Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  To my surprise, he didn’t look at me like I had two heads. ‘Good for you,’ was his immediate response.

  ‘Can you help?’ I’d said.

  ‘Let me ask around.’

  As a student of history, I’m not supposed to believe in things like karma or a divine plan. Things happen mainly due to a chain of events that leads one on to another. Nations rise and fall, wars are won and lost, and social changes occur largely due to factors that can be studied, analysed, and explained. Which is why, when my advisor called me in the very next day and laid a letter on the desk in front of him, I didn’t dare to hope that my ship had come in.

  ‘I’m going to recommend you for this position,’ he said. ‘That is, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Great. I’ll take it,’ I said immediately, feeling wary and hopeful at the same time. ‘Can I ask what it is?’ I added as an afterthought.

  ‘An important benefactress of the university is planning to open her house up to the public. Rickety old Elizabethan place. A couple hundred years out for you, maybe, but I’m sure you’ll find the plumbing and heating system to be positively medieval.’

  ‘Elizabethan is fine.’ I waved my hand. ‘As you say, what’s a couple of hundred years?’ The fact that the job involved history at all seemed like icing on the cake.

  ‘She wants to run tours and whatnot – probably needs the money to keep the place watertight – I’ve no idea.’ He doodled a pound sign on the side of the paper. ‘In any case, she wants a manager.’

  ‘A manager?’

  ‘Someone to do the legwork. Tart the place up, deal with the legal hoops – fire alarms, disabled access, permits and whatnot. You’ll hire the tour guides, set up the tea room and gift shop – all sorts, really.’

  A manager. Although I’d never considered doing such a thing, and naturally wondered if I could do it, it seemed like a worthwhile challenge. And if nothing else, it would be a change of scene.

  ‘It sounds great.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose like a first chair trumpet. ‘Let’s just say you happened to be in the right place at the right time.’

  And so I was. Looking back almost three years later, I still wonder: was it karma; a divine plan – or just blind luck? As I left my advisor’s office and began packing my things to leave the university, I concluded that either way, surely it couldn’t be worse than pulling pints or telemarketing.

  And when I saw Mallow Court for the first time, I stopped caring…

  That first time, it was a day not unlike today – the sun was out, wispy white clouds decorated the sky, and I came upon Mrs Fairchild at the edge of the lake garden wearing the same hat and floral-patterned blouse as now. She’d been on her knees weeding a bed of primulas amid a forest of silver birches, her back to me. ‘Hello,’ I’d said, trying not to startle her. She’d turned around and looked up, her face going pale for a moment like she’d seen a ghost. But immediately, she’d stood and greeted me, all smiles. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she’d said as we shook hands. ‘Very glad.’ She blinked rapidly, her eyes watering. I suppose it was because it was a windy day and there was lots of pollen in the air.

  In any case, over the course of the next few days and weeks; chats over cups of tea; brainstorming as we walked together through the house and grounds; and her suggesting that I convert the flat in the coach house so that I could ‘walk to work’, I’d felt welcome and valued. I also felt a strong connection to the house that I couldn’t explain. I wasn’t daunted by its size or its age. I quickly came to know its ins and outs and quirks almost like it was an old friend.

  The house was actually in pretty good nick, and Mrs Fairchild didn’t seem short of cash. Instead, she said she was eager to ‘share’ the house with outsiders – so that people could appreciate the house she’d been ‘blessed’ to inherit.

  I suspected that Mrs Fairchild could have got on with many of the jobs herself – she already had lots of contacts in the local area among tradesmen and suppliers, a decent accountant, and lots of ideas. In contrast, I’d never ‘managed’ anything before, and while I threw myself into learning the job, I suspect that in those early weeks, I didn’t totally earn my keep. Nonetheless, getting the job at Mallow Court, meeting Mrs Fairchild, and helping to convert a loved old house into a successful business, had been just what I needed at the time. What I still need now. So why is everyone telling me that my future lies elsewhere?

  Mrs Fairchild looks at me like she can read my thoughts. She unloops a tendril of bindweed. ‘Oh go on now, Alex. No sulking. You know I love having you here and you’re the best thing that ever could have happened to this place. But just remember, at some point, you need to look after number one. I don’t want you to waste away here now that the business is up and running.’

  ‘But… I’m not.’ I stare at her. ‘I have lots of ideas, and I love the house and—’

  ‘I know you do,’ she pats my arm affectionately. ‘And you’ll always find another project here as well as an open door. In fact…’ she trails off, and suddenly the worried look I’ve noticed lately is back.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ A cloud passes over her face. ‘I’m fine – it’s you we were talking about.’

  ‘But there’s really nothing to say.’

  ‘I’d hate to see you end up alone, Alex. Take it from me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Even at my age, life is much more exciting with someone special in it.’

  There’s a sudden twinkle in her eye; a flush to her cheeks. An unlikely possibility strikes me. ‘You sound like…’ I trail off. No. It’s impossible.

  ‘Like I’ve met someone?’

  I stare at her. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days.’ Her face is suddenly all aglow. ‘Early days. We’ll see. But as for you, my dear, remember – when your ship comes in, you don’t want to be heading to the airport.’

  I shake my head, a little overwhelmed. ‘Actually, I’m not a fan of planes or boats, Mrs Fairchild. I think I’ll go inside now and make that coffee.’

  - Chapter 6 -

  Alone in the quiet of the house, I brew a pot of coffee. I drink two cups and eat a piece of lemon drizzle cake, my mind spinning. Mrs Fairchild seeing someone? Who could she have met, and where? It may be early days, but the fact that she’s even mentioning it means it can’t be that early. Part of me wishes I wasn’t the manager here so I could have a good gossip about it with Edith. Or Karen. Even though she lives miles away in Essex, we usually talk on the phone a few times a week. But we haven’t spoken since the Churchley-Thursley debacle. As she hasn’t rung me up to grovel, I guess I’ll have to be the one to break the ice. I take my Nokia out of my pocket and dial her number (perfectly aware that as it’s before ten, she’ll probably still be asleep). The phone goes to voicemail and I don’t leave a message.

  As I rinse my dishes in the sink, I ruminate on how it’s Karen’s fault that now even Mrs Fairchild seems to think I need to ‘get out more’. How annoying! A vision flashes into my mind of the man on the tour with the chocolate brown eyes and I feel an unwelcome frisson of attraction. If Mrs Fairchild has a new ‘distraction’ it’s just as well that I’m unattached and able to hold the fort.

  I pour more coffee into a spill-proof mug and head upstairs to get some work done on the costume exhibition before the first tour arrives.

  The exhibition is to be held in the long gallery on the first floor of the house. As I climb up the L-shaped main staircase I run my hand over the smooth oak of the banister, marvelling at the life-like quality of the carved fruit and leaves, acorns and roses. The dark wooden panelling and deep red of the stairway carpet runner is enveloping; womb-like. The landing at the top of the stairs branches into three corridors. I take the one to the left. A few metres on, the hallway is cordoned off with a floor-to-ceiling piece of plastic sheeting and a sign marked ‘Exhibition under construction’.

  I di
p around the edge of the plastic. Even filled with naked mannequins, crates, display cases and information boards, the long gallery is a stunning space. The ceiling is a confection of white plaster, with the curving arms of geometrical shapes framing bosses with the family crest, Tudor roses, fruits of the sea and the forest, and emblems of the four seasons. Diamond-pane windows set into the panelling stretch the whole length of the hall on one side, letting in a flood of light even on the dullest of days. I can picture the ladies of old taking their ‘exercise’, strolling up and down in gowns of rich velvet and brocade, their hair pulled back in French caps and snoods set with seed pearls. They must have been lovely to behold: embroidering by the fireplace, playing the harp or bowed psalter, reciting prayers and poetry from a book of hours, their voices echoing down the length of the room. For a second I can almost sense the presence of people long dead. Then, with another swig of coffee, I get to work.

  The exhibition of ‘Clothing through the Ages’ was my brainchild. It seemed a perfect way to bring the house to life, and provide a focal point to draw visitors in the busy summer months. Fortunately, someone from my degree program now works at the V&A. It only took one phone call to get her excited by the idea too.

  Turning it into reality, however, has taken some doing. For one thing, although Mallow Court contains a wealth of antiques and valuable heirlooms, it doesn’t have a security system to match. In order to convince the V&A to loan out their treasured textiles, I had to agree to get an expensive security system installed. The V&A woman who brought the boxes and crates looked none-to-impressed when I told her the system hadn’t yet been fitted. After finally convincing her the items would be safe in my care until the fitters arrived, she carefully supervised the unloading of every mannequin and case of clothing, and I had to double-and triple-sign the pages of inventory and bills of lading.

  Today I’m hoping to decide which pieces will be used for the exhibition, finish writing the tour leaflet, and find some interesting titbits for the ‘children’s treasure hunt’, that’s de rigueur these days.

  A row of naked mannequins look on as I survey the crates. I notice that on one of the Savonarola chairs, there’s a pile of clothing that wasn’t there before. It’s not in the microfibre, breathable, moth-proof slip covers of the V&A pieces, but rather in plastic dry-cleaning wrappers on wire hangers. These must be the things that Mrs Fairchild left for me to look at.

  I go over to the pile and pick up the top piece. It’s a fitted mini-dress in a rainbow-coloured paisley pattern that looks like something from ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’. I grin, trying to picture a young Catherine – or maybe ‘Cat’? – sporting the dress with patent leather boots, and a psychedelic headband.

  On a whim, I take the dress over to the nearest mannequin and slip it over its head. I stand back and take a look. ‘You look cool,’ I say. ‘Or is it “far out”?’ She smiles her vacant, painted smile.

  The next piece is a boucle coat with a black and grey houndstooth pattern. I touch the leather collar, and the water-smooth satin lining. The lining appears to be hand-stitched inside – a couture piece. The label at the collar reads CHANEL.

  Immediately I withdraw my hand, feeling guilty for not wearing a pair of the white cotton gloves that the V&A woman left behind. The pieces from the museum are old and lovely – that much is certain. But to me, the Chanel coat is just as beautiful and special. More so, because I know the owner. Hopefully I can convince her to give me some spicy, real-life anecdotes of wearing it on the town in London – maybe to a Beatles gig or the West-End premiere of Hair!

  The next few pieces are more great examples of their era: a lace 50s style wedding dress with an Audrey Hepburn collar, two early 70s paisley silk skirts, and an Yves St Laurent skirt suit. The clothing is an interesting insight into Mrs Fairchild’s past, and I’m a little surprised at how stylish she must have been. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s worn mostly gardening attire – smock, clogs, broad-brimmed sunhat. Not that I’m one to talk – my wardrobe consists mostly of tops, trousers and jeans. Nonetheless, I have a surprisingly strong urge to try on some of Mrs Fairchild’s things. What had she said? – ‘In many ways, I was like you.’

  When I’ve been through the pile, I pick up the houndstooth coat again. It looks so classic and chic. ‘You didn’t see me doing this,’ I say sternly to the line of mannequins, as I remove my blazer and drape it over a chair. Gingerly, I put on the Chanel coat. The lining is soft and fluid against my skin, the wool warm and enveloping. It’s a perfect fit. I do up the leather tie around my waist and walk to the end of the long room.

  I can imagine Catherine Fairchild in the early 1960s on a day trip to London, walking up Bond Street staring at the beautiful clothing in the shop windows. The coat would be in the window of a little boutique. Catherine would walk past, feeling free-spirited and happy. She sees the coat and instantly knows it will be perfect – and, in a cold house like Mallow Court, practical too.

  At the end of the room there’s a narrow mirror above a small inlaid table. I look at myself in the glass – it’s like I’m a different person. I do a little twirl and shove my hands in the pocket. My right hand touches a crisp piece of paper and underneath, a soft piece of cloth with something hard and oval-shaped inside.

  I take it out. The cloth is a small black velvet bag with a drawstring. There’s a note pinned to the velvet scribbled in Mrs Fairchild’s writing: For Alex??

  Instantly, I’m intrigued. It’s almost as if Mrs Fairchild knew I would love the coat most of all. I open the bag and remove a locket on a silver chain; lozenge-shaped, about the length of my thumb. The metal is tarnished to almost black, but it looks like silver. The locket is weighty and solid, and feels oddly warm nestled in my hand. The top is decorated with delicate blue forget-me-nots in silver and enamel, with tiny crystals that sparkle in the light. I turn it over looking for an inscription. The back is chased with a leafy pattern of flowers and leaves, but there’s no inscription. On the long side of the oval is a catch. It’s a little stiff, but eventually I work it open.

  A tiny bird made of paper-thin silver mesh pops up. It stands about an inch high on a silver perch, and each of the tiny feathers on its wings are set with crystals or glass coloured like rubies, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds. There’s a soft whirring sound, and slowly, the bird begins to rotate. I gasp. It’s so beautiful and delicate – I suppose there must be a tiny battery inside making it move. The bird’s lower beak moves on impossibly tiny hinges like it’s singing, but no sound comes out. The bird rotates halfway around in its case and then stops. The mechanism continues to click and whir like it’s stuck somehow. I close the case halfway and watch as the bird folds up like a miniature children’s pop-up book, and goes back inside the locket. I open it again. The bird winds back to its starting position and begins its 180-degree rotation. I watch, mesmerised. It’s such an odd, quirky little piece of jewellery, but charming too.

  I unpin the note that says For Alex?? Most likely, when Mrs Fairchild was going through her old things, she found the locket and wrote the note to remind herself to ask me if I wanted to use the piece for the exhibition, and then forgot about it. Mystery solved. Still, I’ll ask her about it next time I see her, and in the meantime, I’ll lock it up somewhere safe.

  I walk back the length of the room and put Mrs Fairchild’s clothing back in the bags. I’ll use all of it in the exhibition, I decide, even if that puts a definite modern bent on things. Maybe after the exhibition Mrs Fairchild might let me have the coat. I’m sure she’d rather have it worn than mothballed away in a wardrobe. Especially now that she’s jumped on the ‘Alex-must-get-out-more’ bandwagon. Wearing this coat, I almost want to leave my little lair. Rejoin the world again. Almost. I put my blazer back on, and slip the jewelled bird into my pocket.

  - III -

  13th November 1940 – 12:15 a.m.

  I covered Marina’s face with her shawl and turned away, swallowing back the bitter rush of bile. I had to b
e strong now – I had to think.

  ‘Did you know her?’ that damn’d Robbo said, putting down his camera.

  I shook my head – it was easier that way.

  ‘Damn shame,’ he said. ‘It’s a devil’s lottery.’ Shaking his head, he walked off.

  I took the girl over to the kerb across the street, away from the body of her mother. I put my coat down for her to sit on. As the snow floated around us, the world seemed stuck in slow motion. I sat down beside her. The thing in her hand sparkled in the darkness as her blackened fingers opened a catch. I watched, transfixed as a bird made of silver and precious jewels danced in her hand. It was the most exquisite thing I’d ever seen. The girl laughed, delighted with the trinket. But then, the bird stopped moving. Frowning, she tapped it like it was broken. I stared at her, wondering …

  - Chapter 7 -

  When I emerge from the long gallery, my tour has arrived and is waiting in the great hall. It’s a group of sixth-formers, who spend most of the time whispering and chatting, and aren’t the slightest bit interested in the house or the tour.

  By the time I’ve ushered the group through to the café, it’s nearly lunchtime. I take a quick walk outside hoping to ask Mrs Fairchild about the locket – but I don’t see her familiar wide-brimmed gardening hat in any of the usual places. She’s probably in the orchard or maybe out by the lake.

  When the tour bus has left, I return to the house and check my schedule. There’s a corporate drinks party in the Rose Drawing Room tomorrow evening, so I go there to make sure the room is ready. Before any corporate do, I always make sure that all the breakable knick-knacks are put away (sometimes guests have a tendency to overindulge, sending arms flailing and breakables flying), without making it look like anything has been put away.

  The room is one of my favourites. The walls are panelled in warm oak, and the curtains and soft furnishings are tastefully done in oatmeal damask and soft rose brocades. There’s a large log fire set in the fireplace ready to be lit on the first day of autumn. The Jacobean ceiling is a confection of white plaster.