Moonshine. Victoria Clayton

never seen a man so obviously in love with his wife.’ I was being truthful. I would not have dared to equivocate with someone so passionately sincere as Fleur.

      ‘Oh yes, he’s in love with me but that doesn’t mean to say I’m any good for him.’ Fleur began to fiddle with the loop of a doglead that was hanging nearby. ‘Often I think if I weren’t quite, quite heartless I’d run away. After a while he’d get over it and he’d meet someone else – not Mrs Harris, she’s much too boring – who’d be able to give him what he wanted.’

      ‘What does he want?’

      ‘What do men want?’ She shrugged. ‘A wife to run their house brilliantly, dazzle their friends, be nice to their mother? Luckily Dickie’s mother died ages ago. And laugh at their jokes. I do when I remember but Dickie’s jokes aren’t very funny. Someone to be around when they’re wanted and to disappear into the kitchen when not, although Mrs Harris would be furious if I ever tried to cook anything. And children, of course. Dickie would like children more than anything. Isn’t it odd?’

      ‘I can think of quite a few men who like children.’

      ‘But they don’t yearn for them as Dickie does. He adores looking after things. Sometimes I find him in here playing with the puppies and giving Looby extra biscuits though it isn’t good for her to get fat. He goes round the estate feeding everything: birds, squirrels, foxes, badgers. It nearly kills me because I know what it means. He wants a baby to kiss and buy pretty things for and teach how to ride a bicycle and all that.’ Fleur abandoned the lead and began to nibble a fingernail, a bar of pink across her pale cheeks. ‘Poor Dickie, I suppose I’m just the meanest, most selfish person alive but’ – she grimaced and shuddered – ‘I just can’t bear the idea—’

      ‘I knew I’d find you here.’ Dickie stood in the doorway. ‘Come along, you bad girls. All the men are panting for the sight of the pair of you. You’ve made a hit with Matthias, Roberta. He asked me all about you.’ Dickie winked at me. ‘I thought I’d better warn you. Sound as a bell of course, no better fellow, but he does lack a sense of humour.’

      ‘He’s a horrible man,’ said Fleur. ‘He keeps his dogs outside in kennels all winter and he hunts.’ It was clear there was no greater crime in Fleur’s eyes.

      Dickie laughed indulgently as he shepherded us back to the drawing room. ‘He thinks of foxes as vermin, darling. It doesn’t occur to him that it might be cruel. People’s attitudes are mostly formed by their upbringing, you know.’

      ‘Only stupid people’s,’ hissed Fleur.

      As we entered the room several people turned smiling faces towards us. Fleur put her arm through mine and led me to stand with our backs to the room before a large landscape.

      ‘Don’t let’s talk to them a second more than we can help. They’re only being polite for Dickie’s sake.’

      ‘What a wonderful painting!’ I was genuinely moved. ‘It’s a Claude, isn’t it?’

      ‘School of,’ said a voice in my ear. It was the surgeon. ‘Claude never painted pure landscape. He always put in figures from classical mythology. When we consider the different ways Claude and Poussin use reflected light …’

      Fleur gave him a look of loathing and edged away but I was trapped for a quarter of an hour while he lectured me on Roman Renaissance art.

      ‘Don’t you think Elsheimer an important influence …’ I attempted to turn the monologue to dialogue but the surgeon brushed aside my contribution by speaking louder and more emphatically.

      I found myself swallowing yawns, my throat aching with the effort. It was now half past ten. I had spent an arduous day washing and ironing eight sheets, the same number of pillowcases and forty-two napkins. My father insisted on clean, starched napkins at breakfast, lunch and dinner. I had introduced paper ones one lunchtime during my first week at home and he had become plethoric with rage. I had persuaded Oliver to do without but, for once, my mother had sided with my father.

      I turned my head discreetly as the surgeon gave me the benefit of his accumulated wisdom and stole a glance at the other guests. Burgo and I had not exchanged a word all evening. Whenever I had happened to glance in his direction he had been surrounded by women. Now he stood near the drawing-room door, holding a coffee cup, staring into its depths. A woman talked energetically to him, having seen off the competition. She was wearing an expensive-looking dress of bold magenta Fortuny-pleated silk, which looked good with her short black hair. She flashed her eyes and laughed frequently and, as far as I could tell, maintained a constant, faceaching expression of spirited gaiety. Watching her covertly over the surgeon’s shoulder I saw Burgo strike a match to light her cigarette. She tossed him a look as smouldering as her cigarette end.

      ‘When you take into account the importance of the inspiration of ancient Attica …’ droned the surgeon.

      I must have dropped into a waking doze for the next thing I heard was Burgo’s voice.

      ‘Sorry to deprive you of your audience, Matthias, but I promised Dickie I’d show Roberta the Temple of Hygeia,’ said Burgo.

      ‘Can’t it wait, Latimer?’ The surgeon looked huffy. ‘You’re interrupting a fascinating discussion. It isn’t often I find a young lady so well informed.’

      Burgo looked at me. I put as much entreaty into my eyes as good manners permitted.

      ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘Dickie was insistent.’

      Fleur would have been disgusted, had she seen the departing smile I bestowed on Mr Matthias. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, stroking the stomach of a small grey dog, ignoring a man who was squatting in front of her, trying to engage her attention. On our way out I glanced at the woman who had been talking so animatedly to Burgo. Her face was gloomy, her gaiety extinguished. She looked up and met my eye. There was something savage about the way she flung her cigarette into the fire.

       SEVEN

      ‘Poor woman!’ Kit poured me another glass of wine as we waited for two cups of coffee at the inn near the border between Limerick and Clare. ‘After applying herself sedulously all evening to the work she must have been annoyed to see you pocket the sweepstake. So you fell in love with him because he neglected you. Or was it because you saw him as a man of power surrounded by adoring women?’

      ‘I wasn’t in love with him then. We were still strangers, virtually.’

      ‘But you were piqued by his indifference. You were in that state of pre-infatuation when the chosen one is supremely fascinating in all his, or her, words and deeds.’

      ‘Perhaps. It had nothing to do with the old saw that power is an aphrodisiac. If he’d been a Labour politician it might have been slightly better. But until I got to know Burgo I was convinced that all politicians’ souls had been traded in at an early age. And there isn’t a species of male I dislike more than the Conservative toff. As it turned out, perhaps unfortunately for me, Burgo wasn’t one of them. He loathes their craving for caste conformity. He’s a Conservative because he thinks Socialism’s hidebound by political theory and because he wants independence from the trade unions. The Labour Party has to wear its heart on its sleeve, however economically undesirable it might be to cripple industry in favour of handouts to the improvident. Burgo doesn’t care about image. He thinks there are good men and monsters on both sides and all that matters is being effective.’

      ‘In the light of what you say I’m glad I’ve never voted Tory. I shouldn’t like to be so comprehensively despised by my elected representative. But no doubt the Labour and Liberal MPs are equally contemptuous of the great unnumbered. But to hell with politics. What I want to know is what happened when you went into the garden alone on a beautiful summer’s night to view the Temple of Hygeia?’

      ‘You