Chapter Three
We’ve been at Craighorn Hall less than two hours and already it looks like we’ve moved in for good, which may end up being the case if it keeps snowing. Only Marley would choose a wedding venue down a rutted farm track in rural Scotland, in winter, with the closest airport two hours away. Romantic? Yes, if you find the yellow AA vans that will have to tow us out of here romantic.
I have to admit, though, it is a spectacular house. It looks like its Laird just popped out for a fag in the garden. The eighteenth-century grey stone façade blends against the equally grey, snow-laden sky. Stags’ heads and ancestors’ portraits dot the twenty-foot-high deep red walls in the grand entry hall. The energy-saving bulbs (in a house this big, I don’t blame them) cast a gentle yellow light from ornate golden wall sconces. There’s a twisting burled oak staircase entwined with deep green fir boughs that I know Marley’s already spotted for the family wedding photos. It’s covered with more suitcases than Imelda Marcos would have needed for her shoes, but that’s because my family isn’t known for its restraint. Dad travels like he’s on tour.
‘Isn’t this something?’ he says, curling his arm around my shoulder. ‘I could get used to living like this.’
‘I couldn’t,’ I say. ‘Does Scotland even have 3G? My BlackBerry hasn’t worked since we left the airport. I’m going to have to climb on the roof to get any reception.’
‘You should buy a castle, Dad!’ teases Marley.
‘As long as there’s WiFi.’
They both ignore me. ‘Think of the music room you could have here,’ she says.
His eyes sparkle at the prospect. Compared to this place, he’s judged his little recording studio at the back of the garden and found it wanting. Not that it’s not perfectly functional and has, after all, let him make a good living.
Dad’s a wonderful musician. What started with a guitar lashed to his backpack during his gap year turned into a lifelong passion. And the piano lessons his parents made him take throughout childhood stood him in good stead when he came back to London with Mum. They met while travelling in Australia and were in love before you could say outback. They rented rooms above a pub in Balham, whose owner let Dad compose on the upright when the pub was shut. He also bartended there when it was open, and has always credited the start of his career to Uncle Steve, the roly-poly publican who taught Marley and me to curse like stevedores.
Uncle Steve won’t be here this weekend. He’s home with his real family, watching crap Boxing Day telly and eating leftover turkey. As we should be. But no, instead we’re reconstructing a Victorian family Christmas with people I don’t even like.
Uncle Frank is staring at my tits. I don’t take this personally, since he stares at everyone’s tits. Except his daughters’. He started ogling mine on my eighteenth birthday, proving that he’s pervy but no paedo.
‘Hi, Uncle Frank,’ I say, briefly drawing his eyes to my face. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas, Carol,’ he says, patting my arm. Thankfully, he’s an arm-patter rather than a long-hugger.
‘Happy Christmas, darling!’ Auntie Lou cries, flinging her plump self into my arms. I do love my Auntie Lou, though she drives Mum crazy because she’s such a bubble-brain. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? It’s like living on the set of Downton Abbey! I imagine Patti Smith walking in any minute.’
‘You mean Maggie Smith,’ Mum says, rolling her eyes at her sister.
‘Oh, do I?’ She shrugs, unperturbed at having mistaken the godmother of punk for the Academy Award-winning septuagenarian. I imagine Dame Maggie with a Mohican. ‘Oh well, I feel like royalty!’ She turns to my cousins, who’ve been standing quietly together in the middle of the hall. ‘Come along, girls. Let’s get settled into our rooms.’
My five cousins follow their mother up the stairs. Though I’ve known them all my life, I’m still not sure which one is which. They aren’t quintuplets. They’re just insipid – the blancmange of our family. I’m sure they all have Auntie Lou’s sweet disposition but I can never get any of them alone to find out. They won’t be separated, preferring to move together like a shoal of very boring fish.
‘Look at them go, like fat little ducklings!’ Granny pipes up from her chair. Mum rushes to her mother, perhaps in the hope of keeping the words from reaching the stairs. Not a chance. Granny’s legs may no longer work but there’s nothing wrong with her voice. I cringe a bit when the cousin at the back of the queue turns to look at us. Her expression is one of polite interest.
The doctors say Granny hasn’t got dementia, so there’s no medical reason for her outbursts. They’ve been honed from decades of practice. Mum finds her terribly embarrassing but I think she’s fantastic. You always know where you stand with Granny.
‘Shall we take a turn around the place?’ I suggest, positioning myself behind the chair. The heels of my new boots, made of the loveliest butter-yellow leather you’ll ever see, click on the burnished wood floor. I’d take them off but I’m a little bit in love with them.
‘Drive on, sir!’ she says.
I wheel her through to a jaw-dropping parlour dominated by an enormous shaggy Christmas tree strung with white fairy lights. Steeply arched beams soar above our heads, suspending the blue and white painted panelled ceiling. More ancestors watch us from the same deep red walls as in the entry hall. A fire crackles in the sandstone hearth and the muted silk striped chairs and brocade sofas make me want to throw myself on them for a nap. ‘Well, Lord and Lady Muck certainly know how to live, eh?’ she says. ‘Our entire house could fit in this room.’
‘I know, Granny, and there’s plenty more.’ We explore the rest of the house – the library and several more grand reception rooms, a dining room big enough to host the United Nations, and kitchens that even Gordon Ramsey would find intimidating. At least we don’t have to do the cooking. The house is fully staffed, overseen by a stout lady called Mrs Campbell. She’s already spooked the cousins by asking if they’ll want baths. Her tone implied that this is a great extravagance that wouldn’t be tolerated if it weren’t Christmas. She looks like the type who’d bathe in the ice-crusted river outside.
‘How much is all this costing?’ Granny wants to know.
I mumble something vague, hoping she’ll let it drop. I don’t want to keep secrets from her, but Dad’s not keen to let it get around. He’s always been uncomfortable about his family’s wealth. Besides, except for the wedding money, none of it has ever come our way. Our family budget has always relied on his music. He did all right when we were growing up, playing live gigs and recording with some of the greatest jazz musicians around. Then he composed a little ditty that’s become the most popular ringtone in the world. Every time it sounds off during a play or in the quiet carriage on the train, in a cinema or at the library, there’s my dad to thank.
And we’ve got Granny Colbert to thank for our stay in this stately home. I remember her as a warm, friendly lady who laughed a lot. Who knew she also had the cunning of a fox?
Dad’s always wanted to make his own way, much to Granny Colbert’s dismay. That’s why he and Mum lived over Uncle Steve’s pub instead of in my grandparents’ town flat in Knightsbridge. He always politely refused when they offered things like down payments or school fees. Granny Colbert hated not being able to give us some of her money, but she finally got her way after she died. Most of the estate went to Aunt Margaret – Granny Colbert knew if she left it to Dad he’d just donate it to the Dalai Lama or something. But she also created the Wedding Fund for Marley and me, and she stitched Dad up with the T&Cs. The money in the fund, said the solicitor who handled Granny Colbert’s estate, could only be spent on our weddings. Anything that wasn’t spent would be donated to the Conservative Party. My grandparents weren’t even particularly right-leaning but Granny Colbert knew that Dad definitely wasn’t. He’d spend every penny rather than fund the Tories. Every time I thought of my grandmother I had to tip my hat to her elegant solution.
Bac
k in the hall I hear my cousin Jemima before I see her. Her childish, squeaky voice has all the charm of a car alarm.
‘Carol, hello! Isn’t this lovely? Have you been here long? I’ve only just arrived,’ she says, as if I’d never gather that from the layer of snow covering her coat or the case she’s wheeling.
When I tell her where everyone’s rooms are she hurries off to see the cousins. For some reason she likes them.
Jemima is my Dad’s sister’s daughter, beneficiary of the bulk of Granny Colbert’s estate. The only good thing about Jemima’s presence is that it’s not compounded by her mother’s. Aunt Margaret has been in India for the past week testing the patience of the swamis at a yoga retreat. I bet they’d like to drown her in her chai tea by now.
Marley and Jez make their first appearance at dinner, and take their places beside one another at the head of the long, wide table. They’ve been holed up in her room all day, probably shagging the life out of each other to make up for the fact that they’re being banished to separate beds until the wedding night.
We only fill about a quarter of the enormous table, which is laid with a baffling array of cutlery and sparkling crystal, and lit with silver candelabra. The waitresses float silently about their business, feeding us all as we try not to feel too uncomfortable about re-enacting Upstairs, Downstairs.
Everyone is dressed smartly for dinner. My sage-green tea dress even manages to give me a few curves and Marley is gorgeous in the winter-white wool baby-doll dress we found. I was touched when she asked me to plan her trousseau, as Granny calls it. ‘Clothes are your life,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of anyone better to be my stylist.’ In the midst of such a beautiful sentiment, something about her statement niggled, but I set it to one side. Then I spent a fortune from the Wedding Fund to make sure every outfit would be perfect.
The cousins are whispering to each other while Uncle Frank tries to imagine what Marley looks like without her top on. Every so often Granny barks at Auntie Lou, who can’t stop fussing over her. Mum’s obsessing about the wedding preparations and Dad’s giving Jez a slightly embellished version of the time he met Mick Jagger. To hear him tell it, you’d think Mick ought to be walking Marley down the aisle.
Jemima is seated next to me, doing her best to remind me why I dislike her so. Every dish served sends her off. ‘Eeww, cow’s milk,’ she says when the waitress sets our mozzarella salads before us. ‘Do you know how bad cow’s milk is for you?’
‘I think this is buffalo mozzarella,’ I point out, shovelling a big forkful in just to vex her. ‘So it’s not cow. It’s buffalo.’
‘Even worse,’ she squeaks. ‘Because of all the sugar in it, or, erm, something else… it begins with an “E”. Wait, I know! Oestrogen.’
I don’t point out that that’s an O.
Her eyes are saucers. We’ve both got the Colbert brown eyes, blonde hair and tall lanky frame, but that’s where the resemblance ends. ‘People with cancer shouldn’t eat it because of the sugar. Or oestrogen or something. It’s for baby cows, not people.’
I set my fork down. ‘So should we also not eat honey because it’s for bees?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that, but I bet Mummy would know. I’ll try to remember to ask her. I don’t eat dairy anyway, since I became a vegan. I also try to stay away from wheat,’ she says piously. Saint Jemima the Wheat-Free.
‘But isn’t that butter you’ve got there… on your bread?’
She looks at the plate like it’s just spoken to her. ‘Oh, well, I try not to have too much of it.’
‘So you’re a little bit vegan?’ Like being a little bit pregnant.
‘I’m mostly vegan. Except when I eat butter.’ She nods.
Marley’s been listening to me bait Jemima. I shoot her a look for seating us next to each other. She just shrugs. I know why she’s done it. It’s because of Robert. Make one little mistake with the best man and suddenly you’re demoted in the seating plan.
Once the waitresses clear the main course, Jez taps his wine glass with his knife. ‘Can I have your attention, please?’ He smiles his usual open smile but I can hear the nerves in his voice. I’d be nervous, too, if I was about to make the biggest commitment of my life. I’m glad he’s doing it with my big sister. ‘We just want to thank you all for being here to make this weekend so special. We’ll do all the official thank yous tomorrow night at the rehearsal dinner, but I want to say how grateful I am that you’ve taken me into your family with such warmth.’
He gets up and makes his way to my parents. Mum is out of her chair before he’s taken two steps and launches herself into his arms. Dad’s not far behind. ‘We love you, son,’ says Dad, welling up. He’s always been a crier.
‘And Carol,’ Marley says when Jez gets back to his seat, having been crushed by Colberts. ‘We want to thank you too. Like Jez says, the official thanks will come tomorrow, but this couldn’t wait.’ She hands me an envelope.
‘A massage?’ I ask, reading the contents.
‘Won’t that be wonderful?! There’s a spa on the grounds, just in the gatehouse at the front. It’s all booked for you for noon tomorrow. We wanted to do something nice for you to get ready for the wedding. This will relax you. Won’t it be fun?’
I nod, but I know my sister. This isn’t a gift for me. It’s for her. She’s trying to massage me into submission.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve never had a massage before.’ Spending money on a flaky experience instead of something that will last makes no sense, but I won’t hurt Marley’s feelings. ‘Can’t wait...’ I raise my glass. ‘To Marley and Jez!’
‘To everyone we love!’ Marley says. ‘Which reminds me. Guess who’s coming tomorrow? The Rendalls!’
I feel my face drain of colour. ‘I… I thought they couldn’t come?’ I shoot a look at my sister, who is the picture of innocence.
Then I notice everyone staring at me with their glasses still raised. ‘To everyone we love,’ I echo.
Glasses clink along the table. Then Granny says, ‘To Joel, for having us all here!’
‘To Joel!’ We chorus.
Dad smiles. ‘Actually, we should raise a glass to Granny Colbert. It’s thanks to her that we’re all here together–’
‘And all expenses paid in a ruddy big mansion too!’ interrupts Granny. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
Chapter Four
I’m not begrudging the Rendalls an invitation. They probably changed our nappies as often as our parents did, and love us like their own. They’re Mum and Dad’s best friends and one-floor-up neighbours from the old pub days. They’re also parents to the one person in the world I’ve ever been madly in love with.
Skate and I were best friends growing up. With the pub sitting in the middle of the busy high street, we didn’t have any other children as neighbours. And Marley didn’t want her little sister tagging along everywhere with her, so Skate and I were friends by default as much as by choice.
Father Christmas gave him his skateboard when we were eight and he tumbled off that thing more often than Lindsey Lohan has fallen off the wagon. He was only allowed to ride it when fully padded-out and wearing a helmet, which completely ruined his street cred. Not that we had much to begin with. Other kids could tempt friends home with Wendy houses in their gardens or conservatories full of games. We only had cheap lager in the basement. Nobody was impressed that I could tap a keg, least of all my classmates’ parents.
Once Skate learned to ride, his nickname was a lot less fun to use (he no longer cried at the irony), but by then it had stuck.
Then, when I was fifteen, Mum and Dad bought the house and for the first time I faced the prospect of being further than a stairwell away from my best friend. I agonised over our move, even writing my one and only, squirmingly sentimental poem, which he solemnly read when I gave it to him.
We stayed at the same school after the move, so at least we saw each other then. But we were changing and the childish things that bonded us no longer s
eemed so important. Skate started liking girls and with his easy-going nature and burgeoning good looks, finding willing dates wasn’t hard. I was slower to bloom, not really attracting any meaningful attention to speak of.
Skate went to the University of Sheffield and I was a few hours away at Cambridge. About a month into the term he came to visit for the weekend. I didn’t think anything of it until I showed him through the door to my room.
‘It’s nice,’ he said, taking in my dismal attempts to cheer a room that had slightly less warmth than a maximum security prison cell. ‘You’ve always been a minimalist.’
We stood looking at each other. Then he glanced at the bed. I did too. Why was he looking at the bed? Had he seen me do it too? Was he wondering the same thing?
He broke the tension that had suddenly swelled in the cramped room. ‘Want to go to the pub?’
‘Definitely,’ I said.
It didn’t take long to find our rhythm again. And by rhythm I mean our ability to take the mickey out of each other. He gave me plenty to work with – he was studying ecology.
‘How long till you start wearing hemp clothes and growing your dreads?’ I asked when we were several pints into the evening.
‘At least I don’t think engineering is interesting.’
‘You know it’s environmental engineering.’
‘It’s still engineering.’
‘You’ve always had hippy tendencies.’
‘And you’ve always been a geek, yet somehow we make it work.’ He raised his glass to mine. ‘It’s great to see you, Carol. There are some nice kids at uni but it’s not the same.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Nothing beats old friends. We don’t have to explain ourselves. You get me and I get you. I love that.’
Later, we were very drunk. It didn’t dull the awkwardness when we got back to my room, though. There was my single bed again, still posing its question. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t have a blow-up mattress or anything.’
Christmas at the Falling-Down Guesthouse Page 11
