God Save the Queen! Read online

  “Stuff and nonsense. You’re never a scrap of bother!” Lady Gossinger’s voice vibrated with a heartiness that threatened to put further cracks in Gossinger’s ancient foundations.

  “How kind of you to say so, Mabel!” Miss Doffit rubbed her hands together to get the circulation going. “Sometimes I start to worry, as old people will, that I may have outstayed my welcome by a few weeks.”

  “Not at all, Sophie. We have enjoyed your visit.” Her Ladyship was able to speak with sincerity, because she firmly believed that life among the better families required having a poor relation hovering gratefully in the shadows. And then there was that resemblance to the Queen Mother, which made riding in the backseat of a taxi with Cousin Sophie a bit of a thrill, even as she warned the old lady that waving out the window in that particular way might be a treasonable offense. Lady Gossinger drew a forbearing breath.

  “Never mind, Sophie! Although, if you’d only listened a little harder before interrupting me, dear,” she laughed to soften the rebuke, “you would have realized I was talking to young Vivian. I was saying that he isn’t a scrap of bother. We’re quite awfully fond of him, isn’t that right, old bean?” Lady Gossinger raised her voice an octave or two as she turned to her husband and gave him a bracing pat on the knee.

  “Oh, absolutely, Mabel!” Sir Henry chomped down on his words and slowly regurgitated them, in the manner of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere. “Couldn’t be more fond of the young cub if he were m’late younger brother Tom’s boy.”

  “Vivian is Tom’s son, dear,” Lady Mabel said with wifely patience.

  “Oh, yes, quite, quite! Old family name, Vivian ...” Sir Henry lapsed into reverie. A whoosh of icy wind came down the chimney, while rain began to beat at the narrow lattice windows in the stop-and-start manner of an untalented child practicing scales at the piano.

  In truth, Lady Gossinger had developed a deep affection for her acquired nephew. It was born the instant Vivian had made it plain he had no wish to take up residence in the ancestral home when he came into the title upon his uncle’s death. He would, he had given his word as a gentleman, be happy for his aunt to continue living at Gossinger for the many, he hoped, years allotted to her.

  “We only wish you’d come up to see us more often, young Vivian.” Her Ladyship gave him one of her cultivated smiles. “Positively topping having you here. But mustn’t push our good fortune. We know how it is with busy young men-about-town, don’t we, Henry?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Not always an old fuddy-duddy. Remember being young m’self once upon a time. Seemed the thing to do, I suppose.”

  The baronet’s faded eyes strayed to the longcase clock, which had neither ticked nor tocked in living memory, but still appeared, perhaps by some imperceptible change of facial expression, to be able to communicate the time to its master. “What’s it you’ve been doing with yourself recently, m’boy? Serving queen and country?”

  “In a manner of speaking, Uncle Henry.” Vivian Gossinger tucked his feet under the faded strip of Persian carpet for warmth.

  “Has someone been keeping secrets?” Lady Gossinger chided him with a raised finger that almost got blown off her hand by the force of the wind now taking rude peeks up Cousin Sophie’s skirts. “That won’t do, will it, dear? Your Uncle Henry and I have your very best interests at heart. And there’s absolutely nothing you can’t tell us that you wouldn’t tell your own mummy and daddy if they were still alive.”

  “In that case, if you’re one-hundred-percent sure you want to hear this, Aunt Mabel!” Avoiding looking at the brass rubbing of Lady Normina on the wall that always gave him the willies, Vivian Gossinger announced: “To put it in a nutshell, Aunt, I’ve recently taken up employment selling men’s toiletries door-to-door.”

  “You have done what, dear?” Lady Gossinger plunged back in her chair and immediately sprang forward again, after getting the Tudor Rose imprinted on her spine. She was shocked by what she had just heard. Deeply so. But part of her enjoyed being shocked. It was the proper response from someone with her responsibilities to the Family. Unless—was it possible young Vivian had been pulling her leg? Yes, that had to be it! Chuckling to show she hadn’t taken the bait, her Ladyship wagged her finger at her naughty nephew.

  “Shame on you for telling such whoppers! Going around from house to house with your little sample case, indeed! We should stand him in the corner for trying to frighten us, isn’t that right, Henry?”

  “Sorry, m’dear! Must have fuzz in my ears, or the old brain’s gone on the blink. Missed what you were saying, but sure you’re right as always.” Sir Henry passed a hand over his bald pate. He appeared considerably more interested in the sound of the rain, now playing a Beethoven concerto on the windowpanes, than in his nephew’s earthshaking pronouncement.

  “I’m not joking, Aunt Mabel.”

  “But surely, Vivian!”

  “I’m currently a Macho Man representative. But if it’s any consolation, Aunt, I’m not frightfully good at it. I’m always getting lost. And I don’t like being set upon by toy poodles with capped teeth and false nails.”

  “Is someone talking to me?” Cousin Sophie immediately realized her mistake and said that it must have been her tummy asking for a scone with butter.

  Lady Gossinger ignored her. “Vivian, for the sake of the family, listen to Auntie! There must be something else you could do to supplement your allowance. Something that would be more suited to your position in life. How about becoming an M.P., dear? You wouldn’t have to take a lot of nasty exams, and think what you’d save on meals by going to all those roast chicken dinners.”

  “I’m sorry to upset you, Aunt Mabel.” Vivian looked remorseful. “But I think I should stick it out with Macho Man Products a bit longer. Character-building and all that. It really is a pretty decent outfit. And they do a frightfully good body cream and an oatmeal-and-avocado face mask, if Uncle Henry should be interested.”

  Sir Henry made a noise deep in his throat and did an excellent job of appearing lost in thought, but Lady Gossinger could not hide her distress. Face masks and body creams! Was she learning something about her nephew that she would rather not have known? Was she about to discover that he kept Persian cats and liked to do his own flower arranging? Of course, this sort of thing cropped up in the best families; they (whoever they were) said that Richard the Lion Heart ... So perhaps—Lady Gossinger took a reviving breath—the well-bred thing to do was to be broad-minded. But that didn’t mean, surely, that she had to encourage young Vivian.

  “I’m afraid,” she bit down on her lip, “that your Uncle Henry’s going to blame himself.”

  “Because of the job?”

  “That’s right, dear. Anything else is entirely your own business.” Lady Gossinger basked for a moment in the glow being shed by her halo. “Henry blames himself for everything. Comprehensive schools, the Common Market, take-out curries, you name it. And, strictly between you and me, young Vivian,” Lady Gossinger glanced at her husband, who sat oblivious two feet away, “I worry, as any devoted wife would, that he spends far too much time in the Penitent’s Room off the chapel. But funnily enough, dear, that gives me an idea.”

  “It does?”

  “The perfect solution, Vivian. I know you’re not all that churchy, but you could come and live at Gossinger for a while and do some voluntary work at Lincoln Cathedral. Wouldn’t that be jolly? We’re only about sixteen miles away. That’s minutes in the car.” Her Ladyship was bubbling over with enthusiasm. “I think it would be particularly nice, dear, if you helped out in the information booth. You could tell people where to find the famous Imp and how at one time the cathedral’s copy of the Magna Carta used to be kept in an old biscuit tin, and then there’s that funny little legend about the Swineherd of Stow. Americans in particular love that sort of thing.”

  While Lady Gossinger was taking a well-earned breath and Vivian was wondering how he could tactfully explain that he would rather live in a bus shelter th
an at Gossinger, Cousin Sophie decided that having counted to three hundred and thirty-one she might reasonably reenter the conversation. Sitting up very straight, with her hand on the standard lamp beside her as if holding a scepter, she came out strongly in support of her Ladyship.

  “Mabel is right, as always, Vivian. Voluntary work is one thing, but the other kind—where one receives remuneration—is never a suitable occupation for people of our sort. One of my brothers went to work for the Bank of England. And it killed our daddy. Have you,” Cousin Sophie’s cushiony soft face grew troubled, “ever worked in a bank, Vivian?”

  “No, Cousin Sophie.”

  Miss Doffit gathered Vivian’s hands between her own and squeezed, revealing surprising strength for an old lady, so that his eyes watered. “I suppose I’m old-fashioned, but I can’t help thinking it a very vulgar occupation—delving into people’s money problems. I don’t know that I can think of anything more discreditable, except perhaps working in one of those secondhand shops that thrive on the spoils of people fallen on adversity.” Cousin Sophie resolutely blinked away a tear. “Oh dear, here I go again, rattling on as if my opinion is of the least importance. Have I been making a nuisance of myself again?”

  “You could never do that.” Vivian Gossinger was moved to respond by centuries of good breeding and his aunt’s silence, which had not helped the chill in the room. “You’re a national treasure, Cousin Sophie.”

  “And you are so like your dear father, may our Father in heaven rest his soul!” Miss Doffit smiled mistily.

  “You know I sleep in his old room. And I must admit I have grown very fond of it and the way the wind whistles so cheerfully through the windows. Would you believe it, Vivian, sometimes I forget for weeks on end your daddy once telling me that particular bedroom is haunted by that ill-bred young woman who put a wicked curse on Gossinger Hall in the eighteenth century.”

  Miss Doffit eyed Sir Henry, saw he looked cross, and hung her head as if wishing it would drop into a conveniently placed executioner’s bucket. “May I,” she gathered herself together, “make myself useful by going to see what is keeping Hutchins from bringing in our tea?”

  “It is unlike him to be unpunctual.” Lady Gossinger fussed with the strand of pearls around her neck. She hadn’t caught more than a stray sentence here and there of Cousin Sophie’s ramblings since the part about the depravity of secondhand shops. What would the old lady think if she knew about the one in Bethnal Green? Hard as her Ladyship had worked at obliterating her past, Mabel Bowser’s legacy lingered. And at that moment, although she was even more fond of her husband than she was of young Vivian, Lady Gossinger could have strangled the man.

  In a burst of insensitivity a few weeks previously, Sir Henry had purchased the late Mr. and Mrs. Bowser’s former shop, and the flat above, as a present for his wife’s fiftieth birthday. On presenting her with the deed, Sir Henry explained that he had prayed upon the matter and had become convinced she would want this piece of property for sentimental reasons. Also, it would make a nice little nest egg. Sir Henry had said this looking at peace with himself and the world. And to think of the wonderful present she had hidden away for his birthday coming up shortly! Lady Gossinger had only contemplated hitting him for an instant before she remembered that doing so would have put her back on a par with the likes of Edna. Truth be told, it wasn’t a bad investment. The building had been let for the last ten years to the same tenant. Even so, for weeks after her birthday Lady Gossinger had walked around with her arms close to her sides, for fear that if she raised them an inch a telltale whiff of Bethnal Green would escape. Now she stopped fiddling with her pearls and drew in her elbows.

  “A bit odd, Hutchins being late. Never met such a stickler for time. And here it is ten minutes past four,” Sir Henry said, looking at the clock, whose hands were locked in prayer as they had been ever since the pendulum had stopped, according to family legend, one midnight long ago. The baronet cleared his throat. “It’s about Hutchins that I’ve been wanting to have a word with you all. But felt it could wait. Didn’t want to spoil anyone’s tea. Thought you’d all take the news better on full tummies.”

  “Is Hutchins ill?” Vivian Gossinger forgot about good posture and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the epitome of well-bred concern for a family servant.

  “He’s not dying?” Lady Gossinger sounded quite put out, feeling—quite rightly—that Hutchins should have notified his employers of his intention. “Well, I must say he’s been doing a very good job of looking well.”

  “No, no! He’s not got an appointment with the Grim Reaper. Nothing like that!” Sir Henry shifted further back in his throne chair, which was not made for seating comfort, as the expression on his face bore witness. He started to speak, being anxious to get on with what he had to say, but being a gentleman, allowed a lady to go first.

  “Hutchins isn’t especially old, Vivian,” said Cousin Sophie, who took great pride in being eighty-four, and staunchly resented people in their seventies putting themselves forward as elderly.

  “But come to think of it, he must be close to retirement age,” said Vivian. “Even so, Uncle Henry, I always assumed Hutchins would never leave Gossinger until he was carried out in his coffin. Particularly as he has his granddaughter here.”

  “Ah, yes! Little Flora!” Sir Henry spoke quite fondly. “Of course, she’s grown up now and works about the house or in the gift shop. But when Hutchins first brought her here after her mother died, she was only about four or five. Really quite a playful little thing. Quite like having a puppy about the place. I remember she used to like going up into the trunk room and playing dressing-up games.”

  “Hutchins seems quite devoted to her,” Cousin Sophie broke in, once more forgetting that fate had allotted her a permanent place in the shadows. “Human nature being what it is, people always make lots of fuss when a man, and one who is not,” she conceded, “particularly young, takes on the upbringing of a child. But think of that woman who last week had quadruplets, or whatever they’re called, at age sixty-four!”

  “Cousin Sophie,” Vivian Gossinger’s lips had thawed out sufficiently to allow a smile, “you’ve been at it again, reading the tabloids.”

  “No, no, it was a proper newspaper! And I’m sure I heard the same story on the wireless, about this retired schoolteacher from Bridlington, who married a much younger man and decided she wanted to give him a child. Some people would say a pipe rack would have made a more suitable gift, but I thought it quite brave of Mrs. Smith.” Cousin Sophie nodded sagely. “Her story made me think about you, Mabel.”

  “Me?” Lady Gossinger did not sound pleased. “I am not years older than Henry!”

  “No, no, of course not.” The old lady backed into her corner of the sofa. “It was because you always seem so young, not much more than a girl really, that I began to think how lovely it would be if you and Henry were to have a baby. A boy, of course. And I could make myself useful looking after it.” Sentimental sigh. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Vivian?”

  “Mind your looking after it?”

  “No, dear! Mind being supplanted as Henry’s heir.”

  Giving Cousin Sophie a cross look, Lady Gossinger said: “In the course of leaping from one subject to another we have lost track of the fact, Henry,” she turned to her husband, “that you were about to tell us something or other about Hutchins. Sorry about that, old bean! But out with it now. You have my undivided attention.”

  Chapter Three

  Flora hadn’t forgotten that her grandfather had asked her to take afternoon tea up to the tower room. But she had lost track of time. This was partly because a button had popped off her white blouse while she was serving a customer in the gift shop, and she’d had to go and sew it back on. At which time she had noticed that her hair was slipping out of its knot and she also had a run in her tights. However, the main reason she failed to look at her watch was that this was Grandpa’s birthday and she was obsessed with making sur
e that their little sitting room looked as festive as possible.

  It was always a cozy apartment, with lots of books on the shelves and Grandpa’s chair drawn snugly up to the fireplace, but today Flora wanted everything perfect. She had filled a blue and white china jug with winter pansies and put it on the drop-leaf table. The iced chocolate cake she had made early that morning looked very tasty on its silver doily and she had strung balloons from the backs of the two dining chairs. Grandpa would pretend to be surprised and they would have a merry supper, but Flora could not rid herself of one disappointment, that the birthday present she so longed to give him was not to be.

  A couple of weeks previously she had screwed up her courage and written to Her Majesty, telling her about Grandpa and the marvelous silver polish he made up in accordance with an old family recipe. Flora had explained that the silver polish was sold at the Gossinger Hall gift shop and that people made special trips, often driving many miles to buy it. Would it be asking too much (she had underlined these words) to hope that Her Majesty might consider granting one of her Royal Warrants for this excellent product?

  After rereading the letter several times to make sure she hadn’t made any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, Flora had taken it down to the postbox, her heart thudding all the way. That night when she went to bed she had lain awake a long time picturing Grandpa’s look of stunned delight when her dream for him came true. Even though she knew it was foolish, Flora had begun hoping for a reply by the end of the week. Perhaps it would be written by a lady-in-waiting requesting that a bottle of the silver polish be sent to Buckingham Palace. To be tried out on the royal silver collection. But now more than a fortnight had passed, and Flora was beginning to think that she might never receive a response. Perhaps Her Majesty, if she ever saw the letter, had decided that Miss Flora Hutchins was either a complete crackpot or the cheekiest person alive.