A Change of Pace (7 page)

‘Introductions are in order, I think.’ Pol moved gracefully forward, it was time to take over. ‘I’m Polly Redford, this is my husband, Peter, my niece Nell Sparsworth and her husband, Bernard. The boy in the hat is my nephew, Desmond. It’s too awful that there are so many of us, but I gather from my sister that Miss Westover did very kindly issue a blanket invitation. The traumas one has to endure with one’s Spanish staff! So decorative, but their English does sometimes leave something to be desired.’

Mrs. Byngham-Smythe looked at Pol thoughtfully, acknowledging a worthy opponent, and Bet swelled with pride for her sister. They were ushered upstairs without further ado, leaving Pete, Bernie and Diz to wait for them in the hall.

The ladies’ cloaks turned out to be a large, gloomy bedroom hung about with depressing prints of a quasi-religious nature and lit again, it seemed, by a forty-watt bulb. ‘Come down, darlings, when you’re ready, Alfonso will show you the way,’ shrieked Mrs Byngham-Smythe with a frightening smile. Her perfume remained behind her, the fumes so powerful they made Bet’s eyes water. She turned to her sister — always give praise where praise is due — ‘Pol you were marvellous, you really were.’ Pol smiled happily; Bet so seldom approved of anything one did. ‘I do occasionally have my uses ... ’

‘Whoever can that woman be, Aunt Pol. Is she some sort of relative?’ Pol smoothed her beautifully cut dress over her hips; she didn’t have to look in the mirror, she knew her make-up was perfect. ‘She’s another cousin, the Hon. Mrs Byngham-Smythe, one reads of her occasionally in the gossip columns. She’s been married umpteen times, drinks like a fish and will sleep with virtually anything, including the dog if pushed, or so I’ve heard.’ Bet and her daughter looked at one another in awe; they did not know these things.

Out on the landing, they peered into the gloom of the hall below; inevitably, there was no sign of Alfonso. Instead they were met with the sight of Diz lying on his stomach, apparently trying to retrieve something from under a rather dusty, rather beautiful, carved oak chest. Crouched beside him, Bernie looked resigned and Pete harassed. ‘He’s only broken a knob off this chest!’ said Bernie in his I-told-you-something-like-this-would-happen voice. ‘He said it was fake and gave it a tug and it flew off and rolled under there.’

For heaven’s sake, Pete, are you incapable of keeping a seventeen-year-old boy under control for two minutes?’ Pol’s question was purely rhetorical and Pete decided to ignore it. ‘Ah, there you are at last. Come on, Diz, forget about that damned knob and let’s find the party, it looks as if Alfonso’s disappeared for good.’

‘Probably eloped with our Sonia.’ Diz emerged, covered in dust. Bet made a few ineffectual attempts to tidy him up, but he brushed her hand away, and the party set off in Indian file down the long passage leading out of the hall, at the end of which was to be heard a noise like the distant baying of hounds. ‘The drinking call of the upper classes at the water-hole,’ Bernie hissed at Nell as they hurried down the passage, stumbling now and again in the inky darkness.

Emerging at last into the light, they found themselves in a huge, brilliantly lit room, stiflingly hot and already packed with people. Cynthia Westover was standing just inside the door, looking more than ever like the school hockey captain in mufti. Her blonde-streaked hair was permed tightly in the style of the nineteen forties, and she wore a plain shirt-waister of a rather unpleasant shade of puce. ‘Ah, Mrs Brandon. You’ve found your way at last! I’m sure there are plenty of people you know. Do grab yourselves a drink — the bar’s over there.’ She pointed vaguely towards the far end of the room. Not a sign of Simon Morris anywhere.

The bar, when they finally reached it, turned out to be a long. table loaded with food and drink of every description. Whatever Ms Westover saved on electricity, she undoubtedly spent on alcohol. It was presided over by Alfonso and a spotty girl from the village who Bet was pretty sure was yet another member of the ubiquitous Kettle clan.

‘This is more like it!’ Diz gulped down a champagne cocktail before Bet could stop him. ‘It’s only for the cherry, Mum, don’t panic.’ Bet shrugged and looked about her; she hadn’t come here to play the heavy parent, she’d come to ... Oh, hell, she surely wasn’t going to be so childish as to feel disappointed. But if Simon wasn’t going to be there, why had he asked her? But perhaps he wasn’t the one who had asked her; of course, that was an idea she’d dreamed up out of her imagination. And what did it matter anyway. Feeling like an Eskimo suddenly dumped down in the middle of an Arab market, she peered dismally up at the rather bad portrait of Saltpeter Westover above the mantlepiece and waited for something to happen.

‘Peter, my dear chap, how are you? We hoped we might bump into you here.’

‘Monty! Just the man I want to see.’

A tall man with a receding chin, who looked like a nineteenth-century cavalry officer in a Victorian print, had suddenly emerged from the crowd. Old Monty Cornwall at last! Behind him was his wife, Kitty, a replica of him except that she wore glasses. Pol kissed her fondly. ‘My dear, I feel absolutely awful I haven’t rung, but we’ve been inundated with builders and —’

‘My dear, so have we. I do so sympathise. Now do introduce us, we’ve been dying to meet your sister.’ There were shouted introductions all round, and the Rectory party gave a brief account of the rigors of their arrival. ‘Oh you poor dears! Cyn Westover has a heart of gold, but no manners whatever, none of the family has. Desmond, you simply must meet my daughter, she’s going up to Oxford in October so you’re sure to have something in common.’ Diz looked doubtful, but allowed himself to be led away in the direction of a group of noisy teenagers in the far corner of the room. They were all, Bet noticed, wearing jeans; there would, she supposed gloomily, be recriminations later on.

‘Come and meet the Campbells.’ Monty Cornwall made an all-embracing gesture. ‘They must be about your nearest neighbours. Frightfully nice couple — retired now, of course. I believe he used to run the gasworks in Bogota. They’re over there under the window, talking to the woman with a feather in her hat.’ Pol, Pete and the Sparsworths set off obediently behind him as he hoved his way through the crowd, despite the fact that the Campbells and their connection with the gas works in Bogota did not, on the face of it, sound all that exciting. Anything, Nell whispered to Bernie, was better than standing at the bar like a bunch of wallflowers. Bet, feeling rebellious, remained where she was and ordered another champagne cocktail.

‘You live in the Old Rectory at Hopton, don’t you?’ A timid voice sounded in her ear, reminding her forcefully of the caterpillar in
Alice
in
Wonderland
. ‘Yes we do,’ she said, smiling brightly. A sad, lost little lady stood beside her, dressed in what looked like one of those mail-order dresses advertised in Sunday newspapers, whose style never seems to change. They talked in a desultory fashion. The lady turned out to be the local librarian; she was pretty sure, she confided to Bet, that she had been invited by mistake. She had a feeling, she said, that Miss Westover had somehow got her lists mixed up. Not that I mind, Mrs Brandon, don’t get me wrong,’ she gave a shrill laugh, the gin in her bitter lemon beginning to take effect, ‘if it gives me a chance to see inside this lovely old place.’ And so it went on. Bet was passed from group to group, each time reciting her credentials until she began to wish she’d had them typed out beforehand, a sort of social CV to be handed out to interested parties on request.

What seemed hours later, she found herself standing in a corner with another- tiny lady — only this one had her hair cut in an Eton crop — holding a rather one-sided conversation on the subject of the Saxon village at West Stowe. Bet knew little, actually nothing, about West Stowe, and simply stood there, sipping her drink and trying to look intelligent. She hadn’t seen the rest of her lot since they’d departed in search of the people from Bogota. ‘You see, Mrs Brandon, what I feel about all this so-called reconstruction is —’

‘Hullo, Titania, how goes it?’

Bet spun round, spilling most of her drink in the process. Simon Morris, looking not cross this time but tired, smiled at her. ‘Hullo there, Smoky,’ said the West Stowe lady unexpectedly, ‘so you know Mrs Brandon.’

‘We’ve met here and there. And how are you, Tabby? Still mating all those gorgeous red setters and enjoying every minute of it?’

‘You really are the wickedest man! Of course I don’t enjoy it!’ The West Stowe lady positively glowed, the ethics of pseudo-historical reconstruction forgotten. A horsey woman with an eye-glass loomed up. ‘Tabby, my dear, I want to pick your brains about Golden Joseph — what price Crufts now, eh?’

‘Why Titania?’

‘We met in a wood, didn’t we.’

‘But if I’m Titania, who ... ?’

‘Bottom probably. I sometimes think an ass’s head would suit me admirably.’

‘I can’t think where my family have got to.’ Bet, far out of her depths, felt herself being swept along by currents she never knew existed. ‘I don’t seem to have seen them for hours.’

‘Have dinner with me?’

‘I’d like to ... When you’re next down, perhaps, and you must come and —’

‘I meant now, actually. My car broke down on the A 12 on the way here, I had the father and mother of a row with my director this morning, and what with one thing and another I don’t think I can take much more of this mob, God knows where Cyn digs them up. Will you?’

Quite suddenly, absurdly, she felt relieved; he had, after all, come as quickly as he could. To hell with the family, why shouldn’t she have dinner with Simon? ‘I’d like to,’ she said, feeling both reckless and wicked (why did she feel wicked?), ‘but I must tell the others.’

‘We can tell Cyn on the way out, don’t worry. Surely they’re capable of looking after themselves?’

‘Ah, there you are at last, Bet. We were wondering where you’d got to. How’s the car, Morris, no problems, I hope?’ Pete was showing signs of wear — a statue of Bacchus a bit blurred round the edges from being left too long in the rain. ‘Pete, I’m so glad you’ve appeared, I was just going to look for you. Mr Morris has very kindly asked me to dinner, so I won’t be home until later on.’

‘Splendid, splendid!’ Actually Pete looked none too pleased, his pale blue, somewhat bloodshot eyes darting suspiciously from Simon to Bet and back again to Simon. He helped himself to a passing drink and tried again. ‘Look, I’ve just had an idea. We’re all going on somewhere with the Cornwalls; why not join forces?’

‘Sorry, Redford, but count me out. I’ve had a pig of a day, added to which I was up most of last night with a bunch of fellow hacks at a Press do, and quite frankly I don’t think I could cope with a large party. Your sister-in-law here has kindly agreed to take pity on me and keep me company over a quiet meal at The George, after which I hope to have an early night.’ Pete closed his eyes, then opened them again and took a pull at his drink. Damned cheek! ‘Well I suppose if Bet would rather —’

‘I would rather — really I would. You know I don’t like big parties.’ (Did he?) ‘And I’ll be home hours before the rest of you.’

‘If that’s what you want ... It seems a shame, the Cornwalls are dying to meet you properly, Kitty was only saying — ’

‘Look, Redford, we must dash, otherwise we’ll never get a table. Come along, Mrs B., where did you leave your coat ... ? ’

‘Remember not to blame me when it all goes wrong,’ Cyn Westover shouted after Simon as he and Bet made for the door. Outside in the passage the cold hit them; it was like being enveloped in an icy blanket. ‘What did your cousin mean about it all going wrong?’

‘Look, you can nip up the back stairs to collect your coat; turn right at the top and then second left, you can’t miss it. I’ll wait for you here, but hurry or we really won’t get a table.’

It was freezing hard now outside. Bright moonlight on the red damask curtains in the ladies’ cloaks turned it into a bedroom from
Jane
Eyre
. Was there a poor, demented Mrs Rochester hidden somewhere in the attics? Bet hurried into her coat, teeth chattering, glanced briefly at the over-made-up stranger in the Victorian mahogany pier-glass, and went in search of Simon.

‘I think we’d better take Cyn’s Lancia,’ he said as they emerged into a large courtyard packed with cars, at the back of the house. ‘My old heap’s behaving a bit oddly, it hasn’t recovered yet from Sid Kettle’s service.’ Hands in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, he set off at speed across the yard, Bet tottering behind him, her high heels slipping on the frozen cobbles. ‘I see now where we went wrong,’ she shouted, trying to catch up, ‘we used the front drive. No wonder everything was so quiet — we thought we’d come on the wrong night.’

‘Good Lord, did you really? We don’t use the front drive, haven’t done for years. Didn’t Cyn tell you? No doubt your esteemed brother-in-law was driving?’

‘No, she didn’t tell us, and yes, he was, although I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. We do happen to be new in the neighbourhood, in case you’ve forgotten, and oddly enough the question of whether the Westovers use their front drive or simply slum it in the back doesn’t happen to have been on our list of priorities.’

At least that made him take notice. He gave a bark of laughter and looked round. ‘She bites, then, does she? I knew she would. I’m sorry, one’s arrogance is quite appalling; whether or not we use our front drive is indeed of no interest to anyone. I was just worried about the springs on your brother-in-law’s car, that’s all.’