he simply a snob of the traditional school who dearly loves a lord? Was he himself a scion of ancient lineage; one of those old, uncelebrated families whose sole claim to distinction rests in their refusal to accept a title? No. That didn’t quite fit Mr Period. It wasn’t easy to imagine him refusing a title and yet –
Her attention was again diverted to the drive. Three persons approached the house, barked at and harassed by Pixie. A large, tweedy, middle-aged woman with a red face, a squashed hat and a walking-stick, was followed by a pale girl with fashionable coiffure and a young man who looked, Nicola thought, quite awful. These two lagged behind their elder who shouted and pointed with her stick in the direction of the excavations. Nicola could hear her voice, which sounded arrogant, and her gusts of boisterous laughter. While her back was turned, the girl quickly planted an extremely uninhibited kiss on the young man’s mouth.
‘That,’ thought Nicola, ‘is a full-treatment job.’
Pixie floundered against the young man and he kicked her rapidly in the ribs. She emitted a howl and retired. The large woman looked round in concern but the young man was smiling damply. They moved round the corner of the house. Through the side window Nicola could see them inspecting the excavations. They returned to the drive.
Footsteps crossed the hall. Doors were opened. Mr Cartell appeared in the drive and was greeted by the lady who, Nicola saw, resembled him in a robust fashion. ‘The sister,’ Nicola said. ‘Connie. And the adopted niece, Moppett, and the niece’s frightful friend. I don’t wonder Mr Period was put out.’
They moved out of sight. There was a burst of conversation in the hall, in which Mr Period’s voice could be heard, and a withdrawal (into the ‘withdrawing-room’, no doubt). Presently Andrew Bantling came into the library.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘I’m to bid you to drinks. I don’t mind telling you it’s a bum party. My bloody-minded step-father, to whom I’m not speaking, his bully of a sister, her ghastly adopted what-not and an unspeakable chum. Come on.’
‘Do you think I might be excused and just creep in to lunch?’
‘Not a hope. P.P. would be as cross as two sticks. He’s telling them all about you and how lucky he is to have you.’
‘I don’t want a drink. I’ve been built up with sherry.’
‘There’s tomato juice. Do come. You’d better.’
‘In that case –’ Nicola said and put the cover on her typewriter.
‘That’s right,’ he said and took her arm. ‘I’ve had such a stinker of a morning: you can’t think. How have you got on?’
‘I hope, all right.’
‘Is he writing a book?’
‘I’m a confidential typist.’
‘My face can’t get any redder than it’s been already,’ Andrew said and ushered her into the hall. ‘Are you at all interested in painting?’
‘Yes. You paint, don’t you?’
‘How the hell did you know?’
‘Your first fingernail. And anyway, Mr Period told me.’
‘Talk, talk, talk!’ Andrew said, but he smiled at her. ‘And what a sharp girl you are, to be sure. Oh, calamity, look who’s here!’
Alfred was at the front door, showing in a startling lady with tangerine hair, enormous eyes, pale orange lips and a general air of good-humoured raffishness. She was followed by an unremarkable, cagey-looking man, very much her junior.
‘Hallo, Mum!’ Andrew said. ‘Hallo, Bimbo.’
‘Darling!’ said Desirée Dodds or Lady Bantling. ‘How lovely!’
‘Hi,’ said her husband, Bimbo.
Nicola was introduced and they all went into the drawing-room.
Here, Nicola encountered the group of persons with whom, on one hand disastrously and on the other to her greatest joy, she was about to become inextricably involved.
Mr Pyke Period made much of Nicola. He took her round, introducing her to Mr Cartell and all over again to ‘Lady Bantling’ and Mr Dodds; to Miss Connie Cartell and, with a certain lack of enthusiasm, to the adopted niece, Mary or Moppett, and her friend, Mr Leonard Leiss.
Miss Cartell shouted: ‘Been hearing all about you, ha, ha!’
Mr Cartell said: ‘Afraid I disturbed you just now. Looking for P.P. So sorry.’
Moppett said: ‘Hallo. I suppose you do shorthand? I tried but my squiggles looked like rude drawings. So I gave up.’ Young Mr Leiss stared damply at Nicola and then shook hands: also damply. He was pallid and had large eyes, a full mouth and small chin. The sleeves of his violently checked jacket displayed an exotic amount of shirt-cuff and link. He smelt very strongly of hair oil. Apart from these features it would have been hard to say why he seemed untrustworthy.
Mr Cartell was probably by nature a dry and pedantic man. At the moment he was evidently much put out. Not surprising, Nicola thought, when one looked at the company: his step-son, with whom, presumably, he had just had a flaring row, his divorced wife and her husband, his noisy sister, her ‘niece’ whom he obviously disliked, and Mr Leiss. He dodged about, fussily attending to drinks.
‘May Leonard fix mine, Uncle Hal?’ Moppett asked. ‘He knows my kind of wallop.’
Mr Period, overhearing her, momentarily closed his eyes and Mr Cartell saw him do it.
Miss Cartell shouted uneasily: ‘The things these girls say, nowadays! Honestly!’ and burst into her braying laugh. Nicola could see that she adored Moppett. Leonard adroitly mixed two treble Martinis.
Andrew had brought Nicola her tomato juice. He stayed beside her. They didn’t say very much but she found herself glad of his company.
Meanwhile, Mr Period, who it appeared, had recently had a birthday, was given a present by Lady Bantling. It was a large brass paper-weight in the form of a fish rampant. He seemed to Nicola to be disproportionately enchanted with this trophy and presently she discovered why.
‘Dearest Desirée,’ he exclaimed. ‘How wonderfully clever of you: my crest, you know! The form, the attitude, everything! Connie! Look! Hal, do look.’
The paper-weight was passed from hand to hand and Andrew was finally sent to put it on Mr Period’s desk.
When he returned Moppett bore down upon him. ‘Andrew!’ she said. ‘You must tell Leonard about painting. He knows quantities of potent dealers. Actually, he might be jolly useful to you. Come and talk to him.’
‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to say, Moppett.’
‘I’ll tell you. Hi, Leonard! We want to talk to you.’
Leonard advanced with drinks. ‘All right. All right,’ he said. ‘What about?’
‘Which train are you going back by?’ Andrew asked Nicola.
‘I don’t know.’
‘When do you stop typing?’
‘Four o’clock, I think.’
‘There’s a good train at twenty past. I’ll pick you up. May I?’
His mother had joined them. ‘We really ought to