Harriet (7 page)

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 madehim sick, going into his room and waking him just after he’d fallen asleep.

    Jonah, Harriet found even more of a problem than Chat-tie. 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 then all except the goalkeeper, darling.’

    Mrs. Bottomley’s
^fa
ce 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 sun-flowers, 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 Harrie wondering what Cory was doing in Ireland.

    ‘Hullo, hullo, Co. Can I speak to Cory, please?’ It was a man’s voice - slow, lazy, expensive, very attractive. ‘He’s not here,; aid 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 her eye on so many men in her time, I’m surprised she hasn’t developed the most awful squint. Everyone’s laying bets whether Cory’ll divorce her or not.’

    ‘I think I’d better go and look after the baby,’ said Harriet, feeling suddenly that she shouldn’t be discussing her employer.

    ‘Don’t go,’ said Kit. ‘Are you as sexy as your voice is? What do you look like?’

    ‘Scrawny and sallow-skinned,’ said Harriet.

    ‘Just my type,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve a portrait to paint up North next month. I’ll come over and case the joint. Don’t go shacking up with any of the local gentry before I arrive.’

    Bitter, bitter, sweet, thought Harriet afterwards. Bitter because, in his gaiety, panache and directness of approach, he reminded her so much of Simon; sweet because, even over the telephone, it was nice to be chatted up once more.

    Later still that night, Ambrose the cat decided to have her kittens at the bottom of the huge four-poster quadruple bed in Cory and Noel’s bedroom. At six o’clock in the morning, having finally installed her, tired but contented, in clean straw in the kitchen with five kittens, Harriet finally fell into bed.

    It seemed only a few minutes later that she was woken up by Chattie’s voice telling her very smugly it was half past nine.

    ‘Oh, my God!’ said Harriet, leaping out of bed. ‘And it would be Mrs. Bottomley’s day off.’

    Frenziedly pulling on her clothes, not even bothering to wash, she rushed downstairs, fed Chattie and Jonah bread and marmalade, packed Jonah’s suitcase for the week, put William brawling and unfed into the car in his carry cot, and set off to drop the children at school.

    It had frozen the night before and the road was like a skating rink. Harriet tried hard to concentrate on driving, but was distracted by Jonah fiddling with the door handle. The next moment, his hand slipped and the door swung open, nearly taking him with it. Narrowly missing an oncoming car, Harriet pulled him back, locked the door and gave him a ringing slap on his bare leg.

    ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ she shouted.

    Jonah said nothing, gazing in front of him, colour slowly draining out of his cheeks, as the red finger marks grew on his thigh.

    Chattie, of course, was delighted. ‘Naughty, naughty Jonah,’ she chanted.

    ‘Shut up, Chattie!’ snapped Harriet, turning the car into Jonah’s school gate.

    Jonah grabbed s small suitcase and jumped out of the car.

    ‘Goodbye, darling,’ said Harriet her anger evaporating. ‘Pick you up on Friday evening.’

    Jonah was white with rage.

    ‘Don’t call me darling!’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I wish you’d never come. I’m going to tell my father to send you away.’

    On the verge of tears, Harriet dropped Chattie off at her school. William was bellowing his lungs out with hunger all the way home.

    ‘William! Please!’ she said, her voice rising in desperation. ‘It won’t be long.’

    While she was heating up milk for a bottle she very hurriedly washed some of William’s clothes and put them into the spin dryer.

    Suddenly the telephone rang. William redoubled his howls. At the same moment, the milk boiled over and as she rushed to retrieve it, she realized she’d forgotten to put a bucket underneath the spin dryer.

    ‘Oh, my God!’ she screamed hysterically, as soapy water belched forth round her feet. ‘Oh, shut up! Shut up, William!’

    ‘You appear to be in some difficulty,’ said a dry voice behind her. Aghast, she swung round. Standing in the doorway stood Cory Erskine.

    His reactions were incredibly quick. In a second, as Harriet gaped at him, he had turned off the spin dryer and removed the milk from the boil.

    ‘There’s enough milk left for one bottle,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the telephone.’

    Oh, God, thought Harriet wretchedly, I’ve really done it now. He couldn’t have come back at a worse moment! ‘It’s Jonah ringing,’ said Cory. ‘He wants you.’

    ‘Where’s he ringing from?’

    ‘From a call box. Take it upstairs. When he’s through, tell him it might be diplomatic if he went back to school. Give the baby to me. I’ll feed him.’

    Jonah had rung up to apologize. His voice sounded high and strained. ‘I just rang to say I don’t want you to go away. I won’t complain to my father about you, and I’m s-sorry, Harriet.’

    She felt a great lump in her throat.

    ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely of you to ring. I’m sorry, too.’

    Returning to the kitchen, she found William had fallen asleep halfway through his bottle, his mouth open, his long lashes sweeping down over his cheeks.

    ‘He’s a beautiful child,’ said Cory, handing him back to her. ‘What was Jonah on about?’

    ‘We had a row this morning. He was apologizing.’

    Cory grunted. ‘That child’s got far better manners than either of his parents. Wonder where he gets them from. How’s Chattie?’

    ‘Fine, in tearing spirits. I’m so sorry you had such an awful homecoming,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m afraid we all overslept, and things got a bit chaotic. Would you like some breakfast?’

    Cory shook his head. ‘I’m going to follow William’s example and get some sleep. I’ve been driving all night.’

    He looked absolutely played out - deathly pale, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and heavily shadowed.

    An appalling thought stuck Harriet. ‘Oh, you can’t go to bed yet. Ambrose had her kittens last night in your bed and I haven’t changed the sheets!’

    He must loathe coming back here, she thought, as she made up the huge double bed in the room he had once shared with Noel Balfour. It was such an ultra-feminine room. Everything stagily erotic - the thick, white carpets, the rose-strewn wallpaper, the huge canopied four-poster, the pink frills frothing round the dressing-table - must remind him so poignantly of her.

    But if Cory minded, he gave no indication. ‘It’s going to snow,’ he said, gazing out of the window.

    As Harriet put on the pillow cases, pink from her exertions, she realized he was watching her, and was suddenly conscious that she hadn’t even had time to wash her face that morning, and was wearing an old red sweater, drastically shrunk in the wash.

    ‘You look better,’ he said. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

    ‘Mrs. Bottomley keeps feeding me up on suet puddings,’ said Harriet, blushing.

    Cory surfaced about seven, and came into the kitchen, Chattie hanging on one hand, a large glass of whisky in the other. Chattie was also clutching a six-foot tiger balloon.

    ‘Look what Daddy brought me,’ she said. She turned to Cory. ‘Harriet overslept this morning and made me late for band, so I had to play the triangle instead of the tangerine.’