Scandalous Risks. Susan Howatch
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naughtily than ever. ‘Why shouldn’t he still have a strong sex drive even now he’s past sixty?’
Eddie went pink. Primrose stood up and said brightly: ‘Who’s for cocoa?’
‘I thought we were all going to have a nightcap of brandy,’ I said. ‘Go on, Mr Dean! Do you think the Bishop and Mrs Bishop go in for Lady-Chatterley-style high jinks at the South Canonry?’
‘VENETIA!’ chorused the horrified voices of Canon Hoffenberg and Miss P. Aysgarth, Girl Guide leader.
The Dean could barely speak for laughing but managed to gasp: ‘Eddie, why don’t you keep Primrose company while she goes in search of cocoa? Venetia and I are going to discuss D. H. Lawrence!’
‘This is all your fault, Vinnie,’ said Primrose exasperated. ‘If you hadn’t mentioned Elvis Presley –’
‘I’d very much like to hear this Mr Presley,’ said Aysgarth. ‘Could we tune into Radio Luxemburg on that radiogram in the morning-room?’
‘Not a hope, Mr Dean – unless the reception’s a great deal better tonight than it’s been so far.’
‘Eddie,’ said Primrose, ‘let’s leave them to their decadence.’
Eddie said drunkenly: ‘We draw the line at rock-’n’-roll, Stephen!’ and stalked after her.
‘Snob!’ I shouted after him before adding to Aysgarth: ‘The mystery about that radiogram is that there appear to be no records to go with it. Wouldn’t you think that the Earl’s teenage daughters would keep a supply of old favourites here to wile away the rainy days?’
‘Let’s have a search!’ exclaimed Aysgarth, leaping to his feet.
‘Tally-ho!’ I cried, leading the charge into the hall. Then I stopped. ‘But it’s no good searching the morning-room,’ I said, ‘because I’ve already done that. I’ve searched the drawing-room too. Perhaps the attics –’
‘What about that cupboard over there under the stairs?’
We bowled over to the cupboard and I dived inside.
‘There’s probably a light,’ said Aysgarth as I floundered in the darkness. Thank heavens this place has a generator and we don’t have to rely on candles … ah, well done!’
I had found the light switch and was now surveying a jungle of mackintoshes, Wellington boots and bric-à-brac which stretched far back below the stairs. Ploughing forward I nearly disembowelled myself with a fishing-rod. ‘Bloody hell,’ I muttered before I remembered the Church. ‘Whoops! Sorry, Mr Dean –’
‘Oh, did you speak? I didn’t hear a word.’
The old pet! I adored him. Heaving aside a battalion of boots I struck gold in the form of six cases, all designed to carry records. ‘Eureka!’ I shouted, ripping open the first case of twelve-inch LPs, but found only the Beethoven symphonies with a dash of ‘Swan Lake’. Attacking the second case I glimpsed the word ‘Wagner’ and slammed shut the lid with a shudder.
‘Any luck?’ called Aysgarth excited.
‘Hang on.’ I opened the third case – and there, miraculously, was Presley, glittering in gold lamé and slouched in a pose to launch a thousand screams. ‘Whoopee!’ I yelled and staggered backwards past the macks and wellies with the record-case clasped to my bosom.
‘Jiminy cricket!’ said Aysgarth awed as I showed him the picture on the sleeve.
‘Just you wait, Mr Dean! This is the kind of stuff guaranteed to make the Bishop pass out in the pulpit!’
We plunged into the morning-room where I crammed the LP on to the turntable. Then I hesitated, holding the arm above the revolving disc as I tried to select the most suitable track. I didn’t want to bludgeon him into a coma with ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. A milder introduction seemed called for. Finally the decision was made, and the next moment Presley – Presley before he became decadent and bloated and corrupt – the young, unspoilt, unsurpassable Elvis Presley began to belt out ‘You’re Right, I’m Left, She’s Gone’.
VI
‘This is wonderful!’ cried the Dean. ‘Wonderful!’ And as I lifted the needle from the groove at the end of the track he exclaimed: ‘It makes me want to catch up with all the fun I missed out on in my youth!’
‘Was your youth really so drab?’
‘Drab! That’s an understatement. Primitive Methodists, no money, working day in, day out, in order to get on – why, the most thrilling moment of my youth consisted of a forbidden visit to the cinema where I watched Clara Bow oozing “It” as I sank my teeth into a sinful peppermint cream! Never mind, those times are gone now – and how glad I am that I’ve lived to see the dawn of a new era! Class barriers collapsing, sexual inhibitions being overcome –’
‘Good old Elvis! Want to hear some more?’
‘I want to hear everything! Play that song you were singing at dinner!’
I rummaged around and found it. ‘Okay, Mr Dean!’ I cried. “Off we go!’
The beat began to pound. Presley began to celebrate the joy of life. And suddenly Aysgarth rose to his feet.
‘Isn’t it great?’ I shouted, turning up the volume, but he merely cried enthralled: ‘Let’s dance!’
I kicked off my shoes, we grabbed each other’s hands, he drew me to the centre of the floor. And there, as Elvis Presley sang his heart out and the boards vibrated beneath our feet, I danced with the Dean of Starbridge to the beat of rock-’n’-roll.
VII
As the final chord throbbed and we clutched each other, breathless with laughter, I saw that Primrose and Eddie were standing appalled in the doorway.
‘Honestly!’ said Primrose as I abruptly switched off the radiogram. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite so undignified in all my life!’
‘My dear,’ said her father, ‘you mustn’t be so serious that you forget how to have fun.’
At once Primrose turned her back on us and stalked off across the hall.
‘Leave her to me, Stephen,’ said Eddie. ‘You go on having fun.’ And he too withdrew, closing the door behind him.
‘That’s the nicest thing Eddie’s done in a month of Sundays,’ I said. ‘But why on earth is Prim being so idiotic?’
‘I’m afraid she realised I was cross with her.’
‘Cross? That wasn’t being cross! You should hear my father when he roars like a lion – that’s what being cross is all about!’
‘But Primrose is particularly dependent on me for my love and approval. Ever since her mother died –’
‘But her mother’s been dead for over twenty years – isn’t it time Primrose grew up? God knows, I never thought I’d hear myself say this but sometimes when I see this so-called “dependence” on you I really feel quite sorry for Dido.’
He merely regarded me with grave blue eyes and said nothing.
A panic-stricken remorse assailed me. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, furious with myself for plunging around in his family problems like an elephant cavorting among eggshells. ‘Tight as an owl. Rude as hell. Forget I spoke.’
‘My dear Venetia, there’s no need for you to apologise!’ he said at once, sloughing off both my tactlessness and his problems as if they were supremely unimportant. ‘Let’s be tight as owls together and go on having the time of our lives!’ And as he stretched out his hands to me again I was suddenly transported to the very centre