Cover Her Face (5 page)

“He’s coming in to see Mother with Miss Liddell after dinner. I suppose he may go up then. But I don’t expect he’ll ask about the tablets. They’ve been going on for so long now. We just say when the bottle is getting empty and he gives us a fresh prescription.”

“Do you know how many tablets there are in the house now?”

“There’s a new bottle with the seal unbroken. We were to start it tonight.”

“Then leave it in the cupboard and give him the medicine. I shall be able to talk to Eppy about it when I see him on Saturday. I’ll get down late tomorrow night. You had better come with me to the dispensary now and it would be wiser to get home straight away. I’ll telephone Martha and ask her to keep you some dinner.”

“Yes, Stephen.” Deborah did not regret the loss of her meal. All the pleasure of the day had evaporated. It was time to be going home.

“And I would rather you said nothing to Sally about this.”

“I hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so. I only hope she’s capable of a similar discretion. We don’t want this story all over the village.”

“That’s an unfair thing to say, Deborah, and you don’t even
believe it. You couldn’t have anyone safer than Sally. She was very sensible about it. And rather sweet.”

“I’m sure she was.”

“She was naturally worried about it. She’s very devoted to Father.”

“She seems to be extending her devotion to you.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I was wondering why she didn’t tell Mother about the tablets. Or me.”

“You haven’t done much to encourage her to confide in you, have you?”

“What on earth do you expect me to do? Hold her hand? I’m not particularly interested in her as long as she does her work efficiently. I don’t like her and I don’t expect her to like me.”

“It’s not true that you don’t like her,” said Stephen. “You hate her.”

“Did she complain of the way she’s been treated?”

“Of course she didn’t. Do be sensible, Deb. This isn’t like you.”

“Isn’t it?” thought Deborah. “How do you know what’s like me?” But she recognized in Stephen’s last words a plea for peace and she held out her hand to him, saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I’m sure Sally did what she thought best. It isn’t worth quarrelling about anyway. Do you want me to wait up for you tomorrow night? Felix won’t be able to get down until Saturday morning, but Catherine is expected for dinner.”

“Don’t bother. I may have to get the last bus. But I’ll ride with you before breakfast if you like to call me.”

The significance of this formal offer in place of the previously happily established routine did not escape Deborah. The chasm between them had only been precariously bridged. She
felt that Stephen, too, was uneasily aware of the cracking ice beneath their feet. Never since the death of Edward Riscoe had she felt so alienated from Stephen; never since then had she been so in need of him.

It was nearly half past seven before Martha heard the sound she had been listening for, the squeak of pram wheels on the drive. Jimmy was whining softly and was obviously only persuaded from open bawling by the soothing motion of the pram and the soft reassurances of his mother. Soon Sally’s head was seen to pass the kitchen window, the pram was wheeled into the scullery and, almost immediately, mother and child appeared through the kitchen door. There was an air of suppressed emotion about the girl. She seemed at once nervous and yet pleased with herself. Martha did not think that an afternoon wheeling Jimmy in the forest could altogether account for that look of secretive and triumphant pleasure.

“You’re late,” she said. “I should think the child is starving, poor mite.”

“Well, he won’t have to wait much longer, will you my pet? I suppose there isn’t any milk boiled?”

“I’m not here to wait on you, Sally, please remember. If you want milk you must boil it yourself. You know well enough what time the child should be fed.”

They did not speak again while Sally boiled the milk and tried, rather ineffectually, to cool it quickly whilst holding Jimmy on one arm. It was not until Sally was ready to take her child upstairs that Martha spoke.

“Sally,” she said, “did you take anything from the master’s bed when you made it this morning? Anything belonging to him? I want the truth now!”

“It’s obvious from your tone that you know I did. Do you mean that you know that he had those tablets hidden? And you said nothing about them?”

“Of course I knew. I’ve looked after him now for five years haven’t I? Who else would know what he does, what he’s feeling? I suppose you thought he’d take them. Well, that needn’t worry you. What business is it of yours anyway? If you had to lie there, year after year, perhaps you might like to know that you had something, a few little tablets maybe, that would end all the pain and the tiredness. Something that nobody else knew about, until a silly little bitch, no better than she should be, came ferreting them out. Very clever, weren’t you? But he wouldn’t have taken them! He’s a gentleman. You wouldn’t understand that either. But you can give me back those tablets. And if you mention a word of this to anyone or lay a hand on anything else belonging to the master, I’ll have you out. You and that brat. I’ll find a way, never fear!”

She held out her hand towards Sally. Never once had she raised her voice but her calm authority was more frightening than anger and the girl’s voice was tinged with hysteria as she replied.

“I’m afraid you’re unlucky. I haven’t got the tablets. I took them to Stephen this afternoon. Yes, Stephen! And now I’ve heard your silly twaddle I’m glad I did. I’d like to see Stephen’s face if I told him that you knew all the time! Dear, faithful old
Martha! So devoted to the family! You don’t care a damn for any of them, you old hypocrite, except for your precious master! Pity you can’t see yourself! Washing him, stroking his face, cooing to him as if he were your baby. I could laugh sometimes if it weren’t so pitiful. It’s indecent! Lucky for him he’s half gaga! Being mauled about by you would make any normal man sick!”

She swung the child on to her hip and Martha heard the door close behind her.

Martha lurched over to the sink and clutched it with shaking hands. She was seized with a physical revulsion that made her retch but her body found no relief in sickness. She put her hand to her forehead in a stock gesture of despair. Looking at her fingers she saw that they were wet with perspiration. As she fought for control the echo of that high, childish voice beat into her brain. “Being mauled about by you would make any normal man sick … being mauled about by you … mauled about.” When her body stopped its shaking, nausea gave way to hate. Her mind solaced its misery with the sweet images of revenge. She indulged in phantasies of Sally disgraced, Sally and her child banished from Martingale, Sally found out for what she was, lying, wicked and evil. And, since all things are possible, Sally dead.

The fickle summer weather which, for the last few weeks, had provided a sample of every climatic condition known to the country with the sole exception of snow, now settled into the warm grey normality for the time of the year. There was a chance that the fête would be held in dry weather if not in sun. Deborah, pulling on her jodhpurs for her morning ride with Stephen, could see the red and white marquee from her window, and scattered around the lawn, the skeletons of a dozen half-erected stalls awaiting their final embellishment of crêpe paper and Union Jacks. Away in the home field a course had already been ringed for the children’s sports and the dancing display. An ancient car surmounted by a loudspeaker was parked under one of the elms at the end of the lawn and several lengths of wire coiled on the paths and slung between the trees bore witness to the efforts of the local wireless enthusiasts to provide a loudspeaker system for the music and the announcements.

Deborah, after a good night’s rest, was able to survey these preparations with stoicism. She knew from experience that a
very different sight would meet her eyes by the time the fête was over. However careful people were—and many of them only began to enjoy themselves when they were surrounded by a familiar litter of cigarette packets and fruit peelings—it was at least a week’s work before the garden lost its look of ravaged beauty. Already the rows of bunting stretched from side to side of the green walks gave the spinney an air of incongruous frivolity and the rooks seemed shocked into noisier than usual recriminations.

In Catherine’s favourite daydream of the Martingale fête she spent the afternoon helping Stephen with the horses, the centre of an interested, deferential and speculating group of the Chadfleet villagers. Catherine had picturesque if outdated notions of the place and importance of the Maxies in their community. This happy imagining faded in face of Mrs. Maxie’s determination that both her guests should help where they were most needed. For Catherine this was plainly to be with Deborah on the white elephant stall. When the first disappointment had subsided it was surprising how pleasant the experience proved.

The morning was spent in sorting, examining and pricing the miscellaneous hoard that had still to be dealt with. Deborah had an amazing knowledge, born of long experience, of the source of most of her wares, what each article was worth and who was likely to buy it. Sir Reynold Price had contributed a large shaggy coat with a detachable waterproof lining which was immediately placed on one side for the private consideration of Dr. Epps. It was just the thing he needed for winter visiting in his open car and, after all, no one noticed what you wore when you were driving. There was an old felt hat which belonged to the doctor himself and which his daily help tried to get rid of every year only to have it
bought back by its irate owner. It was marked sixpence and prominently displayed. There were hand-knitted jumpers of startling style and hue, small objects in brass and china from the village mantelpieces, bundles of books and magazines and a fascinating collection of prints in heavy frames, appropriately named in spidery copper-plate. There were “The First Love Letter”, “Daddy’s Darling”, an ornate twin pair called “The Quarrel” and “Reconciliation” and several showing soldiers either kissing their wives farewell or enjoying the chaster pleasures of reunion. Deborah prophesied that the customers would love them and declared that the frames alone were worth half a crown.

By one o’clock the preparations were complete and the household had time for a hurried luncheon waited on by Sally. Catherine remembered that there had been some trouble that morning with Martha because the girl had over-slept. Apparently she had had to rush to make up the lost time for she looked flushed and was, Catherine thought, concealing some excitement behind an outward air of docile efficiency. But the meal passed happily enough since the company was at present united in a common preoccupation and a shared activity. By two o’clock the bishop and his wife had arrived, the committee came out of the drawing-room windows to arrange themselves a little self-consciously on the circle of waiting chairs and the fête was formally opened. Although the bishop was old and retired he was not senile and his short speech was a model of simplicity and grace. As the lovely old voice came to her across the lawn, Catherine thought of the church for the first time with interest and affection.

Here was the Norman font where she and Stephen would stand at the christening of their children. In these aisles were commemorated his ancestors. Here the kneeling figures of a
sixteenth-century Stephen Maxie and Deborah, his wife, faced each other for ever petrified in stone, their thin hands curved in prayer. Here were the secular and ornate busts of the eighteenth-century Maxies and the plain tablets which told briefly of sons killed in Gallipoli and on the Marne. Catherine had often thought that it was as well the family obsequies had become progressively less extravagant since the Church of St. Cedd with St. Mary the Virgin, Chadfleet, was already less a public place of worship than a private repository for Maxie bones. But today, in a mood of confidence and exultation, she could think of all the family, dead and alive, without criticism and even a baroque reredos would have seemed no more than their due.

Deborah took her place with Catherine behind their stall and the customers began to approach and search warily for bargains. It was certainly one of the most popular attractions and business was brisk. Dr. Epps came early for his hat and was easily persuaded to buy Sir Reynold’s coat for £1. The clothes and shoes were snapped up, usually by the very people Deborah had foretold would want them, and Catherine was kept busy handing out change and replenishing the stall from the large box of reinforcements which they kept under the counter.

At the gate of the drive little groups of people continued to come in throughout the afternoon, the children’s faces stretched into fixed unnatural smiles for the benefit of a photographer who had promised a prize for the “Happiest Looking Child” to enter the garden during the afternoon. The loudspeaker exceeded everyone’s wildest hopes and poured forth a medley of Sousa marches and Strauss waltzes, announcements about teas and competitions, and occasional admonitions to use the rubbish baskets and keep the garden tidy.

Miss Liddell and Miss Pollack, helped by the plainest, oldest and most reliable of their delinquent girls, bustled from St. Mary’s to the fête and back again at the call of a conscience or duty. Their stall was by far the most expensive and the hand-made underclothes display suffered from an unhappy compromise between prettiness and respectability. The vicar, his soft white hair damped by exertion, beamed happily upon his flock, who were for once at peace with the world and each other. Sir Reynold arrived late, voluble, patronizing and generous. From the tea lawn came the sound of earnest admonitions as Mrs. Cope and Mrs. Nelson, with the help of the boys’ class from the Sunday school, busied themselves with bridge tables, chairs from the village hall, and assorted table-cloths which would all have to find their eventual way back to their owners. Felix Hearne seemed to be enjoying himself as a freelance. He did appear once or twice to help Deborah or Catherine but announced that he was having a much better time with Miss Liddell and Miss Pollack. Once Stephen came to inquire after business. For someone who habitually referred to the fête as “The Curse of the Maxies”, he seemed happy enough.