Scandalize My Name

The light, spacious hall of Magnolia House faced the walled back garden and rising from it the great stairway curved its way upward through the house. Below it an inconspicuous, locked door concealed the entrance to the basement stairway. Beyond this door the bright daylight that flooded the upper rooms became a luxury. But space and grace remained; there were no more curled fronds carved in the wood, but the stairs were shallow and of a pleasing curve. They descended into a wide, tiled passage off which were two shadowed but well-proportioned rooms, a well-equipped kitchenette in what had once been the walk-in pantry, and right down at the end of a tortuous passage, a bathroom which, with its old, barred window and gay pastel tiles seemed an intriguing graft of an Ideal Home on a dungeon. The twilight rooms had been furnished for their tenant by the Southeys, but it was evident that Ivan Sweet's personal tastes did not coincide with the exuberance of the Southey home. Among the Regency stripes and gilt light-fittings, his own bleached and functional possessions stood out; one or two curved chairs with gawky broomstick legs, some low white metal furniture, an Anglepoise lamp, its long neck twisted to throw light on the ceiling, and a few pale pictures whose network of lines contrived obscenity. It was rather as though a crop of surrealistic toadstools had moved in to decorate the basement in their own fashion. The whole flat was meticulously tidy; there were no open letters, no photographs, no scorched pipe and bulging pouch, none of the comfortable small disorder of the man who lives alone.

Only one thing was out of place. Significantly so. This was in the bathroom where Ivan Sweet lay, slim, pale-skinned and dark-haired, his towel warm on the bathrail. His slippers awaited him on the thick mat, his pornography convenient to his gaze on the chromium bathrack. All this comfort availed him nothing however, for the tepid water had filled his lungs and now idly lapped his forehead as the water still gently flowed from one tap and dripped in a slow stream over the bath's edge, while about him the old house vibrated to the merciless traffic on the hill outside.

CHAPTER TWO

Jonathon Blake looked up at Magnolia House as he beat a vigorous tattoo on the knocker. To his surprise, the door swung open, and he found himself staring down a long, cloistered passage running along the wall of the house, lighted by open brick arches green with creepers. His feet echoed on the stone and he found himself in a garden enclosed by high brick walls.

The sound of voices and laughter floated out from the house and finding the door open he wandered through it, fingering his collar uneasily as he realised he was late. A small girl with an obvious resemblance to Dick greeted him demurely and he started upstairs. At the top there was a rustle of silk and a shimmer of turquoise, and he caught sight of a girl whose bare white shoulders and russet hair gleamed in a shaft of sunlight from the tall landing window. He stopped dead, his eyes feasting unashamedly. She turned and caught sight of him standing rooted on the stairway and at that moment, as though Aphrodite had leaned out of the past in a burst of music, from somewhere high up in the house the strains of Handel's 'Where'er You Walk' rose on the air and floated down the stairwell towards them. The lovely liquid sound, the simple perfection of the singing phrases clamoured at their ears and they both stood still while the golden sound poured relentlessly on:

Caroline, on her way to the drawing-room, saw them and stepped back into shadow, all her anxieties fading for a moment. Across the room William felt his heart contract. It's a long time since Caro looked like that, he thought; Oh God, where will this tragic tangle end?

Cecil Paignton, his foot on the bottom stair, blinked without comprehension at the two young people who blocked his way. The boy was nice-looking, he noted vaguely, and promptly forgot the thought.

"I say, do you think we could come up?" asked a small girl's voice with a hint of impatience. And the moment was ended.

Elaine smiled and said in her soft-textured voice: "What's your name? I'm Elaine Southey."

Jonathon had reached the top in three bounds. He took her hand.

"How do you do. My name's Jonathon Blake, I was up at Cambridge with Dick."

 

Elaine's eyes were on the hand that held her own, a big hand with broad fingertips and a dusting of fine red hairs along the back and up the wrist. Feeling unwontedly shy, she raised dark blue eyes to his, only to lower them again to hide the tremor that ran through her as his bright hazel gaze met hers.

"May we come by please?" The voice of Elaine's young sister sounded again behind them and they both laughed; the elder girl moved forward, beckoning Jonathon to follow her into the big drawing-room, her whole body aware of him walking just behind her.