Part VII

Christmas Eve. Carol singers from the village arrived at the door. Not very tuneful, in my estimation.

When mother discovered they didn't do VISA she asked me for some spare change.

I had no spare change so I gave them a £5 note, warning them that this covered next Christmas as well.

When mother had had a couple of gins I pressed her about father. She gave me a knowing look, at the same time tapping the side of her nose. What can this mean?

Realising I would get no further with mother in her present state, I repaired to the music room intending to collect my thoughts whilst playing a few swift arpeggios upon my cello. It was there I  encountered our housekeeper, Mrs Browning, tuning the piano. And it was she who furnished me with another piece of the jigsaw.
'Georgie,' she said, 'I'm afraid I told you a little fib earlier on.'
'Good heavens, Mrs B,' I riposted  'I never took you to be one for the old fibberoony'
'Ah well, I was sworn to secrecy, you see. But now it's all in the open I can tell you.'
'Tell me what?' I asked.
'You remember that peasant we observed through the drawing room window, gathering winter fuel? Well, that was no peasant, George - it was your father!'
'What!' I ejaculated.
'But he was gathering fuel - that part was true - to make a fire in the old boathouse. That's where he's been holed-up these past three days'.
'"Holed-up! 'I think you've been reading too many American detective novels, Mrs B.' I joshed.
'Shut up, you precocious little person, (she didn't actually use the word 'person') and go and see if your mother's sobered-up.'
'Mother is never drunk!' I retorted, 'And I'll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mrs Brownlow, and remember your position.'
'Whatever.' snorted the old harridan. 'Tell her I'd like a few words with her about that so-called Borris.'

And she waved her hand, as if dismissing me. Whatever is this country coming to, when servants think they can behave in this fashion.
'You haven't heard the last of this.' I called out over my shoulder, as I left the room.

Mother was sleeping peacefully on the chaise longue when I returned to the drawing room; I did not have the heart to wake her. Instead, I returned to my room to reflect upon this latest piece of news. I resolved to text father to demand some answers. Then I remembered mother had thrown my SIM card, with all my contacts, down the lavatory.

There was nothing for it. I would have to go down to the old boathouse and confront father, face to face.

I pulled on a cricket sweater over my thermal shirt and donned my parka. For footwear I chose a stout pair of boots that I found in the bottom of the wardrobe. I hadn't worn them for a couple of years, and they were a bit tight I was amazed how much I had grown - well, my feet had grown, anyway.

I slipped quietly out of the kitchen door - there was no sign of cook. It was bitterly cold, and I realised I had forgotten my gloves. No time to go back for them now. As I was creeping round the side of the vegetable garden, I thought I could hear voices. I stopped, Yes - they were coming from the old tool shed. Suddenly the door opened. I crouched behind a wheelbarrow. A figure emerged. It was Borris. But when I saw who followed him out, I gave an involuntary gasp.

(to be continued)