Drawing the Line

by Judith Cutler

  The Victorian period had seen the family solemnly respectable, encouraging Nonconformism in the area. But one of their sons had been a mate of Edward, Prince of Wales, Victoria’s eldest son. He’d got involved, the book said coyly, in some of the prince’s sexual peccadilloes. I’d never seen the word before but I had a shrewd idea what it meant. The family fortunes rose during the first world war, dipped in the thirties, and never really picked up again. Perhaps that was when they flogged the decent dining furniture, popping in cheap replacements.

  This was the only major estate still in the hands of the family, who now held it in trust. The present Lord Elham, who did not enjoy good health, lived very privately. There was no mention of where he lived, of course. But my divvy’s instinct told me I’d find someone interesting on the far side of some of the green baize doors I’d seen, marked, in large letters, PRIVATE. So I’d have to get through them, one way or another, wouldn’t I?

  ‘There’s so much I never registered,’ I told Blue Rinse One, whose face this time had no welcome in it. ‘There are hardly any other people around now, so I could get a proper look at the Bow figures in the blue corridor, instead of a baby in a rucksack and a Japanese girl with a camcorder.’

  ‘Video? That’s highly irregular!’

  ‘Especially close to such valuable stuff,’ I agreed, shaking my head at the wickedness of people ignoring all the NO PHOTOGRAPHY signs. ‘She moved on to another cabinet – can’t remember what the room was called, though. Sorry.’

  ‘Can you show me where she was?’

  ‘Of course.’ Right. I was in. OK, it was a ploy, but I’d have challenged even Griff to object to it. It was worrying, of course, that she should be so easily taken in: maybe I’d point this out when I’d finished. Anyone could have invented the same story, leaving security very weak at the front entrance.

  She set off briskly, leaving Blue Rinse Two to guard the fort. I bobbed along behind her, feeling like a little tug in the wake of a liner.

  ‘Just where was this room?’

  In my imagination, of course. ‘At the far end of one of the corridors upstairs.’ It was true that there were cabinets there, with a mixed bag of items, some of which should have been given more public airings. ‘Along here, I think.’

  ‘There’s no sign of her now.’

  Nor had there ever been. ‘I’m sorry. But maybe one of the room guides stopped her?’

  She nodded, but clearly wasn’t happy about leaving me for my second bite of the cherry. However, I avoided her eye, peering hard at the display. Rockingham; Minton; Chelsea – if only I could have reached them out and handled them. Even when she’d gone, I lingered. However, what I was supposed to be doing was something else I wasn’t supposed to be doing at all – searching for and opening one of those “Private” doors.

  Whatever I did, I mustn’t arouse anyone else’s suspicions. Blue Rinse had a shrewd idea I’d conned her. She might even warn the room guides – or guards – as she returned to base. So I set off again at what I hoped was a typical tourist pace, dawdling here and there, but always making my way purposefully to one of my goals.

  Only to find the unmistakable signs of an alarm system. It didn’t look as sophisticated as ours, but I’d bet Griff’s treasured figurine to a Ty Beanie that it’d make more noise than I’d like. The other one was protected too. And I’d bet that there was no chance of nipping through one of those hidden bedroom doors – they’d be bolted the far side.

  I was just about to droop with despair when I found that if I ignored a one-way sign I could get back to the library. The china in there would have been worth a visit in itself. So I stood and stared, once again itching to hold some of it in my hands.

  ‘You seem very keen?’

  I jumped. A lady, elderly but definitely not blue rinse, had materialised.

  ‘I just love the stuff,’ I said simply. ‘That Meissen group. Look at the delicacy of the modelling. And the colours are –’ I searched for a Griff-ish word ‘– simply exquisite.’

  ‘You’re an expert?’ It didn’t sound like an accusation.

  ‘Not yet. But I’m studying hard.’ Half of my brain was inventing a CV that would pass muster; the other simply wanted to respond to her smile. ‘Are you part of the family?’ Jesus, was I after a grandmother now, as well as a father?

  ‘Just a volunteer. If I didn’t come here as a guide, I might even come as a visitor, I love the china so much. What’s your interest?’

  ‘Restoration.’ The truth just popped out. Part of it. ‘Still learning.’

  ‘I’m afraid some of this could do with your attentions. Look at that poor sweetmeat dish. You wouldn’t mend a crack like that, would you?’

  I gave her a two-minute rundown on how it should be rescued.

  ‘And how much would it cost?’

  I thought of a figure and doubled it. Then I was more honest. ‘And I really couldn’t do it for less. When I’m fully qualified, I’d have to charge what I said first.’

  ‘I doubt if the trustees would pay even the more modest sum.’

  ‘But it’d be worth it!’

  ‘You and I both know that. But there’s been some sort of dispute, and economy is the order of the day.’

  ‘A family row! In a place this size! Why don’t they just go to opposite end of the house and cool off?’

  ‘If only they could. One wing’s closed up altogether. It’s used to store items awaiting the ministrations of someone like you, or items marked for sale when the market picks up.’

  ‘What about the other?’

  ‘Oh, that’s as good as closed up. Lord Elham lives there. And though it was he who organised the trust, he’s not speaking to any of the trustees.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because left to himself he’d have sold the whole house, contents and all.’

  I gasped.

  ‘Quite. So when they threatened legal action, his heirs, that is, all distant cousins, he made a pre-emptive strike, and said he’d spare them death duties provided he was allowed to live on rent-free. He owns nothing now. But they don’t own anything either, not as individuals. And if they start bickering, it goes to the National Trust instead.’

  ‘Canny old bugger!’ Whoops. Old ladies didn’t like swearing.

  She didn’t so much as blink. ‘Canny bugger indeed. But not so old.’

  My heart sank. I needed old. Mature, at least.

  ‘About fifty, I suppose. Sixty at most.’

  That’d do.

  ‘He’s a complete eccentric, and –’ Her pager beeped. ‘Ah! That’s my signal to tell you that the house is closing and that you should make your way to the exit, where the shop and tea-rooms will be open for a further hour.’ She smiled. ‘But I have to check each room on my patch as I go, so if you want to come with me and have one last look you’d be very welcome.’

  In the end she introduced herself as Mrs Walker and, while I collected my bags from Blue Rinse Two, bought me a cup of tea and a slice of cake, chattering away about her life and how she came to work at the Hall. It seemed she’d spent her life as a history teacher, retiring to the village with her husband, who’d contracted some rare cancer years after working in the petro-chemical industry and died within six weeks of its being diagnosed.

  ‘So why didn’t you go back home,’ I asked, aghast, ‘now you’re on your own?’

  ‘Do you know Streatham? Then you’ll know it’s not the prettiest or cleanest of places…’

  More of her life. More and more. Well, teachers spend their lives talking, so I suppose they miss it when they give up. I can’t say I was excited, but she’d bought me a huge slice of gateau and given me a bit of information I could go on, so I tried not to fidget or yawn, even if I was concentrating more on how to get back to Bredeham than on what she was saying. But she’d mentioned Lord Elham again.

  ‘In all the papers?’ I repeated.

  ‘Well, not the better ones. But the tabloids. They say he’s reformed
now. But in all my years in the classroom, I’ve never known a leopard change its spots.’

  So what colour were mine? I had a nasty idea that if she’d known what my background was she’d have run a mile. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d have taken me in hand, the way Griff had. I had an idea she wouldn’t have given up on me, like my other teachers had. The Mrs Walkers of this world didn’t. Not even when Blue Rinse One stood over our table, looking far from happy.

  ‘I never found that Japanese woman,’ she said, without bothering to greet Mrs Walker.

  ‘Japanese woman?’

  ‘This young lady says she saw one with a camcorder.’

  ‘I haven’t seen –’ Mrs Walker looked at me and changed gear, beautifully smoothly ‘– her since about three-thirty. I told her not to use it. I even made her wipe what she’d shot already.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ I said sincerely. ‘Most items stolen from places like this are stolen on demand. A dodgy buyer wants X, a thief takes pictures to confirm that they’re talking about the same X, and then an accomplice goes back and steals it. Or maybe they’re simply checking the security. Which reminds me,’ I said, going into Griff mode, ‘I was terribly grateful to you for letting me back in, but doesn’t having just one person on duty leave the Hall rather vulnerable?’ I was very glad that Griff had made me pronounce the l in the middle of the word. It would have mattered if I hadn’t.

  ‘Evelina is an antiques restorer,’ Mrs Walker said quickly. ‘An expert in her field. She was very concerned too about the state of some of our china.’

  Before Blue Rinse could ask why I’d fiddled my way back in, as opposed to simply paying again, I stood, flipping one of Griff’s business cards at her. I gave Mrs Walker a second. ‘My boss would be delighted to assist in anyway he can,’ I assured her. I’d better tell him that he would over supper.

  Except I wouldn’t be seeing him for supper, would I?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Every moment of the journey home I wondered what to say to Griff. I had plenty of time to think. From Bossingham to Bredeham’s about half an hour – forty minutes at most – by car. It should have been about the same from Canterbury to Bredeham by train. First I had to get to Canterbury, of course, and I was two hundred yards from the end of that wonderful avenue when the bus sailed past. A two-hour wait or risk hitching? I got a brilliant lift from an anxious young clergyman with bright yellow curly hair and blue eyes, who might have been a cherub except he was tall and rangy with the most joggly Adam’s apple I’d ever seen. He insisted on driving me all the way to the station.

  ‘No, honestly. Just drop me where you’re going. I shall be fine.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. But I’ll take you to the station all the same.’

  I dug into my memory. ‘Acting on instructions from the Boss, I suppose?’ I grinned, pointing upwards in case he didn’t twig. ‘Going the extra mile!’

  I was rewarded by a guffaw. ‘Right. I’m Robin, by the way.’

  ‘Lina.’

  His effort was wasted by an hour’s wait at the station while they sorted out a signal failure. When the train actually arrived, it was so slow I wanted to get out and push. Then of course it would be a couple of miles’ walk from Bredeham station to the actual village. But I’d got to get there first, and there we were, stuck at another damned signal.

  So what did I say to Griff? None of the words I tried was right. I went over them all. OK, ‘sorry’ for a start – but ‘sorry’ didn’t begin to cover what I felt or what he deserved. At last, I did what I should have done hours ago: I phoned to tell him to save me some supper.

  Or I would have done, if I’d got through. The phone rang and rang. The answerphone didn’t cut in. Had I – or rather, the phone – dialled the wrong number? I tried manually, digit by careful digit. Same response.

  At last we inched towards Bredeham. Bother all the instructions about not opening carriage doors until the train’s stationary – down in the south east, we’d still got carriages that took Noah and his animals to the Ark, so there were no automatic safety systems. I was out and halfway down the platform before I realised I’d forgotten my carrier bags. I’d grabbed them and was on my way again before the train had officially stopped.

  It’s a good job I couldn’t see what awaited me outside Griff’s cottage or I wouldn’t have bothered. Aidan’s Merc. All that hot sweaty journey, all my efforts to reach him and he wouldn’t even pick up the phone because he was too busy entertaining Aidan. In bed with Aidan. I just kept on walking. I hardly noticed the deep cuts the carrier bags were making in my fingers, hardly noticed the blisters my new trainers had rubbed up, hardly noticed anything except the huge pain in my chest that made me want to howl out loud. No, not that sort of pain, not the sort I worried about if Griff rubbed his chest before popping an antacid. The sort of pain Griff’s damned poets wrote about.

  I hardly noticed this car coming up alongside me either. It slowed almost to a stop, and then accelerated away. Nothing special. A metallic blue Focus. I hardly registered it except to hope someone didn’t want long, complicated directions. I registered it a bit more when it turned and came back towards me, and a very great deal more when it repeated the process, stopping thirty yards behind me. I wasn’t supposed to notice that, but I was using the pharmacy window as a mirror. There was no real food in the caravan, so I’d have to stop at Eddie Ho’s for a take-away, or get something in Londis I could heat in the microwave. Food apart, and I mustn’t forget the small matter of breakfast, I needed to lurk somewhere for some time, long enough to get some idea of whether the Focus driver was really hanging about on my account or simply waiting for his girlfriend. If only I’d taken a closer look when I’d had the chance. There was no way I could check him out now.

  But I did do something Tony or Dave, the policemen, would have approved. I could write down the registration. Mirror image it might be, but I could sort that out later. A something or other recollected in tranquillity. I could also do something even brighter – amazing how ideas came when you least expected them. What was Dave’s phone number?

  I should have called him anyway, to thank him for the evening out. That’s what Griff had dinned into me. He always wrote personal thank you messages in elegant cards, but had conceded that my generation might prefer to text. On the other hand, maybe Dave should have phoned me – in Griff’s book of etiquette, that would have been the advice. Actually I suspect the reason that neither of us had called the other was that the evening had not been a success, and that both of us preferred to bury our mistakes. So instead of Dave, I phoned Tony.

  Who was on duty, of course, and not taking calls. I left him the Focus’s number anyway, and told him I’d be in the caravan later – but not to tell Griff. Dave? He wasn’t taking calls either. Now I felt more alone than I had before – especially as the Focus was still parked with no sign of activity.

  OK: which first, Londis or Eddie’s? I could get more for less at Londis, I reckoned – Eddie would have been horrified if I’d only wanted rice or noodles or chips, and there was no way I could explain my sudden meanness. Iris had insisted I shop for end-dated products, and a root around the Reduced basket found a couple of ready meals, some fruit juice and a loaf of bread. Add some long life milk and an apple and I wouldn’t starve. I wouldn’t die of carrier bags cutting into my fingers, either, even though I now had another to manage.

  ‘That’ll tear,’ the girl on the till said, pointing at the handle. ‘Here – if you repack everything, you might get away with these two. Got far to go?’ she added, weighing them in her hands.

  I told her.

  ‘We can drop you off if you like. ’Cos these here are bloody heavy and my dad’ll be picking me up as soon as the boss takes over,’ she said. ‘He’s over there. See? That red Honda. You can go and tell him Shaz sent you if you like.’

  ‘I’ll hang on for you,’ I said. ‘You’re sure he won’t mind?’

  ‘Got to go past the farm anyway, I tol
d you.’ She peered. No sign of her boss yet. ‘Cow. Always does this. Pays by the hour, works you by the hour and a quarter.’ Safe and sound in the caravan. Or was I? Safe, yes, thanks to Shaz and her dad and Saturday’s new lock on the door. But I wasn’t very sound, because what I’d really hoped to see was a note from Griff. He must have worked out where I’d be. And he’d have known what contact from him would have meant to me. But he was too busy with Aidan and his bloody Merc. I banged everything down on what’d soon be my bed. Better to thump something that wasn’t my own face. At least no one had stared at me today: a combination of ointments and tablets and heavy make-up had got me through. All I had to worry about now was what I should do the following day.

  The librarians in Ashford were very patient with me, as I wrestled with what I’d described as research. They probably thought that a college project on Bossingham Hall was legitimate, especially as I could rattle off loads of information about the place, but might have wondered why I wanted so much information about Lord Elham. I’d have tried to come up with some silly explanation if Griff hadn’t drummed it into me that you should never tell anyone more than you had to.

  Griff wouldn’t have approved of the newspapers I found myself scanning. He insisted on papers with news, not gossip. But it was gossip I needed. I found plenty of it, too. If Lord Elham had come from any sort of family but an aristocratic one, my bet was that that the columnists kindly referred to as his high spirits would have landed him in young offenders’ centres such as Feltham. With his taste in drugs and booze, he’d have probably had to steal to feed his habit, ending up spending more time in gaol than at home – or, more likely, on the streets. As it was, he might be stuck in only one wing of his home – but hey, what a wing, what a home. And he’d had good fun getting there, by all accounts. This party, that match. Henley, Lords, Wimbledon: but I don’t think he was there as a brilliant sportsman, or even to watch: in each photo there was either a glass or a young woman flaunting her tits. OK: sour grapes. The tits were usually bigger than mine, and always in much nicer dresses than I could dream of. Usually I stopped myself getting bitter by reminding myself how happy I was with Griff. Today even my scribbling of notes was furious.