Read Online Pumping Up Napoleon by Maria Donovan - Free Book Online Page A

where Vanessa’s got to.’
    â€˜I don’t suppose you’ll catch sight of her now till dinnertime. She’ll be up with her mother.’
    â€˜Shouldn’t I go and say hello?’
    â€˜Bless you, no. You’d better not. Her ladyship’s not dressed for visitors and she’s sure to keep Vanessa with her. Asking about you, I expect.’ Mrs Brightwell gave a comfortable laugh. ‘You’ll see them both at dinner.’
    Her ladyship? Michael stopped at the threshold of the house and put down the bags. ‘Just a moment,’ he said. Going back to the car he fetched three bottles of champagne. ‘To help celebrate – umm, Vanessa’s mother’s birthday.’
    Mrs Brightwell said, ‘How lovely; we’ll enjoy these I’m sure. I’ll get them in the fridge just as soon as I’ve settled you in.’ And she put the bottles down in the hallway and instructed him to leave Vanessa’s things there too.
    The house seemed pleasingly proportioned, its entrance hall spacious and its staircase wide. As Mrs Brightwell led him towards it, he looked around for clues: there was a hall table with an old leather dog lead on it and an empty silver tray that had not recently seen polish. At the bottom of the stairs was a large photograph of a man recognisable as a younger version of Commander Clifford, standing in shirtsleeves and cap on the deck of a submarine. Further up were photographs and then portraits of seafaring Cliffords of the past. Down the long corridor Michael felt he was being weighed up by the ancestors, a succession of men in wigs and white stockings, and ladies in pink satin dresses, with black dogs at their feet and square-rigged ships on the horizon.
    â€˜You’re in the Blue Room,’ said Mrs Brightwell, opening the door. Indeed it was blue, from coverlet to walls, though the carpet was badly faded and even threadbare in places.
    In his room there were no portraits, only more pictures of sailing ships and a large print of the ‘Raft of the Medusa’, so placed as to appear to be heading out of the window and towards the open sea.
    Michael put away his things, then lay down for a while, listening to the sound of waves booming on the shingle bank, until Vanessa came and knocked on the door. ‘Why are you hiding up here?’ she said. She smiled at him, then went to the window to look out. ‘You have one of the best views,’ she said. ‘We only put important people in this room.’ Michael got up and went to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. She leaned her head against him and he breathed in the scent of her hair.
    â€˜Come on,’ said Vanessa, taking his hand. ‘We mustn’t keep them waiting.’
    â€˜Bubbles, what a treat.’ Vanessa’s mother sipped her champagne, raised her glass and looked at him with dark eyes. ‘Thank you, Michael.’ In her grey silk she looked like a seal with breasts.
    He smiled and raised his glass. ‘Happy birthday, Mrs Clifford.’
    â€˜Oh do call me Doatie,’ said Vanessa’s mother.
    Doatie, thought Michael. Must I? Vanessa’s father was staring at him again. What should he call him? Sir? Commander? Daddy? No, definitely not Daddy.
    Vanessa smiled encouragement and he wanted to smile back and stretch out his foot under the table in search of hers.
    Stop right there. What if he found the wrong foot? The thought brought him out in a sweat.
    The table was certainly impressive: large faux pearls glowed on old white linen, silverware – clean silverware – winked in the candlelight; long-bodied silver animals were placed beside each plate. Michael had a dog, Vanessa a mermaid, the Commander a big fish, Mrs Clifford a peacock with folded tail. The fifth place – there had been no mention of another guest – was a bear on all fours. Vanessa rested the tip of her knife-blade on the back of her mermaid, as if she