The Hardie Inheritance

by Anne Melville

  ‘They might think we’re burglars.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve brought you with me. I may look like a burglar, but you don’t.’ He squeezed her hand affectionately. ‘You’re a very useful companion.’

  Trish grinned and began to skip along the path, pleased to feel that she was useful to her father by not looking like a burglar. Watching her, Ellis felt himself overcome by love. He had embarked on her upbringing, four years earlier, in a mixture of rage at the rotten hand which life had dealt him and terror at the thought of his own inadequacy as a father. But almost from the start she had seemed to know how to bring herself up, leaving him only the task of translating her instructions into practical arrangements.

  Today, for example, she had decided which of her summer dresses would be most suitable and had given two days’ notice that it ought to be washed. Her long white socks and the straw hat, with a red ribbon tied under her chin, proclaimed her to be a well-behaved little girl, which she was, and a demure little girl, which she most certainly was not. Only the hated scuffed shoes spoiled the neat picture she made, and it was Ellis’s own fault that he had refused to accept the need for new red sandals. Trish was a bundle of lively energy, but the bundle came in such a neat and pretty package that her father longed to pick her up and hug her every few minutes. If only she could stay like that for the rest of her life and never grow into a woman!

  Trish’s attention was no longer on her own appearance, but on the grounds through which they were walking.

  ‘Do the sheep belong to the Hardies?’

  ‘Might. Might not. Most likely thing is that a farmer pays them for grazing rights.’ Ellis always tried to give his daughter a serious answer to her many questions. ‘The farmer gets more grass to fatten his sheep, and the owners get a bit of money and don’t have to mow the grass, so it suits everyone.’

  But although Trish had asked the question, she was no longer listening to the answer. She had come to a halt, staring. ‘What’s that?’

  The object which had caught her eye was indeed strange. Immediately in front of Greystones was a circle of lawn surrounded by the turning circle of the carriage drive. Unlike the rough parkland which was kept short by the nibbling sheep, this area of grass had been smoothly mown, and in its centre was an object made out of stone.

  ‘It’s a hole,’ said Ellis. Someone had hollowed out a large block of stone so that what faced forward was indeed a hole. It had a roughly rectangular shape, but because the stone around it curved backwards like the tyre of a motor car, the effect was round rather than angular; and a knob, curved again, which rose from the top right-hand corner prevented the shape from being dull.

  ‘It’s’ – Trish ran forward across the grass. Bending down, she stepped through the hole. Ellis, following, saw that she was now standing in a second hole cut from the same block and lying flat on the lawn. ‘It’s the house!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s Greystones!’

  ‘Full marks for imagination, but I hardly think –’

  ‘But look, Daddy. That’s the tower. And this is the space for living in.’

  ‘Then I don’t think you ought to scramble about in other people’s houses.’ He was laughing, not pretending to agree with her understanding of the stone. Reluctantly she stepped out of the hole and allowed her father to take her hand again, for now they had arrived at the house.

  He rang the bell beside the front door, but frowned to himself as he did so. It must have been a long time since the door was last opened, for cobwebs stretched across all the cracks, and some of last year’s dead leaves lay undisturbed on the threshold. ‘We’d better go and look for another door,’ he said, without waiting long for an answer.

  The windows of the rooms they passed were large and long, but the curtains inside had all been drawn across.

  ‘Do you think someone’s dead?’ asked Trish.

  ‘They probably just want to keep the sun out, so that their pictures won’t fade.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s living here.’

  Ellis, who had made enquiries in the village, knew better and took his daughter’s hand again to lead her past the front of the house and round a corner. A few yards ahead of them a woman was sitting outside in the sunshine. She was grey-haired; but her face, which had once been that of a beautiful woman, was almost unlined, needing no make-up to cover it. She looked very much at ease, comfortable and relaxed as she plucked a chicken.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ said Ellis. ‘I did ring the bell, but …’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear it out here.’ The woman smiled her thanks to Trish, who had run to catch some of the escaping feathers, and now approached shyly to press them down with the others.

  ‘I’d like to have a word with the owner of Greystones,’ Ellis said, phrasing the request vaguely because he was not sure whether he was addressing a servant or a member of the family. The woman’s occupation – and the serviceable apron which protected her simple cotton frock – suggested that she was a member of the kitchen staff, but her calm, pleasant voice conveyed a different impression. She might even be the owner of the house herself – but this proved not to be the case.

  ‘You’ll find her in the stables. Go back past the front door to the other side of the house, and then through the arch. But if you’re trying to sell something, you’ll be wasting your time.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’ Ellis turned to go, but paused for one more question. ‘I’m correct, am I, in believing that Greystones is still in the possession of the Hardie family?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s Miss Hardie you’re looking for.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Trish took hold of his hand again as they retraced their footsteps. ‘Was that lady the cook?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’

  ‘She had a nice face. But I didn’t know that chickens without feathers looked like that. Do you think there’ll be ponies in the stables? Will they let me have a ride? What’s all that hammering going on?’

  ‘You know as much as I do.’ By now they had reached the stable block. Over the arch the golden hands of a clock with a blue face pointed to twelve o’clock, although that was not the correct time. Hand in hand they walked through the arch and into the cobbled courtyard.

  All Trish’s questions were answered at once. There were no horses to be seen. And the hammering sound was coming from the far side of the courtyard, where someone – facing away from them – was hitting a large piece of stone with a mallet and chisel. Could this really be Miss Hardie? It looked more like a man; a tall, thin man wearing workman’s overalls. A strong man, as well; the hammering appeared to be hard work. Perhaps he was a mason, preparing to repair the fabric of the walls.

  Ellis put a finger to his mouth, warning his daughter not to make any sudden noise, in case surprise might cause the chisel to slip. Instead, they moved together round the outside of the stable yard until they could be seen.

  It was after all a woman and not a man who caught sight of them and, startled, paused with her mallet raised in the air for the next blow. She looked from one to the other, waiting for one of them to speak.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re disturbing you, Miss Hardie,’ said Ellis. ‘Your – your cook, was it? – told us we should find you here.’

  ‘Cook? Oh, you mean my mother.’ Grace Hardie smiled, and the smile transformed her face. Until that moment the concentration with which she applied herself to her work had given an absorbed, withdrawn look to her dark eyes; but now they twinkled with amusement. She set down her tools carefully in their flat wooden rack and pulled off the cap which had been protecting her hair from the stone dust, shaking her head vigorously as she did so as though to let the air in. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘My name may not mean anything to you,’ said Ellis. ‘I come without introduction, I’m afraid. Ellis Faraday. And this is my daughter Patricia, who usually answers to Trish.’

  ‘Hello, Trish. I won’t shake hands, because I’m filthy.’ But she smiled a
gain in a friendly manner. Then, more seriously, she looked into Ellis’s eyes.

  ‘Faraday?’ she repeated. ‘Oh yes. The name Faraday certainly means something to me.’

  Chapter Two

  Faraday! Grace looked with new interest at her unexpected visitors. The child, fair-haired and pale-faced except for a scattering of freckles on her cheeks, was standing quietly while the adults conversed, biting her lips to hold back the questions she was bursting to ask. The man, a few years younger than Grace herself, had the same fair hair as his daughter and a soft, crumpled face. He was tall and slim – though it was odd that she should use the word slim in her thoughts, rather than thin: that must have something to do with the grace of his movements and the charm of his smile.

  That he was deliberately trying to charm her was obvious enough. In a moment he would be asking some kind of favour and making in return some promise that might never be fulfilled. She would have sent packing any other stranger who smiled at her like this, seeming to appeal for instant friendship, had his name not been Faraday.

  He was presumably related to the architect, Patrick Faraday, who had been killed in the war; and Patrick Faraday had been of significance in her life not just once but twice. He it was who had designed Greystones as a house specifically intended to improve her health. If Grace had ever seen him while the plans were under discussion, she did not remember the occasion, for she was only an infant at the time. But she had met him once ten years later, in the home of her aunt, and that was an encounter she was not likely to forget.

  It was because Aunt Midge, headmistress of a school for girls, had a lover whose existence must be kept secret that Grace had been deprived of the chance to go to the school and had instead been forced to continue doing all her lessons with a governess. Patrick Faraday was to blame for that. No longer now did Grace mind about the defects in her education or her lack of companionship; but she had minded at the time. ‘I met a Mr Patrick Faraday once,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘You actually met him! Oh, marvellous! I didn’t think – because of course you can’t have been born at the time when Greystones was built.’

  ‘I was three years old when we moved in.’ Grace never made any attempt to conceal her age. She accepted the fact that she was on the shelf: a spinster. It was a life she had chosen for herself, and she was happy in it. Had she believed that Ellis Faraday was trying to flatter her by misjudging her age, she would have been scornful. But as a matter of fact and observation she recognized that her appearance had hardly changed at all in the past ten years. Her pale skin and dark hair shone with health and apparent youth, and her tall, slender body was in its prime. If someone meeting her for the first time claimed to believe that she was younger than her thirty-five years, he was not necessarily being insincere.

  ‘Patrick Faraday was my father,’ said Ellis. ‘Though I must confess that I hardly knew him. My mother ran off to Ireland with another fellow when I was only a young boy, and took me with her.’

  ‘And are you an architect too?’

  ‘No. A photographer. I’ll come straight to the point of my visit. I earn my living taking misty close-ups of débutantes. But for my own pleasure – and to honour my father’s memory – I’m compiling a book about his work. Mainly photographs, with just enough text to explain them. He died too young, of course. Another twenty years, and he might well have been recognized as one of the giants of his profession. But he was only forty-four when he was killed.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Grace softly. Aunt Midge had come to Greystones to mourn, weeping with anger and misery at the waste of a life.

  ‘All the same, he had time to achieve a good deal, especially in domestic architecture. Greystones was his first really important work. A turning point in his life, you might say, because its success brought him other major commissions. So I’ve come to ask your permission to photograph it. Not just one flat-faced view, but from as many different angles as possible. And interiors of the main rooms.’

  Grace considered the request for a few moments.

  ‘I’m not sure about inside the house,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll have to think about that and have a word with my mother. But the outside – yes, certainly you can put that on record. Have you brought your equipment with you?’

  ‘It’s not far away. But I didn’t arrive here expecting to get straight to work.’ He laughed as he explained. ‘In the ordinary run of things my sitters come to my studio by appointment and at their own request. The more clutter there is in the studio, the more they feel they’re getting a professional service. It’s only since I embarked on this project that I’ve realized that someone who drives up in a van and starts to unload a selection of tripods and umbrellas and all the rest of it, without an invitation, is most likely to have the dogs set on him. This visit is purely exploratory.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d like to walk round the outside. See what the best views might be. Shall we all go together?’

  She felt a small hand tugging at hers. The little girl had kept quiet whilst her elders were talking, but was longing to ask a question.

  ‘Please, did you make the hole?’

  ‘The hole?’ Grace was puzzled.

  ‘I think Trish is talking about the piece of sculpture in front of the house,’ Ellis explained.

  ‘Sculpture! I should hardly call it that.’

  ‘What do you call it, then?’

  ‘Oh, just a shape. It’s a hobby of mine, carving and modelling. But I wouldn’t be capable of creating a piece of work which actually looked like anything real.’

  ‘Well, whatever you call it, I thought it was a hole but Trish said it was Greystones.’

  ‘Then Trish is a very observant little girl,’ said Grace, smiling down at her. ‘Yes, I did make it, and of course it isn’t anything more to look at than a pair of holes in different planes. But I carved it at a time when I’d just learned that my father was dead and yes, Trish, it is Greystones in a sort of a way. My home with a big gap in its life. I don’t think anyone else has ever recognized that before, though.’

  ‘I wish I could make a hole,’ said Trish, looking longingly at the row of tools set neatly in a rack.

  Grace followed her glance and spoke firmly.

  ‘You mustn’t touch any of those tools, Trish. They’re very sharp; very dangerous. But–’ She took the lid off the old dustbin in which she kept her modelling clay. She had been using it on the previous day to make a small maquette of the piece which she proposed to carve from the stone. Now she broke a little off and handed it to Trish. ‘You could make a hole for yourself out of this,’ she said. ‘And if it’s the right size you could put it on your finger to be a ring.’

  Trish stuck her finger through the lump of clay she had been given, but shook her head in disapproval at the result. Grace watched with interest as the six-year-old decided what to do. First of all squeezing the clay between her hands to see how soft it was, she broke off a very small piece, rolled it again into a thin sausage and pressed the ends together to form a circle. It was too large to be a ring. She repeated the process, this time fitting the sausage of clay round her finger before sealing it. Beaming with pride, she held up the finger to show her ring to the grown-ups.

  ‘Please may I make something else?’

  ‘Of course.’ Grace broke off a larger piece of the clay and handed it to her before pressing the damp cloth back in place. ‘What would you like to make?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve finished. May I stay here to do it, instead of looking at your house?’

  Grace was about to say No, although in a kindly fashion, when Ellis interrupted.

  ‘If you’re worried about your tools, Miss Hardie, you can trust Trish to do what she’s told. If she promises not to touch anything here except the clay, she won’t.’

  ‘Do you promise?’ asked Grace.

  The little girl nodded. ‘Trust Trish.’ She enjoyed the sound of the words and repeated them fast several times until the soun
ds became muddled. ‘Trust Trish, trush Trish, trush Trist.’ They all laughed together at the muddle.

  ‘This way, then,’ Grace led Ellis out of the stable yard, but instead of turning towards the house she indicated that they should walk in the opposite direction.

  ‘My own favourite view is from higher up, up the hill,’ she told her companion. ‘You can see the design of the house particularly well from there. It may help you to choose the positions you need for your photographs. We’ll go through the walled garden: it’s a short cut.’

  Philip was hoeing between the rows of French beans, taking over one of Frith’s usual tasks while the gardener was confined to bed. He paused for a moment to rest as Grace pushed open the wooden door.

  ‘This is my brother Philip,’ she told Ellis. ‘Philip, this is Mr Faraday, the son of the Greystones architect. He wants to take some photographs of the house.’

  Philip smiled, nodding in a friendly way at the visitor. With exactly the same movement used by Grace herself earlier to demonstrate that she was too dirty with stone dust to shake hands, he turned his earth-stained palms towards them before returning to work.

  Beyond the walled garden, which was used solely to grow food, was the serpentine garden which Philip had created when he first returned to his childhood home after the war. Still suffering the effects of shell-shock, he had discovered his own therapy in designing and planting an area which was almost, but not quite, a maze. A wide grassy path twisted and spiralled and turned back on itself; but it never in fact offered choices. Evergreen shrubs and trees sometimes lined the path closely and at other points curved away to enclose circles of earth, each devoted to a single species of flower. Other curves in the line of evergreens formed alcoves which framed examples of Grace’s own work. Ellis, catching sight of the first, came to a halt.

  ‘Did you make this? Another of your – what did you call them? – shapes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grace laughed. ‘What other name could you possibly give it?’ The wood carving which had caught his eye resembled a vertical figure of eight whose lines, instead of merely meeting at the top, had crossed over as though lifting hands to heaven. ‘More holes, you see. This is my brother’s garden really. But one or two of my earliest efforts seemed to suit it, and so I went on to make some more specially.’