Now Reggie raised his glass. And heres to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!
From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the womans arm.
Good heavens, its Nina Sutherland and her brat, Helena muttered. What broom did she fly in on?
Outside, the woman in the green gown suddenly spotted them standing in the window. Hello, Reggie! Helena! she called in a voice like a bassoon.
Hugh set down his sherry glass. Time to greet the barbarians, he said, sighing. He and the Vanes headed out the front door to welcome the first arrivals.
Jordan paused a moment to finish his drink, giving himself time to paste on a smile and get the old handshake ready. Bastille Day-what an excuse for a party! He tugged at the coattails of his tuxedo, gave his ruffled shirt one last pat, and resignedly headed out to the front steps. Let the dog and pony show begin.
Now where in blazes was his sister?
At that moment, the subject of Jordan Tavistocks speculation was riding hell-bent for leather across a grassy field. Poor old Froggie needs the workout, thought Beryl. And so do I. She bent forward into the wind, felt the lash of Froggies mane against her face, and inhaled that wonderful scent of horseflesh, sweet clover and warm July earth. Froggie was enjoying the sprint just as much as she was, if not more. Beryl could feel those powerful muscles straining for ever more speed. Shes a demon, like me, thought Beryl, suddenly laughing aloud-the same wild laugh that always made poor Uncle Hughie cringe. But out here, in the open fields, she could laugh like a wanton woman and no one would hear. If only she could keep on riding, forever and ever! But fences and walls seemed to be everywhere in her life. Fences of the mind, of the heart. She urged her mount still faster, as though through speed she could outrun all the devils pursuing her.
Bastille Day. What a desperate excuse for a party.
Uncle Hugh loved a good bash, and the Vanes were old family friends; they deserved a decent send-off. But shed seen the guest list, and it was the same tiresome lot. Shouldnt ex-spies and diplomats lead more interesting lives? She couldnt imagine James Bond, retired, pottering about in his garden.
Yet thats what Uncle Hugh seemed to do all day. The highlight of his week had been harvesting the seasons first hybrid Nepal tomato-his earliest tomato ever! And as for her uncles friends, well, she couldnt imagine them ever sneaking around the back alleys of Paris or Berlin. Philippe St. Pierre, perhaps-yes, she could picture him in his younger days; at sixty-two, he was still charming, a Gallic lady-killer. And Reggie Vane might have cut a dashing figure years ago. But most of Uncle Hughs old colleagues seemed so, wellused up.
Not me. Never me.
She galloped harder, letting Froggie have free rein.
They raced across the last stretch of field and through a copse of trees. Froggie, winded now, slowed to a trot, then a walk. Beryl pulled her to a halt by the churchs stone wall. There she dismounted and let Froggie wander about untethered. The churchyard was deserted and the gravestones cast lengthening shadows across the lawn. Beryl clambered over the low wall and walked among the plots until she came to the spot shed visited so many times before. A handsome obelisk towered over two graves, resting side by side. There were no curlicues, no fancy angels carved into that marble face. Only words.
Bernard Tavistock, 1930-1973
Madeline Tavistock, 1934-1973
On earth, as it is in heaven, we are together.
Beryl knelt on the grass and gazed for a long time at the resting place of her mother and father. Twenty years ago tomorrow, she thought. How I wish I could remember you more clearly! Your faces, your smiles. What she did remember were odd things, unimportant things. The smell of leather luggage, of Mums perfume and Dads pipe. The crackle of paper as she and Jordan would unwrap the gifts Mum and Dad brought home to them. Dolls from France. Music boxes from Italy. And there was laughter. Always lots of laughter
Beryl sat with her eyes closed and heard that happy sound through the passage of twenty years. Through the evening buzz of insects, the clink of Froggies bit and bridle, she heard the sounds of her childhood.
Bernard Tavistock, 1930-1973
Madeline Tavistock, 1934-1973
On earth, as it is in heaven, we are together.
Beryl knelt on the grass and gazed for a long time at the resting place of her mother and father. Twenty years ago tomorrow, she thought. How I wish I could remember you more clearly! Your faces, your smiles. What she did remember were odd things, unimportant things. The smell of leather luggage, of Mums perfume and Dads pipe. The crackle of paper as she and Jordan would unwrap the gifts Mum and Dad brought home to them. Dolls from France. Music boxes from Italy. And there was laughter. Always lots of laughter