From then on Harriet and Mrs Bottomley were firm friends. The housekeeper bossed her, fussed over her, bullied her to eat, and gave her endless advice on how to look after the children.
Chapter Eleven
Even so Harriet often wondered afterwards how she survived those first few weeks looking after Cory Erskine’s children. The day seemed neverending, rising at six, feeding and bathing William, getting Chattie off to school, by which time William’s next feed would be due. Then there was endless washing and ironing, shopping, rooms to be tidied, meals to be cooked, beds to be made.
Night after night, she cried herself to sleep out of sheer exhaustion, to be woken a couple of hours later by William howling because his teeth were hurting.
Hard work alone she could have coped with. It was just the endless demands on her cheerfulness and good temper. Chattie, incapable of playing by herself, wanted constantly to be amused or comforted. She adored the baby and was a perfect menace, feeding him indigestible foods which made him sick, going into his room and waking him just after he’d fallen asleep.
Jonah, Harriet found even more of a problem than Chattie. He was obviously deeply unhappy and, when he came home at weekends, Harriet did her best to amuse him.
In between bouts of moodiness, he was very good company, but Harriet could never tell what he was thinking behind the aloof Red Indian mask he had inherited from his father. Often he didn’t speak for hours and, although he never mentioned his mother, Harriet noticed that he always hung around when the post was due, and was hard put to conceal his disappointment when no letters arrived.
Cory wrote to them regularly, long letters full of drawings and wild, unexpectedly zany humour. Noel Balfour patently didn’t believe in correspondence. Only one postcard arrived from her in five weeks, and that was postmarked Africa and addressed to Cory. On the front was a picture of a team of huge muscular Africans playing football. On the back she had written, ‘Had them all except the goalkeeper, darling.’
Mrs Bottomley’s face shut like a steel trap when she saw the postcard, but Harriet, although dying to know more about Cory Erskine’s relationship with his wife, was sensible enough not to ask questions. She felt that Mrs Bottomley would tell her in her own good time. She was right.
They were sitting before supper one evening towards the end of February in the small den off the dining room. Above the fire hung a huge, nude painting of Noel Balfour. She’s so beautiful, thought Harriet, I can’t imagine any man not wanting her.
‘Who did it?’ she asked.
Mrs Bottomley puffed out her cheeks and went red in the face with disapproval, but the desire to gossip was too much for her.
‘Master Kit did, and he never should have done, neither.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Mr Cory’s younger brother.’
‘Goodness,’ said Harriet. ‘That’s a bit close to home. It’s awfully good.’
‘So it should be,’ said Mrs Bottomley glaring at the lounging, opulent figure of Noel Balfour. ‘He took long enough over it. Mr Cory was abroad at the time, and Master Kit rolls up cool as a cucumber. “Ay’ve come to paint the magnificent scenery, Mrs B.” he says, but there was a wicked glint in his eyes. I knew he was up to no good.’
‘What’s he like?’ said Harriet. ‘Like Mr Erskine?’
‘Chalk and cheese,’ said Mrs Bottomley, helping herself to another glass of sherry. ‘He’s handsome is Master Kit. Tall and golden as one of them sunflowers, and enough charm to bring roses out of the ground in winter. But he always brings trouble. Drove his poor mother mad with worry. Magnificent scenery, indeed. He never moved out of Mrs Erskine’s bedroom, and she lying there totally nude, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and the central heating turned up so high, you’d think it was a heatwave. And it wasn’t just painting they got up to, neither.’
‘Whatever did Mr Erskine say when he got home?’ said Harriet in awe. ‘He must have hit the roof.’
‘’E did,’ said Mrs Bottomley. ‘You should have heard them. Mr Cory, very controlled as always, but very sarcastic, and Mrs E. in hysterics. You could hear her shouting all over the house: “Well, at least I kept it in the family, this time”!’
There was a pause before Mrs Bottomley said, in a confidential voice, ‘You see Harriet, Master Kit wasn’t the first by a long way. Ever since Master Jonah was born, it’s been one young gentleman after another.’
‘But why does Mr Erskine put up with it?’ said Harriet. ‘He doesn’t strike me as being the permissive type.’
Mrs Bottomley shook her head.
‘He isn’t,’ she said glumly. ‘He’s tough in most ways, but where she’s concerned, he’s as weak as water. He loves her.’
‘But how’s he got the strength to divorce her now?’
Mrs Bottomley shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Happen he won’t. She claims she wants to marry this Ronnie Acland, but I reckon Mr Cory will take her back in the end. She likes being married to him. It gives her respectability, and he makes a lot of money. She’s extravagant, you know, wants the best of everything — and she likes having power over him, knowing he’s still under her spell.’
Harriet understood so well how Cory felt. Now that she no longer worried about being able to keep William or where the next penny was coming from, all her thoughts centred on Simon.
Her longing for him grew no less with time. It hungered in her, night and day, engulfing her senses and her reason in an aching void. She tried to fill the void with hard work, to stupefy the ache by watching endless television, and reading long into the night, but her loneliness deepened round her as though she were alone in a huge cave.
Later that evening, after Mrs Bottomley had gone up to bed, the telephone rang. Harriet answered it.
‘Mr Erskine calling from Dublin,’ said the operator. ‘Will you accept the call?’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet, wondering what Cory was doing in Ireland.
‘Hullo, hullo, Cory. Can I speak to Cory, please?’ It was a man’s voice — slow, lazy, expensive, very attractive.
‘He’s not here,’ said Harriet.
‘Hell, I thought he’d be back,’ said the voice. ‘Where is he?’
‘In Antibes still. Can I help?’
‘Not really, darling, unless you can lend me a couple of grand. I’ve found a horse Cory’s got to buy.’
‘Do you want to ring him?’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve got the number. Who is it?’
The voice laughed. ‘Kit Erskine, registered black sheep. Hasn’t Botters been telling you horrible stories about me?’
‘Oh no, not at all.’ Even though he was miles away at the other end of a telephone, Harriet could feel herself blushing.
‘Of course she has. Don’t believe a word. It’s all true.’
Harriet giggled.
‘And you must be Harriet?’ he went on. ‘The distressed gentlefuck.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Harriet furiously, immediately on the defensive. ‘How do you know?’
‘Cory told me or, rather, he issued king-sized ultimatums that I was to keep my thieving hands to myself where you’re concerned. Is that your little baby making that horrible noise?’
‘His teeth are hurting,’ said Harriet.
‘Why doesn’t he go to the dentist? Any news of Noel?’
Harriet, rather indiscreetly she felt afterwards, told him about the postcard of the African footballers.
Kit laughed. ‘Funny how she likes to keep an eye on Cory, and on me, too, for that matter. In fact, she’s had
