The annual Garden Party held in the grounds of Lord Cuckfield’s country home seemed to Charles to be the ideal opportunity to show off Amanda and he asked her to be certain to wear something appropriate.
He was aware that designer jeans had come into fashion, and that his clothes-conscious wife never seemed to dress in the same thing twice. He also knew that liberated women didn’t wear bras. But he was nevertheless shocked when he saw Amanda in a near see-through blouse and jeans so tight it looked as if she had been poured into them. Charles was genuinely horrified.
“Can’t you find something a little more... conservative?” he suggested.
“Like the things that old frump Fiona used to wear?”
Charles couldn’t think of a suitable reply. “The Garden Party will be frightfully dull,” said Charles desperately. “Perhaps I should go on my own.”
Amanda turned and looked him in the eye. “Are you ashamed of me, Charlie?”
He drove his wife silently down to the constituency and every time he glanced over at her he wanted to make an excuse to turn back. When they arrived at Lord Cuckfield’s home his worst fears were confirmed. Neither the men nor the women could take their eyes off Amanda as she strolled around the lawns devouring strawberries. Many of them would have used the word “hussy” if she hadn’t been the member’s wife.
Charles might have escaped lightly had it only been the one risqué joke Amanda told — to the bishop’s wife — or even her curt refusals to judge the baby contest or to draw the raffle; but he was not to be so lucky. The chairman of the Women’s Advisory Committee had met her match when she was introduced to the member’s wife.
“Darling,” said Charles. “I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Blenkinsop.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Amanda, ignoring Mrs. Blenkinsop’s outstretched hand.
“Mrs. Blenkinsop,” continued Charles, “was awarded the OBE for her services to the constituency.”
“OBE?” Amanda asked innocently.
Mrs. Blenkinsop drew herself up to her full height.
“Order of the British Empire,” she said.
“I’ve always wondered,” said Amanda, smiling. “My dad used to tell me it stood for ‘other buggers’ efforts.’”
“Seen the Persil anywhere?” asked Louise.
“No, I stopped washing my own pants some time ago,” replied Andrew.
“Ha, ha,” said Louise. “But if you haven’t taken them who has — two giant packets are missing?”
“The phantom Persil thief strikes again. Whatever next?” said Andrew. “The Bovril perhaps?”
“Stop making a fool of yourself and go and fish Clarissa out of the bath.”
Andrew pulled himself out of the armchair, dropped The Economist on the carpet, and ran upstairs. “Time to get out, young lady,” he said even before he reached the bathroom door. First he heard the sobbing, then when he opened the door he found Clarissa covered from head to toe in soap flakes. Her thick black curly hair was matted with them. Andrew burst out laughing but he stopped when he saw Clarissa’s knees and shins were bleeding. She held a large scrubbing brush in one hand which was covered in a mixture of soap powder and blood.
“What’s the matter, darling?” asked Andrew, kneeling on the bath mat.
“It isn’t true,” said Clarissa, not looking at him.
“What isn’t true?” asked Andrew gently.
“Look on the box,” she said, pointing at the two empty packets which were standing on the end of the bath. Andrew glanced at the familiar picture on the box of a little fair-haired girl in a white party dress.
“What isn’t true?” he repeated, still uncertain what Clarissa meant.
“It isn’t true that Persil washes whiter and can remove even the blackest spots. Two large packets and I’m still black,” she said.
Andrew had to smile which only made Clarissa cry even more. After he had washed off all the suds and gently dried her he put antiseptic ointment on the cuts and bruises.
“Why am I so black?” she asked.
“Because your mother and father were black,” replied Andrew, guiding his daughter through to her bedroom.
“Why can’t you be my father? Then I’d be white.”
“I am your father now so you don’t need to be.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because the children at school laugh at me,” Clarissa said, clutching firmly on to Andrew’s hand.
“When I was at school they used to laugh at me because I was small,” said Andrew. “They called me puny.”
“What did you do about it?” asked Clarissa.
“I trained hard and ended up as captain of the school rugby team and that made them stop laughing.”
“But by then you were big. I can’t train to be white.”
“No, I was still small, and you won’t need to train.”
“Why?” asked Clarissa, still not letting go of his hand.
“Because you’re going to be beautiful, and then all those ugly white girls will be oh so jealous.”
Clarissa was silent for some time before she spoke again.
“Promise, Daddy?”
“I promise,” he said, remaining on the edge of the bed.
“Like Frank Boyle is jealous of you?”
Andrew was startled. “What do you know about him?”
“Only what I heard Mummy say, that he’s going to be the Labour man for Edinburgh, but you’ll still beat him.”
Andrew was speechless.
“Is he going to be the Labour man, Daddy?” she asked.
“Yes, he is.”
“And will you beat him?”
“I’ll try.”
“Can I help?” Clarissa asked, a tiny smile appearing on her face.
“Of course. Now off you go to sleep,” said Andrew, getting up and drawing the curtains.
“Is he black?”
“Who?” asked Andrew.
“The nasty Frank Boyle.”
“No,” said Andrew, laughing, “he’s white.”
“Then he ought to be made to have my skin then I could have his.”
Andrew turned off the light, relieved Clarissa could no longer see his face.
Harry’s second birthday party was attended by all those two-year-olds in the vicinity of Eaton Square whom his nanny considered acceptable. Charles managed to escape from a departmental meeting accompanied by a large paint board and a red tricycle. As he parked his car in Eaton Square he spotted Fiona’s old Volvo driving away toward Sloane Square. He dismissed the coincidence although he still had plans for regaining the priceless Holbein. Harry naturally wanted to ride the tricycle round and round the dining room table. Charles sat watching his son and couldn’t help noticing that he was smaller than most of his friends. Then he remembered that great grandfather had only been five feet eight inches tall.
It was the moment after the candles had been blown out, and nanny switched the light back on, that Charles was first aware that something was missing. It was like the game children play with objects on a tray: everyone shuts his eyes, nanny takes one away, and then you all have to guess which piece it was.
It took Charles some time to realize that the missing object was his gold cigar box. He walked over to the sideboard and studied the empty space. He continued to stare at the spot where the small gold box left to him by his great-grandfather had been the previous night. Now all that was left in its place was the matching lighter.
He immediately asked Amanda if she knew where the heirloom was, but his wife seemed totally absorbed in lining up the children for a game of musical chairs. After checking carefully in the other rooms Charles went into his study and phoned the Chelsea police.