The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 63: Meeting Stephanie

Had Hugh’s mother had a brood of other children, her relationship with Hugh might have been an easier one. But he was an only child and an only son, and for a mother in such a position it is not always easy to accept that another woman will eventually enter her son’s life and, if all goes according to plan – the plan being that of the other woman – take him away. This common conflict, so understandable and so poignant, is played out time and time again, and almost always with the same painful result: mother loses. It is so, of course, if mother is overt in her attempt to put off the almost inevitable; if she is covert, then she stands a chance, admittedly a remote one, of introducing into her son’s mind a germ of doubt that the woman he has chosen might not be the right one for him. That takes skill, and boundless patience, but is a course fraught with dangers for the relationship between mother and future daughter-in-law, let alone for that between mother and son.

Stephanie, of course, adored Hugh – what mother could not? Her adoration was founded on precisely those qualities that Barbara had discerned in him and that had drawn her to him – his gentleness, his kindness, his masculine vulnerability. Stephanie knew that she should let go of him, should welcome other women into his life, but she found it almost impossible to do. If only she could like his girlfriends; but how, she wondered, do you like people whom you quite simply do not like?

She had been dreading this meeting with Barbara; on a number of earlier occasions Hugh had brought girlfriends home to whom she had found herself taking an almost immediate dislike – a dislike that she had great difficulty in concealing. This had been picked up on by her husband, as for all his apparent equanimity and farmerly appearance Sorley had an astute sense of atmosphere. “You judge these poor girls too quickly,” he had said of one of them, a sound engineer from Glasgow. “How can you tell? You really must give her a chance.”

“But she has a piercing in her nose,” Stephanie said. “You must have noticed. And her tongue too. Did you see the stud right in the middle of it?”

Sorley shrugged. “The world’s changing,” he said. “Aesthetic standards change. What’s unattractive to us may be just the thing for Hugh and his generation – we have to remind ourselves of that, you know.”

“But her tongue,” Stephanie persisted. “What’s the point? And presumably it traps particles of food.” Or could trap her son, she thought – with horror. What if they were kissing and the stud got caught between a gap in Hugh’s teeth? What then?

Again Sorley had urged her to be tolerant. “But does it really matter if our son’s girlfriend traps particles of food?” He smiled as he spoke. Who among us has never trapped particles of food? Indeed, that was part, surely, of being human; an inevitable concomitant of our imperfection.

At least Barbara Ragg had no piercings. That was noted with relief by Stephanie, who cast a quick glance at the other woman’s tongue when she first spoke to her. Barbara noticed her future mother-in-law looking into her mouth, and was momentarily concerned. What was this – a dental examination? Or was it the way country people, many of whom were incorrigibly horsey, looked at prospective members of the family, examining the mouth in the same way that they might look into the mouth of a horse being considered for purchase. Surely not?

She, in return, ran a quick eye over Stephanie. Hugh’s mother was in her mid-fifties, she decided, but had weathered well. She was dressed more or less as Barbara would expect somebody like her to dress, sporting as she did an olive-green tweed skirt with a navy blue cashmere top – the sort of outfit worn by legions of country women in comfortable circumstances. Had she stepped out of a station at a point-to-point she would, Barbara thought, have raised no eyebrows. And yet there was something slightly exotic about her, a quality that Barbara perceived immediately, a hint of greater depths than such women usually showed.

This impression was strengthened as Stephanie showed Barbara to her room. “We call this the Cadell room,” she said, pointing to a pair of pictures above the fireplace. “My grandfather knew Bunty Cadell rather well. He gave him these paintings. They used to be in my parents’ drawing room in Montevideo, when we were there.”

Barbara looked at the paintings. One was a small study of a woman in an extravagant hat; the other a picture of a yacht moored in a Mediterranean harbour.

“You lived in Uruguay?” said Barbara with interest. “Hugh didn’t tell me.”

Stephanie stared out of the window. “Hugh doesn’t speak much about South America. Ever since …”

She did not finish the sentence, but moved across the room to open the door of the wardrobe. “I’ve cleared this out for you,” she said briskly. “One gets so much clutter, and guests are a good reason to sort it out.” She smiled brightly at Barbara. Clearly there was to be no more discussion of South America.

Barbara found herself wondering about Stephanie’s accent. She had assumed that she was Scottish, but there was something else there, a suggestion of French, perhaps; just a hint. Now she remembered something that Hugh had said about his mother – a chance remark that she had not paid much attention to, but now came back. She had been educated in Switzerland, he had said. There had been a school outside Geneva.

But what had happened to Hugh in Colombia? Stephanie had said that he did not like to talk about it, but he had certainly talked to Barbara, although not at great length. She decided that there might not be another opportunity to raise the matter, and so she would ask.

“Did something bad happen to Hugh in Colombia? He once told me—”

Stephanie moved quickly to her side. “Did he?” she asked with urgency. “Did he tell you?”

“Well, he started to,” said Barbara. “He began a story about being on that ranch near Barranquilla. But then …”

“What exactly did he say?” Stephanie was staring at her imploringly. Barbara noticed her eyes. They were a very faint green, like those of a Tonkinese cat. They were innocent eyes, and they now begged for information, their gaze as eloquent as any words.

“He didn’t tell me much,” Barbara said.

Stephanie seemed relieved, and Barbara realised that her relief came from learning that Barbara did not know what had happened. That, she thought, suggested that Stephanie herself knew, but would not tell.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked. “Did he tell you?”

Stephanie turned away. “You must excuse me,” she said distantly. “I have to check on something in the kitchen. I should not like to serve burnt offerings on your very first day here.”