by Kelly Doust
‘Wolf’s Bane. Or was it Dragon’s Blood?’
‘Both, remember? We made two, mixing them up with cooking brandy, pond water and eye of newt,’ he laughed. ‘And you put some nasty-looking skull and crossbone motifs on the back.’
‘That’s right,’ Sylvie groaned. ‘I hope no one who bought them actually thought they worked. Maybe the fact I was ten and you were eight gave us away? But we promised them “evil potion for evil deeds” – we might have been sued for false advertising. Unless they worked!’
Passing the duck pond – empty now, save for its muddy floor and bulrushes – Sylvie realised she felt immediately comfortable with Nick, despite not having seen him for so long. That’s the thing about old friends, she thought. You just pick up right where you left off. It had been the same with Penn and Tabs. It was such a relief. She tried to remember whom among her friends in New York she’d had this kind of easy rapport with. Conversations there always seemed to have a brittle, manic quality to them – they were all about launch parties, new restaurants and the latest club. And about work, work, always work. In this secular age, Sylvie reflected, work seemed to be the new religion.
Nick was quiet and calm, walking beside her and taking things in. He listened, nodded his head, making an occasional insightful comment or suggestion that felt spot on, and she realised, with surprise, that her mother had been right – he wasn’t just her tearaway friend from the past, he was in fact exactly the person to help. He proposed training some existing vines along the orangerie wall to cover the more obvious cracks, and also thought they should buy a truckload of gravel to fill the worst of the potholes on the drive. ‘I almost lost my transmission back there . . . You want people coming up to see the place by car, not be tired from walking up the hill on foot.’
Passing through the formal gardens, they made their way to the orchard, where they walked through the grassy avenue between the overgrown trees, the branches almost touching overhead. It was cool here in the dense green shade, with dappled sunlight filtering through, and she had that familiar sense of Bledesford being caught in a time warp, of roses like those in the tale of Sleeping Beauty, thorny and beautiful, entwining themselves for a hundred years around the forgotten castle that was her home.
‘Oh, what a beautiful piece,’ Nick said, stopping at a huge Grecian urn set on a plinth at the end of the avenue. He ran his large callused hands over its curves gently. ‘See how it so perfectly acts as a focus for the eye from the end of the avenue. Whoever designed this garden knew what they were doing.’
‘I suppose so,’ Sylvie said vaguely, looking around. ‘I don’t know who designed it. Dad might, though . . .’
‘Mmm,’ said Nick thoughtfully. ‘Could be worth finding out.’
Nick and Sylvie finally doubled back around the manor, arriving outside the greenhouse. It was one of the prettiest buildings in all of Bledesford, and Robin had told her it had once been the estate’s pièce de résistance. While Bledesford Manor itself was long and block-like, designed to be imposing in its structure, the greenhouse was a symbol of late nineteenth-century excess with its curling, ornate architecture, standing out in all the pictures and paintings like a jewel in Bledesford’s crown.
In need of several coats of paint and new glass now (and that was just for starters), the greenhouse’s elegant Victorian charm was still obvious in the delicate iron fretwork surrounding its doors and windows.
‘You know, what they were doing here was quite ground-breaking,’ Nick said thoughtfully, peering in through the grubby windows. He curled his hand around the door handle to open it, but it was locked. They peered inside, unable to see much beyond overturned pots and bushy, straggling ferns. Shafts of light struggled in through broken panes in the roof.
‘How so?’ Sylvie was curious.
‘They were growing some amazing specimens in here, by all accounts – doing some really amazing grafts, and nurturing plants that would never have survived the journey back to England in previous centuries. The gardeners must have been incredible. They poached a lot of the staff here from Kew Gardens, apparently.’
‘Where did you hear that from?’
‘My grandmother told me, when I was a kid. I think her dad was an undergardener here when he was young.’
Sylvie wanted to ask Nick more, but just then Wendy appeared around a corner, pushing Lizzie in the wheelchair.
‘Nicholas!’ called Lizzie amiably. ‘Heavens, I haven’t seen you for years. Almost didn’t recognise you.’
‘How lovely to see you – it’s been such a long time,’ Nick said, leaning down to give Lizzie a kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, Wendy.’
‘What nice manners,’ said Lizzie, patting his hand approvingly. ‘Not, I have to say, like some others of your generation. What are you both up to?’
‘We were just taking a look around . . . Sylvie’s asked me to help tidy things up a bit. I’ve got a bit of time on my hands at the moment, and it’ll give the two of us a chance to catch up,’ he said.
Sylvie breathed a sigh of relief at Nick’s quick thinking. She’d told him that under no circumstances was he to mention anything to Lizzie, who was still unaware that they were readying the place for sale.
‘What a wonderful idea – Bledesford could certainly do with some sprucing up,’ Lizzie said.
‘Gives me something to do while I’m here,’ Sylvie said brightly. ‘We should probably take a look inside. Do you have the key to the greenhouse, Mum? I didn’t realise it’d be locked.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Wendy said, pulling out a keychain from her pocket, sensibly attached to her belt with a handful of other keys. ‘Here it is,’ she said, holding up the large brass key.
She turned it in the lock and pushed open the door for Sylvie and Nick. There was a rustling sound as a bird or an animal, upset by their intrusion, scuttled away. Lizzie flinched in her chair. They waited just a moment, before peeking their heads around the frame to peer inside. All was silent in the dusty gloom.
‘My mother loved the greenhouse, but I always found it claustrophobic in here, almost suffocating,’ Lizzie said with a shudder.
‘Oh, Lizzie, I’ve been meaning to ask,’ said Sylvie, the thought just occurring to her. ‘We found an amazing shift dress up in the attic, a grey one with silvery beads. It must be from the twenties or thirties, I think. Can I bring it down to show you? It’s absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Hmm, I think I know the one,’ said Lizzie. ‘Deep neckline? Flapper beads? That was my mother’s. She was wearing it for that midsummer ball we had here, back in, oh . . . 1927 or ’28, it must have been.’ Lizzie’s face suddenly took on a strange expression, and she shivered slightly in her chair.
Picking up on the old lady’s change of mood, Wendy shot them a concerned look over her head. ‘Lizzie, how are you feeling, dear?’ She leaned down. ‘Perhaps we should head back inside. Let’s get you something to eat, shall we? It’s almost suppertime.’
‘I’m not a halfwit, Wendy. I do know when I’m hungry, and I’m not hungry in the slightest!’ Lizzie snapped irritably.
‘Even so, I think we should just—’
‘Oh, for goodness sake! I didn’t want to come poking around down here anyway – it was your idea. Leave the greenhouse alone,’ she said crossly to Sylvie and Nick. ‘It’s too dangerous. You don’t know what’s been living inside here all these years, growing like weeds . . . There could be noxious fumes.’
‘Don’t worry, Lizzie,’ Sylvie said quickly, surprised at the little burst of temper. ‘We’re just going to take a quick look inside.’
‘Don’t touch anything!’
‘We won’t, I promise,’ she said, confused by Lizzie’s strong reaction.
‘Okay, dear, let’s leave them to it then, shall we?’ Wendy asked, turning the chair around before Lizzie could respond.
‘What was all that about?’ Nick asked, shooting Sylvie a surprised look.
‘No idea! Bad memories, I think . . . Let’s just duck i
nside quickly, shall we? Take a look,’ she said, watching her mother wheel Lizzie back towards the house as Nick stepped in through the door. She heard him call to her from inside.
‘Wow. You were right about it being in a bit of a state!’
Sylvie followed him in.
‘It’s so much worse than I remember . . .’ She trailed off, looking around and wrinkling her nose at the damp, sickly-sweet smell assailing her nostrils. ‘I seem to be saying that a lot lately.’
There was something rotting inside – a dead animal, probably – and the stench was overpowering now she’d stepped in from the fresh air outside. Rows upon rows of smashed pots and empty planters surrounded them, as though someone had deliberately trashed the place. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected, but not this. Nobody had been inside the greenhouse in years, but it was like a place that time had entirely forgotten.
‘What a mess,’ Sylvie said, carefully picking her way over to join Nick. ‘Do you think we should just leave it? How on earth can we fix this up in time? It’ll need a couple of skips, surely, just to get rid of everything.’ The familiar, cold stirrings of hopelessness overtook her. ‘Maybe we should just focus on the outside instead?’
Nick was standing with his arms crossed. Wearing a ripped old pair of faded blue Levis, with a tight black shirt that showed off his muscled biceps, he looked tanned and capable.
‘Can I be honest with you, Sylvie?’ he asked, frowning slightly. ‘Most people understand what they’re taking on with a property like this – most people. They understand there’s going to be loads to fix up, but they fall in love with the romance of it all. But other people can only see the rot and damage – they want to tear these places down and start again. Sometimes, making small cosmetic improvements can help. We’re all susceptible to a pretty face, after all,’ he said, grinning at her, his childhood goofiness suddenly surfacing.
‘But not if you attract a foreign investor,’ he said, serious again. ‘There are a few billionaires buying up these old places at the moment, and they want to change everything. If you get one of them interested, it’s likely they’ll tear most of it down and turn it into townhouses. It’s going to be a complete waste of your parents’ money, and I’d hate for you to pour so much in, only for them to ruin it anyway . . . Do you remember Scatterley Hall?’
‘Of course – it’s only a few miles away,’ Sylvie said.
‘Well, I helped them get it ready for sale.’
‘I know, Mum told me. That’s why I called – we thought you might be able to help us do something similar for Bledesford.’
‘And I thought you felt bad about not being in touch for so long,’ he teased, and Sylvie hung her head, shamefaced.
‘But, seriously – did she tell you what happened to the place?’
‘No. What do you mean?’
‘Some crazy rich guy bought Scatterley. A businessman from China.’
‘So? What happened?’ Sylvie had assumed the sale had been to a wealthy London family, or even a rock star or fashion designer – there were plenty of them moving in around the area, drawn to the delights of Glastonbury and the beauty of the surrounding countryside. Alice Temperley had a house nearby, as well as Danny Goffey of Supergrass and his wife, Pearl Lowe. Plus the nearby villages were teeming with newly renovated gastropubs and expensive boutiques, further attracting the hip crowd.
‘He ended up moving the place back to the Far East. The whole lot of it. An entire estate, brick by brick. Even the gatehouse . . . It’s a private park now, but it’s pretty much abandoned. They made a bloody mess of the landscape, I can tell you, and the earthmovers destroyed what little beauty the grounds had left. Scatterley Hall’s been plonked down smack bang in the middle of Guanzhou Province, I’m told, and that’s not the worst bit: it’s like bloody Disneyland. They’ve turned it into an amusement park! With rides and stalls and everything . . . Can you believe it?’
‘Nope,’ Sylvie gulped, feeling suddenly queasy. Surely it wasn’t possible that the same thing could happen to Bledesford? If Nick didn’t look so serious, she wouldn’t have believed him.
‘R-really?’
He nodded.
Why hadn’t Wendy told her about Scatterley when they’d discussed it earlier – surely her mother knew?
‘What are you thinking?’ Nick asked, watching her closely.
Sylvie laughed, shaking her head. ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice . . . surely the same thing won’t happen here.’
In the end, what difference would it make? It would belong to the new owners, to do with as they wished. All she cared about was that they made a future for themselves, rather than drown here in the quicksand of Bledesford.
It was worth a shot.
18
Lizzie: Bledesford, 1928
‘Yes, there’ll be dancing, my darling – it’s a midsummer ball – but not for you, I’m afraid. Not tonight. This is a grown-ups’ party, Lizzie. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Brushing her soft finger waves with a comb, Rose was perched at the edge of her seat in front of the dressing table. So many pretty bottles, made from varying shades of green and brown glass to opaque, milky white porcelain, containing various polishes and perfumes, crowded the walnut surface. Lizzie coveted them, longing to reach out and try the scents and potions on her fingertips and cheeks.
Lizzie was disappointed. She loved seeing the women dance when they hosted parties at Bledesford. The way they laughed and tossed their heads back, their dresses shimmering and glittering as they moved in time to the music, the band tapping out tunes. And the men, so smart in their crisp black suits, smiling and leading the women into ever-frenzied motion, their usually slicked-back hair flopping down in their faces, sweat sheening on their foreheads as they laughed and smoked and twirled on fast feet.
And she particularly liked seeing her parents dance. Her parents were always so much easier together when they danced, the tense energy between them directed into a kind of balance, or a truce of sorts. They made such a striking couple – Mama so slight and graceful in her sparkling silk shifts, and Farve so tall, handsome and powerful, with that dark hooded brow and receding hairline of his.
Lizzie fiddled with the end of her sash. ‘But must you go? Can’t you stay with us?’ she wheedled.
Rose shook her head. ‘Tomorrow, my darlings, we shall spend all day together. You can help me in the greenhouse,’ she said, checking her reflection and making a minor adjustment to her hair.
Lizzie frowned. ‘I don’t want to.’ She liked helping Mother – it made her feel important. But she hated the greenhouse now. Hated the hot, scented air, which made it difficult to breathe, and Henry always nearby, making her mother laugh.
‘Why not, darling?’ Rose looked around, surprised. ‘What’s the matter? You always used to love gardening with me.’
‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Lizzie sullenly, not meeting her mother’s eye.
‘Want a cuddle!’ Victoria demanded, climbing up onto her sister’s lap. She was sucking her thumb noisily.
‘Come here,’ Lizzie said, grateful for the distraction and the warmth of her sister’s chubby little frame pressing against her chest. She didn’t want to think about what she’d seen in the greenhouse last month; it made her feel ill. She put her arms around Tori to stop her toppling off her lap. ‘Don’t suck your thumb, Tori. Oof! You’re getting so heavy.’
‘Oh, darlings.’ Rose paused, looking at them both in the mirror, putting down her brush. ‘You look so beautiful . . . I hate to leave you.’
Lizzie looked up and was surprised to see tears sparkling in her mother’s eyes.
‘It’s all right, Mama. It’s just for tonight. We’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’ Rose smiled, blinking back the tears. ‘Silly me.’
There was a knock at the door and Lizzie could see Rose’s hand stiffen on her brush. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘It’s just me, ma’am,’ said Gabi, one of the maid
s, putting her head around the door. ‘Mr Walker said you wanted these clothes brought down from the attic?’ She dipped her chin to indicate the pile of clothes she was holding.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Rose. ‘Just put them in the dressing room, please, Gabi.’ She turned back to the mirror and started carefully applying powder to her face.
‘What do you want those for?’ asked Lizzie curiously.
‘I’m going to Paris next week, remember, with Lady Clarissa and Birdie? For my birthday. I wanted some of my special things.’
‘Lady Clarissa,’ said Lizzie, making a face. ‘You know Daddy doesn’t like her. He calls her a parvenue . . . What’s a parvenue, Mama?’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Rose, powdering her nose. ‘He’s being rude because she married into her money. But your father is too quick to judge. She might be a tad too bohemian as far as your father’s concerned, but I like her.’ She turned around. ‘And did I tell you, sweetheart, that Birdie is back from Africa? She arrived this afternoon and has presents for the both of you. You’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘Birdie!’ squealed Tori in excitement, plopping off Lizzie’s knees and landing on the plush new carpet, the rosy colour of peach blossoms, which Father had installed as a present to Mother, before tottering towards the open drawer of the dressing table and pulling out a string of pearls.
‘Oh, Victoria, do be careful!’ Rose said. Liberating the expensive pearl necklace from her daughter’s grip, Rose dangled it aloft.
Tori’s face turned beet red, before she exploded in a burst of tears.
‘Mine!’ she wailed, straining to reach it.
‘No,’ Rose said firmly. ‘You’ll strangle yourself, darling.’ Rose deposited the necklace in a top drawer and shut it, before sitting down again, wearing only her slip under a dressing gown, and gathering Victoria to her, burying her face in her neck, breathing her in. ‘My sweet baby . . .’
Squirming in her mother’s arms, Tori wriggled free and sat heavily down on the floor. ‘Mine,’ she sniffed.
