Doubting Abbey (10 page)
Abbey hadn’t told me that! Wow. Awesome.
‘The family struggled to bring it back to its former glory after those little blighters spent six years running riot. In fact, one of the lads caused a fire,’ he said, as if talking to no one in particular. ‘Dennis Smith was his name. Always up to no good. He swore blind he hadn’t been playing with matches, but none of us children believed him as we’d often catch him in the forest with a lit roll-up of paper, pretending to smoke.’
Rolled up paper? As children, my brothers had bought the real McCoy. The ice cream man got done for selling us single fags from his van.
The Earl turned to the camera and raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps, if he’s watching, Dennis would like to confess his crime. But there—stiff upper lip and all that, my family simply had to tolerate the intrusion and damage. If truth be told, Mama enjoyed doing her bit and I made the most of the company. It was for the good of the country. The real villain was Hitler.’ He sucked on his pipe. ‘After the war, Papa did his best to restore our home to its former glory.’
Blimey, for a man of few words, that was quite a speech. Sweet – he’d clearly adored his dad.
One thing Abbey had mentioned was this grandfather’s failed business dealings. He died from a heart attack, mega young – well, if, unlike me, you don’t consider being fifty- something totally ancient. Her dad, Richard, was only a teen. In the days following his death, the Earl and his brother must have become close, which made their fall-out all the more random.
‘It must have been a shock when he, um, passed on.’ Okay, so a lady wasn’t supposed to make such personal comments but, for Gawd’s sake, how would viewers warm to the Croxleys if they came across as such cardboard cut-out, unemotional aristocratic figures?
‘
Epiccccc
,’ I said as we moved to the next portrait—a woman in a fancy dress, with geisha-white skin and caramel hair swept up. Jewels dangled from her ears and hung around her neck… Crap! Had I really laxed into Gemma mode and really said ‘epic’? ‘I mean, um…
a piccccc
ture one could stare at all day. What an extraordinarily good-looking woman.’
‘Mama,’ he said and his face went all squishy for a second, before he stared at me. ‘Once more, you talk as if you’ve never seen a picture of her.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Apologies, Uncle – Grandmother looks quite, um, different from the photos Father has shown me.’
The Earl gazed back at the portrait. ‘During inclement weather, when Papa was away on business, she’d smuggle my pony up here and let me ride the length of the Long Gallery. I loved her for that,’ he said softly.
‘How, um, enchanting.’ I glanced at Gaynor, who’d looked up from her clipboard to listen. Roxy had even stopped chewing. Blimey, the Earl had let his gruff mask slip for a minute.
A smile flickered across his face. ‘Well, that’s what the Long Gallery was sometimes used for—exercise in bad weather. Up and down we’d go. Our indoor constitutional, Mama used to call it – but she always made it seem jolly.’
He scratched his bristly beard and headed for the next picture. It was a couple, smartly dressed on a fancy sofa. The man had on a cravat and a pocket watch hung out of his waistcoat. I glanced sideways at the Earl. A pocket watch dangled from his tweed waistcoat – perhaps it was the same one. The woman was dressed in a vertically striped blouse and broad-brimmed hat. The couple looked happy and fancy-free, eyes twinkly and mouths upturned.
‘My great-grandparents,’ he said. ‘Terribly well-known for their partying. Splendid hosts, according to one and all. The Drake Diner was home to many a ball. In those days the servants slept in the kitchens and pantry. Up here was for guests.’
We moved onto the next frame. ‘My grandparents,’ he murmured. ‘They were also significant players on the social scene. We believe a young Noel Coward stayed here once.’
‘Ah, yes, my dear cousin mentioned that,’ I said.
‘Your father never told you?’ he said abruptly.
Roxy and Gaynor glanced at each other and raised their eyebrows.
‘But, erm, of course,’ the Earl said after a quick glare at me, ‘Richard never was much interested in celebrity. But he must have told you about our great-grandfather’s party trick? Papa used to creep down and peek at him doing it in the Drake Diner.’
My cheeks flamed. ‘Um, yes, he could make, um, coins appear from people’s ears…?’
‘That wasn’t the one I was thinking of,’ he said in a measured voice. ‘Apparently, drinking out of his wife’s shoe was considered a jolly jape. He’d announce to the room that it made the champagne taste absolutely divine. Papa got into trouble when he was a little boy for trying the same with his bedtime milk.’
Gaynor and Roxy smiled.
As we came to the end of the Long Gallery, on the right hand side of the house, we stood and gazed up at a ginormous gold-framed portrait of a man. Around his neck was an amazin’ ruffle, he had a moustache, beard and wore a feathered hat. His expression looked kind of laid-back, as if not a thing could surprise him. Upright and confident, he seemed like the complete opposite of the bespectacled, world-weary-looking Earl’s dad.
‘The very first Earl of Croxley,’ said the old man and straightened his back. ‘Elizabeth the First awarded him the estate of Applebridge for his role in defeating the Spanish Armada, in 1588. The Drake Diner was named after his good friend…’
‘Sir Francis Drake,’ I mumbled. Even I could work that out.
I exchanged glances with Roxy, who’d was clearly rapt. This tour had turned into a live history lesson. I gazed at the man on the canvas and tried to imagine him on some ship or proudly bowing before the Queen. He must have been one of the celebrities of the day. Mega important. Probably had his pick of the women, ate the finest food without having to worry about paparazzi and Twitter trolls, like today’s celebs.
‘Did he build Applebridge Hall?’ I asked.
‘You don’t even know that!’ he spluttered, yet within seconds obviously remembered that we were supposed to promote this cuddly image of a close family. He forced a chuckle. ‘Ah, my scoundrel of a younger brother… Richard was never much of a historian. Yes. His family lived in a small country house on the estate – since knocked down—whilst the architects and builders set to work.’
Footsteps sounded up the stairwell nearest to us. Honey curls appeared.
‘Good day, Abbey,’ Edward said. ‘I trust that, um, your back no longer hurts.’
Blimey. He
was
making an effort for the cameras. ‘Good afternoon. Yes, tickety-boo now, thank you,’ I replied. It was weird living somewhere so big that a whole day might pass before you bump into the other housemates.
‘Father, the first episode of
Million Dollar Mansion
:
the Final
will be on in around an hour,’ said Edward. ‘Members of staff are congregating in the Parlour. I believe Kathleen has prepared tea and your favourite lemon crumb biscuits for everyone. We could all go over the plans for tomorrow before the beginning of the programme.’
‘Aaaaand cut,’ said Gaynor and gave a rusty cough. ‘No problem, darlings. We can continue the tour tomorrow, Lord Croxley – we’ll still have time to edit it for Tuesday’s show. And yes, fab work, everyone—those tales made Applebridge Hall come to life; made the whole place less…grey.’
However, the old man wasn’t listening.
‘Right, young lady…’ he hissed to me and unplugged his mic, before doing the same to mine. ‘Let’s walk back the length of the Gallery and downstairs to the Parlour. On the way, you can explain to me why you know so little about the Croxley ancestors. Let’s hope to God that your cookery knowledge is better than your history.’
Crap. I took off my mic and we handed them to the cameraman. Gaynor and Roxy were still staring up at the ginormous portrait. Edward had disappeared, having muttered something about his blog.
‘It’s as if you’re a complete stranger, Abigail,’ said the Earl and glared. ‘The Richard I used to know loved these old anecdotes. Estrangement or not, I’m sure any daughter of his would be familiar with what her ancestors looked like and, in God’s name, know the origins of how this place was built!’
‘I… Yes… You see…’ I stuttered.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for what had better be a damn good explanation.’
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Sunday 2nd September
7p.m.
Good evening, blog-readers, I trust you will soon settle down to watch this evening’s show. No doubt you shall find footage of yesterday’s events, including dinner, entertaining. Of course, it is somewhat edited, especially during these early days, whilst we get used to the cameras. And not everything is caught on film. As I suggested to you last night, Cousin Abigail is quite the dark horse – for a lady—and even made Father chuckle. Erm, I’ve always thought this,
of course
, during our
frequent
rendezvous over the years. It’s just that this weekend her more…
casual
aspect seems more pronounced than before.
This is not a criticism, dear Cousin, if you are reading my blog. Not unless your behaviour leads to unseemly conduct and damaged property, such as a valuable chair… And, um, do excuse some rambling comments I made on here last night. The family port has had a lot to answer for over the years.
Moving right on, a few words about my day, not assuming it’s of any particular interest, but in the name of promoting ‘Team Croxley’ (the crew’s words, not mine) here goes:
I spent hours in Gaynor’s company, yet again fending off suggestions to mimic some romantic literary character. As I’ve said from the start, I am no Mr Rochester, no Rhett Butler (names I know, thanks to my mother’s love of books). Despite my protestations, Gaynor insisted on leading me to the pond and suggested I bathe in my clothes, then wade out, shirt tight, hair dripping…
Honestly?
I can’t believe viewers would like to see a non-fictional person do that. Humour me, blog-readers – can that sort of thing really be what the viewing public desires? (Note to Gaynor, I believe in transparency, so anything you say to me might appear in this e-diary).
I shall return to this page anon, to keenly read your answers – and ponder your reactions to tonight’s footage.
Thank you for your attention.
Shouldn’t I be the angry one, dear Uncle, because you didn’t know about my terrible childhood accident? For most of my formative years (yes, cool phrase off Lady C) I’d been in a coma. So excuse me if I didn’t know all your ancestral anecdotes…
*Sigh* - I kind of guessed that such an excuse wouldn’t stick. Plus I couldn’t face making up any more big lies. Who could blame the Earl for being mad? I hadn’t even recognized my supposed granddad. So, instead, on the way back along the corridor, past the portraits, I simply mumbled to the Earl about the teenage years being ‘difficult’. I explained that most of what my father said went in one of my petulant ears and straight out the other. For some reason – thank goodness—this tickled his humour. From what the Earl remembered, his brother could have broken any Guinness World Record for non-stop waffling.
Just as we headed downstairs to the Parlour, Edward joined us, having quickly updated his blog. I’d read a snitch last night. Talk about conscientious! Clearly he saw it as his duty to reply to almost every comment—which was kind of cute. I couldn’t believe he thought me, acting as Abbey, spontaneous. Blimey, he’d have fifty fits if he met the real Gemma! And, as for his rambling, well – bravo Edward, for trying to convince people that you and I were close and you really cared about my fall. Anyway, then we chatted about the upcoming screening. My stomach twisted a little as I considered important questions, like did the camera really put on ten pounds and would High Definition telly magnify any old acne scars?
We reached the first floor, crossed a long corridor over to the left side of the house and entered the Parlour, which was nothing like I’d expected – much more modern, in fact homely, with Mr Thompson drinking tea on an ottoman-style pouf and Kathleen and Jean chilled on a cosy mustard sofa. Nick sat on the floor, in between their legs. Opposite them was a slimline telly, with a laptop on a desk next to that. The room was well lit, with a real fire as well. Newspapers and magazines were piled up on a low coffee table in the middle of the room, next to a teapot and cups and a plate of yummy-looking biscuits. There was wood-panelling on the bottom half of the walls, the top half painted a warm orangey-red. The Earl sat down in a high-backed terracotta armchair to the right of the telly and was already puffing on his pipe.
The cook got up to pour us tea but Edward shooed her back to her seat.
‘You’re not on duty Sunday evenings, Kathleen,’ he said, while pointing me to the space next to her on the sofa. ‘You put your feet up and let me hand around these delightful biscuits.’
The cook nodded her appreciation and untied her floral apron. Nick looked up and winked at me – I smiled, sat down neatly, knees together, hands in my lap, wishing I could get really comfy and tuck my legs under my bum. Edward passed me a cup and rested next to me on the sofa’s wide arm, then Kathleen turned down the telly and we chatted about how the weekend had gone – and what the week ahead might have in store. My chest tightened after some chat about tomorrow’s unveiling of the Applebridge Food Academy and my first lesson. I really was going to be teaching. There was no backing out now.
Another cup of tea later, Edward was just about to go over some boring health and safety message about lapel mics again when (thank God) Nick jumped up, turned up the telly volume and, from the screen, Charlie’s familiar voice shouted out:
‘Welcome, folks, to the final two weeks of
Million Dollar Mansion
. Put up your feet and enjoy an hour of swanky scenery, grand game-plans and blue-blooded banter. Head to head, it’s Marwick Castle and Applebridge Hall. Meet the families again. Enjoy their Chat with Chingo!’
‘Not much different on screen, is he?’ murmured Mr Thompson, still in his Sherlock Holmes hat, with his voice as deep as any bass instrument.
