Woman in the Mirror Page 4

  She turned to look at where a belt of firs filled a perfect rectangle on the slope.

  ‘Well, like that, only all over the place. I can’t find out if they’ve been planted or if they’re the remains of a forest. They’re there in single file, in platoons, in regiments, all in perfect order. If you painted it you’d want to call it “Wellington on Army Manœuvres”. Then there’s Plynlimon. And back the way you came Cader Morb is interesting because . . .’

  ‘That’s where I came from. That’s where I’m staying.’

  He stared. ‘From Cader Morb? You don’t mean Morb House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He had put down his cup and was frowning at her, brows uneven with surprise. ‘You mean to say you’re Mrs Syme’s secretary?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Yes, it was to photograph her garden that I first came down here.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’

  ‘It is extraordinary.’ He turned and knocked his pipe out on a stone. ‘It’s more than extraordinary, it’s fantastic. Did they kidnap you?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re hardly their type, are you?’

  After a moment Norah said: ‘They happen to be my friends.’

  ‘Friends but not relations?’

  ‘Since you ask, no.’

  ‘I thought not. And you only came on Monday? That’s why you still look so fresh.’

  She put down her half empty cup. Whatever her private views were likely to be, she didn’t appreciate his.

  ‘Oh, I’ve never quarrelled with them,’ he said, sensing what she was thinking. ‘I’ve no old score to pay off. Indeed, I had dinner with them when I was down last year. But honestly . . . Old Croome-Nichols, for instance. He believes in one God, one Church and one Oxford college, world without end amen. For a clergyman it simplifies the outlook. Has he asked you what your income is yet?’

  She stood up and stared past him at the mountains.

  ‘Oh, I know. They’re your friends. And I admire your loyalty. But wait until you know them better. Only don’t wait too long. I’d hate to meet you next year and find you’d grown a hump back and a beard.’

  ‘I think I’d be more likely to do that by sitting here.’

  ‘That’s a nasty one.’ He rose to his feet, tall and rather stooping, a vigorous and emphatic man. ‘Well, let’s not quarrel. I’ve no wish to quarrel, even with them. But it’s an opinion I hold. Sit down and talk again.’

  ‘Thanks, but the sun is getting low. It’ll take me half an hour to get back.’

  ‘Oh, all of that. You’re farther away than you think. Like me to come with you?’

  ‘No, I’ve a good sense of direction.’

  ‘That house, you know. It photographs well but I’d hate to live there. Anyway, it’s got a funny sort of reputation.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean with the Welsh. They won’t work there, and they won’t pass by it after dark.’

  ‘I suppose somebody once saw a sheet flapping.’

  ‘Maybe. I grant you that. Country districts are all alike. But . . . Althea Syme . . . She’s surely as phoney as they come even by civilized standards. Isn’t she? Don’t you think so?’

  That settled it. ‘Well,’ Norah said, ‘thank you for the tea.’

  ‘But like my opinions it was a bit on the strong side, eh? All right, I’m sorry I spoke. One tends to exaggerate to make a point – the Symes may be quite harmless. But I’m not awfully interested in them. Can’t we meet again sometime? I have nearly another two weeks here. Nant-y-Bar Cottage is where I live.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  As she moved away he walked a few paces with her, eyes appreciatively looking her over: ‘Is it afternoons you usually go exploring?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There’s no routine yet.’

  ‘Have you a car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s too far to suggest we might meet for a drink in Llandathery?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘About a mile from my cottage. A tiny village with a pub called the Dyfri Arms. I could come for you.’

  ‘Well, thanks, but I’ve hardly settled in yet. I don’t know what Mrs Syme’s plans are going to be.’

  ‘Let me know when you can. I shall be about this part, usually in the afternoon . . . Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ It was a bit difficult to climb up to the wall and then go slithering and sliding down the other side with any degree of dignity or elegance but she didn’t much care. To Hell with him and his dogmatic opinions. It was going to take her all her time to be back before the sun set into the mountains.

  Cooler already. A hint of autumn mist in the air. Soon the sun would be dying, not only for today but for all the year. Beautiful as it all was today, one could see how grey and cold and barren it would look in the winter. This was not a friendly land. It was still unconquered, little different from when the Bala limestone had first cooled among the slate and the volcanic rocks. From the days of Caractacus men had ridden over it and fought over it and, sparsely, had lived here. But it had never been taken over and tamed, as England had. It was man who lived on sufferance here, not the land. Perhaps if two or three generations of a family lived in the mountains they became affected by it, slightly ‘different’ as a result, recluses or eccentrics. Could one ever see Gregory marrying and begetting children here to carry on the line? Or would he inherit and eventually die alone, the ultimate eccentric and recluse?

  It took her forty minutes to get down, and she chided herself for feeling slight relief when she came round the corner of the last hill and saw the house miniatured below in the long deep shade of the evening. Then as she came nearer she saw the Syme car at the door and the chauffeur handling luggage. A man got out a few moments later to be greeted, as she had been greeted on Monday, by Mrs Syme at the front door. Mr Simon Syme had arrived.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I

  They had all gone in long before she reached the house and she saw nothing of the new arrival until dinner. But she saw Doole, the butler, who had been on holiday and had returned while she had been out. One seldom pictured a butler under fifty years of age, but Doole was scarcely thirty-five. A personable young man, powerfully built, quick-moving, on small, dancer’s feet, with black hair close-cropped but worn low, and a shadowed chin. His eyes were a trifle too active for a well-trained servant.

  No one else was about, but soon after she got upstairs to her room there was a tap on the door and Althea came in.

  ‘Well, my pet, did you have a nice walk?’

  ‘Marvellous. I could have gone on for miles.’

  ‘I used to do a lot here when I was a girl, but unfortunately walking isn’t my speciality these days. Otherwise you’d have a companion.’

  ‘I tried hard to persuade Gregory, but no go.’

  Althea frowned. She was in maroon silk tonight; the colour was good but as usual there was too much to the frock; she needed austere, simple lines. ‘Maybe in a day or two.’

  ‘He’d come with me if you told him to.’

  ‘Oh, I know. He’s nothing if not dutiful. But the essential thing is he should want to go with you of his own free will.’

  Norah slipped out of her day frock and went to the wardrobe with it. ‘I must say he behaved rather oddly. He seemed to think I knew something about his cousin Simon or that I was connected with him in some way.’

  ‘Oh?’ Althea was sitting in the easy chair. The oil lamp, just lighted, was flickering as if the wick were damp. ‘That’s strange. I expect your coming the same week . . .’

  ‘He seemed – grudging – jealous. Is he jealous of me because I’m a friend of yours?’

  ‘Maybe. Or he may be a little jealous of Simon. Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand him?’

  ‘What I am sure of is that I didn’t understand him at all!’

  ‘Simon, as I expect I’ve told you, is the son of my husband’s
brother. He’s always been difficult, a non-conformer. He wanted to be a painter and failed. I think . . .’ She paused.

  Norah was uncertain which frock to wear. If one went by one’s hostess one ought to be fairly formal. ‘Yes?’ She chose the green chiffon. (Shades of Paris . . . there’d been a shop round the corner from their apartment where they copied haute couture.)

  ‘Well, I suppose Gregory has always been terribly proud of this house and the land we own. He’s not really happy anywhere but here. I think the thought of Simon coming may upset him a bit; he may fear that a much older cousin will usurp his position. But of course as long as Simon lives I can’t refuse him a home . . .’

  ‘I see. But why does that . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Perhaps I got the wrong impression.’ Norah stepped into her frock and pushed the zip halfway up. She began to fiddle with her hair. ‘I met a man today who says he knows you.’

  ‘You met a man?’ Althea’s smile in the mirror was both incredulous and crooked. ‘Here? A farmer?’

  ‘No, up in the hills. A photographer. Called Christopher Carew. He’s on holiday. Has a cottage somewhere near.’

  ‘Oh, at Nant-y-Bar! Yes. He photographed this house and garden. Interesting person. Rather a ladies’ man. I’d no idea he was here again. He should have let us know.’

  ‘He’s here for another two weeks,’ Norah said with a hint of malice.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Well, we must have him over some time.’

  ‘Who is he? What is he?’

  ‘Ah, I see he’s made a hit.’

  ‘Well, hardly!’

  ‘I know very little about him. He came originally from the Midlands but he has a successful studio in Chelsea. Married twice but I believe the marriages haven’t turned out well. I met one of his wives – a pretty little thing and well bred but not his equal intellectually. At times, of course, he tries to be too clever.’

  ‘Oh? In what way?’

  Althea stood up. ‘Tell me, why don’t you part your hair a bit more and allow that piece of hair to come forward as a fringe? It’s freer. More natural.’

  ‘All right, if you’d like me to I will. Like this?’

  ‘Yes. Like that. I think it suits you, makes you look younger.’

  As Althea moved to the door Norah said: ‘Could you do up this zip?’

  ‘Of course.’ Althea came up behind her and put a hand on her bare shoulder. The signet ring was cold. Then she zipped up the frock. The hand for a few seconds remained as their eyes met in the mirror – the girl in the vivid green dress standing cool and unblemished beside the lush handsome woman in maroon whose skin was faintly pitted with too much powder.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Norah, moving away. ‘See you in about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You really have the most satiny shoulders,’ said Althea. ‘Really the most. Don’t wait to come down. I think we shall all be prompt tonight.’

  II

  When she did eventually reach the room where they had drinks a thin fair-haired man of about forty was talking to Mr Croome-Nichols, and Mrs Syme was showing a book of photographs to Gregory. The newcomer did not look round when she came in, and Mrs Syme said:

  ‘Ah, you met Christopher Carew. These are the original photographs he took of the house. I was telling Gregory you’d seen him.’

  Norah bent to look at them. They were professional work of the highest class – the detail and the composition could not be faulted. They also had the quality of making the subjects more attractive than in fact they were. Whatever Christopher Carew’s acidulous gaze might privately make of his subjects, his public eye had a rose-tinted lens. Althea had had twenty pictures of the house and garden bound into a book.

  After a few minutes she said: ‘You haven’t met my nephew Mr Simon Syme. Simon, this is my new secretary, Miss Norah Faulkner.’

  The newcomer turned, his face lit with what might have been a very attractive smile, but it was wiped from his face in a flash.

  ‘God . . .’

  He had a thin, sharp nose, blue-grey sensitive eyes, stony fair hair which had probably been brighter as a young man. He was staring at Norah as if he had been struck across the face.

  ‘So you do notice the resemblance,’ said Althea with a brief laugh. ‘I was very struck with it when I first met her, but to tell the truth it seems so little now that I had quite forgotten it.’

  ‘Merciful Christ . . .’ said Simon Syme. ‘You’re like – she’s like . . . I . . .’

  ‘Unpleasant,’ said Mr Croome-Nichols. ‘Use of such words. Blasphemy. And – er – hm . . .’

  ‘Like Marion, yes,’ said Althea, still smiling at her nephew’s consternation. ‘It’s very superficial, but at first sight I admit one does get that distinct impression.’

  ‘Never met Marion,’ said Mr Croome-Nichols. ‘Seen her portraits, of course. Maybe there is a likeness, I suppose. Not that I would have remarked it. But I never met Marion. Haven’t met many of the Symes. Not many left now. All families die out in time. I’m the last of the Croome-Nichols. My father saw it coming. Can’t get away from change and decay.’

  Simon Syme abruptly lowered his eyes, and Norah felt as if the live current she had been grasping had been switched off.

  ‘That’s the trouble with the world today,’ said Mr Croome-Nichols, thrusting out his neck. ‘Too much change and decay. That’s the trouble with the Church. The old order dying off like flies and nothing to replace it. Like the railways: needs reorganization.’ He opened his mouth in a smile, then quickly shut it again. ‘No laughing matter. Disestablishment offers no solution. Look at the decline of the Wesleyans. And – er – hm . . .’

  ‘You travelled in the same train as Doole, didn’t you, Simon?’ said his aunt.

  ‘Yes.’ A conventional smile moved the corner of Simon’s lips. ‘I also offered him a lift from Machynlleth in the car you sent . . . which he naturally accepted.’

  ‘Kind of you. Doole,’ said Althea to Norah, ‘is my butler back from holiday.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already seen him.’

  ‘Very efficient, Doole,’ said Mr Croome-Nichols. ‘Only trouble, doesn’t always know his place.’

  ‘Rubbish. He’s very good. I shall be happier now we’re full strength again. Have you all finished your drinks? Bring yours with you, Norah. I know dinner’s ready.’

  III

  Althea was at her best that night, sharp and entertaining – Norah recognized her as the woman who had first fascinated her by the breadth and vigour of her talk – but here the surroundings were against her. In a restaurant in Paris it was different. Against the counterpoint of Croome-Nichols’s dull remarks, Gregory’s silences and Simon’s absent-minded rejoinders, the performance was out of tune. Norah found herself unusually reluctant to join in, and she had to force herself to take part.

  After that first shock Simon Syme never looked at her. Even when she had her head turned away he never looked at her, she was sure of that. He had a pleasant face, deeply furrowed with lines about the mouth yet surprisingly young-looking, unsophisticated. She thought he was younger than she had first guessed. Most of the time he seemed scarcely to be there, to be deeply preoccupied with other things, and there were times when he answered his aunt in a flat and uninterested voice. Yet Norah was certain that he had been talking to Mr Croome-Nichols in a lively and engaging manner when she first came into the room, and twice during the meal he showed animation – once when his aunt said something about the Symes and he said brusquely: ‘There are too many in this house. Walls are full of them. You’ve changed more than I like,’ and once when Picasso was mentioned and he said: ‘I saw him twice, before the war, at the Deux Magots in Paris. The young men round him really were like disciples. For them he was the centre of the universe.’

  But he never looked at Norah, and after dinner he excused himself with a headache and went to bed. He had been given what Mrs Syme called
‘the master bedroom’ at the end of the devious passage leading away to the right from the main stairs and therefore a long way from the two main bathrooms; but the room, although Norah hadn’t seen it from the inside, had, she knew, the three tall Gothic windows at the southern end of the house and therefore must have a fine view right down the valley; apparently it was the room his parents had always occupied.

  When he had gone Althea prevailed on Gregory to play the piano, and this, to Norah’s surprise, he did very well. He played Mozart, Scarlatti, MacDowell, Mattei, Grieg; chiefly the simpler pieces and some of them arranged; but they were all done with competence. His fingers were long and slender, his touch precise and delicate and easy. It was like listening to a talented girl. This at least was one area in which his mother didn’t over-estimate him.

  It was not a house where there was much to do after dinner, and they were all soon ready to call it a day. But there was one thing on Norah’s mind, and she followed her hostess into the library where she had gone to fetch her book.

  ‘Althea.’

  ‘Yes, my pet?’ She was carrying a little night lamp, and this for the moment gave her spectacles the opaqueness of Gregory’s.

  ‘I’ve been wondering all evening about this extraordinary resemblance I seem to bear to your niece. It is your niece, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Althea smiling. ‘But it’s not an extraordinary resemblance, it’s a superficial one. I remarked on it, you remember, when we first met.’

  ‘Mr Simon Syme seems to feel it very much.’

  ‘Oh, he did for a moment. I think it soon passed.’

  ‘I thought it upset him. All evening he seemed . . .’

  ‘I don’t think it was that. He tends to be moody. And probably the journey tired him.’

  ‘Is Marion . . . ? Where is she now?’

  ‘Marion is dead.’

  Norah watched the slow rise and fall of Althea’s cameo brooch. It moved like a piece of flotsam on a slow swell. ‘I wondered.’

  ‘Yes . . . she was drowned some years ago. It was a frightful thing at the time.’