The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  Rory would not go forward. ‘The floor is rotten, we could go straight through,’ he warned, catching hold of my arm protectively. ‘Don’t go any further, Martha.’

  The room, I was certain, had once been beautiful, the cornices and ceiling at one time boasted exquisite plasterwork but, in more recent times, the interior of the house had been slowly deteriorating. An old iron bedframe was stowed against the wall and a white medical cabinet was lying on its back in the middle of the floor, its glass shattered. Around it was the debris and dirt of a building left to its own devices, destroyed stealthily by the elements. Everywhere ivy was creeping in through the cracks in the walls.

  We left the lounge and walked around the edge of the hallway, where the floor looked at its most weight supporting then we headed towards the rear of the house. On the way Rory tapped on a single door and said, ‘Drawing Room once upon a time, then an office. We can’t go in there; the ceiling’s caved in,’ and then tapping on another, ‘Kitchens.’

  Then we were standing at the threshold of another room, its brightly lit interior was due to the row of ornate French doors leading to the garden. From there I could see the skeleton of a magnificent conservatory, the panes smashed or missing. The shards were lying like a bear trap across the floor, their deadly jagged points glinting as the sun, once again, came out and brightened up the whole place.

  ‘This was a morning room, somewhere to go whilst the servants cleaned the house,’ Rory told me. ‘The floor’s rotten here too, be careful. We can look at the conservatory from the lawn.’

  We turned back, and I looked up at the staircase and the splendour of the gallery going around the space above me. There were empty doorways leading off it, the doors all missing and some of the walls were punched through whilst elsewhere wallpaper had curled and fallen away.

  ‘Are the stairs safe?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re stone so they are safe, but the landings would give way. The rafters have come down in many of the bedrooms; there are only a few remaining to hold up the roof.’

  ‘Have you been up?’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not allowed to,’ Rory said, his mouth set in a firm line, a smile at each corner.

  ‘Why isn’t it plastered all over with Health and Safety notices?’

  ‘Because Kipper doesn’t do Health and Safety. He’s a bit old school.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it has many visitors,’ I said, turning back and looking towards the front door.

  ‘It doesn’t, those days of kids getting up to no good have gone. Social media and stranger danger has seen to all that and in various places he’s put up cameras, all fake, but the kids don’t know that. Also, if you look by the gate there’s a sign saying dog patrols are frequent.’

  ‘But they’re not?’

  ‘No, except for Scoot and me.’

  ‘He’d knock anyone flying at twenty paces,’ I said.

  ‘This is true.’

  ‘So why are you and Scooter up here so often? Are you Kipper’s security?’

  ‘No, we’re up here for a whole different reason. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Follow me.’ He turned right and opened the door to the kitchen hallway. I followed him, though I had no idea where he was taking me.

  18

  Alice and I were seated at one corner of the small table in the morning room. We had started using it for informal meals during the war when only one or two of us were home. It was very rare that three of us had dined together because George and I were never there at the same time.

  Alice was wearing a pale yellow dress, a pretty affair with a bow at the front and a simple white cardigan. She was in low spirits again, the brief excitement of Cécile’s visit had given way to an overwhelming sadness, the unrelenting grief of losing Henry that had carved so deep into her soul. It blighted us all. It was like trying to run away but finding one’s legs in treacle, like something in a nightmare, the pain always bound to catch us up.

  ‘Is everything all right with you, Mouse?’ I asked as I caught her gazing across the lawn.

  She sighed heavily. ‘I’m just wishing he was here, either with or without her, I wouldn’t care which, but I so desperately want him back.’

  I reached across and placed my hand on her arm. She still didn’t look at me but I could see the swell of a tear on her lower eyelid, and I felt for my handkerchief, ready to pass it to her.

  ‘I can’t see life ever being any fun again without him,’ she said. ‘It simply won’t be the same. Just imagine what Christmas and Easter will be like. We shall be so very dull and thinking of him all the time.’

  ‘I am certain he would want us to carry on and make the best of it, old girl.’

  Then I passed her the handkerchief as a tear rolled freely down her cheek. She apologised and I told her not to be silly and reassured her that we all felt deeply upset in spite of the brave faces we displayed to the world.

  She sniffed and dabbed her eyes. ‘That’s why I wanted us to have a party,’ she said sadly. ‘Just to cheer us up a bit. God knows, but until now, when have we three been together for more than a day in the last four years?’

  ‘It’s a splendid idea and so very important that the world goes on, the world Henry gave his life for,’ I said gently. ‘I think a party is a capital idea.’

  Of course, I was not being truthful, and thankfully just at that moment Mrs Hall arrived with our meal – a plate of rabbit stew with cauliflower cheese, last night’s leftovers being used up.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hall, and thank you for the coffee last night and the omelette today. I’m sure Madame Roussell appreciated your efforts to make her feel at home.’ Mrs Hall looked very pleased and was, I noted, brimming with pride because I had passed comment on her thoughtfulness. She said thank you to me and that it had been her pleasure to cater for the French lady.

  ‘You are a good man,’ said Alice as Mrs Hall departed. ‘I would never have noticed such things, I am such a goose.’

  ‘A very lovely goose!’ I told her, and gave her wrist a friendly squeeze.

  ‘Thank you,’ she giggled. Her mood was recovered and I was pleased, it would be a pleasant enough evening.

  ‘What will you do now, Mouse? Now that the war is finally coming to an end?’

  ‘I really have no idea, I can strip an engine, you know. I have muscles in my arms.’ She bent her elbow to show me, the muscle was barely noticeable but I made approving noises. ‘So a life of keeping house and knitting no longer appeals,’ she told me. ‘I might look at taking a job somewhere, but I really don’t know.’

  ‘I can see why you would want to do something different. A life at Lapston will seem very dull by comparison. I fear it will become tiresome for me in the long run.’ I spoke truthfully. ‘For the present, I am enjoying being returned safe and with those I love best.’

  ‘You should come riding with me tomorrow,’ said Alice. ‘We could hack out, no more than a gentle walk until you feel fitter, it can only help.’ Of course by fitter she meant the scars on my feet, but in particular my mental health. It seemed it was her current pet project to pester me about it. I stifled the unpleasant reply in my mind and instead poured us both some water.

  ‘I will, I will come out with you,’ I said at length. ‘It would do me good.’

  Alice was very pleased and we talked on matters of the house and the times we had taken tea with Augusta at this very table. She would relish telling us about her exotic orchids, now long since gone, and the gardens and how she and Sir Reginald had travelled and made acquaintances, through their love of horticulture, right across Europe.

  ‘I am sure that you could find an interest if we called on some of those acquaintances,’ Alice suggested. ‘There will be a good deal to do to recover this country, you just have to look at the East End, the rebuilding there will take decades.
They say the planners are already jostling for position.’

  ‘If they bother,’ I remarked. ‘I’d be inclined to raze the last remaining buildings to the ground and build a big area of parkland, a memorial to those who were lost, a green haven in the city for people to enjoy.’

  ‘I was talking to Johnny Gilder-Smith a couple of weeks ago and he told me the King and Queen were nearly killed when that bomb hit the Palace.’

  ‘Oh I doubt it. They were in the underground shelter, according to The Times.’ I had an unshakeable confidence in my chosen source of daily news.

  ‘He said they were sitting by a window and were very nearly killed as it shattered. One of the footmen was very badly injured.’

  ‘I think we might need to make allowances for Johnny’s sense of drama and propensity for a good story,’ I told her.

  Her face clouded a little. ‘Carrick, you always make fun of my friends. Johnny’s not all that bad.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said, laying my knife and fork down. ‘At least he’s still here, when so many of our dearest friends have gone.’

  We were both silent, our thoughts returning all too quickly to Henry.

  ‘I suppose you think Cécile is very lovely,’ Alice said at length. I knew there was no malice in the statement because she was not capable of such things and I responded stating that I liked our new friend very much and found her quite charming. My companion shifted in her seat so that she was facing me more, then she leaned in slightly. ‘I think so too, but I have to say…’ She looked down and her voice trailed off.

  ‘Have to say what?’

  ‘I can’t see her and Henry together, they just do not seem to be a couple.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ I was quite astonished.

  ‘I cannot accurately put it into words, but I always saw Henry with someone more colourful, less composed. Does that make sense?’

  I regarded her as I let the words sink in. ‘No, Alice, it does not. I think she is exactly his sort; refined, beautiful and très élégant.’ I said the final two words in French for effect. Alice looked at me, her eyes round and filled with fascination.

  ‘Why, Carrick, I do believe you are entranced by our French guest!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Alice. Now you do sound like a goose,’ I chided. It really was none of her business, and a step too far and, for her part, she looked suitably chastened and perhaps a little hurt too. ‘That is simply not true.’

  She bristled. ‘Then that is a good thing because I think George has fallen for her hook, line and sinker.’ I was incredulous, but she was quite obviously convinced in the matter. And then it dawned on me that she, with her female intuition, might even be onto something, and a cold shiver ran up the length of my spine, as the morning room suddenly grew inexplicably cold.

  19

  Rory and I were walking around to the rear of the house. The lawn there was a dry scrubby grass and patches of bald earth were like stepping stones scattered across it. They led to the high wall, and beyond it the river, and then my village.

  ‘This was a camomile lawn back in the day and that collection of fallen down buildings and rubble over there was once the stable block. But it’s been a long time since it was used for anything other than garden machinery and storing wood, the horses are long gone.’ Rory walked round to a terrace in front of the lounge windows.

  I stopped dead when I saw it.

  The knot garden was about forty metres square, equal to the entire length of the house. The box hedges had been designed to form four right–angled corners. Four smaller sections sat within those and each one was an inverted semi-circle surrounding a central, circular bed. The box hedging in the middle of that had been carefully shaped into an “A”. Inside all the gaps in the hedging were stunning white roses.

  ‘Breathtaking eh?’

  ‘It is beautiful, and so immaculate.’

  ‘It’s my dirty secret,’ Rory said with a big grin. ‘I sneak up here and maintain it. I cannot bear to think of it being lost like the house. I managed to recreate the “A” in the middle, “A” for Amshersts. I feel like I’m commemorating them, well in some small way.’

  ‘Oh Rory, it is stunning, just amazing.’ I moved across the border of lawn he so obviously cared for because it looked, for all the world, like it had been trimmed with nail scissors.

  ‘I planted tea roses, for the summer, at the far end there on the terrace fencing, I’m pretty certain they would have been grown there before. Beautiful things. A French horticulturist, Francis Meilland, sent cuttings to friends right across Europe because he knew the Germans were about to invade. It was said that they were flown out of France on the last available plane. They have named it “Peace” since then.’

  ‘How amazing.’ It was a breathtaking sight, a sea of white constricted by neat green hedges. ‘I think your garden is absolutely fabulous.’

  ‘I hoped you’d like it,’ Rory said happily. ‘But I also sort of knew you would.’

  ‘Why? I’m not a gardener. Put it this way, I’m not serious about it.’

  ‘Yes, but you are an inquirer and you appreciate beauty.’

  ‘That’s the journo in me,’ I said. ‘What you mean is you think I’m nosey and like things ordered and well laid out.’

  ‘A Virgo?’

  ‘Cancer actually, but please tell me you don’t believe in that rubbish.’

  ‘I don’t, but it’s funny how you meet people and can almost guess their star sign. It dates back to the pagans and the other ancient long dead religions that worshipped the sun gods. We’ve moved on and of course hijacked it all for our more recent religions, but I often wonder how close they were to nature and whether they knew and understood so much more than we do.’

  ‘I have to admit, standing here in the sun with the knot garden in front of me, I do wonder if we haven’t lost an awful lot.’ I was brushing my fingers on the soft petals of a rose; the scent was delightful.

  ‘Trust me, we have,’ he said earnestly. ‘But have you noticed how nature quickly reclaims everything; the ivy has entered the house and will soon loosen the stones and take back to earth what came from earth?’

  ‘Wow, that is deep,’ I replied turning to the house. The façade was covered in ivy and clutches of weeds that spilled out of downpipes, broken sills and ran right along the base of the building. ‘Isn’t it terribly sad, the slow deterioration of a place that once was filled with life?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Rory, but he wasn’t looking at the house, he was staring at me. I stole only the briefest glance at him, but he did not look away, instead it was me who turned away. ‘I think you’re like that too, Martha,’ he said.

  ‘An old house with weeds in my drainpipe?’ I said in mock indignation.

  ‘No, you are someone who was once full of life and now you are lost.’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. It felt like a make or break moment, and I decided I should speak guardedly. ‘I have my project. It keeps me busy and don’t forget, I’m now somewhat expert on the subject of my village.’ I was being sarcastic because I was nowhere near being an expert.

  ‘Which is good.’ He was standing some four feet away, hands on his hips, elbows out. ‘But you need something else in your life before your lights dim and the ivy does begin to grow.’

  I felt truly indignant. ‘I don’t know how you’ve picked that up in the very short time we’ve known each other.’

  ‘I realise I have only just got to know you and I don’t want to be rude, but it does show. When I met you, you looked sad but still purposeful, since then all I see is someone who’s…well, depleted.’

  I was speechless. I might have taken that from Becky or Bob or, for goodness sake, Steve, but this was a stranger who I barely knew. Yet as I was standing there with him an emergent power, an energy was unifying us. Even in that brief time together, we had
shared something tremendously special and that something was the dilapidated ruins of Lapston Manor and its enchanting secret garden.

  20

  I was up early. I had taken my sketchbook out and captured some loose drawings of the statues on the front lawn as they emerged from the morning mist. The house was like a ghost shrouded in a cloth of white, its walls shielding the ones I loved, and the one I dared to dream that I could love – if only George had not got himself in the way.

  They had returned after eleven the night before. I heard them coming up to bed. He wished her a very good night and I listened to her footsteps as they passed my door. Did I imagine that they stopped? How I wished she had knocked for me, even just to say goodnight.

  The sun was beginning to break through as I headed back, sketchbook under my arm and camera around my neck.

  She was sitting on the front step, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a black jumper and breeches, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them.

  ‘Alice! Am I late? I thought we said ten.’

  ‘We did. It is half past nine. I just wanted to see if you were aware of the time because I know that when you go off sketching you forget to eat, let alone ride out with your best girl.’ She was smiling and she was so enchantingly pretty when she did so. I hadn’t called her my “best girl” for a long while and it jolted me back to another time, another place.

  ‘My very bossy girl,’ I joked. ‘How did I ever manage all those years away without you telling me what to do?’ She tilted her head to one side and pulled a face. ‘If your face sticks like that you’ll blame me!’ She looked so attractive in the morning light, I told her to pose so I could take her picture.

  She pouted like a film star and I laughed. ‘Come on now, be serious.’