‘Why?’
‘That chapter’s closed, son.’
‘Yeah? Well I say we reopen it.’
His father got up from the chair, dropping the magazine and stalking out of the room.
‘Where are you going?’ Laurence asked.
‘For a walk.’
‘It’s dark.’
‘I need to get some air.’
Laurence watched as Marcus grabbed his coat, put his boots on and left the flat. It wasn’t the response he’d hoped for but, then again, he should have expected it. His father had been running away from things ever since Laurence’s mother had died, but he’d have to stop sooner or later, and that might as well be in Sussex.
Going into the kitchen to make himself some dinner, Laurence again thought back to that childhood home in the Ridwell Valley – to the cottage whose windows seemed to be permanently open during the summer months, to his father out mowing the lawn and his mother pegging washing on the line. Was he a fool to think that he could recapture some of that perfection? Was his father right? Should you never try to go back?
But something in Laurence was rebelling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt genuine excitement and that was a rather sorry thing to admit, wasn’t it? The colour had been slowly seeping out of his life and he was anxious to get some of it back.
He picked up the magazine, looking at the friendly golden facade of Orley Court nestled in the ancient wooded valley in which he’d once played. How he longed to go back there. He’d never wanted anything more in his life, he realised, and he was going to make it happen.
The estate agents had organised an open weekend for Orley Court, arranging viewings back to back. The family were advised to stay away from home, but decided that they wanted to keep an eye on things and spent the two days camped out in the morning room which overlooked the front lawn, so they could see each and every one of the prospective buyers arriving. The room was dual aspect, which meant they could watch anyone wandering through the south garden too.
‘Ooooh, I don’t like the look of her,’ Jassy said as the first viewer arrived.
‘Did she just snip off that flower head?’ Dolly asked later on that morning. She’d taken position at the window overlooking the south garden, her beady eyes watching every single viewer’s every single move. Though she’d made her feelings about the idea of selling very clear, she wasn’t going to miss out on spying on any potential new owners.
‘Oh, no,’ Jassy said sometime after lunch. She was still looking out of the front window. ‘A family’s just arrived. We don’t want young children running around making noise, do we?’
‘Or men on their own,’ Grandma Dolly said. ‘Always suspicious!’
Tilda sighed. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where?’ her mother asked.
‘Just for a walk.’
‘I don’t think you’re meant to mingle.’
‘I won’t mingle, Mum. I just need to walk about a bit.’
As Tilda left the room, she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d found the atmosphere in the morning room stifling, and yet felt she had to be there because the whole idea of selling had been hers and she would have felt traitorous had she left her family to it.
Pausing on the landing as the estate agent welcomed a couple into the hallway, Tilda turned around and headed for a side door. Although only a portion of the house was for sale, the estate agent had asked permission for the viewers to walk around the south garden so that they could see the property from there and get excited about what they were buying into. This meant that Tilda was very likely to run into some of them at some point, but she was doing her best not to.
Leaving from one of the less frequented doors into the garden, she crossed the gravel path and walked across the south lawn which led to the fields beyond. She could escape there, even if it was just for a few minutes.
The drive down from London was like travelling back in time for Laurence. All the familiar names greeted him. Lamberhurst, Maplehurst, Ticehurst. But they weren’t his ‘hurst’. He was looking for the turn-off for Elhurst. And there it was. The country road off the main road. He slowed his speed and took in the wide main street that ran through the village. There was the baker’s that used to make the most mouth-watering doughnuts, and the newsagent’s where he’d once been a paper boy. There was the great stone memorial commemorating the local men who’d given their lives in the First World War, and there was the parish church perched up on the hill, its squat tower topped with a fabulous spire. The village gardens weren’t looking their best on this wintery morning but, come summer, they would be frothing with flowers.
Laurence slowed the car further still at a junction turning into a lane that dipped deep into the valley, between the church and a row of pretty cottages. He couldn’t resist winding his window down despite the coldness. There was something about the quality of the air here – perhaps due to the proximity to the sea. How he’d missed it. There was nothing like this in London, he thought, not in all the grand parks or along the famous river. Nothing could compare to the sweetness of the Sussex Weald.
‘Should be getting close,’ he said to himself, remembering the lane from childhood bike rides.
The first thing he spotted were the chimneys rising high above the bare hedges, which were yet to grow their spring plumage. There were at least a dozen stacks in fine red brick, proclaiming that the original owners of the manor had been rich enough to afford a good many fireplaces. Little glimpses of the rest of the building could be seen through the silhouettes of winter trees which crowded the fields. Then, as he rounded a corner, the whole house came into view. Orley Court. It was just as lovely as he remembered, with the beautiful mullioned windows and the warm local stone of the Weald. Could he really afford to live here? It still amazed him that he might just be able to.
Suddenly, he felt a sad twinge of regret that his father hadn’t wanted to accompany him.
‘You’ve made your mind up already about this,’ Marcus had said. ‘You don’t need me with you.’
‘I’d still like you to come,’ Laurence responded, but his father had picked up his book and pretended to read.
Now, following the sign to the parking, he wished he’d been more forceful. Maybe that’s what his father needed – to be told what to do.
Laurence shook his head. No, that wasn’t the way forward, was it? He’d just have to be patient and hope that his father would come round and see that returning to Sussex was a great idea.
After locking his car, Laurence walked back into the lane and round the great yew hedge which framed the front garden at Orley. There were quite a number of people walking around. He’d been told that it was an open viewing, but he’d secretly hoped that it wouldn’t be popular. Maybe these were just nosy parkers who wanted to snoop and who weren’t actually interested in making an offer. Still, he couldn’t help feeling threatened by their presence. Part of him wanted to swat them away and tell them that this was his future home and they should go and find somewhere else.
He shook his head. He shouldn’t get so excited about things. Orley Court was not his yet and might never be, not if there were several good offers for it and the owners got to choose which lucky bidder they accepted. All he could do was hope.
He followed the signpost which read Viewings this way, taking a moment to look around. An undulating field with a scattering of white sheep greeted him. It was a peaceful country lane and he remembered cycling down it a number of times as a boy with his friends, off out on a day’s adventure. He wondered if he could perhaps buy a bike now or if that would be ridiculous. They say you never forget how to ride one, but he’d certainly forgotten how to make time for one. He grinned as a sudden image of his work colleagues entered his mind. The only bikes they rode were in a gym. They wouldn’t dream of riding one in order to get to a real place.
He turned back towards the house. The long yew hedge gave way to a gateway flanked by pale stone pillars, from where Laur
ence got his first wonderful view of the front of Orley Court. How beautiful it was with its pale gold stone and its inviting arched doorway. He remembered how the front was a riot of wisteria in springtime and smothered with red roses in summer. Today, some scarlet berries were doing their best to colour the stone.
Checking his watch, he saw that he was on time and so walked through the gate and entered the porch. The great wooden door was open and he didn’t have to wait long until he was greeted by the estate agent and his tour began.
Of course, the house was everything he’d hoped for and more, and he knew he had to live there. The rooms were numerous, spacious and full of character, and each window framed one of the gardens and the landscape beyond to perfection.
The estate agent was horribly official. There were no cute stories about the house that an owner might impart. None of the quirks were pointed out. It was just: ‘And here’s the kitchen . . . This is the largest bedroom.’ That was all. So, when Laurence spotted a young woman in the grounds after his official tour, he couldn’t help but stop her. She looked like someone who actually lived at Orley rather than another prospective buyer, he thought.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
‘Are you lost?’ the woman asked. She was tall and slim with long blonde hair, which was blowing out behind her in the cold wind. She was wearing a waxed jacket and a pink scarf and looked absolutely frozen.
‘No, I’m not lost. Are you the owner?’
‘The daughter of the owner. Why?’
‘I’ve just been viewing the property,’ he explained. ‘I’m thinking about buying it.’
‘Oh.’ Her tone was flat, he couldn’t help noticing, as if she didn’t approve of him considering buying it. But maybe he was reading too much into things.
‘I was wondering if you might tell me a bit about it,’ he said hesitantly. ‘You know – like what it’s like living here.’
She looked completely baffled. ‘You have the brochure? I can get you a copy if you don’t.’
‘I have my brochure,’ he said, tapping his bag, ‘but that’s just the facts, isn’t it? What I’d love to know is what it’s like living in a seventeenth-century manor. I mean, what is it really like? How does it make you feel when you walk around the gardens and look back at the house and know you’re living in a little bit of history? It must be incredible! And coming home on a winter’s evening and lighting one of the fireplaces, knowing that it’s been used to warm people up for almost four hundred years – is that the most amazing thing? Do you feel truly connected to the past?’
The young woman still had a puzzled expression on her face. ‘I think you’ve just answered your own questions,’ she said.
Laurence laughed. ‘I suppose I have.’
‘But, yes, it is a rather special place.’ She turned to look at the great house. ‘I remember sitting by the fireplace in the drawing room on cold winter evenings, listening to Grandma telling us about the history of Orley. There were so many names and dates from the past. It was hard to believe that these distant strangers had anything to do with us living here now, because it’s always just been our home. I guess you take the place you grow up in for granted, but I’ve always been aware of how beautiful it is and how lucky I am.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure you have.’
They looked at each other for a moment.
‘Well, I’d better get—’ she began.
‘Perhaps you can show me the garden? Tell me something about it that’s not in the brochure?’ he said with what he hoped was a winning smile.
‘Well, I—’
‘I’d really appreciate it.’
She seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Okay then.’
‘I’m Laurence, by the way. Laurence Sturridge.’ He held out his hand to shake.
‘Tilda Jacobs.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’d love to see the walled garden.’
‘That’s not actually part of the sale,’ Tilda told him.
‘I’d still love to see it. I mean, if that would be okay.’
‘I don’t think that would be fair on the other viewers.’
Laurence leaned a little closer to her. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
Tilda gave him a quizzical look and he couldn’t help noticing how blue her eyes were. Like forget-me-nots.
‘I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm,’ she said at last, leading the way.
‘I was thinking about the house,’ Laurence said as they walked down the brick path. ‘It’s quite small to be called a court, isn’t it?’
‘Part of the west wing was lost to fire back in the twenties, so what you see today is only some of the original building.’
‘I see. That’s a shame.’
‘It belonged to some dignitary from Jacobean times and would have been even grander.’
‘You see, the estate agent told me nothing about all this.’
‘Well, there are a lot of people to show around today.’
‘No doubt,’ Laurence said. ‘When did you decide to sell?’
‘It was a recent decision.’
He noticed Tilda’s voice was neutral, but he was sure he could see a touch of regret in her expression.
‘And you’re sure the oast house isn’t part of the deal?’ Laurence said as they walked by it. ‘It’s really amazing.’
‘Definitely not. It’s in constant use by my sister.’
‘Really? She lives there?’
‘Kind of. She sleeps there and uses it as a studio. She’s an artist.’
‘I’d love to see some of her work.’
Tilda shook her head. ‘It’s not for public consumption.’
‘Now I want to see it even more.’
Tilda stopped suddenly and Laurence almost crashed into her. ‘I agreed to show you the walled garden.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s all.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t handling this very well, was he? ‘It’s just I’m really interested in this place. I grew up in Elhurst.’
Something in her face softened at this admission. ‘Did you?’
‘I left after university. Moved to London. Never stopped missing it, though. I loved it here.’
‘I can’t imagine living anywhere else,’ she said.
‘Nor can I now.’ He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very insecure. ‘I really want this to work out.’
Tilda’s blue eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘And you’re hoping that this little chat of ours will mean I put in a good word for you?’
He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t object. I mean, if you wanted to do that.’
‘The final decision won’t be mine, I’m afraid,’ Tilda said as she opened a paint-cracked wooden gate into the walled garden. ‘This is it.’
Laurence looked around at the enormous space with its weathered red-brick walls and neat gravel pathways. There was a scattering of fruit trees in a grassy orchard and some beaten-up obelisks, but the soil was bare bar a few leeks and winter greens.
‘It’s not looking its best, I’m afraid,’ Tilda said.
‘I think it’s marvellous. But this is what I’ve come for,’ he said, nodding back towards the house, its fine chimneys and tile-hung portion on the north side showing splendidly. From here, you could see just how snugly it sat in the valley, like a teacup in a saucer, he thought.
‘I remember this view from one of the fetes you held here in the summer.’
Tilda’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘You came to those?’
‘Never missed one,’ he said.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I haven’t thought about them in years.’
‘You don’t hold the fetes anymore?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘They kind of fizzled out when—’
‘When what?’
She shook her head. ‘They just fizzled out.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘You should start them up again. They were a real highlight of
the village year.’
He watched as Tilda shoved her hands in her pockets and looked down at the ground.
‘I’d better get back,’ she said.
Laurence frowned. Had he said something to upset her or had she just grown bored?
‘Well, look, thank you for showing me around,’ he said. ‘It’s really kind of you.’
‘You can get to the car park through that gate,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to walk all the way back to the house.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Give it a good shove. It swells in the winter and we had to shut it so people wouldn’t come in through the walled garden, which isn’t meant to be part of the viewing.’
He nodded. She knew how to put a person in their place.
‘Thanks again,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
She nodded and turned to go, her shoulders hunched against the cold.
When Laurence made it back to his car, he let out a loud groan. What had he been thinking? He’d been too pushy by far. He’d seen how awkward she’d felt about showing him around and answering his questions, and yet he’d gone and pressed it anyway. His enthusiasm would probably do him no favours when he put his offer to the estate agent later. His joy at being back at Elhurst had got the better of him and he’d made a fool of himself.
Driving out into the lane towards the village, he glanced wistfully back, taking in the beauty of the building and its setting amidst the gentle fields. It would probably be the last time he saw it and he only had himself to blame.
Tilda had walked straight back to the house after leaving Laurence, dodging an elderly couple who were viewing the gardens and who, in her opinion, would never cope with a winter at Orley.
Her mother greeted her as soon as she entered the morning room. Tilda shed her coat and scarf and made her way towards the radiator. Grandma Dolly was nodding off in a chair by the south window and there was no sign of Jassy, who’d probably locked herself away in the oast house to paint, having got bored of watching the endless stream of prospective buyers.
‘You’ve been gone a while,’ her mother said.
‘I met one of the viewers in the garden,’ Tilda said.
Love in an English Garden Page 3
