They married or went abroad to foreign countries, foreign embassies, or taught in foreign schools or took up social projects.
Anyway, they faded little by little out of your life. You were pleased to see them if they suddenly, as it were, floated up on the horizon again. But you had to remember to think when you had seen them last, whose daughters they were, what link had led to your being chosen as a godmother.
“Celia Ravenscroft,” said Mrs. Oliver, doing her best. “Yes, yes, of course. Yes, definitely.” Not that any picture rose before her eyes of Celia Ravenscroft, not, that is, since a very early time. The christening.
She’d gone to Celia’s christening and had found a very nice Queen Anne silver strainer as a christening present. Very nice. Do nicely for straining milk and would also be the sort of thing a goddaughter could always sell for a nice little sum if she wanted ready money at any time. Yes, she remembered the strainer very well indeed. Queen Anne–Seventeen-eleven it had been. Britannia mark. How much easier it was to remember silver coffeepots or strainers or christening mugs than it was the actual child.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, of course. I’m afraid I haven’t seen Celia for a very long time now.” “Ah, yes. She is, of course, a rather impulsive girl,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I mean, she’s changed her ideas very often.
Of course, very intellectual, did very well at university, but– her political notions–I suppose all young people have political notions nowadays,” “I’m afraid I don’t deal much with politics,” said Mrs.
Oliver, to whom politics had always been anathema.
“You see, I’m going to confide in you. I’m going to tell you exactly what it is I want to know. I’m sure you won’t mind.
I’ve heard, from so many people how kind you are, how willing always.” I wonder if she’s going to try and borrow money from me, thought Mrs. Oliver, who had known many interviews that began with this kind of approach.
“You see, it is a matter of the greatest moment to me.
Something that I really feel I must find out. Celia, you see, is going to marry–or thinks she is going to marry–my son, Desmond.” “Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Oliver.
“At least, that is their idea at present. Of course, one has to know about people, and there’s something I want very much to know. It’s an extraordinary thing to ask anyone and I couldn’t go–well, I mean, I couldn’t very well go and ask a stranger, but I don’t feel you are a stranger, dear Mrs. Oliver.” Mrs. Oliver thought, I wish you did. She was getting nervous now. She wondered if Celia had had an illegitimate baby or was going to have an illegitimate baby, and whether she, Mrs. Oliver, was supposed to know about it and give details.
That would be very awkward. On the other hand, thought Mrs. Oliver, I haven’t seen her now for five or six years and she must be about twenty-five or -six, so it would be quite easy to say I don’t know anything.
Mrs. Burton-Cox leaned forward and breathed hard.
“I want you to tell me, because I’m sure you must know or perhaps have a very good idea how it all came about. Did her mother kill her father or was it the father who killed the mother?” Whatever Mrs. Oliver had expected, it was certainly not that. She stared at Mrs. Burton-Cox unbelievingly.
“But I don’t–” She stopped. “I–I can’t understand. I mean–what reason–” “Dear Mrs. Oliver, you must know… I mean, such a famous case… Of course, I know it’s a long time ago now, well, I suppose ten–twenty years at least, but it did cause a lot of attention at the time. I’m sure you’ll remember, you must remember.” Mrs. Oliver’s brain was working desperately. Celia was her goddaughter. That was quite true. Celia’s mother–yes, of course, Celia’s mother had been Molly Preston-Grey, who had been a friend of hers, though not a particularly intimate one, and of course she had married a man in the Army, yes–what was his name?–Sir Something Ravenscroft. Or was he an ambassador? Extraordinary, one couldn’t remember these things. She couldn’t even remember whether she herself had been Molly’s bridesmaid. She thought she had. Rather a smart wedding at the Guards Chapel or something like that. But one did forget so. And after that she hadn’t met them for years—they’d been out somewhere—in the Middle East? In Persia? In Iraq? One time in Egypt? India? Very occasionally, when they had been visiting England, she met them again.