sat on my
feet to warm them up and wondered how poor Harry was going to cope with this
kind of cold. After my cocoa, I announced that I was going to bed, and stood up
to kiss my mother goodnight. As quick as a jack-in-the-box she was up too. It
was another of her distinguishing characteristics, this need to be in bed
before anyone else. I think that it stemmed from her days of dramatic exits
when she and Papa were first married. She once told me that it was vital to
retire to bed early in order to allow those left to talk about one in
flattering terms in front of one’s beloved.
‘Goodnight,
darling,’ she said with a small yawn. ‘I am sorry about the duck, but
really, tonight has been quite bearable after all. Your mysterious Aunt Clare
really has been a marvellous distraction.’
I
smiled and kissed her on the cheek. My mother liked to be in her bedroom by
ten-thirty, but I don’t think that she ever slept until well after midnight. I
watched her and Fido float off upstairs, then wandered to the kitchen to get
myself a drink of water. When I returned to the dining room, Inigo was studying
the sleeve of a new record.
‘Guy
Mitchell,’ he said.
‘Let me
see.’
‘You
should hear the song. His voice—’ Inigo shook his head in wonderment, his black
hair falling over his eyes. ‘I should be in America. Anyone with any sense
should be in America.’
I
giggled. ‘Not before next weekend.’
‘No. I
suppose not. I shall stay here and ask your new friends awkward questions.’ He
grinned at me.
‘What a
strange duck supper tonight.’
‘Very
odd. We must speak to Johns about organising another gymkhana. I quite enjoyed
watching hordes of ten-year-old girls on ancient Shetlands wrecking the park.
Perhaps we should charge more to watch this year?’
I
think, even then, that we both knew how futile such events were. In my heart of
hearts I knew that Magna would need to hold a gymkhana every day of the year
for the next decade in order to keep going. I pushed such thoughts out of my
head, said goodnight to Inigo and decided to stick my head round my mother’s
door and check that she had quite recovered from the duck supper. I padded
along the first-floor corridor, imagining my mother writing her diary at her
desk, her left hand scribbling fast over the page. As a child, I would tiptoe
down the winding back staircase and into her room for words of comfort and a
quick peek at the famous black, leather-bound journal. When I was small she
never much minded me reading it — I don’t think that she had any idea quite
what an advanced reader I was — but soon after my eleventh birthday she took to
hiding it, securing it with a padlock and key, and it went from being a book
that I loved and revered to something I rather hated. I would not think about
my mother’s diary tonight, I decided, it would only depress me.
Outside
her door, I knocked softly, and, getting no response, crept into the room.
‘Mama?’
I could hear sounds of running water coming from the adjoining bathroom. Open,
and resting on her bedside table alongside the laughing photograph of my father
that reminded me that he looked nothing like James Stewart and an awful lot
like me, was the blessed diary. I hesitated. She had not heard me come in. I
don’t know what it was that made me step forward and crane my neck over the
entry for that day, but I did it, and there’s no point in saying that I did
not.
16
November 1954. Penelope has invited a young girl called Charlotte Ferris to
stay. She has an aunt called Clare, and although I did not say anything to
either child, I think that I know exactly who Clare is. Fancy her reappearing
now when…
I fled,
and dived into bed, heart thumping, wondering if my mother’s nose had detected
the giveaway scent of French Ferns. I couldn’t even go and look for Debrett as
I had spotted it heroically holding open her bedroom window, letting in icy
blasts of cold November
feet to warm them up and wondered how poor Harry was going to cope with this
kind of cold. After my cocoa, I announced that I was going to bed, and stood up
to kiss my mother goodnight. As quick as a jack-in-the-box she was up too. It
was another of her distinguishing characteristics, this need to be in bed
before anyone else. I think that it stemmed from her days of dramatic exits
when she and Papa were first married. She once told me that it was vital to
retire to bed early in order to allow those left to talk about one in
flattering terms in front of one’s beloved.
‘Goodnight,
darling,’ she said with a small yawn. ‘I am sorry about the duck, but
really, tonight has been quite bearable after all. Your mysterious Aunt Clare
really has been a marvellous distraction.’
I
smiled and kissed her on the cheek. My mother liked to be in her bedroom by
ten-thirty, but I don’t think that she ever slept until well after midnight. I
watched her and Fido float off upstairs, then wandered to the kitchen to get
myself a drink of water. When I returned to the dining room, Inigo was studying
the sleeve of a new record.
‘Guy
Mitchell,’ he said.
‘Let me
see.’
‘You
should hear the song. His voice—’ Inigo shook his head in wonderment, his black
hair falling over his eyes. ‘I should be in America. Anyone with any sense
should be in America.’
I
giggled. ‘Not before next weekend.’
‘No. I
suppose not. I shall stay here and ask your new friends awkward questions.’ He
grinned at me.
‘What a
strange duck supper tonight.’
‘Very
odd. We must speak to Johns about organising another gymkhana. I quite enjoyed
watching hordes of ten-year-old girls on ancient Shetlands wrecking the park.
Perhaps we should charge more to watch this year?’
I
think, even then, that we both knew how futile such events were. In my heart of
hearts I knew that Magna would need to hold a gymkhana every day of the year
for the next decade in order to keep going. I pushed such thoughts out of my
head, said goodnight to Inigo and decided to stick my head round my mother’s
door and check that she had quite recovered from the duck supper. I padded
along the first-floor corridor, imagining my mother writing her diary at her
desk, her left hand scribbling fast over the page. As a child, I would tiptoe
down the winding back staircase and into her room for words of comfort and a
quick peek at the famous black, leather-bound journal. When I was small she
never much minded me reading it — I don’t think that she had any idea quite
what an advanced reader I was — but soon after my eleventh birthday she took to
hiding it, securing it with a padlock and key, and it went from being a book
that I loved and revered to something I rather hated. I would not think about
my mother’s diary tonight, I decided, it would only depress me.
Outside
her door, I knocked softly, and, getting no response, crept into the room.
‘Mama?’
I could hear sounds of running water coming from the adjoining bathroom. Open,
and resting on her bedside table alongside the laughing photograph of my father
that reminded me that he looked nothing like James Stewart and an awful lot
like me, was the blessed diary. I hesitated. She had not heard me come in. I
don’t know what it was that made me step forward and crane my neck over the
entry for that day, but I did it, and there’s no point in saying that I did
not.
16
November 1954. Penelope has invited a young girl called Charlotte Ferris to
stay. She has an aunt called Clare, and although I did not say anything to
either child, I think that I know exactly who Clare is. Fancy her reappearing
now when…
I fled,
and dived into bed, heart thumping, wondering if my mother’s nose had detected
the giveaway scent of French Ferns. I couldn’t even go and look for Debrett as
I had spotted it heroically holding open her bedroom window, letting in icy
blasts of cold November
Similar Books
