‘Not skiing.’ Tony had tried skiing without success.
‘It would be good to go somewhere lively.’ Emily had obviously taken to the idea. ‘What about London? We could stay in the West End. The West End would be great.’
‘Not London, and certainly not the West End. Roistering crowds and traffic jams and packed tubes are definitely not on the agenda. We need to find somewhere peaceful. I was thinking along the lines of a really comfortable country house hotel with great food, squashy leather armchairs and huge log fires.’ Already Tony had a vision of himself as a country gentleman; a good shot; a hard man to hounds. ‘You know the sort of thing; kedgeree for breakfast, bracing walks, country pursuits...’
‘…a great selection of malts, exceptional vintage port and a good wine cellar,’ added Tom knowingly.
Further speculation was cut short by the appearance of Mary Pomeroy with a calm demeanour and a cafetiere.
‘Ah, here comes coffee,’ Tony exclaimed warmly. ‘Just what the doctor ordered. I don’t suppose there are any mints?’
‘You’re not allowed mints at lunchtime,’ Tom reminded him, ‘only after dinner. Think of your waistline. Think of the hours you spend on the treadmill.’
‘Thanks, Ma,’ Emily said. ‘It is de-caff, I suppose?’
‘It is,’ said Mary Pomeroy.
‘I bet it isn’t.’
‘All right then, it isn’t.’
‘I’ll drink it anyway,’ said Emily graciously.
SEVENTEEN
Christmas had come and gone almost unnoticed. January and February had, to Anna’s eyes, been frittered away in endless form-filling, meetings with the council, and visits from various official bodies concerned with everything from the amount of effluent to be discharged into the septic tank to the exact amount of electricity required to power a commercial kitchen. English Heritage, as Rupert had predicted, had certainly “put their oar in”, inspecting the plans and requesting amendments everywhere, specifying the type of bricks (handmade) and tiles (reclaimed), the specific ingredients of cement and plaster (unbelievable) and the size and origin of timbers to be used in the restoration.
The only work that had been completed so far was the new accommodation for Vivian and Lavinia, which had only required building regulations in order to proceed. The west wing apartment was now comfortably furnished and centrally heated and a source of continuous delight to its occupants. Now, as Anna carried a bacon sandwich and coffee to the stables (Nicola had missed breakfast because she was expecting an early visit from the vet) she could hear the piano tuner plinking and plonking his way up and down the keyboard of the grand piano. It had taken four men to move it into the apartment and when the legs and the pedals had been reattached, the only piano tuner within twenty miles had had looked at it in despair. He was a melancholy soul who sighed and shook his head a lot. Apparently a new string was needed, and replacement felt, plus a pedal refurbishment, which should have been good news for a person of his occupation, yet the prospect of actually tackling the job seemed only to increase his despondency. Anna had attempted to cheer him along with a mug of tea and a chocolate biscuit, reiterating that all necessary work should be carried out with the utmost speed and efficiency whilst Lady Lavinia had hovered nearby in an agony of anxiety. Peering at him through one of the windows, Anna wondered if this could actually be the same man who had been described to her as a genius with a stringed instrument.
Len had produced a hand-picked team of experienced, hard-working men, mostly Polish, who looked upon the job as a challenge and pitched in with a will. They had organised themselves cheerfully into a temporary Portakabin village in the kitchen garden and were enthusiastically grateful for the mammoth fried breakfasts and sandwich lunches which Anna prepared for them. In the evenings they repaired to the local hostelry. Previously known as The Rushbroke Arms, the half-timbered inn had been the subject of an extensive and extremely unpopular Dickensian refurbishment and subsequently rechristened The Cricket in the Hearth. Local youths had long ago removed the E, T, and H from the sign (spelled out in thick rounded lettering reminiscent of Cecil Aldin) which had been attached to the pink, pebble-dashed wall of the Pickwick Restaurant, and after several attempts to replace the lettering had been similarly thwarted, the brewery had given up. The sign now read The Crick in the Heart but the establishment was popularly known to the residents of Rushall St. Mary as The Crick in the Neck; a reference to its low, heavily beamed ceilings and its painfully perilous lintels; the latter being rather too easily disregarded after a few rounds of Adnams best. At the Crick in the Neck the workmen dined on burgers, steak pies, and scampi and chips, drank pints of Adnams and played darts and dominoes with the locals in Sam Weller’s Bar.
It was now March and there was a welcome spell of good weather, although the men faced the perilous uncertainty of having half of the main roof stripped down to the bare timbers when a change in the weather could mean it could rain, or even snow, and catch them on the hop. Around the central part of the house there was a proliferation of impossibly tall, leaning stacks of tiles which looked in imminent danger of collapse. Great rolls of roofing felt were stacked up everywhere, mountains of battening lay under any available shelter. A mind-numbing hammering went on all day long. Chainsaws screeched and whined as great worm-eaten timbers were cut out. Transistor radios were turned up to full volume as an accompaniment to curses, constant banter and toneless singing punctuated by the occasional howl of anguish. The dust, dirt and debris, in fact everything that was part and parcel of life with a gang of workmen, was hard on the nerves, just as Rupert had predicted.
A vast new beam was now being hoisted aloft by a crane accompanied by shouted instructions and much vocal encouragement from above and below. The undertaking was being watched from a safe distance by Len, Sadie and Rupert plus a local artist who, armed with a sketchbook and quite a bit of creative imagination, was producing a series of charming thumbnail sketches with which to illustrate the advertising brochure.
Barry was standing on a scaffolding tower constructed for him by Len, who had quoted health and safety to Anna when seeing him perched on top of a wobbling ladder. Engaged in carving back the tops of the hedges with a pair of powerful electric clippers, Barry’s beaming round face was shining with sweat and stuck all over with yew trimmings. Built like a bison with powerful arms and shoulders, already brown as a nut, garbed in shorts, luminous singlet and enormous trainers, Barry was a tremendous success, working like three men and eating like four. Mute he may have been but he was not stupid and listened intently to all that was said, looking to Mavis now and again for reassurance, ever ready to tackle even the most daunting task with an energetic enthusiasm that seemed to Anna nothing short of heroic.
Vivian sat on a seat a short distance away, deep in conversation with Mavis Sholto who was her customary spotless self in pink jeans, pearl-buttoned cardigan, short floral wellington boots and an outsize sun visor. Mavis may have looked anything but a gardener but along the rose walk a miracle had already been wrought. The standards had been pruned back, unsightly suckers had been removed, leaning standards had been staked and tied. Old, straggling bushes had been trimmed back to neatness, climbers and ramblers had been tied into arches and supports repaired by Barry, the metalwork welded by Len. The grass borders were trimmed and sharply edged, the gravel paths weeded and topped up, the beds turned and fed with manure from the stables.
Anna was cheered and immensely touched by the industry that had achieved such a transformation and Mavis, perceiving that by this feat alone she had earned her larger canvas, was triumphant.
‘Although the lavender has had to go, Miss Gabriel, and more’s the pity, but it was too far gone even for Dr. Hellyer; half dead already and nearly all bare wood, such hard, thick stems as you ever did see. But where there’s life there’s hope and I’ve taken hundreds of cuttings and I’ve got them rooting in one of the old cold frames Barry’s fixed up for me, so we’ll be able to replant next year at
no expense to anybody. I can be quite an economist, Miss Gabriel, when I have to be, you can take my word for it. My Arnold used to say “Mavis, you could make a mountain out of a molehill” and I could, I really could.’
Anna needed an economist. Money was being spent at a terrifying rate. Already economies had been made wherever possible. Reduced budgets and targets had been prepared. Corners had been cut, plans compromised. It was already clear that very much more than eight hundred and fifty thousand pounds would be needed and that the appalling prospect of having to go, cap in hand, to Francis Sparrow to beg for a further loan was becoming a real possibility. Anna managed not to think about it too much during the day, but the nights were a different matter. The previous night, the Barclay’s eagle had appeared to her in a dream, flying in through the window, casting a great shadow and alighting on her bed, rending the linen with its massive talons. In vain Anna had protested that it was the wrong bank, the wrong logo but, pinning her to her pillow by the intensity of its splendidly golden and hypnotic eyes, it had suddenly and unexpectedly thrown back its head in order to regurgitate, via its wickedly curved and sharpened beak, a single scrap of paper which, when it had departed (opening its huge and powerful wings, causing the bed to rock and sway like a small boat on a rough sea, and uttering a hoarse and terrible cry) proved to be a message from Francis Sparrow, inscribed in his own excessively neat and tiny hand. Small businesses, he had reminded her, account for more than 80% of personal insolvencies.
The vet’s car was in the stable yard although neither Nicola nor the vet were in evidence. Anna left the bacon sandwich in the tack room beside a pile of worming syringes, fly repellent sprays and gamgee, clearly recently delivered. Anna breathed in the smell of the tack room; a heady mix of saddle soap and leather. When she was earning her own living, riding had become a luxury she could no longer afford and she missed it. Perhaps one day, when Rushbroke Hall was up and running and successful, she would be able to have a horse of her own. Smiling at such an optimistic thought, and looking round the tack room she appreciated that the leatherwork and saddlery was, if not new, of good quality, soaped and supple and some of it recently repaired. Bits and stirrups were expensive stainless steel; piled up rugs were clean and had been professionally patched and mended. Likewise, out in the yard, greeting the little bay mare, the newly arrived chestnut and the grey gelding, Anna saw that their beds were thickly laid with generously banked up sides made of the best quality long straw, and that their nets were full of hay. Looking up, she noticed that the stable roofs had been repaired. Hinges had been replaced so the doors hung properly. Some professional maintenance had been done here.
Thoughtfully, Anna wandered into the barn where, lifting the lids of a line of galvanized bins, she found them full of top quality rolled oats and bruised barley, dried sugar beet, bran, linseed, chaff, and on a shelf above, tubs of molasses and half a dozen proprietary feed supplements. How on earth did Nicola manage to pay for all this? Anna knew there was not much money to be made out of schooling horses, and there were no lessons given, and only one horse at livery, in this yard.
Where did the money come from? Did Nicola have a small private income? Anna doubted it. Yet barley of this quality, oats like these - Anna raised a handful to her nose and breathed in their sweet, floury scent - were expensive. These horses lived better than the humans at Rushbroke Hall.
Standing in the semi-darkness of the barn, some sound; some movement perhaps, caused her to look up. Through a dusty, cobweb draped window she looked out into a small covered rickyard. She saw the discarded clothes first, thrown carelessly over a bale. Then she saw Nicola (at least, she saw part of what was recognisably Nicola) the rest being partially obscured by the dark-haired, middle-aged man lying on top of her, who was presumably the vet. Anna froze. As the portly buttocks of the vet rose and fell with an energetic and mesmerising rhythm, she remembered the corn merchant’s lorry in the yard when she had arrived with the drowned man, and how Nicola had emerged from the barn with the golden haired youth. ‘Oh, my God, Nicola,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Is this how you pay your bills?’
EIGHTEEN
‘...and so I was thinking, Madam,’ Harry Featherstone said, scooping up the youngest member of the family, who was something of a solitary individual and had been sitting in a corner of the bedroom staring fixedly at a particularly uninteresting section of skirting board, ‘that we might take the family away for a holiday over the Christmas period. I was thinking it might be congenial, Madam, to have a bit of a change this year, seeing as Freddie... well, seeing as we won’t have the pleasure of Freddie’s company for the seasonal festivities, and him being so sadly missed. I was thinking it might be beneficial.’
Mrs Maitland-Dell patted her small Cupid’s bow of a mouth with a peach-coloured napkin embroidered with a ‘C’ for Clarissa, and replaced it upon the tray which bore the remains of her breakfast: grapefruit segments (tinned) with strawberries (fresh), a lightly boiled egg (free-range, size O, four minutes exactly), with high-bran bread (one thick slice, toasted and cut into four uniform fingers with the crusts removed), spread with slightly salted butter (Danish), a small pot of tea (Ceylon) with semi-skimmed milk (no sugar), the whole served from bone china (Minton Marlow) on a matching peach linen tray cloth accompanied by solid silver cutlery (London, 1900, fiddle and shell pattern). ‘Christmas in the country?’ she exclaimed in surprise. ‘What an extremely novel idea, Harry.’
‘I thought it might be beneficial for you, Madam,’ said Harry respectfully, ‘and for the family too, of course.’
‘Beneficial for me, and for the family.’ Mrs Maitland-Dell considered this for a moment. Her pretty blue eyes twinkled. The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘I don’t suppose it would be at all beneficial for you, Harry? I don’t suppose you would enjoy a Christmas holiday in the country one little bit?’
‘Oh, I most likely would, Madam,’ Harry admitted. ‘In fact, I might enjoy it a lot and, if I might be so bold as to say so, it might be very congenial to have someone else take charge of the Christmas festivities just this once. That would be very congenial indeed, and I can’t help thinking how extremely congenial it might be to experience a little seasonal cheer in different surroundings with, if I might be forgiven for saying so, a few fresh faces to add a bit of variety to the proceedings.’ Here, Harry Featherstone’s eyes shifted slightly to meet the unblinking, slightly thyroid gaze of the family who, according to their individual temperament, regarded him with affability, anticipation, disinterest or open hostility from amongst peach satin pillows arranged below the quilted headboard of the queen-sized bed against which Madam was propped, wearing a fluffy angora jacket over a delicate lace-trimmed nightdress with her hair encased in Harry’s favourite slumber net with the little pink bow at the front, making her look so feminine and so nice. ‘That’s not intending any disrespect to anybody present,’ added Harry hastily, ‘not in any way, shape, or form whatsoever.’
‘No, of course not, Harry, and no disrespect registered, I feel sure.’ Mrs Maitland-Dell fell silent and thoughtful for quite a few minutes, one small, impeccably manicured hand toying with, and finally rejecting, the last finger of toast on the delicately fluted plate. ‘Well, Harry,’ she said at length, ‘You have made a very interesting suggestion and I can see that we may very well benefit from a little holiday, especially at Christmas when memories of Freddie will be particularly poignant, and although I cannot make any firm promises, and I would like that to be completely understood, Harry, I do think it is a proposition worthy of our consideration.’
‘You have my permission to investigate the possibility, with the provision,’ and here Mrs Maitland-Dell held up a cautionary hand, ‘with the strict provision that an entirely suitable establishment can be found, and if such is the case; if all of our requirements can be met, then I feel sure that a Christmas holiday will be both beneficial and congenial. I must confess that spending Christmas in the country has a certain appeal, and it will give y
ou an extremely well-deserved break from routine. I feel sure that the family will enjoy a change of scenery, won’t you, my darlings?’
The family, shifting slightly in agreement, (although their comprehension was, as usual, virtually nil) caused the holy golden and white Shih Tzu to slide off his rightfully elevated position to be replaced in an instant by the grey and white Shih Tzu who, as well as being the most athletic member of the family, was also something of an opportunist; although the gold star for opportunism would have to go the most diminutive member who, taking advantage of this minor disturbance, neatly removed the last finger of toast from the fluted plate and disappeared beneath the eiderdown.
‘There will, of course, be certain requirements to be fulfilled in the way of accommodation and facilities,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell a trifle grandly, ‘before I can commit myself to any reservation.’
‘And what would those requirements be, Madam?’ Harry placed the youngest member of the family on the eiderdown and stood to attention on the peach-coloured Wilton, ready to receive instructions. The youngest Shih Tzu who, as well as being the most solitary individual, was also the most intuitive member of the family, instinctively sat up to attention with its ears pricked (as much as a Shih Tzu is capable of pricking its ears) and its rounded, shining eyes fixed upon Harry’s face with all the eager devotion of a promising recruit.
‘Any hotel will have to be situated in the very heart of the countryside. There are to be positively no dangerous main roads and no audible traffic in the vicinity. The country,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell firmly, ‘is the country, after all.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Harry Featherstone. ‘No traffic and no main roads. Situated in the heart of the countryside. That should be no problem at all, Madam. That’s quite understood.’
The Last Baronet Page 14
