The next day dawned bright and dry although Albert, as the landlord was called, warned Lawren, “It promises rain later, sor.”
Over a hearty English breakfast served in the bar, a meal that Lawren calculated would save him money as lunch was impossible after the amount of food he had already consumed, he asked Albert if he knew the location of Hartfield Hall.
Albert hesitated only a moment and shook his shaggy head saying, “Me and Mavis has been here for about five year now. We come from Somerset so we don’ know the area over well, yet. This here business don’ allow for much time to wander aroun’ the county. Ask in the town. Someone’ll know where it is.” Albert provided this information while lifting Lawren’s dishes and swiping the table with a cloth. His advice was delivered over his shoulder as he disappeared behind the bar and into the kitchen where ‘his Mavis’ could be heard singing along to the radio as she worked.
Well, I had better go back to the information centre. None of the maps I picked up had a name like Hartfield. It may take a local, long-time resident to help me out.
Backpack over his shoulder, he walked swiftly down the lane, breathing in the cool fresh air and feeling ready to conquer any problems on his way to find his father’s heritage and get back to Anna.
The information centre was closed at this early hour but he knocked twice on the door just in case, and was rewarded with the sight of a familiar face peering around the ‘closed’ sign.
The click of a lock signalled that he might be in luck.
Hmmmm………A good start to the day’s adventures.
“Oh, it’s yourself, young man. Come away in. I was just sorting out a delivery of guide books and leaflets. Can you lift this box up for me? Thank you. Now, did you find the inn all right? Good. You look much refreshed this fine morning. What can I do for you today?”
Her narrow, sharp-featured face with beady eyes resembled a robin listening for a worm under the earth and Lawren knew he would have to satisfy her curiosity despite wishing to keep private family matters to himself.
“Well,” he began, “I noticed many exceptional places in the pamphlets you gave me. Wardour Castle, Stonehenge, Avebury and Salisbury Cathedral are all in this county.”
“Of course,” she interrupted. “There’s six thousand years of history in these parts.”
“Yes, I am sure you are right but I only have a brief time and I need to find a place near here called Hartfield Hall.”
“Oh, yes, Hatfield House, home of the Marchioness of Salisbury. Her gardens are famous for their magnificent designs. I think it is still open to the public. I’ll check on the computer and make sure for you.”
That doesn’t sound right.
“Excuse me! I think you have the wrong name. It’s Hartfield Hall.”
“Dear me! My hearing is not what it was, I’m afraid. Hartfield Hall.
Now, I know it is around here somewhere. Just let me look in a guide book for a moment.”
The moment stretched into several and Lawren grew impatient to be on his way. He picked up one of the books stacked on the counter top and consulted the index to speed along the process. After trying several guide books, it became clear that the house in question was not to be found.
“That’s strange!” she said, “I am sure I have heard about it. Perhaps it’s in an older edition.”
She scurried off to a curtained area behind which Lawren saw a tiny office where piles of dusty books competed for space with tea-making facilities.
He could hear impatient noises drifting out from behind the curtain and a volume or two struck the floor before she emerged triumphantly with a small, worn booklet in her hand.
“I knew I had seen it! Here we are; Hartfield Hall, the country seat of the Drake family for several hundred years. It’s about five miles from Bradford-on-Avon, north-west by this map although it is out-of-date, I fear. Your best bet is to follow the high street out of the town, keep the river on your left and head toward Trowbridge and ask again there. A taxi might take you or you could ask at the bus depot. Do you have business there, young man?”
“Thank you for all your help and for opening the door to me. I’ll be out of your hair now and let you get on with your work. Goodbye!”
Lawren escaped swiftly. He had enough information to go on with. Obviously Hartfield Hall was not as well known today as his father had believed.
His steps quickened once he was walking through the town following the path of the river. The cost of a cab ride was out of the question, and a bus might be difficult since he was not sure of his exact destination.
He could probably walk the five miles although a bike would make things easier. Just at that moment he spied a garage off the main street and decided to try his luck there. A five pound deposit and a copy of his debit card secured a somewhat-battered bicycle but it was a racing model with the multiple speeds which might be necessary in this hilly area.
He asked if any of the garage staff knew about Hartfield Hall but was met with blank stares.
Strange and stranger!
This thought was blown away as soon as he straddled the bicycle and felt the wind in his face. For the first time since arriving in England he felt at home. Reminding himself to keep to the left, he applied muscle power and soon left the quaint streets of the town behind.
This is more like it! It’s great to get moving again.
He pulled the skip of his baseball cap down toward his nose so he could ride fast without fear of it blowing off. He breathed deeply of the crisp air and noticed the trees were nearer to Fall here in England than they would be back in Ontario in the month of September.
The blue sky was scattered with clouds and the scent of wildflowers and bruised apples made his nose twitch as he laboured up the hill, steering close to the road’s edge whenever cars and trucks came lumbering up behind him then roared past without leaving him any room to negotiate.
The first chance to catch his breath and ask for directions came when he had ridden an estimated three miles distance from Bradford-on-Avon. The river could be glimpsed from time to time below his present altitude so he knew he was heading roughly on the recommended route.
He came across an area where a motorcyclist had stopped for a drink by the side of the road. A half-moon-shaped parking place had been carved out of a field and on it a white van was dispensing hot drinks and sandwiches. Lawren took the opportunity to seek help.
After paying for a scalding polystyrene cup of instant coffee, (why were the drinks in England so hot?) he ambled over to the cyclist who was straddling his bike and reading a newspaper.
“Do you know the area?” enquired Lawren.
The man looked up and replied, “Should do, mate. Lived here all me life.”
“Can you direct me to Hartfield Hall, by any chance?”
“Hartfield? Hartfield? Here Fred, you ever heard of a Hartfield House in these parts?”
A debate commenced between the motorcyclist and the van driver in language that was just below the level of Lawren’s understanding. Eventually a decision was reached.
“Sorry, matey. No clue! Try up the road a ways.”
Lawren emptied the rest of the awful coffee onto the grass verge and threw the crumpled cup into a waste basket helpfully provided by Wiltshire county council. He set off again with the feeling that he was on a wild goose chase and that he could not just wander off into the countryside forever without a definite destination in mind. Telling himself that Trowbridge would assuredly be his last stop, he began to look out for a house near the road where he could ask his question once again.
After another twenty minutes or so, a farm appeared on the horizon. Lawren rode up to the gate in a fence and waited there while a woman in a headscarf finished pulling weeds from her front yard and looked up.
He did not venture into the yard because a large dog had been eyeing him suspiciously since he pulled off the road.
“I’m looking for Hartfield Hall.” Even to his own ears, his words sounded defeated. He expected another negative answer and started to pull up the collar of his leather jacket in preparation to turning around. He was beginning to wonder what on earth he would report to his father on his return to Canada.
“Yes.” The reply was non-committal. It could mean anything.
“Do you know where it is?”
“Foller this track about two mile. You’ll see it.” The woman stared at him as if he must be mad but Lawren was so relieved to finally be close to his destination that he wasted no time in accessing the path that wandered up the hillside past the farm. A sign read; ‘Footpath. Right of Way. No horses.’
As it said nothing about bicycles, he forged ahead. So intent was he on trying to avoid the ruts and stones in the narrow path that he missed hearing the woman’s last comment, flung over her shoulder as she dumped her weeds on a large mound and headed back indoors.
“You won’t like it. None of us do.”
The quality of the track did not improve as it passed through high wooded banks. There were pools of mud that had to be avoided and a sandy ridge, liberally pockmarked with holes, disgorged a family of rabbits when he arrived at their warren. Their fleeing feet sent a shower of wet sand down onto his head and he almost capsized.
Take it slowly. You can’t risk breaking a leg so far from the main road.
After that surprise, he proceeded more cautiously and eventually the track opened out and paralleled a paved roadway about one car width in size. When he looked ahead from the paved area he saw a house in the distance silhouetted on a rise.
At last!
Excitement and satisfaction rose in him. He was instantly transformed from doubt into delight.
He sped along the road keeping his eyes on the house which grew larger as he approached. At first no details were obvious. It seemed to be a tall, grand, central edifice with wings at a lower level fanning out to each side.
He could see chimneys standing out against the skyline and a species of plant trailed up the walls on one side of the house. He wondered if it might be a Georgian design style but columns and windows now appearing could indicate Palladian. In any case, such an old building had, no doubt, undergone a number of renovations as new families over the centuries updated their home.
My father lived here as a boy. This should have been his inheritance, and perhaps, mine also. Will I meet a relative here who will welcome me to the family?
As he continued to seek out detail, something odd began to happen; while initially he had seen only the overview, he now discovered unexpected signs of deterioration. There were parts of the roof where slates or tiles were missing and bricks had fallen from one exposed corner. The façade was painted in a light brown wash of some sort and he could now detect what could be patches of damp, bleeding through. Up close, it was obvious that windows were missing or cracked.
Can a house in this condition be occupied? What is going on here?
He slithered to a stop on the pockmarked remains of a driveway circle in front of the entrance to the house and stood there gasping with effort and shock.
For a split second the exterior of the dream house he had seen on the plane flashed before his eyes, superimposed on this wreck of a building. He laughed out loud at the flagrant contradiction of the imagined ultra-luxurious dream mansion and this parody.
How utterly ridiculous! Am I on a fool’s errand here?
His laughter doubled him over until the tears escaped and ran freely down his cheeks.
“Here! What’s your game?”
Lawren’s head snapped up at the sound of a rough male voice.
“Get out of it! Get away from here!”
Lawren quickly scanned the first floor of the house to find where the voice was coming from. He had a sudden sense of vulnerability. He was on private property, no matter what its condition. If this person had a gun, he was not in any position to defend himself.
A head emerged from a window and Lawren saw the enraged expression of outrage on an old, wrinkled face. The man was shaking a stick at him from the comparative safety of a ground floor window that had seemed, on first sight, to be screened by a potato sack, or some such thing.
No gun then. But why am I finding only old, weird people in this country?
Lawren gulped and straightened up rapidly, pushing his hands to the front of his body in the international signal for ‘don’t shoot’.
“Hey, Man! Cool it! No threat here, I swear. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m just looking around.
As the old fellow, whose head was encased in a brown cap, did not advance from his safe position, Lawren ventured to ask a question. After all who else was available to advise him about the mystery he was confronting?
“Look! Is this really the old Hartfield Hall? I couldn’t find a sign anywhere but they told me in the town it might be around here.”
There was a silence as the man disappeared behind his drape again. Lawren waited for a response and was just about to leave in disgust when the man emerged through the front door and growled, “Who’s asking then?”
“I’m Lawren Drake. I’ve come all the way from Canada to find this damn place. I expected an estate and a mansion house and instead I got this!” The pent-up emotion of the last 24 hours was evident in his disappointed tone. He shook his head and turned away for the last time.
This old guy must be a vagrant or a caretaker of some kind. I don’t want to tackle him in either case.
There’s no telling what he might do if provoked.
“Wait! Come closer! I want to see your face.”
Well, I do not want to see yours, you old tramp!
“Stop! I,…………… I think I knew your mother.”
A jolt of adrenalin flooded Lawren’s body. If this old man was telling the truth, he must give him the chance to explain. If he left now, he would never know for sure.
Leaving the bicycle lying on its side with wheels spinning, Lawren slowly climbed the stone steps toward the figure, now clad in a long black coat that had definitely seen better days. Lawren stood still and submitted to an inspection from a pair of pale blue eyes, but held his muscles at the ready should a rapid retreat be required.
I can be out of here in seconds if necessary. He could never catch me.
Instead he heard a deep sigh and the words, “Her eyes, right enough. I never did see eyes like those on any other person. You’d better come inside. There’s rain on that wind.”
Lawren was still taking in the statement about his mother’s eye colour. No one could have known he got his golden eyes from his mother.
No one; except a person who had actually known his mother.
The old man shuffled along in his heavy coat and boots and led Lawren into the room he had been occupying. Drawing the sack over the gaping window he beckoned to a broken chair and sat himself down on a three-legged stool beside an open wood fire set in a metal basket raised off the floor boards with bricks. It was a small, damp room that might have been a storage area once. It had cupboards set against the walls but everything Lawren could see was now in poor condition.
He sat down gingerly on the broken chair and waited for an explanation.
The old man chewed the inside of his cheek and thought deeply.
Lawren waited, conscious of the long ride home, the pending rain and the inevitable darkness.
Does the bike have lights? Does the bike have good brakes?
Finally the old man spoke. “You must be the son of master Edmund.”
At these words, all thoughts of inheritance and prosperity vanished from Lawren’s mind. The family home was a disaster, the family, clearly, not in residence and the entire trip a waste of time and money.
And yet, there was information to be gained here. Denying his first instinct to flee, he decided to find out this man’s relationship to his mother, and, if possible, what had happened to Hartfield Hall and the remainder of his father’s family.
“How did you know my mother?”
“She was my daughter,” came the quiet reply.