The Wheel of Fortune (100 page)

“In the absence of any hint to the contrary,” said my mother drily, “I can only suppose that they will.”

Beds were rather in the news at the, time because Rory had just telephoned to ask if he could have a spare room with a double bed so that he could bring his mistress. My mother was livid and said certainly not; if he did bring his mistress they would have to have separate bedrooms to preserve the proprieties and anyway since the mistress hadn’t been invited he was on no account to bring her.

“What you do in London’s your own affair,” she said to Rory after he arrived alone in his sports car. “But here I have my standards and here I draw the line.”

“No offense meant, Ma,” said Rory cheerfully. “I just thought it was worth a try in case you were getting soft in your old age.”

“Old age!” said my mother incensed. “What’s that?” And when Rory had finished laughing, she said, “Darling, do behave yourself this weekend—this reunion’s quite tricky enough without you playing Casanova with passing housemaids. Oh, how I do wish you’d settle down and be respectable like Darling Declan!”

“But Ma, I’m only thirty-three!”

“Yes,” said my mother brutally, “and crashing with the most undignified speed towards a premature middle age!”

Rory laughed again to give the impression that he didn’t give a damn what his dear old mother thought, but I suspected she had made him uncomfortable. I was beginning to realize that Rory was devoted to my mother with that childlike naivety common in stupid men, and that her good opinion was very important to him. Ever since Declan had reentered her life, Rory had been making conspicuous efforts to please her, staying in jobs longer than a year, living (occasionally) within his income and being faithful to one mistress whom no one could possibly have mistaken for a tart. I think Rory found it unsettling to be compared with Declan and found wanting. He was as devoted to Declan as he was to my mother, but I’ve no doubt he found my mother’s rhapsodies about Darling Declan as tiresome as I did.

I half-wondered if Declan would come over for the great family reunion. I knew my mother had invited him, but as usual he made some excuse and stayed away.

“I don’t think he wants to meet me,” I said, “but that’s all right because I don’t want to meet him.”

My mother smiled but said nothing. Perhaps she was consoling herself for Declan’s absence by thinking of the guests who had accepted her invitation. By that time Uncle Edmund and Aunt Teddy had arrived with Richard and Geoffrey (both perfect Godwins born with cricket bats in their hands), Aunt Daphne had arrived with Elizabeth and now—sensation of sensations—Aunt Celia was due to arrive from Germany with my cousin Erika; her husband had run off with a Hungarian ballet dancer and had last been seen heading for Vienna.

After this drama had unfolded further at Oxmoon (Aunt Celia weeping buckets, my mother rashly offering her unlimited hospitality, Erika showing me her pictures of Hitler), Uncle John’s arrival with Aunt Constance was almost an anticlimax. However so anxious was I to escape from Cousin Erika extolling the virtues of Heidelberg in fractured English that I at once rushed outside to welcome them.

They arrived in two chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royces followed by a Swansea taxi containing Uncle John’s valet and Aunt Constance’s maid, who had left London by train. Uncle John, Aunt Constance and Marian traveled in the first Rolls, and Harry, Francesca and Francesca’s nanny traveled in the second. Luggage overflowed from both boots. Uncle John wore a dark gray suit and his Old Harrovian tie and looked distinguished enough to have an open invitation to Buckingham Palace. Aunt Constance wore a sleek mustard-colored ensemble with a mink stole and one or two discreet diamonds. Together they looked as if they were advertising some lavish product (the Rolls-Royces?) in the glossy pages of
Country Life.

My mother glided past me. “Dear Constance,” she said smoothly, “welcome back to Oxmoon.”

“Thank you, Ginevra,” said Aunt Constance, effortlessly participating in this charade of friendship but unable to resist a small triumphant smile, and offered her immaculate magnolia-colored cheek to be kissed. I saw her sharp dark eyes sizing up the reception committee who were now calling greetings as they streamed through the open front door.

My mother somehow managed to perform the chilling ritual of the kiss of peace and then turned with relief to Uncle John. I noticed that during their quick fierce embrace not a single word was spoken on either side.

A dear little creature with dark hair and blue eyes skipped over to them and turned a happy shining face up to my mother. Small loving fingers slipped into my uncle’s hand and clasped it tightly. Tiny feet clad in dainty shoes jumped up and down with excitement.

“Francesca?” said my mother. “Oh, how pretty you are! Kester, come and meet your new cousin!”

I saw the likeness to Gerry and Sian and could hardly speak. I didn’t dare look at my uncle in case my eyes were unacceptably moist.

“Why, Kester,” said Aunt Constance, “how you’ve grown! I declare you’re as tall as Harry!” And to my honor, the magnolia-colored cheek was gently but mercilessly inclined in my direction.

I kissed it. It was soft and velvety like a newly cleaned curtain, but instead of smelling of cleaning fluid it exuded an indefinable and no doubt very exclusive scent. The memory of Bronwen made all speech impossible; I could only think how monstrous it was that I should have to kiss this repellent female, and as I stood there, gawky and tongue-tied like some caricature of adolescence, tall dark handsome Cousin Harry, never at a loss for words, sauntered up to me with his hand outstretched.

“Hullo, old chap. Nice to be back at the old shack again.” He did not wait for a reply but after we had shaken hands limply he turned to flash a brilliant smile at my mother. “Hullo, Aunt Ginevra—how nice to see you after all this time!”

“Harry darling—how are you?” My mother kissed him, I was aggrieved to note, with unprecedented warmth and concern, but Harry assured her suavely that everything was absolutely first-class.

“Aunt Ginevra, what heaven to see you!” It was Marian, horribly sophisticated and dripping with nasty little fox furs. At eighteen she was exactly the kind of girl I most disliked, affected, catty, thoroughly useless and man-mad. I often wondered how her bosom friend our cousin Elizabeth put up with her. Elizabeth was useless and man-mad too but she was redeemed by a splendid sense of humor. She was said to resemble her father, my dead Uncle Lion, but I always thought she looked more like Aunt Daphne. They were both plump and pink-cheeked with a slight double chin. Later in life I suspected that Marian thought Elizabeth’s plainness was the perfect foil for her own stone-cold good looks.

“I rather fancy Maid Marian,” said Rory, who no longer attended debutante dances and had not seen Marian for some time. “What a tempting little prize for anyone who wants to play Robin Hood!”

“Well, this isn’t Sherwood Forest,” said my mother, very tough, “so we’ll have no stolen kisses behind the bushes, if you please.”

“Just one little kiss behind one little bush!” pleaded Rory, teasing her, and added idly as if the thought had only just occurred to him: “How much money does she have when she’s twenty-one?”

“Ask John,” said my mother, knowing he wouldn’t dare, and kept a close eye on Marian, who was more than willing to be the center of attention.

“Things are so much better now,” I heard her confide frankly to my mother. “Darling Aunt Ginevra, I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have a
lady
in charge of the household at last! Of course Bronwen was sweet and I adored her, but really … well, I’m sure it’s all for the best. Rhiannon? Oh, heavens no, we’ve quite lost touch! She’s living with Dafydd at some ghastly place like Hammersmith where one simply wouldn’t be seen dead—I mean I’m absolutely the last person to be snobbish and I was terribly fond of both of them, but … well, when all’s said and done one really does have more to say, doesn’t one, to people of one’s own class …”

“Mum,” I said later as the result of this conversation, “how could Uncle John have produced such a ghastly daughter?”

My mother made no attempt either to deny Marian’s ghastliness or to explain it. She just said, “What beats me is how Daphne can stand her but Daphne’s got rather ghastly herself lately—that affair with Lord Thingamajig, or whatever his name was, went straight to her head. I keep thinking how horrified Lion would have been to see her becoming so snobbish and pompous.”

“This is going to be a very snobbish pompous weekend, Mum. Did you hear Aunt Constance saying to Aunt Teddy that she couldn’t imagine why Uncle Edmund preferred a Bentley to a Rolls-Royce?”

“That woman’ll be murdered yet! But what a lovely little girl Francesca is—she must be a great consolation to poor John …”

Francesca was not yet ten so she did not stay up for dinner but before I went to my room to change I looked in at the nurseries to say good night to her.

“Nanny’s gone to fetch Mummy and Daddy,” she confided, sitting up in bed with an air of eager expectancy. “They always come together to say good night to me.”

There was something touching about her excitement. She made them sound such very important visitors.

“You must be glad your father’s come back to live with you,” I said kindly.

“Oh yes!” said dear little Francesca. “It was just like a miracle! Ever since I can remember I prayed every night: ‘Please God, make Daddy come home again,’ and then one morning I woke up and went into Mummy’s room and he was there, having breakfast with her by the window! I was so happy I cried.”

I was just thinking of Evan, sobbing at Oxmoon, when Uncle John himself entered the room with Aunt Constance.

“It’s a little cold in here,” Aunt Constance was remarking. “I can never understand why the British can’t heat their homes properly. All it takes is a good engineer.” When she saw me she added with a diplomatic smile: “Maybe you’ll install a first-class heating system here one day, Kester, and set your compatriots a good example!”

I looked at Uncle John but he was inscrutable. I was to come to know that inscrutable look very well in the years that followed. Ignoring both me and his wife he stooped over his daughter.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy …” She hugged him tightly.

“That’s enough, Francesca,” said Aunt Constance. “John, don’t overexcite her. Now, Francesca, let’s hear your prayers, please.”

I saw then her supreme talent for turning joy into dreariness. I slipped out of the room, and Uncle John slipped after me. Across the passage in the other night nursery, Uncle Edmund and Aunt Teddy were saying a noisy good night to their exuberant boys.

“Francesca’s lovely, Uncle John,” I said impulsively, feeling that even the most mundane compliment might alleviate the dreariness, but he merely said “Thank you, Kester” and gave me a polite smile.

Thomas and his fiancée joined us at dinner. Thomas had become engaged to Eleanor Stourham soon after he had moved from Little Oxmoon to Penhale Manor, and they planned to marry in July.

“Imagine being married to Thomas!” my new friend Ricky Mowbray had said after the engagement had been announced. “That really would be a fate worse than death!”

But I couldn’t imagine being married to Thomas. I couldn’t even imagine being married to Eleanor. She was thirty-two, five years older than her fiancée, and had a horsy, weatherbeaten face, cropped hair and a muscular frame which looked well in her customary land girl’s outfit of trousers and shirt. It was odd to see her that night in evening dress, but she wore her conventional black gown with an air of defiance as if daring anyone to comment on her unusual appearance. No one did. Like Thomas, she had the reputation for being outspoken, but that night, surrounded by Godwins, she was uncharacteristically subdued, and I wondered if her bold masculine appearance might not disguise a secret feminine inclination to be shy. Everyone agreed that like her father Oswald Stourham she was “a good sort,” but nevertheless no one seemed to like her much except Thomas who treated her as if she were a favorite drinking companion he had met by chance at the pub. She in her turn treated him with a benign optimism as if he were an endearing puppy who showed signs of growing into a splendid dog. My mother said they were obviously in bliss, although how she arrived at this deduction I had no idea. However after dinner when we were all in the ballroom I saw she was right as usual for the two of them retreated to a far corner and began to chew each other’s faces.

I shuddered and turned away.

Meanwhile Aunt Constance, languid in her mink stole, was droning on again about central heating, this time to Aunt Celia, who said how efficiently the Germans heated their homes. I was just thinking how boring the subject was when Cousin Erika took me by surprise and asked me if I liked Beethoven. I looked at her with new eyes. Could there be a sensitive musical soul lurking beneath those sleekly coiled blond plaits? It seemed unlikely but there was no harm in hoping; I conceded I was a passionate admirer of Beethoven’s genius.

“I can play the
Moonlight Sonata
on the piano,” announced Cousin Erika, for once mastering English syntax and getting the sentence in the right order.

“Good for you,” I said tactfully, wondering why foreigners didn’t know it wasn’t the done thing to boast, and added to put her in her place: “So can Harry. In fact Harry can play anything on the piano, anything at all.”

As if to prove my point Cousin Harry abandoned the group who were arguing over which record to play on the gramophone, sat down at the grand piano and began to play “The Blue Danube.”

“The chandeliers look less romantic now they’ve been electrified,” mused Uncle Edmund, a few feet away on my right. “John, do you remember how Ifor had to light all the candles with wax tapers?”

But Uncle John wasn’t listening. He was watching Harry play “The Blue Danube.”

“Bayliss supervised, of course,” said Uncle Edmund, who could ramble on happily without encouragement. “It was a tremendous task. Ginevra, what was the name of that kitchen maid whom Ifor eloped with in the end?”