CHAPTER 3

After lemon-squash all round, Kitty took Belinda off to find her sweets and a book to borrow. Judith and Raymond stayed in Daisy’s compartment with her.

‘I expect Anne told you why we’re all traipsing up to Scotland,’ Judith said. ‘It’s a frightful bore. Dunston Castle is a positive mausoleum, and I don’t imagine there’s the least chance of Grandfather changing his will.’

‘If he does,’ said Raymond, ‘he ought to change it in poor Aunt Julia’s favour. She’s suffered the mausoleum and his filthy temper for a lifetime – my lifetime, anyway – and she deserves a comfortable old age. Great-Uncle Alistair doesn’t owe the rest of us anything.’

‘But do stop saying so to Daddy and Uncle Peter, darling. It’s bad for their blood pressure. Aunt Julia is Uncle Peter’s sister, Daisy. The poor old thing has been Grandfather’s housekeeper and general skivvy forever, and now I suppose his nurse as well, since he’s far too stingy to hire one. Anyone would think he intended to take every penny he’s ever saved with him to the grave.’

‘Perhaps we can talk Uncle Albert into doing something for her,’ Raymond proposed, ‘even if he loathes and despises the rest of us.’

‘He’s about as unlikely to do that as to leave the lot to Aunt-Geraldine-who-ran-away.’

Daisy gave up her noble effort to restrain her curiosity. ‘Jeremy mentioned Aunt-Geraldine-who-ran-away,’ she said. ‘Where does she fit in?’

‘She’s Mummy’s younger sister,’ Judith told her.

‘Great-Uncle Alistair’s younger daughter,’ Raymond amplified. ‘When Aunt Amelia married, Geraldine foresaw being stuck in the mausoleum looking after her father for life, so she hopped it – and who can blame her? No one’s heard from her since. That’s how her cousin, my Aunt Julia got stuck with the job. Please refer to family tree in frontispiece.’

‘I need to,’ said Daisy, laughing. ‘It’s all the honorary aunts and uncles who complicate matters. My family’s the same. The “aunt” who remembered me in her will was actually some sort of second or third cousin several times removed. I never did work it out exactly.’

‘That’s the kind of aunt we need if we’re ever to get married,’ Judith said enviously.

‘Oh, it’s not enough to live on. I write for a living.’

Judith was distinctly taken aback. ‘You work? But I thought at school . . . That is, isn’t your father a peer?’

‘He was. A cousin inherited the title and Fairacres. I could live with him, or with my mother in the Dower House, but I decided I’d rather be independent. During the War, after I left school, I worked in a hospital office. It wasn’t bad, so later I took typing and shorthand classes, but I must admit I hated being a stenographer. Then I helped my friend Lucy in her photography studio. I still give her a hand when she needs me, but mostly I write magazine articles.’

‘Gosh! And Lady Dalrymple doesn’t mind?’

‘Mother can’t stop me,’ Daisy said firmly.

‘I bet Daddy would find a way to stop me.’ Judith sounded almost wistful.

Raymond clutched her hand. ‘There’s no need for you to work,’ he said in a harsh voice. His face was pale. ‘I’m almost well. I’ll soon be able to get a decent job.’

‘If only you’d try in the country, darling. The city noises are not good for you.’

‘But I couldn’t earn as much, and besides, you loathe the country. I’ve heard you say it often enough.’

‘Darling, that’s just something one says. I was brought up in the country and I can easily turn back into a tweeds-and-pearls type just like Mummy.’

‘I won’t have you making sacrifices for me!’ he cried.

‘You’re hurting my hand, darling,’ Judith said softly.

He let go at once. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.’

His eyes were screwed shut and he was breathing very fast and shallowly. Daisy, trying to pretend to be suddenly fascinated by the view outside, was afraid he was going to cry. From the corner of her eye, she saw Judith put her arms around him and kiss him full on the mouth. He clung to her, his head bowed to rest his forehead on her shoulder.

After a moment, he said on a long, shuddering breath, ‘I’m all right now.’

‘That’s good,’ she said lightly. ‘I don’t suppose my lipstick is.’ She stood up and turned to the mirror to repair the damage.

‘Ah, there you are, Raymond.’ The short, portly man in the doorway had a face like a sulky bulldog, incongruously adorned with a bristling soup-strainer mustache which belonged to some other breed of dog. The mustache was russet-red, whereas his hair was that indeterminate salt-and-pepperish shade to which sandy hair tends to fade with age. Peter Gillespie, Daisy guessed, the would-be war profiteer. He looked uncomfortable in his too-new tweeds, the townsman making concessions to a country visit.

Raymond stood up. ‘Exactly, sir. Here I am.’

‘Sit down, sit down, my boy. You don’t look at all well.’

In the mirror, Daisy saw Judith’s scarlet lips tighten. Catching Daisy’s eye, she raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘Raymond is perfectly well, Uncle Peter,’ she said, turning. ‘Hallo, Daddy. Where are you two off to then? Going to beard the lion in his den?’

Over Gillespie père’s shoulder loomed a florid face with silver-white hair, a beak of a nose, and a sweeping white cavalry mustache which put the other’s rusty brush to shame. Daisy vaguely recognized it from school Open Days. Desmond Smythe-Pike was a large man, as corpulent as his wife’s cousin but solid rather than flabby. He tended to speak as if addressing foxhounds in full cry.

‘Lion? Stuff and nonsense! Your Great-Uncle Albert’s no more dangerous than a badger in its sett, Judith, but we’re not ready to stick the terriers onto him yet. No, Gillespie and I are going to consult old Alistair’s solicitor, Braeburn. He’s in the next compartment, between this and Albert’s.’

‘You’re hoping he’ll tell you Great-Uncle Alistair’s plans, sir?’ Raymond asked.

His father answered. ‘That’s part of it.’

‘But we also want to know,’ Smythe-Pike barked, ‘what are the chances of shooting down Albert’s will.’

‘Then you’d better keep your voice down when you get next door, Daddy,’ Judith advised pertly. ‘Contesting a will is hardly a respectful thing to do and won’t endear you to the old gentleman.’

‘Bah!’ With a ferocious scowl, Smythe-Pike limped off down the corridor, leaning heavily on his silver-headed cane. In his aged tweed shooting jacket and knickerbockers, he was the image of the gouty country squire.

‘It’s for you children we’re going to all this trouble,’ Peter Gillespie said, belligerent yet defensive. Daisy imagined that was the attitude he had taken when charged with defrauding the government He scurried off after his cousin’s forceful husband.

A moment later, the door of the next compartment slammed shut, privacy being more important than comfort for their business. The rumble of Smythe-Pike’s voice came through the wall, but no words were distinguishable.

‘Amazing,’ said Judith. ‘Daddy must be whispering.’

‘Oh blast,’ said Kitty, ‘the chocolate’s melted. Look, it’s all squishy. We could scoop it up with our fingers, but Mummy will be livid if I get it on my frock.’

‘I don’t think Miss Dalrymple would be livid, but I haven’t got any other clothes with me,’ Belinda said regretfully. ‘I didn’t know it would take so long to get to Scotland.’

‘She’s nice, isn’t she, your Miss Dalrymple? Was she a friend of your mother’s?’

‘No, she’s Daddy’s friend.’

‘Gosh, are they in love?’

‘I don’t know,’ Belinda admitted. ‘When I said I wished she’d marry him, she said they’re just friends, but her face went all pink’.

‘She might just have been embarrassed,’ said Kitty with all the worldly wisdom of fifteen years. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that. We’d better have aniseed balls or liquorice bootlaces instead of the choc. Or there’s Dolly Mixture. Which d’you like best?’

‘Dolly Mixture, please. They last longest.’ She held out her cupped hands and Kitty filled them with the tiny sweeties, pink and orange and yellow, white and red and brown, all different shapes, some hard and some soft. ‘Do they let you eat sweets at school?’

‘Only on Saturdays. It’s a boarding school.’

Belinda was fascinated. Popping Dolly Mixtures into her mouth, one by one, she plied her new friend with questions, until a small, thin woman came in. She had greying hair, elaborately marcelled, and she looked cross.

‘Kitty, you’re not eating sweets again! How do you expect ever to have a decent figure?’

‘I don’t care. I’m not going to be a deb, after all. I’m going to work and make pots of money. Anyway,’ she went on hastily as her mother frowned, ‘I’m giving half . . . most of my sweets to Belinda. This is Belinda, Mummy.’

‘I’d better go,’ Belinda said even more hastily as the frown turned on her. ‘Miss Dalrymple must be wondering where I am.’

‘Here.’ Kitty thrust the paper bag of sweets into her hands. ‘If I don’t see you before, let’s sit together at lunch.’

‘If I can.’ Making her escape, Belinda worried about lunch. She was already costing Miss Dalrymple an awful lot of money but she had a feeling even such a nice grown-up would not let her eat liquorice instead of a good, nourishing meal.

She glanced into the next compartment. Kitty’s brother Jeremy was there, with a lady who was either very fat or going to have a baby. She was crying. Tabitha’s mummy and daddy were there, too, but not Tabitha, so Belinda went on.

As she passed she heard one of the gentlemen say loudly, ‘Albert McGowan is a rotten blighter who’s dashed well letting the side down.’

‘Calm down, Bretton,’ said the other. ‘Slanging the old ba . . . boy won’t get us anywhere. We need to put our heads together and decide what to do.’ The noise of the train cut off his voice as Belinda moved on.

The door of the next compartment was shut, the blinds pulled down; then there was one with strangers in it. After that came Miss Dalrymple’s. Kitty’s other brother, the nice one, Raymond, was still there with Judith, the lady he wanted to marry. There was an old lady, too, a plump, comfortable sort of old lady who reminded Belinda of Granny.

She bit her lip. Granny must be awfully upset, wondering where she had got to. She shouldn’t have run away – but Kitty said it was a simply ripping adventure, and some bits were exciting and fun.

The old lady was talking. ‘Father always was unreasonable,’ she said, ‘but Uncle Albert is utterly unnatural, leaving everything to a stranger. Desmond is furious. You know how your father is, Judith, always liable to fly off the handle even at the best of times.’ She went on about Desmond’s temper.

Belinda didn’t like to interrupt by going in. As she hesitated in the corridor, Miss Dalrymple saw her and smiled. Belinda pointed forward to indicate she was going to the lavatory at the end of the coach. Miss Dalrymple nodded.

The next compartment had its door shut but its blinds up. The three men in it all looked hot and angry. Belinda wondered if one of them was Judith’s bad-tempered father. The one nearest the door had a red mustache almost the same colour as his face. Next to him, by the window, was a stringy man in gold-rimmed glasses with a long, thin neck and a sticking-out Adam’s apple. He was bald as a coot and he kept wiping his glistening head with a large white handkerchief. Opposite sat a large man with a white mustache and a purple face with a big nose. Belinda could hear him right through the closed door.

‘I don’t care if he is in the next compartment,’ he roared. ‘There must be a law to stop a bloody fool chucking away his ancestors’ wealth on a demned native!’

The bald man shook his head and said something inaudible. Belinda moved on. Everyone was angry with Uncle Albert McGowan for leaving his money to an Indian, though she couldn’t see why he shouldn’t if he wanted to. She hadn’t understood everything she had heard, but it sounded as if they were all afraid even to go and talk to Mr. McGowan because he said he didn’t want to see them. He must be a real ogre.

To her disappointment, the next door was closed and the blinds down. She went to the lavatory, then started back to rejoin Miss Dalrymple.

In front of her, a small man in black came out of Mr. McGowan’s compartment. Turning back, he gave a sort of stiff little bow and said, ‘Very good, sir. I shall convey your message to Dr. Jagai.’

He slid the door shut. Belinda stepped back into the carriage-end vestibule to let him pass. As she set off again, the train jolted, clattering over some points, and she saw the door slide back an inch. The man in black hadn’t closed it far enough to latch properly.

Belinda promptly applied her eye to the gap. Mr. McGowan looked more like a goblin than an ogre, she decided. She must remember to tell Kitty he ought to be called Mr. McGoblin. His long, narrow face was yellowish and covered with hundreds and hundreds of wrinkles. His yellowish scalp showed through lank strands of yellow-grey hair, but his eyebrows were even bushier than Daddy’s. He sat hunched in the corner, a rug over his legs though the window was shut and stifling hot air wafted through the crack onto Belinda’s face.

It was hard to tell with all those wrinkles, but she thought he looked bored and miserable. She felt sorry for him. It must be horrid having everyone hate him, even if it was his own fault.

Belinda would have liked to talk to him about India. What a pity he was an ogre! She was about to leave her peephole when the train rattled over another set of points and to her horror the door slid all the way open.