A Darker Music (4 page)

‘I’m enjoying your cooking. I’m glad you’re here.’ The idea of a smile disturbed the parchment of her face, and Mary smiled back. Mrs Hazlitt’s gaze at once became distant, as if fearful of any show of friendliness. Mary wondered why she was looking to her housekeeper for company when she had a perfectly good husband and son, not to mention the other people who lived here.

‘You should do a stocktake of the freezers,’ Mrs Hazlitt said. ‘There must still be some fish there, and prawns … there could even be some marron.’ Her smile this time was a real one. ‘I quite fancy something along those lines, if you can find it.’ Her expression softened further. ‘My mother always gave us fish when we were getting over an illness, so it must be good for … for convalescents.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ Mary said; she’d been planning to check the freezers anyway. A question occurred to her. ‘You called that front parlour Ellen’s room. Who’s Ellen? Do you mind my asking?’

Again, the near-smile, followed by a sigh, a downward droop of the head. ‘Ellen. A formidable woman …’ She paused, as if deliberating what to tell Mary. ‘Ellen was Paul’s grandmother. She and her husband Edgar came here from England in 1913. Ellen grew up near a town called Downe, in Sussex, which is why they called this place Downe. It was Ellen who set up the stud. She died in 1972.’ She turned her gaze to Mary. ‘I don’t think Paul ever got over it.’

‘What about Paul’s mother and father?’

She paused before replying. ‘As far as I can tell, Peter and Morna were social butterflies. They weren’t interested in the farm. They spent most of their time up in Perth. They died young. I never met either of them. It was Paul, not his father Peter, who took over after Ellen died.’

Mary was interested. ‘You weren’t married then?’

Mrs Hazlitt seemed to be slipping into a reverie, staring through the bay window at the garden beyond. Since noon the cloud cover had crept up from the south as it did most days, but there’d been no rain. The wind was lashing the branches of the orchard trees, and over the soft crackle of the fire they could hear it sighing around the eaves, faintly moaning through the pine trees.

After a few moments, Mrs Hazlitt brought her attention back to Mary’s question. ‘No. No, I didn’t meet Paul till later. By that time he was a glamorous stud breeder.’ Her mouth moved, a downward twist indicating — what? Was it irony? ‘No, when Ellen died I was still a student.’ She drifted off, her face looking ancient again.

Torn between wanting to keep her talking and not wanting to exhaust her, Mary fell back on social ritual and the inappropriate role of hostess. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Hazlitt?’

Slowly Mrs Hazlitt came out of her daze, her face still bleak. ‘A cup of tea?’ Her tone changed to one of social parody. ‘A cup of tea would be awfully
naice
.’

Mary laughed and pushed the kettle onto the hotplate, opened the firebox and poked at the coals to make the flames roar.

When Mrs Hazlitt spoke again, she sounded thoughtful. ‘I think you and I might get along quite well, Mary.’

Mary wasn’t sure what to say. Mrs Hazlitt must be her employer just as much as her husband was — surely most farming properties were partnerships these days? Friendship was a different matter. Still, friendship hadn’t actually been suggested, just
getting along
, which had to be part of the job anyway. ‘Yes, Mrs Hazlitt. I see no reason why we wouldn’t.’

‘Good. Then if we’re going to spend time together, I suggest you call me by my own name. I’m sick of being Mrs Hazlitt. My name is Clio — that’s with an i not an e.’

Mary caught on. ‘As in the muse of … was it history? It’s a great name, especially when you might have been called Terpsichore.’

‘My father wanted to call my sister Thalia or Parthenope, but my mother put her foot down. My father compromised by calling her Penelope, after Ulysses’ long-suffering wife. He was an historian.’

Mrs Hazlitt — Clio — seemed to be happier when she was talking about herself, and Mary offered her encouragement to go on. ‘What sort of historian?’

‘Ancient history. Greece and Rome, mainly.’ Her hands were playing with a fold of her gown. ‘My mother was a student of his. My father was very glamorous, a bit like Paul. He was Italian: Orlando Lanza.’ She let the name roll out with full Italian emphasis. ‘Needless to say, I was called
Mario
at school, especially when I started learning music.’ She settled deeper into the chair. ‘My mother was Welsh and a very good singer.’

Mary moved about, making tea, finishing her tasks, listening attentively. Now that Clio had found an audience, she didn’t need any prompting, and her deep, melodious voice was easy to listen to.

‘One of my best childhood memories is of my mother singing. She was a deep mezzo, almost contralto. She often sang the old hymns, sometimes opera.’

Mary handed her a cup of tea. She’d found an assortment of English bone china and delicate Japanese porcelain cups and saucers, and used the prettiest ones for Mrs Hazlitt. Clio. The one she’d chosen today was a shallow cup and matching saucer, hand-painted with pink chrysanthemums.

Clio accepted her tea. ‘These cups belonged to Ellen. All the pretty things were hers. I’m glad you’re using them.’

‘Did they bring a lot of stuff from England?’ Mary cut slices of orange cake and took pieces of shortbread from the tin.

Clio placed her cup carefully back into its saucer, turning it so that the flowers on the cup lined up with those on the saucer. ‘Yes. They weren’t poor. Ellen’s diaries are still here. When I first came here I spent a good deal of time reading them. Paul let me know from the start that I had a lot to live up to.’

‘That must have been interesting,’ Mary murmured, hoping that she might have an opportunity to read those diaries but not venturing to ask.

Clio seemed to read her mind. ‘If you’re interested, please feel free. The papers are in the bookcases in that front parlour. There’s Edgar’s family Bible, too. His family were well-to-do farmers on the South Downs. Which is why we breed Southdowns to this day, direct descendants of the sheep Edgar and Ellen brought with them. It wasn’t till later that they went into Merinos. That was Ellen’s idea. She’d always wanted to breed fine-wool sheep, and apparently you can’t in England because their pasture’s too rich in protein and coarsens the wool. Fine wool wasn’t fashionable then, but Ellen stuck to her guns. People thought she was misguided or eccentric. Or just plain batty.’

Mary pulled one of the dining chairs over and sat down near Clio. Now that she was relaxed — her face animated and with a trace of colour warming her pallor — Clio was just as good-looking as her husband and son, with dramatic bone structure and a long neck that set off those wonderful dark eyes and wavy hair. The garment she was wearing over the cotton gown was hand-knitted in natural wool, thick and creamy white, and looked warm. The ugg boots were the colour of milky coffee, decorated with a line of coloured braid that ran up the back seam and disappeared under the folds of the gown.

‘That’s very interesting.’ Mary wanted to keep her talking. ‘I was hoping I’d learn something about the stud business while I’m here.’

‘Were you? Then you’d better have a word with Cec.’

‘Cec? I haven’t …’

‘No, of course not. You’ve hardly had time. Cec is our studmaster. He and his wife Janet live in the stone house. That was the Downe homestead before Ellen had this one built. It’s smaller, but Cec and Janet have no children so it’s quite big enough for them. Janet likes the old style.’

‘I haven’t seen anyone there.’

‘Janet’s a teacher.’

‘At Glen …’ Mary struggled to remember the name of the town Paul had mentioned, where there was a high school.

‘Glendenup? No, Janet’s Head at Eticup Primary.’

‘Eticup? Where’s that?’

‘About thirty kilometres. Just the school, pub, and a petrol station with a bit of a shop.’

‘Is that the nearest town?’

‘Milyup’s closer, but in the other direction.’

‘What’s at Milyup?’

‘Population forty-five. There’s a garage-stroke-motel with a bottle shop.’

Mary was beginning to grasp Downe’s isolation. ‘I thought there’d be a town closer than that. A proper town, with shops, and maybe a cinema …’ ‘Sorry. Why?’

‘I had an idea I might be able to use one of the farm vehicles to go there for my days off.’

‘Albany’s the nearest proper town. It’s more than an hour away, even driving fast. It’d take you longer, not knowing the roads.’

Mary was disappointed. She’d ask Paul about a vehicle, though; it might still be possible to get away for a change now and then.

Clio went on. ‘There’s always the pistol club at Milyup and the rifle range, if you want to socialise. You don’t play golf, do you?’ ‘No. But a pistol club?’

Something in Mary’s tone made Clio smile. ‘Don’t you like guns?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘On a farm they’re essential. Getting rid of vermin like foxes and rabbits. Putting down animals that are too sick to survive …’

‘But a pistol?’ To Mary, handguns had associations with gangsters and crime.

‘Handguns are easier to use when you’re putting an injured animal out of its misery. If you read Ellen’s diary, you’ll come to a part about a bush fire, when Ellen had to shoot the poor beasts that had been burnt.’

Clio paused. When she spoke again, her thoughts had evidently gone off on a different tack. ‘You might run into Janet one weekend. Or you might not … they often go camping. Cec lives in the hope that he’ll discover a wildflower that’s new to science and can be named after him.’

‘I’ll be going to afternoon tea at Gloria’s on Sunday.’ Gayleen had come over earlier with the invitation. ‘Maybe I’ll meet them there.’

Clio seemed taken aback by this piece of news.

‘Is that a problem?’ Mary was pleased that she’d brought the matter up now and not left it till Sunday. Saturday and Sunday should be her days off.

Clio was looking down at her hands, folded together in her lap. They were large hands, very white and painfully thin. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘You’re entitled to some time off, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ Mary told her firmly. ‘It’s often difficult in this kind of work, but it’s important for my sanity to have a break.’

‘You could go and see the wildflowers,’ Clio said, after a pause. ‘I expect you’d like that. There’s a reserve where they’re very good. Or were, last time I visited. Cec will know.’

‘That’s good news. Will they be out while I’m here?‘

Clio’s face closed down, and when she answered her tone was cold. ‘I’ve got no idea how long you’ll be here. I don’t know what arrangement you’ve made with my husband.’

Mary was shocked. Did the couple’s non-communication extend so far? She tried to smooth the woman’s ruffled feathers. ‘The arrangement was that I’d be here for two or three months, until you’re well enough to take over again.’

Clio was staring out through the windows, a slight frown between her eyebrows. ‘I’ve been trying to work out what persuaded Paul to employ someone,’ she said at last. ‘It wasn’t to make life easier for me, you can be sure of that.’

‘I expect it was to make life easier for him.’

Clio ignored her. She was still gazing abstractedly out to the cold garden. ‘You know, with all the things that have been happening to me in the past few months, I’d almost forgotten.’

Mary waited for her to elaborate.

‘Alyssa. This has to be for Alyssa.’

‘Alyssa?’

Clio turned to face her. ‘They haven’t told you about Alyssa?’ ‘No.’

‘Ah. Well, Martin’s getting married to Alyssa. In October.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘And when Alyssa comes to live here, Paul will want the place to be looking its best.’

Questions were crowding into Mary’s head, but before she could ask any of them, Clio’s chin lifted. With bitterness colouring her voice she went on, ‘I can’t help wondering what he intends to do with me. I do know he’s delighted with Alyssa. He can’t wait to be a grandfather.’

Mary was at a loss to know how to respond to this and cast about for something that might defuse the situation. ‘Paul said something about the garden …’

Now Clio’s face registered shock. ‘The garden! The garden’s mine!’

Mary tried to be diplomatic. ‘I think he was concerned that you might not be well enough to do anything heavy.’

Clio shook her head. Tears had begun to well in her eyes, and she lowered her head to conceal them, lifting her arm to dab them away on the frill of cotton at her wrist. Mary felt dreadful.

When she spoke again, Clio’s voice was very low. ‘He’s right, of course. I’m not nearly fit enough for that.’ Her eyes were still brilliant with tears. ‘Do you know anything about gardening?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then I suppose I’ll have to let you get on with it. But please, don’t do anything without talking to me first. Don’t ask Paul or Martin — neither of them knows a damned thing about it.’

Mary understood that, for Clio, handing her garden over to a stranger would be like putting a child up for adoption.

‘The bulbs will start coming up about now. I can tell you what to look out for. They’ll have to be weeded, and you’ll need to watch where you put your feet. After you’ve got rid of the weeds, you can mulch them with some of the composted sheep manure.’

Mary was taken aback to hear such unequivocal commands. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I won’t do anything without checking with you first.’

‘If you can spare the time from your social life.’

Mary decided to ignore that. Clio wasn’t well, and she’d have to make allowances. She liked gardening, and to have charge of this one would be a welcome change from cleaning and cooking. Old gardens could be full of wonderful surprises, and spring was on the way.

She collected their empty cups and carried them over to the sink. Clio must have realised she’d overstepped the limit of good manners and was sitting silently, hunched over, frowning. Mary turned her back, busy washing up. She carefully dried the fragile cups and replaced them in the cupboard, then took the teapot outside to empty the spent leaves.

When she came back, Clio looked up at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’