right, don’t bother, then. I’m not really interested in her sordid pick-ups.’ Ophelia looked gloomy. ‘I’d better have a sugar lump, then. I could do with a laugh.’
‘The inspector’s taken them away. Anyway, it wouldn’t do you any good. Honestly, I think it’s dangerous. People jump out of windows thinking they can fly, and often they have a really horrible time.’
‘I may as well go to bed then, until he’s sobered up.’
‘You aren’t supposed to leave people alone when they’re on trips.’
‘I shall have a migraine if I have to listen to that noise.’
Dirk and I sat with Bron while he chortled and cackled and chuckled for hours without a break. I was glad for his sake that my brother seemed to have no inner demons, but whether this was good or bad for the rest of the world, I couldn’t make up my mind. Portia and Cordelia played draughts in Maria-Alba’s room while she slept deeply, having been given a sedative by her doctor. By evening we were all in a state of extreme lassitude. Bron finally stopped laughing and demanded supplies of wine, lemonade and throat lozenges, as he was painfully hoarse.
There was a general, plaintive call for food. I tried to poach some eggs but it was more difficult than I had imagined. A plate was piled high with failures – too hard, broken yolks, stringy whites like rubber bands – and I was heated with feelings of inadequacy and annoyance, when a row broke out at the front door. The bell rang repeatedly, the knocker banged violently and Dirk let the front door know what he thought of it in a succession of ear-splitting barks. All the journalists had gone home hours ago, no doubt to write lurid exposés of everyday life in a famous actor’s narcotics den. I went up to see.
On the doorstep were two figures of sinister appearance, disguised in swathes of clothing so as to conceal their features.
‘Cut along now!’ said the policeman who had replaced poor Dicky. ‘Let’s have no argy-bargy, madam, if you please. The family doesn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Now, look here, my good man,’ said a male voice that was familiar. ‘This lady lives here and if you know what’s good for you you’ll let us in without delay.’
‘A likely story,’ said the PC, who seemed to have learned his lines from Dixon of Dock Green. ‘You reporters have plenty of cheek, I’ll give you that.’
‘But this is my daughter!’ said my mother’s voice from behind a veil. A gloved finger emerged from among the wraps to point at me. ‘Harriet, tell this blundering fool who I am!’
‘Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!’ said my mother, with feeling. ‘Ronnie, I need a drink. No, Harriet, Macbeth! You can’t think,’ she continued to address me, ‘what a frightful time we’ve been having. Ow-how! Gently!’ I drew back in alarm, having attempted to kiss the veil masking her cheek. ‘What is this dog doing in the house? Can no one stop it barking?’
‘Sorry. Be quiet, Dirk! At once!’ Dirk barked on. ‘Shall I take your coats? There’s a bottle of wine open in the drawing room. I’ll get more glasses.’
‘I think double Scotches would be more the thing.’ Ronnie helped my mother out of her coat and then took off his own. They retained their scarves, hats – a smart blood-red turban in my mother’s case, pulled well down over her ears – and sunglasses. ‘It’s chilly, isn’t it?’ He shivered, though the house felt warm to me, and drew his scarf tighter round his face. ‘I think I’ll hang on to this for the moment.’
‘Me, too.’ My mother went into the drawing room.
I ran down to the kitchen and poured two generous whiskies. ‘Ma’s home,’ I said to Portia and Cordelia.
‘Your eggs have boiled dry,’ said Portia. ‘Was that meant to happen?’
There followed a short scene of which I was immediately ashamed. After I had apologised we went up together to the drawing room.
My mother seemed touchingly pleased to see her children but repelled affectionate overtures with cries of pain. She and Ronnie crouched by the fire in their mufflers and head-dresses, like Russian peasants round a samovar. Dirk was evidently worried by their suspicious appearance, for he flashed his eyes from one to the other and kept up a continuous growling.
‘I hope Maria-Alba has something good for supper,’ said my mother as she gulped down the whisky. ‘That bloody clinic has kept us on famine rations. Only the thought of getting home and having something decent to eat stopped me from throwing myself into the river.’
‘Maria-Alba isn’t well,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to poach some eggs. But it’s trickier than I thought. I’ve got two out of the eight that are probably edible. You should have telephoned.’
‘Naturally we’d have done so if we’d had two pennies to rub together. When we arrived at the clinic – Ronnie decided, as the prices were so favourable, to have a little work done too – they made us strip down to the last hairpin and put on their overalls. They took away our clothes and locked them up. Then the minute we came round from our operations they presented us with exorbitant bills. Eighty pounds for champagne that was scarcely drinkable! Of course we refused to pay. Had Ronnie not been very resourceful and stolen the key from Matron’s desk we’d be there still. All our pockets had been emptied and there was no sign of my bag or Ronnie’s notecase. We had to walk all the way from Bethnal Green. I had no idea that London could be so unpleasant. The inhabitants were positively abusive and some of the children threw things at us. Poor Ronnie received a nasty blow on the shoulder from a brick. Not a policeman in sight, naturally. They are all too busy obstructing the doorways of the upper classes.’
‘Why are the myrmidons of the law encircling the house?’ Ronnie sat cradling his glass in one hand while the other tenderly massaged his upper arm.
‘It’s all Portia’s fault,’ said Ophelia. ‘Her penchant for rough trade has had its inevitable consequence. This house is now notorious for every vice and vileness in the Thieves’ Almanac.’
‘That’s unfair.’ I looked at Portia but her chair was empty. When, later, I went up to her room she explained that two pairs of sunglasses were too much for her and she would forgo supper. I descended to the kitchen with the forlorn hope of making something of those wretched poached eggs. Ronnie was already there, his features still hidden by scarves and sunglasses, but with his shirtsleeves rolled up and wearing Maria-Alba’s apron. He was chopping an onion with speed and expertise.
‘We cannot all afford a cook,’ he said with a degree of hauteur when I expressed surprise. ‘I am going to make a cottage pie. It will be simple but good. Your mother needs nourishment.’
‘How kind you are, Ronnie.’
‘Not really.’ Ronnie’s lenses flashed as he bent to crush a clove of garlic. ‘I’ve always adored her. I simply can’t help wanting to do things for her. It’s as natural as tides being drawn to the moon or the hen returning to her coop at dusk. Irresistible forces compel each of us to our destiny …’ I sat down, my hand on Dirk’s head to dissuade him from growling as Ronnie continued his speech to the end. ‘And how is your poor papa?’ he asked when he had finished, his good humour apparently restored. ‘You know, your mother’s feelings have been so painfully lacerated by his misfortune that she cannot bring herself even to mention it. Some people might misunderstand this but we, who know her delicate, sensitive nature, will not condemn it as weakness. Great artists are as different from us ordinary mortals as a Ming vase from a flowerpot.’
I wondered if he really believed this. My mother had not acted for ten years. Not since a reviewer wrote that her portrayal of Lady Macbeth put him in mind of an exasperated society hostess burdened with unmannerly guests who had lost the new tennis balls, left the bathrooms