Sir Peter Henry St John Cavendish, or Pete to his friends, sits in his favourite wing-back chair in front of a gas fire that’s seen better days. A bit like me, he thinks to himself as he leans forwards to twiddle the knobs on the side of it without much hope of more heat. We’re both ready for the scrap heap and we don’t function properly.
He glances out of the long window to his left and sees one of the few remaining estate workers jogging by, on his way to see what damage limitation jobs can be achieved today. The young man is dressed in a warm fleece and thick track suit bottoms, and a bobble hat is pulled down well over his ears on this brisk May morning.
The Baronet (how he hates that ancient title) looks down at his own more formal attire and half-wishes he could let go of his standards and dress for the weather, instead of keeping up this ridiculous pretence of looking like a well-heeled landed country gentleman. His tweed jacket is threadbare in places, with leather patches carefully sewn onto the elbows by the faithful Mrs Jacques. His trousers aren’t designed for snugness, more for sartorial elegance, and his socks are way too thin for today. The brown brogues are well polished, but he sometimes longs for a pair of the fur-lined boots Mrs Jacques favours for work. Not attractive, it must be said, but she never seems cold.
Leaning back, lost in his memories as he gazes at the feeble flicker of the gas fire, Sir Peter reflects that one could do with someone impartial to talk to right now. There are things one can’t discuss with Mrs Jacques or the other staff, and Miles, reluctant heir to Meadowthorpe Manor, is far away in California, probably basking in the warm sunshine at this very moment as he wanders around his extensive vineyard.
The grandfather clock in the corner creaks gently as if it’s clearing its throat and begins to strike. On the eleventh stroke, Mrs Jacques enters the room backwards, pushing the door open with her generous bottom as she carries the morning coffee tray over to its usual table.
‘It’s a bit parky again, duck,’ she says, ‘You should get a jumper on. That jacket’s not enough to keep you warm in this draughty old house. I keep telling you, but do you listen?’
As she finishes her regular diatribe the ancient doorbell clangs out a warning. They look at each other in alarm. The only visitors to the manor lately have been the ones who want an answer.
‘Whoever it is, I’ll tell them you’re busy,’ Mrs Jacques says, bustling out of the room.
Sir Peter sighs and drinks his coffee. It’s strong, black and in his favourite cup because Mrs Jacques knows his tastes very well. She’s brought him ginger biscuits today. They’re home-made and beautifully crumbly, reminding him of the Cornish Fairings his wife had adored when they holidayed on the Lizard Peninsula all those years ago, in that tiny rented cottage with the spiders and the damp. How happy they were.
He blinks hard to get rid of the sudden wash of tears that threatens to overwhelm him. If only Frances were still here. They could talk this thing through and he’s sure his difficult decision would be easier. Or even if his son was more approachable and not so damnably far away. All Miles has said on the subject is that it’s up to his father to choose what to do.
Puzzled, Sir Peter listens to the babble of voices coming closer. He frowns. Why has Mrs Jacques let them in, whoever they are? There isn’t anyone he’d like to see today, except possibly Miles, and that’s never going to happen. As his housekeeper opens the door he gets to his feet. The gesture is one of habit rather than politeness or welcome.
‘Sir Peter,’ says Mrs Jacques formally, ‘there’s a lady to see you. Apparently she’s been sent by your old friend Tommy Lemon to see if you are well.’
She purses her lips and Sir Peter can’t hide a grin. Mrs J doesn’t approve of Tommy. There was an incident in the orangery with one of the maids … he puts that out of his mind and comes forward, holding out a hand to shake.
‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘You say you’re here because of Tommy? What’s he been up to now and why on earth does he think I’m ill?’
The woman who’s been standing behind Mrs Jacques steps forward to greet him and Peter is dazzled by the warmth of her smile. She’s petite and curvy, with bright brown eyes and a look on her face that says she’s embarrassed to intrude on his privacy.
‘I’m so sorry to drop in on you like this,’ she says, ‘but Tommy seemed worried about you. I’m not sure why. I would have phoned first but … well … we’ve made a snap decision to go on an adventure and so I won’t be around for a while. I’m Lucia Lemon, and I’m married to …’ She pauses for a moment, her face awash with sadness. ‘I mean, I was married to Des, who’s one of Tommy’s many relations. I don’t know if I am any more. Married, that is.’
Lucia falters to a standstill and Sir Peter looks round vaguely. Did she say we? If so, who are the others and where are they? He was sure he’d heard more voices just before she came in. He shudders. Visitors were not in his plan for today.
Mrs Jacques clears her throat. Sir Peter had quite forgotten she was still in the room. ‘I’ll make some more coffee, shall I? And how about a nice scotch pancake or two? I expect the others would like a snack when they get back from their walk. That’s a very bonny baby. Your grandson, is he?’
Lucia shakes her head. ‘No, Isaac’s my son, but Polly and Reggie are our lodgers. They insisted on coming on the trip with me. I was quite glad of the offer of company, if I’m honest. Oh yes, coffee would be lovely if it’s not too much trouble. I haven’t had a scotch pancake since my gran used to make them, but she called them drop scones.’
Sir Peter looks around, seeming to see the room from someone else’s perspective for a change. The heat from the gas fire is being supplemented by two gently whirring fan heaters and the sense of peace in the room is palpable. It’s shabby but very clean, with the elusive scent of lavender furniture polish in the air. A vase of yellow tulips stands on the sideboard, a splash of colour reflected in an enormous oil painting hanging over the fireplace featuring acres of golden corn and a sun-drenched meadow.
‘Make yourself at home, my dear,’ he says. ‘You look as though you could do with a rest.’
‘Yes, it’s been a whirlwind getting ready to go away so quickly,’ Lucia says, settling back into the chair. ‘Isaac and Polly wanted to get organised and set off right away. He has some leave due.’
The telephone at Sir Peter’s elbow shrills and he picks it up before Mrs Jacques can reach the kitchen extension, apologising to Lucia with a wry expression. She stands up and moves away a little and he is touched by her discretion, but since his hearing has been deteriorating slightly, Peter finds it hard to talk quietly on the telephone.
‘Hello? Who’s that? Well, of course I remember you. We only spoke last week, didn’t we?’
He listens carefully, feeling chillier by the minute.
‘Yes, I did speak to my son on the telephone, if briefly. I have to admit I feel as if so much discussion at this point seems a little … precipitous?’
The voice on the other end of the line burbles away for several minutes. The Baronet opens his mouth to speak a couple of times but he can’t seem to think of the right words to interrupt the flow. Finally there’s a brief break in the diatribe.
‘Yes, I see your point. It must look as if I’ve been stringing you along and I apologise for that. I know I said my decision was made all those weeks ago, but this isn’t easy, you know.’
The ancient fire hisses and pops rather alarmingly, putting him off for a moment, but the next words he hears take his breath away.
‘You need a final answer by this weekend? I must look for the forms in that case, and have another read through. Yes, I’m aware I said I’d already signed everything and that’s quite true, but surely I’m not the only person to have had second thoughts?’ A quick look around the room reveals that piles of papers lie on every available surface. He’s been having a huge sort-out just in case … but no, mustn’t think about that. He pushes the unwelcome thought away.
The Baronet listens again. ‘Yes, that’s as it may be,’ he says eventually, passing a hand over his weary eyes. ‘I do understand. But you must also take into consideration the magnitude of what you are suggesting. I need more time. Why don’t you give me a call in a couple of weeks?’
The voice on the other end of the phone is a little louder now. ‘Very well, let’s chat again about all this later today. Yes, I know you’re absolutely ready to proceed and to move your people in but I … very well … I’ll await your call. Yes, I promise to have made some sort of final decision by Saturday at the very latest. I will discuss the matter with … with … well anyway, I’ll think hard about it. Goodbye.’
Peter turns to Lucia who has given up the pretence of not listening to his end of the conversation and is looking deeply concerned. ‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘That was rude of me. I don’t have a mobile telephone I’m afraid, can’t be doing with the things, but it means I couldn’t take that annoying call elsewhere.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she says, ‘because I couldn’t help overhearing. It sounds as if you’ve got big worries. You don’t have to talk about anything now if you don’t want to but I’m happy to listen if you need a sounding board.’ She smiles at Peter and he immediately feels less dismal. ‘Any friend of Tommy’s is a friend of mine,’ she continues. ‘Besides, I’ve got problems of my own. We could take turns. Like an impromptu therapy group?’
Mrs Jacques bustles in with the coffee pot on a tray loaded with assorted jams, clearly home-made, and a pretty blue and white china butter dish, plus knives, plates and spoons and Sir Peter waits until she’s left the room again before speaking.
‘That’s a most generous suggestion, my dear,’ he says, pouring coffee for them both. ‘I wouldn’t normally burden anyone else with my troubles but in this case I’ll make an exception. Providing you agree to go first.’
Lucia helps herself to a scotch pancake and butters it. She seems to be struggling with where to begin. She clears her throat and launches into the tale of Tommy’s legacy finishing with ‘You see, I’ve been given all that money to make changes, or actually it was meant to be shared between Des and me but I blew it all. Do you think I’m awful, Sir Peter?’
‘Just Peter, please Lucia. Unless of course you’d like me to call you Mrs Lemon? An interesting name, if I might say so?’
‘It’s not always fun being a Lemon,’ she says. ‘People tend to laugh when I introduce myself and ask if I ever feel like one. A lemon, I mean.’
‘I can imagine it’s a mixed blessing. A lemon can add so much to life though, remember that. Mrs Jacques makes a very fine lemon drizzle cake, and my evening gin would be lost without a slice or two. Anyway, I digress. Carry on, my dear. You’ve filled me in on Tommy’s generous gift, but now I’d like to know more about Lucia Lemon.’
‘Oh, I’m not very interesting. I never do anything. You’d be bored stiff in two minutes.’
‘Go on, try me. I don’t get many visitors, my dear, you’re like a breath of fresh air.’ Encouraged, Lucia begins to describe in brief the way her life has panned out so far. Sir Peter gets the impression it’s a relief to talk about the years of staying near home and all the tasks she’s taken on to fill the time. Running out of words at last, she leans back and butters the two small golden pancakes on a delicate china plate provided by Mrs Jacques while Peter sips his coffee and takes the story in.
After a few moments, he gets up and goes to stand in front of the fireplace, warming his back as generations of his ancestors must have done before him in this room full of faded velvet and chintz, although in those days the fire in the large stone grate would have been a blazing inferno of logs from the estate woodlands.
‘I don’t want to pry,’ he says after a moment or two, ‘but I can’t help feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘How do you mean? I told you I’m not very interesting. There isn’t any more.’
‘Now, tell me to mind my own business if you like, Lucia, but as someone who’s known great sadness in my life, as I get older I seem to be able to recognise it in others. My own crippling grief is for the dear wife I lost. What happened to you?’
Lucia takes a sip of cold coffee and pulls a face. Sir Peter waits patiently, his eyes on the far horizon that can be seen from the long windows leading to the terrace. He has the strongest feeling that this sweet woman who came into the house a stranger is going to be very important in his life in some way. Lucia takes a deep breath and begins to speak.