The Buttercup Field

by D J O'Leary

  ‘What a gentleman,’ she said and sat down. He followed, seating himself opposite her.

  ‘Are you eating here tonight?’ asked Kate.

  ‘No. Very shortly I am heading over to the Manor for a meal with Elspeth and Hubert.’

  ‘Will you be coming back over after that?’

  ‘Not sure. Depends on what time we finish eating and talking, although I do know Hubert is feeling very tired so he might head to bed early and Elspeth would then almost certainly follow him, so I could well return. I want to talk to Charlie at some point anyway. Catch him before he goes back to the Star and Eagle. I have a feeling he is eating there this evening. What about you? What are you going to do?’

  She sipped her wine then said, ‘I’ll probably eat here and then hang around for a while.’

  As she answered him Tolstoy saw that Charlie and Harry had been joined by Henrietta Charles. Lucky old Charlie, thought Tolstoy, getting that close to Miss Charles. He wasn’t close for long though. Within seconds of her turning a twosome into a threesome, Charlie was moving away from the other two. He did not seem too disappointed, but he caught Tolstoy’s eye, indicating that they should talk and so, remembering his manners, Tolstoy focused on Kate and said, ‘Well then, I might very well see you later. Unfortunately, I have to leave you now, because Charlie is finally free of Harry and I do need to have a word, before I head in for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. May see you later. And thanks for the drink.’ She raised her glass to him as he stood and left the table.

  Tolstoy had just about drained his glass. Charlie was holding an empty glass as well, so they converged on the bar, ordered two more pints, with Charlie doing the paying this time around. Once again Jo was in immediate attendance and Tolstoy quickly became aware that she was looking at him all the time she was pulling the pints, smiling at him from time to time. After Charlie had paid, the two friends moved off towards a relatively clear area near the entrance to the garden.

  ‘I reckon that barmaid – Jo isn’t it? – has a soft spot for you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tolstoy, feeling a flush stealing across his face. ‘I’m no muscled hunk, no sporting Adonis. Anyway, what makes you say that?’

  ‘Just the way she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off you when she was pulling our pints. And the way she smiled at you while serving us. She never once looked in my direction. Nice-looking woman, it has to be said.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m her type,’ Tolstoy blustered. ‘Anyway, what happened to you, one second you were in deep conversation with Harry Stoke, the next thing Henrietta Charles joins you and you are off, like a whipped dog.’

  ‘The thing is, when she joined us she barely glanced at me, turned all her charms on Harry, poor bloke, and effectively asked me to leave by saying that she wanted to ask Harry something, and did I mind? I didn’t and left them to it. She is a real looker though, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, she is, although again I am probably not her type.’

  ‘Are you the type that appeals to that dark-haired stunner with whom you sat for about three minutes just now?’

  ‘Not sure. She seems OK, although her English is not great. She thinks a slither is a sliver, when it’s not, and she doesn’t know which, of crescendo and climax, comes first.’

  ‘What is a slither, then?’

  Tolstoy explained, prompting Charlie to say, ‘You are a clever bugger. I haven’t got a clue about stuff like that. But of course I remember from school, you read a lot, don’t you? I mean I can’t imagine you without a book somewhere on your person. In fact, I’ll bet there’s a book in one of your jacket pockets.’

  Tolstoy gave a sheepish smile and lifted the left-hand side of his jacket to reveal the outline of a book in the Harris Tweed. With a sudden flash of insight Charlie said, ‘I bet you didn’t correct her when she said “slither”, nor when she got confused over crescendo and climax. By the way, which does come first?’

  Tolstoy shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem much point in correcting her either time, it would have just embarrassed her.’

  ‘Oh, I see, playing the “parfit, genteel knight” were we?’ He paused to grin at his now blushing friend, then continued, ‘Perhaps you’ll get your opportunity to correct her in private sometime soon. Anyway, I must away. Dinner beckons and I am famished.’

  ‘I’m off too. Elspeth has prepared a meal and I promised her I wouldn’t be late. The deadline approaches.’

  ‘I plan to drop round to see Hubert and Elspeth tomorrow morning, late-ish. So I will see you then, and afterwards we could slip over here for a quick pint and a chat before heading off,’ said Charlie. Tolstoy agreed, and, after draining their glasses, they stood up and made their way out of the pub, Charlie heading for the car park, Tolstoy crossing the road and walking the short distance to the pillared gateway and the curving drive that led to Stottenden Manor.

  Once there he made his way to his room, and after a quick wash and brush-up he headed down the wide staircase to the hall, thence into the kitchen, from which emanated the clatter of food preparation. Elspeth turned as he came through the door. ‘Oh Tolstoy, there you are. Perfect timing, I’m just getting things ready for serving. It’s a homemade chicken pie, with salad and new potatoes from the garden. And I’m sorry but Hubert is just too exhausted to join us, so you’ll have to put up with me. Hubert did say he would try to join us later, but he is in quite a lot of pain and is also feeling dreadfully nauseous, so I wouldn’t count on that.’

  She began slicing the pie and serving it. ‘Tolstoy, would you mind fetching some wine from the cellar, please? A red for me, maybe a Rhone, and whatever you feel like.’

  Tolstoy made for a solid-looking oak door to the left of the kitchen entrance, hit the light switch which was on one side, then turned the large iron handle and descended the wide, worn stone steps, his nostrils assailed by the all-pervasive damp, musty smell of the cellar, before stepping into a veritable Aladdin’s cave of all things vinous. This first section of the cellar held Hubert’s vast collection of wine. In his day, Hubert had been something of a wine buff and over the years had amassed an impressive collection, dominated by French wines, but also featuring Italian, Spanish, New Zealand, Australian, German, Portuguese, South African and even some South American. His godfather had guided and encouraged Tolstoy to follow him in his interest and he now strolled slowly down the rows of brick and cement bins, the racks on the walls and the cases stacked on shelves and on pallets on the floor. Hubert was meticulous in his record-keeping; every bin, rack and case carried a clearly printed manifest of what was there. After a couple of minutes’ perusing Tolstoy finally settled on a St Joseph from the Northern Rhone for Elspeth, and after studying the white section, plumped for a Picpoul de Pinet, a refreshing white, which he could never tire of, even though some of his more discerning wine-loving friends were rather dismissive of the product of the South of France.

  Returning to the kitchen he found Elspeth laying two places at the large farmhouse table that occupied the centre of the room. He opened the bottles and poured each of them a generous glass, then, at Elspeth’s prompting, took his seat. She passed him a plate with a sizeable wedge of chicken pie and told him to help himself to salad and potatoes.

  Conversation during the meal was easy, punctuated with comfortable pauses as a mouthful of food or a sip of wine intervened. Finally, plate empty, stomach pleasantly full, Tolstoy sat back in his chair, content. At which point he felt duty bound to broach the subject of his godfather’s health.

  Elspeth looked at him sadly and said, ‘I feel so helpless. He has always been such a vigorous man, physically and mentally. Now, over the last few months he has declined alarmingly. He always seems to be so tired and so weak. I was amazed when he declared that he was going to watch the match today. That is the furthest he has ventured in two months. I wasn’t surprised that he failed t
o stay until the end, but at least he was able to see most of it.’

  They soon moved off the subject of Hubert and instead looked back at the cricket match, Elspeth reminding Tolstoy of the meeting with Henrietta Charles. But this subject proved a bit of a downer for Tolstoy as well, and so eventually the conversation, perforce somewhat dilatory and depressing, gradually wound down to very little. Tolstoy found himself yawning. For no apparent reason he felt completely drained. He decided he would forego the late drink at the Snitcher’s Head. Elspeth tried to persuade him to head off for bed right then, but he insisted on helping her with the washing-up. That done, he finally said goodnight, and dragged himself upstairs, his mind on the following day and his return to London. He decided on a change of plan. His original intention had been to head home in the afternoon; now he felt he would be better advised leaving in the morning. He was sure his godfather and Elspeth wouldn’t mind. And he could ask them to pass on his apologies to Charlie Hornchurch, who would have been expecting to see Tolstoy the following morning when he dropped in at the Manor. He then got into bed and gave himself up to the welcome oblivion of sleep.

  Five

  The bell of St Martin’s church tolled dolefully, the sound seeming to merge with the misty rain that partially shrouded the church tower, and adding a soundtrack to what was a mournful and grey day. As he entered the church with Elspeth on his arm, Warren Pearce was astonished at the sight that greeted them. There did not appear to be an empty pew. The whole village and more must be here, thought Tolstoy, as he moved slowly and solemnly up the aisle. Elspeth had not wanted to follow her husband’s coffin, preferring instead to precede it by a couple of minutes.

  They eventually arrived at the front of the church and Tolstoy stepped to one side to allow Elspeth to slip into her seat. He followed her in, sat down and contemplated the last three months.

  His godfather Hubert de Groot had lost his battle with cancer some two months after the cricket match, which, as it turned out, had also been Tolstoy’s last visit to Stottenden. While the end had been expected, it was still shocking to Tolstoy. He had immediately taken time off work to come down to provide comfort and help to Elspeth. The administrative tasks following a death were innumerable. There just seemed to be no time for grieving. Tolstoy had been feeling a little guilty that he had not visited Hubert since the cricket match. He had intended to, but his circumstances at work and Hubert’s rapidly declining health had dictated otherwise.

  The simple service was mercifully brief – one hymn, a psalm, some prayers and a gentle eulogy from one of Hubert’s oldest friends – then out to the churchyard for the burial. More prayers, and finally it was all over and the members of the congregation made their way to the Snitcher’s Head for the funeral breakfast. Elspeth seemed to be on autopilot, accepting handshakes here, hugs there and the occasional chaste kiss on the cheek, and all the while Tolstoy remained dutifully at her side, accepting the many condolences. It was, as he confessed later to Elspeth, all rather emotionally draining. They had left the breakfast as early as they could and now sat together in the drawing room of the Manor, taking stock, as she put it. She shared a couple of memories of Hubert with Tolstoy, then spoke of her happy marriage to the man, before wondering how she was going to cope with all the day-to-day things that, for the time being, now fell to her to do. ‘I hope I’ll be able to cope. I don’t even know where to look for anything,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem,’ Tolstoy ventured. ‘Hubert was an extremely well-organised person, someone of a tidy nature. I’m certain he will have left everything easy for you find, and the chances are that he will have left clear instructions for you on how to pay this or that bill. And anyway, I’ll help you.’

  ‘But you have to go to work,’ she protested, before adding, ‘Do you know something? I have no idea what you do for a living.’

  ‘Well, it’s an archive of newspaper and magazine articles and it is also combined with a picture/photographic archive. I am really just a glorified librarian. I look up and copy people’s requests for this cutting, article, or that photo and send them to the people. The secretary then sends out an invoice for each request a day or so later and makes sure everyone pays up. Darren, the archivist, collects the articles and cuttings and adds them to the company’s computerised archive. We don’t just use on-line media sources, we collect hard copy and we have also negotiated to collect printed material and photographs that date from the nineteenth century. And as for time off, that’s all been sorted. I’m taking a fortnight off, mostly unpaid, although they do owe me loads of overtime. I’m forever getting calls from the office outside my normal hours, which invariably entail me having to go into the office to find this or that file or photo.’ As Elspeth started to interject, Tolstoy hurried on, ‘Don’t worry. I can afford it. These last couple of months in particular have been manic for me, so I deserve a break. I hope it will show them just how much they rely on me and my goodwill.’

  ‘You are a darling, Tolstoy,’ said Elspeth, who was finally coming around to using his nickname. ‘I should be most grateful for any help you can give. The first thing that we have to do is to meet the solicitor. I had pencilled in tomorrow for the trip into Tonbridge.’

  ‘Is this for the reading of the will?’

  ‘Yes, although it is pretty much a formality. We are the sole beneficiaries and there are no obvious problems arising from it. That was why I didn’t insist on an earlier reading, because knowing that you are invariably very busy on weekdays, and with the solicitor’s offices being shut at the weekend, the most convenient time had to be around the funeral, which, by the way, I thought went very well.’

  ‘Yes, it did. A good service. Long enough to do Hubert justice, short enough not to leave people desperate for it to end.’

  ‘Now, before we get too far along the road, I think we need to lay down a few ground rules for when you move in here permanently,’ said Elspeth. ‘Since I have spent my life cooking for Hubert, I have no problem about cooking for you. Occasionally, however, I might have the odd evening out with friends and so I hope you would be happy fending for yourself.’

  She paused and Tolstoy took his cue. ‘That’s fine by me. I have to confess I am no cook, so if you are not around I will almost certainly slip over the road to the Snitcher’s Head for a pub meal.’

  ‘Good, and thank you. I think it might be sensible to set up some kind of kitty for food, and indeed housekeeping. I have a lady who comes in three times a week to help with vacuuming and ironing, so I think we ought to share her cost, if that’s all right with you.’ Tolstoy nodded. ‘And occasionally I have friends around here, the book group for example, and also we have a little bridge party from time to time. Again it would probably be better if you fended for yourself on those occasions, unless you play bridge?’ She raised an eyebrow in an inquiring way.

  ‘No, sadly I don’t, although I think I might like to learn at some point in the not too distant future,’ said Tolstoy.

  ‘Are you much of a television watcher?’

  ‘No, well I mainly watch the news and the odd current affairs programme, but if I can’t get access to a television it is not the end of the world. I actually prefer reading.’

  ‘So do I, although, like you, I like to keep up to date with national and international news. I listen to the radio a fair bit as well. Do you like classical music?’

  ‘Yes I do. Rather a lot actually, although I don’t play a musical instrument, but yes I enjoy listening to classical music radio stations and I have a fairly large collection of music on various laptops and phones.’

  ‘Well, this is all beginning to sound good. I think we are going to get on rather well,’ Elspeth smiled at him. ‘But I will say that I do not expect you to spend every evening in with me, or indeed every weekend. If you have somewhere else to go then go. Right,’ Elspeth leaned back in her chair, ‘that all seems very satisfactory. I shall
work out how much kitty we each need to pay in, and then we will see how well it covers our needs. We might even experiment with the two weeks that you are here.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Tolstoy. ‘By the way, sorry to change the subject but while I think about it, has a new date been set for the Buttercup Field hearing?’ inquired Tolstoy. Tolstoy had learned that the original one had been postponed because Jack Bentley had had to have an emergency heart operation a week before the hearing, much to everyone’s frustration.

  ‘Do you know, I’m not sure. I’ve been so preoccupied with the funeral and everything that I had put it completely out of my mind. I shall ring the colonel shortly and find out.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t worry. I can always get in touch with him. I just wondered if a date had been set very recently, and that the colonel had not had time to contact me about it. After all, I am not exactly a regular attendee of committee meetings. So, no, please do not worry about it, you have enough on your plate already. Speaking of which, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing that springs to mind immediately, and I am sure after the reading of the will tomorrow you will find yourself up to your neck in administration over the change of ownership of this place.’

  Tolstoy found this a sobering thought. For the first time in his life he was about to become a home-owner. And not just of any home either, but Stottenden Manor, ending the ownership of generations of de Groots. He stared blankly out of the large window that overlooked the perfectly maintained garden at the rear of the Manor and gently shook his head in disbelief, bordering on bewilderment. To think all this was going to be his. He knew he would not be able to call it his until after the grant of probate, but even so, he was already beginning to feel the weight of responsibility. No matter how long it took to get probate, Tolstoy knew his duties to the house and to Elspeth began here and now. It was daunting.