She had hardly finished scribbling down the address than Tom had left her, shooting out of her front door and starting to run and walk along the road that led out of town to the great estate owned by the Duke of Somerton, one of three great estates in which Mrs Posnet had told Tom that the Duke liked to pass his time, but which was nevertheless rumoured to be his favourite.
Muriel Posnet stared at her now closed front door. She had grown quite fond of young Tom O’Brien in the weeks and days since he had first arrived. And, although she herself was hardly rich, having seen that the boy was all but penniless despite his brave airs, she had been careful to pass on any leftovers from her kitchen, leaving them under covered plates in his downstairs windowless room, and allowing him to use her bathroom to wash: trying to give him some sort of chance, which, following his arrival at her house one rainy evening, she had soon realised few people would be prepared to do. And yet, to his credit, he was never late with his rent, and did without sheets and pillowcases on his narrow bed in order to save on the expense of laundry, sleeping instead in an old Army sleeping bag.
‘People are still a great deal poorer than the government likes to make out, despite what they say on the wireless,’ an old lady remarked out of the blue to Tom as he passed her on the road to the Duke of Somerton’s garden. ‘A lot poorer. Never mind the war, never mind that farming’s on its feet again, there are still people going hungry.’
‘I dare say.’
‘No, young man, I dare say, not you. You’re too young to have a say.’
Tom smiled wryly to himself as he walked faster and faster towards what he hoped would be a job. The old woman must have known just how poor he was. Not that he had not become really rather used to hunger in the past weeks: the feeling that his stomach was not part of his body, but a wild animal writhing inside him, longing for just a scrap to chew on. The familiar rack of anxiety, the sleepless nights as he waited for the post to arrive and his mother’s precious, hard-earned postal order enclosed with a quickly handwritten note hoping that he was well and would find a good position soon. Tom would have liked to have written back to her, but he would not, and could not afford the stamp until he had some kind of work, because not just every penny counted, but every halfpenny, every farthing. His mother would have to wait to hear from him, and the good thing was that the poor soul would know that until he had found another position, stamps and the telephone were out of the question.
He found the back gates to the great estate with ease, and walked up the drive, admiring the beautiful old silver birch avenue, the informal planting of the flowers beneath them, the brightness and calm of this beautifully tended world, a world whose splendour he could sense, even before he came across it.
‘Come for the job, have you?’
Mr Blakemore stood six feet four inches in his stockinged feet, so that Tom, six feet two in his cheap shoes, now raised his eyes to him.
But Mr Blakemore was not just a tall man, he was a big man, in every sense. Everything about him was large. His head large beneath a faded tweed cap, his ears like wings either side of large eyes, his nose vast and sporting a large wart, his lips large, which when he parted them showed large teeth.
At that moment Mr Blakemore was standing outside his favourite demesne, somewhere that Tom would very quickly come to realise was most definitely Mr Blakemore’s own little kingdom, namely the gardening sheds and buildings, greenhouses and cottages that housed him and many of the other workers on the estate.
‘Have you had any experience of this work before, lad?’
Tom considered telling a lie, and then rejected the idea, but only because he shrewdly realised that his landlady might well have told Mr Blakemore that he had none.
‘Not with young plants, no, sir. What I have done is to work on country estates in stables, in woodsheds, wherever needed, that’s what I have done.’
‘You’re a Hampshire lad, judging from your accent.’
‘It’s where I was born, sir, but I have migrated a great deal since then, my mother being a widow woman and cook, we have worked in many different places. Derbyshire, Surrey, Yorkshire, many places.’
‘Oh yes?’ Mr Blakemore looked uninterested. ‘My father was a Hampshire man. Any references, lad?’
Tom’s heart sank, but once again, after a fractional pause, he opted for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
‘No, sir. No references, and not likely to get any from my last position, I am sorry to say.’
At this Mr Blakemore looked more interested.
‘Not likely to, lad, and why would that be, may I ask?’
Tom looked straight into the older man’s eyes.
‘Because, sir, I had the misfortune to catch the master of the house in a place and position that I would not have wanted to catch anyone, sir, seeing that the master is a married man, sir.’
There was a short silence during which Tom had the feeling that he could hear birds from around the estate singing louder than before, that the warm spring breeze, unnaturally warm for the time of the year, was in fact tropical, and that the quiet of the moment would soon be shattered by Mr Blakemore’s voice. He’d ask him to walk straight back down the long avenue of silver birch trees, and so on to the old country road which would lead Tom eventually to his ground-floor room, to his army surplus sleeping bag, to yet more long treks around the town in search of work.
But then came the sound of a rumble from deep inside the big-boned man in front of him. It was a sound that seemed to come up from a wall of tweed-covered flesh, making its way to the top, to the large head that was suddenly thrown back with a ferocious force as Mr Blakemore laughed. It was a thunderclap of laughter, and Tom stared at him in astonishment as the laugh seemed to rumble on and on, reverberating between the cottage walls opposite, bouncing off the greenhouses and sheds, until like a real clap of thunder, it finally rolled merrily away towards the outer reaches of the estate.
‘Well, lad, my, my, my!’ Mr Blakemore wiped his eyes. ‘My, my, my, you have given me the best laugh of the month, surely you have. You have a way wiv you, I would say, and that’s the truth, and I like a lad wiv a way wiv him, I do. So, when would you like to start, lad?’
‘Right now, I’d say, sir, if you want me, right now.’
‘Follow me. You know hours, do you? Six in the morning to four in afternoon, an hour for dinner, and hop off home for tea, and that’s that until next morning. Saturdays same, Sabbath is off, naturally. After one year continuous, you have a week’s holiday of your choice, but taken in parts is preferable for His Grace as he has a mind to thinking plants can miss you if you turn your back on ’em too long.’
All the time Tom was walking behind Jim Blakemore he was observing the plants either side of the paths, the generous borders filled with spring colour, the espaliered trees, the statuary.
Mr Blakemore stopped suddenly, in the manner of a horse who has suddenly spotted something suspicious. He pointed at Tom’s shoes.
‘Shoes is no good for this work, lad. You need good thick boots, is what you need, and good thick socks and a waterproof jacket.’
They were standing in what was obviously the gardening office. Seed catalogues, lists, pencils on string, accounts books neatly stacked on shelves, with dates in gold on their spines, 1931, 1932, 1933, and so on until the war years when they grew slim as reeds and lacked gold spines, only to start again in 1946, growing fatter and fatter as more men returned to their previous occupations and the estate once again came back to life.
‘Here is an advance on the year, and nothing to be said, please. Get yourself some good thick boots, and socks, and a waterproof jacket, as I say. Don’t want you freezing to death. His Grace doesn’t like his gardeners suffering. He always says suffering gardeners lead to suffering plants.’
Tom stared at the money that Mr Blakemore had just handed him, realising that the older man must have guessed from the state of his clothes just how skint he was, and at the same time un
able quite to believe the amount of money he had just been handed. It was untold gold to him.
‘It’s all right, sir. I can manage till wages day,’ he said stiffly, handing back the money.
‘Course you can, lad, but I don’t want His Grace coming by and giving me a wigging when he sees you pricking out seedlings and blue with cold. He’s particular like, is His Grace. And likely to remain so, seeing he is unmarried.’
Mr Blakemore nodded his dismissal, while at the same time making sure to fold Tom’s hand around the precious five-pound note.
Tom turned, his hand still clasped around the paper money, realising as he did so that his stomach was telling him what his mind was only just beginning to believe, namely that he would be mad not to take the munificent advance on his wages.
It was only when he was halfway back down the silver birch avenue that his pace started to quicken to a slow trot, and then to a fast trot, until eventually he was running faster and faster towards the back entrance to the estate as he realised that if he reached his lodgings in time he would be able to tell Mrs Posnet that he would be in for supper, and what was more that he could pay her for a full dinner, not just depend on leftovers. And what was more dinner might even be steak and kidney pudding, it might even be roast lamb, it might even be boiled gammon with parsley sauce; any of those dishes might be on the menu. But whatever was on the menu, Tom knew that he was going to relish every mouthful, that at long last he was going to be able to gallop into Muriel Posnet’s kitchen and, whatever she was cooking, he would be able to inform her for the first time: ‘I shall be in for dinner.’
After that he could go into the town and buy himself a warm jacket, and a pair of thick wool socks, perhaps even two, and that being done, he would turn back to Mrs Posnet’s bed-and-breakfast establishment knowing that provided he was careful, hard-working and honest, life could actually start to get better for Tom O’Brien.
It was not getting better for Alexandra. Her grandmother, as Alexandra had dreaded she would, had died after many months during which she neither raged nor moaned at her granddaughter but lapsed into an awful silence which no visit seemed able to alleviate.
‘It was peaceful, dear, very. No doubt about that, very peaceful. And not at all inappropriate considering she was of such a good age.’
They were all standing about in desultory groups as people do after funerals. Alexandra nodded in agreement at grandmother’s oldest friend, Janet Priddy, at the same time realising that she must also be of a good age because she and grandmother had been thick as thieves for as long as anyone at Lower Bridge Farm could remember. Yet Mrs Priddy was still living in her own home, still had her own furniture around her, her hens and her ducks; she had not been shoved aside by her family, put into a hospital ward, and left to die.
‘I just wish I had been at her side, been with her, held her hand.’
Alexandra stared miserably around her. Seeing her palpable sadness Janet touched her on the arm.
‘You had just seen her, dear, that is all that matters. People who love you never want you to see them die, they wait for you to leave the room. It’s an old country saying that is, and I’ve never known it not to be true.’
A great shuddering sigh came up through Alexandra’s body. She did not know what was going to happen to her. She knew even less than when she had left the farm and moved into Kay Cullen’s cottage with Grandma.
Perhaps Mrs Priddy understood this because she went on, ‘Well, I dare say not much has changed for you, as far as I can see, dear. I mean you can just stay as you are, I should have thought, for you certainly can’t move back to the farm, not now that your father’s expecting a baby with this new wife. With her.’
Mrs Priddy gave a disparaging jerk of her head towards where Kay, now proudly and very evidently pregnant, was standing beside John Stamford, one hand slipped possessively through his arm, her stomach protruding through her grey flannel spring coat.
Alexandra turned back to Janet Priddy, looking reflective. It was true she could not go back to living with her father and Kay, but neither did staying on at the cottage hold much appeal, especially since her grandmother had gone. The whole point of the cottage had died, and now she had no one to visit daily, no one over whom she could try to fuss, making her scones and little biscuits, cakes and fresh sandwiches, all of which would be barely touched. Pear Tree Cottage seemed less appealing than ever, however cheery its furnishings.
‘I-I – er I ther-thought perhaps I will go and stay with my Millington cousins for a little, until I can make up my mind what to do. Grandma left me a hundred pounds, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know, dear, and how she did it on the money her son gave her, heaven, and heaven alone, must know. She scrimped and saved as she worked and slaved for that man, and in the end she was set aside as if she had never done anything to help him. I don’t know how she didn’t take his shotgun and shoot him, really I don’t. All those years without a holiday, all those years scrubbing and polishing, helping with the milking and that, and what did she get to show for it? Nothing, that’s what Betty got – nothing.’
Perhaps because Alexandra had heard this speech before she now pretended not to hear it at all.
‘The last time I was at Knighton Hall, the last time I was the-the-there, Mrs Millington said I was welcome at any time.’
‘Yes, but that was then, dear; some time ago. She might not feel so welcoming now. Besides, what about your studies? Shouldn’t you be thinking of staying on at school and taking your matriculation, or what they call A levels now, and such like? They all do nowadays, you know, even some of the girls.’
‘Ner-ner-no. I left school long ago, in my head, you know I did, Mrs Priddy.’
They both smiled at the truth of this.
‘Ner-no, I thought I’d join my Millington cousins, now that Grandma’s gone. Maybe I could help out on the estate and things like that, but it would be good to see Knighton again, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, but as I say, will they want you, dear? Will those Millington cousins of yours want you, do you think?’
‘Oh yes, I ther-think so. After all, my mer-mother was a Millington,’ she reminded Mrs Priddy with sudden pride.
‘Yes, dear, but that doesn’t always count for as much as you think, not in reality, at least that is what I’ve always found.’
‘My uncle too ter-told me I could cer-cer-come back at any time.’
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ Janet agreed, trying to leave the doubt out of her voice, because as she knew invitations were always fast and loose when no dates had been fixed, but something quite other when a hopeful guest tried to follow them up.
‘I think my uncle likes me to visit.’
‘Well,’ said Janet, still sounding doubtful, ‘that’s all right then. If you’re quite sure.’ She turned away, looking sad.
Invitations
Tom’s first gardening season had passed swiftly, a season during which he had become accustomed to the routine nature of the work on the old estate, when suddenly there was a flurry of activity up at the big house, and the gardening staff were warned to be on their best behaviour – the Duke’s family were coming down to spend the Easter holiday on the estate.
‘You must never look up, lad, not when they pass with their guests,’ Mr Blakemore reminded Tom. ‘Just keep your eyes down. No one likes being gandered at, least of all His Grace and His guests.’
Tom was glad to have been reminded of this, for the big house had hardly been occupied than His Grace, followed by a straggle of his guests, passed after luncheon one day. Tom stared hard at the weeds in his barrow, careful to put it between him and them; but he need not have worried for the guests wandered by him without so much as a glance, and as they did it occurred to Tom that had he been made of stone, as were so many statues in the park, they might have stopped to admire him, but because he was human, they politely ignored him.
‘And how is your Orchid House coming along, Bundle?’ a clea
r English voice asked as His Grace stopped to point out the newly planted arboretum in the distance.
The owner of the voice was so near to where Tom was once more stooped to his work that he could smell her perfume on the clean country air, and hear the rustle of her silk-lined skirt as she passed him.
‘I hope your men know how to be hard on them?’ the voice went on, laughing lightly.
‘Blakemore knew nothing about them when he started, now he knows everything. I told him charcoal, they love charcoal. Like dogs and their biscuits, the black ones are their favourites.’
More light-hearted laughter, then the fashionable party was gone, and walking in such a leisurely fashion that Tom was able to stare after them, mesmerised by the sudden strangeness of their rich clothing, of the women’s beautifully cut tweed suits, their hair carefully coiffured, their dogs trotting after them, never letting their mistresses’ well-heeled shoes move too far ahead of them.
Of course over his years of growing up he had seen photographs of such women, their perfect profiles staring from the magazines that had lain about the houses in which his mother had cooked, but he had never been so close to them, never realised how different they were even from pretty women such as Tasha Millington, the sort of women for whom his mother had cooked delicious meals, ever since he could remember. These women were something quite other, the ultimate in svelte sophistication, Europe their playground, wealth their ticket on the train of life; they exuded a kind of gloss and patina that Mrs Millington had never achieved. More than that they exuded confidence. It encircled them as if it were some sort of special grace, which perhaps it was.
‘His Grace would like it to be known that he is very pleased wiv all the improvements,’ Mr Blakemore announced later that Saturday, as the gardening staff all queued up for their wage packets.
The Magic Hour Page 12
