2

Clare opened her eyes and gazed round the broad terrace of The Lodge. Beside her, Andrew lay in a sun-bleached deckchair, his eyes closed, minute specks of cream emulsion paint dotting the bridge of his nose and the pale triangle of skin revealed by one of his cousin Edward’s oldest shirts.

At that moment, Teddy opened his eyes. He sat up, glanced at his watch, considered Andrew’s recumbent figure and looked down at the stretched-out figure of his sister, Ginny, her cotton shirt tucked up, her long legs already a gleaming, honey gold.

‘Five minutes more and then back to work,’ he announced firmly.

Ginny’s eyes flicked open.

‘Edward,’ she began, a look of outrage on her face. ‘Not only do you waylay us into participating in your grand summer manoeuvre when we are all supposed to be on holiday, but now you treat us like minions. Well, it won’t do. This minion is on strike.’

Clare laughed aloud as Ginny spread herself out more comfortably, folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes again.

‘I didn’t waylay you,’ he protested. ‘I explained my difficulties to Clare and Andrew when they got back from Ballintoy, and they offered of their own free will.’

‘I’m not here, I’ve gone away,’ Ginny murmured. ‘I’m on holiday on a tropical island, lying on a pure white beach, with blue water lapping the palm trees. Goodness, what’s that?’

A shot shattered the stillness. A cloud of rooks rose flapping and protesting from a clump of trees beyond the paddock. The detonation was rapidly followed by others of diminishing magnitude.

‘It’s only the breadman, Ginny,’ Edward said patiently. ‘His exhaust is exhausted,’ he explained. ‘Mum said to tell you she’d left a list on the kitchen table. And we owe him for the Armagh papers.’

Clare watched Ginny get to her feet, pull his ear and head for the kitchen. How lovely it would be to have a brother you could tease, she thought sadly, someone you could be really fond of, make jokes with, not like her own brother. Since their parents died, she’d tried so hard to be a proper sister, visited him whenever she could, brought him what small presents she could afford, but the older he got the more surly and unsmiling he became.

‘Sure, yer Granda’s done his best, I’ll say that fer him, since the day yer Auntie Polly brought him here,’ Granny Hamilton had said on her last visit to the farm. ‘An’ he admits there’s no improvement at all. William’s just one of those people with no time for anyone but himself.’

The contrast with Edward was almost too painful to bear. Although he was only just nineteen, Edward had already shouldered many of the responsibilities his father’s death had landed on him, but he hadn’t lost his capacity to make them laugh. There was an openness about Edward, a warmth and a good-naturedness she found totally appealing.

‘Well then, Boss, shall we get back to it?’ said Andrew, soberly.

As he got to his feet, he put a hand down to Clare’s cheek and touched it gently.

‘It really is awfully good of you and Clare to help me out like this,’ said Edward sheepishly. ‘It was a far bigger job than I thought. It didn’t look so bad till I got started.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Edward,’ said Clare warmly. ‘I’ll add it to my curriculum vitae. Picture rail painted by the yard, to professional standards. Besides, I like my outfit,’ she added.

She flapped the long sleeves of the smock he’d found for her, the one his mother wore when she painted in oils. Daubed with patches of brilliant colour, it looked like a work of art itself.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind being up that ladder, Clare?’

‘No, truly, Edward. Heights don’t seem to bother me.’

The breadman’s van started up again. Edward paused, listening.

‘Back in a tick,’ he said over his shoulder, as he ran down the steps from the terrace. ‘Must give Ginny a hand. There’s enough bread on Mum’s list to feed the five thousand.’

Andrew dropped his arm lightly round Clare’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, not a bit,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve discovered I like painting. I’d never done any before,’ she added, as they walked slowly along the terrace.

The french windows of the large, airy sitting room stood open wide, the stacked furniture beyond looming up like silent, white-clad watchers.

‘It’ll look lovely when it’s finished,’ she said, as they took their brushes from the jar of white spirit and dried them off.

‘Yes, it’s a super room. I’ve always loved it,’ Andrew replied. ‘Aunt Helen knows just where to put things for the best effect and how to make it welcoming. The furniture isn’t nearly as good as the stuff at Drumsollen, but it always looks much better.’

Clare laughed wryly. There was a time she’d known the furniture at Drumsollen only too well. As the housekeeper’s Saturday girl, she’d polished it regularly. She’d cursed the assorted objects that had to be moved from every surface before she could begin, but the smooth, mellow wood was lovely to touch. Even dusting the carving and the delicate inlay work had been a pleasure.

As she went to place her ladder below the next unpainted section of picture rail, she caught sight of Andrew’s face, sad and anxious, his lips pressed together, a sure sign he was uneasy.

‘Will you be going over to Drumsollen this week?’ she asked cautiously.

‘I suppose I should.’

Without looking at her, he prised the lid off a new tin of paint and stirred the contents. She waited patiently, knowing there was more to come.

‘Edward says he got a cool reception when he went to make sure the roof repairs had been done properly,’ he began. ‘If she couldn’t be nice to her caring landlord, she’ll hardly be very keen to see me. Now Grandfather’s gone she doesn’t even have to be civil.’

‘Maybe she’s lonely, Andrew.’

‘Hard to imagine her missing anyone. She must have loved him once, I suppose. But then, showing your feelings wasn’t the done thing in their day, was it? Could we ever get like that, Clare?’

He looked so utterly miserable Clare abandoned her ladder, took the tin of paint out of his hands and put her arms round him.

‘Maybe age takes love away,’ she said, sadly. ‘I don’t know any old, married people who even seem to like each other any more. Granny Hamilton only speaks to Granda now when there’s some bit of everyday business she has to mention, yet she gave up going to America to marry him.’

‘Will you come with me?’ he asked suddenly, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

‘Where to?’

‘Drumsollen.’

‘Oh, Andrew, don’t you think that might make it worse? I’m not sure she’s ever forgiven me for tackling her at your Uncle Edward’s funeral.’

To her complete amazement, Andrew threw back his head and laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘That cap you wore,’ he said, still laughing. ‘I’ll never forget it I can still see you standing there, telling her what you thought of her. It must be the only rime in human history the Missus has apologised to anyone. It ought to be recorded in the Annals of the Richardsons,’ he said, pausing and kissing her. ‘Please, Clare. Come with me. She’s going to have to know sooner or later. Let’s get it over with.’

‘All right, I’ll come,’ she said quickly, as she caught sight of Edward and Ginny walking along the terrace towards them.

‘Thank you, love. That’ll help,’ he said, a look of profound relief on his face.

 

When they emerged from the shadow of the long line of trees beyond the mental hospital, they saw the gates of Drumsollen standing open. As Andrew swung the bonnet of Aunt Helen’s car between the stone pillars, Clare glanced across at the low wall beyond them. In another life, she and Jessie used to park their bicycles there while they nipped across the road, down to their secret sitting place by the small, deeply entrenched stream.

‘Well, here we are,’ said Andrew flatly, as he stopped the car and glanced up at the worn stone frontage of the three-storeyed mansion.

Clare squeezed his arm encouragingly.

‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we? You’d think we were going for an interview.’

To her surprise, he didn’t smile. He didn’t even seem to hear her. She watched him straighten his tie in the driving mirror and brush non-existent hairs from his shoulders before he got out. He was wearing his best trousers, a clean shirt, his college tie and blazer. Apart from Uncle Edward’s funeral, she’d never seen him dressed so formally before.

‘Are my seams straight?’

He studied her legs minutely and nodded before he realised she was trying to make him laugh. He pressed his lips together again and smiled bleakly.

‘She can’t eat us, Andrew. Why are you so bothered?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly, Clare, I don’t know.’

He reached for her hand and they walked up the stone steps towards the heavy front door. It too stood open, the entrance hall in shadow beyond.

‘My goodness,’ Clare said, in a whisper, as they stepped across the threshold, leaving the afternoon sunlight behind.

‘What is it?’

‘Everything,’ she said, stopping dead before the polished table with its long out of date copies of Country Life and Shooting Times.

She looked up at the chandelier above her head, its cut-glass drops tinkling minutely in the movement of air from the open door. ‘I’d forgotten how big this hall is. And the way the ancestors stare down at you. I must have got used to it the year I worked here. Don’t you feel it pressing down on you?’

‘I don’t know what I feel,’ he replied, looking round him as if he was hoping to find some way of escape. ‘Let’s go down to the kitchen and tell June we’re here.’

‘Ach, there’s ye’s are, the pair of you.’

Before they’d time to move, they caught the echo of footsteps on the wooden stairs from the kitchen. Breathless from hurrying, June Wiley, once Andrew’s devoted nursemaid, then housekeeper, now the sole remaining pair of hands in this huge house, crossed the threadbare carpet and threw her arms around them both.

‘I was listenin’ fer the car. My, yer both doin’ powerful well,’ she said, looking them up and down. ‘Aren’t ye glad to be home, Andrew? An’ I’m sure Clarey’s glad to see ye back. Ach, Clare dear, I shoulden call you that these days.’

‘Call away, June,’ said Clare quickly, her eyes misting with tears. No one had called her Clarey since Granda Scott died.

‘It’s great to see you, June’ she said, returning the hug. ‘Can we come home with you and visit John and the girls when you finish?’

‘Deed aye. Sure they’re expectin’ ye both. We’ll want to hear all yer news. But I’d best not keep ye’s now. She’s waitin’ fer ye.’

She nodded significantly. Putting an arm round each of them, she walked them across the hall to the foot of the broad, carpeted stairway.

‘Ye’ll see her badly failed, Andrew, since the Senator went. She can hardly walk at all, but don’t let on I told you. I’ll see ye’s later.’

Their feet made no sound on the wide, and shallow stairs, the once-red carpet now faded by the sun that flooded through the tall windows and made patterns on the walls. The air in the broad first-floor corridor struck chill. Clare shivered and felt goose pimples rise on her bare arms. She squeezed Andrew’s hand as they approached the one room in Drumsollen she had never been permitted to enter.

‘It’ll be all right, love,’ she whispered, as they paused at the door.

‘Come in.’

The voice that responded to Andrew’s knock had lost nothing of its imperiousness. Madeline Richardson, The Missus to her one-time servants, her family, friends and acquaintances, sat in a high carved wooden chair that was well padded with cushions. She wore a silk blouse and pearls, a pleated tweed skirt and matching cardigan, heavy stockings and stout walking shoes – just what she would have worn in the long past days when she would go out to instruct the gardeners, or to pick the flowers she always arranged herself for the guest bedrooms.

Now the garments hung on her emaciated body. Her face was gaunt, her cheeks hollow, her rouge an unconvincing area of colour on skin the colour of parchment. Her hands, bony and blue-veined, gripped the arms of her chair. Remaining upright was clearly an effort of will.

‘Andrew, bring that low chair for Clare, over here beside me, if you will,’ she said, before there was any question of kiss, or handshake. ‘What a splendid day for your visit. I’m sure you had a pleasant drive from Caledon,’ she went on, without looking at either of them.

Clare seated herself on the low chair, her eyes almost level with the small undulations in the pleated skirt that marked the position of The Missus’s knees. Not having been invited to sit down, Andrew stood waiting awkwardly.

‘I’ve ordered tea for four thirty. Perhaps, Andrew, you would help Mrs Wiley with the trays. I know you always like to chat to her. And I shall have a word with Clare.’

It was not yet four o’clock. Andrew departed without a word. Whether he felt relieved at having been dismissed, or angry that his grandmother had managed to avoid greeting him, in any way, Clare would have to find out later.

‘Eh bien, Clare, I hear you have been in Paris. Did your studies go well?’

The voice was quite firm, its intentions clear. Perhaps it was to be an interview after all. Clare looked up at the haggard face. There were creases of pale eye shadow on the drooping lids and carefully pencilled eyebrows above the large, over-bright eyes. They watched her closely, waiting.

‘I didn’t go to study. Not directly. But I did learn a great deal. My professor found me a family in Paris who wanted an au pair. Actually, I spent more time in Deauville than in Paris.’

A smile of pleasure, of longing almost, lit up the old woman’s face, filling it with an animation Clare had never seen before.

‘Deauville! Oh, que j’aime Deauville.’

Clare was more taken aback by the softness of her tone than by the sudden move to French. She’d heard her speak the language before, but this was not how it sounded when she’d reprimanded Andrew for speaking to a servant.

Madeline Richardson asked a stream of questions without pausing for any reply: questions about places, particular buildings, a hotel where she’d once stayed, a small café where they’d had second breakfast after swimming. At last, she paused and looked at Clare expectantly.

‘Bien sur, Deauville est très agréable,’ she began. ‘My friend, Marie-Claude, used to go there as a child. She still visits the old woman who looked after her in those days. She says Deauville has changed remarkably little. Many of the places you’ve mentioned, I recognise at once. Some of the hotels have changed their names, but Marie-Claude says they haven’t changed their style. And people still promenade.’

The old woman pressed her hands together and cast her eyes towards the ceiling.

‘Oh, so. We had such fun in Deauville. Of course, we were chaperoned, but there were ways of communicating with young men that everyone knew. If a young man wished to meet you, he would find out where you were staying and send you a bouquet. There were always two cards with a bouquet, one that you handed to your chaperone with some suitable message and another concealed in the flowers. That one you read later.’

She paused and looked at Clare meaningfully, as if to make sure she understood. When Clare smiled broadly, she continued.

‘My cousin and I were taken to the Royal Hotel by my great-aunt. She was a very strict lady, but even she was charmed when we came back from a morning walk and found the room full of flowers.’

She paused, considered, and then went on.

‘My cousin was very beautiful, you see. She also had the advantage of being rich.’

She smiled at Clare, confident she would appreciate the point.

‘I was never beautiful, but I was thought handsome by some. We both had our little adventures in Deauville.’

She paused once more, longer this time, as if she were still absorbed in the world she had known in another century, when she was young and her life opened before her, full of possibility and promise.

‘And will you go again this year, to Deauville, with your French family?’

‘No, I’m staying in Belfast this summer. I have a holiday job working at the gallery with my friend Jessie and her husband. His father has retired now and he’s expanding into new areas. It’s really very interesting.’

‘Ah, I see.’

Clare was not sure what it was she saw, but her next question made it clear.

‘I suppose you’re going to marry Andrew when you get your degree?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Clare was rather pleased at the coolness, the steadiness of her reply, but she was taken completely by surprise by the old woman’s next words.

‘What a pity. You really could do so much better for yourself. I’m sure he loves you, he always was such a loving child, but he’s got no money and no ambition. Love isn’t everything, you know. It wears badly with the rub of the years, especially when there’s no money. It’s women who pay the price for lack of means.’

Clare could hardly believe her ears. The irony was just too much for her. Four years ago, she’d first come to this house simply to earn twelve and sixpence extra a week, because her grandfather’s new landlord had doubled the rent of their house and forge. Now, she was being told by the lady of the house herself that her nephew wasn’t good enough for her.

Something in her words brought Clare up short, however. She wouldn’t listen to any criticism of Andrew, certainly not from this woman who had excluded him from her life as far as possible, but her final words echoed and re-echoed round the elegant room.

It’s women who pay the price for lack of means.

Clare saw herself, a little girl of nine, sitting at Granny Hamilton’s kitchen table. Auntie Polly was going back to Canada and wanted her to go with them, but she wanted to stay behind and live with Granda Scott at the forge.

She couldn’t recall Granny Hamilton’s exact words, but she’d warned her what a hard life it was for a girl, living in the country. Things might improve when bread was off the ration and when the electric came, but, even then, she should think twice before saying no to Canada. She’d need to make up her mind on a clear day, Granny Hamilton had ended.

Clare glanced across the room to the four-poster bed with its draped velvet curtains, a matching velvet-covered couch at its foot. The rich colours might have faded, but the wallpaper and hangings, the curtains and carpets still had great elegance. The furniture was lighter in style and much more delicate than in the big rooms downstairs. Decorated in gold, it reminded her of what she’d seen in the salons of Versailles. Such a contrast with Granny’s stone-floored kitchen, its stove and scrubbed wood table.

Two lives, two women, so very different, yet they were saying the same things about the quality of life available to a woman, unless she marry a man of adequate means.

However much she might want to, Clare couldn’t dismiss the warning. After all, had she not had some experience of her own? Even when there was work available, Granda Scott had been too old to make much money at the forge, so they lived mainly on his pension, a struggle all the time to make ends meet. When her parents died, no one had provided an income for her, as Ginny’s grandfather had, for both Ginny and her mother, when her father died. Her life had been much harder than Jessie’s, for even after Jessie lost her father, there was an uncle who paid for her to go to secretarial college.

It’s women who pay the price for lack of means.

There was something more to it than that, but what it was she’d have to work out for herself.

‘And did you go to Châtelet, or the Opéra, when you were in Paris? What did you see?’

Clare realised she’d fallen silent. The older woman was deploying her well-practised skill in directing the conversation. The subject was being changed, firmly and positively.

‘Swan Lake at Châtelet, Serge Lifar at the Opéra.’

As the question had been put to her in French, she replied in French. To Clare’s great surprise, she found herself overcome with compassion for this crippled, old woman who had tried to shape the world the way she wanted it and ended up alone and unloved.

Clare took a deep breath and told her exactly what it was like to see ballet for the first time. To step into a new world known only from books and music on the radio, to mingle with the crowds of Parisians in the theatre bar, watch the rich and famous and enjoy performances she had only dreamed of. She spared no detail, even when the Missus closed her eyes and sat so still Clare thought she must surely be asleep.

But she was not.

‘Remind me, Clare, to make a note before you go,’ she said abruptly, continuing to speak French as the door opened. ‘I have a gift for you. I do not have it here, but I am dispersing my remaining personal possessions. I need to make a note of my intentions, in case we do not meet again,’ she added firmly. ‘A souvenir from my days in Paris and Deauville,’ she ended, dropping her voice to a whisper.

‘Thank you, Mrs Wiley. I’m sure Andrew will appreciate your efforts on his behalf,’ she said, in a voice so far removed from her previous tone that Clare was almost startled.

As June and Andrew collected up small tables from other parts of the room to accommodate the plates of scones and cake for a most sumptuous tea, Clare felt herself go pale, drained by some emotional effort she could neither grasp nor understand. It was all she could do to take the cup June handed her without spilling it. Deciding which of the sandwiches and savouries to begin with was quite beyond her.

But Madeline Richardson was undaunted. She dismissed June Wiley courteously, placed Andrew in charge of the teapot, directed his attention to the brownies made especially for his coming and proceeded to enquire about the health and activities of his uncle and family, his surviving aunt, her husband and daughters, and his great-aunt in Norfolk.

Clare was relieved to find that Andrew seemed perfectly relaxed, able to do justice to June’s tea while giving a proper account of his relatives. On one occasion, he even managed to make his grandmother laugh.

‘Poor old Julia, she got very nervous when they arrived at the Palace and were being lined up to be presented. She was convinced her knickers were going to fall down. So she asked for the loo. They told her to be terribly quick and sent her off with a footman in attendance. She says she walked miles! When they arrive, he throws open the door and ushers her in and there’s the loo, on a raised dais with three steps up. She insists it was at least another fifty yards away.’

When the topic of Andrew’s relatives on his mother’s side had been exhausted, Mrs Richardson moved on to the family at Caledon, eliciting a detailed account of Aunt Helen’s new husband, the progress of Edward’s studies at Trinity and the latest developments in Virginia’s plan for setting up her own riding stables.

Of Andrew’s own activities, his plans, hopes and dreams, nothing whatever was asked. They said their goodbyes just after five and went down to the basement to help June Wiley with the washing up. Madeline Richardson remained in her large room, a sandwich and a glass of milk under a cloth on a side table. Until nine o’clock the next morning, she would be there alone, unable to walk further than her radio, or her commode. She had refused Edward’s offer of a telephone in her room. If she needed a phone, she declared, she would use the one in the study.

When at last they left the house, with June in the back seat, all Clare wanted was Andrew, the comfort of his arms and the relief of tears, but first there was the visit to the Wiley family. She’d been so looking forward to seeing John and the three girls. She couldn’t possibly let them down, but how she was going to get through the next few hours she had no idea whatever.