The Key to My Heart Page 4

  “I don’t know how much they’re worth,” said Claudia. “And I’m not interested. I only know my parents took Mrs. Brackett over there one day and she proved to him his big Cézanne was fake. He’s never forgiven her.”

  “Cézanne—who’s he?” I said.

  “French, a painter,” she said. “A very great painter.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Must be, if he’s a friend of Mrs. Brackett’s. I’m ignorant.”

  As I say, she was a sweet girl; you couldn’t blame her. We had a bit of a quarrel on the way home. She told me her father had tried to stop her from driving with me on the bread round. He told her she was breaking the law, because of the licence. Of course, Mrs. Dingle had put the Major up to that. I, like a fool, not thinking, said I’d often taken our girls out in it, the girls from the shop.

  “And Mrs. Brackett, I suppose,” said Claudia sulkily. “Old Mrs. B., the Fairy Queen!” I said. “I’m not a bloody fool.”

  “She’s not old,” said Claudia.

  “No, I suppose she isn’t,” I said. “She looks young. Very young sometimes.”

  “Young!” exclaimed Claudia. “Thirty-eight—I don’t call that young.”

  That was another thing my father used to say about the women of our town. They changed their age faster than in any other place he had ever known. A woman might be thirty in the morning and fifty-five by six in the evening or vice versa.

  “Like bread,” he used to say. “You see it rise, then it goes flat.”

  * * *

  The last thing I wanted to do was to go to have dinner with Mrs. Brackett. The idea that just because I was engaged to Claudia Dingle I had to be paraded before the friends of her family, and Mrs. Brackett above all, preyed on my mind. I had scarcely seen Mrs. Brackett for a year, not since the time she came down to our house shouting and asking what I’d done with her husband. I had kept out of her way. Claudia was dragging me into this and I couldn’t help saying to Mother: “That’s the last time I get engaged at a dance.”

  “It is,” said Mother. “Who’s in a mood now?”

  But the day before the dinner I was walking up the town and just as I got to the garage petrol pumps I saw Mrs. Brackett. I was going to dodge into the paper shop, but I went on because I saw at once something was happening. Something that nearly made me laugh out loud. I had caught Mrs. Brackett on the point of cheating the garage hand. It was the prettiest sight in the world. She had just had a gallon of petrol put in her car and the garage hand—it was Johnny Gibbs—was standing there with her money in his open hand and telling her that the price was a penny more. She was cocking an eyebrow at him, which she well knew how to do, and gave a glance up and down the street. She was beginning to blush. Then she saw me. She turned her back on Johnny and came slowly towards me, like a cat. She was a small woman and I felt the old empty feeling I always had when I saw her walk; that she was going to dawdle her way clean through me.

  “Hullo, stranger,” she said in a pleased, ringing, boyish voice. “I’ve been in twice to congratulate you, but you weren’t there.” Mother had not told me about the second time.

  Mrs. Brackett held out her hand. It was a small, square hand and strong; Claudia’s hands were long and limp and you could feel the bones in them.

  I didn’t say much. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m glad you’ve shaved off your moustache,” she said, looking me over. She had pretty blue eyes.

  Even I noticed that Mrs. Brackett had altered. She still had something of the impudent twelve-year-old boy about her, but a boy who had tidied himself up. In Noisy’s time she looked like what they call a “young varmint”, with her hair chopped as if she had cut it herself, her red check shirt and her dusty old jeans and the lipstick always hit or miss. Now she was wearing a dress, terrible colours, of course—geranium with yellow flowers on it—but a dress and smart shoes and she had been to the hairdresser’s. And she had got her figure down. I don’t say she looked pretty, because the bones of her face were too strong, but she looked alive. And something else—I couldn’t make it out. When I said this to Mother, later on, Mother said:

  “It’s the divorce. Mrs. Gordon was the same when she was divorced. She’s trying to look respectable and sort of sad. A woman has to think.”

  That wasn’t my idea of Mrs. Brackett. I thought she looked more like a woman, I mean one with a brain.

  “Thanks for settling the bill,” I said. I wanted to show her I had won in the end and that I was glad all that nonsense was over.

  Mrs. Brackett didn’t like that. She flushed. And she bent forward her head and studied her shoes for quite a while. Her dress was cut very low. Then she looked up quickly and caught me looking.

  “Weddings are expensive,” she said, very cool. I laughed.

  “The bride’s parents pay,” I said.

  Mrs. Brackett gave a shake to her head, as if a bullet had whizzed near her.

  “I bet you’ve told Claudia that,” she said, mocking me, but she was laughing. “You are a one, aren’t you?” And her little eyes closed into slits of glee as she laughed.

  “Tomorrow night,” she said. She stepped into her car and she was off.

  Johnny Gibbs stood there with his hand open. Both of us watched her go up the town and then stared at each other; he was damn nearly accusing me of plotting robbery.

  Claudia was hanging about for me at home and when she had gone Mother said:

  “Why are you so rude to that poor girl? What is the matter with you?”

  “You heard her,” I said. “She’s trying to improve me,” for I had told them about meeting Mrs. Brackett, and Claudia had been asking what I was going to wear. I had led her on and she was frightened I was just going to walk out of the bakehouse at seven o’clock in my overalls covered in flour and go up to Heading as I was.

  “Why have I got to go up there anyway?” I said to Mother.

  “The gardens are beautiful. Dad and I used to go up every spring when the rhododendrons were out. They’ll take you round the gardens,” said Mother, daydreaming.

  “You keep on saying ‘they’—I bet you anything you like Noisy won’t be there,” I said. “And it’s September—the rhododendrons were over four months ago.”

  “You needn’t be rude to me,” Mother said. “He will be there. He promised me.”

  I told her about Johnny Gibbs and the penny.

  “She’s always up to something,” I said.

  “I bet she is,” said Mother gaily. “You take up with the nobs and get yourself engaged. What d’you expect? Dad and I were content to be in business.”

  “Ah,” I said, remembering. “That’s a word Claudia doesn’t like. Teddy Longfellow’s in business. She doesn’t like that.”

  “There’s a lot of things girls don’t like they have to get used to,” said Mother.

  But Mother was as agitated as I was, when the day for Mrs. Brackett’s party came. One of her suspicious moods set in. It began with her suspecting the cash register and the bills for flour; she suspected one of the waitresses at our café; women who came into the shop began to put on weight—always a bad sign with Mother—and the colours of their clothes didn’t suit them. The men looked shifty, she said; she didn’t like a bank manager who drank and she was furious that the butcher opposite was having his shop painted—what a time of year! She was sharp with the girls at the shop—Rosie, the dark one, was almost in tears—and all three girls kept half-turning their heads and walked about round-shouldered because they knew Mother was watching them. If I came out of the bakery into the office or the shop, Mother stopped serving and watched me, too. The worst of all was that she suddenly did not trust Noisy.

  “He’s a man,” she said.

  “They’re out for what they can get, both of them,” she said. She suddenly remembered Mrs. Brackett had once talked of buying the property next door to us and she was glad anyway that we had stepped in and bought it a few months before.

  “There is always a plot
between those two,” she said.

  “You didn’t tell me Mrs. Brackett had been in twice,” I said.

  “I did,” said Mother. “Are you starting calling everyone a liar? Even your own Mother!”

  I didn’t think of it at the time—I never did think until after these moods were over—but I remember Dad used to say to her when she was like this:

  “What’s on your conscience, Mother?”

  I’ll come to that later.

  Still she made an effort when I picked up Claudia at the Old Rectory and brought her back to show to Mother. Claudia was wearing a pale blue dress and her hair was cloudy and lovely. Mother wiped a tear at the sight of her and she was laughing when we waved goodbye; but when I turned back I saw Mother’s face looking black with wretchedness as if she had seen us off to our execution or that we had left her to hers. I had the terrible feeling that we were off to the other side of the world and would never see her again and I blamed Claudia for this.

  It was a light evening with a mackerel sky, the glimmer of the moon beginning on the stubble, and glinting on the heavy trees and the warm air smelled of the harvest. I was telling Claudia what the Government subsidy meant to the farmers who were complaining, though, for a fact, I could name three who had ten thousand in the bank . . .

  “Look,” said Claudia interrupting. A soft owl flew over the lane.

  “And that’s not counting Teddy Longfellow,” I said. “He must be worth a quarter of a million.”

  “When you used to come up here to see the Bracketts was Rosie the one you took with you?” Claudia asked. “The poor girl has got spots.”

  “I took her to see her brother,” I said. “I think it was her brother.”

  “Oh, look,” said Claudia, “another owl. They’re like ghosts.” And took her hand from mine. She was a jealous girl.

  But we were at Heading, driving through the deep walls of rhododendrons.

  What a change: not in the house itself—it was a long L-shaped stone house with a wing making the angle— but in the garden. The lawn in front was rough; the mower had not been over it for months; one of the two climbing roses that had spread along the building had fallen off in a heap that entangled the flower-beds. They had not been weeded or touched—all so trim and well looked after in Noisy’s time—but now let go. There was a stack of logs beside the wide front door, no one had bothered to move them in. Mrs. Brackett’s car, in need of a wash, stood near, and there was a station wagon not far from it.

  “Whose is that?” I asked.

  Claudia didn’t know.

  We went into the house. The door was open and Claudia called out. We were in the wide hall room that went to the back of the house. Then a tall, fair-haired man with a broken nose and wearing plimsolls came out of the drawing-room.

  “Hullo,” he said. “My name’s Fobham, not that it matters. They’re upstairs having a jaw.”

  It was Lord Fobham. He lived at Abbey Moor. He took Claudia’s coat and then said something to me that I didn’t hear. I was standing there staring. For—against the wall, was Noisy’s case of birds. It was about four feet high, mounted on a stand, and contained a strange collection of stuffed birds perched on branches—birds of paradise, a pair of parrots, a golden pheasant, an oriole, an Indian kingfisher—so Lord Fobham said later. I was gaping at them. I was thinking Noisy must be mad to suppose he could walk in and lift a case like that.

  “Awfully pretty. Victorian,” said Lord Fobham to me. He had a busy manner, never standing still, as if he were shaking his bones up.

  “It must weigh a lot,” I said.

  “Take a couple of footmen to lift it,” said Lord Fobham.

  “I didn’t mean weigh,” I said, confused. “I mean they must be worth a bit.” Claudia bit her lip.

  “No, don’t think so, twenty-five quid the lot, no more. You pick them up anyway,” said Lord Fobham briskly. Claudia said, to put me in my place:

  “They’re beautiful. They’re priceless.”

  “You mean collectors after them?” said Lord Fobham, getting interested in Claudia. “What would they give for a case like that?” Claudia studied them. She gave a severe glance at me and said:

  “You’d better ask my father—but I’d say a hundred pounds.”

  “I’d give a hundred and fifty pounds,” I said to annoy her.

  “What!” said Lord Fobham, getting keen. “You mean that?” Lord Fobham was always selling off bits of family property, pictures and heirlooms. At this Mrs. Brackett and Lady Fobham came downstairs.

  “What’s this lot worth, Sally?” said Lord Fobham. “Mr. Fraser will give you a hundred for it.”

  “It was me,” said Claudia.

  “I wouldn’t take three,” said Mrs. Brackett.

  “Well,” said Lord Fobham to me, “if it’s worth that to her I bet you’d easily find an American who’d give you twice that. What about your cousin?” he said to his wife.

  “Don’t be silly. He hasn’t got a penny,” said Lady Fobham. “It would smash if you moved it.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool. Pack it properly, case it up. Like we did with all that china,” said Lord Fobham to his wife. “Use your brain. Look. It’s light.” And he put his hands under the stand to tilt it.

  “Come and have a drink and have a look at the other lots before you make up your mind,” said Mrs. Brackett sarcastically.

  “Damn funny. I never knew it, did you?” said Lord Fobham to me, looking back covetously at the case as we went into the drawing-room. “Probably worth eight hundred pounds.”

  “Where did you get it from?” he called to Mrs. Brackett.

  “It was my father’s,” said Mrs. Brackett.

  “Darling,” said Lady Fobham. “He’d sell me.”

  “No offers,” said Lord Fobham. “Are you in the business?” he said eagerly to me.

  “No, Mr. Fraser’s a baker,” said Mrs. Brackett.

  “Ah, you can tell me,” said Lord Fobham, “something I’ve always wanted to know. Why can’t I get a decent crust on a loaf nowadays? Bread never has any crust.”

  “Go to Mr. Fraser and you’ll get all the crust you want,” said Mrs. Brackett, going over to Claudia. “Darling, what a pretty dress. What are you drinking?”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Lady Fobham laughed. “Are you a baker? What fun! I thought bakers were little men. You’re as tall as my husband.”

  “Taller. Use your eyes,” said Lord Fobham to his wife. “God, how much gin did you put in this, Sally?” Mrs. Brackett talked to me.

  “Gosh, she’s pretty. Gosh, she’s young,” she said. “You know how to pick them. Have you known each other long?”

  “Why does your father stuff his birds?” Lord Fobham was saying to Claudia. “I always shoot ‘em.”

  “He doesn’t stuff birds,” said Claudia.

  “Oh,” said Lord Fobham. “Where does he shoot? Not up at Teddy Longfellow’s, I hope. He shot a fox.” And to me he said: “I always ask Sally about the gin— she waters it.”

  “I do think Sally’s wonderful about clothes,” said Lady Fobham to me, when Mrs. Brackett poured out more drinks. “She’s got the most marvellous lack of colour sense I ever saw—tomato red—it’s her personality brings it off. How do you do it, Sally?

  “It’s easy,” said Mrs. Brackett. “I don’t wear anything underneath.”

  “Really!” said Lady Fobham.

  “No one to speak to Alice,” Lord Fobham commanded, jerking a thumb at his wife. “A couple of martinis and she goes middle class.”

  I don’t know how long we sat there. In spite of what Lord Fobham said the drinks were not watered this evening. They were strong. We went at last to dine in the large kitchen. Mrs. Brackett rarely had servants. Lord Fobham poured the wine.

  “Oh, how lovely. The ‘53,” said Claudia, clapping her hands and nodding to me. “Look,” she said to me.

  “It was the ‘51 I poured over Noisy,” said Mrs. Brackett.

  “Sally,” said Lord Fobham, who
had drunk quite a lot. “I never liked him.”

  “You’re wrong there,” said Mrs. Brackett. “I liked him a lot. Mr. Fraser likes Noisy, don’t you?”

  She looked at me innocently. I started to tell them about the way Noisy sneezed in court, but a look from Claudia showed me I ought not to have begun it. I went on all the same. But they were all beginning to shout.

  “He’s trying to tell a story. Everyone keep quiet,” said Lady Fobham kindly, flashing rings at me.

  “I can’t see it,” said Lord Fobham to me when I had done. “You mean he sneezed his hands off the wheel. He was plastered.”

  “I sneeze very loudly,” said Claudia, helping.

  “You ask yourself,” said Lord Fobham, picking out a large potato from a dish and adding, “Go on, pick one yourself,” to his wife. “You ask yourself what makes a man attractive to a woman . . .”

  “No one asked,” said Lady Fobham.

  “Claudia knows,” said Mrs. Brackett.

  Lord Fobham poured the wine. We were making a terrible noise.

  “All I can say . . .” Lord Fobham said. “All I can say . . .” but he couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

  “All you can say—what?” said Lady Fobham.

  “Why are your kitchen chairs so hard?” he said to Mrs. Brackett. “My bottom’s got points on it. No”, he went on. “All I can say is I’m not like Teddy Long-fellow, an atheist, reads Darwin, thinks you can go to bed with any man’s wife. I believe in humility.”

  “What!” cried Mrs. Brackett. “Humble—you!”

  “I said humility,” said Lord Fobham drunkenly. “Not humble. Don’t be so damn middle class. There’s a difference.”

  “There’s no place like home,” Lady Fobham began to sing, but stopped. “Why are you looking so surprised, all of you?”

  Everyone became quiet. There was a silence broken only by the sound of the coffee-pot sizzling. There were candles on the table. The curtains were not drawn. Outside the night was dark. The mackerel sky had thickened.

  Presently Mrs. Brackett said in a conversational voice:

  “There’s a man looking through the window.” We had drunk so much that we all laughed together.