by Kelly Doust
‘Sorry about this, hon. I haven’t got a clue why they’re not opening.’
‘No drama. Let’s just walk, it’s not too far. We can come back for everything else later.’
Sylvie pushed with all her might, trying to open the gate further.
‘Ow!’ she yelped, pulling away. A rusty metal filing had chipped off and lodged itself firmly in her palm.
‘Ouch, you poor thing,’ Tabs said when Sylvie held it out to show her. ‘Just pull me through, go on!’
They strained and manoeuvred Tabs’s body – with her buxom chest and hips straining against her jumper – until she suddenly popped through to the other side.
Sylvie looked around. Even in the soft twilight she could see the weeds poking out from under the thin layer of gravel, and the unkemptness of the gardens. Despite Tabs linking her arm through hers, Sylvie couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that started to creep over her.
She pointed out the gatekeeper’s cottage, which radiated a flickering glow from the sitting room windows.
‘Gigi must be in.’
‘Should we pop in and say hi first?’ Tabs asked.
‘No. Let’s just keep going.’
Sylvie thought it likely that her grandmother would be meditating. She wondered how many hours she spent at it each day, cross-legged and ringing on her silly singing bowls, chanting Ommmm . . . Sylvie shook her head at the thought. Chanting was definitely not a spectator sport.
As they walked up the long drive, Sylvie stumbled over and almost fell, but Tabs righted her – the ground was an utter mess. Muddy pools of still, insect-ridden water reflected the grey skies overhead, and the silver birch trees lining the drive seemed to whisper and shift like a line of disapproving old men.
They rounded a corner and there it was, looming in the distance: Bledesford Manor, blocking out the last of the afternoon light. She tried to avoid a puddle but somehow tripped and missed her footing, sloshing in the puddle heavily.
‘Bugger!’
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, bringing Tabs along for company, knowing that Tabs would make everything better and would likely deflect some of the attention away from her, but now she felt as though she should have come by herself, ready to face the music alone. She felt her shoulders sag. Maybe they should have stopped in at Gigi’s for a fortifying cup of tea first.
What would her parents make of her turning up out of the blue, with Tabs in tow? Surely they’d be expecting her, at least at some stage? Sylvie couldn’t believe they hadn’t heard the news about her company going bust. The last time she’d been in England, she’d insisted that they come up to London to meet her for lunch at Claridges. She’d not even had time to go down to Bledesford, she remembered with a twinge of guilt – not when she’d been so busy establishing her label and running around to see all her stockists in London. But she vividly remembered that lunch, talking ten to the dozen to her parents about her excitement and plans for her business and the great success she’d been having in New York, talking constantly about herself, and not asking anything about them. She cringed now to think of it. She’d barely spoken to them since. And now here she was, returning like this . . . Sylvie kept walking up the driveway, but each step felt heavier than the last.
They approached the large turning circle. From a distance, the exterior of Bledesford had looked impressive and grand, but now they were up close Sylvie was shocked to see how much it had changed. There were several broken panes in the upper floor windows, temporarily covered over with cardboard and tape. Gargoyles and ruined sandstone blocks hulked around the mullioned windows, looking stained and ugly, even in this light. The whole place appeared like a sad, abandoned institution, with its huge oak door seeming almost impenetrable.
Sylvie felt her stomach flip. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked, maybe it was just her, maybe . . .
Beside her, Tabs took a deep breath and stopped, looking up at the house. ‘Sylvie, how long did you say it’s been since you’ve visited?’
‘Um, six, seven years?’
‘It’s . . . changed, hasn’t it?’ Tabs asked uncertainly.
‘You could say that, yes,’ Sylvie admitted. They both stood wordlessly, looking at the shabby façade.
‘They should have sold it years ago,’ Sylvie said bleakly. ‘I kept telling them to.’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Tabs, patting her hand. ‘Come on. It’s got to be done.’
Reaching out to ring the doorbell, Sylvie could almost feel the place sucking her in already, threatening to smother the life from her.
Courage, she told herself.
The deeply pitched bell rang out inside the hallway, echoing loudly. Barking and the scrabble of paws could be heard inside, and the door, despite its girth, thumped against its hinges.
The dogs were still pawing at the wood and whining when, a minute or two later, Sylvie heard another set of footsteps on the flagstone tiles, drawing closer. Eventually, the footsteps stopped and they heard a woman’s voice.
‘Get away with you, go on . . .’
The bolts on the door clicked open.
Her mother’s wide, sun-browned face peeked out through a crack in the door, before it swung open with a creak of protest. The dogs rushed towards Sylvie and Tabs, jumping up and licking their hands. A single word of surprise escaped Wendy: ‘Oh!’
Then, ‘Bloody hell, Blixen – get down, you silly thing. Go on, scoot.’
Tabs bent down to pat the dogs, laughing as Prancer, a low-slung Basset, slobbered excitedly all over her. Too late for Sylvie, though; Blixen, a huge shaggy Afghan, put a slash through her favourite Isabel Marant peasant blouse with one paw, jumping up to her chest and angling for what looked like a kiss.
Sylvie wasn’t particularly fond of either dog. They’d arrived on the scene not long after she left home. She found it hard not to resent the fact that her mother had never let her have a dog when she was small but then, when she’d moved out, had promptly gone and bought two.
Repositioning her handbag and wiping the drool on her palms against her trousers, Sylvie said drily, ‘Surprise!’
‘Sweetheart! But what are you doing here? And Tabs – oh my goodness, come on in! How lovely to see you both, darlings. You’ve completely shocked me, I wasn’t expecting you.’
Tabs shot Sylvie a dark look and Sylvie winced. She’d told Tabs she’d call her mum from the motorway when they stopped for a cup of tea on the way, but in the end Sylvie just hadn’t felt up to it.
A cloud crossed her mother’s brow. ‘Is something wrong, darling? Is everything okay? And why didn’t you come around the back?’ She stepped aside to let them in. ‘And is that cigarette smoke I smell? Oh, darling, do tell me you haven’t started up with that filthy habit, have you?’
So many questions, and they hadn’t even made it through the front door yet. Sylvie braced herself.
‘No, Mum, nothing’s wrong,’ she said, feeling Tabs nudge her sharply in the ribs. ‘I was well overdue for a visit, that’s all . . . I missed you.’
As Wendy busied herself locking the dogs in an anteroom off the hallway, Tabs locked eyes with Sylvie. Explain yourself, girl, her expression seemed to say, but Sylvie ignored her as her mother bustled back over to them.
Tabs turned to Wendy, smiling broadly. ‘So lovely to see you again, Mrs Dearlove.’
‘You too, dear. And please call me Wendy. Well, I must say it’s lovely to see you both,’ she repeated. ‘But . . . where’s your luggage? Surely you’ve brought some?’
‘We, ah . . .’ Sylvie cleared her throat. ‘It’s back in Tabs’s car, down by the front gates. We couldn’t get through – what’s going on?’
‘Oh, those . . . they haven’t worked in ages. We’ve been using the farm entrance instead. For the past couple of years.’
‘We also tried calling.’
‘Sorry – your father’s not in the house and I’ve been gardening outside. I just came in to check on the stove and heard the bell. And
Lizzie’s resting.’
Sylvie looked about the hall. No wonder her mother’s footsteps had echoed so loudly – it was almost empty. Where were the side tables, adorned with their Sèvres vases and the various tchotchkes Lizzie kept dotted about the place? And the suit of armour which, it was said, one of her long-dead ancestors had worn into battle, many centuries ago? Or even the lovely old grandfather clock, which tolled the passing of every hour with a loud, sombre gong? The second-rate Vermeer that hung on the wall over a handsome rosewood side table was missing, too.
‘You’ve done a bit of a tidy-up then, I see,’ Sylvie said.
‘What? Oh, yes . . . Come on in.’
Wendy appeared distracted. Covered in dirt and flour, she looked as dishevelled and shambolic as usual, wearing rolled-up drill trousers and her customary white linen shirt. ‘Early settler chic’, Sylvie called her mother’s look. She did look tired, though. Older too, Sylvie thought, the lines around her eyes more deeply etched than she remembered.
‘Let me have a look at you, darling,’ Wendy said, recovering herself, and cupped Sylvie’s face in her hands. Brushing a lock of hair out of her daughter’s eyes, she gave a small wry smile. ‘Well, I like your attempt at farm attire, darling. Very fetching. Though Tabs has a somewhat more practical idea.’
Clever, sensible Tabs was wearing a pair of jeans, wellies and a thick cable-knit jumper. Sylvie saw herself through her mother’s eyes for a moment: the dusky pink quilted kimono jacket, layered over billowing silk gaucho pants and her now-ruined Isabel Marant blouse, arms clinking with jewelled brass bangles. Her hair, which she usually wore out to her shoulders, was piled up on top of her head in an elaborate up-do, giving her a precious few extra inches.
‘You’re so pale, darling. Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m fine, Mum. Where’s Dad?’
Truth be told, Sylvie was feeling utterly exhausted. The jetlag had finally caught up with her, along with the lingering after-effects of their night out; she was almost dead on her feet.
‘In the barn.’
‘What’s he doing there?’ Sylvie asked, puzzled. ‘And where’s the Vermeer? And the grandfather clock?’
Wendy smiled tightly. ‘Gosh, there’s so much to catch up on!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘So, what have you two been up to? I expect you’ve been meeting up with old friends in London?’
‘Oh, yes,’ chimed in Tabs. ‘We took Sylvie out on the town to cheer her up. She needed a good night out.’
Sylvie shot her a look.
‘Good, good,’ Wendy said. ‘But what’s this? Oh, Sylvie, you didn’t?’ she exclaimed, grabbing hold of Sylvie’s wrists and twisting them up gently towards the light.
She examined the small star tattoos making their way up Sylvie’s arms.
Sylvie had been hoping that she’d have at least a day before her mother noticed, but now realised that was stupid. Wendy’s eagle eyes never missed a thing.
She pulled away. ‘Mum, please don’t start.’
Wendy took a deep breath. ‘I suppose they’re only small,’ she said, her brow furrowed.
‘It’s so lovely to be back at Bledesford, Wendy,’ said Tabs, diplomatically changing the subject. ‘Gosh, it’s been a while. The valley’s looking lovely.’
‘Ha! Kind of you to say, Tabs. Yes, the valley is as beautiful as ever, but the rest is clearly a mess and there’s no need to sugarcoat it. I’m afraid there’s never enough cash to fix everything on our to-do list . . . Where’s your fellow then, darling – have you brought him along with you?’ asked Wendy, eyes squinting out past them, scanning the drive just in case before she closed the door. ‘We’re all dying to meet him. Lizzie especially.’
‘Ben?’ Sylvie flushed. ‘He’s . . . ah . . . Sorry, yes, he’s just very busy at the moment, so much work on. He might come over for a visit soon, though.’
Ben had in fact very much wanted to come with her when she told him she was going home for a while. They’d been having breakfast in his Upper West Side apartment, and she remembered how cold her feet had felt against the kitchen tiles when she’d told him she was going home for a couple of weeks.
‘I’d love to meet your parents, babe,’ he said, grinning widely, his Texan accent still strong after so many years in Manhattan. ‘I bet they’re so English, just like you.’
‘I guess so,’ said Sylvie slowly, drawing up her feet and tucking her knees under her T-shirt. ‘Actually, Mum’s Australian, although she’s been living in the UK for the past thirty years. She’s practically a Brit. And Dad’s . . . well, Dad is an Englishman through and through.’
‘I didn’t know you were half-Aussie. My little koala!’ He leaned forward, putting a heavy hand on her knee. ‘Listen, I could get some time off work, come with you to London, meet your parents. You could show me around, I could see where you grew up . . . What do you say?’
‘Um, maybe,’ Sylvie said vaguely. Somehow the whole idea of Ben with her in London – earnest, loving, sincere Ben – seemed all wrong. She stood up to take her coffee cup to the sink. ‘I thought it might be better if I go by myself. You know, break the news to them about the business . . .’ She stopped, looked down at her hands, swallowed.
His brow furrowed in sympathetic understanding. ‘Sure thing, hon. Take all the time you need.’ He came up beside her and, after pausing a tactful beat, put his arms around her waist, nuzzling into her neck. ‘What’s say we go back to bed now, babe? And later, we could give Josh and Becky a ring, see if they want to do brunch?’
‘Um, maybe not, I’m feeling a bit wretched,’ Sylvie said, slipping out of his encircling arms and letting the implication pass. She hoped he didn’t notice the telltale red flush across her cheeks.
She felt conscious of her blush now, as her mother looked worriedly into her eyes.
‘Well, of course, that’s fine. It would just be nice to meet him at some point,’ said Wendy. ‘Ah, can I ask, darling, how long do you think you might be staying? It’s just that . . .’ She paused. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll wait for your father to tell you.’
‘What?’ Sylvie asked. ‘What is it?’ She felt a prickle of unease.
‘Let’s not hang about in the hall all day, shall we? Come on, come on through,’ Wendy said, bustling them on.
‘Sorry, Wendy, do you mind if I have a little rest first?’ Tabs asked. ‘I’m knackered – the drive’s taken it out of me, and I should let you both catch up. I might just lie down for a moment and join you a little later. Is that okay? Is there somewhere I can rest?’
‘Of course, dear,’ Wendy said, unperturbed. ‘Go on upstairs – you can rest in Sylvie’s room before I make up a bed. You do remember where it is, don’t you?’
Tabs nodded.
‘I’ll come bring you some fresh linen soon, but why don’t you pull down the comforter and lie on that? Or you could take a bath? The one on the landing has some clean towels, I think.’ Wendy frowned. ‘Sorry. The rooms are a bit of a mess. We don’t use them much these days, that’s all. I can’t tell you how hard it is keeping up the housekeeping on a place like this, not when we manage it all ourselves. Robin and I only go into a few of the rooms these days, and Lizzie’s practically bed-bound.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll manage,’ said Tabs, shooting Sylvie a meaningful look. ‘A bath sounds delicious,’ she said, heading up the stairs. ‘See you later on.’
So much for moral support, Sylvie thought, watching Tabs’s retreating back. It looked like she was on her own.
‘Come on, darling,’ said Wendy, leading her out towards the passage. ‘We’ll ask your father if he can fetch your car.’ She put her arm around Sylvie, hugging her close. ‘Goodness, I’ve missed you,’ she said fiercely, brushing at the corner of an eye.
Sylvie looked up at her mother in surprise. Wendy was as physically solid as she was dependable, and certainly not prone to overt displays of emotion. By comparison, Sylvie was dreamy and fine-boned; she got that from her father’s side. They were all
small, the Dearloves. Even her dad, who looked just like Pan, companion to the nymphs. Thin, petite and dark-haired, Sylvie looked nothing like her mother, except perhaps around the eyes, which were the same shade as Wendy’s: hazel, and flecked through with gold.
She hugged her mother back and felt the solid weight of her body pressing against her. For a moment she let herself feel simply happy to be home, but it was only a moment’s relief – if only things weren’t so complicated.
Eyes drawn to the massive oil painting above the landing, Sylvie was relieved to see it was still hanging in its place beneath the large, multi-paned window – a huge portrait of her great-great-grandmother, Rose, wearing a silvery lace gown with a drop waist, shot through with sequins and pearls, and with two small girls looking lovely but grave on either side of her. They were both dressed in matching long white dresses with peach sashes and short, puffed sleeves. One of the girls, Victoria, was a miniature version of her mother: slight, sweet and fair with lips like a cupid’s bow and her mother’s shining blonde curls, while the other, her great-grandmother Lizzie, had the dark, heavy-lidded eyes and generous mouth of her father, Archibald.
Rose Dearlove was only thirty when the portrait was finished – The same age I am now, thought Sylvie with a twinge of dismay – but she looked commanding in that haughty, elegant way of an older wealthy woman who knew her place in the world. Right at the top of the pecking order. Curiously, she was a full fifteen years Archibald’s junior. Bedecked in shining blue sapphires, Rose exhibited a cool grace that Sylvie always found intimidating. She had made the Dearlove name famous for her perfect beauty, her lavish wardrobe, her intelligence, the glittering salons she ran – and her tragic early death. She also had a reputation for being mercurial. In the stories handed down through the family over the generations, she was dauntingly intelligent in one moment and seductively charming the next. Sometimes said to be vain and preening, she was unfailingly courteous to everyone, regardless of class or rank, which earned her a great many friends and admirers. Even more were jealous of her success. ‘Doing a Dearlove’ became accepted shorthand in the 1920s for pulling off a stunning coup – whether it was luring the prime minister of the day to one of her salons, or having a hairstyle, a particularly daringly bobbed cut, named after her.
