by Taylor, Lulu
She sat in the summer house, looking out at the lushness of the garden in full bloom. Perhaps it was a good thing there was the gymkhana next weekend. If John could see what pleasure this place could bring people, and that peace and quiet would always return in the end, perhaps he would be more positive about her idea for clothes exhibitions and doing teas for people visiting the garden.
Not that she had dared tell him about those plans. Ever since Susie’s visit, he’d become distant again, brushing away her attempts to apologise and acting as though she wasn’t even there most of the time. Even telling him about the gymkhana had failed to get his attention. He’d just said grimly that as she’d gone ahead without consulting him, there was not much he could do about it, and it had added to the icy atmosphere between them.
Susie’s thank you email had ended with: Tell me you haven’t burnt those wonderful clothes! I will never forgive you if you have!
Delilah was torn. On the one hand, she didn’t see how she would be able to consign all those beautiful things, the only real tangible link John had left with his mother, to the flames – not only because of their intrinsic value but because if he ever regretted his decision, there would be no undoing it. But she also didn’t want to be drawn into a conspiracy of disobedience with Susie. Those things belonged to John and she had no right to go against his wishes.
She put her laptop to sleep and went out to find Erryl who was mending a bit of fallen stone wall, and asked him when he usually lit a garden fire.
‘Bonfire season is the autumn with all the leaves to get rid of,’ Erryl said, stretching his back and shoulders as he straightened up. ‘There don’t tend to be many in the summer unless there’s a party. Mr Stirling used to have an annual summer get-together for his birthday and it was a proper knees-up. We’d have a fire then.’
‘Did he?’ Of course, she thought, his birthday’s in August. Perfect for an outdoor party.
‘Oh, yes. People would bring tents and pitch them in the big field and there’d be a bonfire set up there. But the day would start down here at the house and end with a big barbecue, before they went up to the field for the bonfire – dancing, music . . . right into the night it went.’
‘It sounds fun. When was this?’
‘During Mr Stirling’s first marriage.’ Erryl looked at her askance, evidently embarrassed. ‘Sorry, ma’am. That’s how it was, though.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t mind. I’m interested! Did they end when Vanna left?’
‘No, they went on for a few more years. But gradually they got smaller. Then Mr Stirling stopped bothering.’
Delilah thought for a moment and then said, ‘But Janey said you’d only been here a few years. How do you know?’
Erryl laughed shyly. ‘Ah – Janey’s only been here a few years. I’ve been here longer. I was in the lodge as a bachelor for twenty years if you must know, since the old lord was living in the big house.’
‘Then . . .’ A thought occurred to her, bringing a tremor of excitement with it. She said eagerly, ‘Did you know Alex – I mean, John’s mother?’
‘No, no. She was before my time. But I could sense that she was gone, if you know what I mean.’ He shook his head. ‘It was all terrible, raw, even though she’d been gone years. The old lord used to drink a lot, if you’ll excuse me saying, and I knew exactly why he did it: he was drowning his sorrows. I’ve seen it before. There’s those that drink because they can’t stop, and those that drink to forget. He was one of the forgetters.’
‘So you don’t know what happened to Lady Northmoor? How she died?’
Erryl shook his head again. ‘Whatever it was, it was a bad business. That much I do know. I never knew a place or a man so sad.’
Erryl had solved the problem of the clothes, for now at least. There was no way to burn them. With no bonfires until the autumn, how could she? She wasn’t exactly going against John’s wishes, but still, she knew she ought to put the trunk somewhere safe. She didn’t want John to stumble on it somehow, become enraged and do something rash. But where?
Come on, she said to herself. This is a house with over a hundred rooms! I should be able to find somewhere to put a trunk.
In the still of the afternoon, she decided to go to bits of the house she’d not yet become familiar with. She knew the downstairs fairly well – the grand hall, the state reception rooms that were left untouched most of the time except by cleaners, and the library and the salons. Despite the tour she’d had when she first arrived, she knew very little about the rest of the house except for the main bedrooms and the attics. Over the back of the building were the servants’ bedrooms, little white-painted rooms still with iron bedsteads and shabby old furniture, and over the east wing was the old nursery floor. She found herself going there first, opening the old oak door that shut it firmly off from the grown-up part of house, so that there was a definite divide between the civilised adults and the children, as though they were in training for the time when they would be allowed to cross that divide and behave appropriately on the other side.
The nursery wing had evidently not been altered for many years, and its layout was reminiscent of an Edwardian attitude to childrearing. There was a bedroom that was probably meant for Nanny, a large and imposing room with flowered wallpaper and pictures on the walls of country landscapes and flowers. Two smaller bedrooms, bare but with religious tracts hanging on the walls, were most likely meant for nursery maids. And then a bathroom and a small nursery kitchen where meals could be prepared without the need for bothering the cook downstairs, who was no doubt run ragged preparing those extraordinary dinner parties Delilah had read about in the visitors’ book. The little kitchen was a period piece in itself, with pantry cupboards, an iron sink and an ancient cooker with two gas rings and a small oven. Delilah resisted the urge to look in the cupboards and moved on.
Next was the night nursery: a large room with two beds in it, two armchairs in front of a fireplace and a bookcase with some children’s books still in it. Bedside tables with lamps on top, chests of drawers and a wardrobe completed the room.
Delilah gazed around, imagining John up here as a boy, tucked into one of those beds, falling asleep as the fire flickered and Nanny sat in one of the armchairs mending holes in socks. Would that have been how it was? Would he have felt safe and secure up here, so far from his parents, a tiny island of smallness in this vast house? And how would Alex have felt, with her son shut away behind that thick heavy door?
She could picture Alex walking through the door and into the nursery, her face bright with the anticipation of seeing John. ‘Hello, Nanny,’ she’d say, ‘is my boy around?’ and John would come racing into her arms. This part of the house was probably the warmest and most welcoming of all. Perhaps Alex spent as much time here as she could, away from the huge cold state rooms below, luxuriating in the cosiness of the nursery and the pleasure of being close to John.
But then she left him . . .
The cosiness she’d imagined vanished and she was standing in the cold gloom once more. Would the nursery ever come alive again? she wondered. Would a child of hers ever play up here, or snuggle down under blankets with the curtains pulled tight against the night outside? It felt odd, almost painful, to imagine it. The place seemed to intensify her sense of emptiness within as well as without. She left it quickly.
Next door was the day nursery. A playroom, estate agents would call it now. It was large and light with windows that looked out over the park, and a huge rocking horse stood by the windows, his legs stretched out in a gallop but his real horsehair mane lying flat against his painted neck. Bookshelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling on either side of the fireplace, still full of books – worn paperbacks and hardbacks of all kinds. There was a big cupboard at the back of the room where she assumed that toys had been stored, so she walked over and opened it. She expected to see mountains of vintage toys but was startled to find that it was empty, its broad shelves bare but for lining paper, some
desiccated moth corpses and the occasional dead fly lying on its back with bent legs.
Where are all the toys? she wondered.
Perhaps they’d been taken to the attics. But how strange to leave the books and the rocking horse and everything else, and take the toys away.
Then it occurred to her that this cupboard would be the perfect place to put the trunk of Alex’s clothes. It would be a tight fit but it should just be able to slide beneath the bottom shelf and sit there snugly until needed. She was pleased. She’d found an excellent hiding place – not hiding, that sounded too deceitful – a storage place for the trunk which meant that John would not be distressed by accidentally stumbling on it. The question now was how she would get the trunk here. It was hardly something she could do on her own and she couldn’t ask John. It felt wrong to get Erryl to participate in something that was in effect going against his master’s orders.
There was only one person she could ask.
‘I’m delighted to help. Where do you want me?’ Ben smiled at her keenly, washing his hands in the kitchen sink. The water churned and bubbled around his large square palms.
Delilah gave him a grateful look. ‘Thanks so much, you’re very kind. I don’t want to drag you away from your irrigation masterpiece for long. I just need some help taking an old trunk up from one of the guest rooms to the nursery. It’s easier than the attics and we might need the guest room.’
‘Really?’ Ben looked surprised. There were plenty of guest rooms in usable condition.
‘That is – I’m thinking of redecorating it. So I don’t want it turned into a store room as well.’
He shrugged. ‘Fair enough. Lead on.’
They went into the main house together and she led the way to the white and gold room where the trunk had been left since Susie’s visit.
‘You’re right, it could do with a freshen up,’ Ben said, wrinkling his nose in distaste as they went in. ‘I bet you’d make it brilliant, though.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, feeling a little uncomfortable about her lie. She would have to embark on cleaning it now, just to feel at ease with her conscience. ‘The trunk’s all closed up. We only have to carry it over to the east wing.’
‘No problemo.’ Ben marched over, stretched his arms wide to grasp a handle on either side and picked up the whole trunk by himself. His biceps bulged with the effort.
‘I was going to take one side,’ Delilah exclaimed, laughing. ‘You’re not supposed to do it all.’
‘It’s fine. Just tell me where to take it.’
She led him along the main corridor. He staggered slightly with the awkwardness of holding the trunk but the weight was obviously no problem and he followed her through the oak door and into the nursery wing.
‘I remember this bit of the house,’ he said as they entered. ‘I got sent up here to play a few times with my sisters. We didn’t like it much. There was nothing to play with.’
‘Do you mean in here?’ Delilah opened the door to the day nursery where the horse was still frozen mid-gallop, his wooden teeth clamped down over his brass bit.
‘Yep.’ Ben followed her in. ‘Where do you want this?’
‘Over here.’ She went over to the cupboard and opened the door. ‘I thought it could sit nicely under this shelf.’
He settled the trunk down with evident relief and pushed it backwards under the shelf. When he’d pushed it back as far as it would go, it was still proud of the shelf which meant that the door wouldn’t shut.
‘Oh, it doesn’t fit,’ Delilah said, disappointed. She’d thought the space was perfect.
‘Hold on. It doesn’t fit because there’s something stopping it from reaching the back wall. Let’s see.’ Ben pulled the trunk out again, got down on his knees and bent over so that he could peer under the shelf. ‘Here we are. I was right. There’s something there.’
He reached out a long arm and pulled out an object. Delilah saw a flash of pink and cream and gold.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘A doll,’ he said, holding it up. ‘A Barbie doll, by the look of it.’
‘Is it Barbie?’ Delilah asked, frowning. ‘It looks more like a Sindy. She’s got a round face and rather a sweet look.’
‘Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid.’ Ben shrugged apologetically. ‘You’ll know more than me.’
She took the doll from him and inspected it. It was a classic pink plastic figure, with a mass of dusty gold nylon hair, painted round eyes and a rosy pout, cheeks that had been slightly greyed with dirt, and limbs that moved at the shoulders and hips but nowhere else. This one was supposed to be a ballet dancer, as she wore a shiny pink leotard and a netting tutu with streamers of dust on it, and on her feet were moulded ballet slippers that could not be taken off.
‘I wonder what it was doing there,’ Delilah said. ‘Would someone have given John a toy like this?’
‘Doubt it. He got bikes and Meccano, I should think. I don’t think he was the kind of boy to want dolls.’
‘No.’ She frowned, turning the doll over as she examined it. ‘I don’t either. But this doll is too new to belong to the generation before, isn’t it? I mean – she’s relatively new. When were Barbies made? Or Sindys, come to that?’
‘Dunno. The fifties? The sixties?’
A thought occurred to her. ‘But could it belong to one of your sisters? You said you used to play up here.’
Ben nodded, his expression thoughtful. ‘That’s right. I suppose it’s possible. But I don’t remember either of them having a ballerina doll like that. My parents were terrible old fogeys. The girls got rag dolls and handmade dolls’ houses and that sort of thing. They didn’t much like plastic. But it’s possible. It could have been a gift.’
‘Yes,’ Delilah said. ‘That would explain it.’
‘I’ll ask the girls when I think of it. We speak on the phone occasionally but they’re both so busy with their London lives, they don’t visit much.’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ She turned her attention from the doll. ‘Shall we see if the trunk fits now?’
Ben pushed it back and it slid nicely into place, exactly filling the available space.
‘Thanks so much, Ben, I really appreciate it,’ she said happily. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’
She looked down and caught an expression of tenderness on his face. ‘You’re very welcome,’ he said softly, and she smiled back. They were so comfortable together.
‘Shall we go downstairs?’
‘Sure.’ He got to his feet. ‘I need to get back to work.’
They headed back towards the main part of the house, Delilah still clutching the doll in her hand. She would put her somewhere safe, and then do some research.
Chapter Nineteen
1965
Sandy and his friends stayed for almost a week and the night before their promised departure, there was another party. In fact, Alexandra thought with exhaustion, there seemed to have been endless little parties since they’d arrived. The easy rhythm of her life with Nicky had changed into one of extremely late nights and days that began at lunchtime with groans and demands for strong coffee. By late afternoon people had recovered sufficiently to begin again, perhaps with a tour of the cellars to select the wines for that evening. Then Patsy would begin making her cocktails and someone else would start the gramophone up or tune the radio to whatever station they could pick up from abroad, searching for decent music to listen to. After that, they were on their way to another drunken evening of smoking and dancing until the early hours.
But she found it kept her mind off the darkness swirling at the back of it, and all the pain she was stubbornly trying to ignore. Late nights, glasses of wine and, afterwards, the warmth and comfort of Nicky’s arms helped her to disconnect from the disruptive, disturbing voices in her head.
Mrs Spencer, who had not so far shown much interest in Alexandra and only treated her with the minimum of politeness, took her aside to say, ‘Miss
Crewe, can you please tell his lordship that all these late nights are not fair on the staff? Without a regular dinner hour, they don’t know whether they’re coming or going, and his friends are asking for anything they fancy whenever they feel like it! Last night, one of the young men woke up Tilly and told her to make him a sandwich – and it was after midnight! We can’t be expected to put up with that.’
‘No, Mrs Spencer. I will certainly tell him how you all feel,’ she said dutifully, and obediently relayed the news to Nicky who looked a little shamefaced.
‘The guys don’t understand,’ he said, ‘they think it’s like some kind of hotel. I’ll explain. But they’re leaving tomorrow. This will be our last big night, and then we’ll all recuperate for a bit.’
Alexandra knew that while she’d welcomed the life that had been breathed into the house, she wouldn’t be sorry to have Nicky to herself again so that they could settle into their old routine. Perhaps she could even open her heart to him about what she was suffering. She was sure that he had no idea. She’d succeeded in making him believe that the revelation about her mother’s death was something she had simply accepted and fled away, just as she’d managed to pretend that she didn’t care much about her father’s rejection. She hoped she would be able to keep it that way, and eventually it would all become as easy to bear as she made it look.
The last night party followed the familiar pattern, except that Nicky had decreed a big dinner in the dining room with the family silver brought out to give the art crowd a little taste of how things were done at the fort on special occasions. The table gleamed in the light from curved silver candelabra and the crystal sparkled as the cellar’s best wines were poured into it.
‘This is impressive, Nicky, old man,’ Sandy said, taking a gulp of his claret. ‘You’ve treated us very well, hasn’t he, chaps?’
