by Ali Carter
‘Are you sure you don’t mind helping me again next week?’ I asked, knowing I would struggle without her.
‘Would be my pleasure, Susie,’ she said, sounding uncharacteristically grown up.
‘Thanks so much. I’ll be back Sunday night.’
‘For dinner?’ she asked, and disloyally I wanted to say no. Lucy had many qualities but cooking was not one of them.
‘Yes, back for dinner.’
‘Great, Sunday’s a rest day so I’ll have plenty of time to make us something special.’
My tummy churned at the thought as I walked away and waved to her shapely silhouette in the late afternoon sun. Our scruffy work clothes were about all Lucy and I had in common, so when I said my goodbyes wearing a pretty chiffon dress I could tell from her expression it took her by surprise.
Little did she know this summer dress was an excuse for me to wear my new, slinky underwear. I’ve been longing to put it on since my brief shopping spree in Paris last month. A particularly indulgent trip all thanks to Hillary Trotter, an eccentric spinster from Surrey, who had paid me a lot of money to do a life-sized drawing of her pot-bellied pig, Honk.
‘Snort, snort,’ I said in my car as I remembered the sound I had to make to get Honk looking alert. The thought cheered me up. A portly pig had been a lot easier to draw than Canny’s impetuous horses. Their scooting haphazardly about the paddock as soon as I took out my camera, and then putting their ears back whenever I want to sketch their heads, or eating grass with their backs to me, has made me quite miserable most of the time.
There’s something about art, when it becomes a struggle, that strips you bare and makes you feel absolutely dreadful about yourself. It’s the lack of aptitude for what you’re trying to accomplish that eats away at you and makes you wish you were better at what you do. The only thing that had really picked up my mood this past week was a text on Thursday from my heartthrob Toby Cropper.
Hi Susie, want to join me walking the Peddars Way
in Norfolk this weekend? I’m on annual leave. Toby
x
Toby and I are in touch but it’s sporadic and this last-minute invitation came as a surprise. When I replied saying ‘I’m coincidentally also in Norfolk but sadly can’t join you,’ he’d suggested, ‘What about meeting for a crab in Cromer on Sunday?’
As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew it would be rude to shorten my already short visit to Fontaburn Hall. So, I deferred my reply for twenty-four hours in the hopes I could come up with an alternative plan. I discussed it with Lucy whose unconditional enthusiasm at having him to stay clinched the deal and I sent a text.
It’s now a day and a half later and I’m still waiting for his reply. But as I beetled along in my car to join the Honourable Archibald Barnabas Cooke Wellingham’s house party, I decided that Toby must have intermittent mobile reception on the north Norfolk coast.
Fontaburn Hall and its beautiful formal gardens sit well away from prying eyes, concealed in their own quiet calm behind a knapped flint wall. And although the stone is handsome to look at, it is the great height of this uninviting perimeter I should think that wards off the peeping eyes of even a person atop a horse. I have circumnavigated the whole thing and I can assure you there is only one entrance to this historic country seat. As I took in a deep breath and drove through the wrought iron entrance gates, pinned open as if by chance, I did wonder if this family had something to hide?
Topiary pineapples lined the verges, appearing one after the other like welcoming children, and as I travelled up the smoothest metalled road imaginable my car made none of the usual crusty suspension sounds.
The drive took an indulgent bend to the left and funnelled me in between lavender beds without a passing place in sight. After what felt like a quarter of a mile of metaphorical red carpet I was delivered with a reassuring gravelly crunch into a yard full of cars. Or Land Rovers to be more precise. I squeezed my small box into the only available space, disregarding the tin dog bowl that ended up underneath, and as I opened the driver’s door a welcome gust of air shot up my dress.
I knew well enough that it’s considered unnecessary to lock one’s vehicle in places like this, so I turned my back on it and walked through a small, squeaky, decorative gate, up two steps and across an expanse of paving to reach the front door.
Fear God, Honour The King was carved into the lintel above me. This was one hell of a house. 1539 dated it on the stone slab under my feet, although even without this, Fontaburn’s architectural provenance marked it as unmistakably Tudor. Not a huge house by any means but its decorative raw sienna brickwork and terracotta tiles exuded wealth. As for the eight extremely tall chimney-stacks clustered into fours, these must be a sight seen for miles in this flat county. And as my neck craned I half expected to come across an ‘I’m in residence’ flag flying, but no, there was a gentrified modesty to this place.
I dinged the sizeable bell, and as I waited for an answer to the dong I turned to look down an unending avenue of lime trees. The air around me was warm and still and I savoured the moment of calm before who-knows-what lay ahead.
Clitch, went the latch, the door opened, and the wet nose of a hyperactive labrador worked its way between my thighs.
The floppy-haired man beaming at me stood unconcerned.
‘Hello lovely, I’m Daniel Furr Egrant,’ he said as his long thin neck shot out at alarming speed and his pucker lips pecked me with a, Mwah, Mwah, on both cheeks.
‘Susie, Susie Mahl,’ I said a little flustered, at which point thankfully the labrador, deciding my crotch wasn’t what he was after, took off with a surge of energy towards the lime-tree avenue.
‘Now, remind me when we last met,’ said Daniel.
‘We’ve never met before.’
‘Yes, we must have done,’ he insisted. ‘I know every one of Archie’s friends.’
‘I’m yet to meet Archie,’ I said, incredibly relieved he had a nickname. (As childish as it may seem I knew I’d giggle if I had to say Archibald out loud.)
‘Oh, I see.’ Daniel flicked back his floppy fringe with one quick swipe of his palm. ‘Can I help you? Is it he you’ve come to see?’
I was puzzled that this man, shoeless and dressed in starched cricket whites, didn’t seem to know I was coming for dinner. You’d think it might have been mentioned.
‘Archie kindly invited me for the night,’ I said.
‘Wonderful. That’s tremendous.’
Daniel enthusiastically jump-turned into the house and bellowed, ‘Archie! Archibald! ABCW!’
A voice called out over the sound of heavy feet on wooden floorboards, ‘Oh Dandy do shut up or it will catch on. You know how I hate to be referred to like that.’
‘There you go Susie,’ said Daniel under his breath. ‘Now we all know where we stand.’
‘How dare you,’ said Archie pulling softly on Daniel’s right shoulder.
‘This is Susie Mahl,’ said Daniel, capitulating behind him.
‘How d’you do?’ Archie’s stiff arm protruded and his small right hand gave mine a firm shake, ‘I’m so glad you could come. Please excuse my friend.’ He turned with a scowl but Daniel had gone. ‘This couldn’t be better timing; the cricket match is just over.’
‘Did you win?’
‘No, no, but that’s not the aim. We must give them a competitive game but ensure the village wins in the end. It’s good for neighbourly relations. Now, do come in Susie.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Archie marched me through a gloomy stone hall littered with tweed caps drip dripping off royal antlers. On we went into a vast wood-panelled sitting room at which point I very nearly walked smack bang into the back of him. My eyes had been glued to the splendid staircase in the corner of the room, which rose at a right angle to a minstrel gallery above.
The stairs had the deepest treads I’d ever seen, and from the very top one came an uninhibited American squawk, ‘Gin o’clock! That’s what you English call
it. I just love that saying.’
The blonde Yank trod down to us with saucy rhythm in her slim hips. She clasped both hands onto one of Archie’s shoulders and hung off him like a sexy serpent.
‘Hailey Dune, this is Susie Mahl,’ said Archie.
Hailey’s eyelids flicked her long black lashes back as she took a good look at me. ‘Susie with an S or Suzie with a Zee?’
‘S,’ I said with a laugh.
‘Hailey’s obsessed with language today,’ said Archie. ‘Found the term square leg particularly good at the cricket, didn’t you?’ He turned his head towards her and she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.
Then, immediately, releasing his shoulder and motioning her manicured hand towards my slightly fretting, far from manicured hand, she suggested, ‘As you have the accent of a gin drinker, why not come play bar lady with me?’ Before I had time to consider it our palms clasped together and my rapidly stiffening body was unwillingly pranced towards the door.
‘No G&T for me,’ called out Archie, having strayed towards the expanse of window, probably in search of the labrador. ‘I’ve still got plenty of Pimm’s in my system but you girls help yourself.’
Hailey’s blonde curls bounced as I followed them out of the sitting room, down a short dusky corridor and into a walk-in drinks cupboard.
‘Fabulous house isn’t it?’ she said, presuming I’d been here before. ‘Us New Yorkers know how to party but I’d rather do it in an English stately home than a loft apartment any day. Much classier.’ The ‘c-l-a-s-s’ of which rung out with her east coast accent.
‘This room is incredible.’
It really was.
There were shelves to my right lined with everything from Armagnac to Zaranoff, and shelves to my left with glasses of every shape and size. Straight ahead of us stood two upright see-through fridges, one full of champagne and the other bursting with soft drinks and mixers. It’s no wonder, I thought, the aristocracy can drum up a drunk in their bloodlines so easily, with temptation being the first step in the wrong direction.
‘Right, Susie!’ squealed Hailey. ‘There’s ice in that bucket.’ She pointed at a mini silver barrel on the solid oak block between us and then excitedly suggested I might like to cut up a lime, there being no shortage of them in the bowl by my side.
I gave her a willing smile, at which point I noticed in return Hailey’s cheeks didn’t wrinkle when her mouth turned up. They didn’t even form the tiniest crease. This, combined with the fact her slim figure had a bounce to it and wasn’t yet sagging with the inevitable side effects of age, made me puzzled to think her face needed any work. But then again, ever since I crammed into a small cubicle in my early twenties to feel my friend’s enhanced breasts I’ve understood there can be personal reasons for cosmetic surgery and it doesn’t always come down to vanity. Maybe Hailey was a similar case.
She swung around and reached up for one of several brands of gin. ‘London Dry, we’ve got to use this.’ She plonked the bottle down between us. ‘None of that Indian stuff or Gordon’s whoever he is?’
I laughed. Effervescent Hailey was the perfect remedy to put a newcomer at ease.
‘Hey Susie, you gotta talk me through it from here, I’m still learning the ropes of you English.’
‘Okay, how many glasses?’
‘Let’s make nine. Lotty might not have one but in that case I’ll drink hers.’
‘Right!’ I said with a rush of enthusiasm. ‘If you put three cubes of ice in each glass, I’ll squeeze lime over them and add the gin. Then you top it up with tonic.’
‘Tip-top,’ came her comically refined reply as our attention turned to the open door. Incoming was the peak of a straw hat under which appeared a woman heavy with child. Her buxom embracement of pregnancy, so far from the fashion of tight clothes over tidy bumps of the younger generation, led me to assume she must be in her late thirties at least.
‘Charlotte Mapperton.’ Her forthright arm shot out the end of a floaty blouse and before I had time to wipe lime juice off my fingers I shook it.
‘Susie Mahl.’
‘Daniel told us of your arrival and being the most sober one amongst us I thought it only fair to come and find you. I do hope Hailey’s not leading you astray.’
Charlotte put an arm around her friend’s waist and gave it a tight squeeze.
‘It’s all thanks to you,’ said Hailey hugging her back, ‘that I’m here at all.’
Charlotte gave a wry smile. ‘The others are in the pagoda, so you must come and join them.’
Hailey picked up the tray and Charlotte’s bottom led the way. Out of the drinks cupboard, down the rest of the corridor and into a drawing room with the most affluent display of porcelain you could possibly imagine. Jugs, cups, saucers, bowls, plates and vases lined the walls and littered the mantelpiece. Being the last in the line I had a brief moment to take it in but there was no time to tarry: I was burdened with the duty of keeping a close eye on Hailey’s precarious heels as she tottered out the French window after Charlotte and strutted her stuff across the lawn.
‘Susie Mahl everyone!’ announced Archie as instantaneously a fiery heat consumed my cheeks.
One by one, with Archie’s introduction, bottoms left cushioned bamboo benches and right arms stretched across a glazed ceramic table. ‘Stanley Gerald, Primrose Gerald, Charlie Letterhead, Daniel Furr Egrant you’ve met, George Thelthorp and Tatiana Davitoff.’
Each nodded a ‘hallo’, as my hand received a firm howdo-you-do shake, not one utterance of a ‘pleased to meet you’ amongst them.
‘Gin for everyone!’ said Hailey setting down the tray, and as I dipped my eyes I noticed the table top balanced on the back of a large blue ceramic elephant.
The men moved out on to the vast rolled lawn, which initiated a ‘that’s right, make way for the girls’ from Charlotte, clearly the matron of the bunch.
Everyone other than Archie had swiped a glass and Tatiana, realising there was an uneven number, tried to persuade him to take hers.
‘I’m drying out before dinner,’ he said.
‘In that case, so shall I.’ She placed her glass firmly back on the tray.
‘Oh Arch, don’t be such a party pooper,’ said Charlotte as she motioned him away with a flick of her hand.
‘Shoo, shoo,’ added Hailey.
Primrose shuffled up the bench to make space for me.
‘That’s such a wonderful elephant,’ I said as I squeezed in beside her.
‘Yes,’ she claimed, ‘I was with Archie when he chose it.’
‘Ooooh!’ said Hailey, her eyelashes fluttering, ‘Maybe I’ll bring one back from Wuj-i-ang.’
‘Wujiang!’ corrected Primrose as Charlotte whispered in Hailey’s ear and I thought it a good time to take a swift sip of my gin and tonic.
‘Susie,’ said Tatiana, ‘how do you know Archie?’
‘A godchild on my mother’s side married his cousin.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Primrose, ‘which one?’
Oh no! Was I really about to spend the night with people more interested in the lineage I come from than who I am? I shouldn’t be that surprised as there’s nothing that reassures these types more than finding a connection amongst the company they keep. And Primrose is now assuming, if they are Archie’s cousins, she’ll know them. Charlotte, leaning in to the table as much as her pregnant stomach allowed, clearly thought she might too.
‘The Debentures,’ I said to two blank faces.
‘Nope, I’ve never met them,’ said Primrose.
‘Me neither,’ said Charlotte.
I looked at Tatiana and Hailey, both of whom shook their heads.
Then not wanting to give up the quest before perusing all avenues, Charlotte asked, ‘What was your mother’s goddaughter’s maiden name?’
‘Sarah Smith,’ I said, forgiving her mistake in the connection.
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Primrose, ‘Lady Smyth. She’s a great friend of my mother’s. I never knew her
daughter was called Sarah, we’ve always known her as Ra Ra.’
‘My Sarah’s plain old Smith, no y’s and no titles I’m afraid’.
‘Oh,’ said Charlotte as I caught Primrose’s condescending smile.
‘Have you met anyone here before Susie?’ muttered Tatiana.
‘No, Archie included. He heard I was working nearby so invited me for the night.’
‘Working?’ came Primrose, shocked at the concept.
‘Yes, I’m drawing someone’s racehorses.’
‘You’re an artist, how delightful. I dabble a bit when I have time.’
‘Someone,’ said Charlotte directly to me, ‘must have suggested Archie invite you. I’d put a bet on the fact you’re single, aren’t you?’
Was Archie’s situation so desperate that he’d stoop as low as me, a middle-class girl from south London? These cats had nothing to worry about if that was the game we were playing. The Honourable Archibald Barnabas Cooke Wellingham will, when on death doth his father part with the title, become Lord Norland, and as coincidental as it would be for me to end up Lady Norland, the name of the very lane I live on in Sussex, it is a highly unlikely outcome. Not to mention the fact that if I did bag this man with title, enormous wealth and gigantic windswept castle on the northern bank of the Wash estuary (yes, I did do a spot of Googling before the weekend), my mother, I’m certain, would keel over on the spot.
Tatiana looked straight at me, wanting an answer, and no matter what I wasn’t going to lose a pawn with my first move. ‘Yes, I’m single.’ I gave a girly giggle that Hailey carried as she flicked her blonde curls over her shoulder and wafted out the pagoda. Waft, waft, waft, she headed towards a bench in the distance where Archie and Charlie sat, far enough apart for her to place her pert bottom between them. Tatiana’s green eyes were fixed on the scene.
