Rivals

8

Six months later, on the wettest August day for fifty years, Declan O’Hara moved into Penscombe Priory to the feverish excitement of the entire county. It rained so hard that on ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ James Vereker caringly warned his viewers about flooding on the Cotchester-Penscombe road. But perhaps, being Irish, reflected Lizzie Vereker the next morning, the rain made Declan and his family feel more at home.

Lizzie’s children had gone out to friends for the day; her daily Mrs Makepiece was due later; Ortrud, the nanny who had replaced Birgitta in April, was upstairs no doubt writing about James in her diary. Lizzie had a rare clear day to work. But she was halfway through and very bored with her novel. Outside the downpour had given way to brilliant sunshine and delphinium-blue skies. From her study Lizzie could see the keys on the sycamore already turning coral and yellow leaves flecking the huge weeping willow which blocked her view of the lake. There wouldn’t be many more beautiful days this year, reflected Lizzie. Overcome by restlessness and curiosity, she decided to walk up the valley and drop in on the O’Haras. As a moving-in present she would take them some bantams’ eggs and the bottle of champagne an adoring fan had given James yesterday.

The trees in the wood that marked the beginning of Rupert’s land were so blackly bowed down with rain that it was like walking through a dripping tunnel. Emerging, Lizzie wandered up the meadows closely cropped by Rupert’s horses. In the opposite direction thundered the Frogsmore stream, which ran along the bottom of the valley, hurtling over mossy stones, twisting round fallen logs, shrugging off the caress of hanging forget-me-nots and pink campion, and occasionally disappearing altogether into a cavern of bramble and briar.

Coming in the other direction was Mrs Makepiece, who worked mornings for the unspeakable Valerie Jones and who was bursting with gossip. The four Pickfords’ vans bearing the O’Haras’ belongings had nearly got stuck on Chalford Hill, she told Lizzie, and Declan’s son — well, the image of Declan, anyway — had been sighted in the village shop, asking for whisky, chocolate biscuits, toilet paper and lightbulbs, and was quite the handsomest young man anyone had seen in Penscombe since Rupert Campbell-Black was a lad.

‘Will they be bringing their own staff from London?’ asked Mrs Makepiece wistfully, thinking it would be much more fun working for Mrs O’Hara, who probably paid London prices and wouldn’t slave-drive like Valerie Jones. Lizzie said she didn’t know. Mrs Makepiece was an ace cleaner, a ‘treasure’. Even the exacting Valerie Jones admitted it. Annexing ‘treasures’ was a far worse sin in Gloucestershire than stealing somebody’s husband.

Lizzie wandered on. Having had no lunch because she was on a diet, she kept stopping to eat blackberries, which didn’t count. Up on the left, dominating the valley, Rupert’s beautiful tawny house dozed in the sunshine. The garden wasn’t as good as it had been when Rupert’s ex-wife Helen had lived there. The beeches she’d planted round the tennis court were nearly eight feet tall now. Rupert should fly a flag when he was in residence, thought Lizzie. One couldn’t help feeling excited when he was at home.

Half a mile upstream, the village of Penscombe, with its church spire and ancient ash-blond houses, lay in a cleavage of green hills like a retirement poster promising a happy future. Lizzie, however, turned right, clambering over a mossy gate into a beech wood, whose smooth grey trunks soared like the pipes of some vast organ. Following a zig-zagging path upwards, which three times crossed a waterfall hurtling down to join the Frogsmore, Lizzie finally stumbled and panted her way to the top.

Across a hundred-yard sweep of lawn, which was now almost a hayfield, rose the confusion of mediaeval chimneys, pointed gables, gothic turrets and crenellated battlements that made up Penscombe Priory. On either side with the sun behind them like a funeral cortège towered great black yew trees, cedars and wellingtonias. To the left of the lawn, where once, before the dissolution of the monasteries, the nuns must have strolled and prayed, grew a tangled rose walk.

Poor O’Haras, thought Lizzie, as she hurried along it. After divorce and death, moving house is supposed to be the most traumatic experience. But, as she skirted a large pond overgrown with water lilies, round to the front of the house which faced into the hillside for shelter, she was suddenly deafened by pop music booming out of two of the upstairs turrets, and opera, she thought it was Rheingold, pouring out of the other two.

The old oak front door, studded with nails, was open. On the sweep of gravel outside a van was still being unloaded. Peering inside, Lizzie noticed some very smeary furniture (the O’Haras would be needing a ‘treasure’ after all), a grand piano whose yellow keys seemed to be leering at her, and several tea chests full of books.

Sprawling over the front porch was an ancient clematis which acted as a curtain for the bathroom window above and covered the doorbell, which didn’t work anyway. Inside Lizzie called ‘Hullo-oo, hullo-oo,’ in a high voice.

Next minute a very plain, self-important black and white mongrel appeared, barking furiously and wagging a tightly curled tail.

Turning right down the hall into the kitchen, which was situated in the oldest, thirteenth-century part of the house, Lizzie found a woman, whom she assumed must be Declan’s wife Maud. Ravishing, but inappropriately dressed in a pink sequinned T-shirt, lime-green tracksuit bottoms, with a jewelled comb in her long red hair, she was very slowly unpacking china from a tea chest, stopping to smooth out and read each bit of paper it was wrapped in, and drinking whisky out of a tea cup.

On the window seat, training a pair of binoculars on Rupert Campbell-Black’s house, knelt a teenage girl with spiky short pink hair, a brace on her teeth and a pale, clever charming face. In her black clumpy shoes, wrinkled socks and black woolly cardigan, she looked like a tramp who’d just changed into his old clothes. Neither of them took any notice when Lizzie came in. But a very tall girl in jeans and a dark-green jersey, with a cloud of thick black hair, strange silver-grey eyes, and a smudge on her cheek, who was quickly unloading china, looked up and smiled.

‘I live down the valley,’ announced Lizzie. ‘I’ve brought you some eggs and a bottle. Don’t open it now. It’s a bit shaken up. Put it in the fridge.’

‘Oh, how really kind of you,’ said the dark girl. She had a soft deep slightly gruff voice, like a teddy bear’s growl. She looked very tired.

Maud, having finished reading her piece of newspaper, glanced up and gave Lizzie the benefit of her amazing eyes which were almond-shaped, sleepy, fringed with very thick dark red lashes, and as brilliantly green as Bristol glass. Deciding Lizzie was worthy of interest, she introduced her daughters Taggie, short for Agatha, the tall dark one, and Caitlin, the little redhead.

The sink was crammed with flowers still in cellophane. Sidling over, Lizzie noticed one lot was from Tony and Monica Baddingham, wishing the O’Haras good luck in their new house and a long and happy association with Corinium.

‘All the nation’s press tramped through here yesterday in the mud trying to interview Declan,’ grumbled Maud. ‘TV Times has been here all morning photographing us moving in. Two local papers are due this afternoon, and a man from the Electricity Board has been rabbiting on like Mr Darcy about the inferiority of our connections and says the whole place will have to be rewired. Have a drink.’

She extracted a mug wrapped in a page of New Statesman, splashed some whisky into it for Lizzie and filled up her own tea cup.

‘It’s a glorious house,’ said Lizzie, raising her mug to them. ‘Welcome. We’re all wildly excited you’ve come to live here.’

‘After yesterday’s deluge, we’ve discovered it leaks in half a dozen places,’ said Maud, ‘so we shall probably have to have a new roof as well.’

‘We’re thinking of letting our grounds to some cows,’ said Caitlin, putting down her binoculars and helping herself to a chocolate biscuit, which she proceeded to share with the black and white mongrel who was drooling on the window seat beside her.

‘Moving’s very disorientating,’ she went on. ‘Daddy’s trying to work upstairs, and he’s frantic because he’s lost his telephone book. Taggie’s lost her bra.’

‘Caitlin!’ The tall girl blushed.

‘And I’ve lost my heart,’ continued Caitlin, training her binoculars back on Rupert Campbell-Black’s house. ‘Will you introduce me?’

‘He’s not here that much,’ said Lizzie. ‘But when he is, I’m sure he’ll introduce himself.’

‘It’s not fair,’ moaned Caitlin. ‘I’m going to bloody boarding school next week, and I won’t get first crack at him. He’s bound to fall for Taggie — or even Mummy,’ she said dismissively.

There was a knock on the door and a removal man came in with a yellowing dress in a polythene bag: where did Mrs O’Hara want this put?

‘My wedding dress,’ said Maud theatrically, rising to her feet and holding it against her. ‘Just to think, twenty-one years ago.’

‘Ugh,’ said Caitlin. ‘It’s gross. How did you get Daddy in that? But I suppose he didn’t see you till he came up the aisle, and then it was too late.’

‘Caitlin, hush,’ chided Taggie, as Maud’s face tightened with anger. ‘Mummy looked beautiful; you’ve seen the photos.’

‘Oh, put it in my bedroom,’ snapped Maud, going back to the New Statesman.

‘I’m not sure I’m going to like living in the country,’ said Caitlin, fiddling with the wireless. ‘No Capital Radio, no Standard, no second post.’

‘No second post!’ Taggie’s gasp of dismay was interrupted by a knock on the door. Another removal man wanted to know where the piano was to go.

‘On the right of the front door,’ said Maud.

‘Not there,’ shrieked Caitlin. ‘Wandering Aengus is shut in there, and that stupid bugger Daddy’s let him out twice already. ‘

And there’s Daddy, the nation’s biggest megastar, thought Lizzie.

‘Aengus is our cat. He’s a bit unsettled,’ said Taggie, smiling apologetically at Lizzie.

‘Oh look,’ sighed Maud, unwrapping a baby’s bottle. ‘That was Patrick’s when he was a baby.’

Caitlin tapped the fast-emptying whisky bottle with a finger. ‘And this was Daddy’s when he was forty-two,’ she said accusingly.

‘Oh, go away,’ said Maud, shooting her another dirty look.

Peering at a pile of books in the corner, Lizzie was highly gratified to see a copy of her first novel.

‘I wrote that,’ she blurted out.

‘Did you?’ said Maud in amazement, picking up the book and examining the photograph on the inside flap.

‘When I was thinner,’ said Lizzie humbly.

‘It was really good,’ said Maud. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed it.’

At that moment a punk Lord Byron wandered into the room. He had flawless cheek bones, short dark glossy vertical hair, and an inch of violet shadow under his eyes, which were like Maud’s only darker and much more direct; obviously the son Patrick who had so dazzled the village shop.

‘Darling,’ said Maud in excitement, ‘this is Lizzie Vereker. She wrote this marvellous novel, and she lives down the valley, so perhaps Penscombe won’t be such a cultural desert after all.’

Patrick said, ‘Hullo, Lizzie,’ and announced that he’d liked the book too, and where did his mother want the piano?

‘In the big drawing-room.’

‘Too cold; you’ll never play it in there,’ said Caitlin.

‘Put it in the small sitting-room, then,’ said Maud.

‘There won’t be room for anything else in there, not even a piano stool,’ protested Patrick.

‘Oh well, you sort it out, darling, you’re so good at that sort of thing,’ said Maud.

‘And don’t let Aengus out,’ screamed Caitlin.

Patrick’s reply was drowned by a bellow of rage from outside and Declan stormed in holding a piece of paper in one hand and the cordless telephone in the other. Lizzie caught her breath. She’d never expected him to be so tall and broad in the shoulders, or quite so heroic looking. He had very thick dark hair streaked with grey, and worry and hard work had dug deep lines on either sides of his mouth and round his eyes, which were as sombre and dark as the rain-soaked yew trees outside. But even with half-moon spectacles fallen down over his broken nose, a quarter of an inch of stubble and odd socks, one had to admit his force.

‘This is Lizzie Vereker,’ announced Maud. ‘She’s brought us some eggs and a bottle of champagne, and she writes lovely books.’

Declan glared at Lizzie as though she didn’t exist.

‘I can’t find the focking A-D directory.’ His Irish accent was much more pronounced than the rest of the family. ‘I can’t find my focking telephone book. I can’t get through to Claridge’s. I can’t get any answer from directory enquiries in London. I’ve been trying for the last half-hour.’

He dialled the number again, then held out the receiver, so they could all hear the parrot screech of the unobtainable.

‘Shall I try?’ said Lizzie. ‘You have to dial 192 for London directories in the country, and then 01 before the number.’

Two minutes later she got through to Claridge’s and handed the telephone to an amazed and grateful Declan, who asked to be put through to Johnny Friedlander.

Lizzie almost fainted. Johnny Friedlander was a brilliant, madly desirable American actor, with a well-known cocaine habit, and a penchant for under-age school girls.

‘The Johnny Friedlander,’ she mouthed at Taggie.

Taggie nodded and smiled.

Declan was put straight through, and invited Johnny on to his first programme for Corinium next month.

‘I’d ask you to stay with us,’ Declan went on in his world-famous husky infinitely sexy smoker’s voice, ‘but we’re in shit order this end, and you’d do better in a hotel. We can have dinner after the programme. I’ll get our contract people to talk to your people. Thanks, Johnny, I can’t think of a better person to kick off the series.’

‘But he’s never given an interview ever,’ said Lizzie in wonder, as Declan came off the telephone.

‘I know. Isn’t it great?’ Declan suddenly smiled, a wide, slightly gap-toothed grin, which made him look much more like Taggie, and made Lizzie feel utterly weak at the knees. ‘And all because you know how to use a telephone,’ he went on. ‘If I’d left it any later, he’d have been looped or refused point blank. I’ll certainly read your book.’

He turned to Maud. ‘D’you hear that, darling? Johnny’s coming on the programme.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Maud, without interest. ‘Hell,’ she went on, reaching the end of another torn bit of paper, ‘this piece on Princess Michael is continued on page eight. Do see if you can find it, Taggie.’

She started frantically burrowing in the tea chest, throwing discarded bits of newspaper all over the floor. Taggie raised her eyes to heaven.

Lizzie turned to Declan: ‘What are you writing at the moment?’

‘Cheques mostly,’ said Declan.

Gazing out of the window, towards the pond, he suddenly started, and grabbed the binoculars from Caitlin, nearly garrotting her with the straps.

‘Grasshopper warbler,’ he said a second later. ‘Pretty rare for this part of the world. There are some marvellous birds round here.’

‘There could be some marvellous blokes too,’ said Caitlin, rubbing her neck and snatching back the binoculars to train them once more on Rupert’s house, ‘if they were ever at home.’

‘I’m off to the public library, darling,’ said Declan, attempting to kiss a still scrabbling Maud on the cheek.

‘But you haven’t had any breakfast or lunch,’ said Taggie in distress.

‘Trust you to push off leaving us to do all the work,’ grumbled Maud.

‘Leaving Taggie to do all the work,’ said Declan with a slight edge to his voice.

After he’d gone, and Maud and Lizzie had had some more whisky, the doorbell rang.

‘Probably the local paper, and your father’s not here,’ said Maud, who was now reading about Boy George.

But it was another bouquet of flowers, brought in by Caitlin.

‘Who are they for?’ asked Taggie, hope flaring then dying in her eyes, when Caitlin opened the envelope and read: To Declan and Maura. ‘That’s a new one, Mum.’

Seeing the flash of irritation on Maud’s face, Lizzie wondered quite how much fun it must be to be married to such a famous man. Lizzie had experienced the same thing in a smaller way being married to James, but she wasn’t stunningly beautiful like Maud. It must be awful looking like that, and having people getting your name wrong, and wanting to gawp all the time at your husband.

‘Where’s Grace?’ said Maud fretfully.

‘Not up yet,’ said Caitlin. ‘Said she couldn’t sleep because of the quiet. I suggested the removal men should drive their vans round and round hooting under her window to remind her of the juggernauts in Fulham. Grace is our so-called housekeeper,’ she explained to Lizzie. ‘Patrick says she ought to join the RSPCA, she’s so kind to spiders.’

‘I must go,’ said Lizzie regretfully.

‘Have another drink,’ said Maud, not looking up.

‘Have some lunch,’ said Taggie. ‘I was just going to make some omelettes.’

‘I must work,’ said Lizzie. ‘Thanks awfully. The children’ll be home soon; it must be nearly four.’

‘I’ll walk some of the way with you,’ said Caitlin. ‘Gertrude needs a walk. Do you want to come with us, Mummy?’ Her voice was suddenly conciliatory, as though she regretted cheeking her mother.

‘No thanks,’ said Maud vaguely. ‘I must measure up some windows for curtains.’

‘Curtains, indeed,’ muttered Caitlin as she and Lizzie left the room. ‘The only thing my mother measures with any efficiency is her length after parties. ‘Then, noticing Lizzie’s raised eyebrows, ‘I’m afraid I’m at the age when one tends to criticize one’s parents a lot. Sadly one can’t sever the umbilical cord gently. It has to be done with a razor blade and without an anaesthetic.’

Along a winding passage Caitlin opened a door into a large octagonal room, the base of one of the mediaeval turrets. Tall, narrow ecclesiastical windows with stained glass in the top panes provided the only interruption to shelves and shelves of books.

‘Daddy’s library,’ said Caitlin. ‘I thought, being a writer, you’d like it.’

‘How lovely,’ gasped Lizzie.

‘I think Daddy bought the house because it already had shelves in.’

They went out of the West door on the other side of the house, past stables and a clock tower with a roof covered in ferns and dark moss, through a vegetable garden which had been taken over by nettles, and an orchard whose stunted lichened trees grew no higher than seven feet, because of the constant blasting of the winds.

‘Patrick says it’s going to take a fleet of gardeners to keep this place in order,’ said Caitlin. ‘And what with my school fees, and the rewiring, and the new roof, and Mummy’s House and Garden fantasies, Daddy’s bloody well going to need his new salary.’

Out in the sunshine Lizzie noticed how pale and thin Caitlin was and thought a few terms playing games and eating stodge at a vigorous girls’ boarding school would do her no harm. Gertrude bounced ahead, plunging into the beech wood after rabbits. Certainly, slithering down the wood was easier than climbing up.

‘Is Rupert Campbell-Black as attractive as everyone says?’ asked Caitlin.

‘Yes,’ sighed Lizzie. ‘He seems to get more so.’

‘They say he was very wild in his youth.’

‘Well, he’s had a rather extended youth.’

‘And brainy.’

‘Well, street bright, and very sharp with money.’

‘My brother Patrick is like that. I have brains. Taggie has beauty. Patrick has both.’

‘Oh you’re going to be very beautiful,’ said Lizzie truthfully.

‘I may blossom,’ said Caitlin beadily. ‘But at present I am undernourished, and my teeth leave a lot to be desired. I had to make the dentist put this beastly brace on. My mother only believes in going to the dentist when one’s teeth hurt.’

‘And Taggie seems very efficient in the kitchen,’ said Lizzie. ‘Isn’t she bright?’

‘Not at all. She’s dyslexic, poor darling, hardly stumbles through Mills and Boon, and she has fearful trouble with recipe books, which is a pity, as she wants to be a cook. Patrick said it was ghastly when she was small, everyone thought she was retarded because she couldn’t read. Mummy shouted at her all the time, never thought of taking her to an educational psychologist.’

The wall at the bottom of the beech wood marked the end of Declan’s land. Caitlin scrambled over it and held out a hand to help Lizzie.

‘How beautiful,’ she said, gazing at the flat water meadows and the bustling little stream. ‘I can imagine mediaeval knights jousting here in the old days.’

She whistled to Gertrude who’d belted the other way, and who now rushed back, splashing and drinking in the stream.

‘The ghastly thing about having brilliant famous parents,’ Caitlin went on, ‘is you never feel the centre of the universe, because they’re so obsessed with their own lives. And if you do brilliantly at school, everyone nods sagely and says Declan’s daughter, it’s in the genes; and if you do badly like poor Tag, they just assume you’re lazy or bloody-minded. Tag’s self-confidence was in tatters when she left school.’

‘But she’s so beautiful,’ protested Lizzie.

‘I know, but she doesn’t realize it. She’s madly in love with Ralphie Henriques, one of Patrick’s even more brilliant friends. After months of pestering, he seduced Tag at a May Ball at Trinity this year. God, look at those blackberries!’ Caitlin started tearing them off the bushes with both hands and cramming them into her mouth.

‘I hoped Tag would tell me exactly what it was like. One can’t obtain one’s entire sexual education from the pages of Jackie Collins, but she just clammed up, and he never rang her again. Just one postcard from Cork, and nothing since. Can you imagine doing that to Tag? That’s why she waits for every post and jumps on every telephone. Patrick says Ralphie’s got someone else, some pert little blonde who reads Sophocles in the original. Poor Tag can’t even read English in the original.’

‘What about Patrick?’ asked Lizzie. ‘Does he like Trinity?’

‘He feels right there. He thinks my father has betrayed his roots working in England, and he also rather despises Daddy for being in television. God, these blackberries are good. Perhaps Rupert smiled at them.’

‘But your father’s a genius,’ said Lizzie, shocked. ‘Those interviews are works of art. ‘

‘I know, but Patrick thinks Daddy ought to write books. He’s been working on a biography of Yeats for years, and he used to write wonderful plays.’

‘What’s Patrick going to do when he leaves Trinity?’

‘He’ll write. He’s much more together than Daddy. I know Daddy makes pots of money, but it all gets spent, and he’s always having frightful rows at work. Patrick’s calmer. He’s a prose version of Daddy, really. And for someone with such high principles, he thinks nothing of running up the most enormous debts, which of course Mummy settles out of Daddy’s despised television earnings.’

‘Jolly easy to have principles when someone else picks up the bill,’ said Lizzie.

‘Right,’ said Caitlin. ‘Patrick’s also a bit smug because he attracts the opposite sex so effortlessly. Do you think Gertrude will get lonely in the country? Should we get her a dog friend?’

They had crossed the stream now, to the same side as Rupert’s house. Despite the lack of wind, thistledown was drifting everywhere as though a pillow had just burst. Panting up the slope, and turning in their tracks, they could just see the creepered battlements and turrets of The Priory above its ruff of beech trees, now warmed by the late afternoon sun. Climbing had also given Caitlin’s pale freckled face a tinge of colour.

‘Think of all those nuns living there in the middle ages,’ she sighed ecstatically, ‘gazing across the valley, yearning for Rupert Campbell-Black’s ancestors.’

Lizzie decided not to spoil such a romantic concept by pointing out that Rupert’s house hadn’t been built until the seventeenth century.

‘It is a romantic house, isn’t it?’ said Caitlin, still gazing at The Priory. ‘Exciting things must happen to us all — even Tag — in a place like that.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Lizzie.

‘I’d better go home now,’ said Caitlin. ‘Can I come and see you next time I’m back for the weekend?’

Lizzie floated home. What richness, what a fascinating afternoon. The prospect of new friends excited her these days almost as much as new boyfriends had when she was young. She was still bubbling over when James got home later than usual.

‘What did you think of my programme?’ he asked.

Lizzie had to confess she’d forgotten to watch it, because she’d dropped in and had a drink with the O’Haras.

‘Did Declan say anything about me or the programme?’ demanded James.

‘No,’ said Lizzie.

‘Didn’t you tell them you were married to me?’ said James, utterly scandalized.

‘I forgot,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but there was so much going on, and the O’Haras are just so glamorous.’