Docketful of Poesy (17 page)

That?
What in the world could
that
be?
Did Tracy imagine that female academics were by definition frumps
and freaks?

I said, “Well…poetry wasn’t regarded the way it is
today. It wasn’t a special thing that only a few academics and
literary types were interested in. Poetry was one of the most
common forms of expression in the Romantic period. It was how
educated people amused themselves, informed themselves, and
communicated with one another. There were dozens of literary
journals and periodicals. Poetry was featured regularly in
newspapers. Knowing how to write verse was considered a necessary
skill. Literate people exchanged poems the way we exchange e-mails
now.”

Sounding bored, she said, “I’m not talking about your
book or why people back in the old days wrote poetry. I mean, why
are
you
so interested in it?”

And the weird thing is, for a moment I couldn’t think
of a way to explain it to her. I was pretty sure she didn’t want a
lecture on preservation of old culture versus fostering creation of
new, and I knew I didn’t want to get into a rant about the
subsidized subculture of modern poetry. I said finally, “That’s
like asking why someone likes art or music. It’s interesting to me
for many reasons. It’s beautiful. Language—just the words
themselves. The richness and texture of them. We’ve lost that as a
society. We communicate so…mechanically. So simplistically. The way
we shy away from using adjectives or adverbs…”

I thought she was probably sorry she’d asked, but she
didn’t interrupt, and despite myself I warmed to my theme. “And
it’s not just words. It’s how they’re used. The craft of saying
something subtle and clever within the framework of rhythm and
meter. The skill and discipline required to effectively use devices
like rhyme, alliteration, consonance and dissonance. Poetry
communicates in a way that nothing else does. Well, with the
possible exception of song lyrics.”

She continued to stare at me as though she couldn’t
quite think what to file me under.

“Do you write your own poetry?” Norton asked.

“Yes, but it’s very bad,” I said.

“I understand what you’re saying,” he said—to my
surprise. “Art is art. Whether it’s painting or poetry or
acting.”

Guiltily, I reflected that I’d never really
considered acting much of an art. I thought of it more like
mimicry. Something a person might have a talent or aptitude for,
but not really an art to be refined and polished. That was my own
intellectual snobbery at work.

“How long have you been in the business?” I asked
them both.

“I started out modeling,” Tracy said vaguely.

“It’s in my blood,” Norton said. “My
great-grandparents were in vaudeville. They were singers. Hope and
Lester Springer. Their act was called Hope Springs Eternal.”

Tracy laughed.

“My grandparents, my parents: I guess my sister and I
caught the showbiz bug from them.”

“Is your sister an actress, too?” I asked.

His face changed. “She was. She died years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

He nodded.

“Now I know who you are,” Tracy said. “You played
that little kid on TV. That show about the witch who works as a
housekeeper for the cop. And the oldest girl was your sister in
real life.”

“That’s right.”

I knew the show Tracy was talking about—although in
theory my brothers and I hadn’t been allowed to watch it. My mother
had strong feelings about television sitcoms—let alone television
sitcoms about women with magical powers and plastic breasts.

“I loved that show,” I said, which was perfectly
true. Norton smiled.

And now I knew the sad story of what had happened to
his sister. It was one of those Hollywood child star tragedies. A
hugely successful youngster who wasn’t able to translate her
preadolescent popularity into an adult career within the
industry—and couldn’t be happy outside of it. I vaguely recalled
that she had died of a drug overdose.

Thinking of adolescents reminded me that I hadn’t
seen Cordelia since Monday. I made a mental note to give her a call
and arrange some kind of outing.

“Looks like the rain is letting up,” Tracy said, and
sure enough, the rain had stopped once more and watery sunlight was
shining off the puddles and sparkling on the dripping leaves and
funeral statuary.

I spent the rest of Thursday afternoon watching
Tracy, Norton, Mona, and Todd chase each other around the lake and
the graveyard. White smoke drifted on the rainswept breeze, and the
greenwoods rang with the echo of fake gunshots.

Chapter
Thirteen

“I
’ve lost my flask
again
,” Mona sighed.

“Subconscious, innit?” Todd inquired, setting an
Irish coffee in front of her. “Your unconscious mind tellin’ you
not to drink that wheatgrass swill.”

Thursday evening we were crowded into the bar at the
Hound and Harrier. I hadn’t spent so much time in a pub since
college.

“Swill?” Mona repeated thoughtfully. Then she picked
up the cup and took a cautious sip. “Mmm. Who needs sleep
anyway?”

“
Yummy. Though not as yummy as in
the States,” Roberta remarked. “They do something different to them
at home. Add brown sugar instead of white maybe?” Inferior to home
the Irish coffee might be, but she was already on her third and
we’d only settled in the bar forty-five minutes earlier.

“You add a shot of Baileys,” Norton said, joining us.
He squeezed in between Mona and Roberta and glanced around the bar.
“No Tracy?”

Mona shook her head.

”I’ll tell you ’ow real Irish coffee is made,” Todd
said. “You add one shot of Bushmills and one teaspoon of brown
sugar to a proper Irish coffee glass. Then you tilts the glass over
a burner and roll it ’til the whisky starts to smoke. You
straighten the glass and watch the whisky light,
then
you
add the coffee and a dollop of heavy cream.”

“And a shot of Baileys,” Norton said.

Todd looked disgusted. “Nah, no Baileys, mate.”

“And a sprinkle of cinnamon or chocolate on the
whipped cream,” Roberta said.

“No!” Todd shook his head. “None of that trash.”

Todd and Norton began to argue about the merits of
Baileys. I glanced at the doorway of the bar and spotted Cordelia.
She caught sight of me waving, and wove her way through the
tables.

“How old is that child?” Mona inquired.

“Old enough,” Todd said, and I gave him a look. He
laughed and put his hands up as though trying to block my X-ray
vision. “Joking, luv. I’m ’armless, I promise.”

“If only that were true,” I remarked. “She’s not
quite eighteen,” I said to Mona, still eyeing Todd. He grinned
irrepressibly.

“Older than Helen of Troy,” Mona remarked, which
didn’t exactly settle my nerves.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked as Cordelia dragged a
chair over and dropped down in it. “I thought you were coming by
the set yesterday?”

She shuddered. “I thought I’d never get away!
Auntie’s had me helping with preparations for the bloody church
bazaar.” She combed back her blond mane with black-tipped fingers.
“Two bloody days of sorting junk. Before I forget: you’re all
invited to tea tomorrow.”

The others expressed surprise and delight at the
notion of formal tea at a genuine stately home with a real live
Lady of the Realm. One would have thought the tour bus had just
pulled up outside the Hound and Harrier.

True, there was a time when I would have felt just
the same. Not these days. Not when it came to Lady Vee anyway.
“You’re kidding,” I said to Cordelia.

She shook her head. “I think Auntie’s hoping someone
will decide to make a film out of one of her books.” She looked
across at Todd and winked.

He gave me the sort of look you generally see in a
grammar-school setting—usually accompanied by pointing fingers. I
ignored him.

Roberta graciously accepted the invitation of tea on
behalf of the rest of us. Todd went to fetch Cordelia an Irish
coffee minus the Irish, and the conversation flowed and eddied
around us, as usual mostly centering on the day’s filming.

Not looking at me, Cordelia said, “Grace, would you
want to have lunch one day?”

“Of course! I’d love to. We haven’t had a chance to
talk since I got back.”

She threw me a sideways look, and smiled. I smiled,
too. Sometimes I forgot how young she really was. How it felt to be
feeling your way through the rituals and routines of adulthood.

I watched her flirting with Todd, inwardly shaking my
head. When she excused herself to use the loo, Roberta gestured to
me. I followed her out into the lobby anteroom.

Roberta said, “That girl. Cordelia. She’s a student
at RADA?”

“She will be when she’s old enough—assuming she stays
interested in the idea of acting. Right now she’s at the Arts
Educational School.”

“But that’s an acting school, right? Can she
act?”

“I have no idea.”

Roberta bit her lip. “When you introduced her the
other day you said she was the cousin of Jacinda?”

“Who?”

She looked a little impatient. “Jacinda Croydon. Your
Allegra Brougham from the book.”

Uneasily, I admitted Cordelia and Allegra were second
cousins.

“Do you think she might be interested in playing the
role of Jacinda?”

“I don’t know,” I said, although I did—only too well.
“You could talk it over with Lady Vee tomorrow. She’s sort of
Cordelia’s guardian.” Not that Lady Vee would object to any project
that kept Cordelia out from underfoot. My own reluctance toward the
idea surprised me. In some ways it would be excellent hands-on
experience for Cordelia, and we’d get to spend a little time
together—and while she occasionally drove me nuts, I was very fond
of her.

But there was something about the production of this
film that made me uneasy. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Nothing
had happened, really, other than Walter Christie’s death. Well,
there had been the attack by gunmen, but that was apparently a case
of mistaken identity. And I had every reason to believe that
Walter’s death had been an accident. An accident that had happened
overseas, so there was small reason to think there was any danger
to any of us.

And yet…with each day that passed I grew more certain
that there was something…strange. Something bizarrely amateur and
off-kilter about this whole setup. Just the fact that Roberta was
suggesting on the spur of the moment that we replace a professional
actress with an untrained,
unauditioned
student...

I said, “Please don’t say anything to Cordelia until
you’ve spoken to her great-aunt.”

“Oh, no,” Roberta said quickly. “I realize there are
certain protocols here.”

Here?
As though getting the consent of a
minor’s legal guardian was the arcane custom of this tiny foreign
land?

We went back inside the bar. Cordelia had returned to
the table—and changed her seat for one beside Todd. She giggled at
my expression. I shook my head. Roberta took her seat on the other
side of the table next to Cordelia.

More Irish coffees were ordered. I’d never seen
people put Irish coffee away like this crowd. Apparently they were
under the impression that it was a traditional British pub
beverage—or maybe it was just that they couldn’t bear to be without
coffee in some form for more than a few minutes at a time.

Miles arrived with Tracy, and Norton immediately took
himself off. The bar grew noisier and more crowded. I thought about
going upstairs and getting some work done. Peter had a dinner with
his colleagues from the British Antique Dealers’ Association and
didn’t plan on being home ’til quite late, so I was on my own for
the evening.

And then my thoughts were interrupted as Cordelia
began to emit squeals of excitement. I looked across the table and
Roberta gave me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry!”
she mouthed, the
smoky lenses of her glasses winking in the mellow light. “It
just…came up.”

For a moment I was so angry with her I wasn’t sure I
could conceal it. I only tried because Cordelia was absolutely
thrilled, for once completely abandoning that blasé pose.

“Grace, did you hear that? I’m going to be in this
film!”

“I heard,” I said mildly.

“My first movie!”

And on and on. A round of celebratory Irish coffee
was ordered and drunk. Pammy called it a night. Miles and Tracy
disappeared. Mona excused herself and went upstairs.

There was no hope of my getting away to my room
because I wasn’t about to leave Cordelia on her own with the
remaining piranha.

But finally Todd excused himself to make some
transatlantic phone calls, and Cordelia glanced at her watch and
exclaimed that she had to get home. She grabbed her purse—a cloth
bag with a silk-screen photo of Humphrey Bogart and Laurel
Bacall—and took off into the night leaving me alone at the table
with Roberta.

Roberta smiled. “Now, Grace, before you say anything
—”

She obviously didn’t know me well if she thought such
a thing was even a possibility. I said, “I can’t for the life of me
think why you would do something so irresponsible. You don’t even
know whether she can act her way out of a paper bag.”

“What does it matter?”

That threw me for a second. “What do you mean, what
does it matter? Even if her aunt gives her permission, you don’t
know whether Cordelia can act —” I stopped short. “Is this film
actually going to be completed?”

Roberta’s expression was difficult to read. “Of
course it is.”

I couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth or not,
but once the suspicion had occurred to me, I couldn’t quite shake
it.

“How many films have you produced?”

“What does that have to do with anything? How many
scripts have you written? Who are you to question my
qualifications?”