‘This’ll do.’
‘How is she?’
‘Bloody.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why isn’t she at Cheadle anyway? This time of year . . .’
‘I don’t know. Can’t be so bloody at a distance, I suppose.’
‘Look, I’ll come round and let her be bloody at me for a change. We’re supposed to be going to the ballet but I could tell B . . .’
‘Don’t bother. She’d only be sweet to you.’
‘Oh, God. What can I do?’
‘Nothing, short of coming home.’
‘Why don’t you come and live here? Really?’
‘Let’s talk about something else. How was the holiday?’
I told her about the beaches and the night clubs and learning to water-ski and seeing Alan Ladd in a restaurant but she wasn’t really interested. She kept fiddling with the magazines on the table beside her chair, picking them up, glancing at a page and then tossing them down again. I ploughed on until she reached further over and took the manilla envelope with the photograph in it Mrs Clarke had given me. If Jane had been in a different mood I’d been going to ask her what she thought about tricking Mummy into signing it. The alternative would have been for Jane to forge her signature, which she could do easily. She pulled the picture out and stared.
‘God!’ she said. ‘The wicked stepmother and the pig princesses! If I wanted to show someone an example of what I utterly detest about the life I’ve lived so far, it would be this. What on earth have you got it here for?’
I explained, playing it down. To my surprise Jane seemed to take to the idea with a sort of grim amusement.
‘Might infuriate her in a new direction for a few minutes,’ she said, stuffing the envelope into her canvas carrier. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
She gobbled her supper without seeming to notice the trouble I’d taken. I could see from the way she held her fork that her hand must be really sore but she got angry when I tried to sympathise. Between mouthfuls she gabbled on about some internal feud at her art college, where one gang of teachers was still trying to insist on students learning to draw from the life and so on, while the other lot only wanted to help them follow their own creative impulses, which mustn’t be clogged up with learning outmoded techniques. She went through the current rumpus in detail, with all the names of these people I didn’t know from Adam, but I could sense that she wasn’t actually interested. It was just a way of stopping me asking about Mummy. After supper she jumped up and rushed off to the sink with the dirty plates.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I said. ‘Can’t you be a bit restful?’
‘In this place? Sitting around like actors pretending we live here? Nobody lives here.’
‘You might at least wait till I’ve made the coffee. Hell! Coffee! Look, there’s some downstairs. I’ll just . . .’
‘Let’s go and have it down there. I might feel more real down there.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t . . .’
‘Honestly, Mabs! He isn’t Bluebeard! Is he?’
‘Of course not. But . . .’
‘I don’t want to hang on here. I think I’ll go home.’
‘Please, darling . . . Oh, I suppose it’ll be all right. Provided you let me bandage your hand.’
‘Have you got one?’
‘That’s the point. He’s never ill, but he’s a maniac about health. He’s a frightful coward. The slightest scratch and you have to rush for antiseptics and plasters.’
‘And if he comes home and catches us you can tell him . . . Oh, Mabs, he is Bluebeard!’
She sounded much more cheerful now she’d got her way. When we got down she wandered round looking at everything while I made the coffee. I came back and found her holding a little ivory statue of a saint B had brought back from his last trip to Germany.
‘This is perfect,’ she said. ‘The Brancusi’s a dream, too, but this . . . He must have been in Italy.’
‘No. Hamburg, actually.’
‘Of course it’s German, you idiot. Rather early. But he must have been looking at Italian . . .’
‘Who must?’
‘The artist, for heaven’s sake. Are you blind? Look.’
She poised the carving in her damaged hand and ran her right forefinger down the line of the arm to the hand, which held a sort of flail. The face was an old man’s, contorted with pain. B I knew loved it, as Jane did, but I preferred not to look. In my mind’s ear I could hear the screams.
‘They probably beat him to death with that thing,’ I said.
‘It doesn’t matter. You know, I’m almost sure I’ve seen this in a book somewhere. Or its spit image . . .’
‘Your coffee’ll get cold.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ve found some terrific chocs.’
‘You haven’t!’
‘I’ve only eaten two so far, darling.’
When we’d had our coffee I went off to B’s exercise-room and found a bandage, lint, and some antibiotic ointment he’d brought back from America. We settled side by side on the sofa so that I could get at Jane’s hand. Her whole mood seemed to have changed, becoming sleek and purring.
‘Does he love you, Mabs?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. I’m fairly sure he likes me. I love him.’
‘Really? I mean it would be easy to persuade yourself, in the circs.’
‘Oh, I know. I’m having fun. And I like being told and shown. That was extra good wine I gave you, did you realise? I can tell now. Would you like some proper brandy?’
‘Don’t twist the knife, darling.’
‘Luxury is lovely.’
‘Is he really stupendously rich?’
‘Oh, no. It’s other people’s money mostly. I get the impression he’s had a pretty good year, but there’s never enough for what he wants to do. He gets very frustrated sometimes about not being able to move it around as fast as he wants. You know, exchange controls and things. He thought the Conservatives were going to sweep all that away when they got in.’
‘I thought that was only to stop you getting money out of England. You can be as rich as you like here. Some of these things must have set him back, Mabs. Brancusis aren’t cheap. And that little Pietà . . .’
She pointed towards the dead grey face of Christ in the picture on the wall.
‘He gets them in Germany,’ I said. ‘There’s probably a lot of things just turning up still, and antique shops not knowing what they are.’
‘I bet I can find out what that ivory is. Ouch!’
‘Sorry. One more. There. Did you wash it before you put the bandage on?’
‘Course I did.’
‘It doesn’t look very nice, darling. I hope this stuff is all right. It says burns and cuts.’
‘Slap it on, Brown Owl. I wonder how you start getting rich.’
‘In our case you become a master dyer and snap up a monastery.’
‘But now? What about him?’
‘I’ve no idea. Mrs Clarke once dropped some warning hints, though.’
‘Sounds thrilling. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Fatal.’
‘I think he really must be Bluebeard, darling.’
‘It was Sister Anne caused all the trouble, Sister Jane.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘At least two of his exes are still alive.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘But you’re right in a way. There is something dangerous about him. I realised that the first time I saw him, at Fenella’s party, you remember, when we had that stupid fratch about Penny’s dress. He’s sort of wild. Not tame. And there’s only one of him. Our rules don’t apply. I’d better wrap this a bit tight so that it stays tidy. If it starts to hurt badly you’ve got to promise to show it to a doctor.’
‘Promise. It’s a pretty civilised sort of wild, Mabs. Brancusis and things. Stamping through the forest in his jewelled collar.’
‘Spot on. That’s him. And he’s tame for me.’
‘Lucky you.’
I wound the bandage slowly, partly to make sure of getting it neat and firm, but partly to prolong the process. The old magic of touching was having its effect, softening the scar where we had once been joined. In that mood it did seem possible, almost desirable, that Jane should move in, not upstairs but down here. B could take her to galleries, and to ballet which bored me almost as much. Nobody would know it wasn’t the same girl. And when we were alone, three who were almost two . . .