Clouds among the Stars

‘A goat?’

‘Sì. Espiatorio. A thing to blame.’

‘Oh, I see, a scapegoat. Am I irritatingly goody-goody?’

‘Not all the time,’ Cordelia said kindly. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit wet but you’re still my favourite sister, by far.’

‘Thank you very much.’ I felt gloomy. We were getting terribly on each other’s nerves. Quite apart from the fact that I hate rows, surely when everything was so miserable we ought to try to stick together? Anyway, during a quarrel our family always fell into the same divisions, which had more to with temperament than the merits of the argument so the rows were pretty pointless. Perhaps this is the case with all families. My mother and Bron were generally in league, and my father, Ophelia and Cordelia were usually on the same side. Portia was my ally on these occasions of family feud but God only knew where she was now. I wondered, not for the first time, if I ought to consult Inspector Foy but I was afraid Portia would be angry with me for making a fuss.

Wherever one turned one’s thoughts there seemed to be doubt and difficulty. I took a covert look at Maria-Alba as she bent to give Mark Antony and Dirk their breakfast biscuits. At least they were settling down together. Mark Antony had established ascendancy the day before by springing claws like flick knives and hissing like a maddened cobra. Dirk had rolled on to his back and ratified the peace treaty before the ink was dry, like a dog of sense.

Maria-Alba began to dry the cups. She had black rings under her eyes and her hands were shaky. She had made delicious little custard and raisin buns for breakfast so she must have risen early. Insomnia was one of the first signs with Maria-Alba that things were going seriously wrong. I hated the idea that she might have to go back into the psychiatric unit. For all our sakes we could not afford to allow what was left of our domestic structure to break down. I resolved not to lose my temper or provoke any more quarrelling, even if it meant knuckling down under insult. I was given the chance to put theory into practice immediately.

‘You bitch, Harriet! You bloody little traitor!’ Bron was standing beside me, clad in his dressing gown, his hair ruffled from sleep. He thrust a newspaper into my face. ‘I’m sacking you as a sister! From now on you’re no relation of mine! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bring myself to speak to you again! And nor will the others when they see this!’

I was bewildered. But one glance at Bron’s face convinced me this was not play-acting. My heart began to race. ‘What is it? What have I done?’

Bron slammed the paper down in front of me and pointed to a headline. ‘Read it!’

‘My Unhappy Family. Waldo Byng’s Daughter Confesses All. An exclusive story by Stanley Norman.’ Under the caption was a large photograph of me grinning into the camera, my chin resting on the top of Dirk’s head.

‘Oh, but I didn’t. I only said “no comment” whatever they asked me –’

‘So where did they get this?’ Bron real aloud in a voice modulated by fury.

‘Oberon Byng, aspiring thespian and young man-about-town seems likely to follow in his jail-bird father’s footsteps in more ways than one. After being expelled from school for impregnating the matron he has had a chequered career. A few undistinguished stage roles have been interspersed with nefarious dabblings, receiving stolen goods and drug trafficking. He is now being investigated by Scotland Yard with regard to a serious charge of fraudulent land deals.’

‘Oh! Oh dear! I only said – Stan was telling me about his family and it seemed polite – I didn’t say you’d been dealing in drugs, only that you were suspended for a term for taking that hookah to school that Pa brought back from an opium den in Shanghai, and smoking it in the junior common room. And I just mentioned the car you bought that turned out to be stolen, though it wasn’t your fault, and you lost all the money for it. He’s just turned everything around and made it all sound terrible! He seemed so nice and friendly and I was sorry for him. Oh God, I’m so sorry!’

‘You absolute imbecile! Don’t you know that’s what journalists always do? It’s the oldest trick in the book.’

‘I wasn’t thinking. I’d forgotten about him being a reporter and he was so depressed. His wife’s an invalid and they haven’t got any money. I was trying to cheer him up.’

‘What a sap you are! Well, I hoped you’re pleased to have your photograph splashed all over the Daily Banner. There isn’t even the smallest one of me.’

I hung my head in shame.

‘I say, Ophelia’s going to be hopping mad when she reads this.’ Cordelia gave a whoop of glee. ‘Jolly well serves her right. Listen!

‘I have it on the authority of her sister that Miss Ophelia Byng, formerly an actress, was jilted at the altar by the Hon. Crispin Mallilieu. He is the second son of the Earl and Countess of Sope. When the Earl brought the marriage service to a halt by voicing his objection to the alliance of his son with the daughter of a suspected murderer, the bride-to-be fainted and had to be carried from the church by four of the officers who were to have formed the guard of honour. According to her sister, Ophelia has locked herself in her bedroom, still dressed in her bridal finery, surrounded by magnificent wedding presents from England’s most aristocratic families, which she refuses to return.’

‘He’s making it all up!’ My indignation was unbounded. ‘It’s a crib from Great Expectations! Of course I didn’t say any such thing!’

‘I’m sure Ophelia will be comforted to know that,’ said Bron drily.

‘If I could get hold of that hateful liar I’d – I don’t know what I’d do to him. It’s all wild invention – apart from the bit about you getting Matron pregnant. I wish I hadn’t told him that.’

‘Golly! Look at all this about Portia.’ Cordelia’s voice was awed.

‘Even worse is the present predicament of Portia Byng who, her sister reports, has left the country in mysterious circumstances, escorted by a man who is wanted by the police for crimes ranging from illegal immigration to homicide. According to a reliable informant, Mr X, thought to be of Albanian extraction, is known to his associates as The Gravefiller. Chief Inspector Charles Foy has been in touch with Interpol, acting on a tip-off that she has been taken to Albania. The informant has also revealed that Mr X has a harem of girls in his mountain hideaway, kept under guard to satisfy his unbridled sexual depravity.’

Cordelia gave a scream. ‘Is it true? My poor darling sister! What do you think unbridled sexual depravity means, exactly?’

‘Oh, Lord! You don’t think … No, Portia can’t have gone abroad; she would have telephoned. He’s made it all up. It’s just nonsense like the rest.’ I read the article again, wanting to reassure myself. Supposing there was even the smallest amount of truth in the story?

‘There isn’t anything about me.’ Cordelia sounded disappointed.

‘No doubt there’ll be something in the evening edition.’ Bron was bitter and I couldn’t blame him.

‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to make you see how sorry I am,’ I said sorrowfully.

‘I shouldn’t think so, no.’ Bron took a plate, filled it with buns and went slowly upstairs with the mien of a man betrayed.

I felt deeply remorseful. I had been an idiot and I deserved all the vituperation that would no doubt be coming my way. Dirk put his paws on my knees and tried to lick my face. I was grateful for his solicitude.

‘Don’t worry, Hat,’ Cordelia patted my arm, smearing my sleeve with custard. ‘I shall go on speaking to you even if everyone else in the world refuses to. There was a sad film I saw once called The Angry Silence about this man who was sent to Coventry by his workmates …’

I stopped listening to Cordelia’s recital of the plot as my eye fell on another, smaller item on the same page.

DRUGS SEIZED AT HEADQUARTERS OF REBEL POLITICAL ORGANISATION.

Acting on information received, police yesterday raided a house in Owlstone Road, Clerkenwell. They took away several packages, believed to be cannabis, and the remains of a cake. The officer in charge said he could not confirm the presence of illegal substances until these items had been subjected to laboratory tests. Several arrests were made and an injunction has been served prohibiting the group known as SPIT to hold further meetings on the premises.

‘… I mean, nothing could be that important, could it?’ asked Cordelia. ‘I’d have given in at once – What’s the matter?’

‘This is the worst day of my life.’ I groaned and put my head in my hands.

‘You can’t possibly know that. You might have something really awful going to happen to you later on. All your children burned to death or your nose cut off in a revolving door.’

I was too depressed to argue. The telephone rang and went on ringing. There had been an offended silence since I had dared to plug it back in, the night before. And the gang of pressmen outside the front door was considerably depleted. It seemed they were busy digesting Stanley Norman’s scoop. Now the telephone bell seemed to have a new tone, insolent and at the same time imperative.

It was Mr Potter, the bank manager. When I said my mother would not be able to answer his letter for at least two weeks he sounded cross. He kept saying that it was all ‘very irregular’, to which I could make no answer, having no idea what, in a bank’s eyes, constituted regularity. I have never been good with money. In this I am a true Byng. I always hope some will come from somewhere and, so far, it always has. I waited patiently, mostly in silence, while he remonstrated with me. Sometimes I said ‘I see’ when he seemed to require a response. I suppose this was irritating for he got more and more tetchy. When he began to talk of solicitors and bailiffs I felt alarmed but continued to say ‘I see’ because I really couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. It would hardly do any good to beg him for mercy, or a donation to the fund for indigent Byngs.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Byng, but I don’t think you do see. Unless funds are immediately forthcoming, I’m afraid the bank will have to freeze the account.’

I was suddenly annoyed beyond bearing by the hypocritical tones of regret he put into his voice. I was certain that the fall of the House of Byng was brightening his dreary life immeasurably. Why should he have all the fun, lecturing and threatening and making himself out to be a model of deportment when he probably fiddled his business expenses, bullied his children and neglected his poor old mother, if he had one? ‘Why don’t you give yourself a well-deserved rest from these onerous duties?’ I said in my sweetest voice. ‘Go and – make love to your mother’s cook.’

I could not quite bring myself to use an obscenity so it lost something in translation but I put the receiver down with a sense of triumph. It was a cheap victory but nothing better was likely to come my way.

The arrival of the post brought more unhappiness. I saw at once, among the bills and circulars, a letter addressed to me, in Dodge’s handwriting.

I never would have believed it of you. My confidence in my own judgement is severely undermined. You grassed on your friends to save your own skin. You are a traitor and that is the kindest thing I can say. You are expelled from the society – and my heart – for ever, with effect from this moment. D.

There was a postscript: ‘Yell says she saw you let that pig put his arm round you. I hope there was nothing worse.’

The ink grew faint at the end as though the pen was spluttering with indignation. I had felt too many things too violently in the last forty-eight hours for this latest blow to my happiness to have much immediate effect. Dodge’s pale, angular face, fierce with polemic, loomed up in the forefront of my brain from time to time and there was an intensification of the gnawing sensation in my stomach that had been there since I heard of Pa’s arrest, but I was incapable of anything like serious reflection.

Dirk followed me up to my room and stretched himself out on the bed next to Mark Antony, his head pillowed on my pyjamas, while I sat at my desk and wrote several stanzas of verse. I knew the poetry was bad but I didn’t care. Anything was better than thinking about life.