Chapter Eight #2
One evening, Arabella invites me to join her and Reacher in the drawing room for a game.
Clearly the pair of them are as bored as I am.
As I enter, I’m greeted by a sea of glass eyes.
The sneering monkey in the entrance hall is only one of the many stuffed specimens at Harfold.
One wall of the drawing room is taken up with heads.
Mostly deer, but exotic animals too: a lion, a zebra, a bear.
Bats in a glass case. Two badgers, one on each side of the window.
Several birds on top of the bookcases – these, I suppose, have been installed by Reacher, which is confirmed when I recognize the great bustard from the picture on his cigarette case.
Finally, seated on a fussy velvet pillow by the hearth, there’s a bedraggled tabby cat.
Its painted eyes point in opposite directions.
Arabella follows my line of sight. ‘Miss Moppet. Hideous, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, tosh,’ says Reacher, from where he reclines on a threadbare divan. ‘She adores that kitty.’
‘I shall throw the damn thing into the fire one day,’ Arabella sniffs.
Reacher winks at me. ‘And have you seen the hare’s foot?’
I turn to where he points behind me, over the lintel of the door. Just as he said, there’s a forlorn, sandy-brown paw pinned up there. I try not to grimace. ‘Isn’t it rabbits’ feet that are meant to be lucky?’
‘Is it?’
‘No matter,’ says Arabella, ‘this one is lucky too. It’s said to come from the same dancing hare that James Lascy found on this very spot.’
Unless I’m forgetting something, this doesn’t line up with the story she told me before. ‘Now hang on a minute,’ I say, ‘you never told me he caught the creature. Why would it grant him good fortune if he cut its bloody leg off?’
Arabella shrugs. ‘Maybe it came back later, when it was ready to die. I don’t know.’
‘We must not question the authenticity of the blessed hare.’ Reacher pulls a comical face behind Arabella’s back.
‘It’s one of the possible roots of the name “Harfold”, you know,’ Arabella continues, ignoring her cousin.
‘“Har” as in “hare”. But the Middle English “harre” is also an option, from the Old English “heorra”, meaning “hinge”. We are in a sort of hinge here at the bottom of the valley. Or it could be from “here” – “this place”. Or a truncation of “half”. Then there’s the question of the “fold”.
Possibly as in something that has been folded, which again could connect to the shape of the valley.
Or the archaic “fold”, meaning simply “land” or “soil”.
Or the fold where sheep live – metaphorically a home.
So many possible combinations …’ She stands abruptly then, crossing the room to run her fingers over the taxidermied paw.
‘Well, I say it is the home of the dancing hare, and this is its lucky foot.’
The blaze of the open fire casts shadows over the lifeless zoo. It disconcerts me when she gets on to this hare stuff. I clear my throat. ‘What’re we playing, then?’
Arabella turns from the paw. ‘We haven’t decided yet.’
‘Cards?’ suggests Reacher. ‘We must have a pack somewhere.’
As he goes to hunt one out, Arabella tries to extricate a card table from beneath a stack of empty picture frames, before giving up and pouring herself a sherry.
The talk of legends seems to have been forgotten, replaced with a silence that I, at least, find comfortable.
She measures out a second drink for me without asking, then sits down in the middle of the floor, where a few feet of space are free from clutter, setting her own glass beside her, directly on the rug.
She smiles at me like a child who knows she’s doing something naughty, daring the observer to tell her off. Holds out my glass in an invitation.
Joining her on the floor, I reach over to take the drink.
Arabella’s hand twitches at the last moment and, for just a heartbeat, our fingers brush.
The tingle of unexpected contact runs up my skin.
I take a sip, watching Arabella from the corner of my eye.
Did she move her hand like that on purpose?
She gives nothing away if so, apparently engrossed at the moment with a drop of sherry she’s spilled on her skirt, close to the knee.
She takes out a hanky and dabs it, with no effect.
‘Here,’ I say, placing my glass down and leaning over to pluck at the fabric.
Stretching it taut, I wet one of my thumbs on my tongue, then press the pad to the stain.
Feel the soft give of her thigh beneath the material.
Swiftly pull back my hand. Clearing my throat, I take the handkerchief from Arabella and use it to scrub again. This time, the discolouration shifts.
‘Thank you,’ says Arabella. She presses her own thumb to the same spot, as if retracing my touch. I hear her swallow. ‘Your hands are still cold.’
‘Cold hands, warm heart, I think they say.’ If I’m right about this, I shouldn’t be encouraging it. An endless list of reasons not to. But I’m so fed up with this isolation I’ve been living in. Suddenly, a shout from a nearby room. The sound of objects falling. A torrent of swearing.
I move back from Arabella’s space, just as a red-faced Reacher comes striding into the room, his jacket askew and his hair all ruffled. He brandishes a pack of playing cards. ‘Why can’t you put things in a sensible fucking place for once, Bellsy?’ Practically spitting.
Arabella’s lips are pressed in a thin line; she’s clearly trying not to laugh.
‘What are you both on the floor for?’
I make the mistake of meeting Arabella’s eyes, and that’s it: she bursts into giggles. Not her high-pitched tinkle this time, but a full-bodied, breathless sound of genuine mirth. Then I’m laughing too.
‘Oh yes, very funny! I could have done myself real damage!’ But his protests only make the hilarity worse.
‘I’m sorry, Morry,’ Arabella gasps eventually, ‘it’s just—’
Reacher throws the cards down on the rug, between the two of us. ‘There you bloody go.’
‘Don’t wet your knickers over it.’
‘You’re always making fun of me.’ There’s a bitter edge to his voice, the hint of a genuine grievance.
Finally managing to get myself under control, I pick up the cards. ‘We’re sorry, Mr Reacher,’ I say, fighting to adopt a straight face. ‘Sit and play a game with us, sir, come on.’
‘Yes, do forgive us,’ says Arabella, putting on a hangdog expression.
At last, Reacher relents and lowers himself to the ground, before plucking up Arabella’s sherry. He takes a pointed sip.
‘A shame there aren’t four of us, or we could have played bridge,’ says Arabella, ignoring the goad. She turns to me. ‘It was Mummy’s favourite.’
‘Let’s do Old Maid,’ says Reacher. ‘You’ve always been good at that one, Bellsy.’
Arabella narrows her eyes at him. ‘As have you.’
‘I know how to play,’ I interrupt, quickly.
One of the many games Mam taught me. ‘I’ll be dealer, shall I?
’ I pick up the pack and flick through. This deck appears to be European, the face cards all graceful old-fashioned court figures in powdered wigs, pearls and velvet.
On the reverse side, a pretty pattern of roses is interrupted by spots of damp.
Small nibbles around the borders. Eventually, I fish out three of the queens: all droopy-eyed women with plump, vacant faces.
This will leave the remaining one – the queen of diamonds – as the Old Maid, the one you don’t want to end up with in your hand.
I shuffle, then deal out the remainder of the pack.
‘These bloody mice,’ says Reacher, examining a card that has been particularly maimed. ‘I wonder if Tom put that poison out in the end. Will you check with him, Miss Morgan?’
Arabella frowns at her spread. ‘Not now, Morry, she’s playing with us.’
‘Well, I didn’t mean this moment, of course.’
‘Not to worry,’ I say, ‘I can ask him later, sir.’ I haven’t ended up with many couples in my hand, but I don’t have the Old Maid, either. I slide the cards about, sorting them by number. Lay out the few pairs before me.
As the game advances, Reacher seems to forget his bad mood.
Probably helps that he has more cards down than Arabella.
Placing two red jacks on the rug, he says, ‘Isn’t it funny that you pair off the boys with the boys and the girls with the girls?
’ Raises an eyebrow. ‘I wonder what these two lovely knaves will get up to. The mind boggles.’
‘Don’t be lewd, Morry,’ says Arabella, but she’s hiding a smile behind her cards. ‘Did you know,’ she goes on, herself placing down the two black jacks, ‘in a French pack, they’re called valets? Represented by a V.’ She smiles at me, teeth flashing in the firelight.
‘Making me the lowest-ranking of the court cards, is that it?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’
‘Kneeling before the queen?’
Reacher snorts. ‘Isn’t that how you like it, Vee?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.’ I keep my eyes turned away from Arabella.
More pairs are set down. The shush of moving paper. One of my legs has gone to sleep from sitting on the floor. I try to wiggle it, then experience immediate regret as pins-and-needles shoot up to my knee. I take a card from Reacher’s hand. Reacher takes one from Arabella’s. Another match.
Down to the last few cards now. Arabella puts down her last pair, safe from becoming the Old Maid. I take one of Reacher’s cards. That gives me a couple of red sevens – I set them down. Just three unmatched cards remaining in my hand.
Reacher takes a black ace from me. Places it down on the floor with its double. Pauses. ‘Hold on a tick,’ he says, turning his cards around – not a normal part of the game. He shows the six of spades and the nine of diamonds.
‘Oh.’ I turn my own cards to reveal the six of clubs and the nine of hearts.
The final queen is missing from the pack; there is no Old Maid.
A moment’s silence, then Reacher throws his remaining cards down in disgust. ‘Just for once, I would like to be a winner.’