The door was opened by a man in a black suit, white shirt and plain silk tie. He had grizzled hair, small black eyes and a long mouth. He studied her impassively, and yet Deborah was suddenly sharply aware of the cheapness of everything she was wearing.
"Yes?" he demanded.
"Sir Charles Fraith?"
"Who wants him?"
"I represent the Dembley Walkers." A thin line of sweat was forming on Deborah's upper lip.
A voice called out, "Who is it, Gustav?"
The man turned and said evenly, "A person from the Dembley Walkers, sir."
Gustav drew back and his place was taken by Sir Charles. He blinked at Deborah and said, "You're a girl. I thought it might be one of those big beefy chaps with big beefy boots. Come in."
Deborah walked into a vast oak-panelled hall. A moose head glared down at her from high up near the 'boat' ceiling, wooden and arched like those in old churches. Sir Charles led the way into a drawing-room, with Chippendale chairs upholstered in red and cream, a large fire, oak-panelled walls like the hall, and long mullioned windows looking out over the park, where deer flitted through the trees.
"Tea," said Sir Charles to the hovering Gustav.
Gustav moved noiselessly forward, picked a log out of a basket beside the fire and hurled it into the flames with unnecessary force before going out of the room.
"Now, Miss...?"
Deborah held out a thin hand. "Deborah Camden. Pleased ter meet you."
"And very pleased to meet you. Sit down. Sit down. I received a letter from Mizz Tartinck. I have just sent off a reply. Part of the right of way runs straight through one of my fields. There is, however, quite a pretty walk round the edge of that field. If you would be content with that, I would be glad to supply you all with tea."
"Oh, you are awfully kind," said Deborah. She was beginning to relax. Sir Charles looked so mild and inoffensive, and Jessica could not turn down such a generous invitation.
Sir Charles smiled at her. He thought she was a decent sort of girl. She had thick, pale, fair hair, permed into curls and waves in a rather old-fashioned style. Her face was very white, almost anaemic, and she wore no makeup. She had white lashes and pale blue eyes. Her thin figure, encased in a cheap little white nylon blouse, acrylic skirt, and droopy wool cardigan, was thin and flat-chested. She had very long legs under the short skirt, and rather knobby knees which Sir Charles decided he found rather exciting.
"This Mizz Tartinck sounds a formidable sort of lady," said Sir Charles.
"Oh, she's a darling, really," said Deborah, "and awfully well educated. She's a schoolteacher like me and should really be teaching somewhere better than Dembley Comprehensive."
Wouldn't be able to rule the roost at a more distinguished school, thought Sir Charles, but he said aloud, "Well, if the rest of the Dembley Walkers are like you, Deborah, then it should be quite a jolly day."
"They get a bit hot under the collar about landowners," volunteered Deborah.
"Why?"
"Well...er...they feel the countryside ought to belong to everyone."
"But if, say, I did not own and run this estate, what would happen to it? People can't afford places like this these days. I mean, it might be sold off in lots to a builder, and bang! goes another slab of countryside. Absolutely shiters, that. I don't want to appear hard. Not a hard man, Deborah. Soft as butter. But I notice that there are rights of way sometimes through council estates and things but you lot don't demand the right to march through their gardens, now do you?"
"I suppose not. But don't you think it is an unfair society where someone like you should have so much and other people so little?"
"No, as a matter of fact."
"Oh."
The door opened, and Gustav came in carrying a tray heavy with tea-things.
"What's this, Gustav, my man?" demanded Sir Charles. "No cakes or biscuits?"
"I'll get them," said Gustav.
The tray was set on a low table in front of the fire between Deborah and Sir Charles.
"Shall I be mother?" asked Deborah.
Gustav rolled his eyes and muttered audibly, "Saints preserve us," before exiting again.
Deborah blushed painfully. "What did I say wrong? I just meant I would pour the tea."
"So you did, and so you shall. Don't pay any attention to Gustav. He's potty."
Gustav came back in carrying a plate with cakes. As his return was so quick, Deborah guessed that he had expected Sir Charles to demand cakes and had left the plate somewhere outside the door. Gustav shook out a napkin and placed it on Deborah's lap, contempt in every line of his expressive body.
She found her hands were beginning to tremble and said, in almost a whisper, "Perhaps Gustav should serve."
"See to it, Gustav."
Deborah murmured that, yes, she took milk and sugar, and heaved a sigh of relief when Gustav left the room again.
"So tell me about yourself," said Sir Charles. "What do you teach?"
"Physics."
"How clever of you."
"Not really clever," said Deborah. "And I hardly ever get a bright pupil. But this is my second teaching job. Maybe I'll move on next year."
"Any of the pupils give you a hard time?"
"Ooh, yes. There was this nasty boy, Elvis Black. Ever so horrible. Always jeering and breaking things. But Jessica went round and had a word with his parents. I don't know what she said, but he's been quiet as a lamb ever since."
Sir Charles was beginning to regret his invitation to the Dembley Walkers to take tea with him. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Jessica was every bit as horrible as she sounded in her letter. But he liked Deborah. He liked her inoffensive quiet manner, he liked her pale, bleached look. He particularly liked those knees. The more she talked about her school life, the more she relaxed, and only Gustav coming back in to throw yet another unnecessary log on the fire made her look at her watch and say that she had better be getting back.
"I'll run you home," said Sir Charles.
"No, it's all right," said Deborah, conscious of Gustav's black eyes on her. "I left my little car down at the lodge gates. I like walking, really"
Sir Charles stood up at the same time as Deborah. "Give me your phone number," he said. "We must do this again."
Deborah fumbled in her bag and found a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled down her phone number.
"I will show Miss out," said Gustav.
Gustav held open the massive front door for Deborah. She ducked her head as she passed him, but he said suddenly, "Don't get any ideas about Sir Charles. He isn't for the likes of you. So keep your little hands in your pockets and your feet off this estate."
Deborah was too intimidated to reply. She walked off down the drive, her face flaming. The only thought that gave her any comfort was that Jessica would soon put Gustav in his place.
The Dembley Walkers crowded into the small classroom which they used for their meetings that evening. Jessica looked flushed and excited. She stood up and read out Sir Charles's letter in a jeering voice. "As if we're going to be bribed with offers of tea," she finished. She looked at Deborah. "Did you check out the route this afternoon?"
Deborah stood up. "Not exactly," she said. "I called at the house first and Sir Charles gave me tea and he was awfully nice. I mean, he's looking forward to seeing us, Jessica."
"So the great man gives you tea and you roll over and play dead," sneered Jessica. "Honestly, Deborah, what a wet you are. I should have gone myself."
Jeffrey Benson, Jessica's lover, unexpectedly rose to Deborah's defence. "Sounds a nice fellow to me. That was a decent letter, Jessica. I don't know about the rest of you, but I thought we were all supposed to be walking for enjoyment."
Terry Brice, the waiter, nudged his friend, Peter Hatfield, in the ribs and sniggered. "Nice to be served tea by someone else for a change."