The Banker's Niece 6: The telephone conversation

‘Jane,’ says Jane’s mother like a sergeant-major, demanding attention as she always does. She never says ‘Is this a good time?’ or ‘Have you got a moment?’ as other callers do.

    ‘Yes,’ says Jane warily.

    It’s 9am on Saturday morning, not her mother’s normal time. She usually rings on Sunday evening about six, if Jane hasn’t got there first – which she tries to do so as not to spend the entire weekend dreading their conversation. Whatever her mother wants, it must be urgent, and urgent isn’t good news as it tends to mean her mother’s coming up from Kent to London and wants to meet.

    'Jane,’ says her mother again, taking a slurp of something.

    At this time of day it’s probably coffee. She’s always slurping something when she rings. Jane wonders if it’s because she hates their conversations as much as Jane does and needs fortifying. If only Jane had something to hand as well, but she’s this minute tumbled out of bed and is standing in the kitchen in bare feet and her pink fleecy dressing-gown, vulnerable and unfortified.

    ‘I’ve got some wonderful news for you,’ continues Jane’s mother.

    Oh my god, thinks Jane. She’s getting married again.

    Since Jane’s father’s death her mother has blossomed. She’s always rushing off somewhere – holidays, parties, bridge, pilates, cultural coach trips. The last few years of Jane’s father’s life were pretty grim as he became more and more incapacitated and her mother had to look after him, and now she’s obviously making up for lost time. In some ways, Jane is pleased. Both for her mother and because it’s heartening to think that she herself could still be enjoying life like that when she reaches her eighties.

    ‘Ooh,’ says Jane, trying to sound excited but her voice comes out more like a hiccup.

    ‘You remember my friend Lavinia Balfour? We were debs together. Her mother was the Honourable Caroline Griffiths. Her father was a judge, became a Lord. She married William Davenport, now Sir William. They live in a lovely house in the Cotswolds – very near Jilly Cooper.’

    ‘Er, no,’ says Jane.

    Her mother has a vast network of friends and acquaintances, all of the same type. It’s like a mafia. She never describes them by their personal qualities but always by their family trees which Jane finds baffling for so many reasons.

    She herself has not the slightest interest in family trees. They’re mostly concerned with the male line which to Jane is retrograde and disgusting, and families in her experience are a handicap and not at all something to hang on to or be proud of. She goes to the minimum of family parties and then only out of duty and because she doesn’t want relatives complaining about her behind her back – which they probably do anyway, but at least her conscience is clear. Ish.

    So when her mother starts to talk about her friends and their pedigree, Jane switches off. In any case, most of her mother’s friends are dreadful. Unfortunately her mother doesn't notice Jane’s distaste and simply redoubles her efforts to explain.

    ‘Well anyway,’ says her mother, obviously in a hurry this time to get to the point, ‘we met again at a drinks party at the Ponsonby-Smythes. D’you remember them? Their daughter is about the same age as you. Went to Benenden. Married that Conservative MP. Whathisname? The youngest son of the Duke of Essex. Their son is that famous photographer.

    Jane has lost the thread. All she knows is that she’s failed. She didn’t board at a girls’ public school. She didn’t marry some scion of the aristocracy. She doesn’t have illustrious children.

    She hears her mother take another slurp. Perhaps she’s lost the thread too.

    ‘Lavinia Davenport,’ says Jane, thinking back to when her mother’s conversation last made sense, not because she cares about the wretched Lavinia but because she could be here all day if she doesn’t prompt occasionally.

    ‘Ah yes,’ says her mother, coming to life again. ‘Quite a coincidence. The Davenports were staying with the Pollocks. Very old family. Related to the Viscounts Hanworth. Lived near us at the old house.'

    Jane’s mother has recently moved from the seven-bedroomed Victorian farmhouse where Jane and her younger brother Ollie were brought up to a small modern place in a nearby village.

    ‘And?’ says Jane. She wants her coffee. What on earth did her mother ring for?

    ‘So I told Lavinia about you moving to Devon seeing as you’d be quite near –’

    Well not really, thinks Jane. Devon - Gloucestershire. Several hundred miles from each other. Several hours’ drive. Thank goodness.

    She’s accepted the job at Courtney Press, given in her notice at work and put her flat on the market. And told her mother. All she has to do now is find somewhere near Moreton Courtney to live. It’s June and she has until the beginning of September when the new job starts. She’s done some half-hearted property searches on the internet and bought a car to help with the move, but hasn’t yet been down to Devon to look at anything. It’s all a bit daunting. She doesn’t know what sort of place she wants or where she wants it to be – in a village, a town, a city or the middle of nowhere.

    ‘- and she said - actually it’s all rather exciting – that her son – William – a little bit younger than you but not that much – and probably tall if his father’s anything to go by – used to be in the army - was married to that glamorous barrister Arabella Sotheby, the one who represents all those celebrities – but divorced now, and a bit of a worry to the family I would say, reading between the lines.’ She pauses for breath. ‘Anyway William looks after a family farm and guess where it is.’

    ‘Um, Devon,’ says Jane.

    ‘Yes, but thassnot all,’ says her mother, tripping over her tongue in her excitement. ‘It’s near Muddicombe.’

    ‘Muddy-cm,’ says Jane, copying her mother’s pronunciation. Whether that's how the locals pronounce the word is anyone’s guess. The name means nothing to her.

    ‘Yes, Muddicombe,’ says her mother impatiently. ‘Only a few miles from Moreton Courtney.’

    Her mother’s obviously been doing her research. She even claims to have met Henry and his wife at a dinner party twenty years ago. Her memory for some things is phenomenal. For others, not quite so good.

    ‘Right,’ says Jane.

    Is her mother really lining up young William as a husband for Jane? Does she really think Jane’s that desperate? Is that all she’s called to say? She’s been thrusting suitable men at Jane for almost fifty years and it hasn’t worked yet. You’d think she might have got the message.

    ‘No, no, you don’t understand,’ says her mother as if it’s Jane’s fault she hasn’t grasped the whole picture. ‘William has a cottage for sale on the farm. Lavinia’s given him a ring and he’s expecting you.’ 

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