Marlford Read online

  Ernest Barton did not seem to notice her unease. He was grumpy. ‘I heard the frogs.’ He buttered his toast with precision.

  Ellie did not look up. She poured her tea very carefully, blowing across the top of the chipped cup to cool it.

  Her father tried complaining again. ‘After ten thirty, I should not hear the frogs.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘And I heard them twice, Ellie, perhaps three times. Like damn banshees wailing in the park. I couldn’t sleep, not a wink, not after that.’

  It was mournful as much as angry, the unconvincing bluster of a cracked bell. She continued to ignore it, as she always did.

  He began on his toast, frowned at the crust and ate around it. Then he looked at her with such solicitousness that the butter dripping from his lips might have been the thick fall of tears.

  ‘Did you sleep? Ellie? Did you hear them? You look pale.’

  ‘No, Papa, I didn’t hear them.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can’t believe that.’ He shook his head, as though it were all incomprehensible. ‘It was a racket, all night.’

  ‘It seemed perfectly quiet to me. I didn’t hear anything. I presumed Mr Quersley was on duty.’

  ‘Well, yes, exactly – he should have been. That’s my point. I shouldn’t have heard the frogs at all. Not once.’

  He dropped his hands to the table. He had a way of looking at her, as though he could not see her properly, as though she were far away from him, too far, slipping into the distance; as though this might be the last glance he ever had of her.

  She braced against it. ‘Perhaps you were mistaken, Papa.’

  Disappointment tightened in his face. ‘I was not mistaken. I know the sound of a frog when I hear one. And it cannot be too much to ask, too simple a thing to—’

  ‘It was a warm night.’

  ‘Well, really, Ellie – when it comes to stating the obvious… Of course it was a warm night! Hence, I had all the casements open in my bedroom; hence the importance of Mr Quersley attending to his duties with at least a modicum of diligence.’ He stared fiercely at the long breakfast-room window, as though it might have been in some way to blame for the nocturnal disturbance. ‘I cannot conceive how it might be too difficult a task. All I’m asking for is a peaceful night. Ellie, really – it’s the slightest of courtesies.’

  Ellie looked at him steadily. He had been old for as long as she could remember – she supposed he had already been old when she was born – but he seemed gaunt now, haggard even, the bones of his face pushing through where the skin was wearing thin.

  His unconcealed age irritated her.

  ‘More tea, Papa? There’s more tea, if you would like some.’

  Her words grated, stone on stone.

  ‘No, I do not want more tea, Ellie.’

  ‘Very well. Then I’ll clear the things.’

  She collected their plates with perfect equanimity. Only when she picked up Ernest’s knife did she pause in the rhythm of her work. The handle was still warm, her father’s grasp retained in the yellowing bone, and she let it drop quickly, drawing back as though she had been stung. Then, without looking at him, she made a neat stack of dishes, balanced it across one arm, and slipped away.

  Ernest waited for the men in his study, a room now completely without books, the shelves collapsing. He paced between the door and the narrow windows, the tattered length of his silk robe de chambre flapping around him, its jaded colours momentarily unequivocal again, jewel-like in the morning sun.

  They appeared as he made a turn at the back of the room, entering without knocking.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Barton,’ said the shortest of the three of them, slack in his skin, his expressions curtained. He was stocky, his loose bulk straining the seams of his brown tweeds.

  Ernest spun on his heel; the robe de chambre swung. ‘Ah, Hindy, you’re here. Already! Excellent – good morning, gentlemen.’

  The men did not respond. Each of them went instead to one of the straight-backed chairs positioned around the walls, dragging it with effort towards the centre of the room.

  Ernest unfolded a grubby rectangle of green cloth onto the table, spreading it flat with his large hands. He pressed closed the tears and smoothed out the ingrained ridges. It was a hopeful routine.

  ‘Morning Glories, Ata, if you please.’ He nodded in the direction of the sideboard.

  The tallest of the men stepped forwards, almost as tall as the stately Barton, very similar in movement, like a younger brother, but his skin darker. He began mixing four drinks in long glasses, a complicated procedure requiring much rattling of tongs and bottles, and a low, intense incantation of what might have been a recipe. He wiped the spillages dry with his sleeve.

  The other men waited, seated at the table, the deck of cards shuffled for the first time, piles of coins stacked in front of Ernest, the dealing box aligned carefully with the layout. As Ata came towards them with the glasses balanced on a wooden tray, Ernest looked around at the players, his smile wide and welcoming, the delight in his face so animated that this game might have been something new and special.

  ‘Very well, then, punters. Let’s begin.’

  They did not respond. They sipped their drinks; Hindy ran his hand slowly over his chin, as though checking the quality of his shave. No one reached for the cards.

  ‘Gentlemen?’ Ernest picked up the pack and flicked it, a fresh enticement. ‘Are we ready?’

  The men looked at each other.

  The oldest of them was seated opposite Ernest. He was the smallest of them, too, bent over, his strength taut like wrung leather. ‘We have a concern, Mr Barton.’ His face was thin and sharp, his voice meagre; the trace of a European accent creased his words.

  ‘A concern?’ Ernest put the cards down and took a swig of his cocktail. ‘I really don’t see – oh, what the deuce is the bother now? Well? Luden, spit it out. Let’s have it.’

  Luden smiled and inclined his head slowly. It was Hindy who spoke. ‘It’s the bob-a-job.’ He pushed his chair back.

  ‘The Cub Scouts,’ Ata added.

  Ernest grimaced. ‘What about them?’

  ‘In recent days, we’ve happened to come across them from time to time, on the estate – doing jobs.’ Hindy was the only one of them who spoke without a burr, the clipped perfection of his English betraying his foreignness.

  ‘Well, of course they were doing jobs. That’s what they’re supposed to do – that’s what they get paid for.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Hindy paused. ‘We’ve never had bob-a-job at Marlford.’

  Ernest picked up the cards once more, running them through his hands and flipping them adeptly into a complicated shuffle, his eyes fixed on the quiver of familiar suits. ‘I know that,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘We thought you must have known.’ Luden was abrupt. ‘We imagined you were fully aware of the lack of precedent. That’s what surprised us.’

  ‘You see, Mr Barton,’ Hindy explained, with careful patience, ‘we considered it most unlikely that Oscar would have made arrangements of this nature without consulting us. And Miss Barton, of course, would not presume such a thing. So we wondered how they’d come to be here.’

  ‘Perhaps you could offer an explanation,’ Ata suggested.

  Ernest stared mournfully at the two of spades. ‘I thought it would be a jolly good thing, having them clean up here and there. I asked them to pull some of the weeds from the drive and to sweep the paths. Nothing much – they’re only boys – but God knows a bit of help from time to time…’ Seeing their faces, his bravado failed him; he trailed off. ‘It was an experiment, that’s all.’

  The men seemed to consider this.

  ‘I’m not sure it was a very agreeable one. Nor a very successful one,’ Hindy responded, finally. ‘It doesn’t seem like the way at Marlford.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake – they’re Boy Scouts!’ Ernest puffed.

  Luden shook his head. ‘They’re an invasion.’<
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  ‘They didn’t come anywhere near the hutments. I made sure of that. They fiddled around with a few weeds on the drive and I gave them a shilling.’

  ‘But it’s not just the hutments, is it, Mr Barton?’ Ata smiled.

  ‘We would contend that it’s something more,’ Hindy said. ‘We would suggest that it’s the principle of intrusion. After all, we share Marlford to everyone’s advantage, Mr Barton – for a long time, we’ve shared Marlford to everyone’s advantage – and we know what a place like this should be. All of us.’

  ‘But a few Cub Scouts…’

  ‘A disruption. Unnecessary and unwanted.’ Luden offered it as a final judgement.

  Ernest regathered the pack of cards and placed it in the middle of the table. ‘What do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ Ata reassured him.

  ‘We require an undertaking that no such thing will happen again,’ Hindy said. ‘We would like things to return to normal. Otherwise – well, I believe we would be forced to end our happy years of faro together.’

  Ernest flinched. He wanted to rise from the table and walk away. But they had him trapped there between them, in his usual place, and he could not imagine how he might pull apart from them, not now, after all these years.

  ‘But it was nothing.’

  He clutched his robe tight to his chest. They heard the slight rip of old fabric. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Luden hissed something in response, too low under his breath to be heard.

  ‘What is it that confuses you, Mr Barton?’ Ata asked, with kindness.

  ‘It does seem remarkably simple,’ said Hindy.

  ‘No, it’s not simple,’ Ernest spat back, suddenly irritated. ‘Running this place, trying to work out what’s best for it – it’s a complete bloody riddle. For goodness’ sake, when I was a young man…’

  ‘You are no longer a young man,’ Luden pointed out.

  ‘I think we’re rather losing the point.’ Hindy spoke steadily. ‘Mr Barton, if you simply undertake to consider more carefully in the future, before you allow such—’

  ‘I’m master here, you know. I’m master of Marlford.’

  All three of the men smiled at him, simultaneously, as if their mouths were drawn on a single thread.

  ‘Quite so,’ Hindy agreed. ‘We would not wish to change that – it’s exactly as we would have it, Mr Barton. But if you consult, perhaps…’

  ‘Then you’ll agree to play?’ Ernest was long ago defeated.

  They nodded in unison. ‘Then we will play with pleasure,’ Ata replied.

  Ernest reached for the pack again and riffled the cards, watching the magic-lantern flicker of red and black. ‘Very well, then. No more Cub Scouts.’

  ‘Ah!’ Luden held up a quick finger.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Hindy acknowledged his friend’s concern. ‘Mr Barton, Cub Scouts, as such, are not the issue. We have no objection to Cub Scouts, in principle. Indeed, I think I speak for all of us when I say that we fully endorse the objectives of the Cub Scout movement. You understand that what we require is an undertaking against intruders in general – against the principle of intrusion. Marlford is our home.’

  ‘I know how you want it,’ Ernest said.

  ‘So you agree? It’s settled?’

  ‘Of course I agree. I always agree, don’t I?’

  They ignored his pique. They seemed quite happy with the conversation: Ata immediately reached forwards to straighten the layout, Luden began to count his coins, Hindy put a slow hand on Ernest’s arm, a reconciliation of sorts.

  But the prospect of the game had lost much of its sparkle for Ernest and he did not join in with the bustle. He suspected he had let himself down again; he had the sickening feeling that he had failed. He drank his Morning Glory quietly and wondered, as he often did, how it had come to this.

  Three

  In the enclosure of the walled kitchen garden, Ellie kept her distance from Oscar Quersley – when he knelt by the untidy clump of lettuce, she stood back by the long weeds, flicking the seed heads with her hand, watching the gossamer float away. The jasmine that climbed up the rusting metal frames between the abandoned peach trees and trailing vines sent out a swirling, opiate perfume, the drone of insects in its flowers closing around her. The rest of the world seemed to have drifted away.

  ‘He heard the frogs last night, Mr Quersley,’ she said, at last. ‘It disturbed him, you know. He hardly slept.’

  Oscar was reaching forwards, his pocket-knife extended, ready to cut one of the largest lettuces through its stalk. He sat back on his heels, but did not look at her.

  ‘It was a warm night, Ellie.’

  ‘That’s what I told him. He said it didn’t matter. He said he still expected it to be quiet.’

  ‘When the weather’s warm, the frogs are more insistent.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. I tried to explain. But, still…’

  He bent forward again and sliced the lettuce quickly from its stalk. ‘Here.’ He shook the leafy head as he stood so that loose soil and insects fell away onto the bare earth. ‘I think you’ll find that sufficient. There’ll be another in a day or two, should you require it.’

  ‘It will be warm tonight as well, won’t it, Mr Quersley?’

  Ellie stepped towards him to take the lettuce, shaking it again.

  ‘Yes – undoubtedly.’

  ‘But you’ll see that the frogs are quiet.’

  Her authority was captured for a moment in the statuesque tilt of her head, the ancestral timbre of her voice, the certain statement of her question.

  Oscar looked at her, the anxious girl in a brash headscarf. He laughed without taking his eyes from her face. ‘Quite the lady of the manor today, I see.’

  Ellie met his gaze. ‘I just wanted to be sure about the frogs.’

  ‘You’re very like your mother when you address me in that way.’ He drew his fingers across his face. ‘You look like your mother, too. More and more.’

  She tried to move away, but he took the lettuce from her again; then held her hand in his. She let it rest there and looked at him. The mass of unruly dark hair, greying at the temples, his thin face, the expression of not-quite-understanding that seemed set there; all this she had known for so long that standing there with him brought her whole life simultaneously upon her. She could not remember how the days had unwound: the seasons seemed to have collided – the autumns in the orchard gathering apples; the long, winter evenings reading together at the library; the radiance of the lime avenue in spring; picking lettuce from the summer garden. It was all there with her in that moment, in the way they stood together on the weedy gravel walk with the warmth from the flaking walls enveloping them; it was all, she saw, so brief, and so unconscionably drawn out.

  ‘I wish I’d known my mother,’ she said. ‘As you did.’

  She spoke simply again, with a childish longing, looking out over the dilapidated garden with new bewilderment, as though she were lost in it.

  Oscar nodded, pleased. ‘It would have given you a better sense of your situation, it’s true.’

  ‘I think about her all the time.’

  ‘You could have learned a great deal, I’m sure.’ He spoke firmly, bringing her back to his way of seeing things. ‘She was genuinely aristocratic. But the Bartons…’ He paused, a pained look crimping his face for a moment. ‘The Bartons have been at Marlford for only a very short time, not even a century – not even that – and with no lineage to speak of… commercial success, perhaps, for a while, but nothing of meaning. Your mother’s heritage – generations of heritage – the Wilsheres – well, that’s entirely different.’

  ‘Yes, I know that very well,’ Ellie said. ‘You’ve told me before, Mr Quersley. And the men talk of it a great deal.’

  He ignored her interruption. ‘It’s for that reason that we’ve always felt it our duty to bring your mother to you, as best as we can.’ He went on with the measured inflection of a history lesson. �
��For my part, I’ve endeavoured to keep her in your mind and heart, to bring her alive in some way. So that you can understand Marlford a little better.’

  ‘But I don’t think I do understand – not always. That’s the problem.’

  ‘Ellie, you know that’s nonsense.’

  ‘But, you see, it’s not.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about the babies.’

  He flinched, pulling away from her and staring at the resilient whiteness of her face. His words were careful now, slow. ‘You know this is not something I usually like us to discuss.’

  ‘No. I know. I’m sorry.’ She looked up. ‘But, you see, you’ve hardly ever told me – not really. The men have said things, of course – and you and I have talked about it, but only once or twice, only briefly. Only – I mean, I don’t know… I wanted to ask you about it again. I can’t ask Papa, can I?’

  He gripped his lower lip in his teeth, sucking through squeaky air. ‘No, of course not, no. Your father must never know we’ve had these conversations – never. You promised me that, Ellie, at the beginning.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve never said a word. I wouldn’t want to. I can’t bear even to look at him sometimes, when I think about what he’s done. Ever since you told me, ever since the first time, I’ve kept away from him. Even when he’s seemed kind; even then, I’ve remembered – I’ve remembered those poor babies.’ She put her hand to her chest, as though she could feel the tiny, black nugget of hatred that was lodged there, burning hot under the press of loneliness and betrayal, nurtured over time, crystallising, annealing, becoming hard and bright. ‘But, you see, I’ve got no one else to talk to,’ she went on. ‘Only you, Mr Quersley.’

  He bristled at her softness, shaking the lettuce again fiercely so that the outer leaves broke off and fell away. ‘It does not seem an appropriate moment,’ he said.