Lady: Impossible (30 page)

Suddenly, a female voice pierces the laden atmosphere. ‘Yoo-hoo! There you are!’

We look over in the direction of the voice and find our neighbour, Mrs Skene, poking her head over the fence. She must be standing on a box or something, because she’s certainly not that tall.
 

My mother is scandalised, scowling in disgust. She hates it when people raise their voices. As for yelling to your neighbours over the fence, well, she would say it’s all rather common.
 

I jump out of the chair and jog over to the fence, fighting against the lethargy that comes with feeling down. ‘Hello, Mrs Skene.’

‘I’ve got something for you, dear. The postman delivered it to my house by mistake.’ She waves her hand in the air as if she’s trying to flag down a plane. ‘It’s a postcard.’

‘Postcard?’

She stops her flapping and holds it out for me. ‘It’s for you, darling.’

‘Me?’ I take the postcard and almost fall over when I recognise Al’s handwriting. ‘You didn’t read it, did you?’

Mrs Skene giggles. ‘How would I, dear? It’s in another language. Everything after ‘Millie’ is garbled.’

I look down at the postcard. ‘So it is.’ Keep it together, Millie. Keep it together. ‘Thanks for passing this on.’

‘I must’ve rung the doorbell ten times. Tried calling your landline too. I thought you’d run away with that strapping new butler.’

I force laughter. ‘Oh, Mrs Skene, you’re so funny. Running away with the help…’

Little does she know that I’ve imagined such a scenario. It’s all part of the psychosis that comes with the sense of impending doom.

‘I can be quite the comedienne.’ She offers me a final wave. ‘See you later! I have to get back to my yoga DVD. I need to improve my downward dogging.’

 
‘Ha, don’t we all.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about, but there’s no point asking for an explanation. ‘Thanks again.’

Once she’s out of sight, I run back to my mother and ask for a pen, adrenalin running through my veins.

‘Pen pen pen pen penny pen pen!’

‘Who’s it from?’ she asks.

‘Al Al Al!’

For the first time in days, the colour returns to her face. Now she has reason to get riled up, to pass judgement instead of being judged.
 

She pushes her chair back and stands up, bumping the table in her haste. ‘Why do you need a pen? Read the damn thing – I want to know what that troublemaker has to say!’

‘It’s written in code. We used to do this all the time as kids, remember? So you and Father wouldn’t be able to decipher our secret, diabolical plans.’

‘Oh, is that right?’ She comes around to my side of the table and yanks my arm, leading me in the direction of the house. ‘Well, this is not the time for ciphers and hijinks!’

‘Ouch! You’re hurting me.’

‘Consider it payback for the twenty hours of labour you put me through.’

I can run in wedges, but staying upright while being dragged along is a completely different skill. ‘How is that relevant to the current situation?’

‘Code? Honestly. I should’ve waited until after the Cold War to have children.’

‘It’s not espionage. It’s a postcard from Al.’
 

‘Yes, Judas himself. Let’s see what that communist dolt has to say.’

‘You’re mixing biblical times with the Cold War. Judas wasn’t a communist.’

‘How would you know? Maybe he was.’

‘More importantly, how would you know? If you were walking the earth during Jesus’s time, that would make you at least two thousand years old.’

‘I know when Jesus was born.’

‘Really? Then tell Santa I want a pair of Lanvin ballet flats for Christmas.’

All frenzied, and probably unsure as to whether we’re in Nazareth, Moscow or London, the two of us aren’t sure where to find a pen once we enter the house. This room, that room. Mother even calls Blair.

‘Blair’s not here,’ I remind her. ‘Look, why don’t you go and relax in the sitting room and I’ll find you when I’ve deciphered the message?’

‘Relax?’ Her focus is sharp now, her hands back on her hips. ‘You want me to relax? In the sitting room with the Second Earl?’

‘He’s not going to lecture you or anything. He only does that on Thursdays.’

‘Oh, you’re so funny. Who needs money when we have your wit.’ She throws her hands in the air and stomps off, calling over her shoulder: ‘Hurry up. I want to know exactly what that nonsense means.’

Shaking my head, I rush to the study and grab the first pen I come across. Unfortunately, it’s a display pen only – a fountain pen that belonged to the Third Earl. Ridiculous. I scrabble around in the writing desk drawers and finally find a pencil to begin marking up the postcard, knowing the key to the code is always contained in the first six letters after my name – in this case P L O O L H. These are the letters that translate to M I L L I E in the code, so after figuring out the alphabet placement, I’m able to get the whole message.

Dearest Millie,

[Ploolh!] It may interest you to know that I have settled my debt with Oliver. Scoundrel seems keen to go out with you. I hope you know what you’re doing.
 

Meanwhile, I checked my Cambridge email and read your messages from April. I’m sorry for being away. I’ll visit soon, probably in a few weeks.

Best, Al

I huff in disbelief. Who does he think he is, sending messages like this?
 

I’m infuriated by his casual words. He has never understood the difficulties he’s caused us, even when Father disinherited him. The only saving grace from this postcard is the part about Oliver. I’m cautiously happy about the settlement, because it must mean that Polly is right: Oliver is still interested. I get a little rush of joy, my cheeks flushing from the attention. He likes me enough to make peace with my brother.

However, there were other matters to think about in the postcard. He claims to want to visit in a few weeks – a completely preposterous notion. I think he gets a kick out of making us worry in anticipation. He’s notorious, infamous. Just the way he likes it. Knowing him, if he was to visit, he would tip off the tabloids, telling them to camp outside so they can bear witness to his return to Pembroke property. It’s mid June now, so ‘a few weeks’ is early July – too soon for the press to be fully distracted by the Olympics.

The likelihood of this visit probably depends on what he’s doing now. Is he in Switzerland? France? Still in Greece? The postmark is usually the first thing I check, but I got all sidetracked by Mrs Skene’s downward dog talk.

East Yorkshire. This was sent from East Yorkshire.
 

He can’t possibly be at home can he? Is this why Father delayed his visit?

‘Mother!’ I race to the sitting room, where I find her standing in front of the Second Earl’s portrait, apparently engaged in some sort of glowering competition.
 

‘I feel like he’s judging me.’

I whack her arm with the postcard. ‘Forget about that. They’re all judgemental.’

She finally comes to and snatches the message out of my fingers, immediately reading my translation out in a lowered voice. Her voice colours with each development – first, surprise, then reserved approval, then outright shock and outrage. When she’s finished, she tosses the postcard into the air, glaring at it so intensely I expect it to burst into flames.
 

‘Polly was right about Oliver. He’s moved quickly too. That’s good,’ she says, pointing her finger at me. ‘But Alastair’s ambivalent attitude is insulting. He intends to visit, does he? Oh ho! He’s got another thing coming, namely a good boxing of the ears.’

The postcard lands at my feet. ‘Did you read the postmark? He sent it from Yorkshire yesterday. Maybe he returned to the estate.’

‘
What?
’ Oh yes, the countess is enraged. Forget fatigue – she’s definitely awake now. It’s like poking a sleeping dragon in the eye or, in this case, pulling out one of her rollers.

‘I don’t suppose it’s worth giving Father another call?’

‘No. For all we know, it’s a mind game. I have no doubt Al is the author, but perhaps he forwarded it on for posting. He’s always thought himself clever like that.’

I kick at the piece of card, only now registering that the graphic on the other side is an illustrated scene from La Bohème. Oliver must’ve been forthcoming with details. Either that, or Al’s connections extend to within Tilton & Bree – something quite unlikely.

‘This week’s events are too much for my emotional range.’

‘Give yourself some credit, dear. I’m surprised you haven’t been angrier. We’ll just wait one more day and then make a plan once we know what we’re up against.’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

‘Now, let’s finish our tea and scones inside – in the conservatory, perhaps. I’m ravenous when outraged.’ She takes two steps forward before halting and levelling a dark look at the portrait. ‘Oh, sod off! Mark my words, I will replace you with the First Earl.’

All right, perhaps she’s not completely back to normal. I mouth ‘sorry’ to the portrait and usher my mother out of the room before she starts threatening the furniture.
 

Just another day in the Pembroke household.

***

At nine o’clock on Thursday morning, I join my mother in the main hall, a sense of renewed solidarity silently shared between us. Waiting around for the men in our lives is a role both of us seem to resent at the moment, no matter how necessary or understandable the reasons may be. In this case, the reasons are all a bit of a mystery. My father has also insisted on taking a taxi from the train station and, while it relieves Blair from having to pick him up, who’s to say he won’t take the long way from the station? Kings Cross to Kensington via Vladivostok/Timbuktu/Antarctica. He’s always been a sucker for the scenic route. All aboard the Procrastination Express!
 

Blair stands by the front door, his composure a stark contrast to the restlessness of his employers. While my mother taps her foot in impatience, I shuffle about like an awkward schoolgirl who doesn’t know how to dance. I don’t know what to do with myself. Do I start off with anger or understanding? Does my father even deserve the benefit of the doubt? Is milling about like this going to seem intimidating to him when he gets here? I’m going to have to wing it, which isn’t exactly ideal when I’m as hot-headed as I am.

‘Let’s talk about something so I don’t go insane,’ I say, planting my feet on the spot. I literally need to ground myself.

My mother holds onto the bannister of the staircase. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ I glance at Blair, thinking he might be able to help. ‘Care to share some interesting news about… sports?’

‘Sports, m’lady?’ There’s a smile tugging on his lips, but he manages to suppress it.
 

‘Yes, like cricket or football. Isn’t there a football thingamajig going on at the moment? Euro something or other? UEFA?’

My mother rolls her eyes. ‘What do you take him for? Does he look like someone who cares deeply about that?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Men like sports, don’t they?’

‘Why are you asking me? I married a man who doesn’t even watch television, let alone leave the house. Tell him “the Ashes is on” and he’ll probably think you’re talking about cremation.’

Blair chuckles. ‘Not until next summer, m’lady.’

‘What? The cricket? Or my husband’s cremation?’

I clear my throat. ‘I ask for conversation and we end up talking about death.’

‘If your father doesn’t get here soon, I might just die from anxiety.’ She checks her watch before returning her attention to me. ‘Any word from Oliver?’

I freeze momentarily. Breakfast wasn’t exactly a good time to tell Blair about Oliver possibly giving me another chance. To be fair, with my father due at any moment, I’m not really in a position to handle my personal entanglements with any degree of proper focus.

I answer naturally, avoiding Blair’s gaze. ‘It’s nine o’clock in the morning. He’s at work and probably waiting for Al’s funds to clear. I don’t expect to hear anything until next week.’

‘Surely the money has already gone through. He wouldn’t have sent a cheque.’

‘It’s not just the debt, remember? It’s reputation too. Who knows how he’s going to rationalise that one.’

‘Ugh. True.’

When I do steal a glance at Blair, I’m unable to read anything but indifference. I find myself disappointed, as if I wanted him to be visibly jealous. It’s wrong to feel this way – immature too – but I suppose I’ve become accustomed to his strong reactions.
 

There’s the faint sound of a car door being shut.
 

Blair looks through the glass pane on the side of the door. ‘It looks like His Lordship has arrived, suitcase in hand.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘Suitcase? He expects to stay then?’ I cast an eye at my mother. ‘As in, he’s confident you won’t kick him out?’

Mother moves to my side. ‘It’s his house. We shouldn’t be confident of anything.’

She gives Blair the go-ahead to open the door, and within seconds I’m met with the sight of my father walking up the path to greet us. It’s a powerful image, one that invokes childhood memories. Al and me running up to him on a summer’s day… I can’t even remember why he would’ve been out for us to greet him in the first place. Perhaps he’d taken Mother to lunch while we were being looked after by the nanny? Or maybe he’d sat through a particularly boring session of the House of Lords, making him understandably eager to get back to his noisy children.

There’s a major difference between these memories and the today’s version of my father, however. The man I’m looking at now seems void of joy: his gait is defeated and his shoulders are slumped. He looks out of place in his light-grey suit, like an impostor stepping foot on someone else’s property. Even Blair looks more at home, and he’s only been here a month.
 

My mother and I exchange worried looks. No child wants to see a parent in this harrowed state.

He makes it up to the final step, offering the two of us a brief smile before turning to shake Blair’s hand.