Fran, on hearing this, said, ‘But didn’t the children feel they should go to the funeral?’
‘I should hope not,’ said May. ‘And anyway, June and I wouldn’t have permitted it. It took us ages to get over Father’s funeral when we were young. I wonder that you took us.’
‘His family expected it,’ said Fran. ‘In my family, women didn’t go to funerals. They stayed at home and pulled up the blinds and got a meal ready.’
‘And we’ll stick to that ruling,’ said May, beginning to plan the food.
Fran said, ‘Goodness knows, I hate going to funerals but I do rather feel I ought to show respect.’
‘Who to? Some officials you’ve never met before? Darling Mother, I won’t let you go.’
Fran was glad to be overruled. She had never been to a funeral without feeling that death took a step nearer. And the older one grew, the less ground death had to cover.
Eventually, George, Robert and Hugh went, the two brothers driving off after the hearse soon after breakfast, Hugh travelling direct from London. Prue and Dickon arrived home mid-morning, by which time May had sorted Baggy’s clothes, which were to be sent to a deserving charity, and was finishing the turning out of his room.
‘Oh, don’t come in here, darlings,’ she said, when her son and her niece routed her out. ‘This room feels depressing.’
Dickon said, ‘We’ve been thinking we might use it as a studio.’ He looked round critically. ‘Pity it’s not large enough for sculpture.’
‘Couldn’t you do some small sculpture?’ said May.
‘Nowadays, dear Mother, small sculpture is a contradiction in terms.’
Prue, picking up Fred the Frog, said she wouldn’t mind having him but was frustrated by the entrance of Fran who, after greeting her grandchildren affectionately, firmly claimed Fred the Frog for herself. She said she wanted him as a memento of Baggy. This was true; but she also wanted Fred in his own right.
‘I must see about lunch,’ said May briskly. ‘Now, no one’s to stop in here brooding.’
No one had the slightest desire to, though Dickon gave one backward glance and said to Prue, ‘Remember coming in here that last night of the holidays? Poor old Baggy.’
Prue said, ‘Where’s Mother?’ at the same moment that Dickon said, ‘Where’s Penny?’
‘They’re both at the cottage,’ said Fran, who had just come from there.
‘Mind you bring your mother back in good time for lunch,’ May told Prue, ‘or Dickon’s favourite cheese soufflé will go flat.’
Fran took Fred the Frog up to her room and then stood at her window looking out at the sunless day. The lilac grove was at its worst now, with all its heads of blossom shrivelled and brown. She felt it was in keeping with her mood.
She had gone to the cottage soon after Robert had left for the funeral. It had been her intention to speak frankly to June, except that she didn’t intend to disclose that Baggy had known as much as he did. That would have troubled June unnecessarily. But as things turned out, she hadn’t troubled June at all. She had found herself incapable of it. The main reason for this was June’s manner which had been… poised, aloof? Perhaps ‘assured’ was a better word. As a rule, June gave the impression of feeling that others knew more about everything than she did. She was humble when criticised and always vaguely apologetic for being what she had once described as ‘rather a muddle’. This morning she had been surprisingly clean-cut and, though sincerely sorry about Baggy’s death, she had shown no emotion about it. She had, however, shown emotion about Robert.
‘He’s so terribly upset,’ she told her mother. ‘He feels we ought to have gone on having Baggy with us. Not that we could have – he was longing to be with George and May, anyway with George. Robert knows that but… I think he feels guilty because we’ve been so happy on our own. And there are other things besides Baggy troubling him.’
‘Such as?’ Did this mean Robert knew about George?
‘Well, he can’t get started on his novel. And he’s so tired of reviewing. He was tired of that in London but he quite enjoyed it when he first came down here, and he did particularly good work. Now he’s tired of it again. So he feels guilty about that and about his novel and, now, about Baggy. Robert’s always so hard on himself. But I shall cope. I’ve just got to work things out.’
Would a wife talk like that when on the brink of being unfaithful to her husband? But perhaps it had already happened and June was feeling triumphant rather than guilty. Fran had known women to acquire supreme self-confidence as the result of a consummated love affair. Well, if June had, there was nothing to be done about it. And if she hadn’t it didn’t sound as if she was going to. And either way, Fran decided to hold her tongue. Speaking frankly might easily do more harm than good and she didn’t really want to admit she knew anything at all – especially now she would so soon be leaving and wouldn’t have to witness whatever lay ahead. The Monday evening train which took her grandchildren back towards their school would take her back towards her flat.
And, standing by the window, she realised just how desperately she was longing for that flat. Age, in Baggy’s case, had craved company. Age, in her case, craved solitude – anyway, some good, solid dollops of it. Oh, the bliss of being on her own for a while! What joy to escape from the tyranny of regular meals, particularly and most ungratefully May’s superb meals which caused one to feel full, take afternoon naps and put on weight. She reminded herself how often she disliked having to go out to buy food, and then cook it, or get to some restaurant in the pouring rain. Well, she needn’t do either, for a long, long time. She could live on tea and toast. No, tea and starchless rolls.
A delicate smell of cooking cheese wafted up through the open window. She sniffed it with pleasure. Well, three more days of the fleshpots.
The funeral contingent arrived back in the early afternoon, George determinedly cheerful, Robert determinedly ungloomy but noticeably quiet. George reported one touch of light relief: Mildred had turned up for the funeral, looking like Mary Queen of Scots on her way to execution – ‘Somebody asked if she was the widow. By the way, Fran, she said she was looking forward to having you back in London.’
Fran sighed. ‘Well, we all have our crosses. Anyway, it was nice of her to go all that way for the funeral.’ But it was hard not to believe that Mildred had just seized an opportunity for dressing up.
Hugh, though feeling genuine regret for his grandfather, was now mainly troubled by the thought of the weekend ahead of him. Since Tuesday he had only had one conversation with Corinna, during which she had asked him to tell her mother she wouldn’t be coming down – ‘Just say I’m busy.’ She had then added, ‘Perhaps I’ll write and tell her about us but I may not get the time. If I do write, she’ll speak to you about it. If not, you needn’t say anything unless you want to.’
Since he had gone direct to the funeral, only now did he deliver Corinna’s message to his aunt. May said, ‘I know. Spare me a minute, Hugh darling. In here.’
He followed her into the William Morris drawing room which no one but she ever used. There was an elegant desk where she did her household accounts.
‘This came this morning,’ she said, taking a letter from a pigeon hole. ‘You’d better read it.’
The letter read:
Darling Mother,
Thank you for writing about Baggy’s death and for saying I mustn’t go to the funeral. It would have upset me terribly. Sorry you couldn’t get me on the telephone. I never seem to be in these days. Poor old Baggy – but it’s lovely to know he went so peacefully.
I think I ought to tell you that Hugh and I have broken off our engagement – if we ever really were engaged. No quarrel or anything. It’s just that I want to concentrate on my work. And anyway, we’re not right for each other. I’m not nearly good enough for Hugh. But of course I shall go on being fond of him.
I won’t be coming for the weekend or for quite a while now as I’ve got a tiny job in Sir Harry’s ne
w play. Only an understudy but it’s a miracle to get a job at all – and be allowed to take it while one’s still a student. Sir Harry managed it for me. Later on I’ll come down just for a Sunday. Be as nice to Hugh as you can – but I expect he’ll like it best if you just leave him alone. Love to you all, and I am so sorry about Baggy.
Corinna
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Hugh, handing the letter back.
‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to amplify at all?’
Hugh shook his head. ‘I think she’s covered the ground pretty well.’
May doubted it. For some time she’d had her suspicions about ‘Sir Harry’ and now felt they’d been more than justified. But she had once said she would welcome anything that prevented Corinna from marrying Hugh and she hadn’t changed her mind. She said now, ‘I won’t pretend I’m sorry this has happened but I am sorry for you. And if there’s anything in the world I can do to help… But she’s probably right in saying you’ll prefer to be left alone. Would you like me to tell the others and warn them all, even your mother, to lay off you? She’d understand.’
‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘That would help quite enormously.’
‘Then I’ll do it at once. Oh, Hugh darling, do please believe I’m truly fond of you.’
Hugh smiled. ‘I know. It was just those idiot grandchildren you were against. Well, you won’t have them now.’
‘Unless Prue and Dickon want to marry. They do seem completely satisfied with each other’s company. Perhaps I ought to separate them.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t put ideas into their heads,’ said Hugh.
‘Anyway, I don’t think I’d dare separate them. They’d consider it such an impertinence. Oh, I’ve probably got another nightmare ahead of me.’ She put Corinna’s letter away and then added, ‘Gloomy in here, isn’t it? I sometimes think this house is just the Long Room for eating in and a lot of bedrooms for sleeping in. And I still haven’t got the right line on the conservatory. Well, I’ll go and see your mother now.’
‘I’ll come too, and whisk Penny out for a walk.’
At the cottage, June greeted Hugh with, ‘Sarah’s just been here, wanting you particularly – you can catch her if you’re quick. Take your mac; it keeps on trying to rain.’
‘All right,’ said Hugh, defending himself from his dog’s ecstatic welcome. ‘Come on, Penny.’
He set out after Sarah, but her stride was as long as his and she was almost at the Hall before he got within shouting distance. Then she turned and came to meet him.
She was wearing her grandfather’s old Burberry which was highly unbecoming to her. It occurred to Hugh that he had never yet seen her in any becoming clothes – except the tent-like silk nightgown, which had made her look a little like a madonna. He had often remembered that.
Her voice as she greeted him managed to be both harsh and tragic. ‘Oh, Hugh, I’m so terribly sorry to bother you when you’ve just come from your grandfather’s funeral, but I simply must talk to you.’
‘Right,’ said Hugh. ‘Talk away. What’s the trouble? Is it your grandfather?’
‘Goodness, no. He’s been particularly well. He wanted me to ask you to dinner tonight but you probably won’t want to come.’
Dinner at the Hall would be a way of escaping from his family. Even if May muzzled them all he was going to feel embarrassed. He said at once, ‘I shall be delighted to come. Now tell me what’s upset you.’
‘I meant you might not want to come after I’ve told you I’ve had a letter from Corinna and though she says it’s not my fault in any way – not that I’d have thought it was if she hadn’t mentioned it but now… What I mean is, has what’s gone wrong between you anything to do with that night you fell asleep in my room?’
‘Nothing whatever,’ said Hugh, convinced he was speaking the truth. Corinna had only used that incident as an excuse for following her own inclinations. ‘Now take it calmly, Sarah. We’d better go indoors and discuss it quietly.’
‘If we go indoors, Grandfather may grab you. We can sit down over there.’
There was an ancient seat built round a far more ancient oak. They sat, with Penny and the spaniels milling around them. Hugh, after a moment’s silence, said, ‘I’m going to tell you something I shan’t tell the others, so please keep it to yourself. She’s chucked me because she’s got someone else. And besides that, she finds me dull.’
‘I don’t believe it. She says wonderful things about you in this letter. She says how good you are.’
‘I’m not, of course. Anyway, goodness can be extremely dull.’
‘Not to anyone who’s lived in my family. You wouldn’t believe what most of the men have been like – even grandfather, when he was young. To me, goodness is the most exciting thing in the world.’
‘Not my dreary kind of goodness. Anyway, please believe that you hadn’t anything to do with what’s happened. And I can’t think why Corinna should write to you.’
‘She meant to make it easier for you, and I think she meant to be kind to me, only it hasn’t worked out that way. She’s made me feel terribly guilty.’
He was suddenly so angry with Corinna that some of his anger overflowed on to Sarah. He said, ‘Oh, don’t be idiotic Sarah,’ then added more kindly, ‘I swear she’s only trying to excuse herself. May I see the letter?’
‘No!’ said Sarah, blushing furiously. ‘I mean, well, it’s private.’
He could interpret that blush. Corinna, no doubt, had handed him over with her blessing. As if to confirm his guess Sarah went on, ‘She’s got it all wrong. I never for one moment hoped… One can’t help liking people but I’d never have tried… Never, never.’ She turned away, took an outsize handkerchief from the Burberry’s pocket and blew her nose loudly.
Hugh, waiting until she had recovered herself, knew that in spite of feeling resentfully disenchanted by Corinna, he still loved her. And in spite of both liking and admiring Sarah, he did not love her at all. But he also knew that he would, almost certainly, end by caring enough for Sarah to marry her and help her save what little could be saved from the wreck of her family’s fortunes. He saw this not in any moment of clairvoyance but as the result of his common sense. He was well aware that he had a great deal of common sense. Goodness and common sense, what could be duller? But dear Sarah would appreciate both. And then he found himself remembering her asleep in bed with one arm round Penny and knew he was already fonder of her than he had realised.
She put her handkerchief away and said, with her jaw tightly clenched, ‘I’m making an outsize fool of myself. I do apologise.’
Hugh, placing his hand on hers, said gently, ‘Unclench, Sarah.’
May, on her return from the cottage, told George about the break between Hugh and Corinna. He asked if June was upset about it.
‘Only because she thinks Hugh will be. She agrees with me that it’s for the best. So does Robert.’
‘Oh, he was there, was he? He said something about going for a walk.’
‘He came in just before I left, looking very down. June was hoping hot buttered toast for tea might cheer him up; I’ll make some for us. And I must tell the others about Hugh’s troubles.’
‘They’re Corinna’s troubles too. She must have hated hurting him. Any idea what she’s up to?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said May, deciding to keep her own guess to herself.
After tea, George said he would go and cheer Robert up. The truth was that he could no longer stay away from June. Even if he couldn’t get a moment alone with her it would be something just to be with her.
As he entered the cottage Robert came out of the sitting room, said, ‘Hello, see you later,’ and went upstairs two at a time. George stared after him in astonishment.
Robert, his fair skin flushed, his blue eyes alight with excitement, had looked and also sounded on top of the world.
‘What’s up with Robert?’ said George, entering the sitting room.
June was seated by the li
ttle fire she had lit to welcome Robert, on this cheerless day of intermittent drizzle. She gave George a loving look and said, ‘You may well ask. Did you ever see such a change in a man? I’ve just convinced him that we ought to go round the world.’
It had been George’s intention to take her in his arms the instant they were alone together; not since Baggy’s death had he had the chance to. But he was now so stunned by her words that he could only say, ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Couldn’t be more so. We’ve just worked it all out. We can sell Baggy’s house now. And he’s left us far more money that we expected – thanks to your making him leave everything to us. And Robert’s sure he can get a series of articles commissioned. He’s full of ideas for them already.’
George sank heavily on to the sofa. He found June’s bright manner both chilling and convincing. She wasn’t putting on an act. And rarely had he seen her so self-confident. All he could find to say was, ‘But us, June?’
Her manner softened. ‘George darling, you know we couldn’t go on. It was… just a silliness, caused by crazy old Aunt Mildred’s nonsense. Why, you said yourself, here in this room…’
‘I never said it was a silliness. Anyway, that was at the beginning. Later, that night in the garden…’
‘You still must have known it couldn’t go on.’
‘I knew it couldn’t not go on. So did you. Be honest, darling.’
She would have liked not to be honest, not to admit that even for one moment she had felt… but it wouldn’t be fair. So she said, ‘I know. I did feel like that, for a while. But I stopped feeling it after Baggy died. And it wasn’t anything to do with the difficulty of keeping it secret. I simply didn’t want it any more. It didn’t seem real – compared with death. Death’s so terribly real.’