23
Curtains
WEDNESDAY 22ND APRIL 2009
Blaze was staying in her mother’s apartment at Trelawney. The upper-floor bedroom had been hand-painted in the 1930s with bouquets of lily-of-the-valley wallpaper. The silk curtains, though massively faded, had been handwoven using the same flowery motif. A small double sleigh bed was placed to the side and on the opposite wall there was a dressing table whose glass surface was covered with hairbrushes, hand mirrors and powder compacts, all embossed with the initial “T.” Above the window was a curtain pole and on it an earlier resident had carefully placed a handleless saucepan to catch the rain which made its way through the ceiling during heavy showers. In the far corner of the room, a second vessel, formerly used as a chamber pot, was strategically positioned beneath another hole. Blaze was used to cold, but hated the sound of mice scampering across the floorboards and along the rafters above her head. There was only one bathroom in the Mistresses’ Wing; access was through her mother’s suite.
Next to Blaze’s bedroom there was a study. From her desk, overlooking the back entrance to the castle, she had a perfect view of the comings and goings at Trelawney. By the time her own alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. and she drew her curtains, her sister-in-law was already awake. Blaze could see down into the kitchen where Jane made breakfast for her children. This morning, as on every other, she would then carry any kitchen slops down to the hen house, followed by Pooter, the bucket held as far as possible from her body to avoid spillage onto her jeans. If Blaze stood up and craned her neck to the left, she could just make out the corner of the cowshed and the stables, Jane’s next stop, where she would help Jim, the farmhand, let out the animals and muck out their sheds.
In bad weather, Jane wore a woollen hat and an old oilskin over a tweed jacket. In good weather, she wore much the same. Blaze noticed that, most of the time, Jane was alone. Late at night, Blaze could see a single lit window in one of the servants’ wings and wondered what her sister-in-law did up there. It hadn’t occurred to either of them to salve their boredom and isolation by becoming friends; both were firmly locked into their respective positions of mutual mistrust.
“Shall we continue with the Trelawney history?” Clarissa asked most nights. “Where’s your notebook?” Blaze kept the red-backed journal and a pen close by in case her mother wanted to recount another story. For Clarissa, recording these snippets of family history had become an obsession. No detail was too arcane, no meander through minor characters too ephemeral, and she took cues from random events or thoughts. The previous evening, inspired by beef and Guinness pie for supper, she’d recounted the time when the 5th Earl had slaughtered his entire herd of cattle to provide a feast in honour of his only daughter’s wedding to the second son of the King of England. Nobility from as far afield as Scotland and Ireland had been invited for the great event but, the day before, a flash flood washed away the bridge across the Tamar and half the guests were stranded at Tavistock. Undeterred, the Earl floated the carcasses upriver and a huge banquet was held in the town square.
Another evening, Blaze and her mother had been sitting by the fire when a spark flew from the grate and nearly set the carpet alight. This reminded Clarissa of the 16th Earl, a man so drunk and debauched that he liked to build conflagrations in the middle of the ballroom and dance naked around them attended by local beauties. Inevitably, the ceiling caught fire and the Elizabethan wing nearly burned down. His heir, a more prudent and sober character, fully restored it and added a fine baroque extension. For Blaze, writing down her mother’s memories was easier than talking, more restful than thinking.
When she wasn’t with Clarissa, Blaze read newspapers and watched the news obsessively. Britain was formally in a recession. Neither the programme of quantitative easing begun in March nor the G20’s global stimulus package of $5 trillion had any effect on local lives. Unemployment was rising steadily; small and large businesses were failing. While RBS and Lloyds shares had fallen dramatically, Barclays had risen to more than 200 pence. Blaze’s original investment was secure, but she didn’t want to liquidate it yet, believing that the bank was undervalued and the stock could rise further.
The impact of the recession was stark and plainly visible in Cornwall. High streets were deserted and shops abandoned. Only the cheapest supermarkets and charity shops were thriving.
TiLing had been made the CEO of Moonshot Capital and she and Blaze spoke most days. Officially, Blaze had nothing to do with the company, but her former number two lacked confidence and sought her advice; based on her own market research in Cornwall, Blaze encouraged TiLing to buy shares in the low-budget supermarkets and pubs, Morrisons and Wetherspoons. Sleet had made even more by shorting ailing banks and mortgage brokers but, as this practice had been subsequently banned by the Financial Services Authority, she wondered where her nemesis was putting his money.
Most of all, she thought about Wolfe. He haunted her days and nights. Three months had passed since their encounter at Moonshot Wharf, and no word. Late one night, fortified by a bottle of wine, she decided to telephone him. It rang for a long time; she was about to cut off the call when she heard his voice.
“Hello?”
Blaze opened her mouth but no words came out.
“Hello?” he asked again.
Overcome by embarrassment, she hung up. Then she looked at the phone in amazement. What was happening to her? How could she let a man she hardly knew rob her of her sense of self and decorum? It had to stop. Refilling her glass, she made a toast. “Here’s to the end of self-pity, madness and sadness. Here’s to being a single, independent, capable, healthy woman. To making the most of life.”
Moonlight had turned the track into a silvery ribbon stretching from the house all the way to the escarpment. Pooter ran in front, his head down and tail waving from side to side, as steady as a metronome. Jane took care where she walked—a few nights before she’d tripped over a fallen branch and skinned her knee. By the time she got home, an hour later, the blood had hardened into her jeans and ripping them off had been more painful than the original hurt.
The midnight walks began after Kitto’s departure; Jane’s inner demons felt more manageable outside. In the first few months she walked around the garden, but had recently ventured further afield, taking the lane towards the escarpment or following the river towards the sea. The colder the weather, the easier the journey; tonight, unseasonably chilly even for April, created perfect walking conditions and her boots crunched on frozen grass.
Winter had stripped the trees. New leaves were beginning to unfurl and, backlit by the moon, their canopies of bare branches quivered like lace fans in the breeze. An owl called, low and mournful. Was it looking for a mate or warning others off its hunting ground? Jane wondered if birds, like humans, sent out confusing signals. She was thinking of Blaze, so obviously lonely and yet aggressively keeping everyone at a distance. Jane hardly saw her but, from the glow of the light in her bedroom, knew her sister-in-law kept similarly strange hours. For the time being there was oil in the tank, the butcher and grocer turned up and Mrs. Sparrow’s wages were paid, but Jane lived in fear of Blaze withdrawing support.
The incline grew steeper and the frosty air caught inside Jane’s lungs. In the distance she saw an unmissable streak of black and white: a badger working its way along a fence line. She hoped that Pooter hadn’t seen it; she didn’t fancy the dog’s chances. Since Kitto had left, the Labrador had gone into mourning and spent hours sitting by the kitchen door, waiting for his master to come home. Any crunch of tyre on the gravel sent him into paroxysms of excitement and, with the realisation that the car belonged to another, he slumped inconsolably by the Aga. Jane knew how he felt. If it weren’t for the children, she might just lie down and never get up.
Blaze couldn’t sleep. She sat at her desk listening to the BBC news bulletin. More cases of swine flu had been identified: maybe, she thought, I will get it, die and everything will be a lot simpler. Checking her watch, she saw that it was 2 a.m. and her sister-in-law had not returned. The last thing she needed was anything to happen to Jane. Blaze’s admiration for her tenacity and hard work had grown by the day; it would take six people to replace her. Pulling a pair of trousers over her nightdress, Blaze went downstairs, grabbed a thick coat and some boots, and opened the back door. The air was biting cold. Two hours earlier, she had seen Jane set off towards the escarpment and, following in her footsteps crystallised in the freezing ground, she walked for half a mile up the track. The moon was bright and she didn’t need a torch to see. Two hundred yards ahead she caught sight of an unusual shape in a rut. At first she thought it was a sheep or small cow lying down, but the closer she got, she realised that it could only be a person. Then she heard a gentle keening. She ran, slowly at first, but when the cry became louder she speeded up, sure that Jane had fallen and hurt herself. When she got within fifteen yards, she saw her sister-in-law rocking backwards and forwards holding Pooter’s body in her arms. Blaze sank to her knees beside her.
“What happened?” she asked, leaning over to stroke the dog. Pooter was warm to the touch, but inert.
“He was fine,” Jane sobbed. “Then he seemed to jump into the air and landed on his back. He let out a yelp and collapsed. I ran to him; he licked my hand and went limp.” She cried harder. “He was my friend, my only friend. I can’t bear it. I can’t.” She rested her face in the animal’s coat. Her whole body shook. Blaze didn’t know what to do, but instinctively leaned forward to stroke her sister-in-law’s back. After a few minutes, Jane raised her head and, wiping her tear-stained face, looked at Blaze.
“Will you help me take him home?”
“Of course.” Blaze nodded and, standing up, took off her coat. “Let’s wrap his body in this. It will be easier to carry.”
“Won’t you get cold?”
“This is warm compared to my bedroom—they never insulated the Mistresses’ Wing.” She bent down and laid her coat on the ground. Jane got stiffly to her feet and together they folded the garment around the dog’s body. Jane took the front end, Blaze the back, and they walked slowly down towards the house. Pooter was surprisingly heavy and they had to rest several times. They reached the back door and lowered the dog on to the flagstones.
“Would you like a hot drink?” Jane asked.
Blaze nodded. “Maybe we should bring him just inside?”
Jane smiled gratefully. “Let’s put him in the cold store. Tomorrow I’ll bury him in the rose garden. He used to love it there.” She burst out crying again. “I haven’t cried for months—and now this. I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Maybe it’s easier to mourn the loss of a dog. Oh, God, how can I tell the children? After all that they’ve been through.” Her voice rose to a wail and she took vague swipes with the back of her hand at the tears and mucous streaming down her face.
They brought Pooter in and Blaze unrolled him from the coat and put a large blanket over his body. The dog’s eyes were open, liquid brown and trusting. His tongue lolled out of the corner of his mouth. Jane bent and kissed his head. Blaze held her sister-in-law’s arm and led her along the back corridor to the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Jane sat at the table staring into the middle distance, too tired or overwrought to do or say anything. When the tea came, she blew on its surface, enjoying the warm steam on her cold face. After a few minutes she asked, “What do you do all day?”
Blaze sat down opposite and took a sip of tea. “I listen to the news obsessively, watch what’s happening on the stock markets and transcribe Mother’s history of the house and its inhabitants.” (She missed out the hours spent thinking about Wolfe.)
“Your mother must be so happy to have an audience,” Jane said. “I was too busy.”
“We assumed she had no hobbies or interests outside our father’s life, but she spent years researching and thinking about the different incumbents. Some of her recollections are slight and only give an insight into the family or social life; others reflect the history of the country or the times.”
“I can’t imagine you having the patience to sit through her long-winded explanations.”
“Maybe I’ve got to that age when a woman turns to God, gardening or genealogy.”
They both laughed spontaneously and then regarded each other, remembering old jokes, bygone ease. “I think God deserted me some time ago,” Jane said.
“God who?” Blaze asked and they both giggled.
“Perhaps we could use some of the stories when you open the house?” Jane suggested.
Blaze looked at her. “That’s a wonderful idea. It would animate the rooms and be much more interesting than passing out written sheets. Do you think we could persuade Mum to tell a few?”
“Try stopping her.”
Glancing up at the wall, Jane saw that it was already 3:30 a.m. Only a few hours until she had to get the children up for school. “I need to try and get some sleep.” She pulled herself up to standing. “Thank you for helping me tonight.”
“Thank you for letting me,” Blaze said in return.
Jane closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Maybe, she thought, I have lost a dog and regained a friend. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow? We can have lunch.”
Blaze nodded. “I’ll have to look at my diary; it’s so full.”
“Mine too.” Jane laughed. “Come at one.”
“I look forward to it,” Blaze said and, with a shy smile, turned and walked out of the kitchen.