Wickham Hall, Part 1

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Sorry, love,’ she said as she turned round and spotted me, her wide smile almost eclipsing her rosy cheeks. ‘I nearly covered you in roasted tomato soup. Oh, it’s you from reception this morning. I remember the lovely dress.’

  ‘Thank you. Again!’ I said, recognizing her as the waitress I’d met earlier. ‘Is Jenny through there?’

  The waitress jerked her head towards the kitchen. ‘Yes, love, you can’t miss her.’

  What was so unmissable about Jenny Plum? I wondered, edging my way cautiously through the swing doors. The kitchen was a huge space, although currently only about a quarter of it was in use. The high brick walls were painted white, stainless-steel worktops, huge ovens and hobs crowned with enormous extractor fans divided the room into three aisles and the only reminder of the room’s age was the row of leaded windows along one side.

  ‘Hello?’ I ventured to the team of three who were chopping, stirring and plating up in the area closest to the door. ‘I’m looking for Jenny.’

  A girl lifted a tray of mini tartlets from the oven, set them down carefully and smiled. She opened her mouth but before she could speak, someone else beat her to it.

  ‘Are those asparagus tarts ready, Rachel?’ A woman’s voice boomed from the other side of the room.

  ‘Yes, Chef!’ yelled the girl, scooping them from the baking sheet with a spatula.

  ‘That’s Jenny,’ she added in a softer voice. ‘Far corner.’

  I thanked her and walked towards the end aisle to locate the source of the voice and saw a woman partially obscured by a haze of white powder, towering over the worktop. She was very tall and had tendrils of purple hair escaping from her hair-net. She was completely impossible to miss.

  I began to approach her along the aisle and noticed a man in his mid-twenties, wearing skinny charcoal trousers and pointed shoes, leaning on his elbows over the workbench, where Jenny appeared to be wielding a teeny-tiny rolling pin.

  ‘Apparently the new girl has started,’ the man grumbled with undisguised animosity.

  ‘Oh, Andy; move on, mate!’ Jenny wagged her rolling pin at him. ‘Pippa must have had her reasons for choosing her.’

  Me. They were talking about me. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle and I stopped, rooted to the spot.

  ‘More icing sugar,’ Jenny demanded.

  Andy lifted a metal pot and doused whatever she was working on with a generous sprinkling of powdered sugar, filling the air with another white cloud.

  Now what do I do? I was still edging my way towards them and I didn’t know whether to walk away and pretend I hadn’t heard their conversation or fess up.

  ‘Sorry, Jenny, but it doesn’t make sense.’ He straightened up, leaned one hip against the counter, tightened his ponytail with a flick of his wrist and folded his arms. I couldn’t see his face but his body language and tone of voice oozed resentment. ‘I’m serious. I’ve got the experience, the flair, the communication skills . . . that job was rightfully mine.’

  ‘Only it obviously wasn’t, was it?’ Jenny chuckled, her narrow shoulders shaking with mirth.

  Oh, stuff it, I couldn’t stand here all day and it would be even more embarrassing if I got caught eavesdropping. I cleared my throat loudly and they both turned round.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, stepping in between them. ‘I’m Holly Swift.’

  Jenny and Andy exchanged glances before Jenny held out a sugar-coated hand.

  ‘Bit sticky, I’m afraid.’

  I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to her fingers or the awkward situation we found ourselves in but I shook her hand anyway.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said and turned to Andy, hoping he’d shake hands too.

  He tucked his hands into armpits and scowled.

  ‘That job was as good as promised to me,’ he sniffed.

  Jenny snorted with laughter. ‘You’re breaking my heart, sunshine, you really are. Now back to your shop and fold some posh blankets, why don’t you? Here you go,’ she said, placing something in his hand. ‘Take this marzipan lemon with you as a symbol of the bittersweet reality of life.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he muttered, and flounced out of the kitchen without a backwards glance.

  I let out a breath. ‘I don’t think he’s my number-one fan.’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’ Jenny pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry you had to hear that.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said nonchalantly. Although knowing Andy wasn’t exactly overjoyed at my presence was a bit of a disappointment; I tried to get on with everyone in life. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. I feel a bit bad for him, actually.’

  ‘Good for you. And don’t feel bad, chick, as I said to him: Pippa must have had her reasons.’

  I smiled my thanks and watched as Jenny turned her attention back to the edible work of art in front of us. She picked up the tiny rolling pin, rolled out some sort of icing and cut it into the shape of a unicorn’s head. Then lifting it carefully with a broad knife she laid it next to two others on top of a large round tart.

  ‘That looks incredible. What is it?’

  ‘This?’ She wiped her forearm across her face and smiled. ‘It’s a marchpane tart: an Elizabethan dessert, their version of marzipan basically. I just need to add the bling.’

  I watched as she peeled a glittering sheet of edible gold from a packet and carefully brushed a shield decorated with the three unicorns’ heads until it glimmered in the light. I was transfixed; Jenny made it look so easy. Brushing the top of a scone with beaten egg is probably my limit.

  ‘That’s the family crest, isn’t it?’ I whispered as she stroked the fine brush around a unicorn’s magical horn.

  ‘Yep. Next stately home I work at, I’m going to choose one with a simpler crest. Like a rainbow.’ She grinned.

  ‘How much is a slice of this going to set me back?’ I asked, thinking longingly about my lunch break. ‘I bet gold leaf doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s not for sale in the café.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘This is the centrepiece for a demo I’m doing for the Women’s Institute later on Elizabethan sugar banquets. I’m taking it over now – come with me if you like.’

  ‘Sure. Oh and can I take some pictures for the calendar while I’m here?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘For the calendar? Abso-bloomin-lutely! Wait here a mo.’

  I waited while she issued orders to her kitchen staff, tasted Rachel’s pastry and packed the marchpane tart into a cardboard box.

  ‘Can you manage these?’ she said, lifting three heavy cake boxes into my arms without waiting for an answer. ‘Let’s go.’

  The two of us left the kitchen via a door that led directly into the main part of Wickham Hall. We passed a group of foreign tourists taking photographs of the stained-glass panels in the hallway, directed an old lady who had got lost towards the exit and finally made our way up to the second floor.

  ‘Don’t you do your demo in the kitchen?’ I panted after ascending the final flight of steps whilst maintaining a careful grip on the tower of boxes in my arms.

  Jenny shook her head and flung open a door on the landing with a flourish. ‘Ta-dah! I use the Long Gallery.’

  I followed her in, set my boxes down on a small table and whistled.

  ‘Wow!’ I turned in a slow circle, taking in the glorious proportions of the room. ‘This is huge and very lovely!’

  There were tall windows all down one side to the room, each one furnished with a deep, cushioned window seat. The views were equally stunning; the Long Gallery was in the centre of the hall and looked out onto the impressive gravelled approach to Wickham Hall and the gatehouse at the far end of the drive. The opposite wall contained carefully sculpted alcoves in which sat shelves of artefacts protected from over-enthusiastic visitors by sheets of glass.

  Jenny took off her white hair-net and a tumble of ruler-straight purple hair fell to her shoulders. My eyes widened: I’d seen a few loose strands but en masse, her hair w
as quite a spectacle.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Jenny, dropping comically into curtsey. ‘Would Miss Holly care to take a turn about the room?’

  The two of us, arm-in-arm, must have looked quite a sight as we promenaded around the room: Jenny, a purple-topped bean pole, holding her apron to the side as if she was wearing a period gown, and me, barely reaching up to her shoulder, skipping along in my muddy shoes to keep up with her long stride.

  ‘I get my W.I. girls doing this. They love it, pretending to be Georgian ladies getting their daily exercise. And this,’ pronounced Jenny when we reached a long narrow table set with crockery and cutlery, ‘is where my sugar banquet will go once we’ve set out the chairs.’

  Pippa was right, I thought, as I helped Jenny set thirty chairs in rows for our lady visitors, this job was physically demanding. I probably wouldn’t need to go running so much now. This was a much more enjoyable way to keep fit.

  ‘Do you do the catering for all the events?’ I asked, flicking a stray thread from one of the gold brocade chairs.

  ‘Yep. We only have a small staff in for the café most days. But when there’s a big event, it’s all hands on deck.’ Jenny walked to the top of the room to collect the cake boxes. ‘Ever done any waitressing?’

  I nodded. ‘Silver service when I was at uni.’

  Jenny began setting up the sugar banquet while I took some shots of her pastries and biscuits.

  ‘We sometimes draft in extras at weekends if you’re interested? It’s a good laugh and a bit of extra cash. I’d love to have you on my team.’

  An unexpected lump appeared in my throat. I’d only been here a few hours and I already felt like I was starting to belong. Jim the security man, Marjorie, Nikki, Jenny . . . even Mrs Beckwith in a starchy way had made me feel at home. Andy . . . well, I might have to work on him, but the rest of them had been so welcoming.

  Living with Mum since uni had made me gradually more isolated and I tended to steer away from close friendships through embarrassment. I mean, I could hardly bring people home to Weaver’s Cottage, could I? But having a group of friendly colleagues who made my day brighter as soon as I walked into work would make a massive difference to my life.

  Jenny was looking at me quizzically and I realized she was waiting for an answer.

  ‘I might be a bit rusty, but yes, I’d love to,’ I said happily. ‘As long as I know well in advance.’

  Jenny settled the marchpane tart onto a cake stand at the centre of the buffet and stood back proudly to admire it while I snapped some more photographs.

  ‘Got family commitments, have you?’ She nodded knowingly.

  ‘No, no, but—’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ She winked and I felt my cheeks heat up.

  ‘Not that either. I just like to plan ahead, that’s all. You know. Put stuff in the diary,’ I said with a shrug.

  I took my diary with me everywhere, much to Esme’s amusement. It was one of those that showed you a week spread over two pages and I put everything in it. I could lay my hands on a list of all the summer holidays I’d ever been on, a list of what was number one in the charts on my birthday every year since I’d been born. And although she might mock the fact that I’ve recorded my weight ever since my eighteenth birthday, Esme did rely on me to remember all our friends’ birthdays, weddings, important anniversaries and forthcoming gigs and parties.

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll do my best and if you’re available, you let me know,’ said Jenny, chuckling to herself.

  ‘The marchpane looks great,’ I said brightly, feeling ridiculous for mentioning my diary. I showed her the image on the digital display and her eyes went all dreamy.

  ‘Food is a great way to learn about the past, and such an important part of what we do here at Wickham Hall.’ She sighed, looping her hair behind her ears and bending down to get a better look at the screen. ‘Anyone can open a stately home up to the public, but where’s the fun in looking at dusty old furniture and paintings of crinkly old men in tights? But I adore the history of food: learning about it. Cooking it, talking about it . . . It’s like a secret doorway into the past. And even if you only have a cuppa and a bun in the café, we try to make it memorable. Food is what sets Wickham Hall apart from its rivals.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said, eyeing up a dainty biscuit that was hanging over the edge of a plate. ‘Should I be your official taster, do you think?’ I looked at Jenny cheekily and pointed at the object of my desires.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Yeah, why not? That one’s called a prince bisket. And you can have it . . .’

  She watched as I bit into it and closed my eyes as the delicate flavour of rose filled my mouth. ‘Delicious!’

  ‘. . . as long as you put my marchpane tart on the front of your calendar.’

  My eyes popped open as a crumb made a quick getaway via my tonsils.

  ‘Well,’ I choked, banging my chest furiously, ‘I’ll certainly suggest it.’

  Along with Nikki’s blue poppies . . .

  ‘Hell’s angels!’ cried Jenny, looking at her watch. ‘I was supposed to take you to meet Andy at the gift shop half an hour ago.’

  ‘Andy?’ I grinned, brushing biscuit crumbs from my chin. ‘That should be interesting.’

  Chapter 5

  As it turned out, by the time I arrived at the gift shop, Andy had disappeared on his lunch break and I had the pleasure of a tour round the shop with the diminutive Edith Nibbs instead. Edith told me she had worked at Wickham Hall for fifty years, firstly as a cleaner, then as a tour guide and now she just did a couple of hours a day at the gift shop over lunchtime.

  ‘This has been my favourite job at the hall, so far,’ she said as she wrapped a large filigree hurricane lantern in tissue paper.

  So far. I stopped straightening a row of Wickham Hall china mugs so that the handles all faced the same way and smiled at her. How many more jobs was Edith planning to have before she retired?

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ she said, handing a lucky customer her bag filled with goodies. ‘Come back next week and we should have some more sunflower plants. Goodbye.’

  ‘The gift shop must be a lovely place to work,’ I said, leaning on the counter. ‘You sell some wonderful things.’

  ‘Yes, dear. It is such a treasure trove. Lady Fortescue does most of the buying; she has quite an eye for beauty. I have to restrict myself to buying one item a month,’ she confided, settling herself into a low chair behind the cash desk so that only the top of her white bun was visible.

  ‘I can imagine.’ My eyes widened as I fingered the price tag on a luxury wicker picnic hamper. ‘What are your best sellers, Edith?’

  ‘Christmas decorations fly off the shelves from November.’ She chuckled. ‘We can’t stock enough. But the rest of the year, I’d say the scented range over here, look.’

  Edith got to her feet and I followed her to a table in the centre of the shop. On it was an artfully arranged pyramid of bottles, candles and boxes, interspersed with pots of fragrant herbs.

  ‘This is beautifully displayed, Edith,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘All Andy’s work,’ she said, prodding a terracotta pot of something or other. ‘Needs a drop of water.’

  I raised an eyebrow. Andy was clearly a talented man under that sulky exterior.

  ‘We have this Wickham Hall range especially made in Stratford,’ Edith went on, handing me a tester bottle of rosemary and bergamot room spray. The slim glass bottle had an all-over delicate pattern on it and the label bore the Wickham Hall family crest. I squirted the spray into the shop and both of us inhaled.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ I exclaimed, replacing the bottle on the table and picking up a fat white candle from the same range.

  ‘Rosemary and bergamot would have been used in scent in Elizabethan times.’ Edith beamed and held up a reed diffuser for my inspection. ‘I like to think that this is the original aroma of Wickham Hall. Nothing evokes a treasured memory like smell, I always think.’


  ‘Very true.’ I nodded. ‘Like the smell of coconut oil on holiday, or cinnamon at Christmas.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I’d buy one of those for Mum’s birthday, I thought as I reached for the camera and began taking pictures. Perhaps if our cottage smelt of Wickham Hall, it might inspire her to tidy up a bit.

  The rest of the day flew by and after several satisfactory hours at Pippa’s desk piling the paperwork into some sort of order, I was amazed to find it was time to go home. Or rather time to go and see Esme, who had demanded a blow-by-blow account of my day.

  I reached the door of my office when the phone on Pippa’s desk rang.

  ‘Wickham Hall Events Department?’ I answered brightly, scouring her desk for something to write on and with.

  ‘Oh, Holly, I am so sorry to have left you in the lurch today,’ cried my boss. ‘Did someone look after you? Did you find things to do? You haven’t resigned already, have you?’

  ‘It was fine, Pippa,’ I soothed, casting an eye over her already vastly improved work space. I’d also erected a makeshift noticeboard on the wall with all the forthcoming events written on it and made a short list of some nice images for the Wickham Hall calendar. ‘I’ve had quite a productive day, in fact. Learning on my feet.’

  Literally, I mused, looking at my dirty shoes.

  ‘I knew I’d made the right decision choosing you,’ she said and sighed.

  ‘And I’m so glad you did,’ I said, settling back down on her office chair.

  ‘But your induction?’ she groaned, sounding so anguished that I could almost see her furrowed eyebrows. ‘I feel so guilty! Did you . . . have you heard about my . . .?’

  ‘Nikki mentioned that you had a family crisis,’ I said gently, helping her out. ‘Please. Don’t worry about me. Just do what you have to do.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m staying at my parents’ in Somerset for a few days with the children until . . . well. Anyway, feel free to call me whenever you like, I’ll give you my mobile number and if you have any questions—’