‘No.’
‘And if she did? What makes you think she’d ever want to live with a sad, little depressive like you?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Because she wouldn’t, you know. You can’t believe that would happen in a million light years.’
‘Fine.’
‘Give up all the privileges? All the profile? Go from Countess of Belton to Mrs You? Never.’
For a moment I was going to protest facetiously that she would have been more correctly styled as ‘Lady Serena You’ but thought better of it. I was rather interested by her suggestion that Serena and Andrew had a ‘profile.’ What did that mean? What is a ‘profile’ in this context? I suppose Bridget’s rage had now taken on a life of its own and her editing faculties were impeded. ‘I dare say it is unlikely,’ I said.
‘I’ll say. That type never do.’
‘She’s a “type,” is she? Well, that’s encouraging. I must look out for some more of them.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’ I cannot complain at this since I deserved it.
But by the time I too had undressed and we were both shivering beneath our inadequate coverings in our ugly carved bed, she had calmed down. Up until now her anger had protected me against feeling guilt, but I was not to get off scot-free. Just before I turned out the light she lowered her book and looked over at me. ‘What did I do wrong?’ Her voice was quite gentle again and the soft Irish burr that I always found so beguiling gave it a poignancy that reminded me painfully how much I hate to hurt.
I shook my head and gave what I hoped was a warm smile, which in that temperature was quite a challenge. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I answered her in what I felt was a suitably genuine tone. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. It isn’t you, it’s me.’ As one mouths these oh so familiar sentiments, and this last, hackneyed sentence in particular, one likes to feel that one is expressing a noble and generous sentiment. That you are ‘taking the blame’ for the failure, ‘shouldering the responsibility’ and so on. In fact, of course, this is dishonest, as any serial love-rat, to lift a title from the tabloids, could tell you, and we are almost all love-rats at some stage. The phrases are a kind of lazy shorthand, designed to deflect the brickbats hurtling at your head and bring all discussion of the topic to a close as quickly as possible.
Bridget, quite rightly, felt she deserved more than this craven and mendacious reply. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’ And her tone was now pulling at my heart strings to an uncomfortable degree. ‘Is there anything I could have done that would have made it better?’
I looked at her and decided on honesty. ‘You could have been happier.’
She bridled. ‘You could have made me happier.’
I nodded with almost military precision. ‘Precisely,’ I said. And with both of us feeling that her words had put us each inalienably in the right, I turned out the light and we pretended to sleep.
Joanna
NINE
It was the day after we returned from Yorkshire that I received another call from Damian. I say ‘from Damian’ but in fact Bassett’s modest, unassuming voice greeted me down the receiver. ‘Mr Baxter was wondering…’ He paused nervously and I began to wonder what Damian could be wondering that would give me such offence, but the answer, when it came, was mild, ‘if you might possibly be able to get down to see him at all soon.’
I felt I should confess my lack of progress straight away, not that it was very likely I was concealing a major find. ‘I haven’t much to report yet, I’m afraid,’ I said.
But Bassett did not seem to be expecting anything different. ‘Mr Baxter knows that, Sir. He assumed that he would have heard from you before now if there was anything to hear. But he would like to catch up with you all the same.’
Despite Bassett’s dulcet tones, there was an absolute expectation of my agreeing to this suggestion that triggered an alarm bell in my vitals. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had somehow put myself in Damian’s power by agreeing to his request, that, in short, far from doing him a favour I had in fact been bought. I was not being paid, of course, but against my better judgement I had accepted the insulting credit card and in a way it made me an employee, which I should have spotted at the outset. I had broken my own rule, viz. that if one is bought, let it be for a high price. This is why no one should ever accept a charity lecture or brief local appearance where a fee is involved, at least in England. The sum is invariably tiny, but the organisers will most definitely feel, once they have pressed a few coins into your hand, that they own you body and soul. If you must do these things, and sometimes one must, then please do them for nothing. Do them out of the goodness of your heart. The money will make no difference to your life, but you will never have to endure the sense of being a purchased hireling, since you retain the whip hand of your generosity. Better yet, donate the fee you might have had to their cause, or to something equally worthy, and add a halo to your head for good measure. But in this instance somehow, by sleight of hand, Damian had tricked me and retained the moral high ground. I was no longer doing a good turn, I was carrying out a commission. It is quite a different matter.
Eventually the plan was settled. I had rather a heavy week coming up, so the decision was made that I would return to Surrey after lunch on the following Sunday. Accordingly, I took the train and was met once more at the station by the flawlessly uniformed chauffeur, but as we arrived at Planet Damian it came as a surprise to see what looked like a village fête going on in the gardens. The cars were parked in a field further down the road, and the booths and general activity were apparently cordoned off from the upper lawn, so the event did not really impinge on the actual house, but even so it was not very compatible with my cherished image of Mr Baxter, being altogether too philanthropic for his tastes. However, in answer to my question as I got out of the car, Bassett confirmed the situation. ‘Yes. It’s held over two days in the summer, Sir. It’s in aid of the local Catholic church, St Teresa’s. In Guildford.’
‘Is Mr Baxter a Catholic?’ The thought had never occurred to me. Not that I mind Catholics. It was just strange to think of Damian subscribing to any religion.
‘I believe so, Sir.’
‘And does he do this every year?’
‘He does, Sir. Since he first came here.’ I attempted to conceal my cynical amazement as I was shown directly to the library. When I walked into the room I realised at once why I had been sent for. Damian was dying. He had of course been dying before, when I was last there on the visit that started it all, but one may be dying without having death written all over one’s face. This time it was not so much that he had a fatal illness. Rather, at first appearance, he looked as if he were already dead.
He lay back, stretched out, on his daybed, eyes shut. Were it not for the faintest movement of his emaciated chest I would have assumed I had come too late. I suppose I must have appeared shocked, as just at this moment he opened his eyes and let out a rasping, little laugh at my expression. ‘Cheer up,’ he snorted. ‘I’m not quite as bad as I look.’
‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘Since you couldn’t look worse.’
Naturally this bucked him up. He rang the bell by his chair and when the ever vigilant Bassett put his head round the door suggested, in that diffident way of his, that we might have some tea. ‘Are you staying the night?’ he asked when Bassett had gone off on his commission.
‘I don’t think so. I was planning to continue the search tomorrow, and I don’t believe I should put it off.’