Doubting Abbey (9 page)
With a sniff, I inspected the white-washed room and its five new workstations, one extra at the front where the teacher (that’s me) would demonstrate her skills. They were basic, each with a silver sink, cooker and cutlery, plus cupboards well stocked with pans, sieves and graters. It was the only part of the house I’d seen, so far, that showed no hint of its noble status. A door at the back must have led to the pantry and cellars and real kitchen, where Kathleen cooked for the house. On tiptoe, I let myself in.
Sure enough, Kathleen and Mr Thompson sat at a large table, mugs in front of them, dead pheasants by the estate manager’s feet. In front of a rolling camera, they chatted about how self-sufficient the estate was. Elvis Presley music played from an old-fashioned tape cassette machine on one of the units. Whilst huge, this kitchen was much more homely, with pine units, a huge scratched table and cross-stitch pictures on the walls. A whiff of baked pastry and fruit cut through the air. It was dark outside now. Nick had taken off his butler’s coat and was downing a glass of water. He winked and joined me at the back of the kitchen, by the dishwasher. The cameraman and sound guy faced our direction but remained focused on Mr Thompson and the cook.
‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, ‘this is an ideal opportunity to do something romantic – we’ll get caught in the background of this shot.’
‘No, you see… It’s all a mistake, me at Applebridge Hall, and I’ve changed my mi—’
‘Shh!’ said Nick, eyes a-twinkle, and crept behind me, expensive cologne overpowering the smell of apple pie. He snaked his arms around my waist, before nuzzling my neck. Ooh—spiky unshaven cheeks. I’d always liked the feel of that… Finally, the gardener drew away and winked as he walked back to Kathleen and Mr Thompson. Back to my senses, I hurtled out of the room.
So much for Lady C’s Three Ms – Modesty (thong flashed), Manners (rocketing onion) and No Men (unsightly stubble marks on my neck). At this rate I’d leave Abbey’s reputation in tatters. It was over. I’d leave Applebridge tonight, before I made an even bigger fool of myself and lost lovely Nick his job. Run, girl, run!
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Saturday 1
st
September
‘Comments’
11.45p.m.
Thank you for your interest today, blog-readers. Here’s one last comment from me before hitting the hay. This evening’s dinner has not been without incident and, after an hour or so of reflection, I can only conclude that my cousin will bring more to
Million Dollar Mansion
than I ever imagined.
Of course, I knew she would as we, um, are a jolly close family. However, I’d forgotten the more…spontaneous side to her nature. It’s reminiscent of my dear mother, who used to say, like sweet apple with pork, like cranberry jelly with turkey, she compensated for the stodgier aspects of my father and me.
However, what has flummoxed me is that an accident occurred tonight – nothing serious – but it surprised me how much I… If anything bad had happened to… Forgive me – the extra glass of port I drank must be responsible for this rambling. It’s just that the power of shared DNA has a lot to answer for—nothing else could explain the strength of a new, unexpected feeling…
Knityourownmansion
, many thanks – there’s no doubt the Earl would very much like to receive a knitted mohair pipe through the post.
Drunkwriter
, thank you for gracing us with your presence again, and I’m sure you’ll understand why I had to moderate your comment – references to parts of the anatomy aren’t for the everyone, however poetic.
Cupcakesrock
, you hope that the answer to my poser question is the Croxley Coffee Shop? And
Blogger569
, I like your suggestion of us producing cider with cloves and orange – no doubt it would sell well at Christmas. I hope you both watch tomorrow’s show and approve of the poser question’s answer.
Right. Good. Done for the day. Sleep well, all.
Ever declared to the world that you’re starting a diet, but then eaten three bacon sarnies, one multi-pack of crisps, two pizzas and a family-sized tube of cookies? Then you’ll understand why I didn’t leave Applebridge Hall last night, despite my, um, dramatic announcement. As I was about to go upstairs, the Earl appeared. In a gruff voice, he asked how I was and patted my shoulder. Apparently, everyone was worried I’d feel too embarrassed to return to the dinner table. Mouth open, I listened as he muttered some story about his trousers falling down at a charity fund-raiser. It was nineteen ninety-five and gave him the push to finally ditch braces. Perhaps these Croxley men did have more running through their veins than stand-offish, cool tradition.
I yawned, having just got up, showered and carefully selected one of Abbey’s outfits. It had a definite KMid feel, with the immaculate skinny jeans (okay, a bit of a squeeze on me) and white T-shirt. If I went out later, there was a short grey jacket to go with it, which was okay, but I was already missing wearing black – and especially my face bronzer.
My phone rang. I sat down on the four-poster bed (love saying that) and grabbed my mobile from the bedside table.
‘Hiya. Yeah, I’m okay. Dinner? Um…Fine—there were no problems.’ Hope Lady C didn’t notice my voice suddenly squeak. Even though the truth would worry her, there was clearly no way she’d agree to me leaving the mansion now. So it was best to spare her the gory details of the astronaut onion and dress-above-waist faux pas. ‘So have you chosen the menu I should demonstrate tomorrow, in my first lesson?’ I grabbed my handbag from the foot of the bed and rummaged inside it. Finally, I pulled out a pen and a scrunched up tissue – that would have to do for writing down the ingredients.
‘Right… An apple theme? What a mega idea, what with the orchards! Okay, Apple and English blue cheese salad to start…’ I said, scribbling furiously. Yay for ingredients that wouldn’t even need cooking! ‘Pork and apple stew for the main, okay…’ Chucking everything into a pot seemed doable. ‘And baked apples for pudding?’ Lady C said I should avoid cake or pastry-making for my first session and to say I’d chosen something less challenging, for ‘the sake of the students’.
I kept the call brief, worried I might let slip about my kitchen-smooch with Nick. Also, I had a mega busy day ahead – the Earl was giving me an on-camera tour of the top floor late afternoon, then, at eight, we’d all watch the first Sunday episode of
Million Dollar Mansion: the Final
. It was the first opportunity the Croxleys had to see exactly how the smarmy Baron of Marwick had spent his twenty-five thousand quid. And it was my first chance to get a good look at the opposition.
Ingredients list in hand, I headed down to the kitchens to see if I would need to visit a supermarket. Kathleen greeted me with a warm smile. I felt bad tweaking the truth and telling her I was late up due to my back still aching. Despite her motherly protests, I insisted on simply munching an apple for breakfast (I couldn’t face the Croxleys’ usual sausage and black pudding). The cook took the piece of tissue and skimmed the items.
‘Not bad choices,’ she said, ‘although I could recommend some hearty Scottish dishes. I mean, if they were good enough for the Queen Mother…’ Ten minutes later she was still describing weird-sounding dishes like Skink Soup and Clap shot! I smiled sheepishly. That Queen Mum thing was a random comment. Perhaps even the staff here were posh and she used to know royalty.
With a flourish, she opened the pantry door and seemed pleased with my gasp of amazement.
‘We never run out of anything here,’ she said and wiggled her generous bosom.
It was as if the Croxleys had their own corner shop, what with the massive bags of flour, tubs of seasoning, rows of cereals, pickles and preserves… The freezers were chock-full of meat they’d bought from local farmers. Kathleen took out some pork and showed me all the fruit and veg I needed. Plus the fridge’s selection of cheese was awesome and even included the English blue for my salad, which was apparently Viscount Hamilton-Brown’s favourite.
‘Right… I’ll lunch alone, downstairs with the computer,’ I told her as she shut the fridge door. ‘I must brush up my knowledge of, um, reality TV shows and how they work.’
‘Och, that’s true dedication – good on you,’ she said, eyes crinkling at the corners.
I smiled back, having bent the truth again. More likely I’d be surfing YouTube clips about the basics of cooking. Part of the twenty-five thousand the Croxleys won had been spent on a long-awaited Internet connection. Although Kathleen tutted at the idea of on-line shopping, proudly declaring that Mr Thompson drove her into town twice a week and that the fishmonger and milkman delivered to the doorstep.
Several hours later, eyes twitching from staring at the screen and the artificial light in the cellars, I leant back in the chair – then immediately leant forward again, not wanting to risk snapping another piece of furniture. The time jumped out at me from the bottom of the screen – eek! Quarter to five already. I logged off and scurried past racks of wine, up the whitewashed stairs and into the kitchen.
‘I’d better get upstairs for this tour,’ I said to Kathleen who, wooden spoon in hand, was swaying to her Elvis Presley music. I glanced down at my culottes. ‘Do you think I should change into something…grander?’
‘Och, lassie, you look lovely,’ said Kathleen and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I don’t think the viewers expect us to look too glamorous.’ She pulled a face. ‘We’ll leave anything tacky, like that to that pompous numpty, the Baron of Marwick. Ee, I cannot think of anyone less aristocratic…’
My stomach twinged. Try the real me for starters.
I left the smell of baking biscuits, headed out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. Then I climbed the steps, trying to get my bearings. As I’d found out yesterday, the ground floor housed the Low Drawing Room and library on the right, the Drake Diner in the middle and on the left, the kitchens. On the middle floor, were the family dining room and their lounge, known as the Parlour, then family and guest bedrooms and the High Drawing Room.
Panting slightly, I climbed another flight of stairs, right up to the second floor, at the top. This was where my tour would start and was home to something called the Long Gallery, plus the rooms where the staff slept.
‘Good afternoon, Abbey,’ said the Earl, in his tweed suit. He stood next to Gaynor and Roxy, who chatted to the cameraman. ‘I do hope you slept well. Kathleen said you were spending the day preparing for tomorrow.’ He sucked on his pipe. ‘That’s the attitude. Jolly good show, girl. Although I still think this cookery school idea is a load of nonsense…’
I smiled though his smoke and gazed the length of what was a mega wide corridor. In fact, it was more like a room, really, with doors to the staff bedrooms lining one side, on the left, and large windows on the right—the very back of the house. Plus there were a lot of pictures hanging.
‘Right, darlings, let’s get this show on the road,’ said Gaynor in her husky smoker’s voice, with a determined flick of her black bob. ‘Lord Croxley, if you could remember that this tour is for the viewers as well, that would be fab…’
He pursed his mouth. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll try to make it interesting.’
Roxy managed to smile at me while still chewing the sweet she’d just popped in her mouth and gave the thumbs-up as the Earl started walking.
‘I’ve never cared much for this marble fireplace,’ he said gruffly and pointed to a middle section of the long wall, in between two bedrooms. ‘Although Trigger, my father’s gundog, loved nothing better than to stretch out in front of it, following an afternoon at the shoot– a treat for the old mutt as he was rarely allowed in the house.’
I nodded, adjusting the mic’s battery pack clipped onto my culottes, under my blouse, that Roxy had quickly helped me fit. Apparently the lapel mics were better if you were walking about.
‘So, this is the Long Gallery?’ I said – cue the Earl to duly chat about its features. At the far end stood two buckets and there was a slightly musty whiff in the air.
‘A couple of the bedrooms up here don’t belong to the staff and haven’t been entered for years,’ muttered the Earl. I waited for some mysterious reason as to why not but he just carried on walking—Roxy pulled a face and yawned.
Urgh – she was right, this footage would be mind-numbingly boring. Shame, cos I thought this floor was pretty amazin’. The windows were mega, with shelves below them for seats. In between hung portraits of all sorts of people. Impressive chandeliers dangled from the ceiling and gave me a sudden urge to swing on them. I shivered, despite the summer temperature outside, wondering how many thousands of pounds it would cost to install central heating. The Earl was making points about the history of the interior design, which wouldn’t grab the attention of your average viewer. Finally, he stopped still in front of a portrait and puffed on his pipe. It was of a middle-aged bloke in a dinner suit, who sat by bookshelves, dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The man’s shoulders sagged as if someone had anchored his cuffs into stormy waters.
‘Goodness, he looks, um, terribly serious,’ I said. ‘Who was he, Uncle? Some important politician who knew our ancestors? Or perhaps a film star who visited? He looks as if he could play a believable stern villain.’
The Earl’s cheeks flushed. ‘That’s Papa.’
‘Oh…um…’ I stuttered.
‘Really, Abigail,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised you don’t recognize your grandfather.’
Suddenly desperate to bite my thumbnail, I swallowed hard.
‘This was painted just after the Second World War,’ he continued. ‘I was only eight but remember it like yesterday. Papa didn’t budge an inch for hours, when he sat for the artist. Impressive—but then he was made of strong stuff.’
I studied the man’s hair, greased above the ears and black. Perhaps the Earl had looked like this as a young man.
‘It was painted just after Applebridge Hall returned to our possession. As you know, this place was requisitioned as a home for children during the war. We still lived here as a family, but evacuees from London were billeted with us.’
