Simply Heaven (18 page)

I read on.

Great Hall:
Part of the original structure of the house; hanging plaster ceiling by Nikolas Dowlet and scrolled oak panelling, 1567. Marble fireplace by Robert Adam, installed 1830s after the demolition of Tewkesbury March. Antlers over fireplace from a hart brought down by Edmund Callington-Wattestone during a hunt organised for Henry VIII
.
Pictures: Lettice Callington: school of Holbein; Caroline Callington-Warbeck-Wattestone: John Singer Sargent; The Hunting Party: after Stubbs; The Martyrdom of St Sebastian, Caravaggio
.

It’s a real one. Blow me down.

Selected furniture: George IV plum pudding mahogany and rosewood crossbanded sofa table; green painted parcel-gilt sedan chair, early 19th century; a
pietra dura
table; pair of oak and pollard oak antler chairs circa 1850; set of dining chairs, Chippendale; carved mahogany
…

She’s trying to bore me to death. This list is making my jaw crack. And there are another three pages to go. I think I’ve lost the circulation in my feet.

‘Would you like to sit closer to the fire, Mrs Wattestone?’ I ask Beatrice.

‘Heavens,’ she replies, ‘it’s like a sauna in here already. Have you come far?’

‘From Australia, originally.’

‘And are you staying nearby?’

‘I’m married to Rufus, Mrs Wattestone,’ I tell her again.

Beatrice shakes her head. ‘Rufus isn’t married.’

This is going to get a bit tedious.

‘You don’t mind if I …’ I gesture towards the fire.

She inclines her head graciously. ‘Please.’

There’s a pile of magazines by the couch, which has a greasy stain at head-height on its high back. I take the opportunity to drop the leaflet casually on to a little metal trivet thing that sits uselessly by the fireplace, look through the dusty magazines. More copies of the
Lady
(‘Jane Asher: Cake Decoration and Me’), something called
Country Life
(‘Antiques Special’) and something called
Horse and Hound
(‘Adventures with the Pytchley’). I give
Horse and Hound
a burl.

‘Do you enjoy country sports?’ enquires Beatrice.

I lower the magazine into my lap. ‘I’m not really sure,’ I tell her. ‘We’re more sea where I come from.’

‘Ah,’ she says, ‘so you’ll enjoy fishing.’

I shrug. I haven’t actually been out with a rod and line since the guy next to me pulled up a blue-ringed octopus and had to smash it apart with a boat hook while everyone else fled screaming across the rocks. ‘I guess,’ I reply noncommittally.

‘My late husband was a great fisherman,’ she informs me, fixing me with those shiny little button eyes. ‘We used to stock the moat with a thousand trout every season. A great sportsman.’

Doesn’t sound that much like sport to me, I think. More like the stately equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel. ‘That’s nice,’ I tell her. ‘They don’t do that any more, then?’

‘Not since the cracks started appearing,’ she informs me. ‘Too expensive, considering how many we lose to herons.’

I wait for a moment to see if she’s going to say anything more, then return to
Horse and Hound
. Turn to the small ads at the back. They read like the lonely hearts in
Fruitcakes Monthly
: ‘Schoolmaster, 11, sadly unable to compete due to tendon strain, but fit for hacking and schooling …’; ‘Handsome black stallion, 15.2, huge potential but not a novice ride. Would suit strong, experienced boy …’; ‘Rangy heavyweight, big jump, three seasons out. Only selling due to relocation …’

‘Oh, yes,’ burbles Beatrice, ‘a great sportsman. There wasn’t a day when he wasn’t out with the Heythrop or off with his gun. The servants used to have it written into their contracts that they didn’t have to eat pheasant more than three times a week.’

‘Wow.’ I try to sound impressed. ‘You must have been very proud of him.’

‘Oh, yes. The Duke of Beaufort used to say he was the best shot in the country.’

‘Golly.’

‘So do you hunt, in Australia?’

‘We don’t really have the right sort of foxes. Did you hunt?’

The beaming smile. ‘Oh, yes. Three times a week. From when I was six years old. My grandmother was one of the first woman MFHs. With the Dumfriesshire. I remember,’ she leans towards me, cups her mouth conspiratorially, ‘the day she died, we were all sent out, my brothers and I, to get us out of the house. It was a marvellous day: found immediately, and ran practically without a break. And we’d be galloping along on our ponies, and somebody would overtake us, and shout, “How’s your grandmother?” And we’d shout: “She’s dead!” Looking back, I suppose the modern psychiatrist would have a thing or two to say about that, but it was killingly funny at the time.’

And to show herself unaffected by the experience, she allows a peal of tinkling laughter to escape her, the sort of laugh that I thought that only Mary was able to accomplish.

I laugh too, to show that I’m not offended. Actually, I think it
is
pretty funny: the sort of story that my dad would appreciate, full on.

The laughter is cut off, just like that. Once again she tilts her head, hands crossed in her lap. ‘Of course, I dare say you don’t get too much hunting on a
nurse’s
salary.’ She pops me back into my box.

I don’t have the energy. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea or something, there, Mrs Wattestone?’

A little recoil as she corrects her deportment. ‘A lady doesn’t drink between breakfast and luncheon,’ she informs me.

I try a little tease. ‘Not even a drop of gin at elevenses?’

She gives me a look that leaves me in no doubt about the future of my medical support contract if I don’t watch my lip.

The fireplace door opens and a woman in a green T-shirt and maroon leggings enters, pauses for a moment, then, to my astonishment, actually bobs a curtsy and says: ‘Do you mind if I clear the table, now?’

I guess this is either the fabled Mrs Roberts, or Martin’s wife, Sharon, who I gather helps out in the house as well. Probably the former. Whatever, I’m relieved to see her. But Beatrice, like the old Edwardian she is, pretends she isn’t there at all.

I lay down my magazine, get to my feet. ‘Sure. I’ll give you a hand.’

She practically jumps out of her skin. I am just about to offer her a hand to shake, but think better of it when I see the way her eyes stand out on stalks. I make to walk towards the table, but she scurries into my path, blocks the route with a firmly turned shoulder.

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she tells me. None the less, I pick up the teapot and a couple of serving dishes as she stacks the plates, and follow her out of the room.

‘I’m Melody,’ I tell her as I pursue her down the passageway to the stairs. ‘I’m Rufus’s wife.’

She glances over her shoulder at me. ‘I know,’ she says.

‘You’re Mrs Roberts, right?’

She grunts in affirmation. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, and receive a noncommittal grunt in response.

We reach the kitchen, lay down our burdens on the table, and Mrs Roberts picks up a tea towel and wipes her hands. Looks at me in that way that I’m beginning to get used to, as though I’ve just sprouted a second head.

‘I’ve got to say, Mrs Roberts, I could really do with your help.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m here for,’ she says doubtfully, ‘but I’m only kitchen staff, really, and a bit of cleaning here and there …’

‘I’m sure you can be a lot of help. I mean, it’s a bit daunting, this: I don’t know who anybody is, where anything goes, or what I’m meant to do half the time. I could really do with a helping hand.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, Mrs Wattestone,’ she says.

‘Yes, but you know how it is. A friendly face is always a big help. You can fill me in on the stuff I don’t know about. I feel, you know – as though I’m in a wood full of bear traps. Like everyone’s waiting for me to put a foot wrong. You know these people …’

She puts down the tea towel – she has gone quite red in the face – turns towards the sink and makes a big show of clattering about with the cutlery. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wattestone, but I don’t think that that’s appropriate. I work here. I’m not a member of the family.’

‘I’m not asking you to be …’ I say. ‘I was just hoping that—’

‘Sorry,’ says Mrs Roberts, ‘but there it is. We have our ways, and I think everybody would be grateful if you’d respect that.’

‘But,’ I protest, ‘how am I supposed to know what these ways
are
if no one will—’

‘I suggest you ask your husband,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. It just doesn’t do, you know. You’re family, I’m staff. That’s how it is. It doesn’t do to get too …’

‘Too what?’

There’s an edge of frustration to her voice. I’m obviously doing it again, blundering through etiquette hell without a handbook.

‘Mrs Wattestone,’ she says, ‘we all have to know our place. I know you do it differently in Australia, but you’re not in Australia now. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get on.’ She starts feeding dishes into the sink, turning up the tap so that any further attempts at conversation will be drowned out.

I don’t know what to do, I really don’t. I stand behind her for a minute, trying to think of something to say, but I understand that it’s useless. I’m not just going to be rejected by the family, it seems: I’m going to be snubbed by the locals as well. I’ve walked into a minefield and I’m going to set off explosions wherever I put my feet. The back that’s turned to me is rigid, resolute.

Eventually I say, in a cowed little voice: ‘Well, I’m sorry I bothered you.’

She pretends not to hear.

So here I am complaining about lies and untruths and people keeping things from other people, and the first thing I do is calm myself down as I make my way upstairs so that my husband won’t know how rattled I am. Because I figure, you know, that if Mary’s going to play the devoted mother whenever he’s in the room, it’s up to me to make sure as hell he’s glad to be around his devoted wife. If the only ally I’m going to have around here is Rufus, I’d better make damn sure he’s in the room to see the cause before he gets to see one of my sense of humour failures in action.

It’s not too hard to calm down, as it goes, because I have plenty of time to do it in. It takes twenty minutes just to find my way up to the attics, and fortunately, the whole experience – the gargoyles carved into wood panels, the stuffed animal heads (my mum would love this place), the Brueghel grisaille hanging casually in a dark corridor – is weird and fascinating enough to restore some of my humour.

I reach my goal, and it’s great. About as Narnian as you could get. A great jumble of history, like one of those huge antiques warehouses: room after room – thankfully all interlinked in a straightforward way; I suppose most of this floor was built all in one go – filled to the joists with the sort of furniture that has Beverly Hills decorators salivating. These people have never sold
anything
.

I walk on through, come to the room with the hole in the roof. It smells of damp, of rot, of the bumper crop of mushrooms piling out of the floorboards. There’s a beautiful round pedestal table been rolled over to lean against the wall, but not before the rain has ruined it: once-ornate marquetry peels from a dull and spongy surface. It makes me want to weep, just looking at it. There must be a few thousand dollars’ worth there, just ruined for the sake of shifting it. Where it obviously used to stand is a collection of old tin baths, more or less full of rainwater. A hosepipe snakes from one, out through the hole, siphoning down to ground level. I wouldn’t like to have been the poor sod who had to suck the other end and get it started. I’m probably sleeping with him, of course.

The tree has, at least, been cut down. It lies on the floorboards, its lower trunk wider around than my upper arm, branches, as long as I am tall, roughly lopped off and lain on the floor beside it. The stump has been painted with some chemical in a foul shade of Queen Mother turquoise. They’ll probably keep it for another five hundred years as a souvenir.

I can hear Rufus moving about above my head; weave my way, treading carefully because I don’t know how far the damage has gone with the floor, between the bathtubs, and look out of the hole.

I can’t see him; he must be right up on top of the gable. A parapet runs the length of the roof, with a gutter-cum-walkway, lined with lead sheeting, behind. It looks safe enough. I haul myself up over the tiles and climb out.

He’s astride the point of the roof, knees hitched up like he’s on a horse, strong thighs in faded black jeans holding him steady. He’s thrown his sweater down to the gutter, rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal hard-muscled arms, golden from the Gozo sun. His arms were one of the first things I noticed about him: arms that have been shaped by use, not gym arms; arms that can carry a human body for ages without flagging. And I should know. He’s totally absorbed in what he’s doing: a sheaf of nails in his mouth, hammer and plastic sheeting in his hands.

I stand, hands on hips, and admire him for a few seconds, then say: ‘Well, at least the builders come in nice packages around these parts.’

Rufus looks down, palms the nails and grins. ‘Hello, trouble. How was the history lesson?’

‘Got bored. Thought I’d come up and monkey about with the workers for a bit.’

‘Good. They could do with a hand. Come on up.’

The roof is covered in tiles of a sort I’ve not seen before: stone of the same goldy-grey colour as the facings on the local houses, though crusted with orange lichen and patches of dark green moss. They must weigh half a ton each. I crawl up the roof, feeling them shift beneath me, grab his outstretched and do the last lot in a rush. Sit down with him, knees touching.

There’s a fresh wind. Invigorating. And it’s dizzyingly high. From here, I have a 360-degree view of the grounds, interrupted only by clutches of crooked chimney stacks.

‘Wow,’ I say.

‘Thought you’d like it,’ he says.

Up the hill, I see Edmund leaping from branch to branch of a tall tree like an aged monkey. The tree stands in the middle of a sweep of deer-mown grass that rolls down towards the house from a gigantic sky. I can see, now, that all the trees about the place have been planted artfully, scattered about asymmetrically to look as though they have grown there by nature, but each with a grand swathe of space over which to spread its noble boughs. Below us, a topiary garden shows signs of having once represented a half-played chess-game, in black yew and some tight-leaved red shrub. I can see Mary down among the rose bushes with a trug, making with the secateurs. Beyond the moat, in what were once obviously flat watermeadows, three horses graze good-temperedly in New Zealand rugs.