Last Act of All Read online

  It usually worked, this weapon of indifference, to the point where she sometimes felt guilty about making use of it. Neville’s desperate need was for an audience to act as mirror for himself; without one, he vanished.

  Tonight he came over to put his arm about her shoulders.

  ‘Nella, darling Nella, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m a horrible person, and I don’t know why I shout at you when you’re the best wife I could have. Far too good for me.’

  ‘Neville, you’re so stagey,’ she said in exasperation. ‘It’s all an act. You’re even acting now! We might as well be playing Hay Fever — “say sorry to your wife in the manner of the word ‘engagingly’.” ’

  He grinned. ‘But I am engaging, aren’t I? Usually?’

  She sighed helplessly. ‘That’s the trouble. Most of the time, yes. Except when you’re Harry, and then you’re not engaging at all. You’re plain nasty.’

  ‘Bad Harry. We’ll put him in the dustbin for the evening, shall we? There. Squash the lid down. Now I’m nice Neville, and you’re lovely Nella, and you’re pleased with me because I’m good now.’

  He drew her into his arms, and she didn’t resist. But as he bent his head to nuzzle her neck, she said seriously, ‘I’m worried about Radnesfield, Neville. I think it’s going to be Harry who lives there.’

  He raised his head, but did not turn to meet her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Nella. I can’t explain, but somehow, I have to buy that house. It’s — it’s destiny, if you like. Kismet.’

  ‘There you go, over-dramatizing again,’ she protested, but something about the way he said it sent chills down her spine. Harry was back again, like someone standing just at the edge of her vision, and in an uncharacteristically fanciful moment, she felt that they were the actors on his stage, being manipulated into position for a drama of which only he knew the denouement.

  Chapter Three

  He had done it again. She could kill him, preferably slowly. For the umpteenth time since they came to live in this godforsaken black hole, he had landed guests on her at an hour’s notice. A drinks party — well, thank you. Thank you very much.

  She could cope, of course. She had a freezer stacked by a local gourmet cook and a microwave; having sweated blood the first time he dumped her in it, that wasn’t going to happen again. But this was the symptom, not the disease.

  The little flame of anger flickered, then died. She had tried protesting, forcibly; his only reply had been some offensive flippancy about fish and chips. When she persisted, he had stared with cold, opaque eyes until she was frozen into foolish silence. Things were going wrong — badly wrong — and she didn’t know why.

  At first, the house had seethed with builders, joiners, plasterers, decorators, plumbers and electricians. She had studied shade cards and samples and swatches of fabric until she had spots before her eyes, and fell into bed at night to sleep the sleep of total exhaustion and dream of light fittings and bathroom taps.

  Then, suddenly, it was finished. The last painter brushed the last inch of the last wallpaper border into place and left, and a mind-numbing silence fell.

  Stephanie had started at boarding school. Neville, commuting to London for the series, was at home seldom, and seemed increasingly, and deliberately, remote. He stayed at his club or with Chris Dyer, and had insisted on selling the flat, a decision which, she suspected, had been designed to rob her of an excuse to join him.

  Neville had never before distanced himself like this. In the good times, they had been lovers; in the bad times, he had tried her patience like a child, and, like a mother, she had always indulged him. Now he was more like a rebellious teenager, inconsiderate, withdrawn and unpredictable.

  She had always believed that, as a consequence of his childhood, he had a need for mothering; now, for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of filling that role in the life of a man who must bear his own mother a festering psychological resentment. And once he had reached the independence of emotional adolescence, he might, not implausibly, seek revenge.

  What if — the thought transfixed her — the hidden agenda which she sensed, but could not discover, were her own destruction?

  She gave herself a mental shake. This was hardly the time for speculation more suited to melodrama than to real life. Real life was the tomato roses and lemon curls she was turning with practised hands and adding to the platters she had set out with her usual artistic flair.

  The results were impressive, for under an hour. But looking at them, she found her eyes misting. It wasn’t much to be proud of, not really. Not when there wasn’t anything else.

  In London she had never had to notice her own poverty of resources. There had been friends, and charity work, and the constant round of artistic and theatrical events, essential for keeping up illusions when absolutely none of it was happening to you.

  He had taken that away too. And now, in case she had any ideas about making friends in Radnesfield, he had begun throwing his weight around in a stand-up row with George Wagstaff up at Home Farm this afternoon.

  She had been giving tea to Edward Radley, on his first formal visit to see the house transformed when Neville came in, full of his latest bully’s triumph.

  ‘Had the bloody nerve to send for me — cheeky sod — then tells me I have an obligation to make him official tenant of my farm, instead of manager. How do you like that?’

  Helena was bewildered. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘Mean? I’ll tell you what he means. That’s my farm, right? Paid for with my money, and by god, I’ve earned it. He’s my manager, and I pay him, and if I don’t like the job he does, I can fire him. It might cost me, but I can fire him. I’ve a damn good mind to do it. Told him this morning his stockyard was a tip, and it is, too.’

  Edward’s eyes were lowered unhappily, and Helena said feebly, ‘Oh dear.’ It didn’t take an agricultural expert to work out that Neville was unlikely to have useful advice for a man who had been in farming all his life.

  ‘So this afternoon, he tells me the situation is “unsatisfactory”, if you please, and he’s going to get a lawyer to draw up a tenancy agreement. Prepared to offer very good terms, he says, and is dumb enough to suppose I’ll buy that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier, in some ways?’ Helena suggested, not very hopefully.

  ‘Easier for him, all right. That way, he gets rights over my property, so I couldn’t do anything with it, or get rid of him, and not only that, but his son could take it on without me being able to say a dicky-bird. He reckoned he was going to pull a fast one, but I set him straight. Oh, I set him straight, all right.’

  He was quieter now, and his dark blue eyes glittered as he moved to the hearthrug, the better to dominate his audience. Pure Harry, Helena registered with dismay.

  ‘I told him he was manager, and he would stay manager just as long as I chose. Of course, if he wanted to quit, that was his choice.’

  ‘But Neville, he’s lived there all his life!’ she cried, sensing an uneasy movement from Radley.

  ‘So? He told me all that, then gave me a spiel about how it was only fair he should have what he called his rights. So I told him I’d heard more than enough, and I would phone this evening if I wanted him out by next month.’

  He paused in satisfied contemplation, then stooped to pick up a scone.

  ‘I won’t, of course, but I’ve put the frighteners on him and there had better not be any more trouble. He’s a good manager, though, didn’t you find, Edward?’

  It was the first sign he had given of noticing the presence of the other man. Edward coloured, murmuring pacifically that he had always found him so.

  ‘Perhaps I should have given him the tenancy. But I was always anxious to keep the land management intact.’

  ‘Of course you were. Thoroughly prudent move.’ His rage, as usual, had blown over quickly. ‘Nella, you look ridiculous, sitting there clutching a teapot. Do I get a cup or don’t I?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

&n
bsp; She was pouring his tea when Neville said, with elaborate nonchalance, ‘By the way! I asked a few people in to drinks this evening — forgot to tell you.’

  ‘You’ve — oh Neville, how many?’

  ‘Just a few. You’ll stay, naturally, Edward, and Jack Daley from the garage with his wife, dear old Mr Tiggywinkle, I mean Tilson, the padre and his perfectly gruesome lady, the Morleys — is that all? Oh yes, and old Chris. He’s been so impressed with our rural existence that he’s down negotiating a lease on one of the cottages. Have to have a party to amuse old Chris.’

  ‘I suppose he’ll be staying the night.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Oooh, yes, I suppose he will.’ Neville was in high good humour now, stuffing a cake whole into his mouth, as if showing off to court disapproval. ‘I said to them all about six, anyway?’

  It was quarter to six now; she had met this challenge, but would challenges of the future merely become harder and harder, until he had the satisfaction of seeing her fail?

  *

  Jack Daley was whistling as he set the alarms and locked up the garage. Getting to be quite a snug little business, it was.

  He was a contented man, comfortable with the way his life was shaping. It had been a gamble, no two ways about that, throwing up a steady job as a mechanic in Birmingham and going in hock up to his neck to buy the garage here. Well, he’d been right, hadn’t he, and it had taken him less than two years to prove it.

  Sandra wasn’t so crazy about it. A real city girl, his Sandra, and Radnesfield wasn’t exactly the Bull Ring. But now he was doing well enough to take a bit out of the business, there were the clothes and the holidays they’d never been able to afford before; she liked that, and she’d come round to it. And it would be a good place for kids, when they decided to start a family.

  Tonight he had extra reason to be pleased with life. Sandra would be dead chuffed by the invitation — well, to be honest, he was chuffed himself. You didn’t get to meet famous TV stars when you were a mechanic in Brum, still less get invited back for drinks. Sandra would be over the moon. He’d just pop into the Feathers for a packet of fags, then go home and tell her the good news.

  But there was no such light-hearted atmosphere inside, where a huddle of men were united in concern around George Wagstaff, whose heightened colour suggested that the double whisky clamped in his fist was not his first.

  ‘He’s going to pay for this, that I promise you,’ he was saying, with a belligerence only partially induced by alcohol. ‘And who the hell does he think he is, not been here five minutes when—’

  Bill Smith, the landlord, came to attend to his latest customer, and Jack raised an eyebrow.

  ‘George is starting a bit early today, isn’t he?’

  Smith, never communicative, grunted, but his wife, a comfortable bosomy creature, came over from washing glasses to murmur an explanation.

  But Wagstaff had spotted him. ‘Jack! Jack! Come over here and help me drown my sorrows. What’s yours? I’m in the chair tonight – I may be out of a job by tomorrow.’

  ‘No thanks, George, I’m not stopping. Just in for a packet of coffin nails.’

  But the farmer was not disposed to take no for an answer. ‘Come on, what have you got to do that’s so important you can’t stop for a pint? Sandra’s the last girl to grudge you ten minutes.’

  This was hardly the moment to announce his plans for the evening, and Jack hesitated. He wouldn’t be giving Sandra much time to get herself tarted up. But then Sandra always looked good; it was one of the things he liked about her, that he didn’t come home to a wife wearing bedroom slippers and no make-up. It shouldn’t take her a minute to run a comb through her hair, just for a spur-of-the-moment, casual drinks party.

  ‘OK George,’ he conceded. ‘Just the one.’

  *

  Jennifer Morley appeared first, an old acquaintance from drama school days who had hailed their arrival only ten miles away with genuine delight. With undeflectable enthusiasm she appointed herself Helena’s social sponsor, decreeing simultaneously that Stephanie would adore boarding at Darnley Hall with her own Emily.

  In this, as in many things, she was absolutely right. One of Jennifer’s more disconcerting attributes was her ability to hit the nail squarely on the head, usually in public and without, as Helena had once observed feelingly, the smallest consideration for the feelings of the squirming nail.

  ‘Neville, what fun!’ She kissed him on both cheeks, before sweeping him neatly out of the way to perform the same operation on his wife. ‘Helena, you are looking quite unfairly soignée. I do think it’s utterly disgusting — no one can say I don’t try, and Charles has the overdraft to prove it. Then you come and make me look like two bob’s worth of nothing at all. Doesn’t she, Charles?’

  Her husband, a stolid-looking man with a stoic smile, had entered almost unnoticed behind her. ‘Helena is looking delightful, as always. How are you, my dear?’

  Helena liked Charles, and smiled at him affectionately, asking about his beloved garden, while Jennifer pounced on Edward like a cat enjoying the serendipity of discovering a fieldmouse on the hearthrug.

  ‘Edward, what a lovely surprise! You haven’t invited me to the Red House yet, you wicked man. But we’re free three days next week…’

  Neville was greeting the Daleys with great enthusiasm, Helena noticed, with a certain weary suspicion, though perhaps she was being unfair. Jack and Sandra were, after all, their nearest neighbours.

  He still had some of the big city ‘wide boy’ aura about him, which amused Helena by its incongruousness in this rural setting. Sandra, too, did not dress to suit her surroundings, appearing tonight in a short, straight red skirt with a tight-fitting matching blouse and city stilettos. She was pretty enough, but her blonde hair was brassy, and the bright lipstick on her small, discontented mouth did not perfectly match her clothes.

  Neville was chatting her up now, and although Jack was smiling proprietorially, as if taking credit for his taste in wives, Helena moved swiftly.

  ‘Sandra, Jack, how nice to see you. Now, Sandra, who don’t you know?’

  It would be cruel to deliver her into Jennifer’s clutches, so, since she was still pinning Edward to the wall in one corner, that left Charles. At least she could rely on well-bred attentiveness from him.

  Neville, with a cool, sidelong glance at her, was fetching drinks; she, busy with her introductions, did not notice the next guest letting himself in until arms as muscular as a stevedore’s came round her waist from behind.

  ‘Nella, darling, you’re looking sexier than ever. Village life obviously suits you.’

  Chris Dyer, only begetter of Harry Bradman. How was it he always contrived to take her at a disadvantage? She freed herself and turned with distaste to greet him.

  He was a great bull of a man, thick-set and short-necked, swarthy-skinned and with a taurine poll of tight greying-black curls that grew low on his forehead and, at the back, almost down to the top of his spine.

  ‘Don’t call me Nella, Chris. And if that’s meant to be flattery, forget it. I don’t feel cut out for village life.’

  Taking up a plate of crudités gave her an excuse to circulate, and once Mr Tilson, whom Neville would persist in calling Mr Tiggywinkle, arrived, she could relax a little, since that entirely unselfconscious gentleman seized on Dyer as the only unfamiliar person, and therefore a source of fresh interest.

  Edward Radley was looking in need of rescue. Ten minutes of Jennifer Morley undiluted tended to induce structural stress in even the most robust male, and Edward, Helena surmised, had fewer social defences than many.

  ‘Don’t you think Helena’s been most awfully successful in toning down the worst excesses of this perfectly ghastly room? Neutral shades and those fabulous Persian rugs — isn’t it funny how they pick out the colours of the fireplace, and yet they’re so pretty?’ Jennifer was saying as her hostess approached.

  Edward was taking it remarkably well, agreeing with a sli
ght smile, but he looked relieved when Helena intervened.

  ‘Jennifer, you are appalling. It’s dreadfully rude to say that to the former owner.’

  ‘Darling, I know I’m appalling. I was born that way. But I’m paying Edward a compliment. His taste is far too good to have liked it the way it was.’

  At this, he laughed outright, and Helena was forced to join in. Jennifer, satisfied with her tactics, cast about for her next victim.

  ‘Helena, who is that sensuous-looking brute with the cruel mouth who came in and made a pass at you?’

  Annoyingly, Helena could feel her face redden. ‘Chris Dyer. He’s the creator of “Bradman”, and apparently he’s trying to lease a cottage here. It would be very convenient for him to be near Neville when he’s working on ideas for a new series.’

  ‘Judging by the way he’s still watching you, it’s not Neville he wants to be near. He’s — good gracious, who on earth is this?’

  A slightly grubby child of about ten, probably, though not certainly, female, had materialized beside them and was staring up at the adults with round, black, boot-button eyes, and the expression of one waiting, not very hopefully, to be entertained.

  ‘Oh, it’s one of the vicar’s children!’ Helena exclaimed, hailing the distraction as if it were the bugles of rescuing cavalry. ‘How nice to see you, dear.’

  A faint look of surprise crossed the child’s face. It was not often that the appearance of one of the vicarage children provoked any sign of enthusiasm.

  ‘Tell me your name again — I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. It’s very stupid of me.’ She knew she was gushing, and deserved the reply she got.

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m Tamara.’ The child spoke without moving that fixed stare from their faces.

  ‘Are your parents here? — Oh, there they are!’

  The group standing awkwardly in the drawing-room doorway gave her an excuse to move away, leaving Jennifer skewered by the redoubtable Tamara’s gaze, and, for once in her life, outfaced.

  Peter Farrell, the vicar, was hovering, anxiously rubbing his hands when Helena reached him.