Abdication A Novel - By Juliet Nicolson Page 0,139
Together they began to sort through Miss Nettlefold’s possessions, packing them into one of Rupert’s old school trunks. Miss Nettlefold’s sad final request had touched May and she was determined to protect the woman from any further indignity. But the box containing Miss Nettlefold’s wigs was already full, each wig wrapped in the tissue paper Mrs. Cage usually reserved for Lady Joan’s own clothes. Not a word had passed between May and Mrs. Cage of Florence’s confession about Mrs. Cage’s son. May had decided that she could only stick to her promise to Florence by steering clear of the whole subject. It was Mrs. Cage who broke the silence.
“Poor Miss Nettlefold. I wish her well. And I think all we can both do is to agree that there are some things in life and some ways of behaving that are best left unexplained, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Cage stretched her hand out to May, who was putting the wig box carefully in the trunk next to a small silver letter opener, and touched her gently on the arm.
“Yes, Mrs. Cage, I could not agree with you more,” May replied abruptly, and, excusing herself, went next door into the adjoining bathroom. The room smelled of antiseptic and the shelf above the basin was quite empty except for a couple of unused crêpe bandages and two brown bottles half-full of liquid. She recognised the labels at once, surprised to find the poison Mr. Hooch used on the rabbits and rats in Miss Nettlefold’s bathroom cupboard. It was not long however before she remembered how Mr. Hooch had mentioned only a few weeks ago that he must order a new supply of poison.
“Either I have miscounted my supply or this year I have got through the stuff at a faster rate than ever before.”
An image of Loafer lying in the back of the car unconscious on the rise and fall of Miss Nettlefold’s ample stomach was in May’s mind as she emptied the remaining liquid into the basin, put the bottles in her pocket and, thanking Mrs. Cage for her help, went to find Mr. Hooch to take her to the station. On the way to the garage she passed the garden dustbin, opened the lid and buried the two empty bottles among a wheelbarrow load of dead plants. Miss Nettlefold would at least be saved from one final betrayal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Julian could hardly believe he had only left England six weeks ago. Since his departure, constitutional Britain had undergone an astonishing transformation, as described at titillating length in the French newspapers. What was equally surprising to Julian was the change in his own outlook on life which had been stimulated, pummelled, extended, inflated and reordered in ways he had never dared hope for.
He had left his letter for May on Mr. Hooch’s workbench in the garage knowing Mr. Hooch would make sure May got it as soon as he saw her. The taxi had picked him up before anyone else was awake on that late October Sunday morning and he had been driven in the dawn light to the port at Newhaven. He had sat on the ferry to Dieppe, even then trying to convince himself that he had made the right decision. Despite the earliness of the hour, he soon emptied the demi-carafe of Beaujolais the waiter had brought over to his table and had immediately ordered another. Wine had never tasted so good, especially after the mild headache he attributed to the late hour of the previous night’s talks with Philip.
Julian soon cheered up as the wine worked its magic and he began to concentrate on the prospect of a few weeks in Paris. He had often dreamt of spending time in the city that had at times been host to Voltaire and Gide, Proust and Hemingway, culture and intellect, wine and beauty. And after six weeks he was able to conclude that the experience had not disappointed. Peter had proved to be the most knowledgeable of guides and stimulating of companions. He had introduced Julian not only to his earnest friend the writer Eric Blair, but to the outspoken Spanish surrealist painter Joan Miró, who had a habit of staring at ceilings before jotting sketches in his notebook. Henry Miller, an American novelist, and his lover, a writer Anäis Nin, were Julian’s favourite couple although the sexual connection around them was sometimes so strong that it felt indecent to remain in the same room.