Page 27 of One More Christmas at the Castle
I confess I was momentarily startled when I set eyes on the couple from Heavenly Houseparties, for neither was quite what I envisaged. The woman – Dido – was so unexpectedly tall and fair that, with her Grecian nose and hair coiled up in that old-fashioned style, she’d reminded me strongly of the caryatids I’d seen holding up temple porticos! She certainly didn’t resemble that photograph of her father in the least.
Her voice was almost accentless, apart from a slight Lancashire inflection in the flattened vowels. Henry, on the other hand, had both looked and sounded more like one of my guests – but then, he had been at Rugby with Xan and, even if he said he was a poor relation, was very well-connected. I thought this might make things awkward for my plans, but he made himself very unobtrusive at dinner and didn’t encroach in any way, while the young woman remained out of sight in the kitchen.
How lovely it will be to have Xan here for a whole month. He’s already quite at home at the Castle, of course, having stayed here so often since he was a boy. Asa and I have always been so fond of him that he is the perfect person to write Asa’sbiography … and though I expect old Tommy, his grandfather and once our expedition photographer, told him lots of stories from the old days, I’m sure I can rely on Xan’s discretion.
Perhaps Asa talked to Tommy about those things we never discussed together. What old secrets might he have let slip?
During our chat this afternoon, Xan suggested he write the book more as a joint biography, but I said no, I would have been nothing without Asa and my role had been to help him in every way: he was a great man and I was lucky to be his friend, lover, assistant and, in those early years, his diving partner.
Oh, those wonderful times beneath the translucent azure seas of the Aegean … The silky feel of the water, the bubbles rising towards the light … the strange, different world of the sea bed.
The diagnosis of my illness seems to have already stirred the silt of my memory, releasing all kinds of scenes from the past, not only of my life with Asa, but also my early childhood, when Mummy was alive and life seemed quite perfect.
And now that Xan is here, I’ll be reliving the past with him, for he means to record some of my memories.
Those will soon be all that remains of me, for I certainly won’t see out most of next year. I’ll know when the right moment has come, and I intend bowing out with a bang, and not after a drawn-out whimpering half-life.
I don’t sleep well now, but it’s cosy here in my little boudoir, as Mummy always called the small sitting room off the master bedroom, now mine. I have a radio for company, and a funny little mother-of-pearl desk with a good lock against prying fingers, where I have moved the information and photographs the private investigator obtained for me. A large, silver-framed photograph of Asa smiles at me from the top of it.
I heard Xan’s footsteps earlier going through into the old wing, where his bedroom is, with the scampering sound of dear little Plum’s paws. I miss having a dog about the place, but felt I could not take on another once Asa’s old spaniel had died not long after he did.
Xan took Plum out for his last walk before bedtime, which reminded me of how I used to stand under the stars in the dark with poor old Fudge, waiting for him to remember why we were out there. The old dog had felt like the last living link connecting me to Asa.
My thoughts turned to Nancy, who has been my stalwart friend right from our first undergraduate days at Oxford. With her clear vision and ruthless honesty, she’s not always a comfortable person to have around; I call her the voice of my conscience. It would be hard to keep my plans from her and she could well put a spanner in my works. But then, so be it. Let events unfold with just a little nudge from me, or from Fate, from time to time!
7
Invasions
Early next morning, Henry and I were up and swinging into action with the ease of long practice.
After a mug of good, strong coffee, Henry went off to unbolt doors, draw curtains and generally tidy up downstairs, while I emptied the dishwasher and put everything away.
He came back with a tray of used glasses. ‘My fine detective instincts tell me that last night Xan and Mrs Powys drank whisky, while Lucy does indeed prefer a disgustingly sweet sherry.’
‘It sounds like it’s bought specially for her. I can’t imagine Mrs Powys drinking that stuff … and I must remember to put a bottle of cooking sherry on the shopping list, because that bottle you fetched from the dining room last night to jazz up the casserole is too good for the purpose, really,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t seem to have been a staple of the old housekeeper’s lists, though itdoesappear on one for additional items to be ordered for Christmas, under “sherry for trifle” along with “dark rum for Christmas cake”.’
‘We’re well past Stir-up Sunday, so if Mrs Powys wants a Christmas cake and a pudding, you’ll have to make your quick versions, Dido. Actually, I prefer those.’
‘I expect we’ll find out exactly what she wants later, when we see her.’
‘Well, must get on,’ Henry said. ‘Fires to do next. Luckily, I think there are enough logs in the baskets for today, and I noticed kindling and old newspapers in that room off the passage where the old dog bowls were stored. There’s a big, empty log basket in there too, but perhaps I can fill that up later, when Maria has shown us the outbuildings.’
‘I’d better come with you when she does, so I know where everything is, too,’ I said. ‘I won’t be chopping any logs, though I’m sure you can hardly wait to get your hands on the axe.’
‘You know me only too well, darling,’ he said and went off to find the ash can.
Time was passing and, after glancing at the clock, I began to assemble Mrs Powys’s breakfast on the tray I’d already laid with an embroidered cloth and chintzy flowered plate, cup and saucer. She only had toast, according to Maria’s note: two rounds, almost, but not quite, burnt. I added butter in a small dish, a tiny jar of set honey, a small glass of orange juice, some milk in a tiny jug and a large cup of freshly brewed coffee.
Lucy came into the kitchen just as I picked the laden tray up.
‘Oh, good, it’s all ready!’ she fluted breathily, as if I’d managed to perform some esoteric rite single-handedly. ‘Cousin Sabine issucha stickler for time and I’m often late because I’ve burned the first lot of toast – so difficult to get it right – and—’
‘I’m afraidIwill be late if I don’t take this upstairs now,’ I said, edging past her, though I softened the words with a slight smile. ‘Why not go through into the morning room and I’ll bring your breakfast when I come down, if you tell me what you’d like. I’ve already put bread, butter and milk out.’
‘Oh, not to worry – I only have toast and I can pop that inthe toaster myself. So just a pot of tea for me. Unless Xan – Mr Fellowes – is down and wants coffee.’
‘I expect he takes his dog out first thing,’ I suggested, then headed out through the swinging baize door to the Garden Hall and up the stairs.
