I help the last few people down the stairs, drawing profuse thanks, one woman asking if I want to see pictures of her grandchildren. I ooh and aww over her photos, then excuse myself on the grounds that I need to show her compatriot where the marmalade is. Really I’m hoping to catch sight of the brown-eyed man. But he has well and truly disappeared.
- Chapter 4 -
I feel oddly shaken after the tour. The tall man had seemed very interested in the house and the family, yet hadn’t bothered to stick around to ask me any more questions. Clearly whatever spine-tingling attraction I’d felt was one-sided. I go into the ladies loo – a wattle and daub structure added on to the back of the gift shop – and look at myself in the mirror.
I’ve always been tall, thin and lacking much of a figure, but despite eating leftover baked goods from the café, my clothes look baggy. My shower was fixed earlier in the week so at least I’m clean, but my hair – copper-brown and usually cut in a sharp, chin-length bob – could use a trim. My skin looks pale, lacking any kind of glow or lustre. I look older and wiser than my twenty-eight years – but not in a good way. In creating my own snug little world here at Mallow Court, as Karen would say, I’ve let myself go.
I pinch my cheeks to add some colour, but it only leaves red marks. Where is the sharp, feisty Alex who did debate club at college, and worked double shifts at the local Budgens to save money for uni? Where is the erudite Alex, who got a first class degree in Medieval Studies and fell in love with Xavier, an Argentine poet? Where is the real-world, down-to-earth Alex who never cared if others came from wealthier families, had nicer houses, fancier cars and pedigrees stretching back to the Norman Conquest?
The woman staring back at me in the mirror is a competent business manager and a good curator of an important historical building. But other than that, I don’t really know her anymore.
I lean forward and pluck away a stray eyelash. My eyes are greyish blue – as Xavier always said, the colour of the winter sea. Sometimes, people have asked me which side of the family that colour came from. Dad has brown eyes with gold flecks, and Mum has cornflower blue eyes. But the colour didn’t come from either of them. Instead, I like to think that it came from my birth mother. I don’t often think about her – Dad has never made a secret of the fact that I was the product of a ‘new age’ union. In other words, Dad met her while travelling around protesting Nukes and following the Grateful Dead. And Mum – Carol, Dad’s wife who’s been my mum ever since I can remember – is the best mother I can imagine.
But just beneath the surface, there’s an itch I can’t quite scratch. Every day I extol the virtues of a house dating back to the time of Elizabeth I, and yet, I can barely trace my own history back to the early 1970s. Half of my make-up is from a woman whom I know nothing about, who came from a family I know nothing about. Half of me is a gaping wide hole that will never be filled with the roots of a family tree. Should I try to find out more? Will that somehow make me feel more complete?
Unable to shake the thought from my head, I go out of the loo and wander through the arch in the hedge that leads to the ‘cottage garden’. Mallow Court is noted for its many garden ‘rooms’, each one bounded by tall hedges. The cottage garden is bursting with colour: white sweet pea, purple allium, pink foxglove, blue delphinium. Through the arch at the other side, I glimpse Mrs Fairchild in the ‘white garden’ cutting some lilacs for the vase in the great hall.
I smile and wave to her. I’ve never envied her growing up at Mallow Court. But I do envy the fact that she knows exactly where she came from – a family with a loving father that she adored, two boisterous younger brothers, and a mother who, though she died when Catherine was in her early twenties, was by all accounts a prime specimen of a wholesome, upstanding 1950s wife/mother.
The question the attractive man asked pops back into my mind. How did the ‘Knicker King’ get the money to found his underwear empire? I know that Frank Bolton came from humble East London roots, but not a great deal more. Most visitors who come here are interested either in the history and architecture of the house, the spectacular gardens, or the valuable collection of antiques. Those who don’t have any interest in those things often get a chuckle out of the underwear anecdotes. That’s more than enough genealogy for most people.
But the question is a valid one, and something I should know the answer to, I suppose. I make a mental note to ask Mrs Fairchild to tell me more about her dad. But, right now, I feel the need to leave the idyllic hideaway of Mallow Court and breathe the grimy air of the real world for an afternoon. And though it’s probably futile, I can pose a few questions about my murky heritage to the one person who might know.
I go back inside through the gift shop. It smells of a blend of rose diffuser sticks, honey-scented candles, lavender drawer liners, and lily of the valley eau de toilette. While I prefer the smell of old books, I can see why the shop does a roaring trade. We have a selection of gifts for the gardener, educational toys and books for children, greeting cards, jewellery, hats, patterned wellie-boots, tea towels and a good selection of potted plants and seeds – not to mention samples of the popular ‘tea’ beer brewed locally.
Edith has just finished ringing up a customer when I approach.
‘I’m off to run an errand,’ I say. ‘Can you hold the fort?’
‘Sure.’ She smiles. ‘Take your time.’
‘Thanks. Are there any new candles in?’
‘Ah,’ she gives me a knowing look. ‘Off to Abbots Langley then.’
‘Well, it is his birthday on Sunday.’
‘How about this one?’ She leads me over to a shelf where there’s a collection of candles in various floral scents. ‘Green tea, vanilla, and verbena?’ She hands me a little green candle in a glass votive.
I take a whiff. ‘Yuck.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘It’s perfect.’
She wraps it up for me and I sign to put it on my account (minus my ten per cent employee discount). I leave the gift shop with the package, jump in my car, and weave my way through country lanes and gradually widening roads, back to civilization.
*
In this case, civilization is the busy Hertfordshire town of Hemel Hempstead, and a little M25-adjacent village called Abbots Langley. I wind through the residential roads and pull up in front of Ivy Cottage, the house where I grew up. The yellow brick house is of 1960s construction, with PVC windows and a glassed-in porch. The front garden is a mismatch of sickly-looking potted plants, climbing ivy and roses on rickety trellises, and a mint green Figaro with two flat tyres.
I don’t bother to go to the front door, but instead go down a path at the side of the house. Rounding the back, I stop and blink – as always – at what’s in the back garden.
It’s an immaculate oasis of calm – a spiritual garden in the Balinese style. Coming off the back of the house is an oak-framed fluted roof with open-air sides. Leafy palms, stands of bamboo, and solar lanterns delineate the different spaces. There’s a gravel Zen garden flanked by raised wooden decking; a meandering koi pond criss-crossed by twin arched bridges, and underneath the roof structure itself, the ground has been ‘paved’ with shredded rubber. It’s here that I find Dad, his body bent in the middle in an upside down ‘V’, executing a perfect ‘downward dog’ pose. Perfect except for two fingers on his right hand that are raised off the ground, holding a cigarette.
‘Hi Dad,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’
He lowers his knees and sits back on his haunches. He’s wearing thigh-hugging cotton bottoms flared at the ankle. His chest is bare, revealing a virtual map of unfortunate tattoos – Chinese characters, a smudged version of the Indian goddess Shiva, her open arms now sprouting Dad’s chest hair. He looks at me for a moment with his unreadable ‘guru’ face, then stands up, taking a long drag on the cigarette.
‘It’s not “going”, Alexandra.’ He gives me a little wink. ‘It’s all about inner stillness – remember?’ He holds his arms open and I go for a hug, enjoying the feel of his
airy-fairy solidity.
‘Did Buddha smoke roll-ups, Dad?’ I say when we separate. ‘I thought you were going to quit.’
He waves the cigarette expansively. ‘Throughout the centuries, many men of great wisdom have experimented with substances to help them experience the divine. Native American shaman are well known for using hallucinogens in their rituals. Then there’s the Christian religions – using wine as a symbol of transubstantiation.’ He grins wryly. ‘And don’t forget John Lennon – he’s a religion all his own.’
‘Yeah, Dad. I won’t.’ You can’t possibly grow up in the same household with Dad and forget John Lennon.
He stubs out the cigarette into a Raku saki bottle. ‘Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, your highness?’ He nods his head in a mock bow.
I laugh. Dad, of all people, knows very well that I’m no princess. Instead of reading me fairy tales when I was little, he read snippets from Karl Marx, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Guardian. Mum, on the other hand, tried to overcompensate by taking me to every Disney film that came out. But Dad’s non-traditional style won out. By the time I was old enough to form my own opinions, I decided that Cinderella needed to ‘grow a pair’ – stand up to those mean step-sisters and tell them to empty their own chamber pots. And while Snow White may have had hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow and lips like the red rose, she was also as thick as a plank.
Still, ever since I took the job at Mallow Court, Dad won’t let me live it down. He thinks that by working for the ‘aristocracy’ in a ‘temple of the oppressor’ as he puts it, I’ve crossed over enemy lines. In addition to being a pub manager by night and a private yoga instructor by day, Dad’s the staunchest labour supporter imaginable. He hates the current party leaders (‘closet Nazis, the lot’) and is waiting for a British version of Lenin to appear out of the northern hinterland where Dad originally hails from. Although by the time I was in senior school, everyone was waving the banner of Glasnost and Perestroika, for Dad, it was a sad day when the Berlin Wall fell and even he had to admit that communism – at least of the Soviet variety – was a historic failure.
‘Come the revolution, daughter, you won’t be laughing,’ he says solemnly.
‘Okay Dad.’ Sometimes, it’s hard to tell if Dad is being serious or not. ‘But until the revolution comes, are you allowed a birthday gift?’ I hold out the little package.
He unwraps it warily, like it’s some kind of capitalist Pandora’s box ready to snatch his soul. He removes the candle from the box and holds it up to his nose. ‘Lovely.’ He nods approvingly. ‘An inspired blend of ancient ingredients. I’ll burn it later today for my new PiYo hybrid Pilates class.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Happy Birthday.’
He waves his hand. ‘Birthdays are just another turn of the wheel of birth, death and rebirth.’
‘Yeah, um… speaking of which, I wanted to ask you some questions. About my mother.’
He lowers his body back down, and swings into a side-plank position. ‘Your mum’s at work today and then she’s got a dental appointment in Hemel. She should be back around half four, depending on traffic. You’re welcome to make yourself a cuppa and wait for her.’
‘Not Mum,’ I clarify. ‘My mother – my real mother.’
He looks at me for a long moment. ‘Don’t let her hear you say that, you hear? “Real mother”.’ He shakes his head. ‘It would break her heart.’
‘Sorry – I meant “birth” mother. I know that Mum’s my mother in every way that matters.’
Growing up, my parents made no secret of the fact that Mum wasn’t my birth mother. But that aside, I wasn’t encouraged to talk about it. Mum was mum – is Mum – and that was that.
‘I want to know more about her. She’s half of who I am.’
Dad stands up – or rather, gets to his feet and straightens his arms, stretching his hands into a ‘mountain’ pose. Slowly, he moves his left foot up the inside of his right leg, lifting his arms above his head and balancing on one foot in a ‘tree’ pose. ‘What brought this on?’
‘Nothing,’ I bristle. ‘Don’t I have a right to know something about her?’
Dad gives me a searching look. ‘I haven’t kept her a secret, have I? You know almost as much as I do.’
‘I don’t see how that can be true,’ I say, my irritation growing. ‘After all, you – you know…’
‘Impregnated her?’
‘I was going to say met her. Got to know her. Enough to, you know…’
‘Impregnate her.’
‘Well… yeah.’
Dad closes his eyes and I can hear his deep belly breathing. ‘Those were different times,’ he says. ‘More people believed in the dream back then.’
‘You mean it was a free-for-all?’
‘She believed – your birth mother.’
‘Believed what?’
He switches legs. ‘She believed that class shouldn’t matter. She was from a rich family, grew up in a nice home, but she didn’t want those things. We may have missed Woodstock and the early Vietnam protests, but there were a lot of us who believed in a better world. A world without hunger and war…’
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
‘You see this?’ Opening his eyes, he points to a jumble of faded characters tattooed on his chest just below his heart. ‘This is the name I knew her by: “Rainbow”. I had it tattooed in Sanskrit. Her life was like a rainbow – brief but beautiful. You couldn’t grab hold of her or possess her. And that was part of her beauty.’
‘You say she came from a rich family? I don’t think you’ve mentioned that before. What do you know about them?’
For a second his mask of calm drops and he waivers on his leg. His core muscles visibly contract as he steadies himself and puts his foot back on the ground. ‘Nothing. We didn’t talk about things like that.’ He spreads his hands. ‘Sorry. I’d tell you more if I could. We were both very young.’
‘And how did she die?’
‘You know this already,’ he says. ‘She was a fragile girl – never in the most robust of health. It was not long after you were born. She drifted off to sleep, and didn’t wake up again. But that smile on her face – it was like an angel’s.’ He sighs. ‘Nothing was the same after that. I didn’t want to keep travelling around without her. So I brought you back here to put down roots. I met your mum, married her, and the rest is history. Your history. The only family history that matters.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ I say, though it’s clear that I won’t convince him.
He lowers his hands into a Namaste position. ‘Even so.’
‘So that’s all you know. You can’t tell me anything more? You don’t even have a photograph?’
‘No, I don’t. Other than up here.’ He taps his head. ‘Rainbow was a bright, flickering candle in a dark world. Her light went out, but not without leaving the world a better place.’
‘How?’
‘Well… there’s you.’ He smiles then, disarming me. I can see why half the housewives in greater Hemel Hempstead and Watford take his classes and have a crush on him, despite his – flaws. He grabs a crisp white towel from a wicker basket and wipes off his neck. ‘You have her eyes,’ he says. ‘Her beautiful eyes, the colour of light rays breaking through storm clouds.’
For an instant, I can feel tears welling up. I turn away, looking at a clump of ornamental grass swaying in the wind.
Dad tosses the towel into a hamper, and lights another cigarette. The moment passes. ‘Can I tempt you to stay for the class, Alexandra?’ He exhales a thin tendril of smoke and uses the cigarette to light the candle I brought. ‘It might give you some inner peace.’
‘No thanks, Dad.’ I hate yoga – always have, and probably always will. On the one hand, it doesn’t get the heart rate pumping. On the other hand, it does hurt – never where it’s supposed to, but I end up feeling it the next day. Odd places like my hips, my feet, or my wrists. And I don’t find it relaxing either �
� I mean, it’s an exercise class. Scented candles and soft sitar music aside, I’d rather relax by having a nice hot bath.
‘Okay. But it was good you stopped by.’ Dad puts out the cigarette and we hug each other again.
‘Sure, Dad,’ I say.
He flips through his CD collection and finds the pan pipes – my cue to leave. The sad truth is that I do seem to know almost as much as Dad about my birth mother. Clearly, I’m not going to learn anything more today.
On my way out, I have to flatten myself against the wall of the house to let a trio of women pass – a blonde, a brunette, and a grey. ‘Hi,’ I say to them. Only the grey-haired woman mumbles a hello – the other two are looking daggers at me, like I’m a corrupting influence over their guru or something. ‘God, he’s good isn’t he?’ I say. ‘My pelvic floor sure got a workout.’ With a little wink at the two younger women, I walk off with a fake bow-legged limp.
*
In truth, I wasn’t expecting to learn much from Dad, and although I feel a little disappointed, in many ways I’m relieved not to have uncovered any bombshells. I am lucky that I had a happy childhood, and still have a good relationship with my parents. That’s always been enough for me, and it should really be enough.
Besides, the little I do know about ‘Rainbow’ doesn’t make me all that eager to know more. Growing up in the late 70s and 80s, new age peace and love have never been my thing. Dad’s eccentricities, if anything, turned me in the opposite direction. I suppose I would have been a disappointment to ‘a bright, flickering candle’ like my birth mother, who left her rich family for a ‘higher’ calling.
As I drive back to Mallow Court, I compare Dad’s world view to the medieval world I studied at uni. In the middle ages, society was strictly regimented. Women who gave birth out of wedlock were shunned – or much worse – and most property was owned either by feudal lords or by the church. The glorious thing – the thing that drew me to the period in the first place – was the architecture. I fell in love with the Gothic churches – their tall stained-glass windows designed to let in divine light, and spires to scrape the sky. Religion also had a strict set of rules, and there was none of this wheel of death and rebirth nonsense. If you were good, you went to heaven; if you were bad, you rotted in hell. I’m glad I don’t live in medieval times, but there is something to be said for simplicity.
Finding Secrets Page 3
