by Jan Harvey
‘Have a rest. I’ll see you for dinner. I will be back by six.’
I lay on my bed, groaning, I had vomited as soon as I reached my room and the swill of whisky inside me made me feel wretched. I called for Grant and he fetched me some Angostura Bitters and a bread roll. I needed to mop up the alcohol in my stomach. I had asked for some coffee too but Mrs Hall had sent the message that there was none left and instead she had made mint tea with leaves from her herb garden.
I felt better at six. I had slept soundly but I found myself fixated on Cécile. I could not get her out of my mind, nor could I believe that between Sunday and that day, she had not made contact with me. She had Peterson’s address, I had made sure of it, but it seems she had not given me a moment’s thought in her plans to return to Lapston. I was confused and at a loss with what was running through my mind. The faint tap on the door came just as I was falling asleep. I expected that it would be Grant coming to straighten up my room for me and I realised it smelt quite awful. My suitcase was open at the end of the bed, the two presents lying on the top.
It was her.
I could hardly believe it, for she was standing there before me, her eyes searching mine under those lashes, just as before. Her lips were parted slightly, the teeth white. She looked so very beautiful.
‘I just arrived back and heard from Grant that you have been unwell. I trust it is not the–’
‘No, I have been under the weather,’ I said. ‘Some sort of chill, change of season, I expect.’
‘I thought so, is there anything I can bring you?’ She was charming, warm, caring, the French accent molten like caramel. I could not equate her with the creature who had been naked before me in my studio. In fact I felt ill at ease about it all and could find no words. She lowered her voice. ‘I fear I have upset you.’
I had no idea what to think. I stammered a half-hearted reply before turning to see the present on top of my case.
‘I have something for you.’ I turned from the door, suddenly anxious because she stepped inside my room. Could she smell the vomit? It didn’t seem so; there was no reaction from her. In fact, she seemed to pay no heed to the state of the room at all.
‘For me?’ she said with surprise. I picked up one of the packages from my suitcase, wrapped in a thin pinkish paper, a small white bow on the top. I stood only inches away whilst she opened it, her neat red nails working at the bow deftly. She pulled out the daisy brooch. ‘Why, Carrick, how beautiful, but why me? It is Alice’s birthday.’
‘I wanted you to have something, a gift from me,’ I told her. ‘And I have brought the drawing. I turned back to my suitcase and unhooked the false lid from where I produced the small marbled folio with the drawing inside. She took it from me, still holding the daisy in her hand.
‘You are very kind.’ She kissed me and I was lifted by the softness of her cheek brushing against mine and once again, I gave my sad and injured heart to her.
35
‘Tell them where they can stick it,’ Steve said when I told him about Tom. ‘Honestly, you give people your time and hard bloody work and they snipe at you like this. It’s not on. Tell them they can stick it where–’
‘I can’t, love,’ I said truthfully. ‘I’m enjoying finding out all this stuff about the village. Last night I was reading about a highwayman, Jed Sawyer. He escaped the law by making his horse jump the huge tollgate at the top of the hill. There’s all kinds of things like that.’
‘Yes, but I can’t have you coming home crying.’ Steve had a twitch under his eye, when he was angry it flickered beneath the skin.
‘I was just feeling low,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t been the same since I finished work, I really miss it.’
‘Then tone it down a bit, do it exactly as they ask and sod the rest. Or write your own book, you’re perfectly capable. You could write about that big house, tell its story right up until the present day and this fish chap. You never know where that might lead.’
‘It’s Kipper. He’s a builder,’ I said miserably. ‘And I know I’m being silly.’
Steve circled me in his arms, his strength reassuring and solid. I had no idea what had come over me but I had Steve, my rock, to turn to and that was all I needed.
‘I felt so let down,’ I whispered into his chest. ‘All this work I’ve done making sure it’s all readable and presented properly. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going since…’ My voice drifted away.
‘Make yourself a cup of tea, sit down with the paper and switch off from it all. We’re talking first world problems here, not life and death, darling.’
The door banged shut as he left, his keys jingling in his hand – they gave him the freedom to a life outside. I sat looking out of the window, sipping herb tea and looking at the last blossoms of my raspberry bush before they finally fell into the gravel and their oblivion.
I was struggling. I had gone from editor to nonentity in just a few short months. I’d kept everything from Steve, but he had seen my unguarded moments and used words like moping and moody. That wasn’t the half of it, inside I felt that any inner respect I had for myself had curled up like plastic in a fire, shrivelling from the outside in.
I shivered; it was cold again. The few weeks of warm weather had vanished and it was dark and cold under a sullen sky. There was a thump as the mail hit the mat, much earlier than usual and I went to collect it. I found Inca sniffing it suspiciously.
‘Okay, good girl. I’m sure it’s safe,’ I told her.
It was an A4 envelope from Bob, the address written in his very scrawny writing. I spread the papers all over the table. The copies were good, finally it seemed someone in accounts had agreed to a new copier.
There were four pages, sepia and mono photos sat between closely set type. It’s always remarkable to look back at handset type.
The article was written by a man of course, female journalists in the late fifties and early sixties still being a rare thing. His name was Michael Myere. The name rang a bell and I distantly recalled him coming in for a party to commemorate the firm’s thirtieth anniversary. It would have been in the eighties. He was a stooped old man by then with a shock of white hair crowning a pink pate. He walked with a zimmer frame and had flecks of spittle in the corner of his mouth.
I shuddered. He must have been only seventy, maybe a touch over. I told myself not to think about it and, besides, fifty, they say, is the new forty.
The writing was terribly old school, even the word tomorrow was still hyphenated, “to-morrow.”
“Lapston Manor, is a tribute to a lost age,” it began and immediately it set out the list of forgotten fashions and customs from days gone by. I read down to the fourth paragraph, where the first mention of the owners came in. There were various stories and notes, and the reiteration of the rumour that Kaiser Wilhelm II had visited the house. There was also reference to the large number of French detailing dotted around the building.
Then it came to Sir Reginald and Lady Augusta who had purchased the house in 1904. They had three children: Henry, George and Alice. There was also a ward, a friend of the family. During the First World War, they had given the house to the army to use as an asylum for mentally ill soldiers. The family had moved to their house in London, returning in nineteen twenty, and finding that the house needed much work to restore it. Some of the soldiers who had been sheltered there were paid to redecorate and renew areas of the house and garden. Following a trip to California in the winter of 1933, Lady Augusta passed away of relapsing fever. Her husband died two years later.
I googled relapsing fever and it transpired that Lady Augusta had been bitten by a tick or louse, the poor thing. I was intrigued. This left Henry as the heir and no doubt George as the spare. Then Alice and the ward, I forgot his name. I wrote a question mark on my notepad.
Michael then talked about the house and the knot garden, which Sir Reginal
d had designed and made in 1930. He never lived to see it fully grown but its reputation as one of England’s finest examples survived him:
“The family business, without Sir Reginald at the helm, suffered from his absence and from the onset of World War Two because all the men in the house joined up and even Alice took on work for the war effort. Many of the servants from Sir Reginald’s time also left and the house was closed down, with only a housekeeper and gardener to look after it.
“George Amsherst opened the house again sometime in nineteen forty-three when he returned home injured and took up the family business. His portfolio included a small engineering company strategic to the later years of the war effort. By then, owing to lack of manpower and resources, the business had begun to fold and the decision was made to sell off all surrounding farmland. Finally, the family lost the house, and in spite of my best efforts I cannot find out why, but it was passed to a French owner who then quickly sold it to The Church of The Immaculate Heart. Lapston’s sad decline included use as a children’s nursing home, but it was abandoned in nineteen fifty-seven. The house is empty now, the contents stripped and all but a whisper of its former glory can be heard amongst its dark halls.”
I looked at the images. There was a sepia picture of the house, arranged like the one of Sarsten House, but with only twenty or so servants standing outside. They included a very smart groom holding a good-looking grey horse.
There was another black and white photo of the ornate porch over the door. It was sharp and clear and I could see the carving on it. Inset pictures showed a stained-glass window in the morning room taken from different angles. The design was a swan swimming on a pool of bright water with the sun’s rays pouring down on its snowy white back. It was absolutely beautiful. In the fourth picture Sir Reginald and Augusta sat in a very old car, he in a uniform with multiple medals across his chest, and she wearing a large ostrich feather hat.
I flipped the page back to look at the pictures on the first two pages of the article. One was of Lapston in its full glory, rich sandstone, tall windows, towering chimneys, all symmetrical and the immaculate gardens. The trimmed topiary and weed free shale were obviously very well maintained. The picture caption said “Lapston, 1931” and a small picture showed the knot garden just as it was with Rory maintaining it.
Rory.
The final picture, an old black and white one, soft in contrast, was of four people. They were standing on the steps of the house. The oldest was mid-thirties, a round faced man with a dash of grey hair, at least I presumed it was grey. In front of him stood a younger woman, her dark hair in a roll around her head, indicating that it was wartime. She looked terribly sad, almost lost.
Next to her was a rather good looking man with dark hair and he was smiling. Behind him stood a tall woman, her dress black velvet, a brooch on the strap, a flower of some sort. She had the most unforgiving eyes and I realised that she was looking straight out of the picture with a cold impenetrable stare, at me.
36
I was caught between two stools: the joy of seeing Cécile and the dread of seeing Alice, because I had upset her so. I was coming downstairs when I saw Cécile cross the hall and go into the library. Moments later, I heard the muffled sounds of her making a telephone call.
George was in the lounge, standing by the window overlooking the knot garden, a silhouette against the bright evening sun.
‘I must apologise, George,’ I said as cheerfully as I was able, whilst still experiencing the last vestiges of my headache. ‘I missed lunch. I fear I do not have the stamina for drinking these days.’
George turned around, taken by surprise. ‘Oh hello, Carrick, old man, what do you say? I do apologise I was lost in my thoughts.’ He had a healthy colour to his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes that I had not seen for a very long time. He clapped me on the back, just like the brother I knew him to be, I felt supported. I could easily have told him there and then my intentions towards Cécile and shared my joy and future hopes with him. He was, after all, my confidante and ally.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, taking him up on his offer of a cigarette. ‘I’ve let the side down, I should have been in to see you all earlier.’
‘It’s of no consequence, old man. The ladies are somewhere abouts, dressing for dinner by now, I shouldn’t wonder. It is so delightful that we have some life in the house at last.’
I poured myself a soda with ice as Alice joined us. She looked pretty with her hair up and curled on top of her head, quite the lady in fact but, in complete contrast to George, she looked pale and uneasy.
‘Happy birthday, old thing,’ I said giving her warm hug. I realised almost immediately that there was no reciprocation, her body felt slight and unyielding, gone was the enthusiasm of her arrival last week.
‘Thank you,’ she said coldly, stepping back, away from me and on towards George. She kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘Thank you, George, for the puppy, he is adorable and so long overdue, the house needs some new energy about it.’
‘When you think what we used to have before thirty nine, everything had to go, from Sylvester to Mrs Hall’s chickens,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Don’t get maudlin now, George,’ said Alice and, to her credit, she was lifting the tone once again. ‘Old Sylvester had a long service and he was a wonderful hunter. You had him since you were fourteen or so didn’t you?’
‘Yes, he was a good old boy and he had a fine innings. You were six when we bought you that fat little pony, what was his name, Merryweather?’
‘Merrylegs.’
‘That was it, Merrylegs after the pony in Black Beauty. You were mad for that book: you made me to read it over and over again to you, do you remember?’
‘I do, and I would set up jumps for him on the lawn and our gardener would come after me with his broom shouting about hoof prints!’ She had cheered up. Alice was never glum for long, but I noticed that she had yet to look me in the eye.
‘What is all this merriment I hear?’ Cécile was standing in the doorway, she was wearing the most beautiful dress. It was midnight blue with straps criss-crossing her chest. It clung to her frame, dramatically highlighting the slenderness of the figure beneath. On the bodice, of course, she wore the daisy. I recall walking towards her and kissing her, whispering into her ear that she looked absolutely beautiful, but again she failed to respond. Instead she went straight to Alice and wished her a happy birthday, then she stood beside George and I saw that he passed her a drink without looking at her.
Still, we made a happy band: Alice had softened and was more her old self; George in high spirits and I now felt quite well. They ribbed me about my hangover, but I took all the blows in good part. George had asked Grant to fetch the camera and we filed outside into the mellow autumn evening to have our picture taken.
Alice and I stood on the first step, George and Cécile on the next. I could feel her behind me, the scent, the nearness of her, her breath on my neck. Then she placed a hand on my shoulder and I melted. It was a sign: she was saying we were close, telling anyone who might see that photograph at some future date that we were a couple embarking on a lifetime together. I have never felt prouder than I was at that moment and Grant was capturing my happiness for eternity.
We walked into dinner, me arm in arm with Cécile. I had made sure of that on the pretext that it was Alice’s evening and she should accompany her brother.
The first course was smoked salmon from Loch Fyne. We talked of many things and I promised to ride out with Alice again the following day. She, in turn, informed us that by the Friday she would be back in her barracks and not home again for some while. She had enjoyed a long leave because she had volunteered to go to France.
The venison was so delicious and such a rare treat that it was even possible to think of life after the war when such things would become normal again, part of the simple everyday life we craved.
That was the moment it turned.
I had, all evening been smiling and nodding towards Cécile. She was bewitching me, playing with me like a cat with a mouse. I was directly opposite her, the glint of the diamonds in her ears continuously reflecting the candlelight.
‘Carrick, old chap,’ said George, good affable generous George. ‘I do wish you would hold off saying things like that to the staff.’
I stared in disbelief, as I was sure did Alice. I was seated beside her, but I could feel her tense up, her back stiffen.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I felt a chill of cold run through me whilst the hot tinge of embarrassment touched my cheeks. I looked from George to Cécile and saw that both were looking at me icily. I was quite wrong-footed, not knowing what to say next.
‘I think it is up to me to give orders to Grant,’ said George and then he picked up his glass and sipped from it, at the same time averting his gaze. I sat there frozen and unable to move whilst Alice shifted uneasily in her seat. Then, to her credit, she stepped in to defend me.
‘George, darling, I do think that is rather a rude thing to say,’ she ventured, she spoke gently, treading carefully. ‘Carrick means well and there is, after all, plenty for everyone.’
‘I am sure there is, Alice, but it is up to me, as master of the house, to say these things.’
There was an awkward silence as Grant, at that moment, re-entered the room. I wondered if he had heard anything, but his face was impassive as usual –butlers have a marvellous ability to avoid hearing things.
