Love Song Page 6

  ‘From what Dads says it’s really formal and starchy. You’d have to be on your best manners all the time. Think of that!’

  ‘We wouldn’t mind. Besides, we could help her, and everything. Dads said she has a great library, full of fantastic books.’

  Hope sighed and patted Claire on the head. Claire was blond and a bookworm. Somehow, she did not know why, it seemed an unexpected combination, Hope thought, looking down at her second youngest daughter.

  But there was something so special about Claire. Of all of them she was the most original, seeming always to burn with something which had not yet found expression. For Claire’s sake Hope longed for that moment to arrive, knowing as she did that talent realized, wherever and whenever it found expression, made for contentment.

  ‘You can help me here!’ she told them all. ‘We have to smarten up a bedroom for Aunt Rosabel, and make sure that everything is just as it should be, because she is used to a much grander life than we can offer,’

  Normally Hope loved Christmas, every last inch of it, from the moment she climbed up into the attic of West Dean Drive to find her precious collection of tree ornaments right down to when Claire insisted on handing out the presents from under the tree, reading out the labels with conscientious attention to the exact wording of the messages, labels that Hope kept for years afterwards.

  ‘Darling Dads, something that you will recognize! Lots of love, Mellie.’ ‘To Mums, with all our love Wonder Woman, Rose and Claire. PS Ha, ha, ha, you thought we didn’t notice you wanted it, didn’t you!!!!!!’

  But all the normal relaxed and sentimental feelings that Hope felt at this particular time of year had flown in the face of the arrival of Alexander’s stately relative who, if she did not approve of Hope, would certainly not approve of West Dean Drive after the great house in which she had lived for the best part of her life. No amount of fresh flowers in the newly decorated room, so recently vacated by Rose to make way for their guest, no amount of copies of Country Life or Harpers & Queen by the bedside, would induce the grand Aunt Rosabel to imagine that she was staying in a place that was compatible with her status.

  ‘When’s the elderly person arriving?’ Alexander wanted to know.

  The answer was at eleven twenty at Paddington, and since he was busy at the office it was up to Hope to meet the train, a faded photograph of the old lady in her pocket.

  Needless to say the train was late, it was raining, and the station was so crowded that Hope lived in dread that when it did arrive, not knowing what the old lady looked like, she would doubtless miss her. To pass the time she phoned Melinda to warn her that she would be back much later than she had originally anticipated, and then, for want of something better to do, decided to take a short walk. Venturing out of the station into grimy, dirty side streets housing squalid little hotels very soon convinced her that the area around stations the world over was always the same, not really very inviting to a woman alone, even in daytime.

  So instead of wandering and window shopping where there were no decent windows she returned to Paddington and finally found a bench where she sat down disconsolately, watching the people ebbing and flowing around the refreshment booths, travellers arriving and departing, bag women enviously eyeing other people’s laden shopping bags, and everyone, it seemed, discarding sweet papers, cigarette packets or drink cartons on the already litter-strewn concourse. Most of all she watched everyone looking, and yet seeming to be noticing nothing.

  To pass the time Hope imagined how it would be if she and the girls were arriving at the station, along with so many others, to catch a train to Pewsey, not waiting for an old lady who was coming from Pewsey. It seemed to her that it would be very exciting if they were all in their best going down to stay with a rich old relative who lived in a beautiful house called Hatcombe in Wiltshire.

  There would be a great fire in the hall when they arrived, and a kindly housekeeper who would take the girls straight up to see their rooms, which would be furnished with pretty chintzes and have flowers on flounced dressing tables and Scottish shortbread in tins, and grapes by the bedside.

  The kindly old great-aunt would have borrowed ponies for Melinda and Claire to ride out accompanied by an old groom in weathered old-fashioned riding breeches and a faded cap from under which his shrewd blue eyes would be twinkling. And of course Christmas dinner would be perfect, a meal of the tenderest home-bred turkey cooked to perfection, which they would all enjoy in the elegant dining room where portraits of benignly smiling ancestors stared down. The napkins would be so starched it would be difficult to pull them apart to put them on their knees, and the crackers would be luxurious ones from Harrods, the super-de-luxe kind that always had wonderful presents.

  Hope would wear a new, very chic, long black evening dress which would be teamed with an expensive glittering evening jacket of the kind that everyone was wearing in glossy magazines; and during the day she would wear a marvellous new blue suit in the shade of sapphire that showed up blue eyes so well, while the girls would all have those Fair Isle jumpers and chic little skirts and dark stockings and shoes, with their hair tied into black velvet ribbons. At the head of the table Great-aunt Rosabel would be smiling and laughing, enjoying her first un-lonely Christmas since she could remember – and all thanks to Alexander and his family of laughing, chattering girls.

  Just in time Hope awoke from her daydream to hear the announcement of the train from Plymouth’s late arrival at platform eight. Hurrying the wrong way through the crowds, Hope reached the barrier and stood waiting anxiously for sight of the old lady, but there was none.

  Finally, as it seemed the last disembarking passengers hurried by her, Hope ran onto the platform, fearing that Alexander’s elderly relative might have plunged off in the wrong direction or unbeknownst to her headed straight for the taxi rank.

  She had not. Last of all the passengers descending from the train came a tall, beautifully dressed old lady, her long white hair neatly twisted into a French pleat and secured with tortoiseshell pins, her excellently tailored tweed suit showing beneath a swagger coat with a back belt and full pleats, her small velvet hat pulled down to just the right angle.

  ‘Great-aunt Rosabel?’

  ‘Ah, my dear. You’re Alexander’s wife, are you not?’

  Great-aunt Rosabel smiled down at Hope, for, elderly or not, she was still taller than her hostess.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How very kind of you to meet the train.’

  Hope took her small crocodile leather suitcase from her, realizing as she did so that it must be pre-war luggage for it was very heavy, and the initials on it so small that it breathed monied discretion.

  ‘So kind, so very kind,’ Rosabel murmured again, following Hope down the platform. ‘A very crowded train, but that did not matter because I had a very nice window seat. And there was excellent coffee, so the delay passed quite comfortably, I am happy to tell you.’

  Hope smiled back at her, full of relief that she had found her at last and that she was so charming and kind, not alarming at all. ‘We have been so looking forward to your coming.’

  ‘And I to meeting you all. So kind of you to ask me.’

  Arriving at West Dean Drive Hope could not remember when she had last seen Alexander on such superb form. From the moment he greeted his aged relative he was the personification of charm. Hope could not help but be impressed by the way her husband beguiled his relative. He was both attentive and skittish. He teased her and laughed with her, he sat in front of the fire and placed a tray of superb sandwiches and a glass of sherry in front of her. He told her that she looked seventeen not seventy – knowing that she was well over eighty.

  Aunt Rosabel clearly loved everything and said so. Her room, the house, the welcome, Alexander, everything seemed to please her above and beyond any possible expectation.

  And the girls – dressed in the kind of clothes that they normally only wore for birthdays or parties – were also on their best
behaviour, practically curtseying every time the old lady came into the room, and staying quiet where they would normally have been tumbling over themselves to chatter. Hope puzzled over this sudden change in their outward demeanour and then realized that they were, quite literally, awestruck by Aunt Rosabel, the old lady having been a name around the house for such a very long time that her belated appearance in person must be like some kind of hologram come to life.

  But, more than that, Hope could see that they really liked her.

  ‘Ah, Melinda, there you are. I have brought you down some photographs of some polo ponies that Uncle Harold bred. I knew that would interest you, because I remember hearing, long ago, that you were interested in horses. And for Rose, a theatrical book to look at, very old, as you can see, even older than myself. Now, you are Claire, I know, and the baby is Letitia. A Fairfield name, I am proud to say, and one of the nicer ones too. Uncle Harold would be pleased.’

  From the moment she sat among them they were all in her thrall.

  And far from being frightened of babies the old lady insisted on sitting next to Verna and taking the baby’s hand and holding it tight, while hearing all about Letitia’s progress and how she was taking to solid foods, asking of the nanny everything that was appropriate and interesting. In this way the time between lunch and tea passed very pleasantly, finishing with Aunt Rosabel telling the girls about something called It which, when she was young, it was the ambition of every young gel to possess.

  ‘I can see you all have It,’ she told the girls, smiling round at them. ‘Not just beauties, but beauties with something extra.’

  Of course they were all fascinated by the idea of It, and even Verna confessed to wanting to possess it, so that as Hope, in happy mood, served tea and cake before the crackling fire it occurred to her that far from spoiling Christmas Aunt Rosabel was bringing something extra to their house, something that only an older person could bring, some depth that just her presence, redolent of the undoubted charm of the old days of faithful servants and great houses, of old mahogany and rooms with ornate plaster work, of family pride which had stood the test of a thousand years, could conjure up.

  Hope was not alone in her feeling that Aunt Rosabel had brought some sort of special quality to their Christmas. Melinda felt so too, and as Christmas morning came round and found them all in their best, the fire once more lit and the tree looking prettier than ever, she would not have swapped places with any other girl enjoying Christmas with her family. West Dean Drive seemed to be the very best place in the world to be.

  Besides, the lunch was cooking and smelling wonderful, the table was set, and so far none of the younger ones had got over-excited. In fact everything was shooting along and everyone really enjoying themselves.

  To begin with Rose and Melinda had accompanied Aunt Rosabel to a most enjoyable family service at the church at the end of the road, where for once Melinda had done her best to concentrate on the sermon which she had then determinedly discussed on the way home, awarding the vicar good and bad points for what Rose called ‘his performance’.

  ‘But that is exactly what church is, my dear, a theatrical performance,’ Aunt Rosabel had agreed. ‘But just like the the-ate-er, one must never ever go backstage and meet the actors. My father used to say that after every Christmas service. He never went backstage to meet the actors.’

  ‘Do you know that Rose is named after you, Aunt Rosabel?’

  Aunt Rosabel paused in the road to stare round at her tall, dark great-great-niece.

  ‘My dear! No! No-one ever told me. Do you intend to dance under my name? Because if you have been named after me, then it would be more fitting were you to use my entire name. I shall suggest that you do. To your father. Rosabel Fairfield. I can see it in lights already.’

  After which she gave such a happy laugh that despite not quite agreeing with her, Rose could only smile in return. As she said later to Melinda, ‘She’s so sweet – there was nothing I could say.’

  Before lunch, while Hope put the finishing touches to the table, Melinda set about opening the champagne. Each year that was her self-appointed task at midday, but this year, as she brought the first bottle in, Aunt Rosabel stiffened and said, ‘I am afraid I am rather gun shy when it comes to bottles.’

  However, when the first bottle had been opened silently and expertly by Mellie under a tea towel, she was reassured – so much so that after the first glass she forgot all about noises and corks and once more fell into happy conversation with Verna, telling the young Australian all about the war when she was in the WVS and working under Lady Reading, and how she and her committee had to find homes for evacuee children in their area, all of whom had screamed in terror when they had first seen a cow, convinced, she told the incredulous Verna, that it was a wild animal and that they would be eaten by it.

  As always at West Dean Drive, no matter what the state of their finances, there were plenty of presents under the tree, beautifully wrapped by Hope and her daughters, and each bearing a carefully thought out message. There was even a gift for Minou, their much-loved Burmese cat. This year, of course, there were even more, Aunt Rosabel having carefully placed her presents in the pile along with the rest. She sat back with a look of some contentment to watch ‘the young’, as she called the girls, unwrapping her presents first as a compliment to her and, as Hope said, ‘before the room becomes awash with paper and ribbons’.

  ‘Oh, but this is beautiful, Great-aunt Rosabel,’ exclaimed Melinda.

  ‘Sexy …’ Rose began facetiously, looking at the silk shawl her sister was holding up, but then she stopped and added quickly, ‘Gosh, that’s beautiful, Mellie, really beautiful.’

  Melinda wrapped the old shawl round her and then, reaching forward, she kissed the old lady’s cheek, noting her skin felt just like a fine china teacup.

  ‘Aunt Rosabel!’ Rose exclaimed after opening her own present, which was labelled Fragile most carefully. She held it up for all to see, a pretty piece of old porcelain.

  ‘Really one should have given you a ballerina, had one known of your dancing. But the Spaghetti Seller is very special,’ the old lady told Rose. ‘Very special. It is not an English piece, do you see? It is German.’

  Then it was Claire’s turn. Her present from Aunt Rosabel was discovered to be a finely illustrated book on Old Masters, with beautifully coloured reproductions.

  ‘However did you know, Aunt Rosabel?’ she wondered, leafing through the book. ‘That this is my thing?’

  ‘Your thing?’ Aunt Rosabel repeated.

  ‘She means her latest interest,’ Alexander explained, winking at the rest of the room.

  For Alexander himself there was another silk scarf, but this time the sort that people like Noel Coward used to wear with a Sulka dressing gown, as Aunt Rosabel told him, in case he did not know. Which indeed he did not, because, as Hope always teased him, he really had not the slightest interest in anything unless it had just been on the news.

  ‘And from Dads for – Great-aunt Rosabel—’ Claire began, only to be stopped by the old lady.

  ‘Aunt Rosabel. No need for the Great.’

  ‘Sorry, Aunt Rosabel.’

  ‘I only think of you as Rosabella,’ her great-nephew told her, teasing her and playing the gallant to her fair lady, which made the old lady laugh and smile, and turn to Verna with a murmured, ‘He’s such a tease.’

  The delay had given Claire just enough time to re-read the labels on the remaining parcels under the tree, and she realized in an instant that there was nothing from Dads for Aunt Rosabel. Her loving great-nephew, having announced that he would be buying his great-aunt ‘something special’, had, in the Christmas rush, obviously completely forgotten to do so.

  For a clutch of seconds that strayed into a minute, Melinda and Claire stared at each other. Nothing could be worse, they knew, than that their father would not have thought of giving a present to his aged relative.

  ‘Take our label off, and just give him ours
to give to her.’

  Melinda stared down at the carefully wrapped parcel. It had taken all of them hours to prepare the gift. It had been Mums’s suggestion, and they had gone along with it willingly, but they knew that the whole day would be spoilt if Dads had nothing to give Aunt Rosabel.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who it’s from, Mellie, just so long as she gets something from Dads. That’s all that matters really, isn’t it?’

  Noting not just the delay, but the expressions on their faces, Alexander walked over to them. Reaching out blindly, as he was so used to do, he took the package from his daughter and handed it to his great-aunt himself.

  ‘And this, my dear Rosabella, is from me,’ he said.

  Rose and Hope watched in astonishment as it was unwrapped. Rose, who had not been paying much attention, was just about to protest that there had been a mistake when Claire put a warning finger to her lips.

  ‘When you think of the work we put into that …’ she muttered.

  When the girls had heard that their father’s aged relative was definitely coming for Christmas, at Hope’s suggestion they had spent hours and hours of their spare time in preparing an illustrated scrap book all about their family, cutting out things from old family papers, sorting through old photographs in dusty boxes that they had found stored away in the attic, finally laboriously captioning every illustration with special lettering purchased with the last of their Christmas pocket money, the very last few pounds left to them after splashing out on the expensive mock leather album that they had chosen as the binding for their surprise.

  ‘So what are we meant to be giving her now?’ Rose went on under her breath, as Claire valiantly continued to read the labels and hand out the rest of the presents from under the tree.

  ‘I’ll ask Mums,’ Melinda said, getting up from where they had all been kneeling on the floor. ‘She always has an emergency store.’

  But Hope had already realized what had happened, and was slipping out of the door un-noticed as Melinda caught up with her.