Last Act of All Page 12

  But that! He could blot out the memory of his private fear, but not of his public humiliation. He suspected mockery even in Sharon’s timid servility, and down in the village they would be sniggering. It was intolerable.

  He would have the last word, of course, when Harry’s hurricane of change blew their village apart, and there would be plenty who would come to beg him to alter his course. He would enjoy that, especially when he could tell them he didn’t give a monkey’s. That was another of Harry’s gifts.

  So it was the least he could do, to repay Harry, so to speak; take him away from the limitations imposed by small screens, small budgets, small minds.

  Really, they should all be grateful for the chance to lay their sacrifices on so glorious an altar. Instead, they made him their victim.

  The cloud descended on his brow again.

  *

  Dora Wagstaff, her arms full of dirty clothes, whisked down the kitchen passage to the utility room. She was keeping herself very busy this morning; it was the only response to trouble that she knew. If you were scrubbing collars caked with farm grime, you didn’t have a hand free for wiping away tears.

  It just wasn’t fair. After all, she’d never wanted much. There were so many discontented people in the world; you’d only to put on the telly to see them moaning about all the things they wanted that they hadn’t got.

  She’d always been a contented woman — and grateful, too. She’d never forgotten to say thank-you, in the prayers she said every night, kneeling like a child at the end of her bed; thank-you for George and the kids and this place where she’d lived all her married life. Oh, there had been day-to-day problems, of course, like Sally kicking up her heels a bit, and the longer-term worry about Jim, who was a born farmer if ever there was one, with no promise of a farm he could call his own.

  But she’d never expected life to be plain sailing. You couldn’t be married to a farmer for twenty-five years without getting used to ups and downs. What she’d never expected was this — this sudden catastrophe that had overtaken them.

  They weren’t the sort of people dramatic things happened to. They were ordinary folk; illness and sudden death were the only catastrophes they knew. They had no way of dealing with this, no words for talking about what it was doing to them. You couldn’t say, ‘My heart is breaking,’ even if that was true. It wasn’t the sort of thing they said.

  She and George had never really needed to talk much, except about the comfortable, everyday things. They had understood each other wordlessly for years, and now, when he had closed his mind against her, shut in with his own misery, there were no familiar habits of speech to provide a bridge. They were each alone with their demons, and she felt separate from him in a way she had never been since the day the vicar had pronounced them man and wife, one flesh.

  There was fear about the future, of course, but she was almost more frightened about what was going on in his darkened mind, fearful what unknown monsters might lurk in the depths she had never considered him to possess.

  She thought she had the house to herself, and the figure, dark against the light from the window and seated by the old wooden work-table, gave her such a fright that she jumped and gasped aloud.

  ‘Oh! George Wagstaff, what a start you gave me, sitting there! I thought you’d gone out.’

  He was busy at something; she came round behind him and saw what he was doing. Meticulously, with oil, a rag and a rod, he was cleaning a shotgun.

  ‘George!’ She had not meant that her alarm should show in her voice, but she was no actress. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  ‘What does it look as if I’m doing?’ His reply was brusque, but he looked up and read the consternation in her face. ‘I’ve been out shooting rabbits, you stupid woman,’ he said, with exasperated affection. ‘They’re hanging in the larder, if you don’t believe me. You didn’t think I’d be puddinghead enough to go out after Fielding with my own gun?’

  ‘Course I didn’t. Don’t be daft,’ she said, but her voice wobbled, and dumping the pile of laundry in her arms on to the table, she sat down beside him. ‘Oh my dear, what are we going to do?’ Her voice was thick with tears.

  He set down the little oil bottle carefully and stretched out his hard, cracked farmer’s hand to cover hers, attempting comfort where there was none.

  ‘I don’t know, lass.’

  ‘Surely he can’t do this to us – surely we must have some rights—’

  He shook his grizzled pate. ‘I always knew we hadn’t much safeguard. Maybe I should have taken it up with Radley, but it didn’t matter then. Oh, he’s got his faults, same as everyone, but he’d never have let us down this way.’

  She tried not to cry, but the tears would come, and she tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand, like a child.

  ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, taking a red spotted handkerchief out of his back pocket.

  It must be, she knew, a particular agony for a man as old-fashioned as George to watch helplessly while his woman suffered, and all the talking in the world wasn’t going to change anything. She mopped her eyes briskly, then viewed the handkerchief with distaste. ‘Just look at this! It’s filthy, George. With a pile of clean ones in your chest of drawers, how you can’t remember to change them…’

  Fussing, she got to her feet, and, adding the handkerchief to the pile, picked up the laundry and the reins of her household once more.

  In a voice that shook with intensity of feeling, he promised, ‘I’ll — I’ll think of something, Dora. Don’t you worry. I’ll sort it out somehow.’

  The smile she gave him was one of perfect trust, because she knew that was what he needed just then. Perhaps she wouldn’t make such a bad actress after all.

  *

  It was the first time Helena had been to Radnesfield House since the day she left it, in such high emotion, almost a year ago.

  Nothing had changed. Only a broken and scorched kitchen chair, and some charred remnants of cloth on the lawn at the front suggested that anything at all had taken place in the intervening time.

  It was Sharon who answered when she rang the bell, Sharon looking awkward at seeing her one-time mistress on the doorstep.

  Helena was brisk. ‘Good morning, Sharon. I’ve come to see Mr Fielding.’ She stepped inside as she spoke.

  The girl looked flustered. ‘Yes — yes, of course, Mrs Field — er — Mrs Radley. I’ll tell him you want to see him, like, shall I?’

  ‘Don’t bother, Sharon. Is he in the study? I’ll go myself.’ She walked swiftly across to the door, tapped on it, and without waiting for an answer, walked in.

  Slumped in his chair, Neville was looking black, but when he saw Helena in the doorway, a slow and unpleasant smile crossed his face.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Nella!’ he drawled. ‘And how’s the radiant bride?’

  He got to his feet, and she submitted to his impudent kiss on the cheek without comment.

  ‘Do you know,’ he went on jovially, ‘I had a presentiment that I might be having a visit from you today? I don’t know what it is about the country air. Somehow it seems to sharpen my intuition.’

  Helena sat down. She had known Neville would try to provoke her, and she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had succeeded.

  ‘I should think you’ll be having a steady stream of visitors this weekend, Neville. You’ve managed to upset an awful lot of people.’

  It was clear this cheered him up enormously. His eyes were sparkling as he said, with mock seriousness, ‘I know. Isn’t it dreadful? The phone is positively red-hot this morning. Even the vicar seems awfully cross with me for some reason. But you would understand, Nella darling. We must all make sacrifices for the sake of Art.’

  She drew a steadying breath. ‘As you no doubt realize, after the blunt message you got last night, feeling is running high. There will be organized opposition, objections made to the planning authorities…’

  A slow, mournful shake
of the head. ‘How sad for them! The planners have been itching to get their hands on Radnesfield for years. Edward is an economic moron; if he’d played his cards right, he could have got twenty times the figure he got from me.’

  ‘Don’t be rude about Edward to me, please. He cares about the local community, which you plainly don’t. Be careful, Neville, I warn you. There are people out there who really hate you.’

  ‘Oh, I know! Isn’t it stimulating? Whoever would have dreamed these bucolic sons of toil could be stirred to such frenzied emotion? George Wagstaff, even—’ He held up his hands in a Harry gesture.

  Well, she had done her best for Radnesfield, and it had proved, as she had thought, useless. With a mental shrug, she moved on.

  ‘Neville, you know that I have a maintenance order against you for Stephanie.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’ The reply was tetchy, but at least more sober.

  ‘I know what you’ll say about schooling — all the old “never-did-me-any-harm” arguments—’

  ‘I certainly don’t want a daughter who’s a silly little rich bitch.’

  She forced herself to reply calmly. ‘Neither do I, but I don’t think that’s a problem. Of course Darnley Hall is expensive, but you were all in favour of it, remember? I’m not bothered about the frills, I’m talking about her friends and above all her security. She had an appalling time last summer; I don’t suppose you noticed, but she lost almost a stone in weight, and I thought that anorexia would be the next thing. But she’s happy and confident at Darnley Hall, and that’s what allows her to cope with the sort of mess we’ve inflicted on her. Take it away from her now, and you could produce lifelong damage.’

  Neville scowled. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a problem. Quite frankly, Helena, it’s a hell of a lot of money, and I need every penny to put into this new project. It’s a fantastic opportunity — to take Harry on to the broad screen, where he can become a world star. I’ve got a Hollywood producer right on the line, provided I can raise enough capital to put up my share. And I will raise it, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  He had forgotten grievance in his enthusiasm. ‘It will be a bit tight for the first bit, Nella, but after that — well, Harry Bradman will be up there with the greats, and the sky’s the limit.’

  ‘Don’t you mean Neville Fielding?’ she could not resist interjecting.

  He checked his flow, shaking his head as if irritated by some small insect. ‘Harry, Neville, same thing,’ he said impatiently. ‘But when I make it, I promise you that you and Stephie won’t be forgotten in the pay-off.’

  ‘When you make it? In — what? Two, three years? We have Stephanie’s school career to think of. In two years, she has major exams. We can’t muck about with her education. I’m sorry, but if you won’t do it willingly, I’m going to get Henry Stanton to invoke the law. I’ve got that maintenance order, and you’ll be forced to pay it.’

  His face, grew dark once more. ‘Same old thing — you always let me down when it came to the point, didn’t you? Thank god I’m free of you — I can’t think why I didn’t break up that dismal farce of a marriage years ago.

  ‘You could never understand Harry’s stature, could you? I really think you were jealous of him, in some extraordinary, perverted way. And now you’re trying to contain a character that’s bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than petty little Chris Dyer, who’s started taking refuge in standards of bourgeois morality which he simply cannot see don’t apply.

  ‘But I’ve taken care of you all. I’ve found the smartest lawyer in the business, and stuffy Stanton can do his worst. I’m about to sign a deed creating the Harry Bradman Trust, and I won’t even own the suit I stand up in. But Harry will lend it to me — he always was generous to his friends.’

  Helena stood up, feeling sick at heart. ‘Neville, I think you’ve gone mad.’

  That was the trigger. ‘Mad?’ he yelled suddenly. ‘How dare you, you stupid, superficial woman, with your small-town husband and your small-town mind!’

  Her resolve crumbled. At last, she felt herself emotionally confident enough to shout back.

  ‘Don’t dare talk to me like that! Small-town mind? That’s better than no mind at all. You’re nothing but a vacuum, and Harry Bradman moved in to take over the empty space inside.

  ‘I will fight you, not because I want anything for myself — I never have, as you know — but for Stephanie. She loves her pony, that you bought her. She loves her expensive school, where you sent her. You bought her off, because she wasn’t a toy you cared to play with any more. I won’t stand by and see her sacrificed to your monumental selfishness.’

  For a moment he looked dangerous, then broke, instead, into ironic applause. ‘Oh bravo, Nella! Perhaps you should have done that more often. Such wonderful, crashing emotions! You almost make me regret that I let you go. There is something so awfully trivial about Lilian.’

  ‘Given the banality of your own mind, I don’t know how you can tell. You seem to me perfectly matched — a case of shallow calling to shallow. Oh, and one other point. You didn’t let me go. I went.

  ‘Just let me say this finally, Neville. If there is anything I can do to ensure my daughter’s security, I shan’t scruple to do it — up to and including murdering you with my own bare hands!’

  She flung open the door as she spoke, theatrical instinct telling her that she could hope for no better exit line. Neville, well pleased with the effect of his provocation, threw back his head and laughed, as she slammed the door on the maddening sound.

  The movement at the back of the hall caught her eye: Sharon, whisking out of sight below stairs.

  With her temper cooling as rapidly as it had flared up, Helena sighed ruefully. That would be all round the village by nightfall, without a doubt.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘He can’t do that — he can’t!’ Stephanie was a child again, tears pouring down her cheeks in a tempest of reaction to the unfairness of life. ‘Mummy, you’ve got to stop him! I’ll die if he sells Angel and makes me leave Darnley Hall.’

  She cast herself on to the sofa. Helena, grim-faced, went to put her arm round her.

  ‘We’ll certainly do everything we can. I’ll phone the lawyer first thing on Monday, but according to your father that won’t do any good. He may be bluffing, but I’m afraid you may just have to be brave, Stephanie. Worse things happen to lots of people.’

  Stephanie sat up, her face blotchy and her lips quivering. ‘For heavens’ sake, I realize that! And if things had gone really wrong and there wasn’t any money, I wouldn’t moan. But he’s doing this deliberately. He doesn’t care about me one little bit.’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic, dear. Of course he does,’ Helena said mechanically. Stephanie was a child of the theatre, and at the dramatic age anyway, but she was right. Neville didn’t care about her, or about anyone except himself.

  Edward’s voice was purposely matter-of-fact. ‘I don’t think we should get too worked up about it at the moment. I can’t believe the law is as powerless as Neville thinks, and anyway, Hollywood producers can change their minds; someone could make Neville a better offer next week, and he’ll be off on a different enthusiasm. Dyer is certainly trying everything he can do to stop him, so who knows?’

  Stephanie was silent all through lunch, and only picked at her food; Helena wasn’t hungry either. It seemed a long time until Edward finished and suggested they take coffee through to the sitting-room.

  Stephanie disappeared, and as they sat over their coffee, they heard her running downstairs. ‘Just going to borrow Jim Wagstaff’s horse and go for a ride,’ she shouted, and then the front door slammed in a way which suggested reflection had not softened her mood.

  ‘She’s sure to go and see Neville,’ Helena said apprehensively. ‘Oh Edward, I do hope he’s kind to her, at least. She’s at such a vulnerable age.’

  She realized how upset he too had been when he replied curtly, ‘I should think it very unlikely. I don’t think
Neville knows the meaning of the word kindness — or honour, or decency, come to that.’

  *

  Edward went out at just after two, to take Helena’s watch to Willie Comberton before he met the vicar at quarter to three.

  ‘It gives me an excuse to have a chat — though no doubt I’ll have to listen again to the story about his grandfather’s grandfather clock. Still, he doesn’t get about much these days, poor old boy.’

  Helena made a reply which was purely mechanical. She found it hard to settle to anything, and as much by way of therapy for herself as anything else, decided Stephanie might be just young enough to be cheered by a cake for tea. She was still in the kitchen some time later when she heard the front door slam once more, and footsteps pound up the stairs to Stephanie’s attic bedroom.

  She went into the hall. ‘Stephanie,’ she called, but the distant crash of the bedroom door was the only answer. She hesitated, then climbed the stairs and tapped softly.

  ‘Stephie, are you all right?’

  There was no reply, and hearing the sound of muffled weeping, she turned the handle, but the door was locked.

  ‘Oh, go away, Mum, leave me alone!’ Stephanie’s cry was despairing, and Helena felt her pain like a knife in her own heart. If Neville had been brutal to the child there was nothing she could do.

  But as she went slowly back downstairs, the anger that had seized her this morning rose once more, in a primitive response to this attack on her young.

  She had once been able to influence Neville; now, if he were hiding behind the great, ugly, looming figure of Harry Bradman, then he must be dragged out. And she, according to Chris Dyer, was the only person who had even the slightest chance of doing it.

  On this surge of determination, she hurried to the cloakroom, grabbing a light raincoat but not pausing to cover her head. It was raining lightly, as she took the short-cut path that led up across the little rise, past the Daleys’ house and below the Home Farm, up to the garden of Radnesfield House itself.