A Proper Family Christmas (13 page)

Leo cringed as he used the back of his chair as a springboard, inches from his head, and there was hiss of intaken breath as he picked his way through the ornaments on the mantlepiece. Only William was unfazed, having seen this trick before.

The gap across the doorway was the awkward bit. Oliver gave vent to a ‘Bravo!' as he made it with a carefully judged leap from the bookcase to the piano. A back leg caught the music-stand as he descended, but it was an otherwise faultless performance, fully deserving of the cheers and groans which greeted his arrival back on
terra firma
. With the attention still on him, he chose the moment to demand exit from the stage. Oliver obliged by opening the door, and slipped out at the same time.

“Nice guy,” said Tony, with a nod towards the door.

“Yes, he seems reasonably intelligent,” conceded Stephen.

William snorted, not so much in condemnation of Oliver Leafield, but aware that neither of them had exchanged more than a word with the man.

“It depends how you measure intelligence, doesn't it?” said Leo significantly, but no one obliged by asking what he meant.

“I wonder what he's making of Haseley,” Stephen went on. “It's a great pity the house has been allowed to fall into such a state! I'm sure you could afford to keep it in better repair, Father, if you only made the effort. …Still, I imagine a professional will be used to seeing past that kind of thing.”

“A professional!” Leo infused the word with irony. “Yes, I suppose it's a profession of sorts. On the other hand one
might
be tempted to call someone who enjoys other people's hospitality on no very good pretext a parasite.”

“A
parasite
, Leo? Yes, I suppose one might,” said Tony, winking at William in a way that annoyed him intensely.

“Nonsense!” said Stephen, having missed the point to this. “The man's obviously a busy academic. It was very good of him to make time to visit Haseley, especially at this season. …I imagine it reflects the high standing in which the house is held in architectural circles,” he added with a hint of self-satisfaction.

“Let's hope he writes an article that sends its value rocketing, then,” said Tony, “and we'll forgive him any other little foibles. …What about you, William?” he went on, ignoring Stephen's puzzled frown. “What did you think of Oliver Leafield?”

William considered the matter. He'd been predisposed to take against a man who'd been invited to his home against his will in order to criticise it. But in the event, Oliver hadn't turned out to be the male version of Margery he'd imagined. All his comments about the house had been enthusiastic, and he'd made no attempt to pressurise William into making unnecessary repairs or selling up. What was more, he was one of the few people to appreciate his cat, and one of the even fewer that Scratch was prepared to unbend to. Yes, William gave a little nod of approval. “He was all right.”

“I'm glad you liked him,” said Tony, with a gleam that suggested he was enjoying a private joke.

“Why shouldn't I?” said William crossly.

“You're not bothered by his - er - supposed proclivities, then?”

To be honest, William had forgotten all about them, - but they could be dismissed at once with the rest of his preconceptions. There was nothing pansy about Oliver Leafield.

“What do you mean?” Stephen and Leo both exclaimed sharply.

“Oh…!” Tony affected surprise at getting the reaction he'd no doubt intended. “Well, - I don't know quite how to put this, but rumour has it that our friend Oliver - um - bats for the other side, so to speak.”

“Huh! Gay, is he? I might have known.” The contempt in Leo's voice barely hid his delight at finding something to place to Oliver's supposed discredit.

. “Well I don't know why that should count against him!” said Stephen, with a glance of dislike at his cousin. “We are supposed to live in a tolerant society, after all.”

“Oh yes, quite,” said Tony, taking the opportunity to raise his eyes despairingly in Leo's direction himself. “Some of us, anyway! …Nothing to sneer at, nowadays. It's a biological thing, isn't it? People can't help the way they're bent.”

“I'm not saying that!” Leo realised he had gone off line, and was struggling to get back on course. “Good heavens, as a creative artist, I'm the
last
person to indulge in small-minded bigotry.” He glared at the rest of them, daring them to disagree. “I merely meant that Leafield is typical of a certain kind of man…” He tailed off, quite unable to find any way of following this through.

“Well I'm sure we've nothing to worry about where Oliver is concerned,” said Tony. “They're not all paedophiles, are they, - despite what one hears?”

“Of course not,” said Stephen with some irritation. “Many of my academic colleagues are - er, bachelors in that way, and most eminent men.”

“And it's good that William feels able to welcome someone like that into his home without prejudice,” Tony turned to him, with an approving smile. “It must be reassuring for the guy that you trust him around your grandchildren.”

“Tobias, you mean?” said Stephen sharply.

“Well, he's not likely to go after Posy, - given his preferences!” said Tony. “Why - do you think Tobias could be in any danger?”

“Scar-ee!!” said Shelley. It seemed to Frances a fair summing up of the bathroom at Haseley House.

Tobias, who had run in with Posy, hung back, cowed by the sudden echoes of their voices against the cavernous ceiling. He eyed the massive bath, the huge taps and a cylinder instead of a bath-plug, its claw feet set on a chequered stone floor which made no concessions to bare feet.

“I don't wa-ant to!” His cry resounded back to them, assuming the horrifying dimensions of a prisoner condemned to the torture-chamber.

“Oh come on, Tobias,” Frances tried to pull herself together. “Posy's going to have a go in Grandpa's big bath, aren't you, Posy? …Let's see if this funny plug thing works.”

Warily she stepped forward and found out how to lower the porcelain cylinder so it did indeed stop the plug-hole. Posy broke her stunned trance to run up and help by turning the hot tap on full force. No steam rose from the water. Frances put her hand under the flow and felt it slowly change from icy cold to luke warm.

“That's as good as it's going to get,” she concluded. “Better make it a lick and a promise tonight. We don't want you catching pneumonia.”

“Trendy now, these old-fashioned bathrooms,” observed Shelley, looking round the room more kindly. “Which bit's the shower, do you think?”

“I don't expect William's got one,” said Frances, who was trying to encourage Tobias out of his clothes. Posy had already got rid of hers and was dancing up and down on them in lieu of a bath mat.

“That's a bugger. Tony always likes to strip off for a shower before bed.” said Shelley, with a reminiscent expression that made Frances wonder how she knew.

“
I
want a shower!” announced Posy.

“Well you ain't,” said her nanny. “Get in that bath with Tobias before I smack your bum!”

Posy yelped and scrambled over the side into the bath, where Tobias was already sitting gingerly. “It's frigging cold,” she declared

Shelley didn't seem to have heard, and Frances thought it best to ignore the word, rather than draw Tobias's attention to it. She found some soap and his flannel, but it was snatched out of her hand.

“
I
'm going to wash Tobias,” said Posy, and began scrubbing at her cousin as if he was a bad stain on a favourite dress.

“No, that's a bit rough…” Frances rescued him, and distracted Posy by persuading her to attend to her own grubby knees. When had the child last had a bath?

Shelley was more interested in redesigning William's washing arrangements. “Don't suppose there's a jacuzzi either. Waste, really, when he's got all this room. Tone and Julia were going to put one in last year, but then the money thing happened… Oi, Posy! You'd better come out of there, if you're just going to splash about!”

“When I grow up I'm going to have a swimming pool with bubbles in it,” she told them, “ and a big pink car, and a pony like my friend Becky.”

“Better find yourself a rich bloke like Becky's Dad then!” Shelley winked at Frances. “Where's the old man keep his towels?”

“This looks like the airing-cupboard…” The pile of linen inside didn't seem to have been disturbed for years. She pulled out a couple of thinning, grey-white towels, handed one to Shelley and wrapped Tobias in the other.

He stood shivering on the bare floor. “It's friggin' cold,” he said.

CHAPTER 9

At least in a house this size, there was always somewhere else to go. Hilary had found herself a retreat and settled down again, not altogether sorry to have escaped the frenetic atmosphere in the kitchen.

The old Butler's Pantry had a large stone sink, and smelled faintly of the contents of the miscellaneous jam jars and bottles of wine that William kept stored on its shelves. Stephen and Lesley would no doubt have it converted into some grim utility room, if and when they moved in. …What a waste of a wonderful house like this, with its secret nooks and atmospheric crannies, to treat it as mere bricks and mortar, instead of the historical entity it had matured into over the years! Despite herself, Hilary couldn't help returning to Leo's speculations. Was William really intending to leave his home to his unbeloved son and daughter-in-law? More likely he just hadn't pushed himself to thinking about the matter, and hadn't made a will at all. Haseley would go to Stephen and Lesley by default. But just supposing…? No, better not to imagine what she herself might do with this house, or let Leo's insidious poison seep even into her daydreams.

She jumped guiltily nevertheless when there was a knock at the pantry door. To her surprise, Oliver Leafield came in.

“Do you need any help?”

“Oh! Er - yes, thank you. That would be marvellous.”

She'd spoken without thinking. What could an eminent architectural historian possibly be given to do in the rôle of kitchen maid? He was only being polite, and she should have politely refused his offer, not fallen on his neck with gratitude.

“You seem to be getting on pretty well with the potatoes,” he said, before she could think of a way of retracting. “Shall I start on these onions? I presume you want them all peeled and chopped.”

“Oh yes, - if you're sure you don't mind. …I've somehow become solely responsible for feeding the five thousand, and panic's beginning to set in.”

Oliver had already picked up the knife, and was divesting an onion of its skin with startling swiftness. She watched him chop it into neat slices as rapidly as a machine, and start on the next one. “Blimey! You've done that before.”

He looked up and smiled. “Cooking's one of my hobbies.”

“I wish it was one of mine,” Hilary sighed.

“I expect you do more interesting things with your time.”

Did she? Hilary thought about it. The trouble with not very well paid freelance work was that you had to keep at it most of the day. By the time she'd tossed the last red-pencilled manuscript aside, all her brain was fit for was mindless television. Better not admit this to a man who doubtless frequented art galleries and concerts, when he wasn't writing articles for Country Life or cooking.

“Not at all. It must be lovely to be able to make nice meals for your family.”

“Well I live on my own, so it's more for friends really.”

Oh lord, had he thought she was fishing? Of course Oliver couldn't be married, if he'd been happy to come to Haseley for Christmas.

“I've got a son,” said Hilary, as if it absolved her from being interested. “I'm sure Daniel would have loved me to be a domestic goddess when he was growing up. …He's climbing in Scotland at the moment.”

“And you're worried about him.” Oliver looked at her with a sympathy that made her realise how much her face must have given away.

“Yes I am a bit …I know it's silly. He's a man now, and I've got to learn to let go.”

“It must be hard, though, when you've already lost your husband.”

So he knew about Ben. …Shit! She didn't want him to see her as a pathetic widow, neurotically clinging to her grown up son to give her life meaning.

“I sure Daniel will be fine. Anyway, I'm going to stop worrying about what he's up to, and just enjoy Christmas,” she lied. “Thanks for doing those. I expect I can manage now, if you want to go back to the sitting-room.”

“Oh, please - no! Do let me grate the cheese.”

Hilary giggled at his desperate face. “Is it awful in there?”

“You wouldn't believe!” he grimaced. “Not to speak ill of your relatives, but I got the impression everyone in that room had it in for everybody else, and was determined to make them feel as uncomfortable as possible. I had to duck several times to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.”

“Oh dear! Tony and Stephen don't really get on and they do tend to snipe at each other, and of course William has no time for either of them,” Hilary explained.

“And as for your friend - Leo, is it? He seems to hate everyone indiscriminately.”

“He's not my friend,” she said quickly. “I just had a lift in his car. …Yes, Leo despises humanity in general I'm afraid.”

“An interesting stance for a writer,” he observed. “Anyway, it was all a bit much, and we made our escape.”

“We?” Hilary was puzzled.

“Me and the cat.” He described the high wire performance Scratch had treated them to, making her laugh.

“So what are your plans for dessert tonight?” he asked when he'd dealt with the cheese, after pausing to admire the antiquity of William's grater.