The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (6 page)

I stood in the hall and
yelled out that I was home and no one responded with any interest at all, so I
poked at the fire for a bit until I realised that if I didn’t hurry up, I
wouldn’t have time to change before supper, something about which Mama was
fanatical. I raced up the stairs, two at a time, and careered into the East
Wing. ‘Thank God for Inigo Jones,’ Mama used to say to us, and I rather agreed
with her. In the East Wing, one didn’t feel as though there were ghosts
listening through keyholes to your every word; or at least, if there
were
ghosts,
they were likely to be well dressed and elegant with an eye for a good bit of
plasterwork.

Splashing
cold water on my face, I wondered whether to mention my peculiar afternoon to
my peculiar family. Best not to, I decided. I didn’t want my mother to tell me
that Aunt Clare was a ‘ghastly woman’. All women were ghastly in my mother’s
opinion, and those whom she had not met (or could not recall meeting)
sounded
ghastly. Men were either ‘very plain’ or ‘devastating’ and there was simply
no in between. I pulled on a clean skirt, squirted on some of the scent Uncle
George had brought me from Paris and applied a slash of red lipstick to my
mouth and cheeks. My mother liked me made up.

‘It’s
duck,’ called Inigo from outside my bedroom door, ‘so expect the worst.’

I
groaned. There is always a scene when there’s duck for supper.

I ran downstairs to the
dining room. The dining room feels about as medieval as you can get — rows of
gargoyles peering down from the ceiling and that sort of thing — but it’s
surprisingly light with tall windows that were forced into the nine-foot-thick
walls when siege warfare went out of fashion. The stony silences of Duck
Suppers don’t fit the room at all; its atmosphere recalls the sound of tankards
clanging together,
merrye musick
from the lute and people shouting
across the table as they gnaw on the bones of ye suckling pig. I found Mama
already seated at the table. Wearing her least favourite dress — a long, grey
wool number that itched and brought her up in a rash — she succeeded in looking
both livid and bored. I sank into my chair (fearfully uncomfortable; no wonder
no one ever lingered over their port at Magna) and beamed at her.

‘Duck
tonight,’ she announced heavily.

‘Why,
Mama? Is there something wrong?’

‘Apart
from that appalling, cheap scent you’re wearing? I cannot even begin to
think
when my head is swimming in French Ferns.’

‘You
said you liked it last weekend.’

‘Don’t
be ridiculous.’

Inigo
waltzed in, shirt half unbuttoned and black hair flopping over his eye. I
braced myself.

‘Lovely
evening,’ he said, kissing my mother on the cheek ‘Don’t you just adore this
time of year?’

He
pulled out his chair and sat down. Inigo is the sort of person who makes a big
performance out of the simplest of tasks, exaggerating every move until those
in the room with him start to wonder when on earth it will end. That night he
chose to elongate the act of stubbing out his cigarette so that by the time the
deed was done, I felt quite exhausted just watching him. Once he had finished
this, he moved on to the equally dramatic act of placing his napkin on his lap;
unfurling it from its neat folds, whipping it into the air, then spreading it
carefully over his trousers. We watched all this with irritation (Mama) and
suppressed giggle (me). By the time he had finished, our housekeeper Mary had
served us the wretched duck, tonight combined with boiled potatoes and whole
roasted onions. Mary knew Duck Suppers meant trouble and bolted back to the
kitchen as fast as her arthritis would allow. I was not hungry, but knew that
the sooner supper was over, the sooner I could get on with the important
business of pondering over Charlotte, Aunt Clare and Harry. I thought I would
look them up in Debrett before I went to bed. Where was our copy of Debrett
anyway? Duck Suppers were a terrible bore, I thought. But tonight I was certain
that nothing my mother said was likely have much impact over the resounding din
of my imagination.

‘How
was your class today. Penelope?’ Mama asked me, her voice soft and steady. I
looked her in the eye, which tends to unnerve her in these situations.

‘Pretty
bearable, thank you, Mama. I think I’m getting to grips with it all.’

Mama
said nothing, but speared a ring of onion on to her fork.

‘What I
mean is that I’m starting to understand what he’s trying to say,’ I added.

‘And
what is he trying to say?’ she asked absent-mindedly.

‘In
Antony
and Cleopatra,
I think he’s telling us that love conquers all. Fear, death,
war, age — everything kneels, humbled, in the presence of love.’ I felt
Charlotte cheering me on.

‘What
soupy rubbish you talk, Penelope. I don’t know where you get it from,’ said
Mama, glaring and shaking the salt liberally over her plate.

‘Actually,
I quite like that,’ remarked Inigo.

I
chewed on a boiled potato. The draught blew energetically around my feet and I
scrunched them up in my shoes. I thought wistfully of Aunt Clare’s suffocating
study. Mama took a deep breath.

‘I took
your dress shoes into town to be mended today, Inigo,’ she said.

‘Thank
you.’

‘And I’ve
ordered you two new pillowcase to march the pair I gave you for your birthday.
Penelope. Harrods had them in a green and white check as well as the pink and
white. Which would you prefer?’

‘I don’t
mind, Mama.’

She
stared at her potatoes, offended.

‘I
think perhaps the green and white,’ I added hurriedly. ‘They — they go
beautifully with my nightie.’

Inigo
snorted. Then my mother put down her knife and fork with a clatter and bit her
bottom lip. I glanced at Inigo who nodded his head slightly. It was coming. The
reason for tonight’s Duck Supper. I held my breath.

‘Johns
was up on the roof this afternoon assessing the damage above the Long Gallery,’
said Mama. ‘It seems the storm did more harm than we thought. He’s talking of
attempting the repairs himself, but it’s impossible. Everything’s impossible.’

Here
was the theme of tonight’s meal. I suppose I should have expected it, but it
alarmed me all the same. Money. Or the lack of it. Of course we had heard her
talking about it before, but never as the subject of a Duck Supper. This was
something quite different. This required a proper reaction.

‘What
do you mean?’ I asked, idiotically.

She
looked at me, her face suddenly soft and full of an emotion I dimly recognised
as pity.

‘Darling,
we have no money,’ she repeated. ‘Can I make it any easier for you to
understand?’ Like the curious pause that takes place before blood seeps out
from a cut finger, we all sat quite still, listening to the wind bashing the
lower branches of the cherry tree against the window, waiting for the
inevitable to happen. She sniffed and pulled a hanky from her woollen sleeve.

‘Don’t
cry, don’t cry.’ Inigo could never bear to see her undone. Personally, I found
it strangely comforting. She rarely cried, actually. He dragged his chair close
to hers and put his arm round her. A great, silent tear dropped from her eye
and onto her untouched duck. She twisted her hanky into a ball.

‘I miss
him,’ she whispered. I don’t think that Inigo heard her, but I did. My stomach
seemed to lurch with love for her then; my ridiculous, beautiful, confusing
mother. I pushed away my chair and crouched down on her other side, pulling her
close to me.

‘It’s
nearly summer,’ I said in a shaking voice. ‘Then we won’t mind about the cold
and the garden will look wonderful. We could hold another fête here, couldn’t
we? Or a gymkhana? Didn’t everyone say what a success the gymkhana was last
year? Magna won’t let us starve.’

‘She’s
right,’ said Inigo. ‘Magna won’t let us starve.’

My
mother kissed my hand. ‘Darling girl,’ she said. She kissed Inigo’s forehead. ‘Darling
boy.’ she said.

I held on to that moment
for as long as I could. If I close my eyes I can see us now, three crouched-up
little figures so tiny in the vast dining room, raking up so little space round
the long table, dwarfed by the high ceiling and the long, rattling window panes
of the dining room. I imagined my father walking into the room and seeing us
there; his children lost without him and his darling Talitha looking up slowly
as if she knew all along that he was going to come back to her. I had got into
the habit of picturing him as a sort of cross between James Stewart and James
Dean, in beautifully cut dinner jacket, dressed for a wonderful party, shoes
polished, a cigarette in one hand, glass of whisky in the other. Yet I knew the
image was wrong because Papa never smoked. The shrill bell of the telephone
caught all of us unaware. Inigo spilt my mother’s glass of wine, and she sat
bolt upright, green eyes flashing. She thinks it’s him, I thought, just as we
all do.

A
moment later, Mary announced that there was a young lady on the phone, calling
for Miss Penelope. Inigo raised his eyebrows at me.

‘May I take
the call, Mama?’

‘Who on
earth calls at this time?’

But I
had already shot out of the dining room.

‘Hello?’
I was back in the hall again, teeth chattering with cold and curiosity.
The
colder the hall, the shorter the call
was one of my mother’s favourite
mantras.

‘Hello?
Penelope? Is that you? It’s Charlotte here. Charlotte Ferris. We met today at
tea, you came with me to—’

‘Yes, I
know who you are.’

‘Oh,
lovely. I’m sorry to call so late. Were you in the middle of something?’

‘It
doesn’t matter at all.’

‘It
does. You were having supper, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.
But really, it’s quite all right.’

‘What
were you eating?’

‘Duck.’

‘Oh.’

There
was a pause, then Charlotte spoke again, her voice as clear and calm as it had
been at the bus stop.

Aunt
Clare thought you were quite the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I just
thought I’d telephone and tell you so. It’s always nice to hear that one’s made
a good impression, isn’t it?’

‘Gosh,
I suppose so.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Well,
that’s that then. I just wanted to thank you again. You know — for sharing the
taxi and coming to tea and everything. And to say I’m sorry if you found Harry
difficult. We caught him at a tricky time this afternoon.’

I could
hear Mama’s heels clicking on the dining-room floor and felt suddenly
desperate. What if I put down the phone and never spoke to Charlotte again? I
took a deep breath.

‘Why
don’t you come and stay? Next weekend perhaps. It’ll be — it’ll be — fun.’

There
was a pause.

‘At
Milton Magna Hall?’

‘Of
course.’

‘Heavens,
Penelope, we’d love to.’

‘We?’ I
asked stupidly.

‘Oh,
Harry would love it so much. It’s just the thing to take his mind off Marina’s
wedding. It would be
perfect
if we could come together.’

‘You’re
both absolutely invited,’ I said firmly, pushing aside my horror. ‘The train on
Friday night arrive at Westbury at five twenty-nine. I’ll send Johns to meet
you. Look out for the beaten-up Ford.’

‘Oh,
the thrill of it all!’

‘Oh,
and Charlotte—’

‘Yes?’

‘How on
earth did you know my name? I forgot to ask you when we said goodbye.’

‘Name tape,
darling. Sewn into the label of your coat. I saw it when we swapped.
Penelope
Wallace. Seconds House.’

‘Oh.’
Something in me was disappointed that there was such a logical explanation.

‘I wish
I’d been to boarding school. You have no idea how dull it was to go to school
in London. I always longed to be gossiping in the dorm and organising midnight
feasts around the swimming pool.’

‘You’ve
read too much Enid Blyton. It was nothing at all like that.’

‘At
least humour me,’ sighed Charlotte, ‘and please tell me what I should bring
with me.’

‘Twelve
pairs of socks. It’s colder than the Arctic Circle at the moment,’ I said,
remembering what Aunt Clare had said about Harry’s stamina.

‘Socks.
Twelve pairs. I’m writing it down now. Anything else?’

The
bear skin was eyeing me evilly, and Inigo, who was almost as nosy as Mama, was
hovering only a few feet away from me.

‘No.
Just yourselves.’

I said
goodbye and put down the phone and grinned lopsidedly at Inigo. Speaking on the
telephone at Magna always made me feel slightly off-balance. Mama was using the
cracked hall mirror to apply a powder puff to her reddened nose. Crying made
her whole face swell up, as if she was allergic to her own tears. I felt
certain that she would cry more often if it was not so aesthetically
unpleasant.