WENDY A POPE


Words from the Ether

CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

Gateleigh Manor

 

After fifty minutes of the rashest driving I’d ever done, my Invicta skidded to a halt on the gravelled drive in front of the old manor house that has been my home since birth.

      I leapt from the vehicle, took the twelve stone steps up to the main entrance two at a time, pushed open the heavy carved oak front door, rushed past Samuels, who had come to greet me (almost knocking him to the ground, I’m ashamed to say), and followed the sound of loud music, chatter and laughter, to the drawing room.

      When I reached the closed door I crouched and looked through the keyhole. Phoebe (who was a dancer on Broadway before she met my father) and some of her friends over from New York, were singing and tap-dancing to Puttin’ on the Ritz. A cut glass champagne coupe was cradled precariously in her left hand, its contents slopping around wildly. Balanced between the first two fingers of her other hand was the long, exquisitely engraved silver cigarette holder Father had bought from Liberty's for her last birthday. In it was a lilac Sobranie cocktail cigarette the same colour as the drop-waist shift dress she was wearing, its pleated skirt bouncing to life as she danced. I couldn’t help myself: I stormed into the room, my angry eyes fixed on her. She saw me and her expression immediately changed to the false overly sweet one she can switch on at will.

     'Hey, Ralphy, honey! Welcome home! Shimmy over here and join in!'

     She tossed back her freshly bleached bob, laughing, and beckoned me over to where she and her friends were dancing.

    'Don't you just love this tune? It's so easy to trot to!' She carried on laughing, happily flapping away with her fellow bob-haired ex-Follies.

      'Look, I've just come from Larkspur House, and–'

     The music stopped and she sashayed over to me, smiling. Her slim, red-nailed fingers cradled the bowl of the champagne coupe, its contents continuing to slosh around precariously even though the sashaying had now finished. She looked back over her left shoulder and shouted for someone to put on another disc. From the cabinet gramophone in the far corner of the room, the first bars of Black Bottom Stomp set the flappers off again.

     'Sorry, honey!' she yelled, 'you'll have to speak up – I can't hear you!' She put her glass on a nearby wine table and proceeded to break into a tap routine. Her eyes were half-closed as she began stretching her arms up to the right, and down to the left in time with the music. The cigarette holder was dangling from the left corner of her cherry red lips as she sidestepped, crab-like, with her friends across the floor of the drawing room. They were making a dreadful din on the freshly polished parquet as they gambolled along, slapping each other's backsides as they went. I imagine Samuels will be livid having to re-polish it; if it were down to me, I’d insist she polish it herself.

      'I said, I've just got back from Larkspur House – I've been speaking to Anna!' I shouted, trying to keep up with the frantic flappers. Making my way along the line I was tempted on more than one occasion to slap a bottom or two, myself. Phoebe and her friends continued dancing... and then it clicked.

     'Oh...' she stopped in her tracks. Rolling her eyes at no one in particular, she shooed her friends into the hallway and then ambled lazily across the room to turn off the gramophone.

      She swaggered back, brushing past me to retrieve her champagne. I grabbed her left wrist and pulled her towards me. The coupe she had in her right hand crashed to the floor. We both stood still for a moment watching its contents creep slowly between the shards of glass at our feet. I lifted my head; I could feel my face was already twisted into a mass of anger.

      'Yes, oh...' I lowered my voice, my eyes aflame. 'Why did you tell Anna that Miles isn't her father? Where the hell did you get that idea from? Well?' I let go of her arm and pushed her away with enough force to cause her to stumble a few steps backwards. I brushed my hands together, the way one does when one has touched something disgusting. Combing into position the few strands of previously slicked back hair that had flopped onto my face, I looked her in the eyes and hissed through snarled lips in as contemptuous a voice as I could muster, 'I don't know what my father sees in you, really I don't.'

      Phoebe's face, now expressionless, had drained of colour and she began tidying her dress and composing herself. The next moment, Father, as portly and ruddy faced as I’d ever seen him, stumbled in through the doorway and swayed up to me, slightly the worse for a tipple with his chums in the library, next door. His bristly, unkempt grey moustache was drooping awkwardly on one side, and the monocle he wore at his right eye was teetering on the edge of his cheek, almost falling from his face. He wavered, somewhat uncontrollably, before addressing me.

      'What's all this rumpus? We can't hear ourselves think, next door,' he said, in his soft Irish lilt. 'You need to calm down, son. I haven't the remotest idea what my dear little wife's been up to now, but…' he paused, looking first at me, and then at Phoebe. Shaking his head and waving his right forefinger at me, he begged me to leave any problem there was, for him to sort out. 'After all, son, that little firecracker needs careful handling, you know.' He slapped his left hand on my shoulder to steady himself. 'Now, I suggest you run along and get some sleep. It'll all seem much better after some sleep – go on, run along!' He spun me around and pointed me in the direction of the door. 'Go on, see you in the morning – then you can tell me all about the lovely new orders you got for the business on your trip. Oh, and welcome home!' He turned away from me, falling to the ground with a loud thud to chase his monocle, which, having just tumbled from his face, was zigzagging at quite a pace across the drawing room floor. I had no option but to get down on my knees and follow him.

     'But Father!' I whispered, loudly, 'I need to know what happened between Phoebe and Anna, because something did! Anna was in quite a state when I saw her earlier this evening, and I'm not prepared to stand by and watch her get upset without knowing why!' Otherwise engaged tracking his monocle, it was obvious he was not listening. 'Oh, what's the use! You're right, it's probably best I go now... but tell that vicious piece of venom masquerading as your wife that I expect a full explanation from her first thing in the morning. No excuses!' I rose to my feet. 'And don't forget. Good night!' I left the drawing room, slamming the door behind me.

      Immediately the door closed, I heard Father’s raucous bellow: his precious wife had tap-danced onto his monocle – over which he had just placed his hand.

 

                                                                                   ***

 

I rose at half-past six, after a turbulent night's sleep. I put on my brown and gold Paisley silk dressing gown, lit a cigarette and walked over to the bedroom window. I spent a while watching three buzzards circling high above the immaculately manicured knot garden beneath the window. I studied them, while pondering the previous day's events. One of the birds was slightly smaller than the other two: a breeding pair teaching their chick to fly, I supposed. I wished I could be up there with them looking down on the woes of the world, instead of being a part of it all.

      My thoughts were fractured by a knock at the door; I knew who it was. Ambling back to the bed, I slid my feet into the brown leather carpet slippers standing guard beneath it and smoothed my hair into its pre-sleep state.

      'Ralphy? Ralphy, are you decent? It's me.' Phoebe's usually jarring voice was almost a whisper and sounded distinctly diffident. I couldn’t face her at that moment and chose to ignore her; the door was locked anyway. I went back to the window and continued looking out across the garden trying to imagine what she could possibly be up to: I was getting nowhere. The door handle was being rattled, impatiently.

      'I know you're in there, honey. I can smell your cigarette. Let me in.'

      Damn! Why didn’t I think to put the wretched thing out? Never mind; she’d have smelled it long before she reached the room, anyway. I shuffled towards the door, securing the belt of my dressing gown on the way, and fetched the key from the top of the wardrobe. I decided to let her stew for a minute before unlocking the door.

      'C'mon! I ain't got all day!' The coyness in her voice had disappeared. In its place was the strong New York cadence I knew so well – and had grown to despise. She started petulantly tapping out a rhythm with her foot, as though she were about to launch into one of the showstoppers she knew by heart. I walked to the door unhurriedly and opened it, taking a step back to let her in the room.

      'About time. A girl could die of boredom out there. So,' she said, eyeing me up and down with a wry grin, and twirling a strand of her bleached hair teasingly round her forefinger. 'You want to know what I know about Ellen, or what?' Slumping down on the edge of my bed, she sat on her hands and began swinging her legs. Her probing blue eyes darted around a room of Gateleigh Manor I knew she’d never been in before, taking in every detail: the fine leaf-motif wallpaper; the bright hand-painted floral tiles surrounding the fireplace; the stucco coving with its linear symmetry; and the octagonal opaque glass uplighter suspended from the ceiling by four brass chains. 'Nice décor. I approve. Well? How much d'ya want to know?'

      'Oh, Phoebe...' I sauntered over to my writing desk under the window, the soles of my slippers scuffing along the parquet.

      I lifted the chair from behind the desk and spun it round on one of its legs, to face her. Swinging my right leg over its seat, and dropping my chin onto my arms, which I’d rested on top of the chair's back, I stared at the Circe of Gateleigh Manor, with contempt.

      'Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe. I'm not interested in what you know about Ellen; what I really want to know is what drives you? Why do you feel the constant need to hurt people?' I fetched another cigarette, lit it, and moved to the red leather armchair beside the fireplace on the other side of the room. Exasperated without having heard anything at all from her, I drew deeply on the cigarette and began blowing smoke rings that rose in misshapen halos above my head, all the time keeping my gaze firmly fixed on my visitor.

      'You got me all wrong, Ralphy,' she sighed. 'I just–' That’s it. I was sick of her calling me that. I cut short the inevitable excuse.

      'That's another thing. Ever since you arrived here, you've called me 'Ralphy' or 'Honey'. Why? My name's Ralph: not Ralphy; not Honey.' I waved my right hand contemptuously, batting away an imaginary bothersome fly. 'Anyway, I digress; please, do go on – and this had better be good.' I changed my mind about the cigarette and extinguished what remained of it, in the black marble ashtray on the wine table beside me. I leaned back into the chair and folded my arms, all the time keeping my eyes firmly fixed on hers.

      She stood up from the bed, straightened the red flowery satin dress she was wearing – which she’d presumably selected with the intention of charming me – and began pacing the room slowly, her hands firmly on her hips.

      'Okay. First, you got to understand that where I come from, well, it was kind of hard for me growin' up. I always wanted to make it big, y'see, be in the middle of everythin': for people to like me – no, love me.' She walked over to the window behind the desk. 'That never happened 'til I was about seventeen and I got into stage school. I wasn't a bright kid, y'know? But I could dance and sing, so I figured I’d do that.' She looked dreamily to the ceiling for a moment. 'I thought maybe I could even be an actress... I wanted to try and learn to talk better, too, improve myself, y'know? Give myself a real chance. I wanted to be on the stage, Ralphy, I wanted it so bad!'

      She went back to the window watching Father walk around the knot garden with Fin, and his beloved Irish setters, Oscar and Isola, pinching out rogue shoots of box as he went. I looked over at her and heaved a sigh of exasperation.

      'Well, I'm guessing manners and empathy weren't on the curriculum at stage school.'

      She spun round and marched over to me, arms by her sides and fists clenched like a child about to throw a tantrum. Then, right on cue, she stamped her left foot.

      'Hey, that ain't nice. I got manners – and if I knew what empathy was, I reckon I got that, too! Why you bein' so mean to me? Just 'cause you're cleverer with words than me don't make you a better person than me, y'know! Look, I only came here to say sorry like Cal told me to and tell you about that stuff I said to your precious Anna; but now I don't give a damn!' Her outburst was followed by a flood of crocodile tears; yes, she would undoubtedly have made a great actress. 'Look! I love your pa, and I love–' Without finishing her sentence she ran from the room, leaving the door ajar. I stepped into the hallway and slowly applauded her acting ability.

      Once she was out of sight, I closed and locked the bedroom door and went to the bathroom to run a bath. I watched the water in the sunken tub rise and slowly conceal the ochre stains on the enamel beneath the taps. When the bath was full I returned to the bedroom, whistling a made-up tune. I opened the wardrobe doors to select my clothes for the day: a pair of cream linen trousers, a thin black leather belt, a pale green polo shirt, a cream, red and green Fair Isle sleeveless pullover, and a pair of thin white cotton socks. I draped the ensemble over the mahogany valet next to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Samuels usually performs these tasks, but I wanted to ready myself at leisure: I sensed the day was going to be a long one.

 

                                                                                   ***

 

I’d finished eating breakfast and was on my second cup of coffee. While I was reading the first edition of the daily newspaper, Izzy decided to rest her slavering ginger muzzle on my knee, leaving a cold wet patch. I stroked her forehead before lightly tapping her playfully on the nose and shooing her away. She scuttled over to Father, who had just appeared from behind the door of the breakfast room, looked dolefully up at him and began whining. He stroked her head and pointed to a pile of blankets in a wicker basket underneath the window seat.

      'Go to your bed, Izzy, go on; bed!'

      The hound sloped off to the basket, pirouetting on the blankets before flopping down and dropping her chin over her crossed front paws. Without moving her head, she raised her eyes and directed a pitiful gaze across the room to Father for his approval.

      'Good girl, Izzy! Good girl! Morning, son!'

      'Morning, Father. I see they've arrested Al Capone and his bodyguard. Imagine, concealing deadly weapons. Who'd have thought it.'

      'Well, you play with fire, son... Actually, there's been quite a lot going on over the pond while you were living it up in Europe.'

      'I know, I took the newspaper every other day.' I carried on reading, choosing to disregard the old chap for the moment.

      'So, tell me, son,' he said, rubbing his chubby hands together, excitedly. 'Did you clever chaps manage to get us some new business? I hope so because our coffers need a bit of a boost.' He closed the door and walked over to the breakfast table, stopping on the way to pour himself a coffee from the pot I’d made earlier.

      'I have some good news, yes; but it means we're going to be very busy – extremely busy, in fact. We'll need to order at least ten times our usual amount of paper from the mill next month just to fulfil the commission order we managed to get. Unfortunately, it may mean us having to put current orders on the back burner and not taking–'.

      'Whoa! Hold on there, son. Did you say the order? You only managed to get one paltry order?' He wasn’t impressed. 'Ralph, you might have just turned twenty-five but I know you've got the business head of a much older man and knowing that,' he mopped his brow with the back of his hand and shook his head. 'Well, son, you've let me down – you really have. I expected better from you than just one order.'

      'Just the one order, yes – but what an order!' I laughed, folding the newspaper and slamming it down on the table, startling Izzy into a defensive bark. I moved to one of the four armchairs by the open fire and patted the seat of the one to my left. 'Come here and I'll tell you all about it.'

      Father looked askance as he came and sat next to me.

      'This had better be good, son.'

      I began explaining myself.

      'Well, we had a fair bit left over from the generous expenses budget you kindly gave us – for which, by the way, thank you very much – so Fred and I decided to treat ourselves on the remaining three days we had in the South of France. We managed to get a twin room at the largest, most exclusive hotel in Nice – on the Promenade des Anglais – facing the sea. We had a private balcony overlooking the Med and took our breakfast there each morning.'

      'How charming for you both,' he jibed. 'The order?'

    'I'm coming to that. Anyway, I had a little chat with the hotel's manager on our second morning there and after finding out what we do to earn a crust, he told us they were planning to update each of the one-hundred or so rooms and suites over the coming twelve months. Then he asked if we'd be interested in having a look at the rooms and submitting a quote to create bespoke hand-printed paper for all of them. They don't want every wall in every room to be papered: their design team’s come up with the idea of framing large areas of wall with bespoke pattern.'

      Father was fiddling with the handle of his coffee cup and looking decidedly puzzled.

      'I'll explain.'

      'You'd better, son, because at the moment I've not a clue what you're talking about.'

    'What they're after in each room are a few large, white-framed panels of bespoke printed paper that can be hung behind the bedheads, in door panels, and on one or two feature walls. Rather like the more affluent French households did centuries ago, when they hung large panels of hand-painted papers on the walls of their homes – the precursor to the wallpaper we have today, if you will. In frames, it means they can move them around and effectively redecorate each year without having to spend so much money.'

      'How do you know they used to do that over there? I didn't know they did that.'

     'You mean to say, despite learning your trade with Morris & Co, and despite owning your own wallpaper business, you know nothing of the history of your product? Tut, tut old boy! It's lucky I do, then, isn’t it!'

   'Seriously son, it doesn't sound great for us financially; I mean, I'd much rather you'd persuaded them to have all the walls papered, not odd bits here and there. Still, it's better than nothing, I suppose.' He stood up and skulked over to the breakfast table, blowing his nose ferociously enough to send his monocle falling to the floor and rolling under the table.

      'Don't look so glum; this order should boost the company's coffers by, oh, at least three-and-a-half thousand pounds.' I looked across the room at Father, whose face had slightly reddened after the exertion of retrieving his monocle from underneath the table. I wondered if I should be worried... apparently not: my message had been received loud and clear. He began grinning and rubbing his hands together again with glee.

      'How – how much, did you say?'

      'Around three-and-a-half thousand pounds – possibly a tad more.'

      'Feck, son! That's very nearly the whole of last year's turnover. I knew you could do it – come here!' He was beaming. I walked over to where he was standing and received such a slap on the back I was very nearly winded.

      'It wasn't only me, Father. Fred had to produce some on-the-spot rough design sketches for the hotel's owner, who luckily fell in love with his ideas there and then. So, please, the next time you see him–'

    'The next time? Drag him away from his work and get him here now – this calls for a celebration! Where's my dear little wife?' He shuffled across the room, opened the door and shouted into the hallway. 'Phoebe! Can you hear me? Come in here, we've some great news!' He returned to his chair in front of the fire. 'Of course, you know this means we'll have to invite the owner over here for a meal and whatnot. I'll get Phoebes to plan it all. I think I need to thank the gentleman for his business, personally.'

      'It's a woman.'

      'What is?' He looked about the room, puzzled.

     'The owner of the hotel is a woman. A middle-aged woman. I'd say she was in her early fifties: Madame Marcelline Poirier.' I leaned over and whispered, 'and she's quite the businesswoman.'

      'I see.' Father scrunched up his face to stop his errant monocle from leaving its rightful place, as it had earlier. 'I don't think I've ever done business with a woman, let alone a French one. Does she, uh... does she speak any English?'

      'Not a word.'

      'Hmm?'

      'Oh, for goodness' sake, Father. She's a businesswoman; of course she speaks English! And Italian and German, too.'

      Phoebe's clattering footsteps echoed down the hall announcing her arrival. We rose from our chairs as she bounced into the breakfast room, Father holding his arms out to embrace her.

      'Ah, here's my little cherub.'

      'What is it, sweetie?' Phoebe threw a disdainful look in my direction, intentionally brushing into me quite hard on her way to Father. 'Oh. Hi Ralph.' She cupped her hands over Father’s left shoulder and raised her left foot behind her, positioned as though about to begin an Argentine tango. As she raised it the long fringe on the hem of her dress rose to reveal the well-toned calf of her right leg.

      'So, what's the good news?' Her raised foot returned to stand next to its partner.

     'Ralph and Freddie have only managed to get us a contract with the best hotel in Nice! It might mean us having to go over there every so often to update the owner with progress. I mean, with a contract like that, personal attention's really important, and who knows, it might lead to repeat business – and even recommendations,' he smiled, skimming the end of her nose with his forefinger.

      'I'm very happy for you both,' she acknowledged, to Father alone. It was all she could do to be civil to me but she knew how much it meant to the old boy and so, reluctantly, she conceded to her better judgement and forced a weak smile. 'Well done, Ralph. Cal, do you want me to get Freddie for you? I guess you shouldn't leave him out.'

      'Well, at first I wanted him here right now but thinking about it, I shouldn't tear the lad away from his work. Invite him here for afternoon drinks, say, four o'clock-ish. Thank you, sweetness.' He planted a wet kiss on her cheek. She winced.

      'Okay, honey. Consider it done.' She looked over her left shoulder on her way to the door and winked at me; what on Earth is she up to?

 

                                                                                ***

 

After the drinks – during which Phoebe behaved uncharacteristically pleasantly – I retired to my quarters and began thinking about Anna and our future together. I rather wished Phoebe was not in our lives but unfortunately, she is – and I know full well she’ll continue to create havoc wherever her kitten heels take her.

      Anna had told me the previous week that Phoebe had visited her a few times while I was away, making unkind remarks about how holier-than-thou she thought Anna was, and how I deserved better. I knew Phoebe was up to no good and judging by her recent conduct, whatever it was seemed to involve me. I made the decision to forget about what she’d said and done in the past, and to not imagine what she might be planning in the future. Whatever her plans are, I’m sure they’ll cause ripples throughout both my family, and Anna's.

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