The Jewel Box (26 page)

The implication—that Barbara and “Pat” had at one time been lovers or had at least considered the possibility—was clear. Just how recently would this have taken place? She imagined O’Connell still hanging about the garden, waiting impatiently for her. Dangling…“And John Cramer?”

“It’s as I told you earlier. They were both at Yale with Cecil. I knew them all when they were merely young slips of lads.” She frowned. “Can one talk about someone being a ‘slip of a lad’? Or is the expression just for a ‘slip of a girl’?”

“Perhaps you could call them striplings?” said Grace. “I can imagine them as ‘striplings.’”

A light smile. “How exactly do you know John?”

Grace took a big gulp of the gin. “He’s a friend of my sister’s.”

“They’re quite something, those two boys. Both of them special.
She
couldn’t choose between them, certainly. You know who I mean. I don’t like to say her name. And then, even after it was all decided and she was married to John, she couldn’t leave Pat alone.”

They both looked at Barbara’s reflection in the French windows. She was one of those women who never simply “sit.” They’re aware, all the time, of their own dramatic effect, continually striking a pose.

“Did you know her well?” asked Grace.

“Not really. She wasn’t my type at all. Mad as a hatter, always was. Men are so stupid, aren’t they, to fall for that sort of girl? She was beautiful, of course. And often very entertaining. It was that unpredictable streak that got the boys hooked. She was a bit dangerous.” She eyed Grace over her highball glass. “No common sense or caution and she didn’t really care what happened to her or anyone else. Always going too far. That was why she ended up being locked away so much. That and the black moods and the potty fantasies.” Babs emptied her glass. “Another?”

Grace nodded. Passed her glass over.

Babs poured. “Really, Grace, if you knew the half of it. Her plan, in my view, was to use her suicide to cause the biggest amount of trouble that she could. For
both
of them. When I think of her sitting there in that clinic of hers plotting and scheming—well, it makes my blood boil.”

It was on the tip of Grace’s tongue to remark that Eva must have had other things on her mind, but what would be the point in saying that? She hadn’t known Eva, after all. Why should she go jumping to her defense? Better to draw Barbara out further on other matters. She was clearly in the mood for gossip after all…

“So, being around Pat and John for all these years, you must have seen a lot of women come and go…”

A chuckle. “I should say. Probably enough to fill Wembley Stadium.” But then she eyed Grace thoughtfully. “Pat’s women have been purely recreational. There’s been nobody serious since
her
. Not until you, that is…”

Grace felt herself blushing and gazed down into her glass. Somewhere in the distance, a strange unworldly melody was unfurling itself.

“…As for John’s women—well, with him it was a more desperate sort of escapism. Went hand in hand with the drink.”

“Bit of a womanizer, is he?”

A smile. The kind that comes from toying with a treasured memory. “‘Womanizer’ is such an unpleasant word. What’s your interest, anyway? Does your sister have her eye on him?”

“Possibly. Should I be warning her off?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think there’s any need for that. Our John may have strayed rather close to the edge but he’s drawn right back, I can tell you. These days he’s sober and well behaved to the point of being, frankly, rather dull.”

“I see.” Grace felt herself scrutinized closely. Too closely.

Babs put a hand on her shoulder and turned to check her reflection in the French windows. Pose: elegant woman giving confidential advice to young, inexperienced friend. “At least there’s two of them and two of you this time.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No need to get all tangled up again, eh?”

The peculiar tune in Grace’s ears was growing louder. It was as if someone was wandering about the garden playing on pipes. She imagined, briefly, that O’Connell was doing just that. Striding cockily around in the moonlight, piping away like an overgrown Pan…

Barbara’s face wore an expression which hovered at some indeterminate position between concerned and wryly amused.

“What has Pat told you about my sister and me?”

But Babs had risen quickly to her feet and crossed to the French windows. “Oh God!” She was peering out into the garden. “Do you hear it? Sam’s at it again. And after all those promises. Come on, we’d better go out.”

In the next instant, Grace’s hand was grabbed and she was half led, half dragged out to the garden, where the most curious spectacle was taking place.

Samuel Woolton was reclining, entirely naked, in the bough of a horse chestnut tree, playing on a set of panpipes. His pointed goatee, the dark hair on his body, the paleness of his skin in the moonlight and the proudly erect phallus (from which both women quickly averted their gaze) made him resemble some mythical god or creature. Priapus, perhaps, crossed with a faun.

Around the disused fountain danced Verity Woolton. She was wearing only her underwear, and was draped about with Grace’s Oriental wrap. Her pirouettes were almost balletic, but for the wobbles and the odd capering. Even in the darkness of the garden, one could discern her bulbous ever-startled gaze.

“I wouldn’t mind so much if he could actually play a half-decent tune.” Barbara’s tone was withering. “Or if she could dance remotely well. Perhaps, if I tried some of the stuff they’re so fond of, he really
would
seem tuneful and she graceful.” She raised her voice to a dry, ash-ridden shout: “Sam, do come down, there’s a pet! Verity,
please
…” Then something seemed to occur to her and she began to turn this way and that, looking all about her. “Cecil? Where the devil…Cecil!”

She was interrupted by a resonant, “Tally-ho!” and a glimpse of pink flesh and fast-moving little legs as Cecil went darting back and forth between the trees, as naked as Sam Woolton, the bald head glinting.

“Heavens!” Babs was flushed. “Cecil, for goodness’ sake, stop it and put some clothes on. We’ve seen it all before, darling, and we don’t want to see it again.”

But the shout came back: “Bugger off, you old hag!” For a few seconds he was freeze-framed, standing still in the moonlight, between two trees. A squat Bacchus with pink hairless chest and overhanging belly. Letting out a huge whoop, he ran, full pelt, down the hill, vaulting clean over the back fence and disappearing entirely from view.

“Oh, God,” said Grace. “The cliff…”

The piping came to an abrupt halt. Babs hitched up her dress and ran after Cecil, almost colliding with her sister as she went. Grace followed in her wake, as a flaccid Sam climbed down from the tree, and as Verity pulled Grace’s wrap more closely about her and assumed a forlorn look.

Climbing over the fence, Grace found Babs standing alone, gazing over the edge. “Oh no…Is he…”

Babs, ignoring her, put her hands on her hips and bellowed, “You fool! What did you think you were
doing
?”

Arriving beside her, Grace looked down. The view wasn’t quite so dramatic as she’d feared. The sea was black and foamy where it lapped over the sharp rocks on its bed, but the initial drop was only about ten feet, down to a grassy ledge. Cecil was sitting on this ledge, clutching his ankle.

“Sorry, darling.” His face, as he gazed up, was abject. “Beautiful night, wouldn’t you say? Bit cold now though…”

Babs turned to Grace. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s all right. That’s the main thing.”

“Not when I’ve finished with him, he won’t be. Cecil, you’d better get yourself back up here right away.”

The face below twisted into a grimace. “Not sure I can, my sweet. Think I might have broken my ankle.”

“You blithering idiot!” Babs turned back to Grace, and her eyes softened with worry. “Now what do we do?”

Woolton, clad in a tartan dressing gown, climbed over the fence. He was carrying an identical dressing gown, which he flung down to Cecil. “Here you are, old chap. Cover up the…old chap, there’s a good fellow.” Then, turning back to the group, he announced, “I shall climb down and bring him up!”

“You most certainly will not.” Verity had appeared beside them. She had Grace’s wrap over her head and was clutching it tightly about her, a sort of pink-and-gold widow in mourning. “Or there’ll be two of you to be rescued.”

“Perhaps we should ring for the fire brigade?” Grace suggested. “Or the police?”

“The police? Here?” Woolton’s voice rose to a squeak. “Over my dead body!”

“For goodness’ sakes!” Verity appeared to have sobered up rapidly. “Go and get the ladder, Sam. Just go and get the ladder.”

Woolton scrambled off. After a few minutes, and just as Grace was wondering what on earth had happened to O’Connell, a cheerful whistling rang out. It was O’Connell, a ladder balanced on his shoulder, calling merrily, “Anyone want their windows cleaned?” Sam trotted along beside him.

Together, and with a certain amount of drunken fumbling, they extended the ladder down the cliffside. Sam and Grace knelt down and gripped the top as firmly as they could to keep it steady, while O’Connell climbed down to Cecil.

“It’s not broken,” O’Connell announced, feeling the ankle. “A sprain at worst.”

“It hurts a lot though.” Cecil seemed annoyed at the demotion of his injury. “I don’t think it’ll take my weight.”

With difficulty, O’Connell hoisted Cecil over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, and, grunting, began slowly to ascend the ladder while Grace and Woolton struggled to keep it in
position. Eventually, a groaning Cecil was deposited on safe ground, and O’Connell stood brushing himself down.

“It’s like carrying a very heavy bride over a very steep threshold.”

“Oh, Pat, you’re our hero.” Verity clasped her hands together.

O’Connell was looking oddly at Grace. “Just how much do you weigh, Miss Rutherford? Let’s try, shall we? Be sure I can manage when the time comes to carry
you
over the threshold.” Ignoring her protests, he grabbed her around the legs and threw her over his shoulder, proclaiming, “Oh, she’s a mere feather after that lump!”

The blood rushed to Grace’s head and she beat with her fists against his back. “Put me—”

“Down? Why, certainly.” Seconds later she was back on terra firma, and he was helping Woolton carry Cecil over the fence and up to the house, followed by Verity.

“Are you all right?” Grace addressed Babs, who was dusting herself down.

“Fine. Glad this ludicrous episode hasn’t been entirely pointless.”

“What do you mean?”

Babs frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so obtuse. Pat just proposed to you, Grace.”

“What
a night.” O’Connell was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes. “Think I’d better tell my agent to get me a new English publisher. I’m not sure I’ll be able to look Sam Woolton in the eye again!”

“Yes, it has been quite a night.” Grace sat down at the dressing table and began to cleanse her face, keeping an eye on O’Connell in the mirror as she did so.

“We never did get our walk.” He was taking his socks off now.

“I was waylaid by Babs. We had a couple of drinks together.”

“Oh yes?”

“She enjoys a bit of a gossip, doesn’t she?”

A chuckle from O’Connell. “Good old Babs. We go back a ways, she and I.”

“So she said.” She wiped an eyelid with cotton wool. “She obviously knows you very well. She actually seemed to know me rather better than I’d have expected, too.”

“Oh yes?” He began unbuttoning his shirt.

“She thinks you’re serious about me.”

“And so I am.” Was that a hint of tension in his voice?

“She even thought you were
proposing
to me back there in the garden.”

“Really?” He chuckled. Dropped a cuff link with a clatter on the bedside table. “My, but that woman’s imagination does fill in some pretty big gaps!”

“So you weren’t, then? Proposing to me, I mean?” She wheeled about on her stool to face him. “I didn’t think you were, but then I do keep getting things wrong when it comes to you. Everyone else seems to know you so much better than I do,
Pat
.”

He came across to where she was sitting. Crouched down in front of her and took her by both hands. “Darling, I was just having a bit of fun back there in the garden. Babs is an incorrigible troublemaker, really she is. I’d like to think that when I get around to proposing to you, I’ll manage it with a little more style and finesse.” He reached up to ruffle her hair as though she were a child. Then, straightening up, he slipped off his shirt and threw it on the floor.

“So you might propose to me one day?” She tried to make her voice light and playful like his.

“That depends. Are
you
planning to go waltzing off with John Cramer?”

“I’m not planning to go waltzing off with John Cramer.”

He smiled broadly. “Then we’ll have to see what we can do, my darling. You know that I’ll never be worthy of you, of course? I’ve quite a past, I’m afraid: I’ve had affairs with more
women than I can remember. I’ve dived naked into city fountains. I’ve been at parties where everyone takes each other to bed and steals each other’s jewelry. I’ve had women who have destroyed hotel rooms, food fights that have destroyed hotel restaurants. I once lost a racehorse in a game of poker. I once drove a white Bentley smack into the foyer of a hotel in Alabama. Shall I go on?”

“No need.”

His shoulders relaxed visibly. “Do you think you might look kindly on a proposal from a slippery, caddish sort such as myself?”

“Your past doesn’t bother me, Devil. And neither does your caddish reputation. But behind all my bravado, I’m a very ordinary girl who wants very ordinary things. I want to love someone who loves me back. I want to marry a man I can trust with my life.”

“Grace, you’re such a sweet thing.”

“Not really.” She could hear the dead note in her voice. Turning back to the mirror, she looked again at his reflection and at her own. And for a moment, both appeared as strangers to her.