mother.
‘Plain!
That’s very good!’ shrieked Inigo. ‘Next you’ll be telling me he’s well bread!’
I
cursed myself for bringing up Julian the Loaf. It was too absurd outside the
confines of Aunt Clare’s study.
‘His
name is Harry,’ I went on. ‘His mother is called Clare Delancy and she says she
knows of you — and Papa,’ I added, heart thudding away as it always did when I
mentioned my father.
‘Clare
Delancy. Clare, Clare, Clare, Clare Delancy. Let me think.’
It was
my mother’s favourite pastime: trying to work out who, what, when and where
were the scores of people who claimed to have met her. It was rare for her to
remember anyone — I had been on the receiving end of many a ‘Who on earth was
that ghastly woman?’ usually demanded when she had met the person in
question at least five times. She dropped her face into her hands to help
herself ponder the issue. Inigo drained his wine and seized the chance to feed
his duck to Fido.
‘What
did she look like?’ she asked me. Detailed description was all part of the
game.
‘Well —
tall and rather big, and grey rather than blonde, but quite beautiful in a
funny way. Much older than you, Mama,’ I added hastily.
‘Big
and beautiful? Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘Her
husband died last year. Apparently, he was killed by a falling bookcase.’
Mama
snorted. ‘That’s what they all say.’
‘She
lives in a sort of apartment in Kensington and she seems to know all about
Magna. I don’t think she’s the sort of person one could forget.’
‘Sounds exactly the sort of person one could quite easily forget. An overweight
widow with too much time on her hands. You’re going to tell me that she keeps
cats next.’
‘She
does have a cat.’ I sighed.
My
mother looked at Inigo in a what-did-I-tell-you sort of way.
‘Never
trust anyone who keeps a cat within twenty miles of London. It signifies very
poor housekeeping indeed. Not to mention the smell and the hair—’
‘But
Fido sleeps on your bed!’ Inigo and I protested in unison.
‘Fido
is a dog. The smell and the hair are entirely different.’
‘Much
worse, you mean,’ said Inigo, stroking Fido with his foot.
‘Cat or
no cat, I have no recollection of ever meeting this woman. What did she say
about me?’
‘She
said you were a sensational beauty.’
‘Hmmm.
Well—’
‘She
knew that you and Papa were married young, and she said that she’d heard Magna
was wonderful.’
‘She’s
welcome to it.’
‘Oh,
don’t say that, Mama. You don’t mean it.’
‘I
think I can translate this Clare’s words as follows,’ said Mama beadily. ‘She
wants to unleash her — frankly unhinged —son in our direction in the hope that
he will marry either you, Penelope, or one of your ripe, rich cousins. Well!
There’s not much hope of that. No money, house full of dry rot and absolutely
no ripe, rich cousins, more’s the pity.’ Mama gave an unexpected bark of
laughter.
‘I’d do
anything for some ripe, rich cousins,’ said Inigo, with feeling.
‘Frederick
and Lavinia?’ suggested my mother, referring to Papa’s sister’s children of
about our age.
‘Freddie’s
a dream but Lavinia’s awful,’ said Inigo contemptuously. ‘I caught her setting
a mouse trap in her bedroom last time she came to stay. She said she couldn’t
sleep knowing that they were out there. I said I felt the same about saxophone
players.’
‘The
mice were terrible last year,’ agreed Mama.
‘Of
course, if we had a car—’
I felt
that the conversation was veering off course, as it tended to when my mother
and Inigo were involved. I played with my duck and ate my potatoes and onions
and drank three glasses of water for Inigo’s three of wine. (It was still a
couple of weeks before my appreciation of good wine was due to begin.)
Mary
brought round spotted dick for pudding, which cheered my mother up, and Inigo
smoked while I drank a grainy cup of cocoa. I pushed off my shoes and
‘Plain!
That’s very good!’ shrieked Inigo. ‘Next you’ll be telling me he’s well bread!’
I
cursed myself for bringing up Julian the Loaf. It was too absurd outside the
confines of Aunt Clare’s study.
‘His
name is Harry,’ I went on. ‘His mother is called Clare Delancy and she says she
knows of you — and Papa,’ I added, heart thudding away as it always did when I
mentioned my father.
‘Clare
Delancy. Clare, Clare, Clare, Clare Delancy. Let me think.’
It was
my mother’s favourite pastime: trying to work out who, what, when and where
were the scores of people who claimed to have met her. It was rare for her to
remember anyone — I had been on the receiving end of many a ‘Who on earth was
that ghastly woman?’ usually demanded when she had met the person in
question at least five times. She dropped her face into her hands to help
herself ponder the issue. Inigo drained his wine and seized the chance to feed
his duck to Fido.
‘What
did she look like?’ she asked me. Detailed description was all part of the
game.
‘Well —
tall and rather big, and grey rather than blonde, but quite beautiful in a
funny way. Much older than you, Mama,’ I added hastily.
‘Big
and beautiful? Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘Her
husband died last year. Apparently, he was killed by a falling bookcase.’
Mama
snorted. ‘That’s what they all say.’
‘She
lives in a sort of apartment in Kensington and she seems to know all about
Magna. I don’t think she’s the sort of person one could forget.’
‘Sounds exactly the sort of person one could quite easily forget. An overweight
widow with too much time on her hands. You’re going to tell me that she keeps
cats next.’
‘She
does have a cat.’ I sighed.
My
mother looked at Inigo in a what-did-I-tell-you sort of way.
‘Never
trust anyone who keeps a cat within twenty miles of London. It signifies very
poor housekeeping indeed. Not to mention the smell and the hair—’
‘But
Fido sleeps on your bed!’ Inigo and I protested in unison.
‘Fido
is a dog. The smell and the hair are entirely different.’
‘Much
worse, you mean,’ said Inigo, stroking Fido with his foot.
‘Cat or
no cat, I have no recollection of ever meeting this woman. What did she say
about me?’
‘She
said you were a sensational beauty.’
‘Hmmm.
Well—’
‘She
knew that you and Papa were married young, and she said that she’d heard Magna
was wonderful.’
‘She’s
welcome to it.’
‘Oh,
don’t say that, Mama. You don’t mean it.’
‘I
think I can translate this Clare’s words as follows,’ said Mama beadily. ‘She
wants to unleash her — frankly unhinged —son in our direction in the hope that
he will marry either you, Penelope, or one of your ripe, rich cousins. Well!
There’s not much hope of that. No money, house full of dry rot and absolutely
no ripe, rich cousins, more’s the pity.’ Mama gave an unexpected bark of
laughter.
‘I’d do
anything for some ripe, rich cousins,’ said Inigo, with feeling.
‘Frederick
and Lavinia?’ suggested my mother, referring to Papa’s sister’s children of
about our age.
‘Freddie’s
a dream but Lavinia’s awful,’ said Inigo contemptuously. ‘I caught her setting
a mouse trap in her bedroom last time she came to stay. She said she couldn’t
sleep knowing that they were out there. I said I felt the same about saxophone
players.’
‘The
mice were terrible last year,’ agreed Mama.
‘Of
course, if we had a car—’
I felt
that the conversation was veering off course, as it tended to when my mother
and Inigo were involved. I played with my duck and ate my potatoes and onions
and drank three glasses of water for Inigo’s three of wine. (It was still a
couple of weeks before my appreciation of good wine was due to begin.)
Mary
brought round spotted dick for pudding, which cheered my mother up, and Inigo
smoked while I drank a grainy cup of cocoa. I pushed off my shoes and
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