What a Carve Up! Read Free

the course of a walk around the wildest and most far-flung reaches of the grounds. He had been emerging from the hounds’ graveyard and was about to strike out in the direction of the croquet lawn when he caught what seemed to be a glimpse of Tabitha crouched in one of the densest areas of shrubbery. As he approached, without making a sound for fear of alarming her, he was dismayed to find that she was muttering to herself. His heart sank: it seemed that he had, after all, been too optimistic about her condition, and perhaps too precipitate in suggesting that she should be allowed to attend the family party. Unable to make out anything intelligible from her broken mumbles and whispers, he had coughed politely, whereupon Tabitha gave a little scream of shock, there was a violent rustling from the bushes, and she burst out a few seconds later, nervously brushing the twigs and thorns from her clothing and almost speechless with confusion.
    ‘I – Morty, I had no idea, I – I was just …’
    ‘I didn’t mean to surprise you, Tabs. It’s just —’
    ‘Not at all, I was – I was out for a walk, and I saw – I thought I’d explore … Heavens, what must you think of me? I’m mortified. Morty-fied, in front of Morty …’
    Her voice died, and she coughed: a high, anxious cough. To ward off a heavy silence, Mortimer said:
    ‘Magnificent, isn’t it? This garden. I don’t know how they keep it so well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘That jasmine. Just smell it.’
    Tabitha didn’t reply. Her brother took her by the arm and walked her back towards the terrace.
    He had not mentioned this incident to Rebecca.
    ‘It’s not just Tabitha. It’s this whole house.’ Rebecca turned towards him and for the first time that evening looked deep into his eyes. ‘If we ever came to live here, darling, I should die. I’m sure I would.’ She shuddered. ‘There’s something about this place.’
    ‘Why on earth should we come to live here? What a silly thing to say.’
    ‘Who else is going to take it over when Lawrence is gone? He’s got no sons to leave it to; and you’re his only brother, now.’
    Mortimer gave an irritable laugh; it was clear he wanted the subject dropped. ‘I very much doubt if I shall outlive Lawrence. He’s got a good many more years in him yet.’
    ‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Rebecca, after a while. She took a long, last look at the moors, then gathered up her pearls from the dresser and fastened them carefully. Outside the dogs were howling for their supper.
    ∗
    Poised in the doorway leading from the Great Hall, her own small hand folded tightly in Mortimer’s, Rebecca found herself confronted by a roomful of Winshaws. There were no more than a dozen of them, but to her it seemed like a vast, numberless throng, whose braying and mewling voices merged into a single unintelligible clamour. Within seconds she and her husband had been pounced upon, separated, absorbed into the crowd, patted and touched and kissed, welcomed and congratulated, plied with drink, their news solicited, their health inquired after. Rebecca could not distinguish half of the faces; she didn’t even know who she was talking to, some of the time, and her recollection of each conversation would forever afterwards be hazy and unfocused.
    For our part, meanwhile, we should seize the opportunity offered by this gathering to become more closely acquainted with four particular members of the family.
    ∗
    Here, for one, is Thomas Winshaw: thirty-seven, unmarried, and still having to justify himself to his mother Olivia, in whose eyes all his glittering success in the financial world counts for nothing beside his continued failure to start a family of his own. Now she listens tight-lipped as he tries to put a favourable gloss on a new development in his career which clearly strikes her as more frivolous than most.
    ‘Mother, you can get an extremely high return from investing in films these days. You’ve only got to be