“But he works for Mr. Henniker now.”
“It’s something of a sore point.”
We went on with our tour of exploration, and as Hannah had said, there were so many rooms of the same kind that it would be easy to lose oneself. I hoped that if I visited Mr. Henniker frequently I should be able to see it all again and enjoy exploring at my leisure. Hannah was not the most comfortable of guides because whenever I looked at her I would find her eyes fixed on me as though she were assessing me. I put this down to the fact that I was a member of the family she had once served. However I couldn’t stop thinking of her looking down onto the Dower House and watching me.
I admired the carved fireplaces which had been put in during Elizabeth’s reign; their theme was scenes from the Bible, and I picked out Adam and Eve and Lot’s wife being turned into a pillar of salt and felt very ignorant when others had to be explained to me.
I thought the solarium delightful with its windows facing south and its walls covered in tapestry, which had no doubt been sold to Ben Henniker by my family, and I pictured my mother’s pacing up and down here and in the gallery while they discussed how they could possibly go on living here.
Finally we came down to the hall and passed through a vestibule to what Hannah called the Parlor.
“In the very old days,” she explained, “this was where guests were received.” The walls were paneled, the windows leaded, and there was a suit of armor in a corner. “Right at the other end are the kitchens with the buttery and pantry and that sort of thing. That’s the Screens end of the hall. You’ll want to see them. Some of them go right back to the days when the house was built and that was long enough ago, goodness knows.”
She led me back across the hall to what she called the Screens—a door which shut off the servants’ quarters from the hall and I was in a vast kitchen. An enormous fireplace took up almost the whole of one side. In this were bread ovens, roasting spits, and great caldrons. There was a big table with two benches, one on either side; two arm chairs—wide and ornate—were placed at each end of the table, and I later learned that one of these was occupied by Mrs. Bucket and the other by the butler, Mr. Wilmot.
As I entered the kitchen I was aware of whispering voices. I knew that I was being watched from some vantage point. A large woman came sailing into the kitchen followed by three maids.
Hannah said: “This is Miss Clavering, Mrs. Bucket.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Bucket,” I replied. “I have heard of you.”
“Is that so?” she asked, pleased.
“Maddy who is with us often mentions you.”
“Ah, Maddy, yes. Well, Miss Clavering, this is a great day for us to have one of the Family here.”
“It is wonderful for me to be here.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Bucket, “perhaps this is going to be a beginning.”
I felt a little embarrassed because they were all assessing me. I wondered whether they were thinking that a Clavering who had been brought up in a Dower House was not quite a true one. After all, I had never known the grandeurs of a house like this.
“I’ll never forget the day the Family told us they were going. Lined up in the hall we were…even the stable boys.”
Hannah was signaling to Mrs. Bucket, but I blessed the plump cook, for I could see that she was one who could not stop herself talking and that the sight of me in the kitchen—a Clavering—had brought back such memories that she could not stop herself recalling them.
“Of course, we’d heard it before. Money, money, money…It was affecting people all over the place. There was talk of this income tax and how it was ruining everybody. They’d already cut down in the stables. The horses they had when I first came here! And the gardeners! That’s where the cuts always have to come first…the stables and the gardens. I said as much to Mr. Wilmot, which he will tell you is the truth if you will ask him. I said to him…”
“It’s a long time ago, Mrs. Bucket,” interrupted Hannah.
“It seems like yesterday. Why, at that time you wasn’t born, Miss Clavering. When we heard that a gentleman coming from Australia had bought the place, we couldn’t believe it. You ask Mr. Wilmot. But it was so, and then it was all different and the Claverings went to the Dower House and we wasn’t on speaking terms. And now…”
“Miss Clavering has become acquainted with Mr. Henniker,” said Hannah firmly, “so he asked her to tea with him.”
Mrs. Bucket nodded. “And did you enjoy the scones, Miss Clavering? I always remember Miss Jessica…”
Hannah was staring at Mrs. Bucket as though she were the Medusa herself. I could see that she was imploring her to be discreet.
But I was not going to allow that. I said: “Miss Jessica? Who was she?”
“Mrs. Bucket meant Miss Miriam. She loved the scones. Don’t you remember, Mrs. Bucket, how she’d come down to the kitchen while you were baking them?”
“She said Miss Jessica,” I insisted.
“She gets muddled sometimes over names, don’t you, Mrs. Bucket? This is Miss Jessica. It was Miss Miriam and Mr. Xavier who used to love your scones. I reckon that Mrs. Cobb’s are not a patch on yours.”
“Nobody’s was a patch on mine,” said Mrs. Bucket emphatically.
“I thought they were delicious,” I said, but I was asking myself why she had said Miss Jessica.
Hannah asked quickly if I would like to see the stables.
I said I thought I’d better not, for it had just occurred to me that though my visits were supposed to be secret, some of the servants would certainly talk, so the fewer I saw the better. I could imagine my family’s consternation if it was discovered that I had become friends with Ben Henniker. I was seventeen years old, still a minor, and I had to obey orders to a certain extent, rebel that I was. It was therefore better for the time being to keep my visits as secret as possible, and the fewer people I saw the better.
I said it had been very interesting and I told Mrs. Bucket that I was glad to have made her acquaintance, and when I had thanked Hannah for showing me the house I left.
I felt they were watching me as I walked down the drive and was glad when I reached the bend, although then I was exposed to the road and wondered what would happen if Miriam, Xavier, or my parents came along at that moment. They did not, however, and I reached the Dower House unobserved.
I kept thinking of what Mrs. Bucket had said about Jessica and the scones, and I went straight to the Waste Land and found the plaque which I had stuck back into the ground with the name showing: Jessica Clavering Ju…1880.
She must be the Jessica of whom Mrs. Bucket had spoken.
***
All through the hot month of August I went to Oakland Hall. It was not only on Wednesdays because Ben said he disliked regularities. He liked unexpected things to happen, so he would say: “Come on Monday”…or “Come on Saturday.” And sometimes I would say: “Well, that’s the church fete day”—or some such engagement—“and they’d miss me.” Then we would make another date.
He seemed to be showing progress and could walk about more easily with the aid of his crutch. He made jokes about his false leg and called himself Ben Pegleg and said he reckoned he’d do as well with wood as most people did with flesh and blood. He used to hold my arm and we would walk along the gallery together.
Once he said to me: “There ought to be family pictures here. That’s what a gallery’s for, they say. My ugly face wouldn’t add much to it.”
“It’s the most interesting face I have ever seen,” I told him.
The face in question twitched at that. Underneath his tough exterior he was a very sentimental man.
He always talked a great deal, and I had vivid pictures of what his life had been. He made me see the streets of London clearly, and I could picture him with his bright eyes darting everywhere, discovering the best way of selling his wares
and always being one step ahead of the rest. He spoke often of his mother and he was very tender then. Clearly he had loved her dearly. Once I said to him: “Ben, you should have had a wife.”
“I wasn’t the marrying sort,” he replied. “Funny thing, there was never one who was there at the right moment. Timing plays a big part in life. The opportunity has to be there when you’re in a position to seize it. I’m not going to tell you there weren’t women. That would be a falsehood, and we want truth between us two, don’t we? I’d be with Lucy for a year or so and then just when I’d be thinking it was time I made it legal, something would happen to change it all. Then there was Betty. A good woman, Betty, but I knew it wouldn’t have worked with her either.”
“You could have had some sons and daughters to fill the gallery.”
“I’ve got the odd one or two,” he said with a grin. “At least they claim me as father…or did when I began to grow rich.”
“Who’s to say?”
And so we talked.
I was friendly with the servants too. Mrs. Bucket had taken me to her heart. She liked to discover how Mrs. Cobb did certain things and questioned me closely. She would sit nodding in a superior way with a smirk on her lips as I talked, and I was sure she was unfair to Mrs. Cobb.
“Old Jarman would have done better to stay,” she commented. “Look what he got. A cottage and enough children to fill it to overflowing, if you ask me. He would have been better to stay and wait for another five years. He’d have had five less to feed then.”
Wilmot after a while accepted my visits to the servants’ hall. I was sure he worked it out that although I was a Clavering, I was not really an Oakland Hall Clavering, for I had not been born in the great vaulted chamber where other Claverings had first viewed the world but in a foreign land. It had lowered my status in some way, and although he treated me with respect, it was tempered with a certain condescension.
I was amused, and Ben and I used to laugh a great deal over it, and I would wonder how I had endured the monotony of my life in pre-Ben days.
It was as we were approaching the end of August that Ben made me uneasy. We were taking our stroll along the gallery and he was now clearly able to walk quite easily with the aid of his crutch.
“If this goes on,” he said, “I’ll be off on my travels next year.” He was aware of my consternation and hastened to reassure me. “It won’t be this side of Christmas. I’ve got a lot more practice to do yet.”
“It will be so dull here without you,” I stammered.
He patted my arm. “It’s a long way off. Who can say what will happen by Christmas.”
“Where would you go?” I asked.
“I’d go up to my place north of Sydney…not far from the opal country where I’m sure there are more finds to be made.”
“You mean you’d go mining again?”
“It’s in the blood.”
“But after your accident…”
“Oh, I’m not sure that I’d go off with my pick. I didn’t mean that. My partner and I have mines out there that we know are going to yield. We’ve got men working for us.”
“What’s happening to all that now?”
“Oh, the Peacock’s looking after it.”
“The Peacock?”
Ben began to laugh. “One day,” he said, “you’ll have to meet the Peacock. The name suits him.”
“He must be vain.”
“Oh, he’s got a good conceit of himself. Mind you, I’m not saying it’s not warranted. Ever seen a peacock’s feather…that blue…unmistakable. He’s got eyes that color. Rare, you know, deep, darkish blue, and my goodness can he flash them when he’s in a rage. There’s not a man in the Company who would dare cross the Peacock. That can be very useful. I know he’ll take care of everything while I’m away. Why, if it wasn’t for the Peacock I wouldn’t be here now. Dursn’t be. I’d have to be back there. You’ve no idea how wrong things can go.”
“So you can trust this Peacock?”
“Seeing the closeness of our relationship, I reckon I can.”
“Who is he then?”
“Josslyn Madden. Known as Joss or otherwise the Peacock. His mother was a very great friend of mine. Oh yes, a very great friend. She was a beautiful woman, Julia Madden was. There wasn’t a man in the camp who didn’t fancy her. Jock Madden was a poor fish who ought never to have been out there. Couldn’t manage a job or hold a woman. Julia and I were very fond of each other. And when young Joss came along there wasn’t a shadow of doubt. Old Jock was incapable of getting children anyway.”
“You mean this Peacock is your son?”
“That’s about it.” Ben began to laugh. “I’ll never forget the day. All of seven he was. I’d built Peacocks at that time…it might have been about five years before. I’d got the peacocks on the lawn and the house had its name. Julia used to come over to see me. She was thinking of leaving Jock and coming for good. Then one day on the way over, her horse fell. She was thrown, and the fall killed her. Jock married again. She was a tyrant, that one. No one would have her, even though there was a shortage of women, so she took Jock because he didn’t know how to say no. Caught proper, he was. Our young Peacock didn’t like the household at all, so he promptly packed a bag, and one day there he was walking across the lawn, frightening the peacocks, marching along like any swagman. They brought him to me, and he told me: ‘I’m going to live here now forever.’ Not, May I? but I am! That was Joss Madden aged seven and that’s Joss Madden today. He makes up his mind what he wants and that’s how it’s going to be.”
“You’re fond of him, Ben. I can see you admire him.”
“He’s my son…and Julia’s. I can see old Ben in him in lots of ways. There’s nothing makes you admire people like seeing yourself in them.”
“So he stayed at Peacock’s and he became so vain that people called him the Peacock, and he’s ruthless and he’s your son.”
“That’s about the ticket.”
“And is he one of those about whom you say he claimed you as his father when you grew rich?”
“At seven I don’t know how knowledgeable he was about wealth. I think perhaps he just hated his home and liked the peacocks. He paid more attention to them than he did to me. He used to strut round the lawns with them. Then he became fascinated by opals—particularly those with the peacock colorings. He took an interest right from the start, and when Joss takes an interest it’s a big one. I know the place is safe with him. He could soon manage it all without my help. But the urge comes over me to be out there. Sometimes I dream I’m there…going down the shaft…down down into the underground chambers…and there I am with my candle and the roof a mass of gems…lovely opal flashing red green and gold…and right at the heart of it another Green Flash.”
“It’s unlucky, Ben,” I said. “I don’t want any harm to come to you. You’re rich. You’ve got Oakland. What does it matter about the Green Flash?”
“I’ll tell you one of the nicest things I’ve found since I lost the Flash,” he answered. “Well, that’s you.”
We didn’t speak for some time. We just stumped along the gallery, but he had started misgivings in my mind and I knew the day would come when he would go away.
Sometimes I used to feel that there wasn’t much time. If Ben went away I should no longer have an excuse for visiting the Hall, and there was so much I wanted to know before that happened.
I had learned a little about opals and how they were gouged from the earth. I had my own mental picture of the roaring camps he had talked of and the lives of the people who lived in them; I could picture the excitement when a brilliant gem was discovered; but I had learned more than that.
There was nothing Mrs. Bucket liked more than for me to go down to her kitchen, and I always made a point of doing this. I had discovered how little I knew of my own family and I often thought that Mir
iam, Xavier, and my parents were like shadow figures moving about in a dimly lighted room; the lights had been dimmed when my father’s gambling lost them Oakland Hall.
Mrs. Bucket’s main delight was to cook little delicacies for me so that I could compare them with the kind of fare Mrs. Cobb put on our table. I think she felt rather guilty because she had not gone with us to the Dower House. She liked to talk about the past, and from her I learned that Mr. Xavier had been a “bright little fellow.”
“Mind you, at the time of the trouble he was getting his education. He liked my cooking. Used to call me Food Bucket.” She purred and shook her head. “Nothing disrespectful, mind. ‘Of course you’re Food Bucket,’ he used to say, ‘because nobody can make food taste like you do.’ Eat. He could eat. Miss Miriam could be a little tartar now and then. When she was a little thing I caught her more than once stealing the sugar. Fifteen years old she was when she came to me and she said: ‘Mrs. Bucket, we’ve got to leave Oakland.’ And she was near to crying she was—and I don’t mind telling you I was too. Now, Miss Jessica…”
What a deep silence there was before Hannah said: “Have you made those currant buns for tea, Mrs. Bucket?”
“Who was Jessica?” I asked.
Mrs. Bucket looked at Hannah and then she burst out: “What’s the good of all this pretending. You can’t keep that sort of thing dark forever.”
“Tell me,” I demanded rather imperiously, as though I were an Oakland-bred Clavering, “who was Jessica?”
“There was another daughter,” said Mrs. Bucket almost defiantly. “She came between Miriam and Xavier.”
“And she was called Jessica?” I went on.