years Virginia had asked herself that question time without number, and had come up with no sort of an answer, but for Eustace to voice it, unasked, out of the blue, filled her with a perverse resentment.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
"I do look after them. I mean, I see a lot of them . . ."
"If they've just lost their father, surely the one person they need to be with is their mother, not a grandmother and an old inherited Nanny. They'll think everybody's deserting them."
"They won't think anything of the sort."
"If you're so sure, why are you getting so hot under the collar?"
"Because I don't like you interfering, airing your opinions about something you know nothing about."
"I know about you." "What about me?"
"I know your infinite capacity for being pushed around."
"And who pushes me around?"
"I wouldn't know for sure." She realized with some astonishment that, in a cold way, he was becoming as angry as she. "But at a rough guess I would say your mother-in-law. Perhaps she took over where your own mother left off?"
"Don't you dare to speak about my mother like that."
"But it's true, isn't it?"
"No, it's not true."
"Then get your children down here. It's inhuman leaving them in London for the summer holidays, in weather like this, when they should be running wild by the sea and in the fields. Take your finger out, ring up your mother-in-law and tell her to put them on a train. And if Alice Lingard doesn't want them at Wheal House, because she's afraid of the ornaments getting broken, then take them to a pub, or rent a cottage ..."
"That's exactly what I intend doing, and I didn't need you to tell me."
"Then you'd better start looking for one."
"I already have."
He was momentarily silenced, and she thought with satisfaction: That took the wind out of his sails.
But only momentarily. "Have you found anything?"
"I looked at one house this morning but it was impossible."
"Where?"
"Here. In Lanyon." He waited for her to tell him. "It was called Bosithick," she added ungraciously.
"Bosithick!" He appeared delighted. "But that's a marvellous house."
"It's a terrible house"
"Terrible?" He could not believe his ears. "You do mean the cottage up the hill where Aubrey Crane used to live? The one that the Kernows inherited from his old aunt."
"That's the one, and it's creepy and quite impossible."
"What does creepy mean? Haunted?"
"I don't know. Just creepy."
"If it's haunted by the ghost of Aubrey Crane you might have quite an amusing time. My mother remembered him, said he was a dear man. And very fond of children," he added with what seemed to Virginia a classic example of a non sequitur.
"I don't care what sort of a man he was, I'm not going to take the house."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not."
"Give me three good reasons . . ."
Virginia lost her patience. "Oh, for heaven's sake ..." She made as if to get to her feet, but Eustace, with unexpected speed for such a large man, caught her wrist in his hand and pulled her back on to the grass. She looked angrily into his eyes and saw them cold as blue stones.
"Three good reasons," he said again.
She looked down at his hand on her arm. He made no effort to move it and she said, "There's no fridge."
"I'll lend you a meat-safe. Reason number two."
"I told you. It's got a spooky atmosphere. The children have never lived anywhere like that. They'd be frightened."
"Not unless they're as hen-brained as their mother. Now, number three."
Desperately she tried to think up some good, watertight reason, something that would convince Eustace of her nameless horror of the odd little house on the hill. But all she came out with was a string of petty excuses, each sounding more feeble than the last. "It's too small, and it's dirty, and where would I wash the children's things, and I don't even know it there's an iron for the ironing or a lawn-mower to cut the grass.
And there's no garden, just a sort of washing green place, and inside all the furniture is
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
"I do look after them. I mean, I see a lot of them . . ."
"If they've just lost their father, surely the one person they need to be with is their mother, not a grandmother and an old inherited Nanny. They'll think everybody's deserting them."
"They won't think anything of the sort."
"If you're so sure, why are you getting so hot under the collar?"
"Because I don't like you interfering, airing your opinions about something you know nothing about."
"I know about you." "What about me?"
"I know your infinite capacity for being pushed around."
"And who pushes me around?"
"I wouldn't know for sure." She realized with some astonishment that, in a cold way, he was becoming as angry as she. "But at a rough guess I would say your mother-in-law. Perhaps she took over where your own mother left off?"
"Don't you dare to speak about my mother like that."
"But it's true, isn't it?"
"No, it's not true."
"Then get your children down here. It's inhuman leaving them in London for the summer holidays, in weather like this, when they should be running wild by the sea and in the fields. Take your finger out, ring up your mother-in-law and tell her to put them on a train. And if Alice Lingard doesn't want them at Wheal House, because she's afraid of the ornaments getting broken, then take them to a pub, or rent a cottage ..."
"That's exactly what I intend doing, and I didn't need you to tell me."
"Then you'd better start looking for one."
"I already have."
He was momentarily silenced, and she thought with satisfaction: That took the wind out of his sails.
But only momentarily. "Have you found anything?"
"I looked at one house this morning but it was impossible."
"Where?"
"Here. In Lanyon." He waited for her to tell him. "It was called Bosithick," she added ungraciously.
"Bosithick!" He appeared delighted. "But that's a marvellous house."
"It's a terrible house"
"Terrible?" He could not believe his ears. "You do mean the cottage up the hill where Aubrey Crane used to live? The one that the Kernows inherited from his old aunt."
"That's the one, and it's creepy and quite impossible."
"What does creepy mean? Haunted?"
"I don't know. Just creepy."
"If it's haunted by the ghost of Aubrey Crane you might have quite an amusing time. My mother remembered him, said he was a dear man. And very fond of children," he added with what seemed to Virginia a classic example of a non sequitur.
"I don't care what sort of a man he was, I'm not going to take the house."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not."
"Give me three good reasons . . ."
Virginia lost her patience. "Oh, for heaven's sake ..." She made as if to get to her feet, but Eustace, with unexpected speed for such a large man, caught her wrist in his hand and pulled her back on to the grass. She looked angrily into his eyes and saw them cold as blue stones.
"Three good reasons," he said again.
She looked down at his hand on her arm. He made no effort to move it and she said, "There's no fridge."
"I'll lend you a meat-safe. Reason number two."
"I told you. It's got a spooky atmosphere. The children have never lived anywhere like that. They'd be frightened."
"Not unless they're as hen-brained as their mother. Now, number three."
Desperately she tried to think up some good, watertight reason, something that would convince Eustace of her nameless horror of the odd little house on the hill. But all she came out with was a string of petty excuses, each sounding more feeble than the last. "It's too small, and it's dirty, and where would I wash the children's things, and I don't even know it there's an iron for the ironing or a lawn-mower to cut the grass.
And there's no garden, just a sort of washing green place, and inside all the furniture is
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