Page 80 of An Invitation to the Kennedys
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.I can’t listen to individual stories.’
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t serve me.’
‘Must everything serve you?’
‘Well, yes.Otherwise I cannot do my job.Which is to serve America.If I get snarled up in sad stories and desperate tales – there are so many – I won’t be able to see what my way is.’
‘But surely your way would be lighted by those stories?’
‘You would think so.’He said it pleasantly.‘But no.They only cloud matters.’
‘You know, I used to think I couldn’t listen to individual stories,’ she said.‘And for the very same reason.But now I realise they are the only things to listen to.’
‘No,’ he repeated.
‘You know your daughter called you the most popular girl at the dance?’
He laughed.‘So I believe.’
‘Well, you should know what very often happens to that popular girl.’
‘Which is?’
‘In the end, everyone walks away from her.’
‘I see.’
‘I wonder do you?’
In all, it was an evening of strained conversation, with too many currents eddying between people so that every remark, even the most bland, seemed to offend someone or be designed to highlight something hidden.It was barely midnight when the party broke up, even Elizabeth saying, ‘I think I’ll go up.’
‘Good idea,’ Chips had said with relief.
The house quietened down quickly so that it was barely an hour later before Doris left her room and moved quietly along the hallway, down to the side door and out into a clear night that still sang with drips and the trickling of water.
The next morning had the meek beauty of a child who has behaved very badly and tries to charm its way to forgiveness.It was so early that the edges of the day were still fuzzy, and the light was pale gold, without the yellow heat of the day before.The poor battered plants were once more upright, rather than the sodden heaps of green they had been.Able to see clearly, Doris was struck by the tranquil beauty of the place.The tilled fields and evenly paced landscape.No dramatic plunging and rising, no mountains, no moors.It would have been a good place for a school, if managed better.She remembered Miss Potts’; the friendlessness of it, the paltry comforts and kindnesses.Schools were always neglected, she thought.Places of thin blankets, watery gruel, ice on the surface of the wash basin on winter mornings.She must remember to tell Duff that, if he was still talking to her.It wasn’t Catholics; it was everyone.Parents sent their children to school and asked almost nothing of their care.Her own father – comfortable Dorset merchant that he was – had been horrified by the spartan dormitories, the worn trestle tables in the refectory.Had wanted to take her straight home, certain there had been ‘a mistake’ and this wasn’t – couldn’t be – a place where the gentry sent their children.Doris had understood, and had insisted on staying.It was, she said, ‘exactly’ what she needed.
And it had been.She had met Honor, and because of her, with her, Doris had left the pleasant comfort of her upbringing and moved into this absurd, intoxicating world of people who spoke in code intended to confuse and deceive.Once there, she found she was as good – better – at it than any of them.And so she had chosen to work where they only played.To take the skills of dissembling and disarming they had taught her, and use them in a way that was deadly serious.
She crossed the garden quickly now, drawing her coat close about her.Not that it would provide much real protection – it was bright red, ‘the colour of tomato sauce’, Honor had said – but at least with the collar up she could shield her face.Not that anyone would be watching.It was too early.Or so she hoped.She reached the side door.The one she had come through the night before, an hour after going to her room, when the house had seemed quiet and in darkness.
The door was locked.Drat.She tried the handle again, in case, but no, it was definitely locked.Someone must have come after she had slipped out.The front door was certainly locked too.There was bound to be a way in through the kitchens, she thought.She stepped back out of the porch, thinking that if she made her way by hugging the side of the house, there was less chance she would be seen from any of the bedrooms.Just then, above her, the sound of a window being pulled open.She looked up, before realising that, really, she should have ducked back into the shelter of the porch.
‘Doris?’It was Honor.What luck.She recalled Honor saying how badly she slept, and hoped she hadn’t been awake too much of the night.
‘Darling,’ she hissed up.‘Come and let me in, will you?The door’s locked.’
‘Of course.’Honor, bless her, asked no more questions, simply ducked back into her room and closed her window.Alas for Doris, it scraped noisily.Loudly enough for whoever was in the bedroom next to Honor’s to hear.A face appeared, peering out, then that window too was raised.
‘Well!’It was Chips, eyes still heavy with sleep, but already a look of delight was dawning.‘Locked out, are we?’he whispered, but loudly and not as though he cared who he woke.‘It can’t be much after five.You are an early riser.Or perhaps alateretirer …’ He smirked down at her.‘Shall I come and let you in?’
