other resemblance between Clare and himself – but then, how little he’d known her. Perhaps she was just a born bad lot. He doubted that, but if she was, it might be as well that she’d found it out.

Along the High Street came a small, white, lady poodle, out for a walk on a pale blue leash. Remembering Clare’s radiant confidence at the hotel, it occurred to him that she might be like those ultra-feminine dogs who are scared of even their own shadows but bold as brass with interested males. Being fond of dogs, he found the idea pleasing and his disapproval of Clare dwindled. Good luck to her, anyway. He cast a beneficent glance in what he imagined was the direction of St John’s Wood, then thought about Drew on
his way back to Merry … Less than a month ago the four of them had been together every day, taking each other for granted, hardly aware of the pleasure they found in each other’s company.

Starting the car and heading – he hoped – for home, he played with the pretence that the Dome House of those days would be waiting for him, with the others asleep in their rooms when he entered the dark hall. But his thoughts soon slid to the Dome House of the present, where there was more than a chance that Violet would be waiting up when he entered the hall. Did he hope she would be? He couldn’t decide. But he did drive a little faster.

No one was waiting up for him. And when he woke, very late the next morning, and came down in a dressing-gown, he found the house deserted. Jane, of course, would have gone to Miss Willy; Cook and Edith would be at the Swan. But where were Violet and Aunt Winifred? He then discovered a note, addressed to himself, on the hall table. It said:

Had they left yesterday or this morning? If this morning, Violet might not have made her bed … He looked into her room. The bed was made. Otherwise the room was untidy; but it smelt very nice and all the things left lying about were charming, not to say expensive. When with her, however much attracted, he always felt it his duty to be antagonistic. He was conscious of no such duty now and felt positively tender towards her possessions. Annoying of her not to be here when he was so much in the mood to see her …

He dressed, breakfasted on milk and biscuits, then sat in the hall reading the morning paper. Could one be so obsessed
by the little problems of one’s inner world when the outer world was facing such gigantic problems? Unfortunately – or perhaps mercifully – one could. He put the paper aside and lay down, staring upwards and remembering that, in his childhood, this worm’s eye view of the dome had always made him feel physically small. He had mentioned this to his grandmother who had offered the explanation that the little dome of their house carried his thoughts up to the vast dome above it. Well, his thoughts weren’t likely to do any such soaring this morning.

This memory of his grandmother reminded him of how seldom he thought about her … strange, in view of how much her upbringing must have conditioned him. But he had never felt emotionally tied to her, as he would have to his mother if she’d ever given him the chance. ‘Grand’ had just been a kind, encouraging woman who put the tools of one’s trade within reach and made life at Dome House very comfortable. It was that life as a whole he thought of when he looked back over the years. Someone had once, with faint disparagement, referred to him and his brother and sisters as ‘grandmother’s children’, but they were really more the children of a house. Well, the others were out from under the dome now. He continued to stare up at it. The brightness of the mid-morning sun showed that it needed cleaning …

He was suddenly aware of having been lost in one of his moods of abstraction. He had been subject to them since his boyhood, had no control over them and only knew of them when they were over. They were of two kinds: one, a vague daydream, dimly rememberable, which left him depleted and dissatisfied with himself; the other, far rarer, left him with no memory of its content, but in a state bordering on exaltation and certain that he would shortly be capable of creative work. Today the mood was of the second description and he came out of it astounded at such good fortune, also
very hungry, and surprised to find it was long past lunch time. He grabbed some bread and cheese, grudging the time it took, then hurried out to his music room.

On entering it he had a sudden doubt if he really would be able to work. But there was nothing new about that; for years he’d always had to force himself into actually starting. And he
had
felt confident. He must hang on to that.

The first three movements of his sextet, though far from satisfying him, did at least exist. The finale did not, in any performable shape – and it must be made to. With a tremendous mental effort, he got going.

He had been working a good three hours when Jane opened the door.

‘Do forgive me for disturbing you, Richard. If I wait until you come indoors Violet and Miss Carrington may have returned, or the maids may be around. And I need to speak to you privately.’

Curbing his irritation, he welcomed her in and settled her in a chair. She looked around with distressed eyes.

‘Oh, dear, this is the first time I’ve been in this room since I talked to your father here! Well, now …’ She became determinedly cheerful. ‘I don’t quite know how to begin.’

He smiled at her with great liking. Kind, reliable Jane, in her cashmere sweater, her well-cut tweed skirt and her admirable shoes. He had always thought she had a sweet face, a very girlish face for a woman nearly in her forties; he suspected there would still be something girlish about it if she lived into her nineties.

‘Plunge right in,’ he advised.

‘It’s just that I’ve been working on a scheme. Briefly …’

She wasn’t at all brief and, from the beginning, he had to restrain himself from blowing her scheme sky-high. For what she had to suggest was that Miss Willy should take over as many rooms as possible at Dome House, for her overflow of teachers and a few senior pupils.

‘You see, if we could use Drew’s room and Clare’s and Merry’s – and if you could sleep in here, well, that would be four rooms. And if Violet and Miss Carrington would … well, go, that would make six. The rent of six rooms would enable us to keep the maids at home. They’d rather work here for a minimum wage than go to the Swan.’

‘Have you asked them?’ said Richard.

‘Well, yes – I needed to know their feelings before approaching you. They dislike working at the Swan and poor old Burly is having trouble with the young dog there who doesn’t respect his seniority. But I ought to say at once that the scheme will only work if we can let six rooms.’

‘Then it’s out of the question,’ said Richard, with relief. ‘I can’t turn my aunt out, and Violet’s stay is … well, indefinite.’

‘But how can things go on as they are? The maids are too tired now to do any cleaning here. The food gets worse and worse. The winter’s coming, already the house is insufficiently heated. And can you afford to cope with even the minimum expenses? Do forgive me if I’m being impertinent.’

‘You’re not,’ he assured her. ‘And, frankly, I can’t cope much longer. I see no chance, even, of paying next quarter’s rent. But damn it, what
can
I do? My aunt says she has no money. And she’s let her house.’

‘She informed me she’d merely closed it. Anyway, if she’s hard up, why doesn’t she claim an old-age pension? She had the nerve to tell me that’s something no lady would ever do. She’s victimizing you, Richard. As for Violet! You surely don’t think she’s poor?’

‘I did think she was, when she came,’ he said, uncomfortably.

‘With a mink coat over her arm? A very good mink, incidentally, and almost new. And what about her jewellery? Not to mention her car.’

He looked at Jane blankly. ‘Her car? Surely she hasn’t …?’

‘Of course she has. She keeps it garaged at the Swan.’

‘But she arrived in a taxi. It drove off as I let her in.’

‘Then she only took it from the village. I haven’t seen the car myself but the maids have and they say it looks expensive. She’s gone to London in it. My dear, dear Richard, Violet is victimizing you, too.’

He said firmly: ‘No, Jane. She did offer to pay. But how could I let her? My father made no kind of provision for her.’

Jane flushed. ‘We don’t know your father’s side of that matter. Anyhow, if she did pay it wouldn’t get us anywhere now. Apart from the fact that Miss Willy needs six rooms, she won’t send her teachers or pupils here while Violet remains. I’m sorry. That’s made you angry.’

‘Well, not with you. But I do think it’s outrageous. What the hell does she know about Violet?’

‘From me, only that Violet describes herself as your father’s fiancée. I can’t say why Miss Willy thinks otherwise but she does. Besides … oh, Richard, do be reasonable!’

She had been avoiding his eyes. Now she looked at him very directly and it was he who looked away. Was she aware of the situation between himself and Violet? She’d seen them together so seldom, still … Anyway, apart from Miss Willy’s prejudices, he and Violet couldn’t conduct their skirmishes in front of the interested eyes of a bunch of school teachers and schoolgirls …

He was silent so long that Jane gave up waiting for an answer. ‘Well, please think it over – fairly quickly; there is an empty house Miss Willy could rent. And do remember that if you’re driven into closing the house, Violet and your aunt will have to go anyway.’

It made sense. He said without enthusiasm, ‘I’d better write and see what Drew thinks. And suppose Merry wants to come home?’

‘We could just manage that, by putting two beds in one room. Of course there’s Clare, but one presumes she’ll get more work.’

‘She won’t need to,’ said Richard. ‘You don’t know that I saw her yesterday. I’d better tell you about it.’

He was soon to wish he had done no such thing for it became obvious that Jane was both shocked and indignant; indeed, her disapproval was so extreme that he found himself defending Clare.

‘She’s very deeply in love, Jane. She looked quite dazzlingly happy.’

‘How can she be in love with an ugly, middle-aged man?’

‘He didn’t strike me as either.’

‘Well, Miss Gifford told me he was. Oh, if only we’d done something when she warned me!’

‘Clare said it wouldn’t have made any difference. She
is
in love with him, Jane. And he obviously adores her.’

Jane’s tone became withering. ‘From what you say, they’d only known each other a week when – when this appalling thing began. Don’t tell me it has anything to do with love. I’m not an intolerant woman. I don’t think I’m even conventional …’

‘You are, dear Jane,’ he said gently.

‘Perhaps what you call conventionality, I call decency. Anyway, I’m so shocked that I don’t want to hear any more.’

She’d seemed quite unshocked by Merry’s adventures; indeed, he thought she rather hoped that, after four or five years, Merry might reward a gallant, faithful earl by becoming his countess.
That
story was romantic, but Clare’s – to herself the very essence of romance – was to Jane the most brutal reality.

‘Well, I’m partly on your side,’ he said appeasingly.

‘I should hope so. Richard, you won’t tell Cook and Edith?’

‘No fear. And heaven help me if Aunt Winifred finds out. I must invent something.’

‘You could say Clare has got a new job … as a companion.’

‘I could – with perfect truth.’

She did not return his smile. And he suddenly knew just why there would always be something girlish about her; and he knew, too, why such a sweet-faced, graceful and very kind woman had never married. Buried within her was a spinsterly core which had conditioned not only her outlook but also the events of her life. One gets, he thought, not what one wants but what one is.

‘Well, it’s time for tea.’ She spoke with unusual briskness, as if dismissing Clare from her mind. ‘Come in if you’d like some.’

‘I would, thank you. I had rather a sketchy lunch.’

At once she became her kindest self. ‘You need regular meals, Richard. Just think what it would be like to have this house properly run again.’

‘It used to be so very comfortable. Not luxurious; just comfortable.’

‘That’s the best kind of luxury. I often look back to my first day here. That wonderful steak-and-kidney pudding’s become a sort of
symbol
of comfort to me. We could surely achieve that again. And this could be made into an excellent bed-sitting-room; you could afford enough coke to keep your stove going.’ She shivered. ‘You can’t go on working in this ice-house. However, I mustn’t try to coerce you.’

After tea he scribbled a letter to Drew about Jane’s scheme and caught the post with it. Then he worked on what he thought of as his counter-scheme. Suppose Drew contributed a little, Violet was allowed to pay, and something was extracted from Aunt Winifred? Alas, this couldn’t compete with what Miss Willy was offering. A pity he couldn’t ask Clare to toss him a few hundred-pound notes, which she could doubtless get for the asking.

He tried to work again in the evening but Jane’s mention of an ice-house had made him fully conscious of how cold his music room was, so he went to bed early. But next morning,
after his usual difficulty in starting, he got on fairly well and came in to lunch feeling cheerful; as it was Saturday, he didn’t have to get it himself. Simply because he wanted her to, he convinced himself Violet would return that afternoon. She did not, nor did she on the next day, when it rained incessantly. He got stuck with his work; obviously his impulse to create had no staying power. And when he went indoors Cook and Edith begged him to agree to Jane’s scheme. He fobbed them off by saying he must wait for Drew’s answer, then persuaded them to come in and watch television. Burly was hoisted on the sofa between them and for a while, with the fire burning brightly, there was a semblance of cheerfulness. Then he saw that they had both fallen asleep, and small wonder as they had worked all weekend at cooking and cleaning, allowing themselves no leisure at all. He couldn’t let them go on like this much longer.

On Monday he woke up in a temper. If Violet and Aunt Winifred did not return today, they could stay away for good. They couldn’t just use his house as a hotel – and anyway, people paid in hotels. Incapable of even an attempt to work, he sat in the ball all morning, waiting. Would Violet this time arrive in her own car? Good God, no wonder his father had gone broke, if he’d paid for her car, mink coat and jewellery, not to mention that most expensive flat!

After a bread and cheese lunch he decided to go for a walk. He opened the front door and was just in time to see a most impressive car coming up the drive. Violet was at the wheel with his aunt beside her. As they got out, in remarkably good spirits, he noted that they both appeared to be wearing new clothes. Aunt Winifred was in pale grey, two pink roses pinned to her coat. Violet had achieved a most expensive-looking tweed and leather outfit. It was the first time he’d seen her in clothes suitable for the country and the fact that she was in them now struck him as ominous, as did
the wardrobe trunk in the car. Violet was about to dig herself in. She greeted him with a happy, ‘Richard, darling!’