‘Where did she say she was?’
‘Sounded like the Indian gallery.’
‘Oh, OK. Know the quickest way to get there?’
‘Down to the hall and back up the Broad Oak Stair, eh?’
He shakes his head, grazes my neck with his night-beard. ‘No, darling. You just turn left out of here and go down to the end of the corridor. It’s the other side of the door there.’
‘I thought that was a wall?’
‘No. We don’t use the door much, so it seemed like a sensible place to hang the tapestry when the water got into the Henry the Second room.’
I shake my head back at him. ‘I’m never going to get it, am I?’
‘’S’all right, baby. Give it another twenty years or so.’
‘Funny fellah.’
‘Funny ha-ha.’
‘Funny bloody weird as hell. I’d better go.’
‘Mmm. I love you, you know.’
‘I know. I do too. I love you.’
‘Good.’
He lets me go, lies backs on the pillows and smiles.
I don’t see her when I first enter the gallery, because she’s sitting in an old howdah, shrouded by curtains. Eventually I track her down by the smell of cigarette smoke.
‘Christ,’ I say, ‘it’s not even seven. Couldn’t you at least wait until after breakfast?’
‘It’s four thirty in the afternoon as far as I’m concerned,’ she says reasonably. ‘And I’ve been up since half three anyway. Had to do something to fill the time.’
‘You took your cigs to the loo?’
‘Didn’t want to disturb your father.’
‘And your phone?’
‘Took my bag for luck. Bloody glad I did.’
‘So did you manage to find one?’
She harrumphs. ‘No.’
‘You must be busting.’
She laughs. ‘You can say that again. If you’d been five minutes longer you’d’ve found me squatted over one of those pots over there.’
‘Come on.’
‘Hold up. Let me finish my cig first.’
Mum takes three huge lungfuls off the end of her butt. ‘Where can I stub this out?’
‘Well, I dunno. You should have thought about that before you lit it.’
‘Yep, that’s what I came for,’ she says dismissively, ‘to be brought up by my own daughter. Ah, look. This’ll do.’ She lifts the lid of a pot set into one of the howdah’s upright posts, daintily crushes out the cigarette inside.
‘Mum!’ I am scandalised. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘Just did,’ she points out. ‘And besides, what is it if it ain’t an incense holder? It’s just another sort of ash.’
‘But it’s probably hundreds of years old!’
Mum does one of her sniffs. ‘I dare say it hasn’t been opened in all that time, neither. By the time it gets opened my butt will just be another historical artefact. Anyway, let’s get to that bathroom, eh?’
I’m not so good on the geography of the Georgian wing. I decide to get her down to the ground floor so that at least she can orientate herself enough to navigate her way back to their bedroom, which is in the Edwardian section.
‘So you haven’t had a lot of sleep, then,’ I say as I lead her out to the Tollbooth stair.
‘No. Bloody jet lag. Tell you what, Melody. This house is weird.’
‘You don’t say?’
She misses the irony in my tone. ‘I mean, I must’ve opened forty doors, and not a single one of them a khazi. What is it with these people? They think it’s common to wash, or something?’
‘I think some of them have their bladders taken out at birth.’
‘Christ. I’d heard about the chinectomies, but I didn’t know about that.’
‘It’s in case they meet the Queen. They’re not allowed to go to the loo till she does, or something, so they have to get into practice.’
‘I’ll tell you, I almost got spooked wandering around in the dark. Half the light switches don’t work and even when they do, mostly all you see is junk.’
‘That’s heirlooms, Mother.’
‘Nonsense. Heirlooms is stuff you care about and treat with love. This is room after room of discarded second-hand furniture. Covered in dust. I gave my pillow a bit of a punch before I lay down last night and we couldn’t see anything for half an hour.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about Dad like that.’
‘Oh, ha bloody ha.’
I get her to the door of a bathroom at last. Stand outside as I hear her settle on the throne, sigh with relief. Through the door, her voice carries, muffled.
‘And another thing. It wasn’t just the jet lag that woke me.’
‘No?’
‘No. I don’t know. Maybe it was a nightmare. But I don’t think it was, because it seemed to go on after I woke up. Are you sure this place is stable? Only I could swear the whole house was shaking.’
‘Oh, yeah. It does that.’ I can’t believe I’m so blasé about it already.
‘It does that?’
‘Mmm hmm. Rufus says it’s because it’s so old.’
Mum shifts behind the door. ‘Come on, love. There’s more to it than that. God, it was like being in the middle of an earthquake.’
‘I know. That’s what I thought the first time. But you get used to it. It happens all the time. I don’t even remember it waking me tonight.’
‘Well, it did me. Didn’t wake your father, of course.’
‘He wouldn’t hear it over his snoring, anyway.’
‘Too true. By the way, who was that ancient old baggage I saw staring at me from an upstairs window when we came in? Looked like someone had stood her too close to a heater?’
‘Oh, that’s Beatrice,’ I say. ‘Edmund’s mother. A treat in store.’
‘Looked like it. Looked like she’d lost a quid and found a button.’
‘Yeah, she does rather, doesn’t she?’
The thunderous flush of hundred-year-old plumbing and she emerges, tugging her top down over her waistband.
‘And who’s the pregnant one?’
‘That’s Tilly. She’s Rufus’s sister.’
‘Oh, right. Doesn’t look much like him.’
‘No, I suppose not. She looks a bit like Edmund, though.’
‘I guess so. Suppose that’s something. She seems nice enough. At least she hasn’t got a stick up her backside like her old girl. Where’s the babyfather?’
‘Done a bunk. They don’t talk about it, though. They say he’s in Burundi.’
‘Gone to Burundi. I like it. Nice euphemism. Like having the painters and decorators in.’
‘Hugo Hunstanton.’
‘Oh, well, there you go. Stands to reason he’d do a bunk with a name like that. How come’s they’re not going after him with the shotgun?’
I puff from inflated cheeks. ‘God knows, Ma. I think Edmund might, if he ever noticed, but he’s had the wobbly boot on for years and nothing much impinges on his consciousness. Mary just seems to want to blame Tilly and all of them want to keep it from Beatrice.’
‘Poor kid,’ she says.
‘I know.’
She makes use of her talent for dropping subjects when she’s done with them. ‘What do you think the chances are of a bit of brekkie now I’m up?’
‘Let’s go and see what we can find.’
We pass through the hall and start down the kitchen stairs. ‘How’s Costa?’ I ask.
‘He’s good. He sends his love. He’ll try and come next year. Had to stay back and keep an eye on things, you know?’
‘Yes. Is everything OK?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ she shrugs. ‘’course it is. You know how it is, though. Can’t turn your back for a second or someone’ll be in there trying to take over. Jesus, Melody, you’re not telling me people actually make food down here, are you?’
Fifi and Django have got down from the couch to greet us. Fifi stands up on his hind legs and gazes longingly up
at my mother. He looks – I’ve got to say it – adorable. What’s happened to me? Since when did I think bulldogs looked adorable? I even found myself dropping a kiss on the head of Roly’s dog Perkins the other day. But he looks so – big and cute and cuddly, and I find myself forced to bend down and catch him up in a big bear hug. He wriggles his backside and rolls his strangulated eyes. Makes for my mouth with a long schlumphy tongue. Mum makes a noise of combined disgust and contempt.
‘You mean they leave the dogs in here all night?’
‘Some of the time, but …’ I suddenly think better of telling her about where they spend their nights if they’re not in the kitchen. ‘No. Not always. What would you like to eat?’
She pulls out one of the wooden chairs that sit round the table, checks it for stains and lowers herself on to the seat. ‘I don’t know. Everything. I feel like I haven’t eaten in a decade.’
‘Well, you didn’t make much of a go of last night’s dinner, that’s for sure.’
‘Yes. What was that?’
‘Toad in the hole.’
‘Oh my God. You’re not telling me those snags were made of toad?’
I laugh. ‘Just you wait. They have something called spotted dick.’
Mum lights a cigarette. ‘I will personally,’ she says, ‘garrotte anyone who tries to feed me something called spotted dick.’
A voice from behind me: ‘I’ll thank you not to smoke in my kitchen.’ We whirl round to find the happy smiling face of Mrs Roberts mooning at us from the back door. ‘It’s unhygienic,’ she adds.
Fifi squirms his way towards her using only his front paws, dragging his backside along the floorboards. She bends down and rubs the top of his head, accepts a good licking and advances into the kitchen. Puts a plastic bag down on the table and folds her arms.
‘Can I help you with something?’
‘Hi, Mrs Roberts,’ I say. ‘How are you this morning? This is my mother. They arrived from Brisbane yesterday.’
‘Nobody told me,’ she says suspiciously.
Mum sticks out a hand for shaking. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Roberts. We sprung a bit of a surprise. Didn’t tell anyone we were coming.’
‘I hope there’s enough to go around.’ Mrs Roberts ignores my mother’s hand.
‘Actually, she’s pretty much starving,’ I tell her, ‘after the journey and all. We were sort of hoping …’
‘Breakfast is at nine,’ she says firmly. Opens her plastic bag and starts digging within.
‘Well, maybe we could make ourselves some coffee and some toast or something …’ I can’t believe how tentative I sound.
‘Breakfast is at nine,’ she repeats. I sort of feel sorry for Mrs Roberts, in a way. It must have been bad for her, missing her calling as a seaside landlady and all.
‘But if we—’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she says, ‘I must get on.’
‘Don’t mind us,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll be out of your hair in no time.’
Mrs Roberts doesn’t respond. Pulls a bag of what looks like bacon rashers out of her bag and slaps it down on the tabletop. Crosses the floor and gets herself a large knife from the block by the sink.
Mum gets to her feet and makes for the kettle.
Mrs Roberts stabs the knife into the table-top.
We freeze.
‘Mrs Roberts—’ I begin.
‘Breakfast,’ she says, ‘is at nine.’
‘But we—’ I begin.
‘Lady Mary likes her meal-times regular. Mrs Wattestone liked them regular before her. When Lady Mary says it’s all right for all and sundry to come in here and help theirselves, and smoke all over the food, then they can do as they like. But in the meantime, I’d be grateful if you would let the running of the house go on as it always has,’ she says.
‘Christ,’ says Mum, ‘what do you sound like?’
‘If you’ve got any complaints,’ says Mrs Roberts, ‘you should take them up with Lady Mary. She’ll be down to breakfast at nine o’clock, like normal.’
This is going to deteriorate, fast. There’s one of those unstoppable force/unmoveable object situations developing in front of my eyes, and I’m not sure the house’s foundations are strong enough to take it.
‘Now, look, my lady—’ begins Mum.
I raise my voice. Pointedly. ‘We’ll be getting out of your way, then, Mrs Roberts,’ I say.
‘I want a cup of tea,’ says Mum.
‘You’ll get one at nine o’clock,’ I tell her. ‘And I’ll get you a kettle for your room this afternoon.’
‘You can’t let her talk to you like that,’ says Mum. Her voice is starting on that familiar build. If I don’t get her out of here within the next minute, the whole of Gloucestershire will know my olds have come to stay.
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ I say. I take her by the arm and guide her back towards the hall stairs.
‘What is going on?’
‘Don’t, Mum.’
‘Who is that woman?’
‘She’s the housekeeper.’
‘And you let her talk to you like that?’
She’s right, of course. Time was I would never have stood for that kind of talk.
‘For now,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t put up with it.’
‘Sometimes it’s better to wait for your moment.’
‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold?’
‘Indeed.’
We pause in contemplation. ‘So what time is it, anyway?’ she asks.
I check my watch. ‘Another hour till breakfast, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we just take a car and go to a greasy spoon?’
‘Good thinking, Mother. I don’t suppose the chauffeur would be up for taking us?’
‘What, that jobsworth? No chance. Let’s just take one of the cars.’
‘Don’t shout at me.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not insured.’
Mum gapes at me. ‘How long have you been here, again?’
‘Seven weeks. I know. I know. It’s just, Rufus keeps forgetting and I don’t think it’s a very high priority with anyone else.’
‘But you used to love your car.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ she says. ‘Where’s that husband of yours?’
‘No, Ma. When I said not to shout, I meant at Rufus either.’
‘Ah God,’ she says, ‘I’m too hungry to shout. I’m going to get him to drive us up to town.’
Relieved, I say: ‘He’ll be out in the grounds somewhere. He always checks that nothing’s fallen down in the night first thing.’
‘Great. I can get a chance to see the famous grounds, then. Hope they live up to the promise of the house. I mean, I know it’s hard, but you never know. Because if this is anything to go by, they’ll be something really spectacular, then, eh?’
‘Shaddap.’
‘An Englishman’s home is his pigsty. So what are we going to see? Triton fountains? Swimming pool? A collection of pink plastic flamingos? No, don’t tell me: there’ll be some hedges with big holes in and something dead somewhere.’
‘You can be a real smartarse, Mother.’
‘That’ll be where you get it from.’
‘It’s a thousand years old. Or so they keep telling me. You can’t expect it to look like new.’
We step out of the front door, and she says: ‘Well, OK. I wasn’t expecting it to look like new, but I was right about the something dead. Jesus. Who cut the dog in half?’
The courtyard is filled with the sulphurous smell of drains. Drains and dead vegetation, and something vaguely fishy, to boot.
‘I take it all back,’ says Mum. ‘It’s a paradise on earth.’
‘Something’s wrong,’ I tell her. ‘It doesn’t usually smell like this.’
‘Of course I believe you.’
I shout, ‘Rufus? Rufus!’
‘I’m over here,’ calls his voice, a
nd it sounds – drained, empty. Weary.
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
I see him over by the moat. He’s sitting on the wet grass, knees pulled up to his chin, fingers linked at the back of his neck.
‘Hey!’ I say, and we start towards him. ‘What’s going on? What are you doing there and what in the hell is that smell?’
And then I stop, and stare. Because where there should be a limpid expanse of noble water there is, instead, a muddy ditch, brown trout gasping at the bottom.
Chapter Forty-One
Crack in the Earth
Even Mum has the tact to withdraw at this point. She mutters something about checking on Dad and goes back inside. Rufus doesn’t move. He’s breathing deeply; his shoulders are heaving with the effort. I’m not sure if he isn’t actually crying.
I go to him, lower myself down to sit next to him, pressing up against his side.
‘Oh, baby,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Rufus doesn’t speak.
I can see what has happened now. The crack which the limo fell into last night has extended all the way across the park, and enters the moat just outside the courtyard walls. And I’m thinking: yes, but for a moat a couple of hundred metres long and four deep to drain completely overnight … the water had to go somewhere. I’m thinking: what the hell is down there? But I don’t say anything to Rufus because he’s not in the mood for idle chitchat.
Eventually, he stirs, says: ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve this.’
‘Oh, Rufus,’ I say. It’s funny how many words you can encapsulate into just two. Because I’m saying: what on earth are you on about? And: don’t be stupid, and: I love you so much that I don’t even know how to begin to tell you, and: it’ll be OK, darling, we’ll find some way, and: I do understand that this is a major disaster, darling, you don’t have to tell me, and: shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I married you for your body not your house. If you let yourself go to seed, it’ll be another matter.’
‘I’m so sorry. I should have told you the truth. I’m such a selfish, lying … and now you’re trapped with all this and I wanted to give you something so much better.’
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