her to have conversations all the time, that she should chat about fripperies at charity mornings and fêtes, when all she really wanted was to be at home with her garden. But it was rare that Cyril made a specific request of her, so she had set off dutifully on The two-mile cross-country walk that led to Philmore House, the large, Queen Anne-style residence that, on his marriage two years ago, Cyril had given to his only son.
Athene had been wearing her nightclothes, even though it was well past eleven. Not that she had seemed remotely concerned at having been caught in them. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she had said, not looking sorry at all. She had appeared momentarily surprised, and then flashed a bland, charming smile. ‘I’m not receiving people today.’ She had reached up to stifle a yawn, her seersucker robe revealing the flimsiest of nightdresses and, worse, a good length of pale décolletage underneath, even though any of the estate men might have been passing.
Douglas’s mother had felt quite unbalanced by this extraordinary breach of decorum. ‘I had thought we might have a cup of coffee together,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘We’ve hardly seen you up at the house lately.’
Athene had glanced behind her, an air of distracted irritation hovering around her, as if her mother-in-law might have been followed by a phalanx of visitors, all demanding tea and conversation.
‘Cyril was – we were both wondering how you were.’
‘You’re terribly kind. I’ve just had rather a lot on.’ Athene’s smile wavered a bit when her mother-in-law did not budge. ‘And today I’m feeling rather tired. Which is why I’m not really receiving anyone.’
‘I thought we might have a little chat. About things—’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. But it’s very kind of you to think of me.’
‘There are a couple of things we’d like you to—’ ‘Lovely to see you. I’m sure we’ll see you again soon.’ And, after that brief exchange, the least demonstrative goodbye and not even a hint of an apology, Athene had closed the front door. And her mother-in-law, who normally liked to call a spade a spade, had been almost too stupefied to be offended.
In fact, despite being a woman of some certainty, she wasn’t even quite sure how to describe this turn of events to her husband. What could she say in condemnation? That the girl had received her in her nightdress? Cyril might find that charming – worse, he could start imagining things, and she knew where that might end. That Athene had declined to offer her coffee? Cyril would say simply that she should have given her some warning, telephoned before she left. It was one of the things that irritated her most, her husband’s determination always to be fair. She decided to say nothing, but when Douglas arrived she took him to one side and told him straight: if his wife didn’t want to dress herself with a little dignity, then she shouldn’t answer the door. There was a family name to uphold. When he had looked at her with incomprehension, she had felt a sudden fearful protectiveness, combined with a distant annoyance that the boy was so like his father. You spent their entire youth warning them. Years, perhaps. But it made no difference when it came to girls like that.
Cyril Fairley-Hulme put down his napkin and glanced at the clock, as he did every day during the short minutes between finishing his meal and the moment at which his wife stood and asked if he’d like a cup of coffee before he headed into his study. Behind him, the radio gave out the weather forecast in measured tones, as it did at the end of every lunch, and all three observed a minute’s silence to allow him to listen.
‘Very nice,’ Cyril said quietly. Then, as if making some long-pondered observation, ‘You can’t beat a good game pie.’
‘Delicious. Thank you, Mother.’ Douglas pulled the napkin from his lap and crumpled it into a ball on the table.
‘It’s one of Bessie’s.
Athene had been wearing her nightclothes, even though it was well past eleven. Not that she had seemed remotely concerned at having been caught in them. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she had said, not looking sorry at all. She had appeared momentarily surprised, and then flashed a bland, charming smile. ‘I’m not receiving people today.’ She had reached up to stifle a yawn, her seersucker robe revealing the flimsiest of nightdresses and, worse, a good length of pale décolletage underneath, even though any of the estate men might have been passing.
Douglas’s mother had felt quite unbalanced by this extraordinary breach of decorum. ‘I had thought we might have a cup of coffee together,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘We’ve hardly seen you up at the house lately.’
Athene had glanced behind her, an air of distracted irritation hovering around her, as if her mother-in-law might have been followed by a phalanx of visitors, all demanding tea and conversation.
‘Cyril was – we were both wondering how you were.’
‘You’re terribly kind. I’ve just had rather a lot on.’ Athene’s smile wavered a bit when her mother-in-law did not budge. ‘And today I’m feeling rather tired. Which is why I’m not really receiving anyone.’
‘I thought we might have a little chat. About things—’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. But it’s very kind of you to think of me.’
‘There are a couple of things we’d like you to—’ ‘Lovely to see you. I’m sure we’ll see you again soon.’ And, after that brief exchange, the least demonstrative goodbye and not even a hint of an apology, Athene had closed the front door. And her mother-in-law, who normally liked to call a spade a spade, had been almost too stupefied to be offended.
In fact, despite being a woman of some certainty, she wasn’t even quite sure how to describe this turn of events to her husband. What could she say in condemnation? That the girl had received her in her nightdress? Cyril might find that charming – worse, he could start imagining things, and she knew where that might end. That Athene had declined to offer her coffee? Cyril would say simply that she should have given her some warning, telephoned before she left. It was one of the things that irritated her most, her husband’s determination always to be fair. She decided to say nothing, but when Douglas arrived she took him to one side and told him straight: if his wife didn’t want to dress herself with a little dignity, then she shouldn’t answer the door. There was a family name to uphold. When he had looked at her with incomprehension, she had felt a sudden fearful protectiveness, combined with a distant annoyance that the boy was so like his father. You spent their entire youth warning them. Years, perhaps. But it made no difference when it came to girls like that.
Cyril Fairley-Hulme put down his napkin and glanced at the clock, as he did every day during the short minutes between finishing his meal and the moment at which his wife stood and asked if he’d like a cup of coffee before he headed into his study. Behind him, the radio gave out the weather forecast in measured tones, as it did at the end of every lunch, and all three observed a minute’s silence to allow him to listen.
‘Very nice,’ Cyril said quietly. Then, as if making some long-pondered observation, ‘You can’t beat a good game pie.’
‘Delicious. Thank you, Mother.’ Douglas pulled the napkin from his lap and crumpled it into a ball on the table.
‘It’s one of Bessie’s.
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