Part 12 (1/2)
It was.
”I want to go to the beach today and dig with my bucket and spade,” said Nicholas.
”You will,” Virginia told him firmly. ”But first we have to go and see Aunt Alice Lingard, otherwise she'll think we're the rudest, most ungrateful people she's ever known.”
”Why?” said Nicholas.
”Because she got the house all ready for us and we haven't even said thank you . . . finish up your egg, Nicholas, it's getting all cold.”
”I wish I could have cornflakes.”
”We'll buy cornflakes,” said Virginia, and Cara got the pencil and the shopping list and they wrote Cornflakes underneath Steel Wool, Peanut b.u.t.ter and Caster Sugar, Splits, Jellies, Soap Powder and Cheese. Virginia had never done so much shopping in her life.
She sent them off to play while she did the breakfast dishes and went upstairs to make the beds. The children's room was awash with clothes. Virginia had always imagined they were neat and tidy, but realized now that it had simply been Nanny, who moved along behind them, picking up and putting away everything that they dropped. She gathered up the clothes, not knowing if they were dirty or clean, took a sock from the top of the chest of drawers, and carefully did not touch a crumpled paper bag with two sticky sweets in the corner.
There was also a big pigskin folder of photographs. This belonged to Cara, and had been packed by Nanny, with what intention Virginia could only guess. One side of the folder was taken up with a selection of small photographs, many of which had been taken by Cara herself, and arranged with more affection than artistry. The front of the house, rather crooked; the dogs, the farm men on the tractor; an aerial view of Kirkton, and a picture postcard or two. On the other side was an impressive studio portrait of Anthony, a head and shoulders, all lighting and angles, so that his hair looked white blond, and his jaw very square and determined. The photographer's impression was of a strong man, but Virginia knew the narrowed eyes, and the weak, handsome mouth. And she saw the striped collar of the Turnbull and Asher s.h.i.+rt, the discreetly patterned silk of the Italian tie, and she remembered how clothes had mattered to Anthony; just as his car was important, and the furnis.h.i.+ngs of his house and his manner of living. Virginia had always imagined that these were subsidiary considerations, and took their shape from the character of the individual. But with Anthony Keile it was the other way round, and he had invariably given the highest priority to the smallest details, as though realizing that they were the props behind his image, and without them his inadequate personality would crumble.
Carrying the armful of clothes, she went downstairs and washed them in the tiny sink. When she took these outside to peg them crookedly on to the knotted clothes-line, she found only Nicholas, alone, playing with his red tractor and a few pebbles and bits of gra.s.s. He wore his new navy-blue Guernsey and was already scarlet in the face with heat, but Virginia knew better than to suggest that it might be a good idea if he took the sweater off.
”What are you playing?”
”Nothing much . . .”
”Is the gra.s.s straw?”
”Sort of.”
Virginia pegged out the last pair of pants. ”Where's Cara?”
”She's inside.”
”Reading, I expect,” said Virginia and went in to find her. But Cara was not reading; she was in the Tower Room, sitting by the window staring sightlessly out across the fields to the sea. When Virginia appeared at the door, she turned her head slowly, bemused, unrecognizing.
”Cara . . .”
Her eyes behind the spectacles came into focus. She smiled. ”Hallo. Is it time to go . . . ?”
”I'm ready when you are.” She sat beside Cara. ”What are you doing? Thinking, or looking at the view.”
”Both, really.”
”What were you thinking about?”
”I was really wondering how long we were going to stay here ...”
”Oh-I suppose about a month. I've taken it for a month.”
”But we'll have to go back to Scotland, won't we? We'll have to go back to Kirkton.”
”Yes, we'll have to go back. There's your school for one thing.” She waited. ”Don't you want to go?”
”Isn't Nanny coming with us?”
”I shouldn't think so.”
”It'll be funny, won't it, Kirkton, without Daddy or Nanny? It's so big for just the three of us. I think that's why I like this house. It's just the right size.”
”I thought perhaps you wouldn't like it.”
”I love it. And I love this room. I've never seen a room like it, with the stairs going down in the middle of the floor and all the windows and the sky.” She was obviously not bothered by spooky sensations. ”Why isn't there any furniture, though?”
”I think it was built as a study, a workroom. There was a man who lived here, about fifty years ago. He wrote books and he was very famous.”
”What did he look like?”
”I don't know. I suppose he had a beard, and perhaps he was rather untidy and forgot to do up his sock suspenders, and b.u.t.toned his suit all wrong. Writers are often very absent-minded.”
”What was his name?”
”Aubrey Crane.”
”I'm sure he was nice,” said Cara, ”to have made such a pretty room. You can just sit and see everything that happens.”
”Yes,” said Virginia, and together they gazed out at the patchwork fields, where peaceful cows grazed, and the gra.s.s was emerald green after the rain, and stone walls and leaning gate posts were tangled with brambles which, in just a month or two, would be sweet and heavy with black fruit. Away to the west a tractor hummed. She turned her head, pressing her forehead against the window and saw the patch of scarlet, bright as a pillar-box, and the man sitting up behind the wheel, wearing a s.h.i.+rt as blue as the sky.
”Who's that?” asked Cara.
”That's Eustace Philips.”
”Do you know him?”
”Yes. He farms Penfolda.”
”Are these all his fields?”
”I expect so.”
”When did you know him?”
”A long time ago.”
”Does he know you're here?”
”Yes, I think so.”
”I expect he'll come for a drink or something.”
Virginia smiled. ”Yes, perhaps he will. Now come and comb your hair and get ready. We're going to see Alice Lingard.”
”Shall I put in my bathing things? Can we swim in her pool?”