ground, only ventured upon for Isobel’s birthday parties. Mrs Capstick had made magical cakes. Had Rafe attended these occasions? I glanced up and found that he was looking at me. Next to him was a woman in mustard crepe with a crumpled corsage of pink silk roses. She saw me return his smile and looked affronted.
Grace over, I gave my attention to the man on my right. He had a pale rhubarb complexion, bulging dark eyes, a bald head and a prominent nose emerging from long stiff whiskers, the nearest thing I had ever seen to a prawn in evening dress. I saw from his place card that his name was Sir Ibbertson Darkly. He told me he had worked for the MOD (I had no idea what this was but he made it sound important) until his retirement. He was now an amateur historian (by implication rather brilliant). He told me about his career, his dead wife’s saintliness, his children, his tastes in music, literature, painting and dogs. He was collecting material for the definitive book about Hadrian’s Wall. Whenever I tried to say anything, he interrupted with more tales from the Darkly family chronicles.
‘Gibbon,’ I put in as he paused to swallow his last forkful of mushroom soufflé, ‘says that we should not estimate the greatness of Rome solely by the rapidity and extent of its conquests. Do you agree?’
I knew this sentence by heart because it came at the beginning of Chapter Two and I must have read it at least four hundred times in an attempt to get to grips with the beastly thing. I must admit I was pleased with the way it came out trippingly on my tongue, as though I knew what I was talking about. The amateur historian turned to look at me, his prawn eyes wide with shock, as though I had said that I intended to lie naked on the table and make love with every man present.
‘My dear young lady,’ he began, ‘how … what … Gibbon, you say … well, now … it may be so …’ He stared into his empty ramekin and was silent.
For my first attempt at intelligent conversation, this was a disappointing result. Evelyn, who had been toying with her soufflé until the last guest finished, put down her fork and two girls in black and white uniforms, who must have been hired for the occasion, appeared like magic to whisk away our plates. I remembered the bell under the table near Evelyn’s foot. Isobel had once hidden beneath the tablecloth during a lunch party and pressed it at random, occasioning much confusion until we gave ourselves away by laughing.
The next course was brought in. Mindful of the etiquette Evelyn had drummed into us as teenagers, I turned to the archdeacon. His card said, The Venerable James Cogan. He was a man of about fifty with a thick head of iron-grey hair. He was wearing clerical black and his shoulders were sprinkled with dandruff, which drifted down like snow whenever he shook his head for emphasis. I would have pitied this affliction had I not taken an immediate dislike to him. Having piled his plate with roast potatoes he ate quickly, almost gobbling as he told me about his unrivalled collection of incunabula. I had no idea what an incunabulum was but he never gave me a chance to ask. At last I tumbled to the fact that they were old books. I cheered up. Here was a perfect opportunity to display my newly acquired learning.
‘Does The Pilgrim’s Progress count as incunabula?’ I managed to slip in as he shovelled down a grouse breast.
‘Oh, no.’ Another shower of dandruff. ‘Bunyan wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress in … ah-hem …1700 so it is much too late—’
‘Actually,’ I interrupted with a swiftness born of certainty, ‘the first part was written between 1667 and 1672.’ Archdeacon Cogan seemed to flinch. Remembering that I had rushed the gate with the historian, I decided to take a chattier line, so as not to startle him with my unexpected erudition. ‘I didn’t quite understand what Bunyan meant when he said it was abominable to make religion a stalking horse. What is a stalking horse, exactly?’
The archdeacon dabbed his greasy lips with his napkin and bared his teeth in a smile that was so devoid of warmth it was like the opening of a tomb. ‘It is … ah-hem … a device by which one may conceal one’s true intention. By hiding behind his horse, a hunter may deceive his quarry.’
‘Mm. I think Talkative’s so much more interesting than Faithful, don’t you?’ The archdeacon looked dazed so I went on quickly. ‘Faithful’s rather a dreary, preachy sort of character.’
The archdeacon prodded at the skeleton of his grouse and frowned. ‘It has been some years since I last read the work.’
‘I didn’t like the bit about the robin and the spider at all,’ I continued. ‘Everyone knows that robins don’t have a sense of right and wrong and cheerfully eat anything they can get.’
He shot me a doubtful look, as though he suspected that I was completely off my head. The pudding was brought in so he gave his attention to Evelyn. Though it was my go for Sir Ibbertson Darkly, he went on talking to his other neighbour, so I concentrated instead on enjoying the Charlotte Malakoff. After the last delicious mouthful I found I was still between two backs, so I examined the portraits of Kingsley’s ancestors and tried to look as though I was enjoying myself. Where had I gone wrong, I wondered? Usually I had so little to say on any subject other than ballet that I was reduced to inane interjections like ‘really?’ ‘gosh!’ and ‘I’d never thought of that.’ Could it be, I asked myself, that men liked to do all the talking themselves? Could it be that they were simply not interested in anyone else’s opinions?
Evelyn’s vigilant eye had seen that I was neglected.
‘Marigold’s career has been of the greatest interest to me,’ she said to the table in general. ‘It was my idea that she and Isobel should attend dancing classes. Marigold showed talent from the first. Isobel was also exceptionally graceful but she grew too tall.’
‘I was crap, Mummy,’ said her daughter. Evelyn closed her eyes briefly as though she felt the first pang of a headache. ‘Really. I couldn’t do a tendu to save my life.’
She sent me a look of smiling complicity across the table.
‘Those are very pretty pearls, Marigold.’ Evelyn seemed determined to shower me with approval.
‘Thank you. I bought them in a junk shop for fifty pee—’
‘Wearing them next to the skin,’ Evelyn interrupted, ‘is the only way to keep them glowing. The warmth, you know.’
‘Apparently the same’s true of ivory,’ said Isobel. ‘The only trouble is, when it gets warm it gives off a smell like semen. Rather embarrassing, mustn’t it be, to find yourself stinking like a tart?’
A perceptible shudder ran round the table. Duncan laughed nervously, then, seeing Evelyn’s face, broke off in mid-chuckle. Evelyn looked at Mustard Crepe and nodded, the signal for the women to depart.
Isobel took my elbow as I made my way slowly into the hall. ‘You poor darling. Not only crippled but bored stiff. Such is the price paid by Mummy’s darlings.’
‘I’m really too impoverished and obscure to qualify,’ I said, and instantly regretted it because it seemed so insulting to Evelyn.
‘You’re an artist and they’re allowed to be poor. I can assure you Mummy definitely sees you as a trophy.’ Isobel changed the subject. ‘What are your plans?’
‘I’m going to stay here until the cast comes off. Another five weeks. What about you?’
‘Oh, I’m here for the duration. There are tremendous ructions afoot. I can’t wait to tell you my news. You’ll never believe it but I’m going to—’
‘Isobel, come and take round the coffee cups.’ There was a sharpness in Evelyn’s tone as she swept past us on her way to the drawing room.
‘I’ll just go and say hello to Mrs Capstick.’
‘All right. Don’t be long. You must save me from the old cats.’
I limped in the direction of the kitchen. Mrs Capstick was sitting in her chair by the Aga, her legs stretched out, her work done. The two girls who were giggling over the washing up stared at me in surprise when I kissed her.
‘How