“I can see the spire of Saint Austell’s.” Her neck was craning at an impossible angle. They had come out of the woods and Mal was turning onto what before had been a dirt road, but now was bitumen. The rain had eased and shafts of light were trying to lance their way through the thinning clouds. The lane, still wet from the previous downpour glistened as the Mazda’s wheels sprayed small fountains over the grass verge. She slowed and they wound down their windows the better to see. Pungent and biting smells of the country assailed their nostrils: muddy streams, rotting leaves and wet bark, carried to them on stiff gusts of wind, streaming hectically between the remaining trees. Faintly in the distance, the peel of church bells for noontime, intoned harmoniously through the yielding morning air.
Neither spoke, too intent on seeing and absorbing all they could on their slow progress toward the ultimate destination. Sprawling subdivisions surrounded the perimeter of the original village much to Mal’s disappointment, but she bowed to the inevitable. However the wide, medieval streets still remained, now more majestically tree-lined. There too, was the Punch Bowl Inn, opposite the Methodist church. She kept a sharp look-out for the Pogue’s cottage and spotted it at the far end. It had been taken over by trendy ‘tree’ changers able to afford an ‘eco’ retreat, for weekend ‘getaways’. Indeed, it looked well cared for with its neat flower beds and freshly painted picket fence.
Through the village and past the farms – in all the years from Mal’s vantage point, these did not appear to have altered. She remembered those walks to the stables, set at a brisk pace against the dank morning chills. Even the Larks still wheeled and swooped, screeching out their high-pitched calls, the same as they had done when they were the only sounds to pierce the dawn’s eerie hush.
Over the brow of the hill – there it was – opening up to their gaze on a low aerial view; the whole imposing edifice including the extensive grounds. It was magical, bathed as it was in the soft glow of autumnal sunshine. Nigella let out an involuntary ‘oh’ as her heart beat madly in her chest and her mind surged with the crowding images of Mona, Patchy and her dear parents. The whole scene became re-animated by people from her past and every site where her eyes rested was embedded in memory. Old Jake was there with Burrow. Even Mallory, as she had been in those faded corduroys. I wasn’t insane after all!
Mal turned the car into a narrower lane which fell steeply at a fast gradient. She pulled over and they got out, standing still one beside the other as they contemplated their fill. The stately proportions of Patchford House were as arresting as ever, arched over by a wide, grey sky. Nigella’s hand reached out, but Mal took her and encircled her shoulders. Together they let their memories flood back. No stemming of these tides! They lived in the moment, enchanted moments of confirmation. The shadowy, most ominous of the fears, whatever had bedevilled them, they were laid to rest right there, right then. Here was a watershed experience and from this second on, they were released to a new-found freedom. At last, each in her own way could move on. Yes, there was a long road ahead, but they would travel it together.
Mal’s hold tightened and she said impulsively: “Jellie, I could wish this moment would never end.”
Nigella turned within the protective embrace. “My very thoughts, thank you so much for thinking of this and bringing me here.” The passionate eyes sparkled with green fire into the bewitched face before her. Their glistening sheen stemmed from the unshed tears of her barely contained emotion. It seemed even their hearts beat in unison.
“Shall we see if we can get closer?” Mal’s azure eyes gave out a flash of brilliance of equal intensity as she felt the urge to kiss this lithe creature, her womanly form touching from breast to thigh so close against her body; not with fierce passion, but with a profound, penetrating love. Moving on could solve the problem of her committing some rash act, to be regretted later.
Now hand in hand, as their feet wove a dark green trail through the pale, water speckled pasture, they approached the Patchford stables. No horse odours or sounds came to them. It was an office block! They could see the odd car parked out front, in what was now a brick and pebble-dashed courtyard. Cautiously, they skirted around the buildings following the line of a new, chain-link fence. After some time it brought them to the front gates. They were the same massive, wrought iron they remembered, but standing wide open. A big sign proclaimed the property belonged to Omega Pharmaceutical Industries: West Midlands Division. They looked at each other, surprise momentarily smoothing their faces of all expression.
“Time will not stand still in the path of progress I guess,” Mal observed philosophically.
“What does this mean?” Nigella asked dismayed.
“I’m not sure,” she replied guardedly. “Perhaps the family fell on hard times and the place had to be sold.”
“Oh no,” was the unthinking response: “Papa has lots of money.”
“You forget Jellie, there’ve been two world wars since then,” she reminded her reluctantly: “And the fortunes of war don’t always turn out positively. Sir Eustace could have been caught in the crossfire.” She said nothing, her mind absorbing this new reality as her gaze made its way up the drive to rest on the spirited stone horses, but no longer plunging through a deluge of diamond droplets. They remained just outside for some time. Mal could only guess what was passing through Nigella’s mind. Her wistful, pool black eyes; the faraway smile wrung her heart as her own sharp memories besieged her recollections. She permitted her to look on until eventually she turned saying: “It must be time for our picnic.”
The walk back to the car was slow and silent, but they remained hand in hand. Finally Mal ventured to ask where she would like to eat.
“Shall we go to the rise and overlook Featherstone Copse, like we did that day?”
“You remember that Jellie?”
Nigella did not answer immediately as if trying to decide amongst several choices. “I’m remembering many things,” was her eventual response.
They drove to the other side, but instead of trekking across the field, Mal continued around, following the curve of the road. Where she stopped gave them almost the same view as Nigella’s original water colour. Even the same misty crowns of widely branched trees formed the backdrop. A slight rain began as slow, heavy drops so they stayed in the protected confines of the car.
She had found a specialty cheese shop that also sold pies. Nigella chose a pork pie. The Melton Mowbray had been a favourite of hers and Mal indulged herself with a Roquefort and asparagus quiche. On the drive out they had passed road-side stalls offering fruit and vegetables and in the end had chosen juicy, Victoria plums. Everything was washed down with bottles of cold mineral water; a simple lunch, tasty and satisfying. Not much was said, but such exchanges as passed between them were companionable. After eating, Mal suggested they spend the afternoon in a drive to Stratford-upon-Avon. “You’ve been there before haven’t you?”
“Yes. I’d love to see it again. Will it have changed, too?”
“Not the old town. I’m pretty sure that will still be as you remember.”
Despite the continuing cloudburst, visibility remained good enough for Nigella to enjoy the English countryside in autumn. The Oaks and Beeches were resplendent in red and gold, but many Poplars and Chestnuts had lost their leaves. For her it was all good. Her reminiscences allowed her to re-live childhood moments which became empowering and life affirming. These events had happened – she was passing through the same places – recalling the people and even some of the verbal exchanges. As a child she had really only spoken freely in the school-room, or to Ramona; when she was older sometimes to Ambrose.
Stratford was a wonderland. The Festival theatre was new, but Ann Hathaway’s cottage and the other black and white buildings were enchanting. They drank tea in a restored hostelry where attention to architectural detail had been unstinting and like the other patrons, mostly tourists, let their eyes enjoy the ersatz step back in time.
A lively discuss
ion ensued: who was the real Shakespeare? Nigella was from the period when the popular theory was in Sir Francis Bacon’s camp, but Mal was all for the latest contender – Sir Henry Neville. Despite their differences, they were in agreement that Shakespeare himself seemed to lack sufficient education and international, courtly position to have written so copiously and with such erudition.
Mal had thought to return via Warwick, to round-out the experience, but time constraints prohibited this trip. She was anxious not to be late; the sun was setting only too early and already shadows had started to deepen, softening the outlines of the old houses. On the drive back Nigella’s eyelids began to droop as she became dozy. Mal reckoned the day had been a success despite the shocks. She had borne them well and now could rest.
Deszree listened to Nigella’s account of the day with delight. She was happy to see how much the girl had come out of her herself. She had grown quite fond of her and was kindly disposed, knowing what traumas had been sustained. Watching her blossom was an unexpected pleasure.
Mal had the Mazda until five o’clock the next day. To make the most of it, she proposed a trip up north. “I could show you some of the industrial heart-land of England, in contrast to its rural side.”
“Oh yes! I could see for myself the changes that have been wrought by those ’men of steel’ Papa used to worry about. Did they do much harm?”
“You’ll see Jellie. I don’t think it’s so bad. I’m sure you’ll notice how much cleaner and brighter everywhere is.”
She took them for lunch in the most stylish restaurant in Manchester. It was located in the newest addition to the city’s skyline, the forty-eight storey Manchester Hilton. Preparation and forewarnings had been extensive to make sure Nigella could appreciate this day’s outing to the fullest.
“I want you to know something of the spectacular side of this twenty-first century.”
“Yes, I want to catch up on everything.”
Today they both had dressed their best. Mal had taken Nigella clothes’ shopping, suggesting she look around to choose for herself. She had bought a selection of dainty underwear and some smart clothes. For this outing she had chosen her cream, linen suit the lapels edged in a light brown braid and a pale green blouse, tied at the neck in a floppy bow. For the first time she wore high-heeled shoes. They were hand-tooled leather, but the heel was not too high. Mal put together the outfit she had worn for her tribunal interview. This would be a special day.
First, Nigella’s entrance through automatic doors into a modern lobby – her wonder and amazement were rhapsodic. Her first elevator ride; the height was fearful. She would not let go of Mal, seeking protection against her rising anxiety. Fortunately it was a regular Otis not a glass pod, so she only had to experience the feeling and not watch the ground as it fell away below her.
For the penthouse level it was necessary to finish their journey on the escalator. Mal had not anticipated this, but there was no turning back; it was not too long and only moving at a moderate speed. Nigella looked up aghast; the lift, now this.
“It’s OK Jellie you just put your foot on the bottom step and let it take you.” She looked back at Mal, uncertain.
“Look, I’ll show you. I’ll jump on, go up a little way and come back down to get you, OK?” She nodded and Mal stepped on sideways, maintaining eye contact. She called back. “You see, nothing awful happened.”
She watched as a couple passed by and without breaking their conversation, mounted the moving steps. Mal turned right round and ran lightly down against the gradient. The man moved out of her way with a surprised look as she jumped off at the girl’s side.
“Hold my hand we’ll step on together, on three: 1 – 2 – 3 – step! She managed it and her heels did not get stuck. Mal had said nothing about getting off, but was confident she could drag her with her. Nigella put her hand on the moving rail – words failed her. What an astonishing experience!
“All right Jellie, with me: 1– 2 – 3 – they were off. She gave her a hug. “Cool, eh?” Nigella looked down, still not quite able to believe what she had just done.
“Mal, will I have to run down like you?”
“No, there’s a down side. It’s over here.” She walked across the distance and now Nigella saw the same staircase in reverse.
“Want to try? Come on – on three.” They did it again and this time Mal found her quite eager to ascend. “No more now. We’ll do it again after lunch,” she declared, when Nigella was ready to repeat the down side.
The Atlantis Room presented formal dining at its best. The next set of doors swished to behind them, preserving perfect climate control, while the sumptuous decor surrounded the patrons with the height of luxury. Mal had made enquiries at the time of reservation to ensure Nigella would experience just the right ambiance. Her eyes flashed in delight at the sight of the five-star-service. The chairs were present-day, but the upholstery in shades of purple, woven with a silver thread made them supremely elegant. Neo-classical music played softly in the background. Nigella looked for the orchestra then guessed it was a CD. No matter, she loved it all.
“You remember when we had tea at Fortnum and Mason’s …?” she enthused: “… being here lets me know we really did do those things and then I believe I can believe in myself too.”
They were at reception, waiting to be seated and the intimacy of her look as she focused her eyes on Mal’s face spoke volumes. Mal had the impression of sunlight, breaking free of a restraining cloud.
This was Sunday so the restaurant was well attended, but with an advanced booking she had secured a window table. Nigella was provided with a panoramic view of the city. Adapting quickly to the unexpected, she soon lost her fear of being so far above the ground. She marvelled at the impressive and unusual sights afforded by her bird’s eye perspective. She felt the thrill of it.
The waiter arrived and placed a napkin across their knees and offered a menu. There was a varied selection of Nigella’s favourite foods. She could indulge her taste-buds to their total satisfaction. For dessert Mal chose a Tiramisu for Nigella to try and then presented her with a birthday gift and card. She loved the words with its Forever Friends bear, holding up a big red heart, wrapped around in a spangle of stardust. When she opened the long box, she could not believe her eyes – a delicate, ovalfaced watch, its gold link band stretched out on a bed of blue silk. For a moment she was speechless. Mal got up and went round to put it on her wrist. “It’s only 9-carat, but I hope you think it’s pretty.”
Nigella inhaled deeply and breathed out softly: “Mal it is so lovely.” She admired the effect. “Thank you so much.” She reached up to bring her face close for a kiss and the unmistakable warmth in the emerald centres of her eyes drove straight to Mal’s heart. The synergy between them was perfect. For the rest of her life she would be enslaved to this vital creature, but she knew the day would surely come when some handsome man would sweep her off her feet and she would be consumed by his love. Then she would be lost to her forever. Impatiently she pushed away the intrusive, unwanted prospect. Stop this Mal. Savour the good times. Appreciate what you have now and share Jellie’s happiness with her. There’s no point in torturing yourself with unrealistic hopes.
She returned to her seat. “Jellie, would you like to try a special coffee? I don’t think you’ve ever tasted a café latté.”
“Oh yes. Now I’m nineteen I’m all grown-up,” she laughed, then instantly stopped, her face turning a deathly white.
“Jellie, what is it?” There was an edge of alarm in her voice. The change in Nigella had been so dramatic. Nothing was said until the waiter had put their coffees in place then Nigella looked at Mal.
“I just remembered something Mama gave me.” Her black brows drew together in close thought.
“Yes?”
“It was a letter that was to be opened on my nineteenth birthday,” she said slowly.
“Do you have it?” Mal had never seen a letter amongst her possessions.
&
nbsp; “No … o, I don’t.” The usually soft mouth was set.
“This letter … it’s very important? Have you lost it?”
“No … o, I haven’t.” Her breathing turned uneven. Mal was beginning to find this exchange perplexing. What had happened to her?
“Jellie, try your coffee before it gets cold. Do you want sugar?” She passed over the silver bowl.
For a moment then, images of her mother’s boudoir had buffeted her mind and her mother’s voice had ambushed her thoughts; that mystifying day when she had said such frightening things. She sucked in her breath and for a fleeting second, teetered on the brink of a forgotten world, without warning, uninvited. Mama you scared me so much. I hadn’t known what to think … and now I am nineteen. What had it all been about? She felt she was floundering, out of her depth. Something was at the margin of her consciousness, but it was too elusive. She had the feeling this letter was pivotal, but was unable to apprehend its significance. Her emotions were being tossed every-which-way, but she had no control over this cascading torrent. There were times yet when grief could creep up, unexpectedly and crush her with its swift markers of misery. Her hand, still poised over the cup began to stir. Mal could not begin to speculate on the memories this letter had prompted, but it was obvious they were absorbing and wholly compelling. Eventually, the glassy look in those disturbed eyes began to clear.
Til Morning Comes Page 39
