Has Reg told you about Derek? Very easy on the eye, definitely the sort of thing I’d go in for if I went in for that sort of thing. Tabitha’s besotted with him — he strokes her between the ears and flirts with her something outrageous and she laps it all up like best-quality cream. I’ve told her he probably does the same to every cat he meets and it’ll all end in tears, but she doesn’t take any notice.
But Daphne thinks he’s bad news. She says he has a nasty aura and horrible things have been happening ever since he started coming here. She’s even started hinting that he reminds her of the man who tried to burgle her a few weeks ago — which has to be pure make-believe, because her burglar was wrapped up in a balaclava and a long black raincoat and she said at the time she’d no idea what he looked like.
Anyway, the point is that now Maurice is away I’m the only person for Daphne to be caring to, and the only thing that gets me through a morning of it without throwing something hard and heavy at her is knowing that at lunchtime Reg will turn up and find a tactful way to get rid of her.
Oh God, I’m being horrible about her again and I won’t get to heaven and Jenny Tyrrell won’t think I’m a nice person. I’m not a nice person, but I want Jenny to think I am. Jenny thinks Daphne’s problem is that she’s never had enough love and we all ought to be specially nice to her to make up for it. So I’m trying, really I am, but it isn’t easy pretending to be nice when one’s not — it’s all very well for Jenny, it comes naturally to her.
And you do understand, don’t you, that I can’t keep it up for a whole day?
Much love,
Griselda
The suggestion that Derek Arkwright might be Daphne’s burglar did nothing to allay poor Julia’s anxiety on behalf of the Reverend Maurice. Indeed, as the days went by, I confess that I myself felt occasional pangs of uneasiness on the clergyman’s behalf.
And yet, by the end of the Long Vacation, all these misgivings seemed to have proved groundless.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
Saturday, 2nd October
Dear Julia,
I’ve decided to say nothing to Maurice about the Jeremiah Arkwright business, so please don’t mention it to anyone when you’re next down here. He came back three days ago, looking so well and in such high spirits that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to spoil things.
And Derek seems to have enjoyed the holiday just as much as Maurice. He drove down here yesterday evening and they both came round for drinks. He was looking more attractive than ever and bubbling over with stories about places they’d been to and things they’d seen. I simply don’t believe there can be anything really wrong about someone I like so much, even if he is using a false name.
They’ve taken hundreds of photographs that they seem very excited about — they’re hoping to collect them this afternoon from the place in Brighton where they’re being developed and Maurice is going to show them to Ricky and me tomorrow evening. For some reason he’s particularly keen to show them to Ricky, but refuses to explain why.
Daphne, of course, has now found out that Derek and Maurice were on holiday together and has been round here wailing about Maurice having “not been straight” with her. I’ve tried to explain to her that it really is none of her business who Maurice goes on holiday with, but it’s no use. She just says, “I’d tell Maurice if I were going on holiday with someone, and if it was someone he thought was horrible I wouldn’t go.” She’s still going on about Derek’s untrustworthy aura, and making dark comments about how many wine bottles there were to put out in the dustbin this morning.
I’d better stop now — I’ve been writing this in the garden, trying to pretend it’s still summer, when the fact is that it’s far too cold now to sit out of doors. All the roses are finished, even the hardiest ones.
Yours with much love,
Reg
Two days later, however, there was a further letter.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
Sunday, 3rd October
Dear Julia,
Something rather beastly has happened — Derek has stolen the Virgil frontispiece. I’m afraid there can’t be any doubt about it. There’s no question, of course, of calling the police. Poor Maurice is dreadfully upset.
Yours with very much love,
Reg
11
DURING THE AUTUMN term I gave but little thought to the affairs of Renfrews’ bank or to what might be happening in Parsons Haver. My time and attention were chiefly occupied by a childish and malicious vendetta being waged against me by the Bursar: the details, like everything connected with the man, are too tedious and trivial to be of the slightest interest to my readers.
On the few occasions when I was able to visit London, I found the building works at 62 New Square progressing normally: that is to say, more slowly than had been imagined possible. By an expenditure of energy which, if devoted to the practice of her profession, would have brought her, she said, success beyond her dreams, Selena had at last prevailed on the plumbers to finish the plumbing, the electricians to finish the wiring and the plasterers to finish the plastering. All was now ready for the installation of cupboards and bookcases; but the Christmas holiday approached and the carpenter continued to elude her.
“And as you once remarked, Hilary, long, long ago in the time before the builders came, when I was young and carefree and optimistic, Terry Carver is the lynch pin of the whole enterprise. If we can’t have Terry’s cupboards and bookcases, the whole enterprise is a catastrophe.”
There appeared, however, to be a gleam of hope.
“It’s possible,” said Ragwort, “that I shall be seeing him over Christmas. It seems that we shall both be staying with Benjamin Dobble.”
“I should prefer you,” said Selena, “not to mention Benjamin Dobble in my presence. I regard him as the direct cause of all our troubles.”
“That,” said Ragwort, “is surely not quite fair.”
“Fair?” said Selena, in a tone of astonishment. “What makes you think that I have any desire to be fair? What I want is someone to blame and I have chosen Benjamin. Why are you spending Christmas with him?”
“Benjamin, as you know, has a very sensitive social conscience. Last year he inherited a large flat in Cannes from a slightly eccentric great-aunt and ever since then he’s been worrying about how unjust it is that he should
