course you want to be the best. I can understand that. When we’re told as children that it’s the taking part that counts, we all know that’s bunkum.’
‘Well, you have to be better than the others or you won’t get the good roles. But, actually, what you really yearn to do above all else is to express something beyond just a beautiful line or speed or technique. You want to try to reach some sort of ideal of artistic perfection. You never can, of course, but you have to try.’ Rafe was looking at me with a curious expression. I had the impression he wasn’t really listening to me, which was just as well because what I had just said probably sounded horribly pretentious to someone not in the ballet world. ‘What do you really yearn to do?’
‘Me? I don’t know that I’ve ever been ambitious, apart from silly ephemeral things like winning the boat race or beating the next chap at tennis. I’ve never had a great mission in life. I’m just a simple soldier. Or was. Now I suppose I’m a simple estate manager, a glorified farmer … Hello, Father.’ Rafe stood up as his father approached. ‘Like to sit here?’
Kingsley Preston had changed so much I hardly recognized him. I remembered him as a strong, upright man, wearing his years well. Now he stooped and his slack lower jaw meant that his mouth hung slightly open. The most disturbing change was his expression. Once sanguine and self-assured, this evening it was troubled. ‘No, my boy. No, thank you.’ His lips trembled as he spoke. ‘I prefer to roam.’
‘You remember Marigold, Father? Dr Savage’s daughter,’ Rafe added, seeing that Kingsley was looking vague.
‘Savage. Yes. Consulted him last week about my prostate. Daughter, you say?’ He glanced at me again as though baffled, then his expression cleared. ‘I remember! Went off to be a singer. Yes, a sweet little thing. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. I’m sorry I can’t get up very easily … my leg …’
He pressed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Stay where you are, my dear. So you’ve been in the wars, eh? What happened?’
‘I’m a dancer actually. I landed clumsily.’
‘Really? That’s too bad. Rotten luck. So the singing didn’t work out, then? Never mind. I’d rather watch a pretty girl dance than hear her sing any day. Well, well, little Miss Savage.’ He smiled, seeming genuinely pleased to see me. ‘So you’ve come back to play with Isobel.’
I laughed, assuming this to be a joke, and Kingsley looked gratified. ‘Sweet little thing. You must have another glass of champagne, my dear.’ His eyes became glassy and he dropped his chin, muttering into his chest, ‘I’d better go and pee. It takes some doing getting through dinner these days.’ He shuffled away.
‘He’s changed, hasn’t he?’ said Rafe, turning his head to look anxiously after his father. ‘But then … so have we all.’
‘Isobel hasn’t.’
‘No. She’s still the same. Just as … headstrong.’
I wondered what he meant but, before I could think of a tactful way of asking him, dinner was announced.
‘Hello, Spendlove.’ I gave my hand to the butler, who was waiting in the hall to direct guests to lavatories if they required them. He had been employed at Shottestone since before I was born.
‘Miss Marigold! I heard you was coming. You’re looking bonny. Apart from the leg, that is.’
‘Thank you. How are you?’
‘A bit of bother with me teeth and I don’t see so well as I did, but we must expect that.’ His upper lids drooped heavily, bloodhound-like, obscuring most of his eyes; his nose was heavily veined. Evelyn had once forbidden him to drink any more whisky, but he had been so miserable, weeping over the breakfast table and into the silver polish, that she had been forced to withdraw the prohibition. ‘Me feet are the trouble. The doctor says it’s gout. If there’s time you might think of popping down to the kitchen to have a word with Mrs Capstick.’
‘Of course I will. I’d love to see her again. How is she?’
‘Her stomick’s playing up still but you don’t hear her grumble. Better go in, Miss Marigold, or I’ll get a ticking off for keeping you hanging about in the cold.’
I glanced up at the stairs, remembered coming down them in my first grown-up party dress, seeing Rafe standing by the front door kissing a girl called Olive Fincham, running upstairs again to cry, my whole evening spoiled.
The dining room looked just the same. It was dark red with lots of Georgian silver and mahogany. Isobel and I were sitting opposite each other, two places down from Evelyn.
‘Would you say grace, Archdeacon?’ said Evelyn.
The man on my left began an oration in Latin. His voice had a peculiar muffled boom, as though he kept it locked in a chamber inside his chest. The dining room had previously been hallowed ground, only ventured upon for Isobel’s birthday parties. Mrs Capstick had made magical cakes. Had Rafe attended these occasions? I glanced up and found that he was looking at me. Next to him was a woman in mustard crepe with a crumpled corsage of pink silk roses. She saw me return his smile and looked affronted.
Grace over, I gave my attention to the man on my right. He had a pale rhubarb complexion, bulging dark eyes, a bald head and a prominent nose emerging from long stiff whiskers, the nearest thing I had ever seen to a prawn in evening dress. I saw from his place card that his name was Sir Ibbertson Darkly. He told me he had worked for the MOD (I had no idea what this was but he made it sound important) until his retirement. He was now an amateur historian (by implication rather brilliant). He told me about his career, his dead wife’s saintliness, his children, his tastes in music, literature, painting and dogs. He was collecting material for the definitive book about Hadrian’s Wall. Whenever I tried to say anything, he interrupted with more tales from the Darkly family chronicles.
‘Gibbon,’ I put in as he paused to swallow his last forkful of mushroom soufflé, ‘says that we should not estimate the greatness of Rome solely by the rapidity and extent of its conquests. Do you agree?’
I knew this sentence by heart because it came at the beginning of Chapter Two and I must have read it at least four hundred times in an attempt to get to grips with the beastly thing. I must admit I was pleased with the way it came out trippingly on my tongue, as though I knew what I was talking about. The amateur historian turned to look at me, his prawn eyes wide with shock, as though I had said that I intended to lie naked on the table and make love with every man present.
‘My dear young lady,’ he began, ‘how … what … Gibbon, you say … well, now … it may be so …’ He stared into his empty ramekin and was silent.
For my first attempt at intelligent conversation, this was a disappointing result. Evelyn, who had been toying with her soufflé until the last guest finished, put down her fork and two girls in black and white uniforms, who must have been hired for the occasion, appeared like magic to whisk away our plates. I remembered the bell under the table near Evelyn’s foot. Isobel had once hidden beneath the tablecloth during a lunch party and pressed it at random, occasioning much confusion until we gave ourselves away by laughing.
The next course was brought in. Mindful of the etiquette Evelyn had drummed into us as teenagers, I turned to the archdeacon. His card said, The Venerable James Cogan. He was a man of about fifty with a thick head of
