The FitzOsbornes in Exile (7 page)

“But it comes from pigs!” she cried. “
Dead
pigs! Pigs who’ve been
killed
!”

“Better than coming from pigs that
haven’t
been killed,” he said. “And what about the ham you’ve eaten every Christmas for the past ten years?”

“But I hadn’t
met
any pigs then!” she wailed. “I didn’t know they had personalities, like dogs! You wouldn’t eat
Carlos
, would you?”

Toby sighed. “I suppose sheep and cows have personalities, too?” he said, peering inside the remaining silver dishes. “What about chickens?”

“Spartacus had a personality,” she sniffed, recalling our ferocious rooster at Montmaray. “Remember how he teased the cats? Oh, poor, poor Spartacus—do you think he was squashed by the bombs?”

Aunt Charlotte was becoming more and more annoyed, and Veronica looked as though she were about to throw down her newspaper and do a bolt of her own, so I hurried Henry into her seat and handed her my piece of toast.

“There’s scrambled eggs,” mused Toby, still at the sideboard. “They’re not actually chickens.
Potential
chickens, perhaps …”

After some thought, Henry decided fish didn’t have personalities unless they were extremely large, like Moby Dick, so she had half of Toby’s kippers. Aunt Charlotte, muttering under her breath, stomped away to telephone the agency about a new governess, and Toby and Veronica returned to the declining Roman Empire. I went off to the music room, where I was trying to teach myself to waltz with the aid of Aunt Charlotte’s gramophone and a booklet Julia had lent me. Unfortunately, transforming little black shoe-shapes and curly arrows on a page into actual movement was proving difficult. I was deep in a dizzy muddle when the footman came in to announce I was wanted on the telephone.

“Me?” I gasped, dropping the tasseled bolster I’d been using as a dance partner.

“Mr. Simon Chester expressly asked for Your Highness,” he said.

I followed him to the little room under the stairs where the telephone was kept and gingerly picked up the speaking part.

“Hello?” I shouted, first in one end, then the other.

“Oh, there you are,” said Simon, sounding as though he were in the next room instead of all the way up in London. “Sophia, the clinic called—I’m afraid Mother’s not at
all
settled, so could you please go over and sort it out? Parker can drive you—”

“What?” I said, aghast. “Simon, how would
I
be any help? Your mother hates me!”

“No, no, it’s Veronica she can’t stand. And Toby’s supposed to be studying, and
I’m
stuck here, meant to be meeting the bank manager at noon … But you’re
much
the best person for the job, anyway. The matron’s expecting you, and there’s a therapist wanting a chat, too.”

“But
I
don’t know anything about—”

“The address is in the green book, on the Chippendale table in the library—”

“Simon! Are you listening?”

“—and could you please remind your aunt about that dinner invitation from Lady Bosworth?”

“But—” I started again. “Pip, pip, pip!” said the telephone.

“Sorry, my three minutes are up,” said Simon. “Must go—thanks awfully, Sophia. See you in a few days.” And he was gone, leaving me spluttering into the silence.

I couldn’t see any way out of it. What if they sent Rebecca
back
? If it were possible to be expelled from a mental asylum for bad behavior, Rebecca could probably manage it. So I ran downstairs to find Parker, quite forgetting that we were supposed to ring the bell to summon a footman if we needed anything. Bursting into the kitchen, I startled half a dozen maids sitting at the table with their midmorning mugs of tea. They all jumped to their feet and started curtseying.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I blurted. “I was just looking for—”

“Quick, fetch Mr. Harkness!” hissed the cook at the tiniest maid, who shot off through a doorway.

“But I only wanted—”

“Mr. Harkness will be here presently, Your Highness,” said the cook, crossing her hefty arms across the bib of her apron and not quite looking me in the eye. “Ethel, stop that racket! Show some respect!” A maid, abashed, put down the bowl of eggs she’d been beating. Meanwhile, I stared helplessly around the room at all the pale faces frozen into deferential masks. At Montmaray, we’d practically
lived
in the kitchen. It had been the warmest, most welcoming place in the castle. But in
this
kitchen, I was a fearsome stranger. Fortunately, the butler arrived almost at once, straightening his cuffs.

“May I assist, Your Highness?” he intoned.

I stammered out what I’d wanted, and the bootboy was sent off to find the chauffeur. And I retreated upstairs, my face burning, having learned an unpleasant lesson about Milford Park protocol.

Eventually, Parker sent a message back that he would drive me to the clinic after luncheon. Veronica said she’d come, too, to watch him change gears and deal with traffic. “Don’t worry, I won’t go in,” she assured me. “I’ll wait outside. And we can visit Shaftesbury on the way! King Canute died there!” It was the most enthusiastic I’d seen her since we’d arrived—there’s nothing quite like long-dead kings to cheer up Veronica.

Shaftesbury turned out to be a little town on a steep green hill, its rows of historic houses looking as though they might tumble down into Blackmore Vale. It was all very pretty and Veronica had a lot of interesting things to say about its Anglo-Saxon founders, but I was too anxious to listen attentively. Rebecca had nearly
killed
Veronica last week, and the woman wasn’t all that fond of me, despite what Simon had said. Of course, there were unlikely to be axes lying around a clinic, but still … The car plunged on towards the coast, and all too soon, the sea appeared, a gray-blue blanket scrunched up on the sandy seafront. It wasn’t the same sea as the one I’d known, though—it was too mild-mannered. It didn’t even
smell
right.

The clinic was a friendly-looking white building, the front path edged with seashells, a bird feeder dangling from the bare branches of a nearby tree. Inside, however, were the unmistakable signs of an institution—a notice board reminding residents about fire drills, a reception desk littered with ringing telephones, and a lot of women marching about in crisp white uniforms (it was some comfort to think of all those highly trained professionals standing guard between Rebecca and me). It turned out Simon had given them my full royal title, which got me an immediate audience with the matron but also meant lots of heads popping out of doorways to stare as I was escorted to her office. Several people bobbed curtseys and looked mildly awestruck as I walked past, and one woman (presumably a patient rather than a member of staff) asked why I wasn’t wearing my tiara.

The matron’s mind was on sterner matters. “Mrs. Chester is delusional,” she said, frowning over a file. “As are many of our patients, but she’s rather … 
insistent
that others go along with her beliefs, no matter how ludicrous. She got into a very nasty argument this morning with our receptionist, claiming that her son was the King and demanding he be addressed as
Your Majesty.
”

“Ah,” I said. “Er … well, she’s lived with our family for a very long time, and she may have been a little confused about—”

“She threw a
stapler
at the girl,” said the matron, giving me a severe look.

“Well, that was
very
wrong of her,” I said, my voice somehow taking on the exact tones of the matron.

“Indeed,” she said. “And so we really must—Oh. Here’s our head therapist.”

I shook hands with the head therapist, thinking that surely
all
the therapists must deal with heads. At any rate, she was very enthusiastic about her job.

“Well, Your Highness, this is lovely!” she cried. “To take such an interest in the well-being of your … I believe Mrs. Chester was your housekeeper? You see, we find our residents settle more easily if they can take part in familiar activities, so I was wondering if Mrs. Chester might like to help out in the kitchen. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Not if you want your meals to be edible
, I thought. And the image of Rebecca let loose in a room full of sharp knives gave me the shivers. The matron must have been thinking along the same lines.

“I really don’t think—” she began, peering over her spectacles.

“Or hobbies?” the therapist went on, leaning forward and tucking her clasped hands under her chin. “What gives Mrs. Chester
pleasure
in life?”

Screaming at people? Throwing staplers at them?
“Well, she is very fond of her son, Simon,” I offered. “Perhaps if she could have some photographs of him in her room …”

“Oh, but she does! And her son is most welcome to telephone or visit as often as he likes. I must say, she also seems to be getting on very well with her roommate, which is
wonderful
, because her roommate can be rather …” The matron cleared her throat, and the therapist hurried on. “But is there anything else? Does Mrs. Chester enjoy music or nature walks or sewing?”

I thought hard. “Um … well, she’s quite religious. Is there a church service she could attend on Sundays? And if a clergyman could visit her, I’m sure she’d pay attention if
he
told her not to throw staplers at people.”

“Of course!” said the therapist, beaming. “She can join the group that walks over to St. Jude’s each Sunday—they’re supervised, of course. And I’ll ask the vicar—a lovely man—if he can pop in and see her. What an excellent idea!” And then she went on about the clinic choral group that Rebecca might like to join, and how she was thinking of converting the old scullery into a meditation room.

“I expect you’d like to see Mrs. Chester now,” interrupted the matron. I couldn’t think of any polite way out of it, so I was shown into a sitting room that smelled of disinfectant, where I had a short, strained conversation with Rebecca.

“Do you need anything?” I asked. “More clothes or … or books or anything?”

“My
son
brings me everything I need,” she said haughtily. She was wearing a sober gray dress and had her hair scraped back and coiled in braids above each ear, which made her resemble the second Mrs. Rochester more than the first. I can’t say she looked happy, but when had she ever? She seemed well fed and clean, and she hadn’t thrown anything at me. Was happiness—the long-term sort of happiness, not momentary bursts of it—even possible for Rebecca? I had a glimpse of what it might be like to be her: to have given up everything for love and then be tossed aside, to have been taken up again by one’s lover when he’d been abandoned by everyone and everything, even his sanity—and then to be forsaken again, this time for eternity. Contemplating Rebecca’s life was like peering into a bottomless coal pit. But imagine being
in
the pit, peering up at an impossibly distant speck of daylight! Poor Rebecca! No wonder she spoke to people who weren’t there and lashed out viciously at those who were—and I suddenly recalled that Saint Jude was the patron saint of lost causes. It was all so disheartening that I was relieved when she said an abrupt farewell and stomped out.

The therapist then insisted on giving me a tour and outlining the clinic’s philosophies (all of which sounded very impressive, although now I come to write them down, I can’t remember a word). I had the distinct impression that she had mistaken me for a member of the British royal family, or at least for someone far more important than I actually am. In the recreation room, we came across Rebecca and a tall, ferocious-looking woman, presumably her roommate, standing by a barred window. They were looking out towards the road, where Parker was pointing out bits of the car engine to Veronica. Rebecca was muttering in a low voice, no doubt pouring vitriol into her roommate’s ear (I could almost see it, a poisonous blue-green stream). Which did make me feel slightly less sympathetic towards Rebecca. But at least she seemed to be enjoying herself, in a Rebecca-ish sort of way. The therapist and I moved on to the music room and the dining room, and then finally, after a cup of milky tea and a digestive biscuit, I was able to make my escape.

“About time,” Veronica said. “We were just about to storm the barricades and rescue you. So they haven’t thrown her out yet?”

“No,” I said. “And the place is very nice.”

“It ought to be, with the fees they charge,” said Veronica. Then we drove home, Parker letting Veronica steer in the flat areas, while I thought about the human mind. I wondered whether mad people would be better off if their memories could be neatened up, or taken off the shelves on which they were stored and replaced with nicer ones, and if they’d be the same people then or completely different ones, and whether dreams were like a vandal rampaging through a library of memories, tearing out random pages and turning them into paper boats … and then I fell asleep and dreamed of the sea, and when I woke up, we were home.

23rd January 1937

It was Veronica’s birthday today. The cook made a chocolate cake, decorated with sugar roses and eighteen pink candles, and Julia and Anthony came over for tea. Julia brought a gorgeous black silk evening gown, which she claimed she’d snapped up for a bargain in the sales, then taken home before realizing it was the wrong size, “so please, Veronica,
do
take it off my hands.” Anthony gave her a book by Karl Marx, and Lady Astley sent hothouse roses and an enormous box of chocolates. Henry’s present turned out to be a magnifying glass, “because you’ve probably got eyestrain from too much reading, although when you’re not using it, can I borrow it?” And Veronica insisted that Toby’s and my newspaper subscription was “perfect,” exactly what she’d wanted, although I must say it didn’t look very impressive next to the other presents (especially as the actual newspapers won’t start being delivered until next week, so it was just an invoice from the newspaper office).

But I think the parcel she was most pleased about was Daniel’s, which arrived in the morning post, wrapped up in brown paper. He sent a thick letter and a couple of books about politics, one of which he’d actually written himself. Anthony was a bit condescending over Daniel’s book, because it was about Socialism rather than Communism. I’d thought they were pretty much the same, and Anthony’s explanation didn’t really clear up matters. I’d just about grasped the idea that Socialism was a milder form, with less emphasis on violent revolutions, when he and Veronica got into a debate about it (“But
Engels
said …” “Yet didn’t
Trotsky
 …” “Well, what about Stalin?”).

So the rest of us left them to it and talked about the forthcoming Season. I’m not officially old enough to make my debut into Society this year, but I’ll be doing so regardless—Aunt Charlotte has put up my age by six months in order that Veronica and I can come out at the same time. It’s unlikely the Palace officials will find out. I don’t have a birth certificate for them to check, and Julia’s uncle pulled strings so that we didn’t need to acquire British registration cards. (Apparently, all new arrivals to this country are meant to register as “aliens” and have to carry identification cards around and inform the police every time they change their address or start a new job.) I’m beginning to feel rather nervous regarding this whole Season thing, though, so I asked Julia about her experiences as a debutante.

“Oh, the dances are lovely, and you meet
such
a lot of new people, which is awfully stimulating,” she said. “Of course, it’s a bother remembering their names, especially the men, all dressed exactly alike, whereas at least with the girls … although one does look at everyone else’s beautiful dresses and turn
green
with envy. Then there’s the presentation at Buckingham Palace, which makes one go green all over again, from sheer
nerves
. The girl in front of me was sick into an equerry’s top hat, another girl started gnawing on her Card of Command, and when she got to the Lord Chamberlain, he couldn’t read a word and sent her to the back of the line, then someone else’s bouquet fell apart, fern leaves and pink carnations scattered all over the carpet of the Throne Room—”

Which really didn’t do much to relieve my anxieties.

Toby also used the occasion to present Anthony with his Order of Benedict. (It turned out Aunt Charlotte had half a dozen of them in her safe—the family must have had them made up in bulk at the jeweler’s, decades ago.) I was worried Anthony might not believe in accepting royal honors, being a Communist and everything, but he seemed very pleased and gave a nice, rambling speech in return. We decided to get Julia to pass along her uncle’s Order of Benedict to him, as he was abroad doing top-secret government things, and no one was sure where he was or when he’d be back. Unfortunately, Simon hadn’t yet located Captain Zuleta.

“Because he’s resigned from the shipping company,” Toby explained after Julia and Anthony had left. “And they wouldn’t give out his address.”

“He told us once that all his family lived in the ancient Basque capital,” I said. “The town with the historic oak tree—I forget its name.”

“Guernica,” said Veronica.

“Perhaps he’s got his own ship now,” said Henry, lying on the carpet. She was sharing her crumpet with Carlos, who’d been allowed upstairs as a special birthday treat. “Simon should look for a ship called
Veronica.
”

“Well, if the new ship’s registered in Spain, it might be difficult to get details,” said Toby.

“Oh, yes, Spaniards are quite impossible,” said Aunt Charlotte absently, not looking up from the letter she was reading. “Erratic, unreliable—”

“I just meant with the war going on and everything,” said Toby hurriedly, glancing at Veronica.

“Exactly,” said Aunt Charlotte. “All due to their excitable temperament. Wouldn’t be
having
a war if they were capable of discussing things calmly and rationally amongst themselves.”

“It’s rather difficult to have calm, rational discussions with Fascist thugs,” snapped Veronica.

“Thugs?” said Aunt Charlotte, putting down her letter. “Nonsense! Look at Mussolini, getting the trains to run on time. Not in the least thug-like. Pamela Bosworth met him in Venice years ago, says he was absolutely charming.” Aunt Charlotte frowned at Veronica. “You know, you always seemed such a
sensible
girl from your letters, Veronica, and now here you are, spouting Communist slogans. It’s the influence of young Whittingham, of course. He’s been such a worry to his poor father …”

Veronica, looking as though she wanted to throw her copy of Daniel’s
Principles of Evolutionary Socialism
at Aunt Charlotte’s head, instead gathered up her books and stalked out.

“Takes after her mother,” said Aunt Charlotte, highly gratified by this evidence of Spanish excitability. “Who, I notice, didn’t bother to send so much as a birthday card.”

Toby and I exchanged looks. Aunt Charlotte had no idea Isabella was dead. I was just glad Veronica hadn’t stayed around to hear her mother mentioned. If it ached to hear about Montmaray, then the subject of Isabella was a raw, gaping wound. I wondered if
I
should tell Aunt Charlotte—but Toby and I had agreed between ourselves that it should be up to Veronica.

“And what about me, Aunt Charlotte?” said Toby quickly. “Whom do
I
take after?”

“Ah—now, you’re the very
image
of your father,” she said, giving him a fond smile. “Poor dear Robert, my little golden-haired brother, wrenched away from us at such a tender age …”

“And me?” cried Henry, kneeling up. “What about me?”

“You,” she said, peering over at Henry, “remind me of a monkey your Great-uncle William brought back from India.”

Henry hooted with glee and rolled around on the floor with Carlos. I didn’t ask about myself. I was afraid she’d say, “Oh, I expect you’re like your mother—what was her name? Jean? Joan?” Everyone remembers my father—he was so lively and affable, so open, so uncomplicated. But my mother, Jane, tended to fade into the background even when she was alive—just as I do. Although this might simply be because the other members of my family are so
very
conspicuous. It will be interesting to see if I fare any better in a crowd of strangers …

To take my mind off
that
terrifying prospect, I will now describe Henry’s latest governess, who arrived this afternoon. Miss Bullock is not pink but a steely shade of gray. Her tweed suit is cut like a uniform, her felt hat resembles a helmet, and her voice is raspy, probably from shouting at her charges.

“I don’t go in for modern, namby-pamby ways,” she told Aunt Charlotte. “I won’t
stand
for children who don’t do as they’re told.”

“Quite right,” said Aunt Charlotte. “And how do you—”

“I lock naughty children in their rooms,” she said.
“Without any supper!”

This didn’t sound like much of a punishment to me. We often went without supper at Montmaray, if the supply ship was overdue and there hadn’t been much luck with the fishing nets or lobster pots that day. Besides, Henry is more than capable of climbing out a window and down the drainpipe, then raiding the kitchen—or else catching a fish in the lake, scaling and gutting it, and cooking it over an open fire. Also, I don’t think Henry is
deliberately
naughty, not very often. Mostly it’s that she doesn’t consider the consequences of her actions before she plunges in, or doesn’t understand social conventions (especially the ones that don’t even make much sense to grown-ups). I didn’t point this out to Miss Bullock, though. She doesn’t seem the sort to welcome the advice of others. She’ll figure it out eventually—and if not, Henry’s pretty good at standing up for herself.

Still, I should disregard any uncongenial first impressions and make an effort to be kind to Miss Bullock, because the life of a governess does not seem to have improved much since Jane Eyre’s day. They are regarded as neither one of the servants nor part of the family, so she eats breakfast with us, luncheon with Henry in the schoolroom, and a solitary supper off a tray in her room. She isn’t permitted in the drawing rooms except when she brings Henry in, can’t join the staff in their sitting room off the kitchen unless expressly invited, isn’t provided with a uniform but can only wear clothes approved of by her employer … No wonder she’s crabby after years of being treated like that.

I’m starting to understand more of the other unwritten household rules now—not that I agree with them. For example, we’re not supposed to say “please” and “thank you” to the servants, but I do, anyway, because it seems awfully rude to pretend they’re not people with feelings. Aunt Charlotte says they’re paid good money to do their job invisibly, that that is the
point
of a servant—although I notice she treats Barnes, her lady’s maid, as a trusted confidante, so she’s not being entirely consistent there.

The servant we have most to do with is Phoebe, Veronica’s and my lady’s maid. I expect she’d be fairly good at her job if she had a mistress who could tell her exactly what she needed to do, but we know even less than she does. Unfortunately, Phoebe is the one held responsible if Veronica comes down to dinner with her hair lopsided or if I’m late to breakfast because I can’t find two clean, matching stockings. Barnes is not as patient as she could be when explaining things, which makes Phoebe more and more anxious, and then she spills talcum powder on the carpet or knocks over a vase of flowers, and gets into even more trouble. It doesn’t help that the poor thing is homesick. Her village is about fifteen miles away, and her single day off a fortnight doesn’t always coincide with the bus timetable. She has two brothers and three sisters, and I think her father drinks, or is dead, or something—anyway, he doesn’t seem very helpful. Her mother takes in laundry, all the children older than fourteen are in service (apart from a brother who works on the docks up north, which sounds even worse than being in service), and the little ones are taken out of school anytime they are needed in the fields, which seems to be six months out of every year. It’s like something from a Thomas Hardy novel, the way she tells it.

Of course, Aunt Charlotte would say they oughtn’t to have so many children if they can’t afford them, but firstly, isn’t it rather difficult
not
having children if one is married? And secondly, surely it’s obvious that some people start off with far less in life than others and that for
them
a minor bit of bad luck can quite easily turn into catastrophe. Even if Aunt Charlotte says it’s bad management, not bad luck—well, children can’t develop into good managers unless they have a decent education and proper food for their growing brains … But now I’m starting to sound like a Socialist (or is it a Communist?).

And speaking of Communists—while Julia was saying goodbye to Veronica and Toby, I pulled Anthony aside and asked if he’d happened to fly anywhere near Montmaray recently. I was suddenly stricken with a desperate desire to find out whether the Germans were there, if the castle was really as badly damaged as I remembered, that the island still existed … 
anything
. Anything at all.

But it was silly of me to ask—he explained he was still working on those engine problems he’d been having and hadn’t been able to fly anywhere. I ought to have known that; he told Veronica all about it when we visited Astley Manor. And anyway, I’m supposed to be behaving
sensibly
about Montmaray, not pining over things that are gone. Still, Anthony was very sweet about it, and patted me on the shoulder, and said he’d ask his pilot friends if they’d seen anything. He’s such a kind man.

By the way, I gave Rupert’s handkerchief to Julia to return to him.
He’s
very nice, too. It’s a relief, in fact, to find there are so many good people in the world, after all. I was really beginning to doubt that.