Wickham Hall, Part 1

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘I haven’t got long, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘And now I’ve forgotten the blasted thing,’ she added under her breath.

  I scampered along the corridor wondering where we were going and what the ‘blasted thing’ might be. ‘You mentioned introductions, Mrs Beckwith? Will I still be having an induction?’

  ‘Here we are.’ Mrs Beckwith barged through a door marked ‘private’. I followed her and found myself in a beautiful office twice the size of the events department.

  Although the hall was Elizabethan and the outside of the house remained virtually unchanged, a previous generation of Fortescues had redecorated most of the house in Georgian style in the eighteenth century. Not that I was an expert on history or anything, but I went to the local village school and Wickham Hall and the Fortescue family featured very highly on the syllabus.

  This room was light and elegant and very obviously Georgian: the walls were pale primrose-yellow, it was bordered with ornate plasterwork and a handsome chandelier graced the ceiling. All the furniture was of a warm golden wood, from the bookcases that lined one wall to the desks, chests of drawers and filing cabinets. Between two of the windows stood a tall china pedestal topped with the most lavish floral display I’d ever seen outside of a church. The office oozed order and calm and I felt my shoulders relax automatically.

  A second, interconnecting door stood open and the sound of voices wafted through.

  Mrs Beckwith pressed an urgent finger to her lips and bustled across to close the door.

  ‘Lord and Lady Fortescue are in a meeting with the bank,’ she explained in hushed tones. She darted behind a desk, bent down to open a drawer and retrieved a camera.

  I waited in the middle of the room, not daring to make a sound. Mrs Beckwith straightened up and spoke into a two-way radio.

  ‘Sheila to Nikki. Where are you? Over.’

  My lips twitched into a smile and I set myself a new challenge: I would earn the right to call her Sheila before Pippa came back.

  The radio crackled and hissed. ‘Nikki to Sheila. Chopping heads off on the terrace. Why? Over.’

  ‘On my way to you. Garden tour for a new starter. Over.’

  ‘Oh, for f—’

  She cut off the rest of Nikki’s message, clipped the radio to the waistband of her sensible skirt and caught me with my eyebrows raised.

  ‘Nikki Logan, our head gardener,’ she said dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about her. Bark’s worse than her bite. Just watch those secateurs. Let’s go and find her.’

  She handed me the camera for some reason and charged off. ‘Come along.’

  The two of us marched on again, not back towards the staff entrance, but to the end of the corridor and through a heavy wooden door. We emerged into a room that I recognized as being one of those open to the public.

  ‘Oh, I love this room,’ I whispered.

  It was large and square with deep red walls and was probably the size of our entire downstairs at Weaver’s Cottage. Despite its size it felt cosy and homely, as though it was a room that the family used once the crowds had gone for the day. It was furnished comfortably with occasional tables and squishy red armchairs arranged around a huge fireplace. A myriad of family photographs were dotted around the room, from posed Victorian sepia portraits right up to more recent informal shots of weddings, parties and holidays.

  Family photographs are like a giant jigsaw puzzle that defines your own life, I’ve always thought. Fit them together and the puzzle is solved.

  All we had in our sitting room were two framed snaps of Mum and me, buried somewhere in the depths of the alcove next to the fireplace, and a rather starchy shot of my grandparents’ wedding on the wall. There were a good few pieces missing from my puzzle, that was for sure . . .

  Mrs Beckwith was smiling at me, her eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘The Red Sitting Room? Me too. Have you been at Christmas?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘with my mother.’

  Mum and I always visited Wickham Hall at Christmas; it was one of our little traditions. We’d have mince pies and mulled wine in the café and then come into the hall to see the decorations. At Christmas, this room was even more cosy: decked out in garlands of ivy and mistletoe, the mantelpiece lined with candles, logs roaring away in the grate and a real Christmas tree tucked into the corner.

  And this year, I could come in here every day if the mood took me. I felt unbelievably fortunate all of a sudden and had to fight the urge to loop my arm through Mrs Beckwith’s and skip round the room.

  A lady in Wickham Hall tour guide uniform, her wispy white hair swept up into a bun, jumped down from a high stool near the door. ‘A new recruit, Sheila?’

  ‘Morning, Marjorie,’ Mrs Beckwith waved. ‘Yes, this is Holly Swift – Pippa’s new assistant.’ As I stepped forward to shake the old lady’s hand, she went on: ‘Marjorie is in charge of our team of tour guides.’

  ‘Hello, dear. Any time you want a special in-depth staff tour, you let me know,’ said Marjorie, tapping her nose. ‘I’ll show you all my favourite bits!’

  ‘I’m on the lookout for things to feature in the new calendar,’ I said, waving the camera about, ‘so I might take you up on that.’

  ‘Maybe after lunch,’ said Mrs Beckwith, steering me towards the French doors. ‘Garden tour next. Shame it’s such a rotten morning.’

  I peered through the glass: it was indeed a rotten morning, the clouds had darkened since I’d arrived and the drizzle had turned into fine rain. I could really do with that security man’s cagoule, I thought, pulling my cardigan tighter as Mrs Beckwith opened the door. Stepping out onto moss-covered flagstones on the very edge of a wide terrace, I spotted someone on the far side wearing a wide-brimmed leather hat, khaki knee-length shorts and hiking boots. He or she was snipping away at a riot of pink flowers that were tumbling from an urn on top of the stone balustrade.

  ‘I’ll leave you in our head gardener’s capable hands, Holly,’ Mrs Beckwith said, looping a golf umbrella over my arm and gesturing me to move forward. ‘Snap away with the camera this morning. It’s always interesting to see what catches the eye of a new member of the team. And we really do need to sort out the images for the calendar.’

  ‘Will do,’ I said happily. Aside from the weather, walking round Wickham Hall’s beautiful gardens photographing whatever took my fancy was a lovely way to start my morning.

  The person in the leather hat waved in response and watched me, hands on hips, as I unfurled the umbrella to protect both me and the camera. I made my way across the flagstones and joined her at the balustrade.

  ‘Oh, I love geraniums!’ I said, sniffing the flowers in the pot that she was in the process of dead-heading. I shook Nikki’s soily hand awkwardly by tucking the handle of the umbrella under my chin. ‘And the colour – almost luminous on a gloomy day. So cheering, aren’t they? Pleased to meet you, by the way. I’m Holly Swift, Pippa’s new assistant.’

  I wasn’t much of a gardener myself, but Mum sometimes had a flash of enthusiasm for it. Hence the pots at our front door. Geraniums were one of the few plants I actually recognized.

  Wickham Hall’s head gardener flashed me a look of exasperation.

  ‘Nikki Logan. And these are pelargoniums,’ she said, snipping at a dead stem with gusto.

  ‘Oh.’ I stood corrected. I leaned in closer, like I knew what I was looking at. ‘Similar, though.’

  ‘Only to the uninitiated.’

  Her bark is worse than her bite, I reminded myself.

  ‘That’s me to a tee.’ I laughed. ‘Totally uninitiated. I am, however, a quick learner and if you’ve got time to show me round, I’d like to take some pictures for next year’s calendar.’

  Nikki exhaled deeply, flicked a glance at my camera and seemed to relent. ‘All right. If it’s bold colour you’re after, step this way.’

  She dropped her secateurs into a trug heaped with faded greenery and dead flower heads and wiped her hands on her shorts.

  ‘Thank
you,’ I said, falling into step beside her. ‘My first major task is to work out what should go on the cover. Any suggestions welcome.’

  ‘And I thought I was busy,’ she murmured, rolling her eyes. But there was a hint of a humour in her voice and if that was Nikki’s form of olive branch, I would take it gladly.

  I prepared myself for another rapid stomp through the grounds but in complete contrast to Mrs Beckwith, Nikki led me slowly down the steps into the formal gardens. She examined each plant, reeling off its Latin name, and paused every few paces to pull the heads off dead lavender fronds or pluck out weeds.

  ‘It’s like housework but on a grander scale,’ said Nikki. ‘If you see a weed or a piece of debris you pick it up there and then. Leave it and the problem just gets bigger.’

  ‘True,’ I agreed, thinking of the decreasingly small amount of usable space in our living room.

  We continued along a wide border edged with some sort of low hedge. It was brimming with plants of every hue: hazy masses of sweet peas clung to twisted willow stakes, delicate roses were woven gracefully over metal arches and clumps of plants from grasses to thistly things (which I didn’t have a hope of identifying) filled every gap. Nikki, seemingly oblivious to the rain, continued to pull off leaves, fiddle with plant ties and tuck tendrils of stems around plant supports as we walked.

  ‘So,’ I said, determined to eke all the knowledge I could out of her while I had the chance, ‘can you tell me about a typical day in the gardens, Nikki?’

  ‘Ha, there is no typical day, that’s what I love—’

  At that moment my foot slipped on a wet leaf, I let out a squeal and grabbed onto Nikki’s cotton shirt as my right leg shot forward leaving my left one behind.

  ‘Ouch, oops, sorry!’

  Nikki whooped with laughter and yanked me up.

  ‘And there was me thinking I couldn’t do the splits,’ I snorted, rubbing the back of my thigh.

  ‘Word to the wise: keep some outdoor shoes at work – trainers, wellies, whatever. Those dainty little things won’t last five minutes,’ she said, shaking her head at my new white ballet flats.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said, pleased that my mishap seemed to have broken the ice. ‘I didn’t expect to be outside today; I’m supposed to be having an induction—’

  ‘Take a picture of this, Holly,’ said Nikki as we reached the exit to the formal gardens. ‘It’s a topiary elephant we’ve been working on for a couple of years. Can you see?’

  I snapped away while she explained that Lady Fortescue was a big fan of topiary and how Nikki had been training the new growth to form the trunk and how last year she had got fed up of visitors saying that it looked like a hippo.

  ‘And one last shot with you in it,’ I said, looking through the view finder.

  Nikki obliged, doffing her hat to reveal short, wiry, honey-coloured hair. She grinned up at the elephant while I took the picture.

  ‘Have you always worked at stately homes?’ I asked, following her along a gravel path towards a wooded area.

  ‘No. My last place was a millionaire’s mansion near Windsor Castle,’ she replied. ‘Completely tacky but the gardens were out of this world. Owned by Will Simpson, ex-musician with eighties band Role Play.’

  I nodded. ‘Haven’t they just done a reunion tour?’

  ‘Yep,’ she confirmed. ‘Twenty dates. Total sell-out. I went to four of them.’

  ‘Wow, you’re a big fan, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘A big fan.’

  ‘So why leave?’ I asked, stopping to take a picture of a rose that was growing wild over an old tree stump. ‘Sounds like your dream job.’

  ‘Circumstances change. Staying wasn’t really an option.’ She shrugged, directing me off the path and through the wet grass. My shoes began to collect grass stains to add to the streaks of mud, leaf mulch and watermarks. Wellies were a must as of tomorrow, I vowed.

  ‘Toughest decision I ever had to make. But luckily, the Fortescues’ old gardener retired and they remembered seeing my Chelsea show garden and called me up. That was five years ago. And I never regretted leaving Will – I mean, the Simpsons – it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t have come to a lovelier place,’ I said, detecting a note of sadness in her voice. ‘It must be so rewarding being able to show your gardens off to the public.’

  ‘It is. You’re right.’ Nikki grinned. ‘And it’s a great bunch of people.’

  Phew; happy face.

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I said. ‘Pippa seems lovely, although I only met her briefly, of course.’

  ‘She is lovely. This way.’ She pointed towards a clump of tall trees with wide trunks.

  We stepped underneath the canopy of branches and out of the rain and I lowered the umbrella.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry,’ I began tentatively, ‘but is Pippa OK?’

  ‘Not really.’ Nikki shook her head, jaw clamped tight. ‘She woke up on Saturday morning to discover that her husband had run off with the au pair.’

  ‘Poor Pippa; and those poor little children, too.’ I felt awful, remembering how warmly she had spoken of her family on Friday.

  Nikki nodded glumly.

  ‘Terrible behaviour from the girl. She was in Pippa’s home in a professional capacity. Married men should be off limits. No excuses. And as for him . . .’ Nikki’s lip curled. ‘Hopefully Pippa will be snipping the sleeves off all his suits as we speak. Anyway,’ she knelt down and beckoned me to do the same, indicating that the subject was closed, ‘you’re in luck, I wasn’t sure if we’d find any left. What do you think of these?’

  I followed her pointing finger. In amongst the grass were the most incredible blue poppies I’d ever seen. Their tissue-like petals were such an intense colour that they almost looked unreal.

  ‘These are magical,’ I breathed, lifting the camera to my eye. ‘A celestial blue.’

  ‘Fab, aren’t they?’ She chuckled. ‘They’re Himalayan poppies. I’ll never forget the first year I was here when I came to this spot and saw them for the first time. It was like finding hidden treasure. People travel from all over to see them.’

  I smiled to myself at the pride in her voice.

  In that case, I thought, I’d better take plenty of pictures of them while they were still here. Nikki left me to it while I took a variety of shots from different angles.

  I caught up with her fishing leaves out of the huge fountain that formed the start of the cascade leading down towards the deer park.

  ‘Do you look after all of this?’ I asked, eyeing up the acres and acres of land that surrounded us.

  She nodded. ‘I look after the formal gardens; the wild flower meadow; the walled kitchen gardens, which grow stuff for the café; the maze; the polytunnels and the greenhouses, of course. I grow plants for the house and a few for the gift shop . . . In short, I look after anything that doesn’t have a cow, a horse or a deer on it.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s a lot of responsibility for one person.’

  ‘Over the years, this place has become my life.’ She dropped a handful of soggy leaves on the ground and plunged her hand back into the water. ‘My family, too, I suppose. And I have staff, of course, and a brilliant team of volunteers. I’m planting out this afternoon, but I can spare you another half an hour if you want a whistle-stop tour.’

  I glanced at her surreptitiously as she wiped her hands on her shorts. Mrs Beckwith was right: under that prickly exterior was a big loyal heart and I had a feeling that despite me knowing nothing about gardening, she and I could be friends.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that very much,’ I replied.

  As promised, the Coach House Café came back into view thirty minutes later. I was sure we must have walked miles around the estate and I was ready for a cuppa, not to mention a change of shoes. Luckily the rain had stopped for us, a chink of blue had opened up between the clouds and the grass was already beginning to steam in the sunshine
.

  ‘I loved your tour,’ I said to Nikki as we entered the courtyard. ‘I’ve been round the gardens loads of times on my own, but I’ve just wandered around, blithely unaware of all the planning and detail that goes in to getting the most out of every plant. That perfumed walkway in the sunken gardens, for example. Really clever.’

  ‘An appreciative audience.’ Nikki beamed. ‘You can come again.’

  And just being outdoors had given me such a sense of well-being. Maybe Mum and I should try to get outside more, lose some of the tension that builds up when we’re inside . . .

  ‘You’ll find Jenny Plum in the kitchens.’ Nikki put her hand on my shoulder and steered me towards the café. ‘Through that entrance, look for the swing doors marked “staff only” and she’ll be in there somewhere. You can’t miss her.’

  ‘OK, and thanks again, Nikki, you’ve really inspired me.’

  ‘Great! That’s why visitors come to Wickham Hall.’ Nikki nodded enthusiastically. ‘The gardens are by far the most important part of the experience. They want inspiration, to see things they might like to try at home. That’s why the Himalayan poppies are so important.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ I agreed.

  ‘I think that’s a good enough reason to put them on the cover of next year’s calendar, don’t you? See ya!’ She waved her fingers and then strolled off, hands in her pockets.

  The vivid blue flowers would make a striking front cover, I thought, scrolling through the images on the camera. What a brilliant idea – and it would win me some Brownie points with my new friend. Double whammy! I smiled to myself as I pushed open the doors to the café. Lord Fortescue was going to be very pleased with me.

  Chapter 4

  The irresistible aroma of fresh baking inside the Coach House Café made my mouth water. I’d always loved it in here: the simple farmhouse-style interior was welcoming and inviting, the staff friendly and the food heavenly. Today it was buzzing with customers enjoying tea and cakes amongst other delicious goodies, and the sounds of clinking cutlery and the buzz of conversation filled the warm and slightly humid air. I left my umbrella in a stand by the door, made my way to the swing doors marked ‘staff only’ and immediately jumped back as a waitress emerged backwards, carrying a plate in either hand.