paroled. Then their plan was to move to South Africa. In the meantime they made do with the West Country. Clive had many enemies, and they felt safer here. Strange faces in a remote country area were quickly spotted and obliged to account for themselves.
Ned and Alexandra had been to visit Vilna once or twice, but had been taken aback by the style and colour of the soft furnishings in a house rigorous in its original simplicity.
“It shouldn’t matter,” said Ned, “that the place looks like a Turkish harem, but it does. It makes it hard to take Vilna seriously.” The English countryside, everyone knew, was a place where mud must be taken into account, and dogs, and bicycles: where the furniture was oak or pine, antique, and where wealth was always understated. Ned said this was the Englishman’s traditional defence against the mob. Only the rich and knowledgeable could tell wealth from poverty. Even Mrs. Edwards, the live-in housekeeper, would complain at the store that her employers simply didn’t know how to behave. They were ostentatious and didn’t fit in.
The Cottage went for the most part unlocked—who could tell that that scrawl on the battered wall was a Picasso; that the old wood box was a Jacobean coffer, the coal scuttle a fine piece of Arts and Crafts in beaten copper; that the blackened fireback, circa 1705, was priceless? Vilna and Maria’s house, with its elaborately papered walls, its swathes of curtains, its plump sofas, its mahogany and walnut furniture, the plenitude of ormolu, and with TV and video everywhere in sight, was obviously worth robbing. Not just a casual village break-in, either. The real, planned stuff. What one villain owed to another. Clive Mansell’s family home.
So Vilna, not fitting in, was kept on the outskirts of the social life which centred round The Cottage and which easily embraced most of the eccentrics in the area—not quite excluded, not quite included. She would be asked to lunch, but seldom to dinner. That her husband was in prison was not held against her—he was a financial wizard, not any kind of common criminal, and had probably been framed anyway. So Abbie, who liked Vilna, and rather cared for vulgar cocktails clinking with ice served in elaborate glasses by the side of the swimming pool, told everyone, and many believed her.
Alexandra knew well enough that she herself was not exempt from local criticism. All right for Ned, although a newcomer to the area, to be a writer and critic. The occupation was familiar. There’d always been those about, moved down from the city: Thomas Hardy being an earlier example. Just about all right for Alexandra to be an actress, so long as she was a failed actress, a woman trying to get pregnant—for as such they defined her, once the receptionist at the surgery had spread the news. Alexandra was acceptable inasmuch as her husband was, and as long as she was unfortunate and could be pitied. But once her fortunes changed, once the run of A Doll’s House had started, once her picture was in the paper, once she’d had her photograph taken with Princess Anne—and since she now had a child and couldn’t be pitied and, worse, had more or less handed the child over to be looked after by Theresa the help—she was seen as flashy. Sussex would be a better county for her.
“Vilna,” said Alexandra, “what do you know about Jenny Linden?”
“I try not to think about her,” said Vilna. “Why depress oneself? She is quite mad. Why don’t you forget her?”
“Because she makes it difficult,” said Alexandra. “She keeps popping up. And because I have no idea what there is to forget. No one says anything clearly enough. If Jenny Linden was going round pestering my husband, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Darling, I don’t know you very well. We have been acquaintances, not friends. That has not been my doing. People round here are stand-offish. Abbie told me that word. Abbie is your friend: she should have told you.
Ned and Alexandra had been to visit Vilna once or twice, but had been taken aback by the style and colour of the soft furnishings in a house rigorous in its original simplicity.
“It shouldn’t matter,” said Ned, “that the place looks like a Turkish harem, but it does. It makes it hard to take Vilna seriously.” The English countryside, everyone knew, was a place where mud must be taken into account, and dogs, and bicycles: where the furniture was oak or pine, antique, and where wealth was always understated. Ned said this was the Englishman’s traditional defence against the mob. Only the rich and knowledgeable could tell wealth from poverty. Even Mrs. Edwards, the live-in housekeeper, would complain at the store that her employers simply didn’t know how to behave. They were ostentatious and didn’t fit in.
The Cottage went for the most part unlocked—who could tell that that scrawl on the battered wall was a Picasso; that the old wood box was a Jacobean coffer, the coal scuttle a fine piece of Arts and Crafts in beaten copper; that the blackened fireback, circa 1705, was priceless? Vilna and Maria’s house, with its elaborately papered walls, its swathes of curtains, its plump sofas, its mahogany and walnut furniture, the plenitude of ormolu, and with TV and video everywhere in sight, was obviously worth robbing. Not just a casual village break-in, either. The real, planned stuff. What one villain owed to another. Clive Mansell’s family home.
So Vilna, not fitting in, was kept on the outskirts of the social life which centred round The Cottage and which easily embraced most of the eccentrics in the area—not quite excluded, not quite included. She would be asked to lunch, but seldom to dinner. That her husband was in prison was not held against her—he was a financial wizard, not any kind of common criminal, and had probably been framed anyway. So Abbie, who liked Vilna, and rather cared for vulgar cocktails clinking with ice served in elaborate glasses by the side of the swimming pool, told everyone, and many believed her.
Alexandra knew well enough that she herself was not exempt from local criticism. All right for Ned, although a newcomer to the area, to be a writer and critic. The occupation was familiar. There’d always been those about, moved down from the city: Thomas Hardy being an earlier example. Just about all right for Alexandra to be an actress, so long as she was a failed actress, a woman trying to get pregnant—for as such they defined her, once the receptionist at the surgery had spread the news. Alexandra was acceptable inasmuch as her husband was, and as long as she was unfortunate and could be pitied. But once her fortunes changed, once the run of A Doll’s House had started, once her picture was in the paper, once she’d had her photograph taken with Princess Anne—and since she now had a child and couldn’t be pitied and, worse, had more or less handed the child over to be looked after by Theresa the help—she was seen as flashy. Sussex would be a better county for her.
“Vilna,” said Alexandra, “what do you know about Jenny Linden?”
“I try not to think about her,” said Vilna. “Why depress oneself? She is quite mad. Why don’t you forget her?”
“Because she makes it difficult,” said Alexandra. “She keeps popping up. And because I have no idea what there is to forget. No one says anything clearly enough. If Jenny Linden was going round pestering my husband, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Darling, I don’t know you very well. We have been acquaintances, not friends. That has not been my doing. People round here are stand-offish. Abbie told me that word. Abbie is your friend: she should have told you.
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