The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones (18 page)

(Fiona and I real y do have something in common. We could save each other).

“I stil don’t reckon you would know what to do with a normal life, Paul. You’d be completely lost.”

“I’d like the chance to find out. That is my new resolution. I am going to clear al the ghosts and metaphysical entities out of everywhere I am, and just be me. You watch me.”

“I wish I could, but I’l have to settle for now.”

* * *

I am vaguely aware of a door bursting open. Fiona sits up sharply. I open an eye and watch her deciphering whatever is going on. She relaxes.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” announces the Earl. “I’ve seen it al before. Nice to see Fiona with a man in her bed for a change, even if you aren’t her husband.” He leans over me and kisses Fiona good morning, crushing me into the mattress. “Time to get up, Paul. We have an adventure to attend to. I wil see you down at breakfast in twenty minutes.” It real y does seem very early.

After the Earl has left Fiona’s room, I check my watch. Six o’clock. Great.

“It’s only six o’clock,” I complain to Fiona.

“Father must have overslept, then. He is very excited about it al . I hope he doesn’t give himself a heart-attack. He should be more careful at his age.”

“The excitement wil probably give him another ten years of life. Clear his arteries out. Flush the system.”

“You certainly know your drainage, Paul,” Fiona mocks – she is always ahead of me in the games she plays, which is unusual. Normal y it is me playing with everybody else. I admire her for that. “Let’s hope so,” she adds screwing up her face yet further. “Oh shit! Bugger!”

“What?” She can even panic me. Unbelievable.

“Peter’s father is due here today, with Peter’s mother, just as Father tries to clear everyone out. That is going to make things awkward. We can’t turn him away, and he only comes here to enjoy the circus – yet another glimpse of the decadent British at play. If al he finds is us, he is going to be very disappointed and bored, and a bored Romanov is as dangerous as a hungry tiger. He wil be looking for trouble, which wil probably mean us.”

“Why us? What have we got to do with him? Peter isn’t your husband.”

“We wil have everything to do with him as far as he wil be concerned. He doesn’t need any real justification. We wil simply be a way of his biding his time and working off his frustrations of being deprived of upper-class twit entertainment.

Besides, he thinks that I should have Peter’s child, then he can have a grandchild. He is very dynastic. He doesn’t seem to mind too much Peter being gay, but he does expect him to produce an heir or two, come what may. We are messing that up, which means messing him around, which means that we are in for a very rough ride. We are going to have to be discrete. Luckily, I don’t think Peter wil say anything. It wil only put pressure on him.”

“What about your father?”

“Oh, he won’t say a word. He doesn’t even talk to Peter’s father. Just grunts at him and scurries off. Avoids him. Thinks that he is a total barbarian, although Father is far too polite to say so, of course, and Mother smothers him with flattery,

‘smothering’ being the operative word. He always staggers off in a daze once she has finished fawning al over him. He is a highly intel igent man, so he knows it is al a complete sham on Mother’s part, but he cannot work out why she bothers. If he doesn’t like somebody, they sure as hel know about it.”

“So he real y is a Mafiosi, is he?”

“Of the Russian kind, yes. An oligarch,” she adds sardonical y. “Even the most successful Mafiosi have a lot of noughts missing compared with an oligarch, al egedly. He walks in like the Tsar of Russia, or Comrade Stalin, or something. He expects attention, and he gets it. Only Mother disconcerts him, poor man. I think that Mother wouldn’t have had much of a problem with Stalin either.”

“What time is he arriving?”

“Haven’t a clue. Around lunchtime, I think. I’l have to check with Peter. You’l have to move out, I’m afraid. It might even be better if you returned to Valflaunès while he is around, to get you wel off the scene - I don’t want you subjected to his unpleasantness – although that wil be awkward too because Father wil definitely want you here. Talk to Father about it when you go off to see Alice.”

“I had better get dressed.”

Fiona looks at me painedly. “It is al ending rather abruptly, Paul, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

I shrug and head off for the bathroom.

* * *

The Earl has already finished his breakfast and is pacing up and down his mind as he hunches in his chair. He rises to greet me as I enter the room. “Ah, Paul. Come and sit down. Help yourself. We have three friends joining us, as you can see.”

He is getting rather good at this. I nod at ‘the friends’ who bow back silently.

“It is so wonderful,” exclaims the Earl, clapping his hands together with glee. “I feel like a homosexual …. ”

(That might need some explaining).

“ … by which I mean that I feel like a homosexual who has decided to declare himself. I am a free man. I have always detected ghosts, and now I can admit to it. And they are acknowledging me too. It is a whole new world, but not to you, of course. You are a veteran. What do you tel people when they ask you al about it?”

“I don’t. I am stil in the closet.”

“Oh wel , get out of there. Live it up!”

(Yeah, but I am not eighty).

“So,” continues the Earl, “how wil you introduce me to Alice? Wil you go in first and cal me in when you have prepared her, or do we go in together?”

“I haven’t real y thought about it.”

“Doesn’t it matter?”

I frown. “I wouldn’t think so. Alice has a one-track mind at the moment. She may not even notice.”

“What is she like?”

“She is like a young ghost. Stil rather nice but a bit jumpy and prone to sudden explosions.”

“Sounds typical y French to me.”

One of ‘three friends’ turns around momentarily to look at him.

“She is very French, but al ghosts become explosive sooner or later. It is the frustration of being stuck here without being al owed to do anything. They get bored, horribly bored – a bit like Mr. Romanov, apparently.”

“I real y must observe them more careful y. I have been trying to ignore their evident existence al my life. Now I am free to watch.” And he seems very pleased about it. “So what’s this about Romanov?”

“He is due here today apparently, with his wife, according to Fiona.”

“Oh bugger! Oh wel , we’l be somewhere else – ghost hunting. We are definitely going off to this place where you say the girl is buried if Romanov is going to be stalking around here. Can’t stand the man. The Countess can deal with him. I wonder if she has remembered that he is due here today. She hasn’t mentioned it, but perhaps she simply didn’t want to upset me. I become a frightful grump when I know that he is coming. He makes the place so tense – hums like a power station. Most unpleasant man. It is a miracle Peter turned out as he did. Can I come and stay at your house?”

(What?).

“If you like, but you might feel a little cramped.”

“How many rooms has it got?”

“Five bedrooms.”

“And there are two of you – you and Mike?”

“And my parents who are coming back tomorrow.”

“Are they now? They seemed very nice people. So are we up to three bedrooms or four by now?”

“Three, unless Dad snores, but he can sleep in the sitting room.”

“So there is room for me, then?”

“Yes, if you real y want come.”

“I do. I should enjoy that very much. Perhaps you could persuade Fiona to come too – get her out of Romanov’s hair. I am sure that she would appreciate that. As soon as Romanov realises that there is nobody here, he’l disappear off again, and good riddance. Sounds like a plan to me. Does it sound like a plan to you, Paul?”

“Yes, My Lord, it sounds like a plan.”

“Good, then wolf down your breakfast and let’s get going. I stil have a proclamation to pin to the front door tel ing everyone to bugger off somewhere else. I have been itching to do that for the last month. I’m on the Marquis’ side, you know. There’s far too much noise around here. Only do it for the children. Certainly don’t do it for Romanov. It wil give the Countess a decent break too, not that she necessarily wants one. Always says she does, but I am almost persuaded that she real y prefers to have the place crammed to the gunnels with people, and then to complain about them. Funny creatures, women. I’l meet you at the front door at a quarter past nine. Don’t be late.”

* * *

There are uniform, skulking, stunned expressions as news of the proclamation gets around. Steph is conferring with Wil iam, walking in circles in the hal way. Romaine is tel ing Adam to go and finish off the packing. Albert has just shot an aggrieved shaft of resentment at the Earl as he appears, driving everyone into the corners in his wake.

“Excel ent,” he says to me, rubbing his hands enthusiastical y, and ignoring his effect on everybody else as if they barely existed and certainly not in his space. “Let’s get on our way.”

Lizzy comes rushing noisily around the corner to be fielded frenziedly by Steph. “Please be quieter, Lizzy!”

Mike fol ows behind her. “Are we going back to Valflaunès?” he quizzes me.

I hesitate as to what to admit to in public, and indeed as to how much has been agreed. “Later, I think, Mike. His Lordship and I are going into Freyrargues now. Can we discuss this when we get back? We may have some additional guests.”

“Who?”

“I’l tel you later.”

Mike is not happy.

“Go and talk it over with Fiona, Mike. She knows what is going on.”

“I am glad somebody does,” he says eyeing the Earl. “It is total chaos around here at the moment.”

“It’l be peaceful here later, and maybe chaos at Valflaunès.” I cannot ever resist tweaking Mike’s tail. He gives me an outraged frown and walks off.

“You should be nicer to your brother,” the Earl admonishes me.

“There’s stil time,” I half-mutter.

The Earl shakes his head. “You never know.”

I have been expecting the lengthy walk down to the vil age with the Earl to be an uncomfortable experience, but instead it is a blast. In private, he is a different person, ful of stories and outrageous comments. There is a code here. He speaks openly to me, but if I should ever divulge what he has said, none of his family wil ever say a single word to me ever again.

So, unfortunately, I cannot pass on any of his scurrilous remarks about al sorts of people he knows, including various kings and queens, dukes, writers, actors and cabinet ministers, in descending order of importance. He tel s me about one politician (by name) who used to pick up rent-a-boys in one of the parks in London only to be horrified to find that he was propositioning his best friend’s son who was trying to make ends meet, and about another who attempted to bribe him and then to blackmail him. I walked alongside him wishing that I had something to contribute to the conversation, anxious with the inadequacy of my years.

“You are lucky, Paul. You can live a normal life in a sane country,” the Earl observes, before realising that he is addressing someone who meets ghosts daily as part of his natural routine. “Stil , you do have al those ghosts to liven things up. Who was the most colourful ghost you ever met?”

Here I am on firmer ground. “Literal y the most colourful?” I throw back.

The Earl likes that thought. Even his nose beams. “I wasn’t being literal, but why not?”

“Wel … ”

I have never ever mentioned to anybody before my experience of encountering a sensational y flamboyant spectre in the Autoworld Museum at the Cinquantenaire in Brussels. I am trying to remember even why I was there. I don’t usual y wander around ogling old cars. I must have taken someone there. That’s right, it was Pieter who loves the place, so he was taking me. So I got the whole spiel about how important the Belgian car industry had been in the early years – in fact, the Belgians led the world for a while with makes like F.N. and Minerva. Anyway, I was just peering at the Fiat 500 round the back, near the Minis and 2CVs etc., when this raving queen-type thing came charging past me. Apparently someone had made a slighting comment about an Imperia she used to own, although not the same one as in the museum. As you wil have gathered by now, ghosts tend to travel along short tracks, so she flew right off the rails and plunged into a ridiculously camp hissy-fit which set me off giggling, much to Pieter’s embarrassment. “What are you laughing at?” he demanded, realising that I could not get that hysterical over a vintage Porsche. Of course, I couldn’t explain that I was watching some ageing drag queen who kept announcing her name as Cristina de Jongh or something, wiggling and shaking in a perfect imitation of a cartoon turkey with a stretched neck and bustling skirts. The object of her fury was absolutely oblivious, and kept repeating what a hideous car it was, probably the ugliest car ever built, while the ghost became increasingly apoplectic. If she hadn’t already been dead, she would have had a heart-attack. I apologise to the Earl. There is no way that I can bring this story to life. It is impossible to describe her in a way which wil be even remotely as funny as the actual experience. Eventual y she got so mad that she marched up to the detractor of her car in supreme fury and started trying to hit him while he continued to converse amiably with his friend. This made Ms. De Jongh go completely berserk, flailing her arms and legs around al over the place like a can-can dancer powered by deranged clockwork, but there was nothing she could do about it. Final y she regained her composure, turned around sharply, and plunged through a Rol s Royce and a Daimler-Benz. Pieter was observing me as if I had gone completely insane, but I resisted the urge to explain. “Don’t worry about it,” I commented. “Sometimes I have a vivid imagination.”

“What were you imagining?”