Mrs. Spencer Senior was a tall, slender woman who looked a good deal younger than her seventy-five years. With her graceful, upright posture, long neck, elegant short hairstyle, and the cool blue eyes that she turned on each of us in turn, she’d have been the perfect casting for Snow White’s wicked stepmother—in a Thirty Years Later special.
I’d better explain that we hadn’t always been so hostile. At first we’d seriously tried to like Ernest’s mother, or at least understand her. At the end of August, she’d set off on a three-month around-the-world cruise, and when she got back at the end of November fit and well, with a good tan and loaded with souvenirs, she found that her favorite son had moved his American girlfriend into the house, along with her daughters, their au pair, and their dog. It wasn’t hard to see why Mrs. Spencer had been horrified at first, and so surprised that it rendered her speechless. But unfortunately not for long, because then she let fly, and to this day she hadn’t stopped.
Her main object in life seemed to be insinuating that Mom was after Ernest for his money and had used all sorts of nasty tricks to catch him. She combined that with attacks on Americans in general; she thought they were uncivilized, stupid, and vain. She wasn’t a bit impressed by Mom’s two academic doctorates. After all, she’d gained those degrees in the United States and not in a civilized country. (She studiously ignored the fact that Mom was now teaching and lecturing at the University of Oxford.) The only people that Mrs. Spencer thought were worse than Americans were Germans, because Germany had started the Second World War. Among other things. So she thought Mia and I were not just uncivilized, vain, and stupid (on Mom’s side) but also naturally nasty and underhand (on Papa’s side). As for Lottie, who was German on both sides of her family, she was just nasty and underhand, and when it came to our dog, Buttercup—well, Mrs. Spencer didn’t really like any animals at all unless they were on her plate, cooked and covered in gravy. Or if she was wearing them around her neck.
We really did try hard to overcome her resentment and get her to like us—but it was no use. (Okay, maybe we didn’t try all that hard.) And by now we’d given up the attempt. What was it Lottie was always saying? Call out into the forest, and the same sound comes echoing back. Or anyway, she had a proverb along those lines. We were part of a pissed-off forest, anyway, or at least Mia and I were. Mom was still hoping for a miraculous change of heart in Ernest’s mother, and as for Lottie—well, Lottie was a hopeless case. She firmly believed that there was good in everyone, even in the Beast.
The Beast now stared at Lottie and said, “I’ll just have a cup of tea. Earl Grey. Black, with a dash of lemon in it.”
“Coming right away!” There was no holding Lottie now. She jumped up, and the sleeve of her sweater almost tore because I was still clutching it firmly. Grayson did say, “I can make you a cup of tea, Granny,” but Lottie pushed past him. We had already explained to Mrs. Spencer, several times, that Lottie was not our maidservant (and besides, she had every Sunday off), but our explanations had fallen on deaf ears. It was her opinion that if you paid someone a salary, she couldn’t be your friend at the same time.
“In a proper teacup, please, not one of those thick mugs that you all use for your horrible coffee.” Mrs. Spencer sat down. As usual, in her company, I suddenly felt that I didn’t have enough warm clothes on. I wanted a nice thick cardigan. And some more coffee, in one of those thick mugs.
“Boker,” Mia whispered to me.
“What?” I whispered back.
“Short for the Beast in Ocher. Let’s just call her the Boker.”
“Okay.” I giggled. It really suited her.
The Boker glared at us. So did Mom and Florence—and it was true that whispering and giggling at meals didn’t exactly suggest we were well brought up. But then, I guess the Boker decided it wasn’t worth her while to tell us off.
“Grayson, darling, where’s dear little Emily?” she asked instead.
“Still in bed asleep, with any luck.” Grayson helped himself to yet more scrambled eggs, and spread butter on another slice of toast. At a rough estimate, it was his seventeenth slice. It was incredible how much he could shovel into himself without ever putting on an ounce of weight. “Dear little Emily,” he said quietly.
Did he sound a tiny bit sarcastic? I stared at Grayson with interest. Emily was his girlfriend, also in the top class at school, editor of the school magazine, a prizewinning dressage horsewoman, and she was neither dear nor little. The Beast in … er, I mean, the Boker had obviously taken Emily to her heart. When she mentioned her, and she often did, it was obvious that she thought Emily was the bee’s knees, and she was always praising Grayson, too, for his excellent taste in women, which, apparently, he hadn’t inherited from his father.
Now she sighed indignantly. “Oh, I was hoping to see her here. But obviously the only guests you’ve invited to breakfast today are the domestic staff.”