Part of the Furniture (24 page)

‘What charity! Ouch! Oh, I can hear Bert, what does he want?’

‘What is it?’ Ann went to the door.

‘Was you wanting them kettles? Don’t tell me Sir is in there!’

‘Sir’s in the bathroom helping her.’

‘Should ’un be? T’aint fitty! What’s going on?’

‘What’s going on is what would have gone on with me, you old goat, if I hadn’t miscarried.’ They heard Ann shut the door with a click.

‘Robert, did you hear?’ Juno was laughing. ‘We shouldn’t laugh.’ Their eyes met. ‘Whoops,’ she exclaimed, ‘we’re off again.’

Robert said, ‘I think you should get out of that now and onto the bed. Hang on to me, just—’

‘I know, I know—push. Oh! Something’s happening.’

Robert helped her onto the bed.

Ann said, ‘Brave girl, nearly there. Wait, steady, oh, Juno, a little boy, your Inigo, he’s lovely.’

‘Oh but—’

‘Look out, sir, hold this one, there’s another, it’s twins. Hey presto! Another lovely boy!’

‘Give them to me, let me look.’ Juno, white, sweating, exhausted, held out her arms. ‘Oh, oh, poor, poor little things, don’t scream.’

Ann exclaimed, ‘Oh, dear God, one of them is blind.’

‘Oh no, he isn’t blind.’ Juno looked into those reminiscent eyes. ‘He just has very pale eyes.’ She gazed at her sons, the one with black eyes, the other’s pale as water.

Robert snorted and blew his nose, staring at the babies. Looking up at him, Juno said, ‘Oh, Robert, you look awful. I think you should give yourself a very strong drink.’

Robert was muttering, ‘I thought—oh, my God, I thought—yes, a stiff drink is a good idea.’

Presently, with a bundle on each arm, Juno said, ‘You were right about shrimps, look at their fingers.’

Gently Robert let one of his fingers be grasped by each tiny fist. He felt terribly happy, almost hysterical. He said, ‘I am so relieved.’

Juno said, ‘You and Ann were marvellous. How can I thank you? We managed jolly well without the doctor, did we not?’

And Robert said, ‘We did. I think I will get myself that drink now.’ But downstairs in his library, pouring himself whisky, he had to pause and fumble for a handkerchief.

‘W
HAT ARE THEIR NAMES
?’ Priscilla peered into the cradles.

‘The dark one is Inigo and the fair one Presto.’

‘Presto? Is that a name?’

‘It’s what Ann exclaimed when she picked him up, “Hey Presto”, so so far he is Presto.’

‘It seems a frivolous name.’ Priscilla looked surprised.

‘He may be a frivolous person,’ Juno suggested.

‘They are not identical twins.’ Priscilla examined Juno’s infants. ‘I must say, as babies go, they look splendid. I know one is supposed to ask what they weigh, but don’t bother to tell me. I am sure they weigh enough.’

Juno said, ‘They haven’t been weighed, but it seemed a ton when they were inside me.’

Priscilla said, ‘I bet it did, but you look wonderful now, radiant.’

‘It was Ann who was wonderful, and Robert. I did not enjoy it one little bit—yelled my head off. I feel as though I’d been run over by a bus.’

‘They say you forget about it.’ Priscilla sat by the bed. ‘Are you nursing them?’

‘Yes.’

‘That will keep you busy.’

‘Yes.’

So many questions one would like to ask. Priscilla held her tongue; neither infant bore the slightest resemblance to anyone she had ever seen and the mother looked like a postcard Madonna, butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Has the doctor managed to reach you?’

‘Not yet. How did you get here, Mrs Villiers?’

‘By the cliff path, it’s a bit of a scramble. I shall go back by the road. Ann tells me Robert and the men are chopping and sawing to get it clear.’

‘Yes.’ Juno wished Mrs Villiers would go away. Watching the strain of those pent-up questions made her tired; she had been dozing when the woman arrived, listening to the gasps and grunts of her infant sons, resting between feeds to snooze, relax, feel happy, wonderfully happy.

‘Now you will be able to wear all those lovely clothes your mother sent you.’ Priscilla was speaking again. ‘Get your figure back.’

Juno said, ‘Yes.’

‘Has your mother had her baby yet?’ One could surely enquire.

Juno said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh.’ Priscilla was thoughtful. ‘Does she know about these?’ She gestured towards the cradles.

‘No.’

‘I see.’ I see nothing, Priscilla thought. ‘No business of mine,’ she said.

Juno smiled.

‘Their uncle or aunt may not even be born yet,’ suggested Priscilla. ‘It’s an original situation.’

Juno laughed.

‘And your aunt?’

Juno shook her head.

‘I won’t put my foot in it a second time,’ Priscilla promised. ‘I have often wondered what one is supposed to have trodden in.’

‘Shit?’ Juno suggested. Seeing Priscilla’s eyebrows rise she said, ‘Sorry, I found myself yelling words I hardly knew while they were being born. I can’t have fully recovered. I should have said dog mess, shouldn’t I?’ And Robert had called her ‘darling’, deranged by the situation.

Priscilla said, ‘It’s in the dictionary. Speaking of which, I ought to go. I have left my poor Mosley tied up in the porch. Now if there is anything I can do at any time,’ she leaned down to kiss Juno’s forehead, ‘you know where to find me, please remember that.’

Juno said, ‘Thank you, I will.’

Priscilla said, ‘I admire your gumption,’ and went, leaving Juno listening to her receding footsteps.

At the foot of the hill Robert and the men had finished clearing the road; he greeted Priscilla with a friendly kiss. He smelt of sawdust and sweat. ‘Couldn’t keep away, I see. Curiosity lent you wings.’

‘I walked over by the cliff path to see whether there was anything I could do to help Ann, but she says no, everything is under control,’ said Priscilla. ‘And you seem to have managed the
accouchement
brilliantly. Congratulations.’

‘It was uncomplicated.’

‘Very lucky.’

‘Yes.’

‘Neither infant resembles anybody I have ever seen.’ Priscilla eyed Robert closely.

Robert called, ‘Bert, if you can clear my car of branches, I can drive us all home. You never give up, do you, Priscilla?’

Priscilla persisted, ‘Do they look like anybody you know, Robert?’

Robert said, ‘No.’

‘No friend of Evelyn’s, for instance?’

‘No.’

‘You know, Robert, I rather supposed, and I dare say you did too, that Evelyn was the father,’ Priscilla ventured.

‘Did you really?’

‘Yes, really. I thought he might have slipped up. Come on, Robert, you must have thought so too.’

‘No must about it.’

‘And have you asked?’

‘No.’

‘Shall you?’

‘No.’

‘Shouldn’t you?’

‘No.’

Priscilla exclaimed, ‘I don’t know how you can bear not to.’

‘Oh, Priss, you old sleuth.’ Robert laughed outright. ‘Do you want a lift home?’

‘No thanks, dear Robert, I’ll walk, but I shall see you very soon.’

‘I am going to London.’

‘Oh? For long?’

‘I have to see to Evelyn’s house. I have not been up since his funeral.’

‘Oh.’

‘Bert and Ann can see to things here. It’s a good time to go away, nothing much to do on the farm.’ Robert strolled towards his car, where Bert and John already sat on the back seat.

‘Don’t you think it peculiar, Robert, that one child is dark and the other fair?’ She peered in at the car window.

Robert pressed the starter and the engine sprang to life. ‘Mind your head.’ Priscilla withdrew.

I have to get away, Robert thought, reorder my mind, go through Evelyn’s things, get used to my new situation. Get used to this fresh pain. ‘Goodbye, old girl,’ he shouted and set the car at the hill; if he hurried, he could catch the night train.

R
OBERT PAID THE TAXI
and watched it drive off. The steps of Evelyn’s house were unswept. Fragments of paper and cigarette stubs had drifted into corners; the letterbox and door-knocker, unpolished for months, were almost black. Fumbling for the key, he noticed that the house across the street had had a direct hit. Had Evelyn told him? The windows of the ground floor were boarded up, but on the second floor he could see into what had been a bathroom. A lavatory bowl was suspended in space, a basin dangled at an angle; in an adjoining bedroom beautiful wallpaper hung in strips and what looked like a good flower print still hung on the wall. Had Evelyn known the occupants? Had the war made them friends? In the previous war he remembered the stink of the trenches, scuttling rats, parts of bodies to be collected for burial, the distended stomachs of dead horses, the disgust engendered by lice. Now one was treated to the intimacies of a neighbour’s bathroom. He wondered why such a pretty print had not been salvaged, where the inhabitants of the house were now. He pushed Evelyn’s latchkey into the lock and let himself in.

The hall was musty and dry. He switched on a light, laid his hat on a table, set his case on the floor, listened.

Time was when the house was full of sound. Evelyn had had many friends, loved music. Walking to the stairs his footsteps sounded loud. Somebody had rolled up the rugs. He climbed to the first floor, went into the drawing-room where Evelyn had died. There was no sign of him now. He sat at his son’s desk and began pulling out drawers, sifting through papers. He had done this after the funeral, taken care of the few unanswered letters, paid the bills; there had been little of interest but he might have missed something. It was here that Evelyn had written that last letter.

Finding nothing, Robert picked up the blotter and took it to a mirror hanging on the wall, dusted the glass with his handkerchief, held the blotter up. Reflected in the glass he read in his son’s writing: ‘Dear Sarah’, ‘Dear Johnson’, ‘Yours sincerely, Evelyn Copplestone’, ‘Love, E’, ‘So sorry but’, then, ‘Dear Father, Juno’, then a squiggle, a smudge, a note in pencil, ‘Ring Sinclair Saturday’. He put the blotter back on the desk, said, ‘Bugger Sinclair, whoever he may be,’ and felt ashamed. On the desk the telephone rang; he picked up the receiver. ‘Hullo?’

A woman said, ‘I saw you arrive. I am the next door neighbour who—’

Who had found Evelyn, who had telephoned him at Copplestone, told him Evelyn was dead. Robert said, ‘Of course, Mrs Hunt’

‘I wondered, can I help? Would you like a meal or a drink? Or am I intruding?’

‘No, no. Would you come round? I would be delighted.’ She had made soup, he remembered, came in every evening during the raids, was lonely, Evelyn had said. She might remember something. He could but ask.

She said, ‘I’ll come at once,’ sounding pleased. He ran down to let her in, said it was kind of her to come. She said, ‘I heard your taxi, thought it might be a visitor for me.’ She was of indefinable age, past the middle years, not yet succumbing to age. ‘You must think me very nosy.’

Robert said, ‘Of course not, I am very glad to see you. I was going to call—’ (Well, easily might have.) ‘You were so kind when—’

‘Evelyn died.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was fond of him, Mr Copplestone. The war brought people together who were barely on nodding terms before. Your son’s basement was open house. I used to bring soup for him and his friends.’

‘He told me. Do call me Robert.’

‘Oh, shall I? Very well. He had a lot of friends.’

‘Please come up, we could light the fire. It’s chilly.’ Robert’s eye roved over the desolation of the hall, furniture askew, rugs rolled up, his hat looking ridiculous. ‘Let me lead the way.’

In the drawing-room he lit the fire, settled Mrs Hunt in an armchair. ‘I wondered whether you could help me,’ he said.

‘Of course, Robert, but how?’

‘I am looking to see whether there is anything I may have missed.’

‘Oh?’

‘About that last night.’

‘Those poor young things! Surely I told you at the time? He warned them, you know, but they so wanted to dance and off they went—’

‘Did you see the other girl?’

‘What other girl?’

‘A girl who did not go with the others?’

‘Oh! Goodness me, there
was
another girl, I had clean forgotten. She came in with Evelyn, she refused soup, so did he. They came up here, I suppose. She can’t have stayed long; he was alone when I found him.’

‘Did you know who she was? Was she a friend?’

‘Must have been.’

‘Was she here often?’

Mrs Hunt frowned. ‘No, I don’t think I had seen her before. I knew all the others, of course. Why? Is it important?’

‘Evelyn gave her a letter for me, suggested she should work—’

‘Oh, the dear fellow! So he found you a girl! He said how difficult it was for you to find anyone suitable, that all he could send you were impermanent pederasts—’

Robert laughed, ‘Anthony Smith?’

‘That’s the one, and he had a friend. But this girl, is she any good? Evelyn would be pleased.’

Robert said, ‘A very hard worker.’

‘Isn’t that splendid? Evelyn was such a good judge.’

‘I only wondered—’ Robert hesitated. He had wondered so much it was hard to know where to start or even, he eyed Mrs Hunt, whether to do so. Awkwardly he said, ‘I wondered how well he knew her?’

Mrs Hunt frowned. ‘I wouldn’t know that.’

‘Or how long?’ Robert forced himself on. This was worse than spying from the blotting paper.

‘I wouldn’t know that either. What does she say?’

‘Not much. Very little, in fact. Hardly anything.’

Mrs Hunt regarded Robert. ‘Are you wondering whether he was in love with her?’

‘I—’

‘And whether she was in love with him?’

‘It—’

‘Or whether they quarrelled and she walked out but, thinking better of it, came down to see you because she wanted the job? Or is my imagination taking a gallop?’

‘Mrs Hunt.’ Robert flushed.

Mrs Hunt chuckled, ‘I can assure you he wasn’t.’

‘Ah.’

‘Not in love, nor in the mood to take her to bed. I had learned to know your son, Robert.’

‘You had?’

‘He was very tired, dying as we now know. And, now I remember the girl, she looked knackered, too. She would be just someone he thought would suit you.’