by Gil McNeil
She pauses for us all to acknowledge she has called me “Molly.”
“No, they’d be self-catering. That’s one of advantages of rentals: more income and a lot less work.”
“Well that’s a blessing because we’re busy enough with the B-and-B guests, and some of them are never happy. I had to get Dennis to have a word with one of them last year, didn’t I Dennis?”
“Yes, thought he could wander down at half past eleven and click his fingers for a full cooked breakfast. I soon set him straight. Now then, the water tanks are in the next room—they got replaced about twenty years ago I think, so they should last a bit longer. If everyone runs a bath at the same time, the pipes sometimes bang. But apart from that, they should be alright.”
“Are we nearly done up here, because I’ve got pastry to roll out, and you don’t want to be worrying her sick, Dennis. Just a quick tour round is all we said, not you worrying her out of her wits.”
“She’ll want the full picture.”
“Yes, but she’ll also want her lunch, is all I’m saying.”
I’ve noticed they do this quite often, talk about me as if I’m not there. I’m taking it as a good sign, that I feel familiar to them now—either that or it’s like parents talking about a child, making sure she’s not getting up to any mischief.
“This is pretty.”
There’s an old chest of drawers in the corner of the last bedroom, in faded pine. It’s dusty, but I bet with a bit of polish it would be lovely.
Ivy nods.
“There’s some nice trunks too. You should have a look through them, full of old clothes, things from years back, when they used to have grand parties here. Helena never went in for any of that. She used to say she had enough of it in the navy, what with Mr. Bertie being an Admiral and them having to go to all the big dinners in London. But her mother used to entertain.”
“Yes, she used to tell me about the parties. They sounded very glamorous.”
“Her grandmother danced with the Prince of Wales you know, at a ball in London. You should have a look at some of the frocks, evening things, some of them must have taken days to make, beautiful embroidery and beads. The keys are all in the jar in the pantry.”
Ivy and I have been trying to gradually sort through the huge jar and reunite miscellaneous keys with various locks around the house and then write labels. Ivy very much approves of this, and has made Dennis put up a pegboard with a series of hooks so we can proudly display our new orderly system.
“I’d love to, once we find the keys.”
“Some of those old clothes can be valuable, you know. Good job they’ve been in the trunks, stop the mice getting at them.”
Dennis tuts.
“Tell me off for worrying her and then you start on about mice. Don’t you worry, it’s just a few field mice. They come in each winter, but I put the bait down and that soon sorts them out. And they don’t tend to open trunks, not as a general rule. Now then, there’s just one bathroom up here, hasn’t been used for years, so I wouldn’t try the taps if I were you.”
“Okey doke.”
Oh God. Something else for my list.
By the time we’ve finished the complete tour, with a break for lunch, it’s starting to get dark and I definitely need a drink. With broken sash cords, sagging shutters, damp plaster, chimneys which don’t draw properly in an east wind, and haven’t done since the War, cracked tiles, wobbly floorboards, ancient electrics, and antique plumbing, it’s a wonder the place is still standing. And that’s before I get to the B&B bathrooms, with their faded floral wallpaper and stained ceilings from old leaks. They’re tidy enough, but basic, so getting them looking a bit more respectable has got to be a top priority too. Helena only did B&B during the summer months, but we’ll need to do better than that if we’re going to make enough money to keep everything going. I can do most of the decorating myself, and Dennis knows all the local builders, so that will give me the expert guidance I’ll need before I start on anything which could bring the entire ceiling down. And if I can afford to sort out the gatehouse, that will make a huge difference; it’s tiny, but it could be lovely, and as a holiday let it would bring in loads more than the B&B. Helena refused to have inspectors from the guidebooks and tourist schemes visit, so it’s all been very much word-of-mouth so far, with regulars rebooking and only the occasional new guest. I’m not going to rush into making any big changes straightaway, not until I’ve done some more research, but there’s definitely lots of potential. And a huge amount to do.
But I’m still feeling a glimmer of excitement in amongst all the blind panic as I walk down to the cove to retrieve Bertie and the boys. At least Bertie isn’t firing the bloody cannon today; I’ve already broken two cups and a plate due to unexpected cannoning. It might only fire blank powder, but it still makes a hell of a racket. He’s solemnly promised to never show the boys how the stupid thing works, and Dennis keeps the powder locked safely away, so that’s something. But I’d still like to find a way to push it off the clifftop.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“Look, I’ve found another pebble with a hole in it. Look, right in the middle.”
“That’s a good one, let’s take it back up to the house and you can put it on your shelf.”
Ben and Dan are collecting driftwood for the bonfire I’ve promised we can have for New Year’s Eve, supervised by Bertie, who has firm views on the correct way to arrange a bonfire.
“Put the tarpaulin back on, there’s a good chap. Got to keep it dry, storm brewing tonight, if I’m not mistaken. Hello my dear. Getting quite a collection now, and there’s a few branches drying in the stables, so we can use those too, get a proper blaze going. Fancy a snifter, keep out the cold?”
He offers me his flask.
“No thanks Bertie, it’s teatime, and it’s getting cold. We should be getting back inside.”
“Right you are. Stand to boys, we’ve got new orders.”
We walk back up to the house, with the boys racing ahead.
“How did the tour go? Dennis show you everything, did he? Got your bearings?”
“I think so.”
“One day at a time my dear, that’s the ticket. Great big place like this, always something needs doing. It will drive you demented if you let it. It’s survived this long, and I daresay it’ll last us all out. Don’t let it overwhelm you. Helena wouldn’t have wanted that. Old Dennis is a good chap, but he does fuss. Gets it from Ivy. We’ll muddle along somehow, won’t we?”
“Of course we will.”
“That’s the ticket. Been meaning to say, those boys of yours are quite a tonic. Full of energy. Having a grand time building our fire—you wait and see—quite looking forward to it. Might send old Dennis off for some fireworks, make a proper occasion of it.”
Great. More explosions.
It’s the day after Boxing Day, and I’m sitting by the fire having a peaceful half hour. Christmas Eve was lovely, if exhausting, and Mum and Dad came to tea, which I was slightly worried about because Ivy and Mum have been competing about the perfect recipe for mince pies, so they’d both made a special batch and Mum brought some of hers, and had pulled out all the stops with puff pastry and lattice tops, with Ivy making shortcrust ones with pastry leaves on top, and it all got a bit tense, until they declared a draw, and then had a lovely time bonding over the vagaries of cooking on AGAs. Thank God Ivy made the Christmas cake months ago or they’d probably still be banging on about recipes for that too.
I finally solved the issue of what to get Ivy and Dennis for Christmas by promising to buy Ivy a new washing machine in the New Year sales—not the most thrilling of gifts, but the one they’ve got in their cottage could have made an interesting feature on Antiques Roadshow before it stopped working altogether a few months ago. She’s been putting all her washing in a wheelie shopping basket and bringing it up to the house, and then trundling it back down the drive still half-damp so she can iron it. Ivy’s go
t very definite views on ironing. She’s got her eye on some terrifying-looking steam-ironing contraption for the house which apparently makes light work of sheets. She’s been leaving me brochures and leaflets in strategic places, so I’m going to have to sort one of those too while I’m splashing out in the January sales. Although I might try to find one that doesn’t look like you could steam-iron your own arm between two giant rollers if you weren’t very careful. But the prize for the most successful present ever has to go to the ride-along lawn mower we got for Dennis; I thought he might burst into tears. I was pretty close to tears myself when I saw the price, but he’s too old to be pushing the old petrol one around. It weighs a ton, and anyway it’s half-broken, according to Bertie. It was Bertie who came up with the idea: one of the old codgers at the naval club was selling it, and he arranged for the delivery and everything. Dennis took it out for a few test runs in the meadow on Christmas morning and was completely thrilled. Even Bertie had a go—which, to be frank, I could have done without—with bloody Betty perched on his shoulder so he looked like a mad gardening pirate. I must remind Dennis to make sure the key is well hidden from the boys, or Alfie will be trying to go to school on it.
Pete came down yesterday, as promised, and was pretty grumpy. They’re staying with Janice’s mother, who lives near Salisbury, so he only had a couple of hours’ drive, but I don’t think he enjoyed Christmas surrounded by Janice’s relatives. Not that his lunch with us was entirely successful either. Ivy insisted on doing her best “Miss Molly” routine, and was practically curtsying when she served lunch in the dining room, which she insisted on doing, using the best china, while Bertie told him all about the Battle of Jutland, for some reason best known to himself, and Betty told everyone to bugger off and gave Pete increasingly malevolent glances.
Dan is sitting by the fire reading, looking a bit smaller and younger than before Pete’s visit.
“I’m sorry Dad had to leave so early yesterday, but it was nice to see him, wasn’t it? Nice he drove all this way just to see you at Christmas.”
“He’s a total twat Mum.”
“Dan!”
“Well, he is.”
“Dan, that’s not fair, he drove all that way, just to see the three of you. And he’d brought you all such lovely presents.”
Beautifully wrapped presents in fact, carefully chosen from the list I gave him of the games and films and books that I knew they wanted. As far as I know, Pete has never organised or wrapped a present for any of the boys in his life, so I’m guessing my list was handed straight to Janice. Some things don’t change.
“Chill out Mum. Seriously, it’s no big deal. Can I have an orange?”
“Yes, as long as you put all the peel in the fire and don’t just leave it lying on the table. And I think you’re being very unfair, he loves all of you very much. And it can’t have been easy coming here and putting up with Betty. But he did it, because he loves you.”
There’s a small smile as he reaches for his orange. I think it’s vital I don’t criticise Pete, a bit like a parental Maginot Line, which come to think of it was so effective the Germans just went round the back, so maybe less of the Maginot and more of the Maternal. A safety zone, so they feel there’s an unbreachable border between them and chaos. There’s nothing like seeing your parents have descended into one long slanging match to make kids feel like now might be a good time to go completely off the rails. I saw it so often at school, and I’m determined we maintain the united moral high ground, still minding about manners and homework, even if one of you has buggered off, and is, as Dan says, a total twat. It’s the small things which add up, like school uniforms. We spent hours banging on about uniforms at my old school, but if we hadn’t endlessly insisted shirts were tucked in and ties done up, some of them would have turned up in the kind of outfits more usually seen in the red-light district of Berlin. And not just the girls. Why Mrs. Trent thought Cabaret was a good idea for the school play is still beyond me. Gareth Finch tried to wear eyeliner pretty much permanently after his debut performance. I had to keep a packet of makeup remover pads in my desk just for him. Still, at least it increased his interest in the Weimar Republic, and he did get top marks in the exams.
“Is there any Christmas cake left Mum?”
“I think so. Bring me a slice too would you love?”
Dan’s discovered a new passion for Christmas cake, once he found out Ivy puts a fair bit of brandy in it.
“A cup of tea would be nice too.”
“What did your last servant die of?”
“Being cheeky.”
I’m looking at the book on roses which Dennis and Ivy gave me for Christmas. I think Dennis is hoping I might discover a dormant horticultural passion, although knowing my luck it’ll be a passion for parrots inherited from the Bertie end of the family gene pool. If I had a choice, I’d definitely prefer roses. The pictures are beautiful, but there does seem to be a great deal more to the wonderful world of roses than you’d ever imagine. I’ve already found myself accidentally triggering quite a few rounds of baffling garden chat with Dennis about Helena’s hatred of modern hybrids, so I sit by the fire and try to concentrate. Maybe I should write myself notes. There are so many different varieties, all with different-shaped flowers; rosettes and quartered rosettes; rounded, flat, or cupped, all the descriptions are lovely, and I’m sure I can smell the various scents. Apricot, fading to cream, with a true rose fragrance. Tones of peach and coral, with a fruity fragrance, good repeat flowering. Ooh, I like the look of the one called Marie Louise, a gorgeous pink rose raised in Empress Josephine’s gardens at Malmaison. I’m daydreaming about gathering up rose petals which fill the house with perfume as they dry, when Dan comes in with a tray.
“Ben says Alfie’s fallen in the sea again collecting pebbles, so he’s sopping wet, and Uncle Bertie says can you send down some dry clothes for him. Or you could just leave it, which gets my vote, because Alfie does it on purpose, you know he does. He’s such a total knob.”
It looks like the rose petals may have to wait.
CHAPTER THREE
If I Had a Hammer
January to March
Cabbage Roses
With loose full flowers and beautiful satin petals in tones of pink, violet, lavender, and deep purple, these roses date back to the sixteenth century and are also known as centifolia or Provence roses. Strong and hardy, they have a rich range of alluring fragrances with hints of pear and apple, peach and vanilla. Understandably popular in cottage gardens, they were widely grown, and notable varieties include Cottage Maid, with its masses of creamy-white flowers with pink veining; The Bishop, with its deep-purple-and-lilac flowers which fade to violet; and Napoleon’s Hat, a clear-bright-pink rose with a spiced, rich fragrance.
“Happy New Year darling, I’ve brought fizz. And presents.”
Lola is draped in scarves and wearing the kind of stunning white coat that no woman with children would ever dream of buying.
“How was the drive?”
“Great, once I got over the arctic landscape. I was half expecting to spot a bloody polar bear. Why is it so cold?”
“Because it’s winter?”
“It’s not this bad in town.”
“That’ll be all those central heating systems pumping out heat. We don’t really go in for that down here. Well, not in this house anyway. You did bring your thermals, didn’t you?”
“Yes darling, I even brought a hat, although I’m seriously hoping I won’t have to sleep in it.”
“I lit a fire in your bedroom earlier on, so hopefully not.”
“A real fire, what a treat. Alfie, there you are, come and give your godmother a kiss. Hello, Bertie, lovely to see you.”
She hands him a bottle of champagne.
“Welcome my dear, always like a girl who brings her own supplies. You’re looking in the pink, I must say. Been up to all sorts, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“This and that, Bertie, this and that.”
She kisses him.
“Not that I’ve noticed, but I like your thinking. Where’s the parrot? Don’t tell me you’ve had her stuffed and put on a shelf—I was looking forward to a bit of abuse.”
“She’s in the library, in disgrace. Dismantled another television control. She’s a demon with them, have to get one of the boys to change the channels now, most inconvenient. Do bear it in mind my dear. Don’t leave her alone with any gadgets.”
“I didn’t bring my TV remote with me Bertie, but thanks for the tip.”
“She can make short work of those little phones you all seem to carry nowadays, especially the ones with pictures. Finds them irresistible.”
“It’s true Lola. We’ve all got used to keeping our mobiles out of sight. It’s quite relaxing.”
“If one of my clients goes into meltdown and can’t get hold of me it won’t be relaxing, thanks. Bertie, be a darling and tell her if she tries to eat my phone, I’ll arrange to have her stuffed.”
“I’ll do my best my dear, but I can’t promise anything.”
Bertie pours champagne while we open Lola’s beautifully wrapped parcels. Lola is brilliant at presents, and Bertie’s particularly taken with his new cardigan with skull and crossbones appliquéd on both pockets.
“I thought a pirate motif was perfect for you. Molly tells me they used to call you the Red Admiral when you were in the navy Bertie. What was that all about?”
“No idea. I was never that keen on the rules and regulations and all the pomp and ceremony the top brass go in for, but I was never a Red. Knew some excellent Russians though, very good value at parties. Used to give cocktail parties on board, some of them went on for days.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Dan and Ben love their trendy hooded sweatshirts as well as the selection of Japanese cartoons and films from Lola’s recent trip to Tokyo. She’s also bought them both hats with earflaps, which I’m slightly nervous about because I know exactly what reaction I’d get if I tried to persuade them to wear hats with earflaps. Or hats without earflaps, come to think of it. But apparently these are “awesome,” and Dan wears his for the rest of the afternoon, while Alfie goes into a Lego-induced trance. I gave him the castle for Christmas, and Lola has bought every single bit of extra kit a castle could possibly require, including horses and knights and extra cannons with mini cannonballs, which he’s soon firing all over the drawing room floor. She’s bought so many we should be set until next Christmas, which is great, obviously, even if I do keep treading on the bloody things when I’ve been warming my feet by the fire. I even got one stuck inside my sock yesterday, and hobbling about trying not to swear amused the boys to no end.
