April 1936
By the time the Athertons’ Easter visit to Blackwood came round the daffodils had withered to unsightly brown husks and the newly rampant grass, too wet for Patterson to mow, was littered with dandelions.
‘Good Heavens, the place looks shabbier than ever,’ Lionel remarked as Fairley steered the Rolls Royce carefully around the potholes in the drive. Miranda’s lips tightened. She might have been thinking the same thing, but coming from Lionel it felt like a personal criticism: a snide reminder that she was, by birth and by blood, a Lennox, and an Atherton only by association. She brushed a smut from her skirt and bit her tongue. The visit was going to be draining enough, and she didn’t want to be at odds with her husband before they’d even stepped out of the car.
They had made most of the journey by train, but Fairley had picked them up from Salisbury to drive them the last ten miles or so. There was something comforting about his familiar, solid neck and the fringe of grey hair beneath his cap, and she was glad that she had made the decision to bring him – or rather, for him to bring Archie and Nanny and all the luggage while they travelled separately by rail. Lionel had raised his eyebrows when she’d put the plan to him, but it saved such a lot of bother: finding porters at Waterloo and Salisbury, having to wait in the rather basic tea-room there for the branch line connection, and suffering the ignominy of being collected from Hindbury station by Patterson the gardener, because there was no chauffeur kept at Blackwood anymore.
It also spared her the trial of travelling with Archie, though she hadn’t said that to Lionel, who always hid behind his newspaper and left her to intervene when boredom made Archie more demanding than usual. (‘Determined’ was her preferred euphemism for her son’s character.) She had been sure he would have outgrown his tendency to be sick in the car, and felt mildly guilty that this had turned out not to be the case. Wafting her handkerchief beneath her nose, she leaned forward to breathe in the thin stream of fresh air coming through the open window, and relief that she had not had to deal with any of it overwhelmed the guilt. Nanny Bell was wonderfully proficient at such things. Archie had been ‘right as rain, full of beans again’ by the time they’d arrived at Blackwood an hour ago, Fairley reported. If there was a hint of acid in his tone, Miranda chose to ignore it.
They emerged from the tunnel of trees along the drive and the house loomed in front of them. Lionel was right; it looked half derelict. She twitched her skirt over her knees and snapped open her handbag, more for the reassurance of its contents – Cartier compact and Elizabeth Arden lipstick, silver Aspreys notebook – than because she needed anything. Coming back to Blackwood always made her feel like this; resentful and insecure, just as she so often had when she was a child and Howard had reigned over their nursery kingdom, adored by all.
But that was in the past. As Fairley pulled up on the (weed-choked) gravel beneath the front steps she reminded herself that she was Mrs Lionel Atherton now, no longer invisible and powerless. She commanded a beautiful home in Egerton Crescent, and staff who were efficient, loyal and discreet. She sat on committees of the most respectable charities and had the most prestigious invitations on her chimneypiece. She had proved herself more than equal to the task of running Cranleigh, Lionel’s vast ancestral home, when the time came, and she had provided him (albeit not as quickly she would have wished) with an heir. Stepping out of the car as Fairley opened the door she summoned a smile. She had put plenty of distance between herself and the challenges of her childhood. She had risen above the petty injustices, the frustrations of financial and sibling embarrassment …
Almost unconsciously she looked up, her eyes going to the window of Selina’s room. For a fleeting second she glimpsed a face but it was gone so quickly that she almost thought it was a ghost. She shivered, in spite of the mink wrap around her shoulders.
It must have been the child. Alice. The realization didn’t make her feel any less uncomfortable as she went up the steps where Denham waited, stooped and ancient, with his lugubrious welcome to Blackwood Park.
Alice watched the Rolls Royce make its painstaking way up the drive. It was a dark, shiny red, and something about the polished grille at the front and the position of the headlamps gave it the suggestion of a face. As it navigated the puddle hollows she imagined that its expression was set in a grimace of distaste.
It had first appeared about an hour ago, bearing Cousin Archie and his Nanny, and so many bags and trunks and items of equipment that Polly had been summoned from the nursery to assist with carrying them inside. Before she’d gone down she’d reminded Alice to give Cousin Archie the picture she’d drawn for him (of rabbits, which had seemed appropriately Easter-themed, though regrettably not coloured-in because of the missing pencils) and to be nice and friendly.
She had tried. She had got up from the window seat when she heard them all coming up the stairs, and been ready to put on the smile she had practised in the bathroom mirror that morning. When Cousin Archie had come in, sobbing dejectedly, she had stepped forward to give him the picture, but Nanny Bell had rounded on her, hissing:
‘Not now, child! Master Archie has had a long journey – can’t you see he’s feeling unwell? Run along and leave us in peace. You may talk to him later, if he’s feeling up to it.’
She hadn’t known where she should run along to. Nanny Bell obviously didn’t know the rules at Blackwood, and that she wasn’t really permitted anywhere other than the nursery. Stiff with awkwardness she had walked along the corridor and headed down the back stairs to the sanctuary of Mama’s room, where she stood at the window and watched the car trundle back up the drive, on the way to meet Aunt Miranda and Uncle Lionel at the railway station in Salisbury. When it had disappeared she wandered around the room, opening the wardrobe to bury her face in Mama’s clothes, touching the silver-backed brushes on the dressing table and the tortoiseshell pot with Mama’s initials on it. Then she had curled up on the lily-patterned counterpane and taken Mama’s last letter out of her pocket.
She still hadn’t got over the relief of its arrival. Waiting for it, as the days slipped into weeks, she had gone through frustration to anguished imaginings involving fire, kidnap, fever. Polly had stroked her cheek when she’d confessed that, and said it was the postal service, more likely. Another letter would arrive soon. Alice just had to be patient.
She was right about that, though Alice’s fear about fever had turned out to be well founded. Poor Mama. Alice took the letter out of her pocket and unfolded it, smoothing it against the counterpane. She’d read it so often that she almost knew the lines by heart, but that didn’t matter. It was like listening to Mama’s voice. It lulled her, so that by the time she finished reading (always easier in her head than out loud) her eyes were heavy, and her mind was full of strange and exotic images, like pictures in a storybook, of jungles and temples and a wide red river.
She might have slipped into sleep had it not been for the sound of the motorcar engine, which jolted her back into full consciousness and sent her scampering to the window to watch its approach. Uncle Lionel got out first, though from her vantage point Alice couldn’t see much of him other than his hat and his overcoat, straining a little at the buttons. His gloveless hands, emerging from the sleeves, looked oddly small and pale.
Aunt Miranda followed him. She was wearing a pale green two-piece suit, and shoes of glossy black patent leather. Beneath the brim of her hat Alice could see the gleam of blonde hair, curling neatly over her collar. Out of the two sisters Aunt Miranda was supposed to be the beautiful one, though Alice had always thought that was stupid. It was like at Miss Ellwood’s: the girls who tried conspicuously hard to please the teachers weren’t necessarily the cleverest ones. Aunt Miranda might have a fashion plate figure and perfectly styled hair, but she could never be half as beautiful as Mama.
At the very moment she thought that, Aunt Miranda looked up, straight at the window. Her eyes were narrowed, her expression faintly accusing, as if she had read Alice’s mind. Alice darted back, ducking out of sight, sinking down onto the floor by the bed.
She was still there when Polly peered round the door a few moments later.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ she said, coming in and shutting the door. ‘Nanny Bell told me she’d sent you away. I’ll be falling out with her before very long if she carries on like that.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, Mr and Mrs Atherton have just arrived and everyone’s having tea in the drawing room.’ She held out her hand to help Alice to her feet. ‘We’d better smarten you up a bit before you go down.’
Alice looked down at herself. She was wearing her Sunday dress – navy blue velvet with a white peter pan collar – but the skirt was creased into stiff folds and bits of fluff had mysteriously attached themselves to the fabric. Polly tugged and rubbed at it with lick-dampened fingers before steering her towards the dressing table.
In the mirror Alice’s face looked small and pinched, her eyes too large and too dark. Beneath Mama’s silver brush her curls crackled with static, only seeming to get wilder with Polly’s swift strokes. Her hair – its colour and thickness and refusal to lie flat; its lack of resemblance to Mama’s (or Papa’s for that matter) – had always been a source of misery to her, and looking at it in the mirror that had once reflected Mama’s image made her more aware than ever of its wrongness. She averted her eyes as Polly retied the bow at her temple.
‘There now. Pretty as a picture,’ Polly grinned. ‘Though it would be an even prettier picture if you could manage a smile too. Come on – I’ll come down with you so you don’t have to walk in on your own. Sometimes there’s nothing so frightening as a closed door.’
They went down the main staircase and across the marble hall. From the other side of the drawing room door the murmur of voices was just discernible. Polly knocked, giving Alice a rallying smile before turning the handle and ushering her in.
‘… dear Rupert – no expense spared to make her comfortable.’
Alice was used to being invisible at Blackwood, her presence largely ignored, but Aunt Miranda stopped speaking immediately, and all heads turned towards her. They had been talking about Mama, Alice realized. Saying how kind Papa was to arrange the very best accommodation on their trip, when really it was the least he could do. She hadn’t even wanted to go.
‘Come in then, child – don’t hover at the door.’ Grandmama held out an imperious, heavily ringed hand. ‘Come and say hello to your aunt and uncle.’
Alice went forward. Aunt Miranda was perched on the edge of the sofa nearest the fireplace, her legs arranged at an elegant (but uncomfortable-looking) angle. She turned towards Alice with a frosty smile but didn’t quite meet her eye. It was Uncle Lionel who spoke, his voice too loud and falsely hearty.
‘Good heavens, young lady, you’ve grown! Must be all this good country air, eh? Having a splendid time staying with your grandparents, are you, hmm?’
‘Yes, Uncle Lionel.’
It was the only appropriate answer, but once she had dutifully delivered it the conversation stalled. Fortunately, distraction came in the form of rapid footsteps crossing the hall, followed a second later by the door flying open. Archie charged in, flapping a piece of paper.
‘Look, Mummy – I did a picture!’
At five years old Archibald Atherton was sturdy of limb and rosy of cheek. He had clearly made a complete recovery after the unfortunate incident in the car, and had the sort of ruddy, energetic health displayed by children in magazine advertisements for vitamin tonic drinks. He rushed over to where Aunt Miranda sat, thrusting the paper at her. Nanny Bell’s voice could be heard in the hallway, calling his name, and she appeared in a flustered rustle of starched apron, pushing past Alice.
‘Master Archie – you know better than to run around like that! I am sorry, madam. He’s excited to be here – not that that’s any excuse for poor manners…’
‘Don’t worry, Nanny Bell,’ Aunt Miranda said smoothly. Alice looked at Grandmama, expecting to see quite a different attitude expressed on her face, and was surprised to see a smile there too. Not a broad one, but a smile nonetheless.
‘Feeling better, old chap?’ Uncle Lionel’s voice was full of genuine warmth now. ‘That’s the ticket. Let’s see this work of art, then. My word!’ He took it from Aunt Miranda and laughed indulgently. ‘I’d say you could give that Picasso charlatan a run for his money. Very colourful. Not sure I’ve ever seen a purple bird before, old boy…’
‘I wanted to use all the colours.’
‘Did you indeed? And which colours might these be?’ Uncle Lionel looked around the other grown-ups, as if sharing a private joke. ‘There certainly seem to be quite a number of them.’
Aware that all eyes were on him, Archie was hopping on one leg. Showing off, Alice thought disapprovingly. ‘The colours in the tin. The pencil tin.’
‘I found it in the schoolroom cupboard,’ Nanny Bell said. ‘On the top shelf. I was sure it would be all right for Master Archie to use them.’
Alice felt as if her heart was being squeezed. The air burned the back of her throat.
‘Yes, Nanny Bell. Perfectly all right,’ Grandmama said blandly.
‘There’s some writing here,’ Uncle Lionel said, stooping to point out a scribble in the top corner of the picture. ‘What does that say?’
Archie’s blue eyes slid towards Alice.
‘It says To Alice.’
Uncle Lionel laughed again. ‘Well in that case I’d better hand it back. Aren’t you going to give it to her?’
‘No.’ Archie’s smile was sly as he went to Aunt Miranda’s side. ‘I only put it because Nanny Bell said I had to. I want Mummy to have it.’ He twisted his solid body against his mother, his voice turning babyish and petulant. ‘Is it teatime yet? I’m starving.’
Miranda had forgotten how heavily the time hung at Blackwood. On the first full day of their visit they had woken to leaden skies and a cold wind that found its way through the gaps in the windowframes, making the silk blouses she had brought pitifully inadequate. By luncheon time rain was falling in steady sheets across the park. Good Friday? Too ironic. There was nothing remotely good about it.
In London one never paid much attention to the weather, beyond glancing outside to see if one should wear the fur coat or the light wool. (Not that it mattered much, since one was only exposed to the elements as one went from front door to motorcar, and there was always a butler or a doorman to hold an umbrella.) At Cranleigh one didn’t mind it either. There was an army of staff there to keep fires banked and bring trays of tea, and Miranda’s mother-in-law took all the weekly illustrated newspapers and upmarket monthly magazines, so a rainy day was an opportunity to catch up on society gossip and fashions for the upcoming season, or both in one fell swoop if there had been any sightings of the new King’s American divorcee. (Miranda couldn’t help being fascinated by the story, partly because she found the King’s devotion so incomprehensible. Mrs Simpson wasn’t even pretty – how had she managed to get such a hold over him?) At Blackwood Lady Lennox passed the time by doing endless tapestries, which ended up on ugly cushions and footstools, and the only magazine she took was Country Life. To Miranda’s mind life in the country was so tiresome that the last thing one wanted to do when one was forced to be there was read about it as well.
On Saturday afternoon she re-painted her fingernails and wrote an overdue letter to a friend. Then, in the absence of anything else to do, she went up to the nursery. There she found Archie, his cheeks scarlet, galloping poor Trojan hard enough to make the floorboards shake, letting out bloodcurdling whoops while Nanny Bell stood by, imploring him to be careful. Selina’s girl sat at the table colouring a picture she had drawn. It was of the orangery, and (Miranda acknowledged grudgingly) surprisingly good.
There was something extremely provoking about her quiet, self-contained industry, her dark head bent over the page. It felt like a rebuke; a veiled criticism of Archie’s boisterousness, which of course was just perfectly normal high spirits. Archie was a boy (thank heaven) and boys were given to being noisy and playing lively games. She was sure Howard had been just the same.
A sudden memory came back to her. Not of Howard riding Trojan, but Selina, a wild-haired urchin dressed in some outlandish get-up from the dressing up trunk, brandishing a wooden sword while Howard stood on the window seat, on the lookout for invading armies. Miranda had never been part of their games. She had always preferred creating domestic order and harmony in the doll’s house, pretending she was the pretty matriarch presiding over home and hearth, loved and admired by all.
She looked around the room, taking in the faded wallpaper (sagging and stained in the corner where damp had seeped through) and the peeling frieze of Noah’s animals; the lumpen sofa and Nanny’s old armchair beside the fireplace fender where they used to dry damp woollen leggings after winter walks.
Old Nanny Cole might have ruled over the nursery kingdom, but Howard had been its Crown Prince. Its golden boy. Miranda had accepted the special treatment he’d received; he was the prized son and heir, after all, and the significance of this favoured position was implicit. It never occurred to her to question his privilege, or to mind that she was largely invisible to him. Beneath his notice.
Until Selina was born.
He had doted on the new arrival from the start. Miranda recalled how he used to ask to be allowed to hold the baby, to give her a bottle. Selina had been his special pet, and – as she got older, and bolder – his partner in crime. In the long school holidays he had taught her the kind of silly things that held no interest for Miranda: overarm bowling with a cricket ball, climbing the giant cedar of Lebanon on the lawn, jumping into the lake from a rope swing he had fashioned in the oak tree. But then, of course, the war had come, and their bond had been severed.
Blackwood had lost its heir, but Howard’s death also left a vacancy for a favoured child and it was Miranda who filled it. She didn’t like to think of herself as a spiteful person and had always been ashamed of the tiny voice in her head that whispered it served Selina right to find herself without her ally. In the years that followed she had done her best to make overtures of friendship towards her sister, but it was as if Selina was determined to be contrary. As if she had made a conscious decision to punish them all for Howard’s death and make life as difficult as possible for everyone …
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, to stop the sharp gasp of her indrawn breath. Even so, Alice looked up from her drawing. Their eyes met.
Miranda turned and left the room.
Downstairs, she found her mother in the drawing room, bent over the inevitable tapestry. She barely glanced up as Miranda came in.
‘Have you been to the nursery?’
‘Yes.’ Miranda forced a laugh to cover her agitation. ‘Archie is giving dear old Trojan some exercise.’
‘I imagine Alice must be rather enjoying the company.’
‘Not so one would notice.’ Miranda wandered over to the bookcase and bent to look at the lowest shelf, where the photograph albums were kept. ‘She’s doing her best to ignore him and completely monopolizing that tin of colouring pencils.’
‘Poor Archie. I hoped as they’re cousins they might get along.’
Miranda was about to point out what a foolish hope that was, since she and Selina were sisters and they’d never got along, but she saw the direction in which her mother was trying to steer the conversation and thought it wiser to divert it. ‘Did you see the prospectus for St Winifred’s? I left it there, beside your chair.’
Spotting the cream-coloured box for her wedding album she eased it out of the pile and took it over to the sofa. She thought wistfully of the warm fires and attentive servants of Cranleigh and wondered if she dared ring for more coal to add to the ashy smoulder in the grate. Deciding against it, she pulled her cardigan a little more closely around her.
‘A trip down memory lane?’ her mother said, looking at the wedding album over her spectacles.
‘Oh – hardly. On the way here yesterday Lionel and I were talking about a hotel we stayed in on our honeymoon. In Florence, I thought, though he swears it was Rome, and neither of us could remember the name. I’m sure there must be a postcard or something in here.’ She opened the cover and folded back a leaf of protective tissue. ‘We thought we might go back for our wedding anniversary in July … Just the two of us.’
Her mother said nothing, but pointedly picked up the printed pamphlet sent by the Headmistress of St Winifred’s. The temperature seemed to drop another couple of degrees.
Miranda looked down at the album, the memories of that day faded and pressed flat, like flowers. There she was, leaving the house in Chester Square, Papa handing her into the car (gosh, how he had aged since then – quite shocking) and stepping out again at St Margaret’s, veiled and solemn. A funny little chap from Bassano’s had taken the photographs; the same studio that the Duke and Duchess of York had used for their wedding a year or two before. She came to the photograph of her standing at the church door, and smiled as she remembered him ordering the bridesmaids to spread out her long lace veil then to get out of the way so he could photograph her alone. Of course, the dress looked frightfully dated now – shapeless and dowdy, with that dropped waist and high hem – but it had been a great success at the time. The Sketch had called it the ‘Wedding of the Season’.
Mama turned a page in the school pamphlet. ‘A rigorous academic curriculum,’ she read out loud. ‘I don’t think that’s going to be very suitable. The child can barely read and her handwriting is shocking too – that’s why Selina doesn’t want to send her away. I’m not sure the school would accept her, anyway.’
There was a faint throbbing at Miranda’s temples, the result of one too many gin-and-Its before luncheon, but she was distracted from it for a moment by this rather satisfying revelation.
‘Well, perhaps St Winifred’s isn’t the right place for her,’ she said, kindly. ‘We must look for somewhere more suited to less able children. I’m sure such places must exist…’ She hoped her mother had picked up the inference that Archie’s precocious intellect meant that if they did, hitherto she hadn’t needed to know about them. ‘We must all work together to find the best solution for everyone. You’ve said yourself that it’s far from ideal having her here, with Papa’s health being so fragile, and you must see that it’s quite impossible for us to have her.’
Lady Lennox’s silence suggested she might not actually see the latter at all, but Miranda refused to be swayed. Or to feel guilty. Indignation bubbled inside her, like milk coming to the boil. Miranda had done her best to guide her sister, and to keep her from the path of self-destruction she seemed determined to pursue, but Selina had always been ungovernable. To Miranda’s mind, all of her current misfortunes were the result of her past waywardness (and even if one didn’t subscribe to that opinion, it was impossible to deny that her daughter was, at least). It was too bad that they must all bear the consequences.
Turning the last page of the photograph album, she found herself looking at a copy of The Sketch tucked into the back: the edition in which her wedding had featured, obviously kept by Mama as a souvenir. In a rush, the old resentment came back. The memory of how excited she’d been to open the copy Mama had forwarded to Paris, the first stop on their honeymoon; how her hands had shaken as she turned the pages … only to come across a full-page photograph of her sister.
And, in the pages that followed, several more. Not exclusively of Selina admittedly, but she featured in all of them, with the token exception of a not-particularly-flattering photograph of Miranda and Lionel alone. And that was what had hurt the most; what had, if she was honest, genuinely shaken her. She was the pretty sister. Selina was the plainer one – Nanny Cole had always said it – but no one flicking through The Sketch would have seen it that way. In those photographs, taken not by the loyal Bassano’s man, but one of the anonymous hacks who had crowded onto the pavements with the other onlookers, Selina had looked … well, radiant. Even Lionel had commented on it. Miranda had stamped around Notre Dame afterwards in the blackest mood.
The ormolu clock on the chimneypiece began to chime its silvery note, announcing that it was teatime. Relieved to reach this comforting milestone in the seemingly endless day, Miranda shut the album and put it back in its box.
The ungainly housemaid (Ellen?) appeared with the tea tray. In the ensuing diversion of positioning the table and setting out cups and so on, Miranda took the magazine she had removed from the box and dropped it quietly into the wastepaper basket to the side of the sofa. And felt much more cheerful.
Blackwood felt different with more people in it. The ghosts had retreated from Archie’s strident voice and stamping feet, and Alice suspected that the most fearless phantom footman wouldn’t dare to play French cricket beneath the superior nose of Nanny Bell. She never thought that she would find herself thinking fondly of Miss Lovelock, but asthe days passed she began to look forward to her return (if only because it would mean the departure of the Athertons).
Admittedly, the visit did have its compensations. There were eggs for breakfast, and bread and jam with their midmorning milk. Nanny Bell refused to expose Archie to the danger of open water, so walks were not taken around the lake, but in the stretch of garden directly behind the house, beside the orangery. Alice liked to peer through the mist of condensation to the wilderness within, and think of the lush forests Mama described in Burma. There was the return of the pencils too, although this was a very bittersweet blessing since it caused her physical discomfort to watch Archie chew the ends and scribble so hard the leads snapped. Fortunately his attention span was astonishingly short and he had little patience for colouring.
Time passed more quickly with Archie around, though not necessarily more pleasantly. He was exhausting company, given to sudden loud outbursts of excitement, frustration or rage. Even Nanny Bell, for all her strictness and her coolness towards Alice, seemed fearful of his temper, and was at obvious pains to avert another tantrum like the one Alice had witnessed on the first evening of their stay, when it emerged that a particular stuffed rabbit had not been included in the vast supply of toys that accompanied him.
Alice noticed that his behaviour was particularly horrible after one of his parents made a rare appearance in the nursery. Aunt Miranda came up on Friday afternoon, but only to stand in the doorway looking vaguely around, barelynoticing Archie’s attention-seeking bravado on the rocking horse. After her abrupt departure Archie began to bellow, at ear-splitting volume, about a bang to the knee that Alice strongly suspected was made-up. The following day Aunt Miranda got their chauffeur to take her into Salisbury for shopping, and it was Uncle Lionel’s turn to spend time with his son.
To Alice, listening to their conversation as she finished her picture, it seemed like Uncle Lionel was discharging a duty. He set out the legions of toy soldiers from the nursery cupboard in battalions, and Alice could hear the exasperation in his voice as he tried to encourage Archie to think of a battle plan instead of just smashing them all into disarray. He excused himself after half an hour and retreated downstairs, leaving Archie hurling tiny lead figures across the room in a fever of thwarted energy.
On Easter Sunday they joined the grown-ups in the dining room for luncheon, and Archie was in a particularly excitable mood. If he was a good boy and sat nicely at the table using his best manners there was to be an Easter egg hunt afterwards, Nanny Bell had announced. Mistakenly, in Alice’s view, since it dramatically increased his agitation.
It was easy to see why he was so given to showing off. Ignored by his parents for long stretches of time, he suddenly became the centre of their attention when he was with them. Watching him across the dining table, Alice was reminded of a dog she and Mama had seen in a show on Brighton Pier once, on one of their impulsive trips. It had worn a silly clown’s ruff around its neck and its tongue had lolled from its mouth as it panted eagerly and waited for the next command to perform a trick. At the end of the show a girl sitting in the front row had gone up to pet the dog, and Alice had seen her snatch her hand back from its vicious snap.
Annoying though it was listening to Uncle Lionel boast about how clever Archie was, and recount the amusing things he’d said (all of which Alice knew would earn her a sharp ticking off) it was better than the oppressive silence that usually reigned over the table at Sunday luncheon, and Alice was relieved to evade everyone’s notice. The attention seemed to go to Archie’s head, like the wine Denham kept pouring into the grown-ups’ glasses. As the meal wore on her cousin’s cheeks grew more hectically flushed and he became increasingly excitable, until Aunt Miranda rose abruptly and rang for Nanny Bell. It seemed that, despite Archie not having behaved that well, the egg hunt was to go ahead anyway.
Outside a brisk wind had blown the clouds away, but it was jarringly cold. Alice had never done an Easter egg hunt before. She imagined that it might be a bit like a treasure hunt, and hoped that here at last might be an opportunity for her to take the lead and help Archie. Nanny took them through the servants’ yard into the lawned garden, and she saw straight away that Archie wouldn’t be in need of any help at all. The small, shiny-wrapped eggs had hardly been hidden, just placed beneath bushes or perched on the edge of ornamental urns.
Archie charged around like a crazed bull, whooping with triumph every time he found one, pausing only to tear the silvered paper off and shove the chocolate into his mouth before rushing on again.
‘Now, Master Archie, that’s enough,’ Nanny Bell scolded, ‘you’ll make yourself poorly if you eat them like that. You give them to me when you find them, and I’ll look after them for later.’
Alice fought back disappointment. She wished the eggs had been hidden better; it only took a few minutes for Archie to cover the whole terrace, snatching up his spoils. She couldn’t quite bring herself to employ his tactic of run and grab. For her it wasn’t just about the chocolate (though her mouth watered at the thought of the small clutch of eggs in her pocket) but the challenge of finding them. Half an hour after they had put on their coats they were taking them off again, and Nanny Bell was delivering them back to the drawing room.
Once again Alice got the impression of a conversation cut off. As Nanny withdrew again there was a moment of awkwardness, but Archie, oblivious to atmosphere, bounded forwards. ‘I found eggs! Chocolate eggs, in the garden!’
There was much exaggerated surprise and effusive delight. Even Grandfather levered himself slightly upright in his chair and adjusted his spectacles. Grandmama put down her coffee cup and managed an indulgent smile. Uncle Lionel, sitting on the sofa beside Aunt Miranda, hoisted himself forward and slapped his knees heartily.
‘Well, come on then – empty your pockets! Show us the loot!’
Nanny had scrubbed the chocolate from Archie’s face with the corner of her handkerchief outside the drawing room door. He produced the two eggs – one from each pocket – that she had allowed him to keep, while she took the rest away for later. Alice laid her handful of eggs down on the ottoman in front of the sofa.
‘Good heavens, young lady – what a lot you’ve got! Let’s see – six eggs? My word, what a hoard.’
‘It’s not fair! She’s got more than me!’
‘Steady on, old chap,’ Uncle Lionel soothed. ‘I’m sure Alice won’t mind sharing, will you Alice? Here, let’s divide them up. Two for Alice, two for Archie, and one each for Mummy and Granny – what do you say?’
Alice wanted to say that Archie had already eaten numerous eggs and had more waiting for him upstairs, but she didn’t know how to without sounding spiteful. A sneak. And besides, it was too late. As soon as Uncle Lionel had spoken Archie was grabbing his share, tearing the paper off one and cramming it into his mouth.
‘Darling, no need to devour it quite so ferociously.’ Aunt Miranda gave a tight little laugh. ‘It’s not a race. Here – why don’t you come and sit between Daddy and me? You can tell us where you found those eggs.’
Alice picked up one of her eggs and sidled away. She didn’t want to see Archie being fussed over by his parents, cuddled and cosseted; it gave her a cold, spiky feeling inside. Everyone was watching him, listening to him as he told them about the hunt (in the silly, babyish voice he used sometimes when he knew he was the centre of attention). She would have liked to slip out and go and find Polly, but she didn’t dare. Instead she settled herself on the floor behind the sofa, out of sight, and began very carefully peeling the shiny paper from her egg.
There was a wastepaper basket at the end of the sofa, with a magazine in it. She could just see the title – The Sketch –which she recognized as one Mama took. She nibbled her egg, scraping thin slivers of chocolate off with her teeth and letting them melt on her tongue, to make the pleasure last as long as possible. Tentatively, as the voices on the other side of the sofa rose and fell (‘My, weren’t you clever to think of looking inside the flower pot?’) she reached across and lifted the magazine out of the wastepaper basket.
It was an old one, its pages slightly yellowed at the edges. Alice felt a little tingle of interest as she noticed the date at the top. July 30th 1925. She wondered if she might have inadvertently stumbled across the next clue, and checked to see if there was a letter in the bottom of the wastepaper basket. Nothing – only an empty cigarette packet. Disappointed, she began to flick through the magazine’s pages.
There were lots of photographs, mostly of society events – top-hatted men with ladies in droopy, old-fashioned dresses at Goodwood, in straw boaters and blazers at Cowes. She studied them, wondering if Mama or Aunt Miranda might appear in any, and had just about given up hope when she turned the page and found herself looking straight into Mama’s eyes.
The Wedding of Miss Miranda Lennox to Lionel Atherton.
And there they were, Aunt Miranda and Uncle Lionel, looking slightly tense as they stood together outside the church. It was almost the same picture as Grandmama had on top of the piano, but taken a few seconds earlier perhaps? Behind them, Mama was smiling, looking straight into the camera.
Alice sucked in a little breath as she understood. Not taken earlier, but at the same time, by someone else. The person Mama was looking at. The person who had made her turn her head and smile.
And there were more photographs. Mama crouching at Miranda’s feet to smooth out her train. Mama sitting in the back of a motorcar, beside the other bridesmaid (Alice recognized Aunt Margot, looking oddly the same as she did now, but with more hair, wrapped in cumbersome coils at the nape of her neck). In this one Mama’s face was a pale oval through the glass, her smile softer. She looked beautiful.
Behind her, on the other side of the sofa Archie said plaintively, ‘I feel sick.’
There was an ominous gurgling sound. Aunt Miranda shrieked and Uncle Lionel said a word that Alice knew was forbidden as Archie regurgitated chocolate all over Grandmama’s damask sofa. Safely out of the way, happily forgotten, Alice finished her egg and turned back to the beginning to look at the photographs again.