Chapter Nine #2
Parting ways with our employers, Tom, Mrs Allen and I head into the church garden.
We visit a patch of bygone Allens first of all.
Tom’s people have been living and dying in Harfold village for almost as long as the Lascys, it seems. He points out his grandparents, parents, a favourite spinster aunt.
George. The former churchwarden’s resting place has been kept impeccably tidy, with fresh flowers already laid out when we reach it.
‘George must have been a pillar of the community,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, he was very well liked,’ Tom agrees. ‘He knew everyone. Always had time for a chat.’ He nods at the headstone, an elaborate affair that stands out from the surrounding Allen graves. ‘Lord Lascy paid for that, in George’s memory.’
Whatever the rumours, George’s death had clearly been generally accepted as an accident rather than a suicide, since he’s buried here on church ground. I wonder if Henry Lascy’s generous financial assistance greased the way for that ruling – it certainly couldn’t have hurt matters.
‘Are your family here too, Mrs Allen?’ I ask, turning to her.
She’s in a festive mood today, cheeks rosy as she smiles at me. ‘I’m from Marlborough way. Cherhill, if you know it?’
‘We met at the Marlborough Mop, didn’t we, Nora?
’ Tom adds. ‘Lord Lascy had me along with him to help pick out a new housekeeper. Well, when I saw Nora, I thought there’s a woman I wouldn’t mind talking to every day.
’ He winks at her. ‘Mind you, I was too twisted up with nerves to speak one pip for the first half-year she worked here.’
Mrs Allen chuckles. ‘I thought he hated me.’
‘Well, I worked up the courage eventually, didn’t I?’
‘And you’ve never shut up a day since,’ she retorts, batting him playfully on the shoulder.
After Tom’s family, we move on to the Lascys, their headstones far more ornate.
I seek out the ones from this century: Arabella’s parents, Henry and Caroline (1911); then her brothers Reginald (1914), Harold (1917), Stephen (1920), and Charles (1923).
A bare patch of earth to one side, waiting hungrily to one day receive Arabella and Reacher.
Laid out like this, it gives me a shiver.
Almost easy to believe the talk of curses.
We head back up to the manor via the main road, the fields far too boggy for our Sunday best. ‘You’ve both worked for the Lascys a long time, haven’t you?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes,’ says Tom, rubbing his chin. ‘That must have been about 1898 you came here, weren’t it, Nora? And I’ve been at the house since ’95 myself.’
‘You’ve never thought of leaving, then? Exploring the country a bit?’ It’s not usual for servants to stay on as live-ins after they marry: most people want to put down roots and start a family of their own.
Tom shakes his head. ‘Where would I go? This is my life.’ A pull in Mrs Allen’s face.
I remember what she said on Guy Fawkes Day, about moving nearer to Tom’s brother’s widow and children.
Seems she doesn’t quite share Tom’s loyalty to Harfold.
‘Besides,’ Tom goes on, ‘this is where George is buried. I can’t go off and abandon him. ’
Behind his back, Mrs Allen looks at her husband with something like pity.
I’d been hoping to catch Arabella alone back at the manor, but Reacher has other plans, keeping his cousin to himself for a round of duets on the piano, followed by an intense match of chess.
Later, we sit down to dinner. As it’s a special occasion, Tom and Mrs Allen join us at the dining table, which Mrs Allen has been allowed to clear fully for once, though we still can’t quite get our feet under due to a number of boxes that are stored beneath it.
There’s a great big goose, its skin crisp and shining with oil as Tom serves up, and mounds of roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots, sprouts and stewed apples from the garden. Liberal lashings of wine.
Then comes the Christmas pudding, and we put out the lights as Tom sets fire to a spoonful of brandy, all cooing at the blue flames.
Mrs Allen has hidden silver charms throughout, a tradition to predict what awaits us in the year ahead.
I find an old tuppence in my portion – a sign of coming riches, Arabella interprets.
Tom receives an anchor (safety), Mrs Allen a boot (a journey) and Reacher a button (continued bachelorhood).
‘There’s a surprise!’ Reacher pouts. ‘Tell you what, Nora, can I share yours instead? I could use a holiday. Shall we go and seek out exotic birds somewhere warm? I have been thinking of Southern Rhodesia, or Brazil.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ Mrs Allen agrees.
‘Although I may need to borrow Miss Morgan’s tuppence to finance the trip.’
‘You can’t just pass your fortune on to another person,’ says Arabella, still searching her helping for a glint of silver.
‘Why not?’ asks Reacher. He’s already in the middle of accepting Mrs Allen’s boot.
But Arabella’s attention is on her own bowl again: no amount of mashing at the chunks of pudding will reveal a charm. She’s managed to pick a piece with nothing in it. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ she says. ‘No future for me, then.’
‘Or maybe you get to decide your own,’ I suggest lightly.
She flicks me a glance. Calculation behind her eyes, as if summing something up.
‘I’m keeping this tuppence, though,’ I add, praying no one else can see the flush of heat that’s just come over me.
To end the meal, we have a round of cheeses, biscuits and pickles.
By now, we’re all glowing merrily. Swapping dirty stories.
Mrs Allen wearing Reacher’s spectacles for whatever reason.
Tom plants a kiss on her chin and they both giggle like lovers half their age.
Mutton vomits in the corner from too much goose.
‘All good parties end in someone puking,’ laughs Reacher.
Finally, it’s time to turn in for the night. Tom and Mrs Allen wish us sweet dreams. They practically have to drag Mutton away – he’s nowhere near ready for the jollity to end.
The rest of us head upstairs. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but Reacher is staggering drunk.
Takes a deal of coaxing to get up each step, me in front holding the candlestick, Arabella behind, nudging him on.
Halfway up, he knocks over a pile of newspapers.
They avalanche down the staircase, sending a fat brown spider scurrying away.
Reacher sniggers, then puts a finger to his lips and shushes, as if he doesn’t want us to tell what he’s done.
‘You should move these,’ I say to Arabella. ‘Someone will break their neck, one of these days.’
‘Death by tabloid,’ she replies. ‘That would make a headline.’
‘I’m serious. Maybe it can be your New Year’s resolution, how about that? Get the house in order a bit. I don’t mind helping.’
But Arabella doesn’t look convinced. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says. ‘Come on, Morry, you lump, get moving or I’ll kick you the rest of the way.’
‘Bellsy,’ moans Reacher, flailing around with one hand until he catches her by the wrist. ‘My dear, dear Bellsy. My favourite Bellsy. You’re all that’s left, aren’t you?’ Tears glitter at the corners of his eyes, magnified by his spectacles. ‘Then that will be it.’
Arabella just pats his hand in response.
Reacher resumes his ascent, and we all make it to the landing without any casualties, where we help Reacher safely into his bedroom.
He makes a wavering line first to Finchley’s cage, stooping to kiss the bars with a wet smack, then falls face-first on to his bed, landing at a diagonal with his feet sticking out into space.
Looks as though he’ll be sleeping deeply tonight.
Arabella and I continue along the landing in silence, before turning into the corridor that houses our two rooms. Tension is crackling in the air – or perhaps just in my skin. At my door, I face Arabella. Try to swallow. Offer her the candle. ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you in the morning, shall I?’
‘Yes,’ she says. Takes the light, avoiding contact with my fingers.
Disappointment washes cold over me. I’d thought after the gloves, after what had been said on the front step this morning …
But no. That’s fine. At least now I know where I stand.
And next time she tries anything with me, I’ll just ignore it.
She can’t say I didn’t give her fair warning.
‘All right then,’ I say, taking hold of my doorknob and starting to turn it.
‘Wait.’ My breath catches as she puts a hand to my elbow, just brushing the wool of my jumper. ‘May I show you something?’
It’s the usual chaos in her bedroom. Discarded threads tangle together in a web of gaudy colours.
Arabella places the candle on a stack of hat boxes.
She’s still in her grey church suit, but she casts the jacket off now, throwing it haphazardly on an armchair that’s already covered in rumpled clothing.
The cream silk of her blouse seems to shine in the gloom.
Crossing the space, she rummages around on her overcrowded shelves, careless of several dislodged items that fall to the floor.
‘Here you go,’ she says at last, pulling out a scrap of cloth.
I move closer to look, taking it from her when she indicates I should. It’s another of her needlepoint pictures – me, of course. In this one, I’m up a ladder, viewed from behind as I reach to fill a bird feeder. It must be from the other week, when I invited Peggy and Ellen into the gardens.
‘I was too cross to give this to you before,’ she says, but I know she means jealous.
‘Anyway, I wanted to apologize. It isn’t any of my business with whom you choose to spend your time.
You are entitled to have other … friends.
’ The pause ringing with implications. She toys with her necklace, anxious for my reply. Finds the chipped bead.
‘Look, I might as well tell you: I only did it to get back at you.’
The twitch of a smile; she’s pleased to hear this. ‘Oh?’