Baggy shook his head unhelpfully. ‘George always gets what he wants from women, as you probably know. Does May know it?’
‘She never admits to knowing it, just blames herself for unjustified jealousy. Now listen: if we’re going to put up any kind of fight we’ve got to act quickly. I shall talk to June tonight. Oh, I shan’t admit to taking it seriously. I shall just say they’re being silly and they’ll upset Robert and May. And you talk to George. Even if we can’t persuade them to end the whole thing, at least they can be more discreet.’
Baggy looked shocked. ‘Do you mean they could have a secret affair?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be easy in the circumstances, but I suppose… Oh, Baggy, try not to be too upset. These are such permissive days, lots of husbands and wives… Still, it would be dreadful. Anyway, the first thing is to get them to be more circumspect, because once May and Robert notice what’s happening, much of the damage will be done, even if things go no further – as they mustn’t, Baggy; let’s concentrate on that. Now come on. I shall ask June to come up to my room.’
‘I don’t guarantee to talk to George. I might make matters worse.’
‘Well, it may be enough if I talk to June. Come on, anyway.’
But they found the Long Room empty. May, coming in from the kitchen, said George and June had gone to see if the nightingale could still be heard.
‘We’ll go too, Baggy,’ said Fran.
‘Yes, do,’ said May. ‘I’ll be up in the sewing-room, if anyone wants me.’
She was, Fran knew, making a dress for Prudence to wear at the weekend. How like May to be occupied at this vital time – and how fortunate that she was.
Baggy, after May had gone, said, ‘We can’t chase after them.’
‘It won’t look like that. It’s perfectly natural that we should want to hear the last of the nightingale; Robert says it’s due to stop singing any day now. Please come, Baggy. Even the sight of us in the distance might… well, act as a bit of a brake.’ She opened the French window. Penny, left behind by George and June, shot out and headed for the lilac grove. ‘Oh, dear. Still, I expect she’ll only go back to the cottage. I wonder if that’s where they’ve really gone.’
Baggy, unwillingly accompanying Fran across the lawn, stopped walking. ‘If they have I’m not going in after them.’
‘Of course not, unless the door’s open and the curtains are undrawn as usual. Then it would seem natural for us to go in. Let’s just see – and then play it by ear.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just an expression. Means act on the inspiration of the moment.’
‘Very unsafe thing to do,’ said Baggy, now most unwillingly going with her into the lilac grove.
Under the interlaced branches it was already dusk, though the sunset had barely begun. Fran, who prided herself on knowing her way about the grove’s maze-like twists, found the dimness confusing and took several wrong turns, but did not admit this to Baggy. They walked in silence, their footsteps making no sound on the grassy paths. Somewhere ahead of them the tag on Penny’s chain collar tinkled.
After a few minutes Fran gratefully saw daylight ahead, then realised, only seconds later, that it came not from beyond the grove but from the sky above the little enclosed garden. They would have to turn back. But simultaneously with deciding this she got a clear view of the garden and stopped dead, as did Baggy.
Standing beside the sundial were George and June, clasped in each other’s arms – looking, Fran thought, for all the world like some long-ago Academy painting. One expected George to be in knee breeches.
As simultaneously as they had stopped, Baggy and Fran started up again, in reverse. Mercifully only a few steps took them round a twist in the path where they could not be seen from the garden – not, Fran thought, that there was any likelihood of their being seen, even had they remained in view. That embrace looked as if it would be going on a long, long time. Probably it would only break when the participants had to come up for air.
This time Fran took no wrong turnings and had Baggy out of the grove in a couple of minutes. They emerged into the full light of sunset.
Baggy, in a choked voice, said, ‘Oh, Fran!’
‘Wait till we’re indoors,’ said Fran, then noticed that his face was ashen. There were some deckchairs only a few yards away. She urged him towards them. ‘But sit down for a few minutes first.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’d rather go in.’ Then he walked fairly steadily to the Long Room. ‘I shall be all right if I lie down for a bit.’
There was a Victorian one-ended sofa near the west window. Baggy was fond of it because it reminded him of a horsehair sofa he had known as a child, also the back gave him better support than that of any modern sofa did. He settled there now, after putting a newspaper between his shoes and May’s chintz upholstery.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ said Fran. ‘Brandy, whisky?’
‘Whisky. I don’t like brandy. I’m all right now. It was just that… It was so shocking.’
Fran hadn’t felt that. It had seemed to her both ludicrous and moving: the absurdly romantic sundial, June’s outspread golden dress, the ecstatic mingling of the two figures… one couldn’t quite be shocked at such rapture. Still…
‘Just a minute,’ she said and went into the hall. She could hear the whirring of May’s sewing machine upstairs. It would be safe to talk.
She went back, got Baggy his drink, and sat down beside him. ‘Try not to worry too much,’ she told him. ‘Even if the worst comes to the worst, May and Robert may never find out.’
‘Of course they’ll find out, and so will the children.’ Baggy’s voice was now angry as well as weak. ‘And I’ll tell you something, Fran. I’ll not stay here and watch it. I’d give my life if I could save them all from what’s coming – truly, I would – but staying here won’t help them. And I can’t face it. I’ll have to go, at once. I suppose I can find some boarding house.’
‘But you’d hate that, Baggy.’
‘I know, but where else can I go?’
‘How about a little flat like mine?’ Of course the idea was preposterous but she hoped it might be stimulating, cheerful. To her astonishment she saw a flicker of eagerness in his eyes.
‘Do you think I could get one – somewhere near you, perhaps? I wouldn’t be a burden.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ She hoped heartiness would hide her dismay. Poor, darling Baggy, always wanting to share life with someone, he would be a burden of burdens. But it couldn’t happen, of course it couldn’t, and she must go on cheering him up. ‘We’d have lots of fun – often lunch together.’
‘And I could telephone you in the evenings.’ A chuckle, if a faint one, emanated from Baggy. ‘When we’re both lying in bed reading Agatha Christie.’
‘Lovely,’ said Fran, who hated being telephoned in the evening. It invariably interrupted one’s favourite television programme.
‘Seriously, Fran, would there be any chance of getting a flat in the block you live in?’
‘I’ll find out the minute I get back.’ Oh, no! She couldn’t have him in the same block. Already she felt a dead weight of liability for him. But she mustn’t let him see. She said brightly, ‘You’re looking better. Shall I help you to your room now and into bed?’ Good God, it was beginning already. She’d probably end up as his full-time nurse.
Baggy said, ‘Not yet. I’d rather lie here for a while and do some thinking – about ways and means. I can afford the rent you pay but… well, it needs planning. Just leave me on my own for a bit. And put the lights off, please, so that I can watch the sunset. I don’t often get the chance to. Never like to hang around in this room after dinner.’
‘You won’t lie here worrying about George and June?’ Damn it, she oughtn’t to have reminded him of that.
But he took it in his stride. ‘Not now, not till I’ve done some thinking about the flat. You see, I want to leave here quickly. Anyway, there’s no point in worrying wh
en I can’t do anything to stop them. And I felt so ill when I saw them. One’s got to try and protect oneself a bit.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Fran, switching the lights off. ‘Well, you’ve certainly got a glorious sunset. Now leave the door open and my bedroom door, too. You just call when you want me to help you.’
He thanked her as she went, then lay back looking at the golden sky. Already the first stars were coming out, where it paled to blue above the dark Hall. Wonderful how Fran had cheered him up. Actually, he’d liked the sound of that one-room flat ever since she’d first described it – though it might be better if they found a rather larger flat and shared it; more economical for them both and quite respectable at their ages. Well, well… what was it Mabel used to say? ‘A door never shuts but another opens.’ Mabel would be grateful to Fran now. He heard her open the door of her room… yes, she’d remembered not to close it. She’d come if he called her. It was a comfortable thought.
It wasn’t a comfortable thought to Fran, as she propped her door open. She’d have liked to go straight to bed. Not that she could, so early; May would think she was ill. She’d just lie down on the bed – but if she did that, she might fall asleep and not hear Baggy call. She must settle for just sitting down.
She sank into the armchair with too much abandon; her back gave a painful jerk. She moved cautiously. It proved to be a warning rather than a rick, but one would have to be careful. And now the open door was causing a through draught. Hoisting herself up she went to close the window. From here she could see the break in the lilac grove that indicated the little sundial garden but she could not see down into it. How could George and June be so reckless? Though, poor loves, if they wanted each other as much as that… But there was such a thing as being too permissive, she told herself sternly, and one must concentrate on protecting May and Robert. Incidentally, what reason could Baggy give for leaving? He’d probably blow the gaff on everything.
She went back to her armchair and thought about Baggy in London. He’d be astounded at what he’d have to pay for a cleaner, if one could be found. Soon she’d have to find one herself. One ought to be able to cope with cleaning a tiny flat but one was, after all, well on into the seventies. (Usually she thought of herself as barely out of the sixties.) She felt old, old, old – and then made a valiant effort to stop feeling it. ‘You’re fantastically young for your age,’ she told herself, ‘and if that poor old man’s got the guts to start a new life, you’ll jolly well help him. Anyway, stop worrying about it and about June and George. There’s nothing more you can do tonight, so relax.’ Oh, God, another worry had wriggled its way into her mind: Penny was somewhere out on the loose. She hadn’t given the creature a thought since seeing that tableau by the sundial. Ought one to go out and find her? Well, one couldn’t – in case Baggy called. And surely Penny would come to no harm – she wasn’t on heat now. She’d either return to the Dower House or go to the cottage or, at worst, the Hall. And there was no traffic anywhere near. But, really, if another catastrophe happened to Hugh’s dog…
Penny, in actual fact, was having a particularly pleasant evening. She had located George and June in the sundial garden not long after Baggy and Fran had turned tail on seeing them; and, far from turning tail, she had wagged her tail ecstatically and then proceeded to break up the clinch. Having almost completely outgrown her original nervousness, she was fast becoming a confident, loving dog who considered that endearments should be exclusively bestowed on her. So she instantly stood on her hind legs and pushed her way between George and June. They capitulated.
‘She doesn’t like people to kiss,’ said June. ‘Silly Penny! There’s enough love for everyone.’
Since then George and June had been sitting on the white painted seat with Penny stretched across their laps. She was more comfortable than they were; they found her painfully bony.
The conversation had been loving, vague and repetitive. Again and again June said, ‘What are we going to do?’ and George, in various ways, assured her it would be all right. He also, repeatedly, called her ‘my dear love’, which he had never called anyone before. (May was ‘darling’, ‘sweetheart’, even ‘dearest’ but never before had he felt a positive need to say ‘my dear love’.) June, also again and again, said it mustn’t go on, and George told her that it must – ‘Just give me time to plan. We can meet at the flat – when you come up to London for shopping.’ ‘But May would always come with me – determined to pay for everything – and Hugh and Corinna might come into the flat.’ ‘Well, we’ll manage here. We can go for walks. Perhaps we can find a hut in the woods. We could go to the cottage now.’
At this June said firmly, ‘We could not. And it’ll soon be time for you to go to the station to meet Robert.’
‘I’d forgotten that. Let him take a taxi.’
‘He’d wait for ages first – and he’d be anxious. George, I still love Robert.’
‘I know. I still love May. It’s what you told Penny: there’s enough love for everyone.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel, really.’
George, whose arm was around her, clasped her closer. She dropped her head on to his shoulder and looked up at the sky, now pale with dusk. From where they were sitting, the house was invisible and the little circular garden seemed to her a secret refuge from the world. Idly she quoted, ‘A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse’, then added ruefully, ‘Not a fortunate quotation, seeing that my sister is your spouse, and she’ll be wondering where we are.’
‘May will not be wondering where we are. She’ll be making jam.’
‘Which, in this case, will be a dress for my daughter. Oh, George, do you realise how good May is?’
‘I do, indeed,’ said George soberly. ‘And so’s Robert. I suppose I shall have to think about meeting him. Anyway, this creature’s elbows are crippling me. Get down, Penny. Give her a shove.’ They dislodged the unwilling Penny.
June, rising, said, ‘I know what I ought to do: get Robert to take me right round the world. He’s always wanted to go round the world – it was he who put the idea in Mother’s head. If only I had a lot of money!’
‘I do have quite a lot of money,’ said George. ‘And it’s at your service. But not for that.’
He drew her towards him but Penny instantly intervened.
‘Just as well,’ said June. ‘I’ll take her back to the cottage and try to get my thoughts in order before Robert comes home. You’ll have to say goodnight to May for me.’
George saw them both back to the cottage, then shut Penny in the kitchen and took June in his arms. But he did not kiss her lingeringly. He was suddenly inhibited by the thought that he was in Robert’s house. Ludicrously conventional, he told himself but still… things weren’t going to be easy.
It was now too dark to risk losing his way through the lilac grove. He went by way of the park. There was still a faint golden glow beyond the Hall. It had been a benign sunset, not one of the lurid ones that Robert found inspiring. Not that, as yet, he’d been sufficiently inspired to start work on that projected Gothic novel. It was to be hoped that he soon would and that the work would utterly absorb him. Yes, indeed.
George opened the gate which led from the park to the Dower House front garden. There was a light upstairs in May’s sewing-room. No light yet in Baggy’s room so presumably he was still in the Long Room. Perhaps he’d enjoy a drive to the station. He and Robert could chat on the return journey, George having no desire to chat with Robert. Sad, that. George, who had an enormous respect for his younger brother’s work and intellect (no head for business, though) usually enjoyed a quiet talk with him.
Surprisingly, the Long Room was in darkness. George switched the lights on and then saw that Baggy was asleep on the sofa. Most unusual; unless there was a family gathering or something special on television he was almost always back in his room by this time. George felt a wave of affection for him. Funny, he couldn’t remember ever before seeing his father sleeping. Poor old dear
. Actually, he looked younger than usual, so relaxed and faintly smiling. Very, very peaceful…
George, feeling a sudden catch at his heart, hurried to the sofa.
A few moments later he was out in the hall, calling loudly for May.
19
Baggy’s death came as a shock but not a surprise, to everyone but Fran. If she had ever known that his heart was weak she had forgotten it, and there had been no mention of it during her visit. She remembered his saying that he had been afraid he might not live long enough for his deed of gift to Robert to be satisfactorily completed, but she had taken that to be the superstitious fear she herself would have felt in similar circumstances. Now she learned that his tenuous hold on life had been generally accepted, also that he had visited the local doctor. This transpired only after his death as he had asked that the visits should be treated as confidential.
Well, if he had to go he had chosen a good moment for it, Fran told herself. In his state of health he obviously could not have lived on his own in London and had he even mentioned the idea it would have caused trouble. Either he would have brought what was happening between George and June out into the open, or he would have given the impression that he wasn’t happy at the Dower House, in which case Robert and June would have felt that they ought somehow to have kept him with them. She could only hope that his new interest, impracticable though it was, had given him some happy thoughts, and she hung on to the fact that he had died with a smile on his face.
So exit the living Baggy; and May, with her usual efficiency, made sure that the dead Baggy’s exit from the Dower House was remarkably swift. Her main reason for this was that Prue and Dickon were due home on Friday. She telephoned Dickon on Thursday morning suggesting they should stay at school for this particular half-term holiday but he firmly declined. He was, however, willing that they should spend Friday night in London – ‘We’ll go to a concert – more respectful than a theatre and, anyway, we want to go to this concert.’ May therefore, with determination which overcame all opposition, achieved the minor miracle of arranging for Baggy’s cremation – at some distance – to be on Saturday morning.