quickly, almost gobbling as he told me about his unrivalled collection of incunabula. I had no idea what an incunabulum was but he never gave me a chance to ask. At last I tumbled to the fact that they were old books. I cheered up. Here was a perfect opportunity to display my newly acquired learning.
‘Does The Pilgrim’s Progress count as incunabula?’ I managed to slip in as he shovelled down a grouse breast.
‘Oh, no.’ Another shower of dandruff. ‘Bunyan wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress in … ah-hem …1700 so it is much too late—’
‘Actually,’ I interrupted with a swiftness born of certainty, ‘the first part was written between 1667 and 1672.’ Archdeacon Cogan seemed to flinch. Remembering that I had rushed the gate with the historian, I decided to take a chattier line, so as not to startle him with my unexpected erudition. ‘I didn’t quite understand what Bunyan meant when he said it was abominable to make religion a stalking horse. What is a stalking horse, exactly?’
The archdeacon dabbed his greasy lips with his napkin and bared his teeth in a smile that was so devoid of warmth it was like the opening of a tomb. ‘It is … ah-hem … a device by which one may conceal one’s true intention. By hiding behind his horse, a hunter may deceive his quarry.’
‘Mm. I think Talkative’s so much more interesting than Faithful, don’t you?’ The archdeacon looked dazed so I went on quickly. ‘Faithful’s rather a dreary, preachy sort of character.’
The archdeacon prodded at the skeleton of his grouse and frowned. ‘It has been some years since I last read the work.’
‘I didn’t like the bit about the robin and the spider at all,’ I continued. ‘Everyone knows that robins don’t have a sense of right and wrong and cheerfully eat anything they can get.’
He shot me a doubtful look, as though he suspected that I was completely off my head. The pudding was brought in so he gave his attention to Evelyn. Though it was my go for Sir Ibbertson Darkly, he went on talking to his other neighbour, so I concentrated instead on enjoying the Charlotte Malakoff. After the last delicious mouthful I found I was still between two backs, so I examined the portraits of Kingsley’s ancestors and tried to look as though I was enjoying myself. Where had I gone wrong, I wondered? Usually I had so little to say on any subject other than ballet that I was reduced to inane interjections like ‘really?’ ‘gosh!’ and ‘I’d never thought of that.’ Could it be, I asked myself, that men liked to do all the talking themselves? Could it be that they were simply not interested in anyone else’s opinions?
Evelyn’s vigilant eye had seen that I was neglected.
‘Marigold’s career has been of the greatest interest to me,’ she said to the table in general. ‘It was my idea that she and Isobel should attend dancing classes. Marigold showed talent from the first. Isobel was also exceptionally graceful but she grew too tall.’
‘I was crap, Mummy,’ said her daughter. Evelyn closed her eyes briefly as though she felt the first pang of a headache. ‘Really. I couldn’t do a tendu to save my life.’
She sent me a look of smiling complicity across the table.
‘Those are very pretty pearls, Marigold.’ Evelyn seemed determined to shower me with approval.
‘Thank you. I bought them in a junk shop for fifty pee—’
‘Wearing them next to the skin,’ Evelyn interrupted, ‘is the only way to keep them glowing. The warmth, you know.’
‘Apparently the same’s true of ivory,’ said Isobel. ‘The only trouble is, when it gets warm it gives off a smell like semen. Rather embarrassing, mustn’t it be, to find yourself stinking like a tart?’
A perceptible shudder ran round the table. Duncan laughed nervously, then, seeing Evelyn’s face, broke off in mid-chuckle. Evelyn looked at Mustard Crepe and nodded, the signal for the women to depart.
Isobel took my elbow as I made my way slowly into the hall. ‘You poor darling. Not only crippled but bored stiff. Such is the price paid by Mummy’s darlings.’
‘I’m really too impoverished and obscure to qualify,’ I said, and instantly regretted it because it seemed so insulting to Evelyn.
‘You’re an artist and they’re allowed to be poor. I can assure you Mummy definitely sees you as a trophy.’ Isobel changed the subject. ‘What are your plans?’
‘I’m going to stay here until the cast comes off. Another five weeks. What about you?’
‘Oh, I’m here for the duration. There are tremendous ructions afoot. I can’t wait to tell you my news. You’ll never believe it but I’m going to—’
‘Isobel, come and take round the coffee cups.’ There was a sharpness in Evelyn’s tone as she swept past us on her way to the drawing room.
‘I’ll just go and say hello to Mrs Capstick.’
‘All right. Don’t be long. You must save me from the old cats.’
I limped in the direction of the kitchen. Mrs Capstick was sitting in her chair by the Aga, her legs stretched out, her work done. The two girls who were giggling over the washing up stared at me in surprise when I kissed her.
‘How are you, my pet?’ She smiled up at me. ‘I knew you’d trouble yourself to come and say how do. You always was a dear girl. You’re too thin. Don’t they feed you properly?’
‘Nobody cooks like you. Dinner was wonderful. Particularly the Charlotte Malakoff.’
‘I had to hunt through my old books to find the recipe. Madam says it’s too fattening but Miss Isobel begged her. All them layers of butter and cream and sugar … whip … whip … whip … my poor arm … excuse me, dear.’ She took a swig from the dark brown bottle that stood on the warming plate of the Aga. ‘It’s my stomach as does play up so.’
Mrs Capstick’s stomach was like Nelson’s eye patch, a popular fiction. Everyone knew she had been addicted for years to Collis Browne’s Mixture. Her lids drooped.
‘It was so kind of you to make it for me.’
‘Bless you, my love, I enjoyed doing it. You can have too much fruit salad … not like the old days when you children was little … plenty of good food … the sort Mr Preston likes … steak and kidney pudding and steamed treacle sponge. Now it’s all consommé and grilled … chops …’
Her eyes closed. I would have tiptoed away but it was impossible in my condition. I clomped back to the drawing room. There was no sign of Isobel. I took up my former position on the stool by the fire and spent twenty minutes watching my goose pimples subside while pretending to listen with interest as Evelyn and the two older women discussed the inconveniences of living in large old houses, as though they might for a single moment contemplate living in anything else.
‘Hello, Marigold.’ Rafe and the other men had come into the drawing room. I was gratified to see that he made a beeline for me. ‘What’s it like to be back in the fold?’
He gave me his teasing smile again, which was magnetic enough to bring back a few goose pimples. I wondered which fold he meant – the inner circle blessed by Evelyn’s approval or Northumberland generally? Or perhaps
