The Hardie Inheritance (2 page)

Each of the leaf-lined trug baskets which she carried into the walled garden was in turn filled with fruit and set down between the rows to await collection when the task was completed. She had no reason to expect any interruption in her daily routine. No visitors were expected today, because no visitors were
ever
expected. There was no way in which she could have guessed that before she went to bed that night not just one caller, but four, would have made their way up the long drive towards Greystones. Nor could she have foreseen the dramatic consequences of each of those visits. As
the sun rose higher in the sky there was nothing to suggest that 23 July 1932 was to be anything other than the most ordinary of days.

‘Are we going to look at another house?'

Ellis Faraday smiled sympathetically at his daughter's question. Of course they were going to look at another house, and Trish knew it as well as he did. They had been looking at other people's houses ever since the summer holiday began.

On the first occasion the six-year-old had been excited, probably hoping that her father planned to buy the house and take her to live in it. Later, realizing that he had no plans of this kind, she became bored. But by now she had been told the reason for all these visits and was interested again.

‘Yes, we are,' said Ellis, taking hold of the little girl's hand to help her along. ‘This one's called Greystones.'

‘How old is it?'

‘It was built in 1900. So you tell me how old it is.'

‘Give up,' said Trish without even trying. She was no good at sums.

‘Thirty-two years old. Twenty-six years older than you. And there it is.'

They had been walking along a narrow lane, bounded by stone walls. Now he lifted Trish on to the top of one of the walls so that she could get a better view; because the house was still a considerable distance away, almost at the top of a hill. ‘What do you think of it?'

He waited patiently while she stared at the mansion and considered what to say. Ellis was not too bothered about his daughter's slowness in coming to terms with figures, because he was not a great one for making calculations himself. But he had been patient in teaching her that it was never good enough
to announce simply that she liked or didn't like something. She was expected to give reasons for her opinions; and she did so now.

‘I think it's lovely,' she said when she had thought about it. ‘Because of the tower.'

The front of Greystones was wide and comparatively low, its third tier of windows, for the servants' bedrooms, being concealed behind the parapet. But in one corner a round tower rose two storeys higher than the rest of the house. The lack of symmetry, and the contrast between the curve of the tower and the angles of the main building might have created an odd impression but in fact gave the house its individual character. Ellis approved of it himself, and was interested that his daughter should react in the same way – although for different reasons.

‘It's a fairy-tale palace for a princess,' she announced. ‘Like in the story where the princess has to let down her long golden hair to make a ladder. I should think everyone in that family wants to live in the tower.'

‘Let's go and ask them, shall we?'

He lifted her down, and together they walked along the lane before turning into the drive which led up to the house. In order to make the ascent of the hill less steep for the horses which would have carried guests to the house when it was first built, the drive zig-zagged in wide curves through grassland on which a flock of sheep were grazing, but a straighter track had been worn down by the feet of walkers, cutting off all the corners.

‘Do the people at Greystones know we're coming?' she asked.

Ellis recognized a note of anxiety in her voice. When they arrived at a mansion by invitation, they drove right up to the front door in the van which was necessary to carry all his equipment. It had not taken her long to learn that whenever they left the vehicle before they even reached the gates, as had happened today, it was because they weren't expected.

‘No, they don't,' he admitted, ‘I thought we'd give them a surprise.'

‘Why?'

‘This house may be in a rather different state from some of the others we've seen; the grand ones,' he told her. ‘The family must have been well off at the time when it was built, but from what ‘I've heard, it sounds as though they've come down in the world since then.'

‘Do you mean they're poor?'

‘That's not a word to use when we're talking to them.'

‘I know
that
.' Her voice expressed indignation.

‘I don't suppose they're poor in the way that ordinary people are poor. I don't even expect that they have to tell their children, if they have any, that they're not allowed new red sandals until their feet have grown out of horrid black strap shoes.' This was a subject which had been much discussed between Trish and her father recently. ‘But a big house like Greystones costs a lot to keep up, if it's to be done properly. The Hardies may not have been able to manage that. If I'd written in advance and asked permission to call, they'd probably have said No.'

‘Why?'

‘When a house has grown shabby, its owners often don't want people to come and look at it. Or if they do say Yes, they feel that they ought to do something about it before they let us come – you know, clean it and make it tidy. That would mean that we'd be giving them a lot of hard work. So we're just going to turn up. Then I can explain what I want. They're more likely to let us look round this way.'

‘They might think we're burglars.'

‘That's why I've brought you with me. I may look like a burglar, but you don't.' He squeezed her hand affectionately. ‘You're a very useful companion.'

Trish grinned and began to skip along the path, pleased to feel that she was useful to her father by not looking like a burglar. Watching her, Ellis felt himself overcome by love. He had embarked on her upbringing, four years earlier, in a mixture of rage at the rotten hand which life had dealt him and terror
at the thought of his own inadequacy as a father. But almost from the start she had seemed to know how to bring herself up, leaving him only the task of translating her instructions into practical arrangements.

Today, for example, she had decided which of her summer dresses would be most suitable and had given two days' notice that it ought to be washed. Her long white socks and the straw hat, with a red ribbon tied under her chin, proclaimed her to be a well-behaved little girl, which she was, and a demure little girl, which she most certainly was not. Only the hated scuffed shoes spoiled the neat picture she made, and it was Ellis's own fault that he had refused to accept the need for new red sandals. Trish was a bundle of lively energy, but the bundle came in such a neat and pretty package that her father longed to pick her up and hug her every few minutes. If only she could stay like that for the rest of her life and never grow into a woman!

Trish's attention was no longer on her own appearance, but on the grounds through which they were walking.

‘Do the sheep belong to the Hardies?'

‘Might. Might not. Most likely thing is that a farmer pays them for grazing rights.' Ellis always tried to give his daughter a serious answer to her many questions. ‘The farmer gets more grass to fatten his sheep, and the owners get a bit of money and don't have to mow the grass, so it suits everyone.'

But although Trish had asked the question, she was no longer listening to the answer. She had come to a halt, staring. ‘What's
that
?'

The object which had caught her eye was indeed strange. Immediately in front of Greystones was a circle of lawn surrounded by the turning circle of the carriage drive. Unlike the rough parkland which was kept short by the nibbling sheep, this area of grass had been smoothly mown, and in its centre was an object made out of stone.

‘It's a hole,' said Ellis. Someone had hollowed out a large block of stone so that what faced forward was indeed a hole.
It had a roughly rectangular shape, but because the stone around it curved backwards like the tyre of a motor car, the effect was round rather than angular; and a knob, curved again, which rose from the top right-hand corner prevented the shape from being dull.

‘It's' – Trish ran forward across the grass. Bending down, she stepped through the hole. Ellis, following, saw that she was now standing in a second hole cut from the same block and lying flat on the lawn. ‘It's the house!' she exclaimed. ‘It's Greystones!'

‘Full marks for imagination, but I hardly think –'

‘But look, Daddy. That's the tower. And this is the space for living in.'

‘Then I don't think you ought to scramble about in other people's houses.' He was laughing, not pretending to agree with her understanding of the stone. Reluctantly she stepped out of the hole and allowed her father to take her hand again, for now they had arrived at the house.

He rang the bell beside the front door, but frowned to himself as he did so. It must have been a long time since the door was last opened, for cobwebs stretched across all the cracks, and some of last year's dead leaves lay undisturbed on the threshold. ‘We'd better go and look for another door,' he said, without waiting long for an answer.

The windows of the rooms they passed were large and long, but the curtains inside had all been drawn across.

‘Do you think someone's dead?' asked Trish.

‘They probably just want to keep the sun out, so that their pictures won't fade.'

‘I don't think anyone's living here.'

Ellis, who had made enquiries in the village, knew better and took his daughter's hand again to lead her past the front of the house and round a corner. A few yards ahead of them a woman was sitting outside in the sunshine. She was grey-haired; but her face, which had once been that of a beautiful woman, was almost unlined, needing no make-up to cover it.
She looked very much at ease, comfortable and relaxed as she plucked a chicken.

‘I'm sorry to intrude,' said Ellis. ‘I did ring the bell, but …'

‘I wouldn't hear it out here.' The woman smiled her thanks to Trish, who had run to catch some of the escaping feathers, and now approached shyly to press them down with the others.

‘I'd like to have a word with the owner of Greystones,' Ellis said, phrasing the request vaguely because he was not sure whether he was addressing a servant or a member of the family. The woman's occupation – and the serviceable apron which protected her simple cotton frock – suggested that she was a member of the kitchen staff, but her calm, pleasant voice conveyed a different impression. She might even be the owner of the house herself – but this proved not to be the case.

‘You'll find her in the stables. Go back past the front door to the other side of the house, and then through the arch. But if you're trying to sell something, you'll be wasting your time.'

‘Thank you for your help.' Ellis turned to go, but paused for one more question. ‘I'm correct, am I, in believing that Greystones is still in the possession of the Hardie family?'

‘That's right. It's Miss Hardie you're looking for.'

‘Thank you.'

Trish took hold of his hand again as they retraced their footsteps. ‘Was that lady the cook?'

‘Perhaps. I'm not sure.'

‘She had a nice face. But I didn't know that chickens without feathers looked like that. Do you think there'll be ponies in the stables? Will they let me have a ride? What's all that hammering going on?'

‘You know as much as I do.' By now they had reached the stable block. Over the arch the golden hands of a clock with a blue face pointed to twelve o'clock, although that was not the correct time. Hand in hand they walked through the arch and into the cobbled courtyard.

All Trish's questions were answered at once. There were no horses to be seen. And the hammering sound was coming from
the far side of the courtyard, where someone – facing away from them – was hitting a large piece of stone with a mallet and chisel. Could this really be Miss Hardie? It looked more like a man; a tall, thin man wearing workman's overalls. A strong man, as well; the hammering appeared to be hard work. Perhaps he was a mason, preparing to repair the fabric of the walls.

Ellis put a finger to his mouth, warning his daughter not to make any sudden noise, in case surprise might cause the chisel to slip. Instead, they moved together round the outside of the stable yard until they could be seen.

It was after all a woman and not a man who caught sight of them and, startled, paused with her mallet raised in the air for the next blow. She looked from one to the other, waiting for one of them to speak.

‘I'm afraid we're disturbing you, Miss Hardie,' said Ellis. ‘Your – your cook, was it? – told us we should find you here.'

‘Cook? Oh, you mean my mother.' Grace Hardie smiled, and the smile transformed her face. Until that moment the concentration with which she applied herself to her work had given an absorbed, withdrawn look to her dark eyes; but now they twinkled with amusement. She set down her tools carefully in their flat wooden rack and pulled off the cap which had been protecting her hair from the stone dust, shaking her head vigorously as she did so as though to let the air in. ‘How can I help you?'

‘My name may not mean anything to you,' said Ellis. ‘I come without introduction, I'm afraid. Ellis Faraday. And this is my daughter Patricia, who usually answers to Trish.'

‘Hello, Trish. I won't shake hands, because I'm filthy.' But she smiled again in a friendly manner. Then, more seriously, she looked into Ellis's eyes.