In the distance, from the village, a thin column of woodsmoke rises into the clear spring sky. From his vantage point Freddie can see two men standing on the path from the woods, talking. The one leaning against the gate is Cattermole; the other—Freddie squints—the other is Jack Hennessy, son to his father’s head carpenter. Hennessy has a clutch of sons, all of whom work on the estate, and this son, Jack, is walking out with one of the Winterscombe maids, the plump pretty one called Jenna. Freddie has gleaned this information from his valet, Arthur Tubbs, a thin, acned Cockney boy brought down from the London house and not greatly liked by the other servants, most of whom are local. Freddie does not much like Arthur either, but he is a source of information, particularly on the subject of girls.
Arthur’s information in this department is a great deal more vivid than the often-conflicting information Freddie has received from boys at his school. The remarks concerning Jenna and Jack Hennessy were rather less welcome. A few years before, when he was thirteen, Freddie conceived an unspoken and unrequited passion for Jenna, so that when Arthur said she and Jack were courting, Freddie experienced a brief bout of jealousy. Now, however, that has worn off, and Freddie realizes it was foolish. No point in mooning about a maid, even a pretty one. Another year or so and Freddie will enjoy much more satisfactory conquests.
He turns his head. Cattermole and Jack Hennessy have broken apart; Cattermole has turned back to the village; Hennessy is striding in the direction of the woods. Freddie looks toward the house and gardens, where Boy and that pansy art fellow from London, Jarvis, have been playing tennis; Boy is handing his racquet to Jane Conyngham, and Jane, standing on the base line, has just served underarm straight into the net.
Boy does not stay to watch her play, Freddie observes, and grins to himself. They all know why Jane Conyngham is here today: She is here because Denton and Gwen have plans for her. They intend her to marry their eldest son, thus securing for Boy an estate of twelve thousand acres and an income conservatively estimated at fifty thousand pounds a year. Jane Conyngham does not interest Boy in the least, of course. For which Freddie does not blame him.
Freddie looks scornfully at Jane’s distant figure. Tall, thin, gawky. She has straight sandy hair and a narrow, freckled, sandy little face. She wears spectacles for reading (and she is always reading). What is more, the stupid woman cannot hit a tennis ball. Even Jarvis looks as if he is losing patience.
Freddie is growing bored; he feels the need for company. Perhaps he should wander back to the house? His eyes scan the terrace. But no, there is no sign of diversion there—just old Mrs. Fitch-Tench, who is fast asleep over her crocheting. Freddie’s mother is just going back into the house—Freddie sees her close her parasol and disappear from view—and Eddie Shawcross, whom Freddie does not much like, is wandering around the side of the house in a distracted way, glancing once or twice over his shoulder.
Freddie watches until Shawcross also disappears into the house, probably making for the library. Freddie begins to climb down from his perch. He will go and seek out Acland, he decides. Acland may prefer to be on his own—he usually does—but that is just too bad. Freddie, a gregarious boy, feels in need of conversation. Also, he is considering whether he might admit to Acland the truth about the cigarettes, whereupon Acland might—might—give him another.
And he knows exactly where Acland will be. By the birch grove, in the gazebo. He goes there now almost every afternoon.
When Freddie finds Acland, he is indeed in the gazebo, sitting on one of the seats with a book in front of him. Freddie, catching sight of him from a distance, assumes Acland has been there some while. When he enters the gazebo, however, he wonders. First, Acland does not seem pleased to see him. Second, Acland is out of breath, as if he has been running, and third, the book in Acland’s hand—a novel by Sir Walter Scott—is upside down.
Freddie wonders whether to comment on this and decides it would not be politic. Acland has a secretive side; he does not like to be spied on. “The trouble with this damned house,” Acland will frequently remark, “is that it’s impossible to be alone in it.”
Instead, Freddie flops down on the stone seat and mops his brow. He is feeling the weight he has put on this past winter, and the waistband of his new plus-four trousers is definitely too tight. Stupid tailors. He should not have eaten two helpings of pudding at luncheon. Thinking of the luncheon brings back the scene with his father, and Freddie lets out a sigh.
“God, what a day. First I lose to you at croquet. Then that fellow Shawcross bored me to death. Then Father made that terrible scene. I didn’t know what to do! My face was like a beetroot, and I haven’t blushed for a year and a half. I thought I’d stopped. Did you notice?”
“Not particularly.” Acland now has his book the right way up. His face is bent to its pages.
“Damned embarrassing.” Freddie has been practicing swearing as well as cigarette smoking. “Why are we saddled with a father like that? I ask you—no one else we know has to put up with a lunatic for the head of the family.”
“Lunatic?” Acland looks up. “Would you say so?”
“Yes, I would,” Freddie says in robust tones. “I think he’s crackers. Mad as a March hare. Always in a foul temper. Flies off the handle for no reason whatsoever. Mutters to himself. He drank his shaving water the other morning. Arthur told me.”
“Arthur is hardly a reliable source of information.”
“It’s true. In fact, if you want to know, I think Father’s going senile. I mean, he could be, couldn’t he? He’s as old as Methusaleh, and he dribbles—have you noticed? When he drinks his wine. And he farts. He let off the most enormous one the other night. I was playing billiards with him, and he leant over the table and—woof!—out it came. Sounded like a gun going off. Then he glared at the dog, as if he did it, and kicked it out the room. As if that would fool anybody…. And he’s foul to Mama. He’s foul to Boy. He’s foul to everybody. Getting Boy those embarrassing guns, when he knows Boy hates shooting and isn’t any good at it anyway. And his own shooting—well, you’ve seen. Even Cattermole was worried, he told me. He can’t control the gun at all anymore. It wiggles around all over the place. He nearly winged Shawcross last November. I mean, I know Shawcross was wearing that frightful hat, but that’s hardly an excuse, is it? You can’t shoot a man because he doesn’t know how to dress properly. I tell you, he’s mad. Look at that scene at luncheon. I thought he was going to explode. All right, so it was rude of Shawcross, all that stuff about the pictures—did you see how he looked at them? Personally I can’t see what’s wrong with them. The greyhound one’s damned good, if you ask me, jolly lifelike, but—”
“It was nothing to do with the pictures. Or Shawcross’s remark.” Acland closes the book. He looks at Freddie with an expression of mingled exasperation and amusement. He feels in his pocket, checks his watch, then produces his gold cigarette case. “You’d like one, I take it, Freddie?”
Freddie, to his consternation, blushes again. He hesitates.
“Well, it appears to be one a day now, occasionally two. You pinched one this morning, so I thought you might like another.”
“Acland … I …”
“For God’s sake. If you want one, take one. It might make you stop talking. With luck, it might make you go away.”
There is a pause. Freddie lights up, hoping Acland will notice the Du Maurier proficiency; perhaps Acland does, for he smiles narrowly but makes no comment. He, too, lights a cigarette, inhales, exhales, leans back against the walls of the gazebo thoughtfully.
“What provoked the outburst,” Acland continues after a while, “what occasioned it, was Boy’s remark. Didn’t you notice?”
“Boy? No. I was listening to that pansy fellow Jarvis. Boy was talking to plain Jane. I think he was talking to plain Jane.”
“Indeed he was. Boy is nothing if not obedient.” Acland stands up, wanders to the doorway, looks out. “Boy was talking to Jane, and Jane—who has a kind heart—wa
s asking him about his photography. I must warn her not to do that, by the way. Once Boy is launched on that subject, he’s unstoppable. So, we had a detailed list of all the photographs Boy had taken between breakfast and luncheon. The last one was of the King’s bedroom. He was unwise enough to say so, and our father heard him. That’s all.”
Acland pronounces the phrase King’s bedroom with distaste. Freddie goggles at him.
“That caused it? But why should it?”
“Because, Freddie, because that room is to be occupied for the first time in five years, this evening. By Shawcross, no less. Papa would prefer not to be reminded of that fact. He’s sensitive about that room, as you know.”
“And he doesn’t like Shawcross.”
“True. True.”
“In fact, he can’t stand him. Arthur told me. Arthur says it’s because Shawcross isn’t a gentleman—”
“And what do you think, Freddie?” Acland turns as he asks this question.
Freddie, surprised by a new note that has entered his brother’s voice, frowns. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe that. Shawcross is a cad. He’s supercilious and vain, and he has horrible little white hands—have you noticed? Also, he wears those frightful suits.” Freddie laughs. “You remember the ghastly blue one he wore with the brown shoes? And the hats …”
Acland begins to smile. He turns away, though, and Freddie has the feeling that Acland is concealing something from him.
“Of course,” Acland says in his most flippant voice. “Of course, Freddie. How clever of you. I’m sure you’re right. The suits, absolutely. And the hats …” He pauses. “Now push off, Freddie. I’m going for a walk. On my own.”
Freddie knows when his brother is mocking him; he gives Acland a grumpy look, a suspicious look, then sets off back toward the house.
Once he is out of sight, Acland throws down his book, glances to his right and left, turns toward the birch grove, and begins—after a few yards—to run.
Jenna is there before him. As soon as she sees him, she knows there is something wrong. Acland’s face does not disguise emotion well; the effort to conceal his feelings from Freddie has left his face white with anger, his green eyes glittering.
Jenna knows that expression. She also knows who provokes it. This they have discussed, many times.
“Oh, Acland, Acland.” She puts her arms around him. “Don’t. Let it be. Don’t think of him—”
“Don’t think?” Acland jerks away. “How can I? He’s here. I have to look at him. Sit at the same table with him. Pretend he’s just a guest like all the other guests. Pretend I don’t see the little smiles, the touches when they think no one’s looking. It makes me want to—”
“Acland—”
“Have you noticed his hands? He has horrible small white hands—soft hands. He’s vain of them. I think he puts something on them, some lotion—they stink of carnation. I look at his hands—they’re never still, always gesturing, gesturing—and I think, she must like them. My mother must like those hands. How can she be so blind? How can they all be so blind? Shawcross. The family friend. The writer. I read his books—she made me read his books. Little thin cheap snide things—they made me want to vomit—”
“Acland don’t, not now—”
“I could kill him, do you know that? I could actually kill him. Put him down, like a sick dog.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“Don’t I? You’re wrong. It would be easy enough. One shot. Or maybe my father will do it for me—I’m not sure he didn’t try, last autumn. Except he missed. Unfortunately.”
“That was an accident, Acland—”
“Was it? Or was it a warning? In which case he’s been warned—six months ago—and he’s still here. Insulting us. Smirking. Reeking of cheap scent. Rolling his tongue around titles. Using us and despising us. He despises my mother too. He doesn’t love her—he doesn’t even like her. He’s always talking down to her. This painter, that writer—‘Oh, but my dear Lady Callendar, haven’t you read …?’ I’d like to get hold of his throat and shake and shake, so I never had to hear it again—that horrible mincing affected voice. How can she bear to listen to it—”
Jenna steps back. Acland is trembling with anger. The imitation of Shawcross (Acland is a good mimic) was exact.
“You shouldn’t talk like that.” She hesitates. “I don’t know you, not when you talk that way.”
Acland does not answer her. He stands still, in the center of the circle of birch, their shadows blueing his face. It is as if he does not see her at all.
“Shall I go?” Jenna says. “Maybe I’d better go….” She starts to turn. This, at last, seems to reach Acland.
“No, don’t. Jenna—” He catches hold of her, pulls her toward him roughly, looks at her face, touches her face, then angrily buries his head against her hair.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Don’t go. Let me touch you. Hold me, Jenna. Jenna—make it go away. Make it all go away.”
“My goodness me. Where has everyone gone?”
Ancient Mrs. Fitch-Tench has roused herself from her slumbers. She has straightened her bent back as far as she can, mopped at her rheumy eyes with a handkerchief abstracted from the leathery object she still calls a reticule, and is now scanning the gardens. Mrs. Fitch-Tench may be deaf but she has excellent eyesight, particularly for distance. The gardens are empty.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Fitch-Tench,” Freddie says grumpily.
“What was that, my dear boy?”
“I said I don’t know, Mrs. Fitch-Tench,” Freddie shouts. “I expect people have gone to change. It will be time for tea presently.”
“Tea? Tea? Surely not. We have only just had luncheon.”
“It’s almost four o’clock, Mrs. Fitch-Tench,” Freddie yells. “Tea is at four-thirty. Luncheon was over hours ago. You’ve been asleep.”
Mrs. Fitch-Tench looks offended.
“Nonsense, my dear Freddie. I never sleep. I was merely resting. I was quite alert—quite alert. Oh, dear me, yes … However, if we are to have tea soon, I shall perhaps go inside, as you say….”
Freddie stands. He assists Mrs. Fitch-Tench to her feet, assists her with her reticule, parasol, crochet-bag, lorgnette case, slim volume of poems, and shawl. When Mrs. Fitch-Tench is safely stowed inside, Freddie returns to the terrace.
He feels grumpier than ever. He is guiltily aware, despite earlier resolutions, that he is hungry again. He is also bored, which does not improve his mood. He feels left out of things. There is no sign of his mother, or any of her guests. Boy is nowhere to be seen. Acland, Freddie has just glimpsed returning to the house via the side entrance, as if hoping no one will see him.
His father has also returned. Freddie glimpsed him pounding out of the woods like a bull elephant, puce in the face again, waving his arms and shouting at poor old Cattermole. Then he stumped across the terrace, his bitch Daisy at his heels, and disappeared into the house. He passed within inches of Freddie without appearing to notice his son’s presence at all.
Lunatic! Freddie scowls at the harmonious view before him, checks his watch—ten minutes past four; tea in twenty minutes—and decides to return to his room to wash his hands. He will use extra tooth powder on his teeth—yes, better remove all scent of tobacco from his breath before he next encounters his mother.
Activity and the proximity of tea restore his good temper. Freddie goes into the house whistling. He pats the head of the stag shot on Denton’s Scottish estates by Denton ten years ago. His humor improving by the minute, he bounds up the main stairs two at a time, turns down the corridor to the West Wing.
Segregation of the sexes is the practice at his mother’s house parties. The West Wing is where the bachelor guest rooms are located, although (as Freddie well knows) no one seriously expects the bachelors to remain in them. Their ability to find the room of whichever women they seek is facilitated by Gwen’s practice of placing name cards in slots on the outside of bedroom doors. In this way the propr
ieties are simultaneously observed and circumvented.
Passing doors, Freddie notes names. He glances toward the end of the corridor where, separated from the rest of the house by a small lobby, the King’s bedroom is located. The best room in the house, with its own stairs down to the service quarters below. Freddie grins; tonight Edward Shawcross should be in clover.
Freddie’s own room is on the second floor, almost directly above the King’s bedroom. These are his and his elder brothers’ quarters. Still whistling, he bangs on Acland’s door, throws it open, and finds the room empty. He bangs on Boy’s door, receives no response, and gives it an amiable kick.
It swings back to reveal Boy sitting on his bed. His head is clasped in his hands; he appears to be staring at the floor. On the bed next to him are his camera and his tripod.
“Tea!” Freddie shouts. “Come on, Boy, tea in fifteen minutes. Shake a leg! I say—” Freddie stops, stares at his brother. “Is something wrong? You look awfully greenish.”
“I don’t feel like tea.” Boy looks up at Freddie. His face is pale. It has a greasy, streaked look to it, so that for a moment Freddie has the appalling suspicion that his eldest brother has been crying.
“Gosh, Boy. You do look queer. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly all right.” Boy stands. He turns so that his back is toward his brother. He begins to fiddle, in a fussy way, with his tripod. “It’s just hot up here. Airless. Damn this bloody thing.”
This astonishes Freddie, for Boy never swears. He looks to see what could have caused the outburst.
“There’s a nut missing,” Freddie says in a helpful manner. “One of the wing nuts, from the legs. It won’t stand up properly, not without that—”
“I know that, Freddie.”
“I expect you’ve dropped it somewhere. Do you want me to look?”
“No. I don’t. For God’s sake, push off, will you, Freddie?”
To Freddie’s astonishment, Boy rounds on him quite savagely.