Tale of Two Families, A E-Book

Dodie Smith

• Herausgeber: Hesperus Press Ltd.
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 388

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A charming tale of love, family and compromise filled with vivid characters, from the author of I Capture the Castle. From Dodie Smith, the author of I Capture the Castle and The Hundred and One Dalmatians comes a classic tale of complicated sibling relationships, friendship and forbidden love. Set in 1970s England, this is a delightful, funny novel with deftly drawn characters and true heart. Suspecting her husband, George, of dalliances in the city, May decides it is high time the family moved to the country. Determined to create the perfect home there, she finds an idyllic country house set in a lilac grove and sets about furnishing it properly and cooking enormous meals. She even manages to convince her less well-off sister, June, to move into a cosy cottage on the grounds with her husband Robert. This new set-up is very much a family affair as June's husband Robert just happens to be George's brother: the two sisters are married to two brothers. At first both families seem to be settling in well, sharing delicious meals and having jolly times together. Their grown-up children, Hugh and Corinna, visit from London and there even seems to be a hint of romance in the air for them, while the surviving grandparents from both sides of the family move into the big house and forge new friendships. But the arrival of a cantankerous great aunt will reveal the cracks in the family's tangled relationships and will even threaten to unveil the greatest secret of all - while May thought moving George to the country would put a stop to his affairs, he has begun to fall in love with his sister-in-law, June. The death of a beloved character will, however, turn the tables again and lead to the ultimate, happy, denouement.

Leseprobe

A Tale of Two Families

DODIE SMITH

Contents

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1

As the taxi neared the signpost saying ‘To the Dower House only’, May told the driver to stop. ‘We’ll walk the rest of the way.’

The driver stopped but said he could easily drive them. ‘The lane’s narrow but the surface is all right. I often came here when the old ladies were still alive.’

May said she would rather walk, then turned to her sister, June. ‘I want to sort of sneak up on the house.’

June, conscious of unsuitable shoes, asked the driver how long they would have to walk. He said not above five minutes, on which May briskly got out of the taxi, to be followed, less briskly, by June. Then May, having discovered on the way from the station that the driver had missed his lunch, told him to drive to the nearest village and get some. ‘I’ll treat you. And you can take at least an hour. I shall need all of that to explore the place.’

‘Okay and thanks,’ said the driver. ‘And when I come back I’ll drive up to the front door. Might be raining again by then. Well, February Filldyke, as they say.’

‘Nice man,’ said May as the taxi drove off. I haven’t heard February Filldyke since I was a child. What ages it is since I was last in the country.’

‘Yet of course you have the right clothes for it,’ said June. ‘But you would have even if you were suddenly asked to go yachting or cross the Sahara.’

‘Well, I dare say I could rig up something. Here, hold up!’ She shot out a steadying hand. ‘You’ll need some proper country shoes when you come to stay with us here. I’ll treat you.’

‘Don’t be so sure you’re coming here. The house may be a horror.’

‘But I told you, George liked it when he came to see the old girls about their investments. And it’s so miraculous to get the chance of renting such a house. It could be sold for an enormous amount if it wasn’t entailed. I do love this twisty lane. And there are signs of spring already. Those dangly things are lambs’ tails, later on they get all furry yellow and come off on you.’

‘This is going to be a long five minutes’ walk,’ said June.

May thought this possible as there was still no sign of any house, but she continued to find things to praise: the overgrown hedges, the tall, still-dripping trees, the brilliant green of the grassy verges, the freshness of the air. And after several more bends in the lane they saw a white wooden gate standing open. Once through this they looked across a large, circular lawn surrounded by a gravel drive. And now at last they were face to face with the house.

‘Much too large,’ said June.

‘Not at all. If you knew how I’m longing for space, after that poky flat.’

June laughed. ‘You can’t call that fabulous flat poky.’

‘I can and do. The fact that it’s expensive doesn’t make it spacious.’ May stood still, gazing at the house. ‘Georgian, I think – no, the roof looks Queen Anne. I’d say Queen Anne refronted in the late eighteenth century.’

‘The things you know about architecture!’

‘I told you, I’ve been reading up about country houses. Those downstairs windows look Victorian.’

‘So does the conservatory. That’s pretty hideous.’

‘I don’t agree. It could be amusing if one got the right line on it. And that big room on the left balances it. That could be an orangery, with those tall windows, except that it looks fairly new. Well, come on. Shall we go across the lawn or by the drive?’

‘The lawn will be wet. And I bet the whole house will be damp. We’re in a hollow here.’

‘We are not in a hollow. I shall strike you if you go on disparaging everything.’

They crunched along the gravel drive to the front porch, which suggested the lych gate of a churchyard.

‘A bit ye olde, this,’ said May. ‘Porches so often spoil houses. But we can grow things up it. Now the key should be hanging on the right of the door. Well, it isn’t. I’ll read the letter again.’

There were wooden seats on the inside of the porch. They sat on them and May took a letter from her handbag and read it aloud:

Dear Mrs Clare,

I’m so sorry but I shan’t be able to meet you on Thursday, as arranged. I have to represent my grandfather at a family funeral – they keep on happening, I’m sure they’re taking years off my life. I’ll be home on Friday but I’m not sure what time. Perhaps Saturday would be a good day for you? But you may still prefer Thursday and to be on your own. You’ll find some of my great-aunts’ furniture in the dining room and drawing-room. It goes well with the William Morris wallpapers (original and still in almost perfect condition). But of course you may loathe the furniture and the wallpapers. I’ll leave the central heating on.

Just one thing: If there’s anything you want to know please don’t ask at the Hall. Though my grandfather has agreed that the Dower House shall be let, it’s best not to remind him that it’s going to be. Perhaps you could leave a message – I’ll put paper and pencil in the hall – andthen I could telephone you. And if you do decide to come on Saturday, I’ll be here.

Yours sincerely,

Sarah Strange

P.S. Key on nail right of porch – outside, hidden under the overhang. Key of the staff cottage under its doormat.

May handed the letter to June. ‘Curious handwriting, isn’t it?’

‘Almost illiterate.’

‘Oh, no – just peculiar. So spiky. Now where’s that key? Outside the porch, she says.’

May now found the key without difficulty and opened the front door. A wave of warm air came to meet them.

‘So much for your damp house,’ said May.

‘It’d be damp if it didn’t have central heating.’

‘Well, it does have central heating. George told me the old ladies had it put in because they suffered so much with rheumatism – one of them was crippled with it. This is a good hall. Looks as if it’s just been decorated.’

The panelling had been painted white. Doors stood open on either side. May, going through one of them gasped.

‘My goodness, this wallpaper might be new!’

It was a deep pink, with a raised design in ruby red.

‘You couldn’t keep this furniture,’ said June. ‘Or the curtains and carpet.’

‘I certainly shall. Everything goes with the wallpaper. I shall get to like it all, just as I’ve got to like art nouveau.’

‘I haven’t and never shall – this or art nouveau. Though I’ll admit the wallpaper’s handsome.’

‘That’s big of you.’

‘If gloomy.’

‘Of course it’s gloomy on a dark morning. Now let’s find the drawing room.’

It was on the other side of the hall. Here the wallpaper was a deep green against a yellowish background. The furniture included a cabinet packed with ornaments.

June, peering in on them, said, ‘Don’t tell me you like these.’

‘I shall, when I know more about them. I must read up about William Morris.’

‘I wonder if there’s a William Morris kitchen.’

But the kitchen was reasonably modern except for the long, scrubbed table and pine dresser which even June had to admire.

‘How I shall enjoy cooking in here!’ said May. ‘All sorts of wonderful things in great earthenware casseroles.’

‘They’ll feel embarrassed in that William Morris dining room.’

May, pushing open a door, said, ‘They won’t be eaten in that William Morris dining room. This is the room we shall virtually live in.’

It was long, with a large open fireplace and heavy white-washed beams. Three windows, one of them a French window, looked out on to a lawn beyond which was a grove of small, bushy trees. At the far end of the room there was an unusually large bow window with a window seat. May, moving quickly to it, said, ‘Look! That must be the Hall.’

There was an uninterrupted view of it, across a neglected park dotted with ancient oaks, many of them obviously near the end of their lives.

‘Palladian,’ said May.

‘Those pillars must make the inside dark.’

‘George says it’s going to rack and ruin – the whole estate is. And nothing can be done until the old man dies and the girl inherits, by which time it’ll be too late for anything to be done.’

‘Jolly prospect for the girl. And what a life for her, shut up in that tomb with an old man.’

‘George gathered from the family solicitors that she’s devoted to him. And I should think she’s trying to prop up her inheritance. Well, perhaps we can make things a bit more cheerful for her.’ May sat down on the window seat. ‘June…’

There was a sudden note of appeal in May’s voice which her sister instantly recognised. She sat down beside May and said, ‘Yes, darling?’

‘You do like this room, surely? It’s light and cheerful even on this gloomy day.’

‘Well, it’s certainly the better for not being cluttered up with old-fashioned furniture.’

‘I can do something marvellous in here, once I get a line on it. June, darling, please stop being against the house.’

‘I don’t give a damn about the house, one way or another. What I’m against is your leaving London. I simply can’t imagine life without you there.’

‘We’ll be just one hour from Liverpool Street and twenty minutes’ drive from the station.’

‘You’re forgetting how long it’ll take me to reach Liverpool Street. Anyway, I can’t keep dashing down here. And I can’t telephone whenever I feel like it.’

‘You can telephone ten times a day if you like, and reverse the charges.’

‘Of course I can’t. And why, why, why do you want to leave London? Neither you nor George are country-lovers.’

May, after heaving a heavy sigh, said, ‘All right. You’d better have the truth. I simply can’t stand having my nose rubbed in George’s goings-on any longer. Oh, I know they don’t matter. I really do believe they’re perfectly innocent.’

‘Of course they are,’ said June, who believed no such thing.

‘But I can’t go on…well, watching them. At best, the change of commuting down here may keep his mind off women for a bit. At worst, I shan’t see what he’s up to. I will not let myself be a nagging wife.’

‘You know he really adores you,’ said June, thankful she could mean it as well as say it.

May sighed again. ‘I suppose I do – though sometimes…You’d think he could at least be a little more discreet when he knows how it upsets me to see him paying attention to other women. Oh, well, there it is. I’m sorry I’ve told you, really. I made a vow years ago that I wouldn’t talk about it any more, even to you.’

‘It’s ages since you did. I took it that things were better.’ In actual fact, she had merely taken it that May thought they were. ‘Anyway, surely it doesn’t matter, talking to me?’

‘It’s disloyal. You wouldn’t talk to me if you had the same trouble with Robert – than which few things are less likely.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said June, who was quite sure she did know. Then she mentally touched wood. Perhaps it was unwise to feel a hundred per cent sure of any husband. ‘Let’s look at the rest of the house. And I’ll try to be on your side about it.’

They went up the white-painted staircase and found six good bedrooms, some of them with fitted wash-basins, some smaller rooms and a pleasant if old-fashioned bathroom. May, counting rooms, said, ‘I shall have masses of spare rooms, even when Corinna’s down here and Dickon’s home for his holidays. You can all come to stay. And the attics may be usable.’

She ran up the narrow stairs and called back, ‘Excellent attics. Come on up. You get a good view from here. There’s a little garden hidden in those bushy trees at the back – with a sundial.’

June went up and dutifully admired the hidden garden.

‘I wonder how you get to it,’ said May. ‘I can’t see a path.’

‘Probably the trees have grown together over the path.’

‘What are those trees?’

‘Difficult to tell when they’ve no leaves on.’

‘I must read up about country things,’ said May. ‘But at least I can spot trees like oaks and elms even when they’re bare. Oh, there’s a house – over there, on the edge of the park. You can just see the side of it. That’ll be the staff cottage.’

‘Looks more like a barn. They don’t paint cottages black.’

‘They do sometimes – anyway, they tar them or something. It must be a cottage, it’s got chimneys. We’ll go and find it.’

Down in the hall May remembered they hadn’t seen the room she had thought looked like an orangery. ‘The one with tall windows.’

They found it at the end of a passage. It was very large and high, with a modern fireplace, many bookshelves, and a parquet floor. There were four of the tall windows that faced the front garden. In the back wall, a door stood open on to a tiled bathroom.

May said, ‘Oh, this must be the room that was built as a bed-sitting-room for the crippled sister. George had tea here, not long before both sisters died – within a few weeks of each other. George said they were very gay and still quite pretty, though they were well over eighty.’

‘I wonder what we shall be like if we live to be eighty.’

‘You’ll be a shade too plump and I shall be match-stick thin – except that I shall start overeating when I’m seventy. I can’t bear brittle-looking old age. Of course you’ll wear better than I shall. Beauty always wears better than mere prettiness.’

‘Beauty? Me?’ said June, genuinely astonished.

‘You’ve always been… sort of on the edge of beauty. George was saying that, or something very like it, that last time you and Robert came to dinner. And to be brutally frank, he also said that you don’t make the best of yourself. Well, God knows I’ve told you that, often enough. You need the hint of red in your hair bringing out – I’d look a real faded blonde if I didn’t have a brightening rinse. And you should dress more revealingly. You bundle yourself up so. Incidentally, that coat’s had it. Why aren’t you wearing the one I treated you to?’

‘I didn’t want to get it wet.’

‘Oh, tut!…Well, we don’t really need this room but I may get a line on it. And the extra bathroom will be a boon. Now we’ll find the staff cottage. Imagine still calling it that! Oh, and I must write a message for Sarah Strange.’

There was a pad and pencil on the mantel in the hall.

‘Nice, a fireplace in the hall,’ said May. ‘We must have a fire in it when you all come down at Christmas.’ She wrote on the pad, ‘I love the house. My husband and I will come down on Saturday afternoon and then we can discuss everything. Looking forward to meeting you, May Clare.’

‘That’ll put the rent up,’ said June.

‘It’s fixed already – and very reasonable.’

They went out, replaced the key on its nail, skirted the conservatory, which was completely empty (May again praised its potentialities) and made their way to the back of the house. Here they eventually found a tunnel-like path through the overgrown bushy trees which seemed likely to lead to the cottage they had seen. But soon other paths branched off and it was difficult to keep a sense of direction. June, after a minute or so, said, ‘Do you know, I believe these trees are lilacs?’

‘What, all of them? There couldn’t be so much lilac.’

‘Well, they all look the same and they’re very like the old lilac tree in our back garden. Yes, I’m sure they’re lilacs.’

‘If so, Mother will go mad with delight. You know what a thing she has about lilac. She must come down when it’s in bloom.’

‘If she’s back. I gather she’s having a whale of a time.’

Their much-loved, long-widowed mother, who lived a colourful life on a large annuity, was completing a trip round the world by a prolonged stay with friends in America.

May said, ‘She’s supposed to be home by April. I wonder if we’re walking in a circle. It’s like being in a maze.’

‘Nice idea, a lilac maze.’

‘And we haven’t struck the little garden. Oh, thank goodness, there’s daylight ahead.’

They came out on to an overgrown lawn and at once saw the staff cottage. Black it was, tarred weather-boarding, but it was anything but gloomy. All its window-frames, the delicate barge-boarding of its two small gables, and its elegant iron-work porch were newly painted white. The whole effect was skittish.

‘It’s like something in a nursery rhyme,’ said June.

‘I wonder if it’s a Regency cottage orné. No, those little pointed windows look Victorian Gothic.’

‘So does the glass. How wonderful that it’s still intact.’

The narrow white glazing bars divided the casement windows into a pattern of small octagons, and in each gable there was a circular window suggesting a sunflower.

May, getting the key from under the mat, said, ‘I suppose the rooms will be tiny.’

The hall and the staircase were certainly narrow but there were two fair-sized sitting rooms, and the kitchen, which ran across the full width of the cottage, was large. Upstairs there were two good bedrooms, two smaller ones, and a fairly primitive bathroom. A ladder-like staircase led to a loft lit by the two sunflower windows and a dormer window looking towards the Hall. The whole cottage was newly distempered white.

May said, as they came downstairs, ‘What a waste that we don’t need this.’

‘Would you be allowed to let it?’

‘I shouldn’t think so and anyway I shouldn’t care to. I suppose we could lend it, but we’ve no friends I fancy having so close. Oh, my God! Yes, of course!’ The light in May’s eyes suggested a soul’s awakening. ‘You must come and live here. Oh, how marvellous!’

‘You’re raving mad,’ said June. ‘It’s out of the question.’

‘But it’s absolutely ideal. Robert told me only last week how he wished he was moving to the country.’

‘I dare say. But what about his work?’

‘How often does he go to Fleet Street?’

‘Oh, several times a week.’ It wasn’t true. He seldom went more than once, to deliver work and collect more books to review. And he was longing to take a year off from reviewing to write one of his novels (those novels which were so highly praised by important critics, but earned only a few hundred pounds). But coming here remained out of the question.

‘Well, he can go up with George, either by car or train.’

‘Railway fares are expensive. And what about Hugh? He couldn’t come down here every night. He works later than George.’

‘He could go to our flat, with Corinna. She wants to stay there until she finishes at her Drama School.’

‘What, the two of them all on their own in the flat?’

‘Certainly. And if they want to pop into bed together, why not? Then they might get over wanting to marry.’

‘They won’t get over it,’ said June. ‘They’ve been in love since they were children. And I think it’s cruel of you to be so against them. Lots of cousins marry.’

‘They’re double cousins.’

The sisters had married brothers.

‘Anyway, they will marry, whatever you say, just as soon as Hugh’s in a position to, which ought to be fairly soon.’

‘I know,’ said May, gloomily. ‘George is delighted with him.’

Hugh, June’s twenty-year-old son, worked with his uncle in the City.

‘Anyway, that doesn’t affect the fact that we can’t come and live down here. What about Baggy? There’s no room big enough for his huge furniture.’

Baggy, the sisters’ father-in-law (his nickname, originating in some now barely remembered family joke, was used even by his grandchildren) had lived with June and Robert ever since the death of his wife, ten years earlier – or rather, they had lived with him, in his large Edwardian house in the outer suburbs.

Only for a moment was May stumped. Then she said triumphantly, ‘Baggy can live with us. He can have that big room with the tall windows – it’ll make an ideal bed-sitting-room. He’ll love having his own bathroom, surely?’

And I’d love his having it, thought June. Baggy, the kindest and least burdensome of old men, always avoided the bathroom during rush hours, but once he got into it he stayed an unconscionable time. And it would be very, very pleasant to be on her own with Robert in this exquisite little house – and Hugh and Prudence too, of course, whenever they could come. And Prue would so love the country in her holidays. All the same, it was still out of the question. She said firmly, ‘Darling, it’s most terribly kind of you, both to offer the house and suggest taking Baggy. But we just can’t afford to live here.’

It had no effect whatever. May merely pointed out the cheapness of living in this tiny house – ‘There’ll be no rent or rates, George will take care of all that. And the move needn’t cost you a penny – all your stuff can come down here with ours. And just think! Once you find you like it here you can sell your house.’

‘It’s still morally Baggy’s. He only made it over to us to save on death duties. And he may not want to sell it.’

‘Well, you can sell it eventually. And it’ll bring in enough capital to earn quite a decent income – George will see to that. And then Robert can drop reviewing and stick to his novels.’

Which was what he wanted to do more than anything in the world, thought June. Everything was against her. With relief she said, ‘Listen, there’s our taxi hooting. And we’ve got to find our way back through that maze.’

But they were able to skirt the lilac trees by walking through the park and then get into the front garden by a small side gate. May, looking at the Dower House, said, ‘Fascinating to think that’ll soon be our home. And you’ll be in that darling cottage.’

‘That’s enough!’ said June with sudden fierceness. ‘If you say one word more about it I won’t even consider it.’ Then she realised she had made a concession.

May pounced on it. ‘But you will consider it? And quickly, because the instant I tell George he’ll be on the phone to Robert.’

‘You’re not to tell George until I say you may. And if I go on thinking it’s impossible, you’re not to tell him at all. Please, May! Please promise.’

May did some quick thinking. What could account for opposition to a scheme that would benefit not only June but her whole family? And June had always disliked living in Baggy’s ugly, inconvenient house, which she’d had to run with a minimum of help.

June, even more urgently, said again, ‘Please, May!’

May, still puzzled, said, ‘All right, I promise. No one’s going to bully you into living near me if you don’t want to.’

‘You know it isn’t that.’

May did know – which made it all the more puzzling. And then, as they crunched across the gravel drive to the taxi, she thought, ‘I’ve got it!’ Those unsuitable shoes, that shapeless coat with its worn fur collar – and that wispy headscarf! June, barely forty, her junior by two years, was letting herself get a mental middle-aged spread. She was terrified of change, couldn’t assimilate a new idea. But she would, given time.

May smiled lovingly. ‘Of course it isn’t that. You just need a breather – I’m an idiot to have rushed at you so. You just think it over quietly.’

‘Oh, bless you,’ said June fervently.

But she couldn’t start thinking in the taxi. May asked to be driven around the countryside and June couldn’t stop wondering if she would soon be living in it. Driving from the station she had felt inimical because it was going to rob her of May. But now, the villages, inns, churches and ancient houses charmed her and it was a joy even to look at distance… But still the idea of coming here was out of the question.

At the station at last, May and the taxi driver parted on beaming good terms, assuring each other they would meet again soon.

‘Might get tea on the train,’ said May, as they waited on the windy platform.

‘Not me. I just want to sit quietly and think.’

‘Well, good for you. Tell you what, we’ll travel separately. Then you can think till you bust. Actually, I’ve some thinking to do myself. I want to get a line on that long room off the kitchen.’

June, relaxing in a corner seat – May, of course, had taken First Class tickets – said to herself: ‘Now! Assemble your facts.’

But they had assembled themselves, at lightning speed, when May had offered the cottage. Robert had always longed to live in the country. Baggy would welcome the chance to live with George, firstborn and favourite son (not that Baggy hadn’t always been wonderfully kind to Robert). Hugh, Prudence… their mother was sure of their delight. As for herself, it was the sharpness of her own delight that had scared her. Surely it was a danger signal? But what reason could she give for refusing? And could she now bear to refuse?

Come on, now, face it calmly, as she’d faced it for twenty-one years – longer, really, because she’d known about it even before her marriage. And never, in all her countless meetings with George, had she given herself away. And what the hell was there to give away? She didn’t love George, as she loved Robert. There were times when she didn’t even like George, those times when his goings-on made May unhappy. All she’d ever felt was a dizzying physical attraction, which harmed no one, not even herself. Indeed, she derived great pleasure from it; when a meeting with George was ahead she felt years younger. And would seeing him oftener (probably almost every day; what bliss!) really be dangerous? Perhaps just the reverse; she might get used to George. She couldn’t imagine that, couldn’t even wish it. But it might happen.

There was movement in the compartment as the man nearest the door rose to open it. May stood there with a cup of tea – which, being May, she had not slopped into the saucer. She handed it to June, smilingly thanked the man who coped with the door, and went.

‘Oh, my darling, May,’ thought June, stirring her tea. ‘Rather than hurt you, rather than hurt Robert, I’d cheerfully die.’ She didn’t mention George, it never having occurred to her that he was hurtable. ‘But I’m not going to hurt anyone. What I feel about George is just my private bit of fun. It’s really only…’ She had a flash of illumination. ‘It’s what Mother used to feel about Rudolph Valentino. She told me she could sit in a cinema positively dazed by him, even when she was newly married. Well, George is just my Valentino.’

Everything would be all right. She relaxed and drank her sweet, strong, nasty tea with considerable pleasure while she thought of the black and white cottage on the edge of the lilac grove, and George living just on the other side of the lilac.

When they reached Liverpool Street station May was outside in the corridor, waiting. Even before the train stopped, June said, ‘It’s all right. Of course we’ll come if you’re sure you want us – and George does.’

‘George will be as delighted as I am. Oh, what fun it’s going to be. I’ve got a marvellous line on that long room. I shall make it a sort of extension of the kitchen, with a huge scrubbed table. Oh, tell Baggy I’ll give him lots of steak and kidney puddings.’

It was Baggy’s favourite dish. Robert, unfortunately, disliked it.

June said, ‘Ask George not to telephone until after dinner. Give me time to talk to Robert and Baggy. Of course, they may object.’

‘You know jolly well they won’t,’ said May.

2

Robert had never owned a car and had only a hazy knowledge of routes out of London; but he did have a sense of direction. So it was not very long before he said to George, ‘Surely we’re not heading for Surrey?’

‘No, indeed,’ said George.

‘But you said last night on the telephone that you had a client in Guildford. Guildford is in Surrey, surely?’

‘Yes, indeed. And I do have a client there, a charming old man who’d have been delighted to give us lunch. And I knew you’d enjoy the outing. But we don’t happen to be going on that particular outing. Not today.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Robert, unperturbed. Any outing with George was a pleasure. ‘Where are we going, then?’

‘To the Dower House,’ said George without any change of expression.

‘But you’re out of your mind. It’s tomorrow we’re going to the Dower House – with the girls.’

‘Exactly. And today we’re going without the girls, to make sure the place really is fit to live in. That’s all the more essential now we’ve persuaded you all to transplant yourselves.’

‘But I thought you’d already had a surveyor.’

‘Certainly. I got one in before I even discussed the house with May. It’s in remarkably good condition. The old ladies had money of their own and they took care of the place. But… Oh, I want one final calm look, before it’s too late. Things won’t be calm tomorrow, with the girls around.’

‘They’ll be terribly disappointed if you change your mind now,’ said Robert, adding mentally, ‘And so shall I.’

‘Well, it’s ninety per cent certain I shan’t change my mind. I found the place, I’ve had my eye on it for years. I made enquiries as soon as I decently could after the last Miss Strange died. Relax, Robert. You, certainly, should be glad to consider things calmly. You haven’t even seen this cottage that’s being wished on you. And neither have I. Couldn’t find it when I came down with the surveyor and didn’t think it mattered. Now, according to May, it’s a jewel. I wonder if it’s got any drains.’

‘June noticed hot and cold water taps – and electric light.’

‘Oh, everything will probably be all right. But I do have to be a little cautious as I shall be taking the place on a repairing lease. Not that I’m kicking about that. The Stranges can’t afford any more repairs. That’s why the rent’s so reasonable.’

‘I wish you’d let us pay a share of the rent.’

‘Nonsense. If you don’t live in the cottage it’ll just stand empty. Oh, do cheer up, Robert.’ George, waiting at traffic lights, cast a quick look at his brother. ‘You’re looking depressingly grim.’

‘Sorry. It’s just that…well, what am I to say to June about today? I can’t hide where we’ve been from her.’

‘I’ve got that all worked out. If I’m satisfied – as I expect to be – I shall own up to May. And then we’ll all go down tomorrow with tape measures and whatnot and no worries.’

‘But suppose you’re not satisfied.’

‘Then I shan’t say one word about today. And we’ll come down tomorrow and tactfully edge in objections – and also give the girls a chance to convert us.’

‘But I couldn’t pretend to June that I’d spent the day in Surrey.’

‘Of course you could. I’d coach you on exactly how you would have spent the day in Surrey.’

‘Definitely no, George. I never lie to June.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said George impatiently. Then the traffic lights changed. A few moments later he shot a swift smile at Robert and said, ‘Sorry. To me a lie that’s well-intentioned is merely tact. But of course I’m a devious character. Anyway, when we get back I’ll come in and see June and confess how I kidnapped you. I’ll explain everything. She’ll understand.’

‘But then she’ll have to lie to May, won’t she?’

‘No,’ said George with humorous resignation. ‘I’ll own up to June, own up to May. I’ll own up in the Personal Column of The Times if you like. Now stop looking like the Rock of Gibraltar and let’s enjoy our day. I shall like the house and you’ll like the cottage. Everything in the garden will be lovely. I don’t seem to remember there was much in the garden, except grass.’

‘Might do a bit of gardening.’

‘I shall enjoy watching you. Damn, it’s raining.’

‘Probably only a shower.’

But the rain was soon so heavy that the windscreen wipers could barely cope with it. George concentrated on driving.

Robert, cheerful now except for a slight fear that the chance of living in the country might yet be whisked away, meditated on his dear brother’s character. No doubt George was devious – though the word seemed unsuitable for his open-hearted nature – but he was also kind, generous, affectionate, good humoured (if occasionally irascible) and, above all, happy. It was a theory of Robert’s that happy people were basically good – and it was a theory that often led him to self-condemnation. For he wasn’t particularly happy, the main reason for this at present being that he was tired of writing about other men’s books. Now there seemed a chance that he could concentrate on writing his own; anyway, June thought this could be managed. She and Baggy had already gone into a huddle about it.

‘The rain’s set in,’ said George gloomily.

‘Still, it’s pleasant to see the country.’ They were now emerging from the suburbs.

‘It’s taken us nearly an hour to get little over halfway. Can’t see myself doing this drive very often.’

‘Anyway, you’re going to use the train, aren’t you?’

‘I shall get damn sick of all the hearty commuters. Well, I shall be one myself.’

‘You’re never hearty, George.’

‘Certainly not at the moment. Am I mad, condemning myself – and you – to five years in water-logged country?’

‘You’re not condemning anyone to anything. You’re keeping the flat for the present and Baggy doesn’t want to sell our house yet. At the worst, you could just use the Dower House for weekends.’

‘I haven’t taken the damn place yet,’ said George, and then felt guilty. He had raised Robert’s hopes, May was dead set on the move, and it really was time they took their turn with dear old Baggy. Still, it would be no joke if one uprooted two families and then found it had been a mistake.

Robert fell silent and tried to steel himself against disappointment. Even in London, he had much to be thankful for. He lived rent free, with considerable financial aid from Baggy (which Baggy planned to continue after the move as George would not hear of his father paying for his keep – if only there was a move!) And he had June.

If there was one thing in the world that inflated Robert’s ego it was to dwell on the fact that he had June while George only had May. Nice woman, May, but Robert would never have married her, if George had opted for June and she’d fallen for him. Once, on their honeymoon, he’d discussed this possibility with her and she’d said, ‘As if I’d ever have looked at George with you around! You’re so much handsomer.’

Robert was far from conceited but he did know this was true. He had classical features and a head of quite spectacular fair hair. George’s features were pleasantly nondescript and his brown hair couldn’t have been less spectacular. But Robert also knew that George could almost always outshine him, without effort and even when he tried not to. So he’d said to June, ‘What about George’s charm?’ She’d said she’d never even noticed it.

Soothing thoughts, and Robert took extra pleasure in thinking them here in George’s expensive car. George had so many worldly goods and George now had the power to blight Robert’s hope of a blissful country life. But George didn’t have June.

Blighting seemed more than ever likely when they drove through the village nearest the Dower House. George spoke of his dislike of ye olde English inns.

‘But this one’s genuine ye olde, isn’t it?’ said Robert, who thought the inn, the church and even a far from genuine ye olde antique shop pretty attractive. ‘Look at those beams.’

‘No doubt the brewers stripped them. I sometimes think beams, like bones, should remain decently covered.’

If only it would stop raining! George, though basically euphoric, was also mercurial. Robert was well aware that his brother’s last-minute caution was genuine and even sensible – but the rain simply wasn’t fair. It would bias George’s judgement.

In the lane to the Dower House the overgrown hedges brushed against the car.

‘Probably scratching the paint to bits,’ said George.

‘They seem to be very young, gentle twigs,’ said Robert, enchanted to feel so close to the coming spring.

The white gate was open. George drove on to the gravel, then pulled up and said disconsolately, ‘I can’t believe it’s the same house.’

‘Did you never before see it in the rain?’

‘Never. I came once in the spring and then on a marvellous autumn day. And the last time – when I came with the surveyor – there’d been a fall of snow and the whole place looked like a Christmas card. Well, thank God it’s still not too late.’

They drove to the front door. George, who had studied Sarah Strange’s letter, knew where to find the key – and got wet in the minute he took to find it. Why couldn’t they keep the blasted key inside the porch?

He had barely unlocked the door before a clear, hard, female voice called loudly, ‘Hi, there!’ He started, turned and saw a tall figure, dressed in an ancient Burberry, rubber boots and a particularly hideous waterproof hat, coming across the lawn. ‘Vicar’s wife or something, probably thinks we’re trespassing,’ he whispered to Robert and considered going to meet the approaching female; then merely called ‘Good morning.’ No point in getting wet.

The woman, who had a stride like a man’s, reached them in seconds and said loudly, ‘Don’t come near me. I’m dripping. Just let me strip.’

She flung off the waterproof hat and began taking off the Burberry. George frankly gaped. Minus the hat she was possibly the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Then he hastily helped her with the Burberry. He didn’t say anything because she gave him no chance. She continued non-stop.

‘I’m Sarah Strange. We met the first time you came to see my great-aunts but you won’t remember. Anyway, I hope you don’t. I was a mountainous girl of fourteen. For years I was afraid I had elephantiasis.’

‘Well, you haven’t got it now,’ said George. She was slim, even in a pullover and two cardigans. He put the Burberry down on one of the porch seats and introduced Robert who, while admiring the girl’s beauty, was feeling slightly deafened by her voice.

Sarah, leading the way into the hall, said, ‘I’m just back from London. Did Mrs Clare come down yesterday? Oh, yes, here’s a message.’ She read what May had written, then turned to George. ‘It says that she and you will be coming tomorrow.’

‘So we shall,’ said George. ‘But my brother and I happened to be in the locality today so we thought we’d drop in.’

‘I bet you wanted to look round on your own, and I don’t blame you. Just let me stoke the heating – if it’s still in – and then I’ll point out all the snags. Oh, will you be using the cottage?’

Robert nervously wondered if this hard-voiced young woman would kick at having two families when only one rent was being paid. But when George outlined the plan for the cottage she merely said, ‘Oh, good. That little house needs living in. It’s a pet.’

They were now in the kitchen where, refusing offers of help, she was soon emptying hods of coke into a stove. ‘The thing’s fairly antiquated,’ she told them. ‘Of course you could go a bust and change to oil-fired central heating.’

‘Good idea,’ said George.

Robert felt cheered. George’s mental mercury was rising – Sarah Strange had counteracted the rain. She proceeded to point out various defects in the kitchen but was assured by George that he would take care of them. Finally she said there were a few things upstairs she ought to warn him about.

Robert said, ‘I’d rather like to look at the cottage just on my own. The rain seems to be letting up a bit.’

‘Anyway, take my Burberry,’ said Sarah. ‘It’ll cover most of you. Actually, it’s my grandfather’s. I’ll show you the way.’

She accompanied Robert to the front door, helped him into the Burberry, and pointed out the small gate leading from the garden into the park surrounding the Hall. ‘Go straight on along the edge of the lilac grove.’

‘Then it is lilac?’ said Robert. ‘My wife hoped it was.’

‘My great-aunts had a mania for it. They settled here when they were quite young and planted and planted, letting it run wild. There’s every conceivable shade of mauve. When poor old Aunt Katie was too crippled to walk I used to push her round under it in her bath chair.’

George, at the door of the drawing room, now reclaimed Sarah’s attention. ‘Ah, this must be one of the wallpapers my wife was so impressed by.’

There would be no backing out now, Robert decided. Blithely he sped on his way.

Once in the park he saw the Hall. June had said it was gloomy. To Robert it was also fascinating, stimulating to the imagination. Could one write a present-day Gothic romance – or rather, an anti-romance? Nothing he ever wrote was romantic. But today he felt romantic. Could one so treat romance that it was no longer a word to be despised, as it was nowadays? Could one fumigate the sentimentality out of romance? One might, if the romance included no love story – and he never did write love stories. Or did the word ‘romance’ imply a love story and, if so, had it always and need it?

But before he had answered his own questions he had come to the cottage, stopped thinking of himself as a writer, and been overcome by a desire to paint. The little black-and-white house, flanked by stiff poplars, was asking to be painted. And he’d painted rather well while still at school. Might try again, might be a Sunday painter.

The key! He’d forgotten to ask for it. Then he remembered June saying it had been under the mat. He found it, entered, instantly knew the cottage was perfect; then raced through it wondering if there was any room he could grab as a workroom. Perhaps the smallest bedroom, if they did without a spare room. But that bedroom was over the kitchen, there would be noise. Then he found the loft and claimed it. The perfect workroom and with a wonderful view of the Hall. Of course he would write about the Hall, and the book he would write about it would not only be his usual critical success; it would also appeal to a vast public. One didn’t hanker to be a bestseller for the sake of the money (what nonsense; of course one did) but one did long to reach the minds of the many, as most of the really great novelists had done. What was the secret? Intensity of feeling, surely…

His feelings became so intense that he lost count of time and only came back to earth when some church clock chimed the half-hour. What half-hour? He hastily looked at his watch and found it was twelve-thirty. He must have been here the best part of an hour. God knew what defects that hard-voiced, unnecessarily honest girl might have pointed out. Some might be serious.

He gave one last loving look around, praying it might not be a farewell look, then hurried back to the Dower House.

Before he reached the gate from the park he caught a glimpse of George and Sarah sitting on the window seat of a wide bow window. Seen thus, without being heard, Sarah certainly gave no impression of hardness. Indeed, there was something madonna-like about the pure oval of her face, her wide apart eyes and serene brow – except that Robert couldn’t for the moment think of any very dark madonna. Sarah’s hair, with its pronounced widow’s peak, was almost black. She wore it scragged back into a bun.

Unfortunately her voice, which he heard as soon as he entered the hall, was even harder than he had remembered, positively metallic. But at least it enabled him to locate the room she and George were sitting in.

She greeted Robert with, ‘Well, did you hate it?’

‘No one could hate it,’ said Robert fervently.

‘I ought to have warned you there’s no central heating there and the bath’s cracked. Of course you noticed.’

Robert, who had noticed neither the absence of central heating nor the presence of the crack, assured her that open fires would be enough for such little rooms. And George said he would provide a new bath.

Sarah, with a gentle smile, said in her harshest tones, ‘The things you plan to do! We ought to pay you to live here.’ She then looked at her watch and said she must dash. ‘Grandfather doesn’t like me to be late for meals. I’m sorry I can’t ask you to lunch but he doesn’t quite know about you yet. Anyway, our food’s always awful.’

‘I suppose he will sign the lease?’ said George.