Victoria Clayton - Moonshine

‘It’s terrible.’ Because Fleur seemed interested I told her about my parents and Oliver, Mrs Treadgold and Brough.

‘Perhaps there’s a spell on the place,’ suggested Fleur. ‘Perhaps your father is a wizard.’

‘Not a very good wizard, if so,’ I said, ‘or he’d conjure up some money.’

‘He may have. He just isn’t sharing it with the rest of you so he can keep you under his brutal thumb, poor, dejected and ill used, to satisfy his sadistic impulses.’

‘Now, darling, I don’t think you should speak so impolitely of Roberta’s father,’ said Dickie.

‘It’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘It’s a most interesting theory.’

I guessed from Fleur’s expression that she was half serious. Her childlike face was dreaming, her bony wrists bent at right angles as she propped her chin on her clasped hands.

‘I wish I could do magic,’ she said. ‘I’d wish myself far away to an island covered with forest where I’d live like a savage, wearing a skirt of leaves, or perhaps nothing at all, and I’d eat nuts and berries and bird’s eggs – never taking more than one from the nest, of course – and I’d tame a wild goat and drink her milk from a wooden bowl I’d carved from a tree.’

‘How would you like cutting down the tree?’ said Dickie in a humouring sort of voice. ‘Remember how upset you were when I had those sycamores felled last year?’

‘I wouldn’t cut it down, silly.’ Fleur was scornful. ‘I’d just carve the bowl out of the trunk and leave the place to heal over. I’d have the cats and dogs and Stargazer with me, of course. And Burgo, natch. And you could come if you liked, Bobbie.’

Her exclusion of Dickie was pointed. He stirred sugar into his coffee, smiling. It was impossible to tell if his feelings were hurt.

‘I’m not good at camping,’ I said. ‘I’d be nothing but a liability. I hate that dreadful ache you get in your hip joints from lying on hard ground. I frighten easily. I should spend all my time worrying what that peculiar rustling was, imagining a man with an axe creeping up on me – when I wasn’t worrying whether that tickling sensation on my leg was a leaf or a scorpion. And I’m pretty bad-tempered without a proper night’s sleep.’

Fleur looked annoyed. ‘It isn’t always night on an enchanted island.’

‘Ah, no. But during the day I’d be hungry. I’m fond of nuts and berries but not invariably. And there wouldn’t even be those in the winter. Bark and roots don’t tempt me in the least. I’d rather stay here at Ladyfield. For me this is an enchanted place.’

Fleur scowled. ‘What you really mean is that you’re sorry for Dickie and you think I’m a pig. Well, you’re right. I am a pig. But’ – she shot him a glance of defiance – ‘you shouldn’t treat me like a child. Don’t indulge me all the time. Of course I know I behave badly. Why don’t you tell me to shut up or at least look contemptuous? All right, take no notice. I’m being unreasonable again.’ She brushed away a tear and made an effort to smile. ‘Be careful, I might put a spell on you.’

She really was a strange girl. I guessed part of the trouble was that she had put a spell on poor Dickie. His adoration was patent. But unless you are extraordinarily vain (and Fleur, I thought, was unusually without vanity for such a good-looking girl) being adored quickly becomes irritating and guilt-inducing.

‘Let’s go into the garden straight after coffee and look at the Temple to Hygeia,’ he suggested as though the conversation had not taken place.

‘We’ll go now,’ Fleur stood up. ‘We can take our coffee cups with us.’

‘You’d better let me bring the tray, madam.’ Mrs Harris, who had waited at table with admirable discretion, slid round the door with such alacrity I wondered if she had been listening. ‘The pattern’s been discontinued and it’d be a pity to spoil the set.’

‘Ha, ha! Come now, Mrs Harris.’ Dickie crinkled his face in pacifying smiles, his pale eyes kind and serene. ‘What does a little broken china matter?’

‘I haven’t actually broken it yet.’ Fleur’s face was cold. ‘But if I did that would be my business and no one else’s.’ She picked up the cat and left the room.

‘Never mind, Mrs Harris.’ Dickie began to get up, leaning heavily on the arms of his chair. ‘Least said, soonest mended, eh?’

‘Why don’t I carry the tray?’ I suggested.

‘I’d best bring it myself, to be on the safe side,’ she replied with a stiffening of her jaw. ‘The path’s quite uneven in places.’

I saw that she was jealous of her office so I did not press the point.

‘Your stick, sir.’ Mrs Harris handed it to him. ‘What about leaving your coat, sir?’ She brushed a crumb from the sleeve of his tweed jacket in a manner that was almost maternal. ‘It’s getting quite warm. You don’t want to overheat.’

‘Thank you, I shall be all right as I am.’

I could see from Mrs Harris’s expression that she thought he was very much all right as he was. And, looking at him through her eyes, I saw that his affability, his presumption of power in his own kingdom and his courtliness in exercising that power was attractive. But to a girl like Fleur probably these things did not count.

‘You’ll beware, sir, where Billy’s put that wet cement? We don’t want you having a nasty accident.’

‘I’ll take care not to fall.’ There might have been a little resentment in his tone and he seemed to stand up straighter as though encumbered by so much solicitude. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harris,’ he added in a softened tone. ‘Where would we all be without you to take care of us, eh?’

A wave of colour ran over Mrs Harris’s face. ‘It’s my pleasure, sir.’ She began to clear the table, an expression of satisfaction curving her lips.

‘A good woman,’ muttered Dickie as we crossed the hall to the garden door. ‘None better. But not always tactful. Damn! I wonder where Fleur’s got to? I’m always afraid that when she flies into a pet she’ll do something stupid on Stargazer. He’s a wonderful animal but he gets a look in his eye …’

Dickie set the pace to the Temple, or the China House, which was how I thought of it. By daylight the garden had lost its mystery but was still lovely.

‘What a fabulous rose!’ I stopped to sniff at its tumbled raspberry petals revealing a glimpse of gold stamens. ‘Oh, the scent! I wonder what it’s called?’

‘Souvenir du Docteur Jamain,’ said Dickie, without stopping. ‘French hybrid perpetual.’

‘And this?’ I cupped my hands round an exquisite quartered bloom of blush pink.

Dickie threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘Queen of Denmark. An alba rose, probable parentage Maiden’s Blush.’

I longed for information about the other roses that dropped showers of pink, yellow, white and crimson petals on the path as Dickie brushed hastily past but his anxiety was so manifest that it seemed cruel to detain him for a second. We came rushing through the gap in the hedge which surrounded the China House to find Fleur sitting on its front step, talking to a young man. When he saw us he stooped in a leisurely way to pick up a trowel and began to slap cement from a bucket on to a piece of ground marked out with string. This, obviously, was Billy. He had short hair, tipped blond, and a craggy sort of face, good-looking in an aggressively masculine way. He was shirtless, his back burnished by the sun. His legs revealed by cut-off jeans were muscular and his wrists were bound with leather straps. He cast me a look of interest that hardened into something more like approval.

‘Arternoon, guv,’ he said, in a high nasal voice that spoiled the tough, lion-tamer image.