Chapter Nine
Great fans of overhanging willow trees crashed against the roof as we drew up at Ricky Seaford’s newly painted blue and white boathouse. Hayfields rose pale and silver towards a dark clump of beech trees, surrounding a large russet house, which was flanked by stables, sweeping lawns, and well kept fruit and vegetable gardens.
‘Goodness, how glamorous,’ said Gussie, standing on the shore and tugging a comb through her tangled hair. ‘I hope we don’t look too scruffy.’
I certainly didn’t. I was wearing a pale pink shirt over my black bikini, and the heat had brought a pink glow to the suntan in my cheeks.
‘Ricky Seaford’s a frightfully big noise, isn’t he?’ said Gussie.
‘Well, he makes a lot of noise,’ I said, admiring my reflection in the boathouse window.
‘It’ll be so useful for Gareth to meet him,’ said Gussie.
‘Oh he’s right out of Gareth’s league.’
‘Never mind,’ said Gareth equably. ‘I may pick up a few tips.’
We walked up the slope, past hedges dense and creamy with elder flowers and hogweed. Under huge flat- bottomed trees, sleek horses switched their tails deep in the buttercups. We came to a stile. Jeremy went over first, and helped Gussie and then me. For a second I let myself rest in his arms.
We let ourselves in through a wrought iron gate, walking across unblemished green lawns, past huge herbaceous borders luxuriating in the heat.
‘These are Joan’s pride and joy,’ I said. ‘She’s very good in flower bed.’
‘Is she nice?’ said Gussie.
‘Well, let’s say I prefer Ricky. She’s a perfectly bloody mother-in-law to poor Xander.’
At that moment, several assorted gun dogs and terriers poured, barking, out of the French windows, followed at a leisurely pace by Ricky Seaford. He was a tall man, who had grown much better looking in middle age, when his hair had turned from a muddy brown to a uniform silver grey. This suited his rather florid complexion which had been heightened, year by year, by repeated exposure to equal quantities of golf-course air and good whisky. Beneath the bull-terrier eyes the nose was straight, the mouth firm. A dark blue shirt, worn outside his trousers, concealed a middle-aged spread. The general effect was pro-consular and impressive.
‘Hullo, chaps,’ he said in his booming voice, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Joan’s down at the pool.’ He was always more friendly to me when she was out of earshot.
‘This is Gussie Forbes and Jeremy West,’ I said.
‘Nice to see you,’ said Ricky, giving them the big on-off smile that gave him such a reputation for having charm in the City. ‘You’ve certainly picked the right weather.’
Suddenly he saw Gareth who had lingered behind to talk to the dogs. For a minute Ricky looked incredulous, then his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
‘Why Gareth,’ he bellowed. ‘You do pop up in the most unexpected places. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Cruising down the river on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Gareth. ‘I must say it’s a nice place you’ve got here, Ricky.’
‘Well, well, well, I didn’t realize you were going to see it so soon.’
Ricky now seemed terribly pleased with everything. ‘Fancy you meeting up with this lot. Now I expect you’d like a drink. Come down to the pool. Joan’s been so looking forward to meeting you.’
‘You know each other?’ said Gussie, looking delighted. ‘What a coincidence; you never said so, Gareth.’
‘No one asked me,’ he said.
‘Is this all of you?’ said Ricky. ‘I thought you mentioned some tiresome little parvenu who needed putting in his place, Octavia?’
‘That was probably me,’ said Gareth drily.
If I’d had a knife handy, I’d certainly have plunged it into him. I moved away, kicking a defenceless-looking petunia when no one was looking.
The pool, which was of Olympic size and always kept at 75 degrees, lay in an old walled garden, overgrown with clematis, ancient pink roses and swathes of honeysuckle. At one end, in a summerhouse, Ricky had built a bar. Joan Seaford, a 15-stone do-gooder, most of it muscle, lay under a green and white striped umbrella, writing letters. She glanced up coldly as we approached. She always looks at me as though I was a washing machine that had broken down. As is often the case, the people who married into the Seaford-Brennen clan were the ones who felt the family rivalry most strongly. The violent jealousy Joan had always displayed towards my mother was now transferred to me and intensified by the resentment she felt towards Xander.
‘Hullo Octavia,’ she said. ‘You’re looking very fit.’
Her voice had that carrying quality developed by years of strenuous exercise bawling out gundogs, and terrorizing charity committees. Drawing close I could see the talcum powder caked between her huge breasts, and smell the Tweed cologne she always used.
I introduced Gussie and Jeremy. Ricky had dropped behind, showing the new diving boards to Gareth.
‘I’ve never seen such a beautiful pool,’ raved Gussie. ‘And your herbaceous borders are out of this world. How on earth do you grow flowers like that? My fiance and I have just got a house with a tiny garden. We’re so excited.’
Joan looked slightly more amiable; her face completely defrosted when Ricky came up and said, ‘Darling, isn’t this extraordinary? Guess who’s on the boat with them — Gareth Llewellyn.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘And Octavia’s been telling us lots about you, Mrs Seaford,’ said Gareth, taking her hand.
Joan shot me a venomous look, then turned, smiling, back to Gareth.
‘My dear, you must call me Joan. I gather you and Ricky have been doing a lot of business together.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Gareth, the lousy sycophant, still holding her hand. ‘We hope to. I must say you’ve done this pool beautifully.’
‘Well what’s everyone going to have to drink?’ said Ricky, rubbing his hands.
Gussie was putting an awful flowered teacosy on her head.
‘I’d love to have a swim first,’ she said.
I sat down on the edge of the pool. One of the Seaford setters, sensing my ill-humour, wandered, panting, over to me and shoved a cold nose in my hand. The dogs had always been the only nice people in the house.
My temper had not improved half an hour later. Everyone had swum and Gareth, having totally captivated Joan Seaford, had been taken off to the house to talk business with Ricky. Ricky, having learnt from Gareth that Jeremy was in publishing, had invited him to inspect the library which dripped with priceless first editions that no one had ever read. Gussie was still gambolling round in the shallow end like a pink hippo, rescuing ladybirds from drowning. I was left with Joan.
‘Where’s Pamela?’ I said.
‘She’s gone off to lunch with some friends — the Connolly-Hockings. He’s the prospective candidate for Grayston. Xander finds them boring. We were rather surprised he couldn’t make it this weekend. You’d think after three weeks in the Far. .’
‘He was exhausted by the trip,’ I said. ‘It’s his first weekend home. I expect he had a lot of things to catch up on.’
‘Ricky thought it rather odd he used pressure of work as an excuse,’ said Joan. ‘He must confine all his industry to the weekends.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said sharply.
Joan wrote the address of some Viscountess on the envelope in her controlled, schoolgirl hand. Then she said, ‘Xander doesn’t seem to understand that office hours run more or less from 9.30 to 5.30 with one hour for
