The Stratton Story Read online

  Robert went away, and Gail was about to ask Alan whether he knew or had heard of a peculiar old lady called Westerby who lived at Shern, when Noelle came in with the first two weekend guests, and the matter passed from her mind. From now until Sunday evening, she knew, the house would ring with male voices; heavy footsteps would tramp up and down the uncarpeted stairs and informal groups would gather round the great open fireplace. Gail did not wonder that the house never lost its appeal; besides the easy hospitality of Alan and Noelle, she knew that to enter the door was to see a Home- at-a-glance. Every department of domesticity was open to view: sink, stove, ironing board, sewing machine, toy cupboard, television, record player, a long refectory table flanked by benches, and deep, comfortable, shabby sofas and chairs. Home at a glance-and while the visitors were in it, a real home of the kind into which, it was hoped, Tim Sinclair would be welcomed when he was in distant parts of the world.

  Warm hospitality—but hardly a restful weekend, Gail acknowledged each Monday morning when she returned to the Beetham Brothers. Staying at her flat, however, would have meant as much or more company, for it was open to friends who wanted to be in town.

  This week, the office seemed to her more somnolent than ever, and she began to consider the Swiss job seriously. The creaky old lift turned into a funicular; Mr. Walter’s ear trumpet assumed the size and shape of a Swiss cow horn. It was only with an effort that she was able to bring her mind to the work in hand—which included the preparations for Friday’s reception.

  She had sent out small, printed cards which stated merely that the Brothers would welcome guests for drinks at the Courtier Restaurant at half past six. Her own part at this and similar gatherings was a minor one, and confined to family matters; Mrs. Thomas did not like Mr. Thomas to have more than two glasses of champagne, Mr. Frank was not to be allowed to slip away early and Mr. Harold’s chauffeur was to appear at exactly fifteen minutes to eight, to conduct him to his car, thus giving the signal for the dispersal of the company.

  Friday was fine and windless; the reception would be out of doors. Miss Teller and Gail changed in the office and drove in Christopher’s car to Knightsbridge. The terrace behind the restaurant was spacious and screened; the sun warmed the guests-all of whom Gail thought remarkably dull.

  “Well, we don’t go in for the spectacular types,” Miss Teller pointed out, “and Mr. Walter won’t have the teenage genius. Funny, isn’t it, how the under-twenties have taken over? They write the music, sing the songs, set the ghastly fashions and rake in the profits.”

  “The old had a long innings,” Gail commented lazily.

  “Not long enough. Fm going to bring out a dictionary of forgotten words,” Miss Teller said, and ticked them off on bony fingers. “Mellow. Delicacy. Grace. Now look at Mrs. Stratton over there—there’s delicacy for you. And grace. You can’t wonder she’s a hit with the Brothers.”

  Gail looked at the slim figure walking beside Mr. Thomas.

  “I can never make out,” she said reflectively, “how it is that some people appear ready-made; spring out of nowhere into top billing.”

  “You mean she’s been stuck in a house down in Cornwall, nursing a sick husband, and suddenly emerges looking like this?”

  “Yes. She’s got a kind of old-world look, but that’s only her manner. Look at her clothes and her hair-style.”

  Miss Teller looked. Certainly this was no gauche provincial hesitating at the entrance to the hall of fame; Mrs. Stratton, for all her unassuming manner, carried herself with a quiet assurance and dignity. But Gail, who by now had read her book, found it difficult to link its tragic force to the tranquil-looking woman listening so politely to Mr. Thomas’s platitudes.

  “What did she do before—I mean when she was young?” she asked Miss Teller.

  “She went in for stage designing. That must have been how she met her first husband, who was an actor. He had a good deal of money, but he ran through it and died leaving her with nothing.”

  “And then?”

  “Back to stage designing, and then Edward Stratton.”

  “How long was he ill?”

  “Oh—months. Seven or eight months. They were only married for two years. Then she was a widow again.”

  “And then she was rich and famous.”

  “She deserves to be,” Miss Teller said, and then dropped her voice and spoke in a warning tone. “We’d better try and look busy; old Mr. Thomas is staring at us.”

  Mr. Thomas was doing more than staring; he was approaching.

  “Ha. Miss Sinclair. Will you come with me, please?” he said as he came up to Gail. “Mrs. Stratton would like to speak to you.”

  Slightly uneasy, Gail ran her mind over the last letter she had sent to Mrs. Stratton; there seemed nothing in it to warrant discussion. She took the gloved hand and heard Mrs. Stratton’s slow, gentle voice.

  “Miss Sinclair, I’ve been longing for a word with you . . .”

  She paused and smiled at Mr. Thomas. It took him some time to interpret the look, but the prolonged silence gave him a clue.

  “Ha. Yes. If you’ll excuse me,” he mumbled, “I’ll...”

  “Such a nice man,” Mrs. Stratton murmured, gazing at his retreating form. “They’re pets, all the Brothers.” She waved a hand round the crowded terrace. “This is quite delightful.” Her voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “That’s the tenth time I’ve said that this evening.”

  Gail looked into the dark, amused eyes, and ceased to wonder at the homage offered by the Beetham Brothers. Charm, she acknowledged unreservedly. Charm—natural, effortless, not to be acquired or even imitated. A wave of liking rose in her and made her smile at the older woman.

  “Doesn’t counting make it more tiring?”

  “Not so far,” Mrs. Stratton said. “I do it as a kind of drill; it helps to make everything more real. How many people are there here?”

  Gail told her.

  “And all that tactful intermingling—I’ve been watching the Brothers. Do they do it by instinct, or habit, or is it all worked out beforehand?”

  “Ask Mr. Thomas,” Gail suggested smilingly.

  “I will. He’s been such a help to me all through these difficult months. He persuaded me that this party was, in a way, a family affair, and so I felt able to come.”

  It took Gail a moment to understand that this was a reference to the fact that Mrs. Stratton was still in mourning for her husband. That accounted, she realised, for Mrs. Stratton’s choice of colour for her beautiful suit—mauve; half-mourning. The word family brought something else to her mind.

  “Your sister-in-law didn’t come,” she said.

  Mrs. Stratton looked puzzled.

  “My sister-in-law?”

  “She was invited.”

  “I think perhaps you’re mixing me up with someone else,” Mrs. Stratton said. “I don’t—”

  “Mrs. Westerby.”

  There was a pause. A variety of expressions passed over Mrs. Stratton’s face, but Gail did not see pleasure among them.

  “Mrs. Westerby was invited?”

  “Yes. That is,” Gail qualified, “she rang up and I spoke to her and she said she’d spoken to you and . . .”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Stratton nodded. “Yes, I see. It isn’t quite true that she spoke to me about it, but . . .” She gave a slight shrug. “I ought to have realised that when she heard there was to be a reception, she would ... I hope she wasn’t troublesome?”

  “Not at all. She just said she’d—”

  “She just said she’d like to be invited. I’m surprised, if you sent her an invitation, not to see her here. I’d be grateful”—she gave Gail a fleeting, apologetic smile—“if next time, you’d get in touch with me before . . .”

  “Yes. I will,” Gail promised.

  “She means well,” Mrs. Stratton said, “but she tends to-well, to follow me about. Nobody likes being followed about, especially by somebody as odd as Mrs. Westerby. And now”—she dismissed the to
pic—“may I come to my reason for asking Mr. Thomas to bring you to talk to me? I want to ask you a favour.”

  Gail waited. She wished that instead of chatting with Miss Teller, she had provided herself with something to eat and drink; the waiters were not circulating with anything like their initial energy, and she saw no hope of getting anything until Mrs. Stratton had set her free.

  “I had a word with Miss Teller,” Mrs. Stratton began, “and she happened to mention that you were driving to San Sebastian early in June.”

  “Week after next; yes.”

  “May I ask if you’re going alone? And if you are, is there the slightest chance that I could go with you?” Surprise and dismay kept Gail silent. This was the last thing she had expected, the last thing she wanted: the company of a total stranger.

  “I’m not going to San Sebastian,” she heard Mrs. Stratton say. “I’ve got to get to a place, a house, on the French side of the Pyrenees and it’s almost impossible to get there by public transport. There isn’t even a village. Before you say anything, I’d like to add that it wouldn’t be far out of your way. If it were, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to take me. But . . . are you going alone?”

  “I’m going alone, but I’m not driving all the way. I’m booked on the car ferry from Southampton to Bordeaux.”

  “That’s what Miss Teller said. From Bordeaux, it would only mean three or four hours’ driving. I could fly out to Bordeaux and meet you off the ferry —if you would agree to take me, and if you would agree to letting me pay your expenses.”

  Gail hesitated.

  “I don’t—”

  “Please let me explain,” begged Mrs. Stratton. “I don’t own a car, and I can’t drive. I could of course hire a car and a chauffeur, but it would be so much better, so much nicer to be with someone like yourself. The place I’m going to is called Chandon. There’s a hotel there, and I’ve got a room. The cottage I’m going out to see is just near by—actually in the hotel grounds. I promise it wouldn’t be far out of your way, and if it meant staying a night at Chandon, I would book you a room at the hotel and I would ask Mr. Thomas to give you an extra day’s holiday. Would you consider it?”

  It seemed unreasonable to refuse to consider it. While Gail hesitated, Mrs. Stratton gave her more details.

  “My husband left me the furniture that’s in the cottage. The cottage itself belongs to his sister—the Mrs. Westerby you mentioned just now. The furniture is said to be valuable, so I want to look at it and make up my mind whether to bring it to England or sell it abroad. I should only ask you to take me there; don’t be afraid that I shall want to be with you and your brother on the return trip.”

  Gail was not in the least afraid; she knew that Tim would have plans of his own, and they were not likely to include Mrs. Stratton.

  She made some rapid calculations. She knew that Mrs. Thomas, under cover of joining a near-by group, had been listening to every word—but she was not worried about Mrs. Thomas or about the Brothers. Her holiday was her own business and she would not drive Mrs. Stratton unless it suited her to do so. But if it meant only a few hours’ extra driving, and no extra expense, and if she could readjust her schedule slightly so as to meet Tim as arranged, she saw no objection to the plan. She said so, and saw Mrs. Stratton’s face light up with relief and pleasure.

  “My dear . . . I’m so grateful! I could hardly believe you would agree. I know I’m asking a lot. Look, I’m staying in London; may I ring you up and fix a day for lunch? Then we can make the final arrangements.”

  Gail was not surprised to see Mrs. Thomas joining them. After listening to Mrs. Stratton telling her what she had already overheard, she said graciously that an extra day’s holiday could of course be arranged.

  “Getting to Biarritz or Bayonne would have been easy enough,” Mrs. Stratton said, “but feeling my way round the Basses-Pyrenees looking for an out-of-the-way cottage would have been rather too much.”

  “Then that’s all settled,” Mrs. Thomas said with decision. “I shall speak to—”

  She stopped abruptly, halted by a disturbance that seemed to be taking place at the long glass doors that led from the restaurant to the terrace.

  “Who on earth,” she said in amazement, “can that be?”

  Gail knew. There could be no mistake. This was the owner of the voice that had bellowed at her over the telephone. She could only marvel at the accuracy of Miss Teller’s sketch.

  The woman who was dealing kindly but firmly with Miss Teller in the doorway was so enormous as to raise doubts of her having been able to pass through it. She was dressed in what Gail, gazing at her in fascination, decided must be the contents of a theatrical wardrobe; there was a short, jaunty Elizabethan-page cape over one shoulder, Robin Hood’s hat over grey stringy hair, Oliver Cromwell’s buckled shoes and a dress, long and elaborate and high-necked, that could have been used on alternate nights by Lady Bracknell or Charley’s Aunt.

  But it was no figure of fun that put Miss Teller firmly to one side and advanced across the lawn. The hazel eyes, almost lost in encircling bags, were keen and shrewd. The cheeks were pendulous, the chins numerous and quivering, the mouth open and fish-like—but authority was to be read in every line of the heavily—treading, steadily-advancing figure.

  “There’s some mistake,” Mrs. Thomas said loudly. “I shall speak to—”

  She stopped abruptly. The newcomer was approaching Mrs. Stratton with arms opened wide and a face beaming with pleasure.

  “My dearest Anita!” she bellowed, halting before her. “Do forgive me. I’m so sorry, so very, very sorry to have arrived so late. Or is it”—she turned to the frozen Mrs. Thomas—“is it your forgiveness I should be asking? You must be a Mrs. Beetham-Brother, must you not, since I understand this is purely family? Perhaps”—her gaze went round the keenly-attentive assembly and lit unerringly on Mr. Thomas. “Ah, yet another Brother? I am right? I thought so. I have a little gift, do you know? I can pin professions to people. I can say, unhesitatingly, That Person”—she pointed directly at Mr. Harold, who shrank closer to his chauffeur — “That Person is a publisher. Correct again? I thought so. But I’m not going to show off; this is not my party. It is Anita’s, is it not?”

  No longer, thought Gail. Mrs. Stratton, a few moments before occupying, with becoming modesty, the centre of the stage, had faded into insignificance beside the huge, commanding figure of her sister-in-law. The reception had assumed an underwater character; small fish seemed to be swimming round a whale.

  Gail withdrew to a secluded corner of the terrace, and Miss Teller joined her. From here, it looked as though Mrs. Westerby’s clothes had been put on over a series of loosely-connected balloons. She was informing those about her that she was delighted to be here, delighted to be able to join in the congratulations and perhaps even in a measure share Mrs. Stratton, Anita’s, triumph. Her voice filled the air; her gestures were unrestrained and theatrical.

  “Off her head?” Gail asked Miss Teller in a low voice.

  Miss Teller was looking puzzled.

  “That’s what I thought when she came in. But now . . . No, I don’t think she’s off her head.”

  “Crazy or not, she’s killed the party.”

  They looked across at Mrs. Stratton. Her face had not lost its composure; only a heightened colour told of her anger, or embarrassment, or both. Miss Teller’s glance went back to Mrs. Westerby.

  “I’m only guessing,” she said, “but I’m willing to wager that she lives in a large house in a small village, and throws the garden open for sixpence a head when in bloom. In her spare time, she’s British Legion, Women’s Institute, Church Roof Restoration, Hospital

  Appeal, Unmarried Mothers, Anglo-American Unity and Anti-Litter.”

  ‘‘I still think she’s crazy.”

  “That’s because you’re not old enough to recognise the type. They’re dying off, but there were lots of them around once upon a time. They were the sort that used to baffle foreigners.”


  Mrs. Westerby, like royalty, was doing the rounds. The groups on the terrace, mesmerised, reformed into a double line down which the large figure made its way, the deep voice filling the silence. She spoke graciously to established authors and encouragingly to the up-and- coming. She patted Christopher and Adrian on the shoulder and called them twigs of a fine old tree.

  “Grotesque, but grande dame,” summed up Miss Teller. “Mrs. Stratton’s bearing up well, isn’t she? But she can’t like it. What did she want to talk to you about?”

  “She’s meeting me at Bordeaux and I’m driving her to a house somewhere in the Basses-Pyrenees. On my way—I trust. I’m not quite clear where it is.”

  Almost immediately, Mrs. Westerby told her. She had come to the end of the lines and was peering across at Gail.

  “Miss Sinclair? I thought so. I asked Mrs. Stratton to point out the young lady to whom I spoke on the telephone-and here you are. She told me that you are driving her to Chandon-how kind of you! No, Miss Sinclair, no more champagne, thank you, delicious though it is. I love good wine; it’s the French side of me—did Mrs. Stratton tell you that my mother was French? She lived at Chandon before she married. Then the big house was sold and turned into an hotel, and my mother built a little cottage in the grounds—and that’s where you’re going with Mrs. Stratton. My brother and I kept on the cottage when my mother died; we had always spent our holidays there, and we both loved it. Mrs. Stratton has never seen it—she and my brother never went there. I am so glad you are going with her. I shall be going out at the same time; we have arranged to meet there.”

  Gail was so certain that this was a prelude to asking for a place in the car that she began to frame a resolute refusal—only to learn that Mrs. Westerby’s travel arrangements were already made.

  “I myself am driving out with my godson. We were only waiting to get a definite date from Anita—Mrs. Stratton. Do you know the Basque country?”

  ‘‘Not very well.”

  “Spoilt, a good deal of it. Ravaged. When I was young, it was idyllic,” roared Mrs. Westerby. “The cottage is rather out in the blue; I hope you’ll be able to find the way.”