The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  ‘Not much. I need to stretch my legs and work off some of that lunch. Shall we take Mungo for a walk?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ she said, saving her message and getting up. ‘I’d love that.’

  Five minutes later they were strolling out of the house, an excited Mungo leaping up and down around them, trying to chivvy them along. He seemed to love walks with the both of them more than solo outings. They went past the old swimming pool, which Delilah thought had a kind of lichened charm. It must have been put in some time in the thirties when its black-and-white tiles and carved stone ornamentation had been the height of fashion. A heating system had been installed but it hadn’t worked for years according to John. The water looked inviting, sparkling and blue in the sunshine, but Delilah knew it was icy. John plunged in every morning and swam thirty laps, emerging braced, his skin burning scarlet with cold and exertion. They went along the yew walk and then out of the wrought gates with their stone pillars on either side, each topped with an owl.

  ‘I love those owls,’ Delilah said as they went.

  ‘Me too. They’re old friends. Guarding the gates of the house with their wise old stares.’

  They went towards the woods, whistling for Mungo occasionally when he’d been lost in the undergrowth just a little too long. He always reappeared, jaunty and excited, his thick coat stuck with burrs and twigs. Delilah picked some stems of elderflower and couldn’t help imagining a wonderful fashion shoot as they went. Perhaps a Robin Hood theme: girls in tones of green, leather trousers, silken shirts, tiny hats. She saw them darting between trees, standing with a bow and arrow at the ready or with a hunting horn pressed to scarlet lips. Or a Greek vision of dryads and hamadryades and nymphs of water and flowers – a little hackneyed maybe, but she could imagine Rachel bringing something extraordinary to the scene. She remembered how Rachel loved her animal tableaux and playing with size. Perhaps she’d do a Brambly Hedge tribute, with the models as those delightfully milkmaid-ish mice in their striped skirts and floral puffs of overskirt, carrying baskets bulging with giant acorns.

  I miss work, she thought with nostalgia. Perhaps it was easy to forget the endless boring meetings, the daily deluge of emails, the frustration of getting things done and the panic when it all went wrong, and just recall the excitement and glamour and the feeling of being at the heart of things. But she would be back there next week. She felt a flutter of pleasurable anticipation. She needed some fun for a change.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ John asked. He had a switch in his hand and was flicking the tops of plants as he went, taking off leaves and flower heads with it.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ protested Delilah. ‘You’re hurting them!’

  He gave her a look and laughed. ‘Hurting them . . . you’re too sensitive. You’ll need to toughen up to live around here. You can’t be weeping over the fate of flowers.’

  ‘It seems pointless to destroy them for no reason. Anyway, I was just thinking about what fun we could have doing a fashion shoot here. My mind is whirling over it.’

  ‘I suppose I have a lot of reasons to be grateful for the last shoot we had here, but I’m not desperate to repeat the experience.’

  ‘Don’t you want the house to be used more? It could bring in a real income if we made more of it. It doesn’t have to be weddings, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There are lots of fun things we could do.’

  ‘The house just about supports itself,’ John said. ‘I don’t think we need all the trouble that would go with opening it up. Besides, you know what I’m like around people. Crowds don’t bring out the best in me.’

  She tried to read him. He was not being terribly positive but his face had not taken on that shut-off look that meant all discussion was at an end, so she persisted. ‘I know it would be a big hassle, but I could take that off your shoulders. I’d like to put our own mark on the place – wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t believe how many people are interested in the house, how many requests I get for visits and use of the grounds . . .’

  ‘I do believe it,’ he said shortly. ‘I’m only too well aware of it.’

  ‘We could attract a really glamorous crowd to a place like this. I think it could be exciting.’ They came out of the thickness of the woods into the clearing where the strange old folly stood. She pointed over to it. ‘I mean, just look at that place – it’s falling to pieces! We could do something with that! Think what a marvellous holiday let it could be – we could reft it as a luxurious honeymoon retreat just big enough for two, with a room on each floor. Or it could be an artist’s studio or writer’s garret.’ She felt excitement building at all the ideas that were rushing around her brain. She could see it now as a beautiful, tiny nest, made cosy with every possible comfort.

  They had stopped on the slight slope that led to the folly, and it stood black and a little imposing right ahead of them. Even in the bright sunlight, it was rather forbidding, silhouetted against the sky. It really was in a state, practically falling over, with holes in the walls, no roof, and foliage emerging through what was left of the windows. It would take thousands to make it habitable again. She glanced over at John. His face had darkened and his eyes had turned stormy.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, panicked by his expression.

  ‘We’re not going to do anything to that . . . thing.’

  ‘But why not?’ She was mystified. Couldn’t he see what wonderful things they could do? ‘We could restore it, make it useful again. It’s just rotting away there.’

  ‘Good.’ He almost spat the word out. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better. I hate the damn place. If I had my way, it would be pulled down tomorrow but bloody English Heritage or whoever would never allow it. I’d be sued and fined or even sent to prison if I so much as touched it – so as far as I’m concerned, it can fall down on its own.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She spread her hands at him helplessly.

  ‘It’s a death trap. I almost fell off it myself when I was a boy. That place is bad luck, do you understand? I don’t want you going near it! Do you promise me?’ He came up close to her, dropping his switch on the ground and taking hold of her jacket. ‘Promise me, Delilah!’

  ‘All right,’ she said, stunned by the force of his reaction. ‘I won’t go near it. I had no idea you felt so strongly.’

  ‘Well . . .’ He let go of her, looking at his hands as though surprised by his own reaction. ‘You do now. I just don’t want you going there. It’s bad luck. It always has been and it always will be. Stay away. Promise me.’

  She looked over at the folly again. A chill crept down her back. ‘I promise.’

  The mood between them was spoiled after that. John shut off from her, in that way he often did. He replied if she asked a question but only in a word or two, and he offered nothing more but settled back into a brooding silence. She avoided the topic of the folly, though she wanted to ask him exactly what had happened there. When they got back to the house, John went into the office and shut the door.

  He’ll always do this, she thought. There will always be the work it takes to run this place. Whenever he needs to get away, the house will provide the perfect excuse.

  On impulse, she went to the kitchen, scooped up from the larder a tin containing a fresh lemon cake that Janey had left them for the weekend, and headed out to her car. A moment later, she was roaring away up the driveway, feeling more liberated as she saw the house disappearing in the rear-view mirror. She knew the way because John had pointed it out when they’d passed – the small grey-stone cottage under a low, mossy tiled roof, set back from the road on the outskirts of the village.

  This is ridiculous, she told herself. I don’t even know if he’s there.

  But she didn’t turn around.

  Parking on the wide kerb at the roadside, she took the cake tin and walked purposefully down the grassy driveway towards the cottage. Plump purple wisteria bunches hung prettily over the front door. There was no answer when she knocked
but just as she was about to turn away disappointed, she remembered that this was Ben’s cottage, after all, and went around to the garden. Sure enough, there he was, digging hard among the raised vegetable beds.

  ‘Ben, hello!’ she called, walking towards him over the grass.

  He looked up, startled, and then smiled with evident pleasure to see her. He stood up and leant on his shovel. ‘Well, hello, yourself. What are you doing here?’

  She held up the cake tin. ‘Brought you something for tea! Do you fancy a cup and a piece of Janey’s lemon cake?’

  ‘You’re an angel in human form. I can’t think of anything I’d like more right now. Stay there – I’ll come to you.’

  Five minutes later, they were sitting at the kitchen table while the kettle on the range started to heat up with a sizzle and a hiss. Ben was cooling down from his exertions but he still had a glow of sweat on his nose and his hair was damp and rumpled.

  He really is quite good-looking, Delilah thought. She could see a resemblance to John in the shape of his eyes and the high bridge to his nose but he had such an open expression. It occurred to her that perhaps John might have looked like this if he hadn’t had so much pain in his life.

  Does Ben have a girlfriend? Surely he must. Not that it’s any of my business. I can hardly ask – it would seem very odd and nosy.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ Ben said, gazing at her keenly. ‘But what brought you over on a Sunday? I thought you’d be with John.’

  She felt her cheeks flush slightly. ‘Oh, he’s busy in the estate office. You know what he’s like.’

  Ben said slowly, ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘And I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Shoot.’ He turned his attention to the lemon cake, now on a plate, and cut two thick slices as Delilah spoke.

  ‘I had a letter from the pony club,’ she said. ‘They want to know if they can hold a gymkhana in the lower field.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Yes, it’s an annual thing – at least it was. I know John’s not too keen on letting them use the lower field as it sometimes doubles up as a cricket pitch and all those ponies can churn up the ground. But they could hold it over on the eastern side, if John agrees. We’ll need to give the Whitefield paddock a mow and a clear-up, but I reckon that will do them well enough. I don’t mind setting it up.’

  Delilah gave him a grateful smile. ‘That would be wonderful, Ben, thanks. I’ll use all my powers to persuade John. You’re a star. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  Ben shrugged and said, over-lightly, ‘It’s fine. I’m happy to help. John knows that.’

  She wondered why he said it in that tone, as though there was some resentment there, something she should know about. John had always seemed perfectly amiable towards his younger cousin although, now she considered it, he gave the impression of doing Ben a favour by letting him manage the Fort Stirling gardens. She said without thinking, ‘Ben, why do you look after the gardens at the house? Don’t you have enough to do with the farm?’

  He brightened at the mention of the gardens. ‘Ah, well – I just oversee the farm. I keep an eye on it and direct things when I’m needed, but otherwise I let them get on with it. I’m not really a farmer; I only do it because my dad can’t anymore. My real love is the gardens, so I prefer to spend my time there, doing what I really enjoy.’

  ‘Weeding?’ she said with a laugh.

  He laughed as well. ‘I couldn’t do all the weeding there, even if I wanted to. Erryl does a lot, and the other gardener who comes up to help from April to November. But I like to manage it, plan and control it. You’ve no idea of the satisfaction that comes with creating a wonderful garden – getting nature to do just as you want and making plants strong, healthy and beautiful.’

  ‘You’re right, I haven’t. It’s not my world at all. But I love the results. The gardens are so gorgeous. They feel like they have a restorative power, as though they can heal people.’

  Ben gave her an eager look. ‘Absolutely – that’s what I think too. Nature can heal. I’ve got a dream that one day we could open the gardens to people who really need them. We could offer ways for people with problems – like depression or addiction – to get in touch with nature. And there are kids who’ve only known concrete and inner cities all their lives – we could do some real good for them. If Fort Stirling were mine, that’s what I’d do.’

  Delilah stared back at him, touched by his passion and a little excited by his inspiration. That was exactly the kind of thing she thought the house had the potential for: its mighty size and grandeur could be channelled into something positive and life-affirming, rather than allowing it to dominate everything to no purpose. ‘Have you suggested that to John?’

  He gave her a sideways look as though uncertain what to say, then said tentatively, ‘John’s not exactly keen on allowing people in through the gates. He’d prefer to keep them out if he could.’

  ‘Yes – but I’m working on him.’

  A sympathetic expression crossed his face. ‘As long as he’s not working on you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, startled.

  ‘Oh . . .’ He looked away, a little shame-faced. ‘I don’t know. You came here so bright and happy in the winter. And now . . . well, you don’t seem the same, that’s all. You look a bit beaten somehow.’

  ‘Do I?’ She was astonished that he’d noticed.

  He looked back at her and his gaze seemed somehow more penetrating. ‘Yes. As though you’re finding it all a bit much. I think you’re a very good thing for John but I can’t help wondering if he’s such a good thing for you.’ He reddened slightly and looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m talking out of turn. I don’t mean to imply anything about John – I’ve nothing against him. I’m just worried about you.’

  It was most odd the way such a tiny amount of sympathy could affect her. She felt suddenly shaky and needy, on the brink of blurting out everything: the way John had changed and the pain he seemed to suffer, her misery at not getting pregnant, and the effect the house was having on her, grinding her down so that she felt a little smaller every day. If she told him, what would happen? She had a sudden longing for as much kindness as he could give her. When she spoke, her voice sounded reedy and trembling. ‘I’m doing my best. But it isn’t easy.’

  He nodded. ‘I bet you thought you’d be able to sort the place out, but the house isn’t a place that’s easily changed.’ A concerned expression crossed Ben’s face. ‘I admire you for taking it on, that’s for sure.’

  She felt a stinging behind her eyes and told herself to get a grip. The kettle began to whistle on the stove top and when Ben got up to make the tea she took the opportunity to regain control. To hide her emotions, she said loudly with a laugh, ‘I’m learning how eternal everything is. I can’t so much as rehang a curtain or move a photograph frame. You know that old folly? I told John we should do it up and repair it, and he nearly had a fit. He told me the whole place was bad luck.’

  Ben brought over the teapot and mugs. He was a good advertisement for gardening as a way of keeping fit, she thought as her eyes drifted over his strong physique. ‘Oh yes, the folly.’ He poured out the tea. ‘We used to play there when we were kids, but on pain of a hiding if we got caught. They boarded it up eventually and I think it was going to be knocked down. Then John got a letter from the heritage people saying the thing had been listed and he couldn’t touch it. I can’t say I’m fond of it myself. It’s kind of creepy.’

  ‘I know what you mean, but that’s because it’s such a wreck. I think it’s rather elegant and it could be amazing if it was restored.’

  Ben looked doubtful. ‘I can’t imagine what you’d do with it. It’s so odd – too small to be a house, not much use as anything at all.’

  ‘That was why it was a folly, I suppose. Something that cost a lot for little effect.’

  Ben passed her a mug of tea and pushed a plate with some cake on it towards her. ‘There were some r
umours about the old place.’

  ‘Really?’ She was interested. ‘What?’

  ‘Not very nice ones. Apparently there were a couple of deaths up there.’

  ‘Deaths? What do you mean? Accidents?’

  ‘No – suicides, I think. People jumping off. Goodbye, cruel world and all that.’

  ‘Suicides,’ echoed Delilah. ‘Do you know who?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No, sorry. Honestly, my parents didn’t talk about things like that to me. It was probably just rumour, or something that happened outside living memory. I shouldn’t think it’s been possible to climb high enough up the folly to jump for decades at least.’

  ‘But still,’ Delilah said, ‘it explains why there are bad connotations with it, doesn’t it?’

  She remembered John’s stormy expression and the fear she’d seen in his eyes as he looked at the old place. He implied that he’d come closer than most to plummeting off the folly. Perhaps that, coupled with the rumours of strange deaths, were what caused his intense dislike.

  ‘It’s a grim old thing. I can see why John doesn’t like it,’ Ben said, taking a big bite of lemon cake. ‘This cake is the business, by the way. You must tell Janey she’s a marvel.’

  She smiled. He looked so nice and normal munching away across the table from her. The kitchen, so much smaller than the vast flagged one at home, was cosy and comforting. She wondered what the rest of the cottage was like. Perhaps she and John would have been happier in a place like this, a home that was the right size for two.