The Squire Quartet. Brian Aldiss
tended, talking but keeping an eye on Squire, who stood square-based, legs apart, twiddling his bunch of keys. The dog disappeared into the cool of the house.
The symmetry of Pippet Hall was emphasized by its red brick and its white paint, with the plum-coloured door centrally placed. The complete entablature of the doorcase, with a pediment over it, in turn emphasized the sensible centrality of this feature. It was a three-storeyed house, the four sashed windows of the ground floor running almost from floor to ceiling, but diminishing in height floor by floor. A brick parapet ornamented with recessed panels rose above the second-floor windows, half-concealing the truncated pyramid of roof. The chimneys were grouped at either end of the roof, emphasizing the symmetry of the whole.
Five shallow steps rose from the level of the drive to the front step (for the meek Guymell had been known to rise up and flood). Squire led the way up the steps to the panelled door.
‘My husband flew out to Singapore,’ Mrs Davies was telling Ash, ‘by air in the thirties, in a seaplane. I went too. It was very comfortable and we slept on board. I wouldn’t care to go now. Flights are so terribly crowded nowadays, I don’t know how people can bear it. Yet I saw in The Times just yesterday that they’re planning even bigger airliners. Where it will all end I don’t know.’
Squire was edging his friend into the hall. He waited while Mrs Davies talked to Ash. The interior was cool, and silent, apart from the click of the Dalmatian’s claws on the stone tiles as it circled him. This hall was Pippet Hall’s grandest feature, designed to make an immediate impression on guests before they were led to the relatively cramped reception rooms. Stairs led to the upper floor in a graceful double curve; portraits of Matthew and Caroline hung in heavy gilt frames on the half-landing.
‘Where are Ann and Jane?’ he asked sharply.
‘The girls have gone over to Norwich with Grace and their Aunt Deirdre. They’ll be back later,’ said Mrs Davies. ‘They’re wearing their jeans. I told them that dresses were more suitable for Norwich but, no, they would go in their jeans. Ugly things. Do you have children, Mr Ash?’
‘I think I’ll get Grahame a drink, Mother,’ said Squire. ‘Would you like one, too?’
‘I could make you some tea if you liked, and there are some doughnuts from the Crooked Apron. Do you like doughnuts, Mr Ash? They’re terribly fattening …’
Squire manoeuvred Ash and his mother-in-law into the living room and poured both Ash and himself large vodkas-on-the-rocks. Leaving Ash to his conversation, he went off in search of his wife. The dog sat at the bottom of the stairs, watching him mournfully, knowing well that Dalmatians were not allowed upstairs.
Music sounded faintly along the upper corridor. Teresa had taken over the room at the south-east corner of the house. Squire tapped lightly at the door and went in.
The room was shaded. The curtain at the long south-facing window had been drawn to keep out the sun; but a thin beam, shining through the window set in the other wall, painted a line of gold across the white-and-green carpet, as if to emphasize the shadow into which the rest of the room had been plunged.
Teresa had furnished the room with rattan chairs and sofas, each with a white cushion, and all recently purchased from an artistic shop in Fakenham. There were several large plants, two monstera delicosa reaching almost to the ceiling, a rubber plant, and an aspidistra. The general effect was that an attempt had been made to recreate a Malayan environment, but the sofa had been pushed aside to make room for a white formica desk and a work table at which Teresa now sat.
The table was littered with rolls of plastic and wire and a cluttered miscellany of paint pots on a tray. Beneath the table were boxes and litter. On the walls hung the results of Teresa’s labours, fantastic insects of all sorts, beetles with amazing horns, moths with wings of gold, butterflies with eyes in their wings. These exotic creatures of wire and plastic glowed with the light from the floor, the unusual angle of illumination giving them an unexpected and even sinister aspect.
‘Tess! Are you all right?’
She had been sitting looking through the window, holding a paint brush in one hand. Although she turned to look at Squire, the end of the brush remained between her teeth, slightly wrinkling her upper lip.
‘Hello, Tom, I didn’t expect you back yet.’ As if making a decision, she dropped the brush abruptly and stood up. Teresa was a plump, soft-looking woman of under medium height. Now in her mid-forties, she had lines under the large doe eyes which were such a striking feature of her face. Her hair was piled neatly on her head and dyed with gold tints. She had taken recently to wearing plenty of make-up and false eyelashes. Her smock was stained with plastic paints; beneath it she wore crimson slacks. Crimson-nailed toes peeped from golden sandals.
Squire moved forward, clutched her, patted her chubby bottom.
‘We’ve finished filming for the day. Grahame’s here. Come down and have a drink with us.’
‘Where are the rest of them?’ In her regard was the slight suggestion of squint which he had once found so attractive.
‘Of the company? They’re mostly putting up at The Lion. Is anything the matter, Tess?’
She looked hard at him and said, ‘No, no, nothing’s the matter.’ With one sandalled foot she moved a cardboard carton out of the way.
‘Good. Come on down then.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute. I can’t come downstairs looking like this.’
‘Of course you can. You look lovely. Grahame won’t mind.’
She frowned, as if concentrating on resolving the contradiction in what he said.
‘If you go down, I’ll join you, if you really want me.’
‘Naturally we want you. Mother tells me the girls are in Norwich with Deirdre. I thought we might all go over and have supper in Blakeney with the film crew. It would be fun and the hotel cuisine’s not bad this season.’
With a lack-lustre air far from her normal manner, Teresa turned away, saying, ‘You go if you wish. I don’t feel like going out this evening.’
‘There is something the matter, isn’t there? Have you got business troubles?’
‘Not at all. On the contrary.’ She waved her hand over the cluttered table. ‘Vernon Jarvis is convinced I can make a great commercial success with fantasy insects. He says I shouldn’t bother to sell in England. He can get massive orders from Germany and New York which will pay much better. He thinks we should start an export company.’
‘Who’s Vernon Jarvis?’
‘A young man with flair and very good business connections. You met him before you went to Singapore but I daresay you were too busy to take any notice.’
‘I think I do remember now. Funny side-whiskers? Well, if all’s going well, don’t be gloomy, come down and have a drink.’
Going back to his vodka downstairs, Squire found Ash still in the conversational embrace of Mrs Davies, who was showing the director photographs of the three children, John – now grown-up and living in the murkier reaches of Manchester – Ann, and Jane. Prising Ash away, Squire took him into the study, where separate scripts and story-boards of each episode of ‘Frankenstein Among the Arts’ were arrayed on a trestle-table brought in for the purpose.
As Ash strolled with his drink to look out of the french windows at the sweep of lawn and meadow beyond, Squire said, ‘I’d better warn you that Teresa is in rather a peculiar mood. Probably her horoscope upset her this morning.’
‘Mine always upsets me. “Chance of financial advantage …” – and a tax form arrives with the postman. Never fear, I’ll be at my jolliest tonight.’
They switched on the video-cassette machine and flipped through a few items which might yet be fitted into the series. One showed a collection of hundreds of pepper-and-salt cellars, all different.
Both