Lady Jean Read online

  Christopher held her hand so tightly as they made their way back up across the newly mown grass that Jean could have sworn she felt one of her bones crack. Mrs Meiklejohn was watching from her upstairs drawing-room window. Her face, as usual, was devoid of any expression except for a reptilian curiosity.

  FOUR

  The Fallen Nun was never domiciled in a convent nor has she ever been a Catholic. It is a disrespectful title, bestowed on her by Freida, who is denied gossip by Miss Truman’s ability to avoid contact, something she has managed to do cleverly ever since she moved in, after William Fitzpatrick, now Jean’s ex-husband, moved out and instigated divorce. It was Freida’s idea for Jean to take in a lodger. Just as it had been for Jean to keep her unmarried name. The former had not worked out as Freida anticipated. The Fallen Nun keeps entirely to herself. She comes and goes with stealth as if, Freida was convinced for at least three months, she has been in a convent and is therefore accustomed to creeping about and being sequestered. Jean has, at least, discovered that Catherine Truman attends an acting school. She is hoping to become a jobbing actress, a fact Jean keeps from Freida, who would undoubtedly claim that no one with the plain, homely features and lumpy figure of the Fallen Nun could possibly count on success. Freida is knowledgeable about and addicted to the theatre. She attends new plays at least once a fortnight and disagrees with every review she reads in the broadsheet press. The Fallen Nun, eventually accepted by Jean as a mildly inoffensive semi-recluse, is left to her own vices and virtues. She never receives visitors. She does not drink. She pays her rent and bills punctually. She is the very model of sobriety. Freida detests her.

  There are signs that the house might be aware of change. The front hallway appears to be letting in more light during the day through the small glass panels of the door. The air seems less dusty. After dark, with more lights burning and more movement from new occupants, there is a slight glow. It is so minimal that even Christopher has not noticed. Voices do not echo. The foundations and wooden floors creak with a softer sound, and a touch of warmth does seem to emanate from the aged walls.

  Christopher and Aunt Dizzy were playing Scrabble in the morning-room. The Scrabble board rested on a small rosewood table between them. The table had been made in 1826 by a craftsman whose descendants are buried in the local cemetery. Jean had no idea the table was a valuable antique.

  ‘Hystricomorph is a word,’ Aunt Dizzy was insisting. ‘Porcupines are hystricomorphs. Look it up if you don’t believe me. I’m not trying to trick you, Christopher. You young people are astonishingly ignorant.’

  Christopher was listening for the doorbell. Despite the late hour he was hoping Uncle Fergus might call. He was not paying a great deal of attention. Jean was sleeping up in her room covered by a quilt that had been handmade by her great-grandmother. It was ten o’clock on a Thursday evening, six days after Aunt Dizzy and Christopher had moved in. Both of them were sleeping in guest rooms on the first floor. They shared a bathroom that separated their bedrooms. Aunt Dizzy had twice forgotten to lock the connecting door while she was taking a bath. Christopher had walked into the bathroom on the second night and seen Aunt Dizzy lying prone in a bathful of steaming hot water. He thought she was dead. Minus her wig and teeth and stark naked, it was not altogether surprising that he ran down stairs in a state of shock, only to find Jean in the arms of Anthony Hibbert, in the throes of struggling with his slightly drunken advances. Christopher had charged into the room and Jean had cried out and Christopher had shrieked in a particularly high voice and upstairs Aunt Dizzy had woken up. As she said later, she’d almost drowned from the noise below. It had given her such a fright she’d slid about in the bath like a small whale, causing much of the water to slop out on to the floor. The three of them, after Anthony Hibbert had left, apologizing profusely and red-faced, sat in the kitchen until two in the morning, playing Scrabble to calm their nerves. Ever since then Aunt Dizzy and Christopher were unable to resist playing Scrabble whenever a free hour presented itself. They gleefully shared their addiction like unsupervised children. Aunt Dizzy had eventually recalled who Christopher was and seemed rather pleased that he had also moved in.

  ‘It’s almost like the old days, Jean,’ she kept saying. ‘Before the bad time. I like a bit of life around this house. There wasn’t much of it at the hotel.’

  Jean had asked Christopher to move in the same afternoon that Aunt Dizzy’s mountain of possessions had arrived, and Jean found out that Christopher had been made homeless by his own parents. Not believing him at first, she telephoned his mother, only to be told in a frigid and icy tone that Mrs Harcourt did not have a son any longer. Christopher had gone away and she never expected to see him again. Jean was stunned.

  ‘Well, he is here with me, Mrs Harcourt,’ she said, trying to control her astonishment and an urge to be rude. The woman had spoken with the finality of death. ‘He has one of my guest rooms. If you happen to feel the need to speak to your son, do please call. He is dreadfully upset.’

  Before she finished speaking Mrs Harcourt replaced her receiver.

  Jean and Christopher had sat in the kitchen after she’d brought him in from the garden six days ago, bereft and crying. It took a full hour before he was able to tell her clearly what had happened, what had been going on. In the middle of his confession Aunt Dizzy had wandered in, having woken up and descended the stairs. Wearing little more than a vague smile and underwear, she prepared to make herself a pot of tea. It took her a little while to realize that she was not alone, but then she simply smiled delicately, placing the filled teapot and a mug on a tray when she was ready and departed the room gracefully, as if it was completely ordinary for an 81-year-old lady to walk about almost naked. Christopher, as he and Jean sat listening to Aunt Dizzy negotiate the stairs, began to snigger. Then he had a fit of hiccups and started to cry all over again.

  ‘Uncle Fergus really loves me,’ he explained after he’d calmed down and Jean had let go of his hands, which caused him to hold his fingers up and sniff at them. ‘We’ve always got on well, even when I was small. I used to sit on his lap at family get-togethers. There’s nothing wrong in what we do. Mother hates me. She’ll never allow me back. Father won’t, either. He always does what he’s told.’

  Mrs Harcourt had found Christopher lying fully clothed in the arms of her only brother which, as Jean pointed out, would have been a terrible shock for anyone, let alone Christopher’s mother who was a devout Evangelical Christian.

  ‘We were only kissing,’ Christopher said in defence. ‘We kiss a lot. We hold hands. I love Uncle Fergus. I’ve always loved him. I’ve wanted him to kiss me ever since I was fifteen.’

  Jean had sympathized as best she could and simply let Christopher talk. Words had eventually poured from his lips to rival the tears that had been flowing from his eyes. He had been secretly meeting Uncle Fergus for almost a year, he told her. He could not see that anything was wrong with that. They visited the cinema, the theatre, the Natural History Museum and the Wallace Collection, as well as having afternoon tea at Uncle Fergus’s maisonette off Long Acre. ‘It was destiny,’ Christopher said. ‘Uncle Fergus has always been alone and one of these days we’ll be together, for ever.’

  Jean was unable to know exactly what to say, except eventually to suggest that Christopher fetch his possessions from the tube station. She would make up one of the guest rooms for him.

  ‘Only overnight,’ she explained. ‘I’m having to let Aunt Dizzy live here now. Your mother will come round. It’s just been the shock, I expect.’

  Now Christopher had been living at Acacia Road for almost a week. His father had telephoned and stiffly asked Jean if he could speak to his son.

  ‘He said Mother’s praying for me,’ Christopher told Jean. ‘She’s got her whole church praying for me twice a day at special gatherings. Father wouldn’t talk about Uncle Fergus. He clammed up and then put the phone down and cut me off.’

  Since then Jean had found a cheque stuffed in
side an envelope pushed through the letterbox. The cheque had been made out to cash and was attached to a note from Christopher’s father who explained ‘To Whom It May Concern’ that the money was to cover Christopher’s expenses. Jean had ripped up the cheque and said nothing to Christopher about it. The cheque had been for over two thousand pounds.

  Christopher and Aunt Dizzy spent most of their time together, and Jean was able to leave them alone and not feel forced to keep an eye on either. Christopher, without being asked, slipped into the role of Aunt Dizzy’s minder. He followed her about the house with a studied, serious devotion, making certain she was dressed properly in the mornings, preparing meals, cleaning up after her. In between, they played Scrabble. He had taken some days off studying.

  Anthony Hibbert had telephoned to apologize for his sexual advances.

  ‘I’ve no real excuse,’ he admitted. ‘Except that I fancy you. I was tired and pissed.’

  ‘I’m old enough to be your mother,’ Jean responded.

  ‘So? Will you forgive me?’

  ‘Nothing to forgive. Besides, I’m the one who should feel apologetic. To be perfectly honest, Anthony, I had rather lost interest in a memoir several months ago. I’ve been enjoying your company.’

  Anthony Hibbert remained silent for only a few seconds.

  ‘Oh, I’ve known about that for some time. About the memoir, I mean. So have the publishers. They gave up around a month ago. I’ve just enjoyed being with you too. Hope you don’t mind.’

  He promised to telephone after a forthcoming trip to Brussels. Jean had agreed to let him escort her one night to an opera or a ballet at Covent Garden. She knew so little about him. Naturally she was flattered. Anthony Hibbert was twenty-five years old with the confidence of someone ten years older.

  When Jean came downstairs after her long early evening nap it was gone eleven o’clock. Christopher and Aunt Dizzy were quietly arguing in the morning-room, still playing Scrabble.

  ‘If you place those bloody letters there you won’t get such a high score,’ she was saying as Jean entered the room. ‘Do try something else, for heaven’s sake. Moron.’

  They did not even look up as Jean passed them, heading for the kitchen. She warmed milk and spooned cocoa into three mugs. She did not hear the faint sigh that appeared to come from the walls. In the morning-room Christopher glanced up towards the kitchen door and grinned. Jean waited for the milk to warm and considered telephoning Freida.

  She had spent the morning telephoning plumbers and electricians and a decorator, then ordered an expensive orthopaedic bed for Aunt Dizzy’s front room. The boxes of records had already gone, collected and now stored away in the north London warehouse where she sent everything there wasn’t room for. Most of the furniture from the house William had owned before he’d married her was there along with much of what Aunt Dizzy had not wished to keep when she’d sold her own house. She had wanted a new bed, she’d told Jean, one with modern technology to help aged bones to rest and a restless mind to dream. The workmen were arriving in the morning to start renovating the front room. There was not a great deal to be done. Most of the furnishings were being delivered from the warehouse, items that Aunt Dizzy did want. Curtains, two Queen Anne chairs, an antique card-table for her and Christopher to play Scrabble on. A dressing-table with chair. She had given Jean a list. Jean had said little about why Christopher had moved in. There seemed little point in explaining. Jean had casually said that it was temporary, owing to Christopher’s mother needing a break.

  ‘Well, I am pleased,’ Aunt Dizzy had responded. ‘He’s a lovely boy even if he is damned ugly. He speaks well of you, Jean.’ She had invited one or two of the hotel staff to visit the house, once her new room was put in order, then cancelled the invitation. Jean had considered turning the other reception room into a bathroom, but Aunt Dizzy rather liked the idea of a stair-lift so she could use the upstairs bathroom.

  ‘Much more fun than merely stepping across the hall,’ she’d commented. ‘Besides, I can pay visits to Miss Truman. The way you ignore her appalls me, Jean. It’s not right.’

  The telephone rang as the three of them were sipping cocoa.

  ‘I’m terribly embarrassed to telephone so late,’ came a high-pitched but melodic voice when Jean answered. ‘But I’ve been led to believe that Mr Christopher Harcourt is there.’

  ‘You must be Uncle Fergus,’ Jean found herself saying.

  ‘I am! How very flattering of you to recognize my voice!’

  Jean was about to explain that she hadn’t when Christopher appeared in the hall, staring intently at her. His face, normally pale, had gone a sickly shade. Jean held out the receiver and at his sudden look of terror she smiled and squeezed his arm.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘It’s your uncle. Talk for as long as you want.’

  Christopher waited until she had gone back into the morning-room before he spoke. Jean closed the hall door. Aunt Dizzy had fallen asleep in her chair. She still clutched her cocoa and a lit cigar. Jean relieved her of both, gently waking her, then helped her up the stairs after locking the kitchen door and turning off all the lights except one. When she returned downstairs, having put Aunt Dizzy to bed and been lectured on the rudiments of denture hygiene and the best and worst cleaners of false teeth on the market, Christopher was still on the telephone. She could hear the murmer of his voice as she put her ear to the door panel. It was gone midnight when he sheepishly returned to the morning-room. He was agitated and wouldn’t sit down.

  ‘I don’t suppose …’ he said. He stopped and wrung his hands together in a gesture Jean had already observed numerous times, a nervous reaction that made him look older and of which he did not seem to be aware. He was also finding it difficult to look at her.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said slowly. ‘Don’t get yourself worked up. Now tell me what you want so we can all get to bed. It’s late. Busy day tomorrow.’

  Christopher sat opposite her. He stopped wringing his hands and stared across at her with his large brown eyes that did little to compensate for his weak chin and general appearance of the great unwashed.

  ‘Uncle wants to know if he’ll be allowed to visit me. Here. He’s been keeping clear.’

  ‘Of course he can. I’ve no problem with that, Christopher, no problem at all. I’d like to meet him. He could come for afternoon tea or a meal if he wants. Anything you decide.’

  The relief on Christopher’s face was astonishing. He sat back in the chair and put the palms of his hands together as if he was about to break into applause. He blinked rapidly.

  ‘I want you to like him,’ he whispered, dipping his head.

  ‘I’m sure I shall. You are welcome to stay here, Christopher, for as long as you wish. I’ve just decided. No rules. You can come and go as you please. I’ll get some keys cut. You’ve been a real boon to Aunt Dizzy. I am grateful. But don’t let her take you over, that’s all you need to promise. Now, it’s terribly late and I’m terribly tired. I hope you’re going back to college?’

  Christopher nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. He stared at her, then suddenly stood up. Stepping across the room he knelt down at Jean’s feet and, reaching for her hand, drew it to his lips.

  Jean froze. She was not at all certain she liked the sensation of Christopher’s lips on her skin. They felt rubbery. Cold, almost artificial. She sat rigidly. He remained kneeling there for a moment after letting go her hand. His eyes were closed. One solitary tear was coursing down his left cheek.

  ‘This house loves you,’ he whispered.

  Then in a rushed movement he scrambled to his feet and turned, heading to the stairs and ascending them so silently and swiftly it left her a little breathless. There was not a sound after that. Jean continued to sit in her chair without moving. She thought about Freida. She thought about William, now apparently back living in London. She thought about her daughter and her son and her parents. She remained sitting in the chair for a long time, in near d
arkness, one hand in her lap caressing the other in a gentle rhythm.

  FIVE

  We were an average family, all things considered, Jean had nervously and reluctantly said into Anthony Hibbert’s minicorder, which she had knocked on to the floor by accident as soon as they had settled. Later, she was to cringe over saying it.

  William had an established reputation as a financial adviser, with a business in the City. We had the house. There was Grandfather’s cottage in Wales, though we rarely went down there. We were comfortable, not too complacent, unaware of anything much outside the family. Jared and Gemma attended good schools. Socially we were busy. Hurrying through our lives, cushioned by the Barrie wealth. At this point Jean stops speaking and begins to laugh.

  The tape is stopped and then restarted.

  William once said that he had married my entire family. My parents lived in Brighton when the children were small. They’d gone down there with the idea to semi-retire and bought an old detatched house near Devil’s Dyke. They came up to town every weekend, sometimes staying with Father’s sister Elizabeth – Aunt Dizzy. They missed London. It was long before Auntie sold her own house and moved into the hotel. The entire clan – or rather mine – gathered at Acacia Road every weekend, summer and winter. At first, when my singing career looked as though it was about to take off, Mother showed her disapproval, which she’d hidden. Everyone had treated my singing as an affectionate joke. Mother was terribly severe about it, terrified that any success I might encounter would remove me from them. None of them could quite believe I would succeed. When my first album rocketed within days of its release, things did begin to change. I’d recorded two singles before that. They’d both flopped miserably, never sold. I’ve a boxful in the front room I rarely admit to being there. After the album came out the phone never seemed to stop ringing. My agent of the time called, every day. So did the record company. I did small concerts in out-of-the-way places, made appearances. So many interviews. Then the two awards. Up there, on the mantel, gathering dust. It was a sudden opening up of something I’d longed for, all my adult life, to be a blues singer but a good one. And it came about, amidst all the unstoppable family business that carried on as usual. There, that’s the truncated version!