Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor

by Matthew Costello

  Kat — he knew — would love it as well.

  And just as soon as he and Kat were settled in Mydworth, he’d bring her up here, spend a whole week in his little pied-à-terre in Bloomsbury, hit some parties, take advantage of his new life of semi-leisure.

  Between London and Mydworth, he and Kat would have the best of both worlds. Perfect!

  “Sir,” said the driver — and Harry realised they’d arrived in King William Street, at the main entrance of the Foreign Office, the pavement filled with a steady stream of office workers heading home.

  Harry quickly climbed out. With a nod to the driver he watched the car draw away while he adjusted his jacket and tie.

  Hardly the sober affair he’d usually wear to the office — but, dammit, they’d just have to put up with it.

  He turned and stared up at the enormous building that stretched all the way from Parliament Street to Horse Guards Parade.

  Forget Parliament … Downing Street … this was the real hub of the British Empire.

  And now, in theory, his place of employment for the next few years.

  He climbed the steps, against the flow of departing workers, grinned at the familiar policeman who stood, arms behind his back, guarding the entrance.

  “Evening to you, Arthur!”

  “Sir Harry! So good to see you back.”

  “Wonderful to be back.” Harry looked up at the building. “I’ve certainly missed this place. And how’s Marjory and the offspring?”

  “Mustn’t grumble, sir.” A grin. “Not too much, at least! Little ’uns keep me young.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they do,” said Harry smiling back.

  And through the revolving doors he went, into the grand main entrance.

  With luck, he thought, I’ll be out of here by six-thirty, catch the seven o’clock from Victoria, Mydworth by eight, then gin and tonics with Kat in the Dower House garden.

  *

  Kat had to admit it. She was completely lost.

  The road she’d been on had climbed in sweeping curves higher and higher through dark wooded hills, until finally the gaps in the trees had opened to reveal a dizzying plateau of high, rich, farmland, with the sea maybe thirty miles away — a distant band of silver.

  But somehow it was wrong. She was way off target.

  She pulled over, turned the engine off and sat in the warm silence, suddenly forgetting the drive ahead, trying to let the tranquillity and peace of the English countryside wash over her. Just for a few minutes, she thought.

  Her eyes began to close.

  Whoa — Kat — wake up!

  She shook her head clear and got out of the car. Then she picked up the map from the front seat and opened it fully on the low front hood of the car, trying to decode the way forward.

  Surely, she couldn’t be more than ten miles away from Mydworth? But the roads on the map looked more like the twisty weave of a badly knitted sweater starting to unravel.

  Then she heard a rumble. Some kind of machine.

  She looked up from the map, late afternoon sun ahead. For a country that she always heard was cloudy and gloomy all the time, the sky a deep blue. Quite beautiful.

  The machine making the “rumble” came into view, emerging from a field of tall wheat just yards away.

  An old tractor. Red, rusty paint peeling all over, and pulling a wooden cart behind it with a sheepdog peering over the side. The tractor steadily belched puffy grey smoke into the sky and as it got closer, the driver nodded.

  Kat smiled at the man in his cap, a few days growth of beard, quizzical expression on his face.

  She raised a hand.

  “Excuse me. But, um, I’m wondering—” She gestured at the map. She was struggling to be heard over the rumbling engine. She said it louder. “Could you maybe, um, show me—” Again — to the map — even louder. “Trying to get to Mydworth!”

  The man, perched so many feet higher than her, slowed the already crawling tractor until it stopped. Then, with a wheezing cough from the engine, he shut it off.

  “American, hmm?” he said. “Wot you doin’ here?”

  “Um. Yeah. American, and what I’m doing is trying to get to Mydworth.”

  “Mydworth?” he said, as if he’d never heard of the place. “Mydworth?”

  Just my luck, thought Kat. Meet some guy who’s never left the farm.

  She waited, while he scrutinised her.

  “I mean, is it far?” she asked. “If you could just point—”

  “Far? No, it’s not far.” The man snorted, looked back at his dog as if checking that the sheepdog was paying attention to the conversation. “But yer goin’ the wrong way, that’s for sure.”

  Not exactly the most helpful local she ever ran into, Kat thought.

  But then he climbed down from the tractor, nodded to her to follow him and crossed the road to the other side. Kat looked at the dog, who had decided to go to sleep, and followed the farmer.

  He stopped at the edge of the road, then pointed across the field of wheat into a valley that lay just half a mile away.

  “See that there?” he said. “That’s Mydworth.”

  Kat followed his arm and looked down into the valley. There, nestled in a fold of hills, what looked the quintessential English town.

  Something out of a picture book.

  “You could walk it in five minutes,” he said, “if you didn’t have a car to get in the way, like.”

  She took in the town: a sprawl of houses and roads. A couple of church steeples. Then what looked like some grand houses in the meadows beyond. A river curving lazily down the valley.

  A station, maybe half a mile from the centre — and even now, a train pulling away, steam and smoke puffing as it headed for the hills.

  So that’s Mydworth, she thought.

  My new home.

  And suddenly she didn’t mind at all that she had gotten lost.