Love Song Page 7

  ‘I’ve got some things at the top of my wardrobe …’

  Hurrying upstairs, Hope prayed that she still had something suitable. As luck would have it she found something not only suitable – an elegant pack of expensive soaps and bath oils she had been given by a grateful mother from the dancing class – but appropriately old-fashioned too, the whole being made by Bonnier & Castleman, an Edwardian company who still knew their lavender from their rose geranium. She hurried back downstairs where, with well-practised maternal skill, she managed to smuggle the gift back to Melinda with whispered instructions to ‘lose’ it under the tree.

  ‘Oh, Claire, look,’ Melinda said at the appropriate moment, having saved the label from the other parcel. ‘You’ve forgotten to give Aunt Rosabel our present.’

  But their house guest was far more interested in Alexander’s supposed gift to her, having now carefully unwrapped the book to examine its contents with the aid of her reading glasses.

  ‘Alexander, dear boy,’ she exclaimed. ‘But this is a work of art – I could not be more astonished and delighted. The work you have put into this! One is at a loss for words.’

  Slowly the old lady turned the pages, lingering over each image, finding herself in an old sepia photograph as a small child leaning one plump hand on a cushion while looking seriously at the camera, then dressed for her presentation at Court, later on her wedding day to Uncle Harold and finally in her WVS uniform during the war.

  ‘Where in heaven’s name did you find all these, Alexander?’ she enquired with a laugh. ‘Where were they?’

  ‘I keep everything about our family, Rosabel dear,’ Alexander replied, sitting on the arm of her chair and helping her turn the pages. ‘I don’t throw anything out. I’ve kept all these things, family things, treasured things, all this time.’

  Hope smiled to herself as she heard him, remembering how Alexander had needed to be persuaded not to junk stuff he had described as boring old rubbish about boring old people, but said nothing, concentrating instead on opening her presents from her daughters. And as she kissed each of them in gratitude for their gifts, Hope made sure to give them an extra hug too, because she was so proud of them for not giving the game away.

  Because she always opened the youngest’s first, she opened Melinda’s present to herself last, taking out a large paperbacked book entitled Drawing With the Right Side of the Brain.

  Alexander looked over her shoulder as Hope was starting to read through it, and took it out of her hands to examine the title. As soon as he saw it he wandered off laughing.

  ‘Nice thought, Mellie,’ he said. ‘But surely in order to be able to utilize it, you have to be blessed with a brain in the first place!’

  ‘Take no notice of Dads. It’s a simply wonderful present. And so imaginative. You know how much I want to be able to draw.’

  ‘Right. Soon as I read about it I said, “That’s for Mums!” Apparently everyone can draw by using this other part of your brain – the artistic side or something. A bit that we don’t use at all, you know? And apparently if you follow everything it says anyone can do it – look. Just look at the results.’

  Hope and she leafed through the book, and Hope promised to read a little bit every night before she went to sleep.

  ‘That way, Mellie,’ she added, ‘I can start to practise drawing in my head too, you know, using the other bits. By locking it all in my head before I go to sleep.’

  ‘And then you can show me, right?’

  ‘You don’t need to be shown, Mellie, you’re as bright as a sixpence.’

  Later, while everyone was busy exclaiming over their family presents, Hope slipped out to check that everything was set properly in the dining room. It was only when she was there, quite alone, that she sat down and, taking one of the carefully ironed napkins from the table, suddenly pressed it to her face.

  She was not at all sure what had caused the feeling – all she knew as she sat there with a napkin covering her eyes was that she had never felt quite so dejected and fearful in her life. As if her life was about to change for ever, and not for the better. She suspected it might be something to do with Aunt Rosabel, but at the same time reason told her this was absurd.

  But then, as she well knew, not everything could be explained away or rationalized. Many things in life were born from mere sensations, and there were indeed such things as bad omens. And however much she tried, Hope could not dismiss the idea that from the moment she had collected the old lady from the station, despite all her charm, all her undoubted delight in coming to West Dean Drive for Christmas and the girls’ delight in getting to know her, all their lives were about to change for the worse.

  The day after Boxing Day Alexander volunteered to run his great-aunt to the station. After kissing the children and shaking Hope’s hand, the statuesque old lady folded herself into the front seat of her great-nephew’s old Mercedes coupé.

  ‘What a wonderful Christmas! I cannot remember enjoying myself so much in an age. Your girls are the most delightful, the best mannered, and the sweetest that I have ever come across. And the baby – a delight. Letitia. I am so pleased – Uncle Harold would be so pleased – that you have given her a Fairfield name. He would be delighted, really he would.’

  She patted Alexander’s hand and he smiled but said nothing, just as he did when he returned from seeing his great-aunt safely onto the train. In fact if anything his smile was even bigger and his silence even deeper, and for a long time after Christmas, long after the tree had been thrown out, when all the little tags were once more hanging as souvenirs from the kitchen message board and Hope was proudly wearing the lambs-wool twinset that he had given her, nothing and nobody could rouse him from his state of almost euphoric calm. It was as if he had retreated from the world to a much higher plane. Or, like some great beast of the jungle who has killed and eaten, as if he was lying eyes half closed basking in the shadows, knowing that there was yet more of that which he so desired, just around the corner.

  Chapter Five

  ‘We have been invited to Hatcombe for the Easter weekend,’ Alexander said, passing the letter to Hope.

  This was the second letter he had received from Great-aunt Rosabel since Christmas, the first one having been a thank you note addressed to Alexander alone, in which their house guest had described the celebration as a quite splendid festivity and had thanked him warmly for making her feel a part of what was obviously such a happy family.

  The second letter was also addressed only to Alexander and seemed to be further to certain conversations which had already passed between Aunt Rosabel and her great-nephew on the telephone. For such an inhibited personality as Rosabel Fairfield, the whole tone of the letter was effusive and affectionate, leaving Hope only to wonder at the power of her husband’s charm.

  ‘I suppose it’s because I make her laugh. We all have these preconceived ideas about each other, half the time forgetting there’s a real human being lurking in the psychological undergrowth. Rosabel was famous when young for being quite a spark and a bit of a goer, so if we’ve unthawed her at last it’s not really that surprising.’

  ‘If you’ve unthawed her, you mean,’ Hope said, smiling and folding up the letter. ‘I’ve never seen such a transformation in anybody. You are brilliant, darling.’

  Easter was early that year, and after what had seemed to be endless grey February, at the beginning of April the weather suddenly relented, becoming quickly bright, breezy and sunny, the clouds clearing and a blue sky hinting at the golden days of summer which lay ahead.

  To the Merriott girls sitting in the back of their father’s gracious old German car with little Letty on Melinda’s knee, the Wiltshire countryside was as unfamiliar as London suburbia was familiar, and as they passed trees already budding with spring green they stopped chattering and fell to silence in keeping with the quiet of the life that they sensed lay outside the car windows.

  None of them was at all familiar with the countryside, not even Ho
pe, who, having been born in Norfolk where many of her relations still lived, had moved to London when she was only a small child. Apart from the occasional weekend away with Alexander when they were first married, and family holidays taken in North Devon, she knew little about the west country, and nothing at all about Wiltshire, the county towards which they now were headed. To her surprise it was much more beautiful than she had expected, particularly once they entered the Vale of Pewsey with its picturesque whitewashed and thatched cottages lying in the folds of the majestic Marlborough Downs.

  To please the girls Alexander took a brief detour to show them a little more of the downland. Melinda fell into a deep and reverential silence, assuming what Claire always called ‘Mellie’s Buddha expression’, while Hope held little Letty in her arms and Alexander leant on a field gate and stared at the miles of green silence surrounding them.

  ‘Rather more beautiful than London, I think you will agree?’ As he spoke, Alexander breathed the air as if he was drinking a glass of morning champagne.

  ‘Are you thinking of moving us to the country?’ Hope looked up at him anxiously, feeling her heart sink at the idea of leaving West Dean Drive.

  ‘How does the way we live compare with this?’

  ‘All I can see are fields. I don’t see a way of life.’

  ‘I can work from anywhere, Hope darling, anywhere. Besides, England is its countryside, and we should enjoy it while we still have it, and so should our children. With communications now—’

  ‘I know, I know. You can work from your car.’

  ‘Would you mind it so much? Would you mind living in the country?’ Alexander asked as Verna and the girls all bundled happily back into the old Mercedes with its noble symbol and its leather seats.

  ‘I don’t know, Alexander. I just don’t know. It would be such a disruption at this point in our lives. Especially for the girls, and Rose in particular, now she’s got her place at Park Lodge. She’s all set, and I’m so happy for her.’

  ‘It’s just an idea …’ Alexander sighed, but his eyes lingered on the quiet of the green fields and the trees in early leaf, the beauty around them, mentally comparing it to the noise and dirt of the South Circular Road, the shops and schools that were at once too far to walk and too near to ignore, and the many mediocre restaurants all of which served moderate food at moderate prices. To him there was no comparison.

  In London he felt he had no individuality. There were so many other ‘Alexander Merriotts’ living in other houses just like his, whereas if he lived at Hatcombe he would be Alexander Merriott Esquire of Hatcombe House in the County of Wiltshire. Hatcombe was somewhere to which anyone would aspire – no, to which everyone would aspire.

  After their short stop Hatcombe was still another twenty minutes’ drive, lying west from where they had stopped and to be found at the end of a tortuous network of farm lanes; and whereas Alexander’s mind was still caught up with the romance of the countryside around them, and the possibility of possessing some of it, Hope seemed only able to dwell on practicalities.

  ‘How does Aunt Rosabel manage?’ she kept wondering, as Alexander missed a turn yet again. ‘She doesn’t drive, and the main road is what? A mile back at least.’

  ‘She has a housekeeper who lives in a cottage in the grounds.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘She’s still with us, isn’t she?’ Alexander smiled as at last he saw the gates of the house ahead of them at the end of a no through road. ‘If she hadn’t been able to manage she wouldn’t still be around, I shouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘But she must get lonely.’

  ‘She’s lived here for ages, ever since she was married.’

  As they headed up the pot-holed drive Hope could not see what Alexander had meant when he said the house was probably in a state of some disrepair, for from the bottom of the drive, looking up towards its elegant façade, it was clear that Hatcombe was as beautiful as West Dean Drive was ordinary. It did not boast Gothic windows, or an ornate cottage ornée in the grounds, because, clearly, it had no need of such flights of architectural fancy. It was, quite simply, perfect. A perfect, simple Georgian house set in a lovely old garden with a drive leading to a front door with a flight of steps and a terrace with a balustrade.

  Hope looked round at Alexander and he returned her look with a smile.

  ‘Charming and much sought after eighteenth-century rectory,’ he quoted, ‘possibly in need of some modernization.’

  ‘It’s so pretty …’ Rose sighed.

  ‘Has it got stables?’ was all Melinda wanted to know.

  ‘Half a dozen, as far as I remember,’ Alexander replied. ‘Cobblestoned. With big heavy doors.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Look!’ Claire exclaimed, pointing. ‘There’s a cat! And it hasn’t got a tail!’

  ‘She’s always had tailless cats running about the place. They keep the rats and mice down,’ Alexander observed, parking the car by the elegant stone steps. ‘Or maybe they’re her familiars.’

  Melinda and Rose laughed, but Claire remained silent, impressed by the whole look of the place despite the missing tiles and flaking window paint, already wondering which room housed Aunt Rosabel’s books.

  ‘What a beautiful house, don’t you think?’ Verna asked Letty, holding the baby up to see the house and laughing as she waved to the approaching figure of Aunt Rosabel. ‘You remember your great-aunt – well done, Letty!’

  Aunt Rosabel smiled delightedly at everyone but said, ‘I thought perhaps something had happened to you. So worried – other drivers, you know,’ as she proffered everyone her cheek.

  ‘I didn’t think we set a time.’ Hope gave Alexander a worried look as she reached over to take Letty from Verna’s arms.

  ‘My dear, it could not matter less, really. Come in, come in. Mrs Lander has lit a fire in the drawing room, and there is lunch soon, and ginger beer, and heaven only knows what treats and things. And how are you all?’ she asked the girls, smiling. ‘Tired out after that horrid long journey, I imagine.’

  ‘No, we’re fine thank you, Aunt Rosabel,’ they chorused, Claire adding, ‘Just hungry, actually. Wish you hadn’t mentioned lunch, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You have been warned,’ Alexander told his relative with a laugh, putting his arm round her. ‘Girls? Why don’t you go and find the stables yard? If that’s all right?’

  ‘By all means.’ Aunt Rosabel nodded, smiling at him. ‘So sweet of—’ She looked suddenly at Hope, obviously suddenly blanking on her name. ‘So sweet of you to bring them all down, really so sweet of you, and such a compliment that you thought you could.’

  Hope started to walk with the girls towards what she imagined were the stables, pretending not to notice that Rosabel had not been able to remember her name, but Melinda had also noticed and caught her mother by the arm.

  ‘It’s OK, Mums. It’s when Dads can’t remember your name that you should start worrying!’

  ‘Come with me to the library, Alexander dear,’ Hope heard Aunt Rosabel say, and turning she saw Alexander take his great-aunt’s arm as they walked together up the old, crumbling flight of steps to the double doors of the beautiful eighteenth-century house. ‘Mrs Lander is serving sherry and biscuits for us there.’

  ‘You don’t like sherry, so that’s all right,’ Melinda muttered. ‘Come on – let’s go and see the stables.’

  The stables were magnificent, built around a cobbled courtyard. The boxes were made of wood and iron, and the ceilings were high and painted cream. The girls and Verna, pushing Letty in her pram, started to explore them, fantasizing about the horses they might one day own, but Hope, overcome with curiosity and an insatiable desire to see round the interior of the house, slipped off on her own. Feeling a little like a burglar she crept through the courtyard, past the old well and the bell pull that looked a little like something more suited to a church, and in the back door of the house. The old kitchen was stone-flagged, polished to a high degree,
and again painted a light cream, with an immaculate pre-war Aga standing where once there would have been a fire burning and a spit set in place. Looking round, Hope could see that there had been a cook at work in this kitchen for many years, however old-fashioned, for there were dried herbs in glass-stoppered jars near to the solid fuel stove, and a log store handily placed, and bowls set with muslin bags full of curd dripping on a far table, and apples in the dark larder stored on brown paper, and marmalade, home-made and dated.

  Leaving the kitchen area and wandering quietly through the shuttered and darkened rooms, well away from the distant sound of conversation in the library, Hope soon became accustomed to the darkness of the as yet unlit house. She made out furniture which, if not carved by Chippendale, must at least have been fashioned by men who admired him, chests and tables, and chairs which when picked up she knew would prove to be surprisingly light, so beautiful was the workmanship, and so balanced their design.

  The downstairs cloakroom was also revealed to have a flagstone floor, and boasted two beautiful eighteenth-century Hepplewhite chairs set with old silk pads, correctly piped, which, when turned, revealed a vibrant yellow, now long since faded from their uppers. It was a beautiful room, shutters palely painted, its centrepiece a mahogany throne, its old basin made of marble and magnificently marked with the name of its Victorian manufacturer and crowned by old brass taps which ran water that at first was a little brown.

  Hope stared at herself in the cloakroom mirror and slowly brushed her dark hair, the thick, fine hair that, like her dancing, Rose had inherited. The mirror must have been silver-backed because Hope could see that it reflected a much prettier version of herself than she imagined herself to be, eyes large and clear, skin pale and without blemish, head set just a little proudly on a fine neck which made her look taller than she was.

  For a second she imagined herself living at Hatcombe. Rising every day to the sound of the birds, visiting this cloakroom, looking into this mirror, perhaps dusting those chairs – it seemed just a little too good to be true. Hatcombe was too real to be perfect, and too perfect to be real.