Читать книгу The O’Hara Affair - Kate Thompson - Страница 6

Dervla Vaughan (née Kinsella) stepped through the front door of her new home and set her bags down on the hall floor. The sun filtering through the mosaic glass of the fanlight cast a jewel-like pattern onto the stone flags, and when she slipped off her sandals the patch of spangled sunlight warmed the soles of her feet. The air was redolent of fresh paint, with here and there a trace of linseed oil. If you added base notes of baking bread, then bottled it, the scent could rival any room candle dreamed up by Jo Malone. It was perfectly quiet in the house: the only sound that of birdsong, and the distant baaing of sheep from the fields beyond the garden.

Her dream house! Moving into the centre of the hall, Dervla executed a slow turn, taking in each and every one of the three hundred and sixty delectable degrees that surrounded her. Off the hallway, to left and to right were two spacious, high-ceilinged reception rooms. In her mind’s eye they were washed in soothing shades of buttery yellow and eau-de-nil, furnished with understated antiques and carpeted in faded Aubusson; but right now the rooms were works in progress, with tools of the decorator’s trade heaped in a corner and undercoat spattered on dust sheets.

Her eyes followed the graceful line of the cantilevered staircase. On the floor above her, bedrooms and bathrooms had unparalleled views over the countryside, with sea shimmering and mountains slumbering on the horizon. The views were as yet unframed by curtains, but Dervla had improvised with yards of unbleached muslin in the master bedroom, to soften the magisterial appearance of the high casements. More muslin was draped from the tester over the king-sized bed, each side of which was flanked by a pale rug: not the Aubusson carpets of Dervla’s fantasy, but pretty in their own way. A chest at the foot of the bed contained bed linen, but aside from that, and the cushions piled on the window seat, the room was unfurnished.

Only one room in the house had been finished – finished to pretty high spec, at that. Christian – Dervla’s husband of less than a year – had surprised her one day by taking her hand and leading her up the staircase that accessed the turret room at the very top of the house. Unlocking the door, he’d thrown it open to reveal a dedicated office space with units to house computer, printer and scanner. There was an ergonomic chair cushioned in leather, and shelves just waiting to be filled with books and stationery. ‘This is where you’ll finish that book!’ he’d announced. ‘What do you think? Isn’t this a dream space for a writer?’

It was a dream space for a writer – her very own ivory tower. The only snag was that Dervla wasn’t a writer: she was – like thousands of other professionals recently made redundant – an aspiring writer. Having been a successful auctioneer in a former life and in a former economy, Dervla had been commissioned to write a beginner’s guide to selling property. She knew she had lucked out: other estate agents had sunk without trace since recession had struck. But even though she had a publishing deal and a deadline to work to, Dervla felt like a complete fraud every time she sat down in front of her keyboard and opened the file entitled How to Sell Your House – What Every First-Timer Needs to Know. Her contract specified eighty thousand words, and as the deadline inched closer, Dervla was feeling less and less confident that she’d be able to deliver.

It wasn’t entirely her fault – for the past few months she’d been inundated with the kind of stress that might floor a less resilient individual. Closing down her business, putting her Galway penthouse on the rental market and moving into the Old Rectory had all taken its toll on her energy, and she’d had little spare time in which to get any writing done. But now that she had a room of her own – a room with a view and an ergonomic chair, to boot – perhaps inspiration would come to her.

Crossing back to the front door where she’d dumped her bags, Dervla picked up her computer case, then made for the staircase that curved up to the first floor. A narrower spiral staircase took her to the turret room. Switching on her computer, she strolled over to one of the three double-glazed windows while she waited for the screen to shimmer into life.

When they’d bought the Old Rectory, the turret had been windowless – blocked up since the introduction of the window tax in the eighteenth century. Dervla and Christian had gleefully reinstated windows to east, west and south, thereby ensuring that the room was filled with light. From this vantage point the steeple of the little church on the outskirts of Lissamore village was just discernible, and you could hear the bells chime, too, when the wind was coming from the right direction. Sheep baaing! Birdsong! Church bells chiming! The kind of pastorale that accompanied Thomas Hardy adaptations on television, now made up the soundtrack to her life.

Chimes of another kind were coming from her bag. On honeymoon in Mexico, Dervla had fallen in love with the sound of the wind chimes on the veranda where she and Christian had slept. She’d made a recording to use as her phone tone, and every time her phone rang now, she picked it up with a pang of nostalgia.

Her sister’s name was lit up on the display.

‘Hey, Dervla,’ said Río, breezily. ‘Have you moved in yet?’

‘Yes. I’m in my turret.’

‘Wow! Like a princess in a fairy tale. Any sign of your prince?’

‘He’s on his way from the airport.’

‘With the wicked stepmother?’

‘She’s not my stepmother, Río. She’s my mother-in-law.’

‘Mother-in-law! The scariest words in the world.’

‘According to Fleur, the French call them belles-mères – beautiful mothers.’

Over the phone, Dervla heard her sister suppress a snort. ‘What are you going to call her? I mean, call her to her face? “Daphne”, or “Mrs Vaughan”?’

‘According to the carer it depends on what kind of a mood she’s in. If she’s in a snit she insists on being called Mrs Vaughan, but when she’s in good form she doesn’t mind Daphne.’

‘You could always call her Daffy.’

‘That would be very politically incorrect, Río.’

Dervla moved to the window that overlooked the stable yard. It had been spread with golden gravel, and terracotta planters had been arranged around the water feature – a raised pond complete with underlighting. A gleaming new thatch roofed the outbuildings that had been converted into a cottage-style dwelling for her mother-in-law, and – to complete the rustic look – shutters painted duck-egg blue flanked a half-door crafted by a local carpenter. The exterior was deceptive: inside, the cottage had been modernized, and now boasted a state-of-the-art kitchen, a big, comfortable sitting room with an HD plasma screen and a tropical fish tank, and underfloor heating. There was also adjoining accommodation for Mrs Vaughan’s carer, Nemia.

‘Are you all set for her arrival?’ Río asked.

‘Yep. There’s a shepherd’s pie ready to go, and a bottle of vintage Moët in the fridge.’

‘Posh!’

‘One of the pluses of being married to a wine importer. We got a case from Christian’s partner as a wedding present.’

‘Is Mrs Vaughan senior allowed a drink?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t imagine a person with her complaint would have much tolerance for alcohol.’

‘Oh. I see what you mean. Yikes. I never thought of that.’

Christian’s eighty-four-year-old mother suffered from dementia. Because she had been born and reared near Lissamore, it was Christian’s wish that she should spend her final days in the place she still called home. She and her carer had left London earlier that day on what was to be Daphne’s final journey to her native Coolnamara.

‘You could always just pour her a glass of fizzy water and pass it off as champagne,’ suggested Río.

‘I don’t think she’s that confused.’

‘When did you last talk to her?’

‘A couple of days ago. She hadn’t a clue who I was, of course, but Christian thought it was a good idea to give her a gentle reminder of my voice from time to time, to get her used to it.’

‘Does she even know who he is?’

‘He claims she does. But then, he constantly refers to himself as “Christian, your son”, when he talks to her on the phone.’

‘Jesus. It’s a bitch of a disease, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It is.’ Dervla realized that she didn’t want to talk about her mother-in-law any more. She sat down at her desk and started to doodle squares on a Post-It pad. The shapes evolved into a house like one a child might draw, with four windows and a door. ‘So what’s new, Río?’

‘I’m bored.’

‘You’re on the set of a blockbuster movie surrounded by Hollywood luminaries and you’re bored?’

‘Well, I guess I’m more pissed off than bored. One of the actors complained today that his snuffbox was too gay, and that horrible little child star has a million riders written into her contract.’

‘There’s a child star in the movie?’

‘Well, she’s twenty-something, but she behaves like a child. Her name is Nasty – short for Anastasia – Harris.’

‘Oh – I’ve heard about her. Didn’t she get married recently, to some film star old enough to be her daddy?’

‘Yeah. She married Jay David.’

‘Of course! Hollywood royalty.’

‘And she’s living up to it. She’s every bit her sugar daddy’s little princess.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘No. He can’t take time off his schedule to visit Ireland. Rumour has it he’ll be flying in on his Gulfstream for the wrap party, though.’

‘Is she any good as an actress?’

‘According to her husband – who is, of course, completely non-partisan – Nasty is the new Julia Roberts. Her talent will blaze forth into the world like a supernova. And boy, does she believe it. The problem with princesses like her is that the more their demands are met, the more outrageous they become.’

‘Like J. Lo insisting on her coffee being stirred counterclockwise?’

‘You got it. Nasty insists on having rose petals scattered in the loo bowl—’

‘No!’

‘Yes. And the bed sheets in her trailer – Egyptian cotton, of course – have to be changed every day. And this morning she decided that her character should have a parasol, even though parasols were unheard of in nineteenth-century Coolnamara.’

‘Shouldn’t that be wardrobe’s problem? I thought your job was strictly set-dressing?’

‘The line between the two gets blurred, sometimes. I spotted a lovely découpage screen in the transport van this morning, by the way. I thought I’d nab it for you as a housewarming present when we’re wrapped.’

‘You’re not going to steal it?’

‘No – I’ll get it at cost. And it’s genuine Victorian, not repro.’

‘Thanks. That’s sweet of you.’

‘Hang on two seconds, Dervla.’ There came the mumbling of a man’s voice in the background, and Río said: ‘No, no, you great lummox – not you, Dervla – a dudeen is a clay pipe. Yeah – and be careful – they break easily.’

A Victorian screen would look great in the drawing room, Dervla decided, as she doodled a chimney on to her house. They could set it in front of the door of a winter’s evening to stop draughts – although of course, with double-glazed windows and underfloor heating and a blazing turf fire, there wouldn’t be any draughts. Scribbling a plume of smoke puffing from her chimneypot, Dervla pictured herself and her husband sitting on either side of the fireplace reading their books in companionable silence, Christian’s trusty Dalmatian at his feet. She’d definitely start reading Dickens – preferably in leather-bound editions. Or maybe she’d take up knitting? Knitting had a certain cachet: all the actresses on The O’Hara Affair were busy with five-ply Guernsey wool and number twelve needles, according to Río.

‘Sorry about that.’ Río was back on the phone. ‘The feckin’ eejit hadn’t a clue what a dudeen was. Probably thought it meant a hot girl. So. Tell me more of your news. How’s your gaff shaping up?’

‘Well, the bathroom’s nearly finished, and the kitchen.’

‘Utility, too?’

‘Yes. But we’re just glorified campers at the moment. The only real piece of furniture we have is the bed.’

‘Sure, isn’t that all you loved-up pair need?’

Dervla smiled. ‘I have to confess I miss my fix of Corrie.’

‘You mean you don’t have a TV?’

‘No. They delivered the big screen we ordered for Daphne, but forgot ours. Oops. That reminds me –I’d better run down and set up the channels before she arrives. And double oops – I forgot to turn her heating on.’

‘But it’s not cold.’

‘She’s a fragile little old lady, Río. She feels the cold, especially in the evenings.’

‘Be off with you, so. Call me tomorrow and let me know how the welcome committee went, won’t you?’

‘Will do. Bye, Río.’

Dervla put the phone down, added a tail to the spotty dog sitting on the doorstep of her two-dimensional house, then scampered downstairs, the sound of her feet on the bare boards echoing around the empty space.

In the hallway, she retrieved her shoes, and made for the back door. As she crossed the stable yard, the crunching of gravel startled a cat that had been snoozing in a patch of sun. As it skedaddled, Dervla wondered if she should try and encourage it by leaving food out, but then realized that the Old Rectory would be no place for a cat once Kitty the Dalmatian moved in.

In Daphne’s cottage, Dervla’s feet made no sound. Footsteps here were muffled by the pure wool deep-pile carpet that had been laid just days ago. The colour matched the curtains, made to measure in a rose-coloured brocade, which was echoed in the loose covers on sofas and armchairs. Much of Daphne’s furniture had been shipped from her house in London, so that her new surroundings would have a reassuring familiarity to them. The furniture included a very elegant walnut escritoire, a Regency rosewood bookcase, and a nineteenth-century beech day bed; her exquisite collection of japonaiserie was displayed in a bevelled glass case that ran the length of an entire wall. Christian had told her that a pair of porcelain vases dating from the K’ang-hsi period (whenever that was) were worth in the region of 20,000 euros, and Dervla thanked Christ that she would not be responsible for dusting them.

She flicked the main switch that controlled the heat, then wandered through Daphne’s new home to make final checks. The conversion of the old outbuildings had cost Christian a lot of money – more than had been spent so far on the refurbishment of the Old Rectory. But they had looked upon it as an investment. Once the old lady died or had to be moved into proper residential care, the cottage could still generate income as an up-market artist’s retreat. Dervla had already worded the ad that she’d place in such select publications as The Author magazine:

Coolnamara, West of Ireland. Comfortable, well-equipped, single-storey house, sympathetically converted from period mews buildings adjoining eighteenth-century manor. Lissamore village with shops, pubs and seafood restaurant just 10 mins; fabulous beach and mountain walks nearby. Perfectly lovely, undisturbed surroundings: ideal for writer/artist.

Dervla didn’t much like herself for contemplating the death of Christian’s mother, but she was a pragmatist, and – like all estate agents – was unsentimental when property was involved. Naturally, it behoved Christian to take care of Daphne in her declining years, and Dervla respected his decision to bring her home to Coolnamara. While her mother-in-law lived here, Dervla would do all she could to make her welcome and comfortable. She’d spent all weekend getting the place ready, with the help of a local girl, Bronagh. Between them, they had arranged Daphne’s furniture and displayed her paintings and photographs to advantage; they’d filled vases with flowers (Christian had specified that yellow lilies were her favourite on account of the vibrancy of the colour and the headiness of their scent) and made beds and stocked fridge and freezer. Dervla had even unpacked her mother-in-law’s clothes, marvelling at the vintage labels on many of the garments as she’d hung them in the wardrobe: Balenciaga, Givenchy, Lanvin. Daphne Vaughan had been a classy dame. A model, Christian had told her, whose career could have taken her to Paris if she hadn’t decided to get married.

The wedding of Daphne to the honourable Jeremy Vaughan had been recorded in all the society pages as the event of the year 1945. Christian had showed her the cuttings in the scrapbooks that had arrived, along with all his mother’s other effects. They showed the couple on their wedding day, on honeymoon, and at the christening of their first child, Josephine. There were articles on what Daphne had worn to Cheltenham; to the Proms and to Henley, and a picture of them smiling lovingly at each other at the Queen’s garden party. Daphne was described as a model wife and hostess, and doting mother. When Jeremy died – leaving her very comfortably off with a trust fund and investment portfolio – the widow had been inconsolable. The photograph of the funeral – cut from the Daily Telegraph – showed her standing at the graveside swathed in Blackglama fur, holding the hands of her two young children. Christian had been just twelve.

Moving back into the sitting room, Dervla activated the digital box. While waiting for it to boot up, she wandered over to the glass-fronted bookcase. Since Bronagh had unpacked the books, she was curious to inspect Daphne’s library. What might her taste in literature be? Eclectic, by the look of it. On the shelves, volumes of poetry sat next to obscurely-titled novels, many of them French. There were books on gardening, books on history, and books on art and artists. As well as being sophisticated, Christian’s mother was clearly cultured. There were lots of complete works, too, many of which were beautifully bound in leather, and Dervla was delighted to see that a set of Dickens was displayed. Nice! She could realize her dream of sitting by the fire, turning the pages of Little Dorrit or Great Expectations! Reaching for a volume, Dervla realized too late that the ‘book’ was actually a box with a hinged lid. The lid fell open as she slid it off the shelf, and a second volume, bound in vellum, fell to the floor. Dervla stooped to pick it up. It was a diary, and on the cover, in black italics, were the words Daphne Beaufoy Vaughan, 1968.

She wouldn’t open it. She shouldn’t open it. But of course, Dervla couldn’t help herself.

The pages of the journal were covered in sprawling, energetic writing – as if the hand of the author could not keep up with the torrent of thoughts splashed over the creamy paper. Dervla’s eyes scanned the script, lighting randomly on a paragraph here, a sentence there. ‘The most far-fetched vow I ever made,’ she read, ‘was when, as a child, I swore that if I ever had children I would love them unreservedly: a promise I have been utterly powerless to keep.’ ‘As well as being non-conformist, I happen to be very proud, and that, of course, makes one aloof.’ ‘We have been married for over two decades now, and still have nothing to say to one another.’ ‘Spent the weekend with L. in the Royal Albion in Brighton. We fought like tigers, as usual.’ ‘Have decided to send C. & J. to boarding school. Children are not conducive to conducting an amour.’ ‘R. presented me with a diamond so paltry I promptly hurled it into the lavatory. Much to my amusement, he retrieved it.’

Dervla sank to her knees on Daphne’s thick-pile carpet. It took her a scant ten minutes of riffling through the journal to learn that Daphne had had a string of lovers; that she despised the wives of those lovers, and that she especially despised her husband. On the last page, she declared that she was going to relate the story of her life so far in the form of a novel.

Oh. Oh God! Was there more? Again, Dervla couldn’t stop herself from reaching for another of the faux volumes. Inside was an identical vellum-bound journal with the owner’s name writ large in her distinctive script. The date was 1969. Systematically, Dervla worked her way through the hollow Collected Works of Charles Dickens. There were thirteen volumes, and each contained a journal. By Dervla’s calculations, the diaries spanned the years 1960 to 1973. The final volume contained a splenetic attack on the literary agents who had repeatedly declined to represent Mrs Vaughan on the basis that her novel appeared, in fact, to be a work of thinly disguised autobiography too slanderous ever to find a publishing house.

Dervla sat motionless on the floor, gazing at script so jagged it looked as if it had been penned by a razor dipped in ink. Did Christian know about these diaries? Did his sister, Josephine? Dervla knew that Christian had attended boarding school from a young age, but he had told her it was the Vaughan family policy: his father had attended Eton, and his grandfather before him. Dervla privately thought it shocking that children be shunted off to boarding school on account of some antediluvian tradition: now that she knew that the real reason was to facilitate his mother’s amours, she found it infinitely more shocking. Her quandary now was: should she tell Christian about the diaries? She thought not. Sleeping dogs were best left to lie, and Dervla knew what power past secrets had to inflict damage.

The sound of wheels on gravel made her turn. Through the window, she could see Christian’s car rounding the corner of the big house into the courtyard. Quickly, Dervla shoved the last journal into its leather-bound casing, noticing ruefully that the title of the volume in question was – ironically – Hard Times. How hard would it be to defer to her mother-in-law, knowing what she now knew?

She watched as the Saab pulled up outside the front door of the cottage. Christian got out, rounded the bonnet and opened the passenger door, leaning in to offer his mother support as she struggled to her feet. Meanwhile, a pretty, almond-eyed girl emerged from the rear and started hefting bags out of the boot.

‘We’re here now, Mum!’ Dervla heard Christian say.

‘Where, exactly, are we?’

‘We’re at your new home.’

‘I’ve never been here before in my life,’ came the autocratic reply.

‘I know that, Mum. It’s your new home.’

Daphne was wearing a navy blue trouser suit with a turquoise silk blouse. A string of pearls was looped around her neck, a Kelly bag dangled from the crook of her right arm, and on her feet were blue canvas pixie boots. She looked around, and as she did, her gaze travelled to the open window in which Dervla stood framed. Mother and daughter-in-law locked eyes, and then: ‘There’s someone in there,’ pronounced Daphne. ‘You said this was my house.’

Dervla moved out into the hall, took a deep breath and shook back her hair. Then she counted to three and opened the door, estate agent’s smile perfectly in place. ‘Hello, all!’ she called brightly. ‘Welcome!’

‘Hello, love,’ said Christian. ‘Come and say hello to Mum, and Nemia!’

Dervla stepped onto the gravel and advanced, willing her smile not to falter as she reached out and took Daphne’s free hand in both her of own. ‘Did you have a good journey, Daphne?’

‘What kind of a stupid question’s that?’ said Daphne, withdrawing her hand.

‘This is Dervla, Mum,’ said Christian. ‘Remember her? She’s my wife.’

‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

‘Well, it’s been some time since you met. Let’s go inside, shall we, and have a cup of tea? And if we’re lucky, there might be biccies.’

‘There are biccies,’ said Dervla. ‘Choccie biccies.’

‘Choccie biccies! Yum yum,’ said Christian.

He offered Daphne his arm as they began to move towards the cottage, then looked back at Dervla and gave her a tired smile. Her heart went out to her husband. He didn’t need tea and biccies as much as a huge Scotch. Dervla remembered the champagne that she’d stashed in the fridge, and, as she saw Daphne stumble over the threshold, decided against producing it.

‘Hello. I’m Nemia,’ came a voice from behind her, and Dervla turned.

‘Oh – I am sorry! How rude of me not to have introduced myself. I’m Dervla.’

‘Nice to meet you, Dervla.’

‘Likewise. Hey. Let me help you with those.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nemia. ‘There’s nothing very heavy.’

Dervla swung a carrier bag out of the boot, noticing that it bore the logo of a pharmacy in Galway.

‘Did you have to stop off somewhere on your way here?’

‘Yes. We just needed to stock up on some basics.’

‘How was your journey?’

‘Fairly uneventful. There were no delays, which helped.’ Nemia reached into the boot, and produced another carrier. ‘Oh, crap. There’s a split in this bag. Can I just transfer the breakable stuff to yours?’

‘Sure.’

Nemia delved into the bag, then handed over a couple of distinctive Côté Bastide bottles. Sliding them into her bulky carrier, Dervla was about to observe that Côté Bastide just happened to make her favourite bath oil – but the words never made it out of her mouth. Instead, as she took in the contents of the bag, a single word emerged from between her lips.

‘Nappies?’

Nemia turned to her and smiled. ‘Just in case,’ she said.