A Proper Family Christmas (7 page)

“Oh come on! Uncle William isn't exactly one for big family Christmases. What's the old sod up to?”

“Nothing! I mean, I think it was just accidental. Stephen and Ratso had something wrong with their house, and your mother wanted a chance to show this man round…”

“There's nothing wrong with Julia and Tony's house, as far as I know!” Leo's mouth curled into the self-satisfied expression he adopted when affecting irony.

“I expect, when they heard the others were going…” Hilary wished she'd stuck to the train. She'd forgotten how exhausting it was to be on the defensive all the time.

“A gathering of the clan,” mused Leo, overtaking a Jaguar on the inside lane. “Uncle William sees Father Time beckoning, and is considering the disposition of his estate. Will it be to Gentle Julia, or does he favour male ascendency? Stephen has taken the precaution of getting himself a wife and a male heir to carry on the Shirburn name. That was lucky. It means he doesn't have to mate with the ghastly Lesley more than once…”

“I'm sure you've got it wrong. It was Lesley who was so keen on getting married and having a baby…”

“That's what I like about you, Hilary.” He took his eye off the road to smile kindly at her. “ - You always think the best of people.”

Hilary drew a breath to defend herself against this unwarranted slur, but caught herself in time.

Leo braked to avoid the car he had nearly ploughed into. “I'm interested in what makes people tick - you have to be, as a writer,” he said, as if it were a chore.

Hilary didn't break the family rule of never asking Leo how his book was going in case he told you, desperate though she was for a change of subject.

He raked a hand through his rather over-long hairstyle, relic of the teenage-rebel image he had never dropped. “No, you don't want to underestimate William,” he went on. “Just because he's old and eccentric, you mustn't make the mistake of thinking he's stupid.”

“No,” said Hilary, who never had. “Don't you think he might divide the estate equally between them?”

“That would mean selling off Haseley. He'd never agree to that. And it would be a white elephant without the funds to maintain it, so the house and William's money must go as a package deal.”

Hilary turned to admire the view of motorway embankment beside her, and tried to quench the curl of embarrassment she felt at being invited to discuss somebody else's money.

“Yes, this way Father William gets them both dancing to his tune until they see which way the wind blows.”

Being a writer didn't seem to inhibit Leo from mixing his metaphors, Hilary noticed.

“I'm sure they've got more sense…” she ventured.

“Stephen's a don, so that precludes him from having any sense by definition.”

Hilary smiled politely.

“Ratso's only a College secretary or something…”

“Librarian.”

“Julia's far too soft-hearted to know when someone's stringing her along. And you can forget Tony - charming, but a total airhead. Oh, they'll dance all right! It should be rather amusing.” Leo celebrated his forthcoming pleasure by putting his foot down.

Hilary shut her eyes against the bridges flashing past and pretended to doze.

“Of course you mustn't forget your interest in all this, Hilary.”

She jumped in spite of herself. “I beg your pardon?”

Leo shot her a satisfied glance, his hooded eyes over that large nose making him look even more like a smug eagle.

“Haseley should have gone to Mother, as the eldest child, not William, merely because he was a boy. It would then have passed to Ben - and, of course, to his widow and son.”

He eyed her again, but this time she had herself under control.

“But it didn't go to Margery.”

“No, but if William were to pre-decease her, there would be a good case for arguing that she was his natural heir.”

“Oh come on, Leo! Margery's very comfortably off. She doesn't need William's money.”

“No, she doesn't. So I'm sure she would resign her claim in favour of you and Daniel.”

“What?”

“Ben was her eldest and, let's face it, her favourite son. …No - I admit it - I've always been a bit too much of a rebel to fit in with family conventions. I wouldn't expect to benefit from anything Margery has to offer - though, God knows, I can't think how I survive on the pittance a writer can expect to earn - one with any pretensions to literature, I should say. I'm not talking Dan Brown here…”

Hilary knew that Leo's father had left both of his sons a reasonable legacy. If Ben's had disappeared into their mortgage, Leo chose to live on the income from his share while he aspired to be a writer.

“And it's not as if you couldn't do with the money. I don't know what you make at that copy-editing, but it can't be enough to keep Daniel at Medical School. You were still paying off what Ben had borrowed to set up the business when he died, according to what I heard. …I beg your pardon?”

Hilary had made a growling noise in her throat, the remnants of a suppressed scream. If she feigned a heart attack, would he let her off at the next service station? Probably not.

She sighed. There was only one thing for it.

“How's your book going, Leo?”

CHAPTER 5

Scratch had been excluded from lunch in the dining-room, and was miffed about it. He waited patiently outside the door, hoping to be noticed. But when Stephen and Lesley finally emerged with William they were busy talking, and went straight across to the sitting-room without sparing Scratch a second glance. In fact they were so engrossed in what appeared to be a heated discussion that they forgot to take the elementary precaution of either putting the food away safely or shutting the door.

Scratch couldn't believe his luck. There on the table was a totally unprotected quiche, a bowl of potato salad, and other feline delights such as butter! He leapt onto the table, prepared to sample each one.

Suddenly he was gripped round the waist. He gave a squawk of disappointment as he was lowered unceremoniously to the floor.

“Sorry, mate, but my need's greater than yours.”

Frances was even more delighted than he was to find a quiche deprived of only two small slices, the potatoes, and, despised by Scratch, a bowl of salad and some tinned fruit. Tobias had taken an age to drop off, and she was starving. There was no sign of the others. They must have adjourned without bothering to fetch her or check that she was fed.

Conscience wouldn't let her leave the debris as she'd found it, so she cleared the table when she'd finished, put the remains of the food in the fridge, watched balefully by the cat, and washed up Stephen and Lesley's plates as well as her own. After that, she craved a cup of tea.

There was an old kettle on the stove and mugs on a hook nearby - but teabags? Frances opened some cupboards. Nice china, obviously never used. Food - William apparently lived on tinned stew and packets of curry powder. But here, if she wasn't mistaken, was a brand new electric kettle, its lead still neatly coiled. She lifted it out from the back of the cupboard, and rinsed it out before filling it and plugging it in to a socket near the cooker. Further investigations led to the toffee tin of teabags, and there were several bottles of milk in the fridge.

“Indulging in a cup of tea, Nanny?”

She jumped guiltily. Stephen Shirburn had come through the open door unheard.

“Yes, I - er… Would you like one?”

“We'd all like some, thank you very much. If you could bring it into the sitting-room.”

He went out again. Frances made a face at the cat. “Where's my frilly apron and cap?”

She found an old brown teapot and some of the nicer cups and saucers in the cupboard. A tray to put them on was more of a problem, until she discovered one hidden in the gap between the cooker and the fridge.

When it was all ready, she realised that she wasn't entirely sure where the sitting-room was. She took the tray into the hall and listened for voices behind one of the closed doors.

It wasn't difficult. Some kind of argument was going on. “…But Father, you know it would be the sensible thing to do.”

Frances hesitated, then rested the tray on the hall table and opened the door.

“Ah!” said Lesley irritably. “I thought you were upstairs with Tobias.”

Her face was flushed. William looked sulky, Stephen embarrassed. “Put it down there, Nanny. Oh - no sugar?”

“You've used the brown teapot,” said William.

“It was all I could find. Sorry - I'll go and get the sugar,” said Frances, trying to make room for the tray among the brochures on the coffee-table. …Coloured brochures with pictures of houses and the rooms inside them: ‘Woodfield Court', ‘Greenbanks'. Was this what they had been discussing?

Back in the kitchen, her own tea was getting cold. She gulped it, found a bowl of sugar and some teaspoons and took them to the sitting-room.

“Next time, Nanny, would you use the china teapot that matches this service?” said Lesley. “You'll find it with the rest of the set if you look carefully.”

Frances bit her lip, unable to think of a reply which would keep her her job.

Outside in the hall she took a few deep breaths. The raised voices had begun again.

“Think of Tobias, Dad!”

“I'd rather not, thank you!”

Frances turned to go. The cat, however, deciding this was where the action was, began to scratch loudly at the sitting-room door, glaring at Frances when she didn't open it.

“Shush!” she hissed, but this merely provoked him to reinforce his demand with a series of yowls that Tobias would have envied. She hovered, uncertain whether to run for it before someone else opened the door and accused her of eavesdropping, or try to let the cat in discreetly herself to stop him making that awful noise.

Then suddenly he did stop. Her momentary relief turned to alarm as she realised he was listening to something outside the front door. …Footsteps in the porch. The bell rang.

She heard exclamations from the sitting-room. Any moment they would come into the hall and ask her why she hadn't opened the front door. So she opened it.

A gust of scent. A tall lady in a voluminous Indian cotton dress, with voluminous red-gold hair bound in a scarf to match.

“Hello, I'm Julia! You must be Tobias's nanny - we spoke on the phone.” She stepped forward almost as if to embrace Frances, but held out a warm hand instead. “How lovely to meet you at last! This is our little horror - Posy.” Frances found herself facing the appraising grey eyes of a girl of about eight. “Say hello to…?”

“Frances.”

“Lovely name!”

“Oh, there's Scratch!” said Posy, and ran to grab the cat, who dived for cover under the hall table.

“…And here's our Nanny.” Julia indicated a bottom in a tight skirt bending to extract something from the back of the car. “…Oh, hello Daddy! Isn't this fun? We haven't had a real family Christmas for ages. Stephen - Lesley… How super! And where's darling little Tobias?” She wafted in to where the others had gathered in an uncomfortable group in the hall.

Frances, continuing in her role as parlour-maid, stayed holding the door open for the only person Julia hadn't introduced: a good-looking older man - the sort they use to advertise life-assurance - with neatly-waved hair, greying an acceptable amount at the sides, and an improbably smart suit.

“So you're Tobias's new nanny. What was the name? Frances. Splendid.” He gripped her hand in a brief, professional handshake.

“Hello, Tony.”

Frances gaped. Surely that soft-voiced greeting didn't emanate from Lesley Shirburn? Good God, the pale eyelashes were almost fluttering! She watched Tony leave two bright patches of flame as he kissed his sister-in-law on both cheeks, and found it hard to suppress a grin.

Her speculations were interrupted by the return of Posy, who, having discovered that Scratch lived up to his name, was seeking more reliable sport.

“Where's Tobias?”

“I'm afraid he's asleep.”

“I'll go and wake him.” She started up the stairs.

“No, don't do that!”

“Where's his room?”

“Don't be a naughty girl, Pose,” said the owner of the tight skirt wearily. Her top was tight too, but she wore a severe jacket over it, giving the overall impression of a business-like tart. “Hi, I'm Shelley.”

She looked round her with a shudder. “This is a bit creepy, isn't it? - Sort of Frankenstein's castle. …With Posy's Grandad as Frankenstein!” she added in a whisper. “Oo-er! I don't think he's very pleased about us coming!”

Frances felt a sudden irrational desire to defend Haseley and William. “He's a bit old for so many visitors - and the house is really interesting when you get used to it.”

Posy had gone to badger her aunt. “Where's Tobias sleeping, Lesley?”

“Hello, dear. How you've grown!”

“They do at this age. Isn't it awful? The little monster eats us out of house and home.”

“Do
you
know where Tobias is, Uncle Stephen?”

“You could get lost in a place like this, couldn't you?” Shelley went on. “Go along to the lav in the middle of the night and never find your way back. …There's that pussy again! Oi - Pose! There's the pussy!”

Curiosity had got the better of Scratch, who had incautiously poked his head out from under the table, thinking the heat was off. William startled everyone by seizing his cat and disappearing unceremoniously into the sitting-room.

“Oh - I say!” said Stephen, who now that politenesses had been exchanged, didn't really want to be trapped in the hall with his sister's family.

Lesley too looked rather embarrassed. “Well - er - I hope you won't be too uncomfortable,” she said. “Unfortunately William forgot to tell Mrs. Arncott you were going to be here. …Well, he forgot to tell anybody, in fact. Until we arrived this morning, we were fully expecting to have Haseley to ourselves, weren't we, Stephen?” She gave her tight smile. “I suppose you did know that Aunt Margery and Hilary are coming, and some man…”