Chapter 1
1
âI think itâs horrible! Youâve only done it for your own satisfaction . . . to give you a sense of power. Itâs absolute sadism.â
Gerald Vanstead heard his wifeâs voice rise in pitch, get shriller and uglier with every word she uttered, and his own nerves seemed to jangle in protest. Why must Meriel shout like that? . . . and was her accent getting worse every day?
In complete contrast came his sisterâs voice. Judith Vanstead had always had a beautiful voiceâtheir father had often laughingly called her Cordelia.
âWould it be a good idea to look up sadism in the dictionary, Meriel?â asked Judith. âI donât think you really understand what it implies. Anyway, never mind. Iâm sorry youâre upset, but I had to tell you exactly how things are. Itâs right that you should know. Waterson is one of the greatest surgeons living and he wouldnât suggest operating if he didnât think it worth while. It may give father another twelve monthsâhe will see the spring again. . . .â
She broke off, and turned to her brother. âI must go up to Father again now, Gerald. Iâll leave you to talk to Meriel; youâll be better at explaining than I am.â
Judith moved quietly across the room, serene and dignified, as though she had not even heard her sister-in-lawâs shrill voice uttering abuse. Gerald stood up automatically as his sister crossed the room, old habit and training reasserting itself. He opened the door for Judith and closed it behind her, and Meriel broke out again in venomous shrillness.
âIt is horrible. . . . Heâs nearly eighty, heâs got this hideous disease and suffers hell . . . and Judith and the surgeons have persuaded him to have another operation, just to make him live a few months longer, when lifeâs nothing but hell for him anyway. . . . Why canât they let him go quietly, help him out.â
âLook here, Meriel, you mustnât say things like that,â protested Gerald. âYouâre being very indiscreet, to say the least of it. Donât let Judith get the impression youâre wanting Father to die. Itâsâââ He broke off, and then added lamely: âWellâweâre the last people who ought to say things like that, old girl, arenât we? Liable to be misinterpreted.â
Meriel looked across at her husband, her face sullen and flushed and obstinate. âYou know what I mean, Jerry, so donât get riding the high horse,â she said. âYou agreed with me yesterday when I said it was a horrible idea to operate on him again.â
âI know I did, but I didnât realise that the surgeon thought they could give him another year or two. Dash it all, Merry, the poor old boy wants to go on living . . . itâs his decision. If he finds life worth livingâwell, good luck to him.â
âIt isnât his decision. Itâs Judithâs,â she replied. âHe told me weeks ago that all he wanted was to go out quietly, he was sick of the everlasting pain. Judith doesnât want to keep him alive for his own happiness, but for her own prestige. Sheâs Miss Vanstead of Templedean Place . . . she runs this place and queens it over the Village. You know, Jerry. Sheâs everything. Youâre nothing. And Iâm plain dirt.â
Gerald muttered an uncomfortable disclaimer, his thin face twitching unhappily, but Meriel cut in again:
âAnother year or two, Jerry. . . . Do you think Iâm going on like this for another year or two?âbeing condescended to by Judith, knowing all the time she despises me and thinks Iâm just an ill-bred slut? When I stuck it out in that bloody Jap prison camp, it wasnât to come here and be treated like Judithâs poor relation. I fought for my life and Alanâs . . . even you donât know what I did to keep him alive . . . while Judith was driving a W.V.S. car and talking about equality of sacrifice because she had no butler. God, she makes me sick!â
Meriel caught her breath in a gasp that was not far removed from hysteria, and Gerald said hastily, âCome upstairs and have a drink, Merry. You need it. So do I. Iâve got some gin in the wardrobe.â
Meriel laughedâa laugh which was half a sob. âGin in the wardrobe! What would Judith say? I know . . . that itâs my influence . . . you were a gentleman till you married me.â
2
They crossed the wide hall, where the great front door stood open to admit the sunshine, and the light gleamed on ancient oak of floor and panelling, and seemed to caress the madonna lilies and blue delphiniums which stood superbly in huge cut-glass vases on dower chest and table. Gerald followed his wife up the shallow oak stairs, aware of two feelings playing tug of war in his weary mind: Templedean was beautifulâthe most beautiful house in the countryâand he was beginning to hate it. Suddenly he seemed to be back in Malaya, sweating half naked beside his fellow prisoners, while Jap guards lounged nearby . . . and Meriel and Alan were in that filthy compound beyond the wire fencing, suffering God knows what privation and brutality. He remembered Merielâs courage, her passionate selfless devotion to their small son, and he understood why she raged now against Judithâs calm superiorityâJudith and her Daimler, driving for the W.V.S. . . . and doing without a butler amid the peace and plenty of Templedean, while Meriel had lived through years of sub-human beastliness in a Jap prison camp.
Gerald drew level with his wife, and thrust his arm through hers, giving it a squeeze, angry with himself because he had been irritated by her shrill voice. She was worth a thousand of Judith, and he knew it.
âThereâs a circus coming to the fair ground at Watercombe, Merry. We must take Alan. Itâd be rather a lark to go there by ourselves first, thoughâmake an evening of it, eh?â
They had reached the first-floor landing as he spoke, and a light footstep in the corridor on his right made Gerald look round uneasily. . . . Circuses and larks . . . heâd said the wrong thing again. But it wasnât Judith who was approaching; it was Herbert Standishâthe old manâs secretary. Standish had a prim pallid face, and its air of permanent disapproval did not seem to have been intensified by what he had heard. He stood aside, with a slight bow to Meriel, waiting for her to move on, and Gerald kept hold of her arm, knowing that Standish despised such behaviour.
âA circus? Good-o! Just suits me,â giggled Meriel.
3
Meriel crossed the vast sunny bedroom and flung herself on the deep window seat, while her husband groped at the back of a wardrobe and produced gin and angostura. He poured out a couple of stiff drinks into their tooth glasses and joined Meriel by the window, saying âCheersâ automatically as he gulped down his drink.
âThatâs better,â he said. âItâs regarded as a low-down habit to drink in the morning in this high-minded establishment, but a drink was indicated.â
Meriel nodded. âIt just about saved my life, Jerry. Iâve never felt so down before, not even with the Nips. After all, we were all in it together then . . . and you can stand a lot if other people are with you. What defeats me here is knowing Iâm despised by everybody.â
He put his thin hand over his wifeâs plump one. âYouâre not. Thereâs always me, Meriel.â
âI know, old boy, but even you look down your nose at me sometimes these days. Youâre Judithâs brother, and you were brought up here, and you realise that Iâm just a lousy Colonial with an Australian accent. . . . Judithâs trying to improve Alanâs voice now. I suppose itâs funny, but it gets my goat.â
Gerald flushed unhappily, and she went on quickly: âWeâve got to have it out sometime, Jerry, so letâs get it over. When we settled down with my folks in Queensland after we got away from the Nips we were as happy as kings, but Judith cabled you to come back because your father couldnât live for six monthsâââ
âI had to come, Merry. Both my brothers had been killed, and I am the old boyâs heir. I hadnât seen him for twelve years, and I couldnât refuse to come.â
âI know, poor old boy, I know. Iâm not blaming you. I knew you wanted to come back hereâââ
âI wanted you to come, too, Merry, and Alan. Itâs to be our home, and I looked forward to showing it to you, and giving you a good time here. Youâve had a pretty poor time since you married me, I know that.â
âOh, can it, Jerry. Never mind about all that. Itâs now weâve got to think about, not the past or the future. And I tell you that I canât stick it any longer, here and now. Iâm through. Iâve had enough. Weâve been here for nearly two years, being treated as poor relations. It may not matter to you, but it does to me. I canât stick any more of it. Another two years of this? Hell! Iâd be in a madhouse before that.â
âBut Meriel darling, what else can we do? You know I havenât got any money. Everything in Malaya went to bloody blazesâburnt, sacked, looted. . . .â
âI know, Jerry. I saw it happen, donât forget that. Youâre going back to the past again. Itâs now that matters. You say the old manâs going to live for another two years. All right, but Iâm not staying here for another two years, watching Judith playing at being God Almighty and teaching Alan to despise me and you to look down your nose at me. Iâm going back to Queensland, and Alanâs coming with me. Itâs up to you to decide what youâre going to do. Youâve got to make up your own mind.â
Gerald got up and poured himself out another drink. His hands were unsteady and his eyes blurred. He had always been a nervy creature, and his experiences in a Japanese prison camp had undermined his health and nerves alike. He swallowed his drink and turned back to his wife.
âYou know as well as I do that I havenât got the money to pay your fares back,â he retorted, âso thatâs that.â
âOh no, it isnât, Jerry. Where thereâs a will thereâs a way. Old Nick Jamieson would send me the money if I cabled him. The last thing he said to me was Iâd only got to ask. He knew I should hate it here, and was he right? Like hell he was!â
Gerald took a deep breath and strove hard to keep himself in hand. He wasnât going to quarrel with his wife, but something inside him urged him to shout at her in a rage. Couldnât she see that what she suggested was outrageous?
âLook here, Merry. Donât fly off the handle. I know itâs sickening for you, but stick it out. This place is to be ours, yours and mine, and then Alanâs. It wonât always be like this. I know Judith irritates youâââ
âIrritates me? Get this clear, old boy. If I stay in this house with her much longer I shall strangle her. Get my hands round that superior lily-white neck of hers and just choke the breath out of her. Irritate me? Iâd say she does. And then some.â
Geraldâs face twitched, but before he could answer, Meriel went on: âSorry, old boy. That was a rotten thing to say. After all, she is your sister, but I canât help loathing her. Iâm not used to being treated like a skunk. When it comes to the realities of living, I could work Judith to a standstill in two twos, and folks arenât ashamed of working in my home town. I hate all this eyewash and poodle-faking, and high-falutinâ. If this is culture, give me the other thing!â
Gerald sighed, the sigh of a weak, indeterminate man. He had seen this issue facing him for months, and shirked it. Now he couldnât shirk it any longer, but he still tried to temporise.
âDonât be in such a tearing hurry, Meriel. Wait a bit. You see, I canât clear out all in a rush. Iâve got to be here until after fatherâs operation, anyway. Itâd look just too frightful to go away before we know . . . people would talk.â
âWho the hell cares what people say? Thatâs the trouble with you folks over here. Youâre always worrying about what somebody else will say,â she retorted. âAnyway, theyâre operating next week, arenât they? Trust these swell sawbones to make sure of their fee. Well, Iâll agree to stay on here till the end of this month, Jerry, but no longer. Otherwise itâll be the same old game again, and Judith calling the tune because sheâs got the dibs. Send Alan to a nice prep school, away from me, that is. Come between you and me so that you realise what an outsider your wife is, I know. Iâve watched it. One thing, you can bet your bottom dollar Judith wonât do anything to stop me going back home. Sheâll be delighted, right down to her boots. And if youâd got a haâporth of spunk youâd walk out on her, and tell her why.â
âYou donât understand,â he began wearily, but Meriel cut in briskly.
âOh yes I do! I may be a lousy Colonial but Iâm not a fool, not anybodyâs fool. What I donât know about human nature isnât worth knowing. And now give me another drink, Jerry, and tell me about that circus. I shall be just tickled to death to see something nice and vulgar. Iâve had enough high-hat to last me my natural.â
4
âHeaven bear me witness,â exclaimed Judith Vanstead. âI am not an uncharitable person, but that woman is impossible. I have never met such blatant, unashamed self-centredness.â
Walter Vanstead, brother to Judithâs and Geraldâs father, put down his book and cocked his bushy white eyebrows. âAre you making that statement as an item of news value?â he enquired. âI should have thought that the qualities you mention were patent in Geraldâs wife from the moment one set eyes on her. She is out for what she can get. I take it that her reaction to Watersonâs report is quite typical, resentment that Charlesâs life may be prolonged.â
Judith turned away, her eyes filling with tears, and her uncle went on: âItâs no use being nice-minded in assessing your sister-in-law, my dear. When Charles dies, Gerald inherits, and when Gerald inherits, Geraldâs wife will make a clean sweep here. You will go, I will go. The servants will go, and the estate will go to blazes. Gerald always was a duffer, and heâs a duffer still. While youâre here, you can keep him on the rails to some extent. After all, tradition and rearing count for something, but once heâs left alone with that woman, heâll go to the pack. Itâs inevitable.â
Judith sat down beside her uncle. âYouâre not being quite fair,â she expostulated. âI wasnât fair, either, but Merielâs attitude made me angry. Meriel has got a lot of good qualitiesâshe must have or she wouldnât have survived those awful experiences out in Malaya. Sheâs got courage and loyalty and tenacity. I admit all that. Itâs probably my fault that I havenât managed to make friends with her. Sheâs so crude.â
âShe is of another world from yours and she speaks another language,â said Walter Vanstead. âShe represents everything you and I dislike. She has bad taste, bad manners, and bad habits. If she werenât Geraldâs wife you wouldnât have tolerated her in this house for a week, let alone for a year.â
âBut Merielâs had something to put up with too,â urged Judith. âI realise itâs galling for her, as a married woman, to live in a house controlled by another woman. I know she hates itâââ
âVery well,â replied Walter. âLet us assume that you are right, and that Meriel does hate being here. The answer to that is quite simple. Let her go somewhere else.â
Judith raised her fine eyebrows. âBut where?â she asked. âI canât turn her out, Uncle. After all, she and Gerald are here because I asked them here. Meriel is my guest, in a sense. While Father is alive, I am still mistress in this house, and when I cabled to Gerald to come home, I asked him to bring his wife with him.â
âAdmitted,â replied Walter Vanstead, âbut at the time it did not occur to us that Gerald and Meriel would be here as guests indefinitely. I repeat my suggestionâlet her go somewhere else where she may conceivably be happier than she is at Templedean.â
âGerald hasnât any money, Uncle, and in any case itâs difficult to get a small house now.â
âWho suggested getting a small house? Certainly I did not,â rejoined Walter dryly. âWhen I suggested that she should go somewhere else, I meant return to her own home and her own people. Although, for my own comfort, I avoid and ignore the pair of them as far as is possible, I am not totally unobservant, Judith. I give it as my considered opinion that if...