26
The Opening
SATURDAY 18TH JULY 2009
Squinting through one eye, Jane watched the faintest halo of light glow behind the tattered curtains. A heavy blanket of silence hung over the house and she guessed correctly that it was not yet 5 a.m.; even the fox cubs were sleeping. Within half an hour, the litter would tumble out of their earth, the wood pigeons would commence their early-morning cooing and hordes of bees and other insects would feast on dewy fronds of wisteria outside her window. Most mornings, she allowed herself the luxury of counting in the dawn chorus, picking out the different songs: the deep milk-bottle throttle of the bittern, the staccato shout of the warbler, the babbling curlew, the chatter of the mistle thrush or the fruity melodic call of the blackbird. This morning she went through another list: of things to do, to check, to manage before the grand opening at midday. She let her hand stray to the other side of the bed, felt the cold, empty patch where her husband once lay and wondered if she would ever get used to sleeping alone.
Trelawney was not ready. In its heyday, it had taken a retinue of nearly one hundred staff to prepare for a single house-party. Over the last weeks, Jane and Blaze and two hired hands had worked night and day but their tasks were never fully completed. The original ambition—to open at least fifteen rooms to the public, each one representing an episode in the family’s history—had been scaled back significantly and, of the planned seven rooms, only three were ready. Jane hoped that neither John Acre nor Penny Cuthbert would be there with their notebooks, checking off all the health and safety issues that hadn’t been addressed.
She forced herself out from under the warm, threadbare linen sheets and, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, felt for her slippers. Although it was July, the long winter was hiding in the brickwork and the walls were still cold. It would be mid-August before any warmth wormed its way through the bricks and mortar to the inside. She ran a bath in the enormous cast-iron tub resting on lion’s paws made for the 19th Earl. He’d been seven feet tall and, with the castle’s antiquated plumbing, it took twenty-five minutes to fill halfway. Kitto had made a “shortener” out of bricks so that Jane could lie down without sinking. The enamel under the brass taps was stained green by years of Cornish residue and for the first few minutes the water ran a peaty brown. Jane turned on the hot tap and stepped back to avoid the explosion of water; if only she had the luxury of time to enjoy this new phenomenon. After ten minutes, when the level was only ten inches deep, she crouched in the ancient bath and splashed herself energetically. Then she found a clean pair of socks and knickers and pulled on yesterday’s clothes: jeans and a Fair Isle jumper. She’d forgotten to charge her phone the night before and left it by the bed. Opening her bedroom door, she tripped over the red rope put there as a deterrent to keep visitors out of the private areas of the house, and landed flat on her face.
Lifting herself up slowly, one leg at a time, one hand on her lower back, the other on the banister, Jane rubbed her sore shins. These days it seemed that few parts of her body didn’t ache; it was almost inevitable that her shins should join her neck, back, forearms and temples in a constant thrum of pain. Steadying herself with one hand on the wide mahogany balustrade, she went down the staircase to the hall. The evening before, Toby and Arabella had cut armfuls of elderflower, guelder rose, ragged robin and gunnera. Maybe, she thought, their visitors would presume that using wild flowers was a deliberate affectation.
In the kitchen she was surprised to find Blaze already at the table, poring over a history of the castle.
“I’m sorry you’re looking after Clarissa. Let’s hope a new carer turns up soon.”
“I’ve offered the agency twice the normal salary. Perhaps avarice will triumph over umbrage.”
Jane grimaced, thinking of Magda’s and the others’ fury at the way they’d been treated.
Blaze pushed away the ancient guidebook written for guests by a bored and largely illiterate Countess before the First World War. “She advises ‘changing before each meal and after every activity.’ Can you imagine living like that? There wouldn’t be time to do anything else.” Blaze looked more closely at Jane and suggested, “Perhaps you should find the hairbrush?”
Jane ran her fingers through the knotted curls. “So many things to remember.”
“Have you done your homework?” Blaze asked.
Jane shook her head. “Milly escaped again last night and, by the time I’d caught her, I had to start making scones. It was past midnight when I started reading up on the family; three sentences in and I was fast asleep.”
Blaze’s spirits sagged; persuading her family to act as tour guides was certain to lead to disaster.
“Can’t I do slavery rather than the Wars of the Roses—at least you have fewer dates to remember?” Jane pleaded. “I can never remember if it was in 1491 or 1481 when the Trelawneys came to the rescue of Queen Margaret and Henry VI.” While she could recite the names of every queen who’d died in childbirth and match any great work of literature to the relevant reigning monarch, Jane had always had difficulty with dates.
“It was 1471 and our lot were bloody useless—most of the population favoured the House of York.”
“I get so muddled between Henry VI and Richard III.”
“They were enemies. Richard was the York king supposed to have murdered his nephews in the Tower of London to secure the crown.”
“Oh, he was that one.”
Blaze got up and looked out of the window at the ruined garden. “Why are we doing this? Perhaps we should just let the house go.”
The two women remained silent for a long minute.
“We’ve been through this argument too many times,” Jane said eventually. “We can’t just give up.”
“The castle won’t let us,” Blaze said. “It’s in control, pulling our strings.”
“Will you help me with my speech?” Jane asked, wanting to stop this line of conversation. A few nights earlier, Blaze had told her about a psychic she consulted regularly who predicted that Kitto would return and Trelawney would be restored to its former glory and more. It was baffling and worrying that a rationalist, so adept with numbers and calculations, would entertain such fantasies.
Blaze sat down and taking a piece of paper, scribbled down some notes. “You take the visitors to the bloodied standard and hold it up. ‘This,’ you tell them, ‘is Richard’s standard and it was his blood spilt when he was cut down at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485.’ ”
“How do we know it’s his blood?”
“For over five centuries this is what the family has believed.”
“Bosworth is nowhere near here.”
“The 12th Earl fought on the side of Henry Tudor.”
“Which one was he?”
Blaze groaned. “He became Henry VII. Jane, I don’t think you should do this.”
“To think I got a first-class degree in history. Where has all that knowledge gone? Did I lose a bit more with the birth of each child? Can the brain regenerate?”
“It retains information that is strictly necessary,” Blaze said kindly.
“Like how to start a boiler, mend an engine and solder a handle back on to a broken pan.” Jane got up and went to fill the kettle.
“Maybe you should talk about the trials and tribulations of life as a contemporary countess.” Glancing at her sister-in-law, Blaze saw that Jane’s head was bowed and her shoulders were shaking. Was she laughing or crying? It was far too early for either. Blaze wondered if she could tell her to “get a grip” or sneak out of the kitchen without comment?
“Sorry, I know you hate tears,” Jane said.
“You’ve got to be strong.”
Jane lifted up her head and, reaching for the dirty tea towel, wiped it across her face, then turned to Blaze. “I’m going to pack my bags and write the children a note. It’s for the best.”
“Please sit down,” Blaze said. It was 6 a.m.; she was already exhausted.
“My mind is made up,” Jane said, blowing her nose loudly into the tea towel.
Please let there be another clean one, Blaze thought.
“I’m not sad. I am angry. I’ve had enough. This isn’t my real home; it never has been, never could be, but I’ve given it my whole life, my inheritance, and have never received a single word of thanks. Before I’m totally past it, while I have enough strength, I’m going to leave this hellish prison, this ghastly family, and start again. I will go to my Cousin Lynn’s and get a job.”
“Please, Jane, sit down. It’s too early for all this.”
Jane, her face swollen and red, her chest heaving, slumped onto the bench seat in front of the window. “I’ve been trapped by my children but you could be in London having a life.”
Blaze didn’t answer immediately. “You’re not the only one whose life is upside down.”
Jane looked up in surprise. “I thought your business was recovering?”
“Who said anything about business?”
“You’ve met someone?”
Blaze was about to answer when there was a loud knock on the back door. Both women looked at the old clock on the wall. It was 6:15.
“Are you expecting visitors?” Blaze asked.
“Only the debt collectors.” Jane rose to go to the door.
“You better wash your face first.”
Jane hurried over to the sink and turned on the cold tap. While she splashed her face, Blaze walked down the stone passage to the back door. Opening it, she saw a large man with a ruddy face, black hair and a fluorescent yellow jacket.
“Dick Dawson, leader of the Cornish Brass Band. We’re playing here later. Is the Countess around?”
“Hello, Dick,” Jane called from behind Blaze. “I was expecting you at midday.”
Looking beyond Dick to the gravel drive, Blaze saw a large dustcart with three men leaning against its silver sides.
“We were on the rounds so I thought I’d drop by and see what music you wanted.”
“What are the choices?” Jane asked. Her face and hair were wet and she ran a sleeve over her chin and nose.
“We have three melangeries. One for funerals, one for weddings and one for other stuff.”
“We better have the other stuff,” Jane said.
“What is that?” Blaze asked.
“Kylie, the Beatles, Sheena Easton and a bit more Kylie.”
“What about some traditional Cornish songs?” Blaze suggested.
“Kylie goes down better,” Dick said.
“Kylie it is then.”
Dick nodded. “We’ll need a place to change. And some crisps.”
“Just crisps?”
“Beer would be nice to wash them down.”
“Bitter?”
Dick nodded again. “And £100 cash up front.”
After the dustmen had gone, Blaze turned on her sister-in-law. “A hundred pounds is a hell of a lot of Kylie! What were you thinking? We could have put the money into hiring three extra helpers for the day.”
“It’ll be festive.”
“It’ll be cringe-making.”
Jane giggled. “You sound like the thirteen-year-old Blaze.”
“That’s how old we were when Kylie first sang.”
“In our teens.”
“We were already twenty!”
“That ages her.”
“And us.”
In the kitchen Jane put the kettle back on the Aga to boil. “We never finished the conversation.”
“Coleridge was interrupted by a man from Porlock, you by a Kylie-playing bandleader from Truro,” Blaze said. She didn’t want to discuss Wolfe.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jane asked.
“Don’t you have some more scones to make?”
“I’ve made five hundred.”
“Cornish pasties?”
“Fifty.” Jane hesitated. “What if no one comes?”
“We’ll be on carbohydrate overload for many weeks.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Am I laughing?”
Jane took out a crumpled list from her pocket and read aloud: “7 a.m.—lock Milly in her stable. Feed ducks and hens. 7:30 a.m.—wake up children. 7:45 a.m.—finish laminating notices. 8:15 a.m.—hang bunting outside doors. 9:15 a.m.—take food to orangery and set up tables, chairs, cups and saucers. 10:00 a.m.—check ropes. 10:30 a.m.—check ticket barrier, tickets, petty cash, route maps and loo paper.”
Blaze stood up and walked across the room.
“Where are you going?”
“I have a few chores of my own.” She stopped at the door. “And please wash that tea towel.”
“Why won’t you enter into the spirit of the thing?” Celia asked. “For fuck’s sake, this is your house and family.”
“These whiskers itch like crazy.” Toby’s face was obscured by a stick-on walrus moustache and long sideburns. He wore a pinstripe suit and a black frock coat, slightly moth-eaten, found in one of the attic rooms.
“John Rolfe would have had lots of whiskers.”
“What was Pocahontas doing here?” Celia went behind a curtain and Toby heard the sound of ripping fabric. “Didn’t she live in America?”
“According to Gran, she stopped off for a night on some countrywide tour. What’s that noise? What are you doing?”
Celia stepped out from behind the curtain.
“I don’t think Pocahontas would have worn that,” Toby said. Celia had torn off most of the minidress, leaving her midriff bare and the skirt revealingly short. In recent months, he’d noticed her flirting with others, particularly Roberto Syson—a boy in the year above, captain of the football team, a lead guitarist in a band; someone whose natural attributes Toby admired and could never begin to equal. He knew too that his insecurity irritated Celia, who was far happier in the role of huntress than comforter.
“Celia, I love you,” Toby declared. He had never uttered those words to anyone apart from his mother.
“Sweet,” Celia replied, and gave him a pat on the head.
“Sweet? Is that all you can say?” Toby felt as if Pocahontas’s tomahawk had been lodged in his heart. “Why are you with me, Celia?” Even before the words had left his lips, he knew it was the wrong thing to say; it was so un–Roberto Syson.
“Don’t get heavy.” Celia was beginning to find Toby a bore, always wanting to hold her hand and stare into her eyes. They were only sixteen, not old people. “Come on, Toby—let’s get our act straight,” she said, pulling down the hem of her dress. “You never know who might be watching.”
Both of them, simultaneously, thought of Roberto Syson.
In the Mistresses’ Wing, Clarissa stood in front of the long mirror looking at her own reflection. “Are you sure the ermine works with the tulle?”
“You look extraordinary,” Arabella said truthfully. It was her turn to look after Clarissa, a job that no one ever volunteered for. Her grandmother wore a floor-length gown in white silk covered in layers of white tulle embroidered with tiny flowers. On her feet were matching handmade white silk court shoes also embroidered with flowers. Her hands and forearms were sheathed in kid gloves and around her shoulders was a stole of ermine.
“You don’t think I look emancipated?”
“Emaciated?” Arabella suggested.
“Wallis Simpson said one can never be too rich or too thin.” Clarissa turned to the left and right. “It’s at moments like these that one appreciates self-restraint—the joy of keeping one’s figure. I wore this to my coming-out ball in 1946. I’ve been keeping it to wear in my coffin.” Due to her failing eyesight, Clarissa couldn’t see the liver spots splashed over her back and arms. Nor did she notice the papery veined skin hanging in folds over her bony chest or the bald patch at the back of her head. In the last few years, she had lost over a third of her body weight and the dress had become far too long. She took her shoes off to reveal toes twisted by bunions. Protected by her own vanity, she saw only the young debutante with the creamy bosom and the cascading golden hair.
“I don’t suppose Debrett’s has advice on appropriate attire for the occasion of opening one’s house to the public, but I am not too old to be the belle of the ball.”
“The visitors will want to see what a proper countess looks like. They’ll want you to play the part.”
“I don’t need to play anything.”
Looking at her grandmother, Arabella was glad that she hadn’t asked any friends; they’d have laughed.
“What time is it now?” Clarissa asked.
“It’s eleven-fifteen, so we should go to the main house in about fifteen minutes.”
“We must not be late for Her Royal Highness.”
“I’ve never met a real royal,” Arabella said.
“When I was a gal, Amelia wasn’t considered top drawer.” Seeing Arabella’s puzzled look, she added, “Minor royal, I’m afraid.”
“Why did you have to be afraid?”
“No one gets it any more,” Clarissa said in despair. “Now, dear child, I have to powder my nose. I will meet you in the drawing room.”
HRH Princess Amelia had not been to Trelawney for thirty years, but she remembered the grand weekend house-parties for up to forty guests, based around a summer ball or shooting or hunt meets. On one notable occasion her cousin, the young Queen, had danced the night away to a fifty-piece swing band flown over from America. The same evening, the young Duke of Maddingly had proposed to a sheikh’s daughter and the leading debutante of her day, Lady Serenetta Dunn, had ridden naked on a white horse through the ballroom. The Trelawneys had the reputation for throwing bigger and better parties than anyone else in the West Country. They had to, to justify the long journey from London.
The Princess had been surprised and delighted to receive Clarissa Trelawney’s letter. Forcibly retired twenty-two years earlier for calling the Ghanaian ambassador something inappropriate, she missed her former life and was bored to tears in Kent. On the long (very long) drive across the south coast of England, she replayed old memories and wondered how many people would be at Trelawney for the weekend. It was well known that the family had fallen on hard times, but their wealth had been so enormous there was bound to be a bit of a show. As her car made slow progress up the A303, she looked out of the window for signposts to her youth. Every twenty miles she saw a turning to a stately home; there was Hellingham Hall, bang smack in the middle of Tedworth country in the county of Wiltshire. It had a second-rate hunt (miles of Salisbury Plain) but a jolly field of dashing young men. A bit farther on there was a sign to Barrowby and she could just see the Palladian house’s riot of chimney tops peeking over a medieval oak forest. She remembered a particularly violent game of Freda in which a billiard ball knocked out the front teeth of the leading debutante of 1955. The exquisitely beautiful Miss Henrietta Fletcher-Lawrence had been earmarked for Lord Devonly, but had been so disfigured by the accident that she only bagged a baronet.
As the car drove through the West Country, the Princess recalled days out with the Cattistocks and the Portmans in nearby Dorset. She thought about her great love for the Marquess of Salisbury and the weekends spent in the misery of unrequited love at Cranborne. They passed a sign for Mapperton and she remembered an ill-advised liaison with the younger son of the Hinchingbrooke family. It was too too sad, the Princess thought. Most of the great houses had gone; thank heavens for the Montagues and the Cecils. The rest had given up and their ancient seats were now hotels or outposts of the National Trust. It had been such fun. All her own children and grandchildren did these days was slave, slave, slave in order to snatch ghastly holidays on mosquito-ridden beaches. They had shown her the photographs. Even the very rich didn’t know how to enjoy themselves any more, going from one identical-looking cabana to another, ticking off location after location like a night at bingo (not that the Princess had ever played bingo but her butler loved it).
The Princess thought back to her own holidays: a week with Nanny at West Wittering and then Scotland for the Glorious Twelfth. Mummy would never have “done” abroad. Daddy couldn’t have gone anywhere; the wars had seen to him. Lost one arm in the First and both legs and all his marbles in the Second. Poor poor Daddy. Princess Amelia could just remember the end of the conflict. They had been sent to their uncle’s estate in Norfolk. It had been such a hoot. Hundreds of children running about, long beautiful summers and no beastly school. After it ended, though, things became dowdy and England shrank into a dingy brownness. She remembered the rations which arrived in jam jars each week. Half a pound of butter and sugar for a whole seven days. Endless Spam. The rare treat of a boiled sweet.
As they drove on into Devon, she wondered if Kitto Trelawney had kept his looks. Of course he’d married for money and she hoped the beauty genes had survived another generation of dilution. He had, like the best of his class, been perfectly languid. She recalled him dressed in a scuffed velvet smoking jacket, leaning against a fireplace, a cigarette held aloft in long, thin fingers. The car skirted the edge of Dartmoor, which looked like the Serengeti: great swathes of grassland scattered with wild animals and the odd crooked tree. In the cleft of a valley, she saw a picture-perfect village: little white houses around a stone church. She remembered a wonderful “boneshaker” with Enyon Trelawney in the back room of a public house. They had been hunting when a storm broke. Separated, accidentally on purpose, from the rest of the field, they sought shelter in the appropriately named Queen’s Arms. Enyon paid the publican to close off the private room and they had made love on the stripped-pine table. She remembered him shouting “Tally-ho!” at the moment critique.
The outskirts of Plymouth began before the moor ended. Looking out of the window, the Princess noted a new business park: a collection of glass and steel set in a latticework of tarmac roads. The next cluster of ugliness was a shopping centre, a huge 24-hour supermarket surrounded by other outlets. One place to overfeed the population and another to provide ever larger pieces of elasticated clothing. In my day, she thought, no one was overweight and no one was anorexic.
Plymouth had taken a pasting in the war. The Germans had blasted the heart out of the beautiful city. As the car bypassed the centre, navigating an endless series of roundabouts, the Princess remembered the rubble-strewn streets and slums. In the 1960s she had opened a new block of flats and wondered if the monstrosity was still standing. Thank heavens for her Cousin Charles; at least someone understood how to build houses.
As the car left the outskirts of the city, the Princess felt the muscles in her neck relaxing. Back to open country, to the beautiful, unwrecked England which she loved so much. Her driver asked for a “comfort stop.” She wanted to go herself but feared the headline: PRINCESS PISSES AT PETROL STATION. That said, she wondered if anyone would recognise her these days.
Another forty miles on, they turned off at a small sign to Trelawney and were immediately plunged into a canopy of dappled darkness. The trees joined branches overhead and the banks of the road, once an ancient cart track, grew narrower and steep-sided. The retaining walls, made from granite and stone, were lined with an electric green moss dotted with ferns and lichen. Almost improbably, trees had taken root in great boulders. The car slowed to cross a narrow bridge and, from the window, Princess Amelia saw a merry, twisting river, its blue clear water rushing over huge rocks towards the nearby sea. The road widened and the car passed through an ancient forest of stunted oaks, one of the last in England. In a clearing she spotted a herd of fallow deer arranged in a fan around a handsome stag. In the distance the estuary glinted in the sunlight and, beside it, the most magnificent house in southern England came into view. A knot of emotion caught in the Princess’s throat. “ ‘I vow to thee, my country,’ ” she hummed under her breath. “ ‘Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love.’ ”
A couple of miles farther, and the car turned left towards a pair of ornate iron gates. The Princess looked at them closely. Once entirely covered in gold leaf, they were now rusty and broken. One of two Trelawney griffins remaining on top of the gateposts had been beheaded. On a large noticeboard was a hand-painted announcement. House open today. 12 noon. First time EVA. £8.
Next to the sign was a makeshift camp, with a banner hanging from the other gatepost. On it, in large red writing, were the words: For 8 centuries the Trelawneys robbed from the poor to feed the rich. Stop them! We won’t forget Acorn. In his hand a man held up and shook a home-made placard: Get Kitto.
“What do you think all that is about?” Princess Amelia asked her driver.
“Something to do with the bank that went bust, Your Highness.” The chauffeur straightened his shoulders. “Viscount Trelawney was Chairman when it went down.”
“I never understood why he had to take that job,” Princess Amelia said. “He was only bred to ride and shoot; anything commercial was bound to end in trouble. Stop the car.”
“Are you sure, Ma’am?” The driver looked at his employer in the rear-view mirror.
“One has a duty to explain to the governed how things work. Otherwise how will they ever learn?” Princess Amelia looked expectantly at her chauffeur who, remembering his place, put on his cap and leapt out of the front seat to open her door. Holding herself erect, and wearing a smile of utmost condescension and superiority, she stepped out of the car and walked purposefully towards the man.
Gordon Sparrow recognised her immediately. It took every cell in his body to counteract the inclination to remove his cap and bow deeply to a member of the royal family, a relative—albeit distant—of the Queen. But he did resist, reminding himself that this lady was part of the establishment that had let him and his family down so badly. Princess Amelia presumed a man of his age would recognise her and be overcome, as so many had been before, by a mixture of gratitude (for her family’s contribution to society) and servitude (for their supremacy). From the flicker of his eyes, she knew that he knew exactly who she was. A quick scan over his face and body revealed all she needed to know about him. The bulbous nose (too much beer), the ferrety eyes (inbreeding some generations back), the calloused hands (manual labour), neatly darned jacket (a protective wife lurking nearby) and the hard-set mouth (serious umbrage taken). Princess Amelia was a clever woman who, had she been offered a scintilla of education, might have enjoyed a career in the civil service or teaching. Instead she had been trapped in the yoke of her class and the expectation of her relations and their subjects. Used to being listened and deferred to, she saw an opportunity to prove not only her superior lineage, but to bring comfort to a member of the flock who had strayed.
She stood up straight, tucked her handbag under her arm and, placing her feet slightly apart, spoke from her stomach, just as her elocution teacher had taught her nearly seventy years earlier.
“Good afternoon, my good man. Are you forgetting what the Trelawneys have done for this county? All the houses and jobs and leadership?” she said imperiously. “I’m sure your family has relied on their good grace for many generations.”
Gordon snorted. “Good grace? Blinking disgrace.”
Princess Amelia was disconcerted by his rudeness. “Really,” she said, taking a pace backwards. “I would ask you to mind your language.”
Gordon looked at the ground; he had gone too far. A lack of deference was one thing; rudeness to a royal personage was unforgivable. What would Glenda say? He dropped his chin to his chest. “Forgive me, Your Royal Highness.”
The Princess nodded graciously; one had to be gentle with the lower classes.
“We trusted them to know what to do,” he said quietly. “Or at least, if they didn’t know, to admit it.” He hesitated. “Kitto Trelawney thought his title was a good enough qualification. He knew nothing about finance, but he took the job, the salary and let us all down. I’ve lost the shirt off my back, will probably lose the roof over my head. Worst of all, I’ve failed my missus.” He fought back tears.
“I hear Kitto Trelawney is not doing so well.”
“People like that will always come out on top.” The bitterness had crept back into Gordon’s voice.
The Princess decided to change tack. It was her duty to defend the ruling classes to the bitter end, but also to provide a tour d’horizon for those with less understanding of how things actually worked. She decided to help the poor man get a grip on what was really going on. “I blame Europe. If we hadn’t gone into the Common Market, we’d all be better off.”
Gordon nodded. “I agree with you there. We elected MPs to protect our dignity and offer long-term benefits and they simply handed it all over to some faceless Gerry on the Continent.”
“All this crisis has done is expose the absolutely useless, self-serving wops.” The Princess knew this kind of talk had got her into trouble before, but she couldn’t help herself. “If only Lilibet was in charge.”
“Lilibet?”
“Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth.”
Gordon was surprised that he and the Princess shared so many opinions.
“The only politician who talks any sense,” she continued, “is that Nigel man.”
“Farage?”
“Frightfully common, but at least he says it like it is.”
“Or as he’d like it to be.” Gordon thought the UKIP leader was a little toad, but decided to keep quiet.
“Now, if I might suggest,” the Princess concluded, “you put away your placards and go home and write letters to Brussels.”
“I wouldn’t know who to write to.”
“Exactly my point. Faceless bureaucrats can hide behind upstanding members of the aristocracy. Don’t be angry with Kitto. His worst crime was naivety.” She leaned in towards Gordon. “Go home, sir, to your wife. Take your fight, use your energy and acumen on a bigger stage.” She saw that her words had hit their target. The Trelawneys would have no more trouble from this man or his grievances. Princess Amelia nodded at him and, with one last regal curling of her mouth, walked back to the car. Her chauffeur, who had been standing alert in case of an “incident,” bowed slightly and opened the door for her. Settling herself into the back seat, she smiled graciously. “You may continue to the castle.”
The drive was pitted with enormous potholes, some deep enough to lose a sheep, and the car creaked and groaned over the unstable ground. It used to be quicker by horse, the Princess thought. Silly old progress never got anyone anywhere faster. Just a lot of hype and nonsense.
Gordon slowly packed up his banners and placards. The Princess was probably right; the fight was bigger than Kitto Trelawney. He had been myopic and small-minded; Gordon Sparrow was going to bring down the government.
When she arrived at the main entrance to Trelawney Castle, the Princess found the place strangely deserted. A fire had been lit in the Great Hall and someone had put out a small table with a notice taped to the front saying Tickets. She wondered where the butler had got to and asked her driver to go to the servants’ entrance to enquire. Standing by the fire and looking around, she saw that the Van Dyck was still there—things could not be that bad. Minutes later a harassed woman dressed in jeans and a Fair Isle jumper appeared carrying a bucket of freshly cut wild flowers. The Princess assumed she was a gardener and nodded politely in her direction.
“Oh, goodness—one of my children was supposed to be keeping a lookout for you. Hope you haven’t been here long,” the woman said.
“Moments.” The Princess was well trained.
The woman plonked the bucket of flowers on the floor and, wiping her hands on her jeans, advanced towards the fireplace.
“Jane Trelawney; we met many years ago at my wedding.”
“Your wedding?”
“I’m Kitto’s wife.”
The Princess looked at her aghast. What had happened to the pretty, pink-faced young woman she remembered? This one was haggard and far too thin.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen for a quick cup of tea before the hordes arrive?” Jane suggested.
“The kitchen?”
Jane smiled understandingly. “Or I could bring you a cup of tea here.”
“I would like to powder my nose,” Princess Amelia said.
“Of course. You could use my bathroom—not very neat but it’s the nicest,” Jane replied, hoping she had remembered to make her bed and tidy her knickers away.
They were about to set off towards the Great Staircase when they heard the click-clack of a pair of heels and a tremendous rustling.
“Amelia, darling, is that you?” Towards them, backlit by mid-morning sun, came Clarissa, her white silk gown with its layers of embroidered tulle swooshing from side to side.
“Clarissa?” Princess Amelia said hesitantly.
“You are such an angel to come all this way. I will forever be in your debt.” Reaching Amelia, Clarissa bowed into a deep curtsy. Unfortunately her knees were enfeebled and she sank to the floor. Jane came to the rescue and hoisted her mother-in-law to her feet. Arabella, who’d been lurking in the shadows, took the opportunity to introduce herself.
“I’m Arabella, you’re my first royal.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see my collection of live insects?”
Amelia smiled icily. “We prefer communion with humans or quadrupeds.” Then, turning to look at the now upright Clarissa, she asked, “I didn’t realise it was fancy dress?”
“I thought the occasion merited something a little special. I wore this dress the night we first met at Buckingham Palace in 1946.” Clarissa had also put two round circles of rouge on her cheeks and smeared the tops of her eyelids with a turquoise shadow. Her white papery hair was a bit lank on the left, where she had obviously lain the night before.
Blaze walked into the hall and looked at her mother. “What are you wearing?”
“I am dressed for the Royal Court not the Law Court, if that’s what you mean,” Clarissa said, eyeing her daughter who had chosen a smart black trouser suit, black high heels and a white silk T-shirt.
“Mum, you can’t wear that.”
“Why not?”
Blaze wanted to tell her mother that she looked like a cake left out in the rain. In the light, the dress had yellow age stains and the neckline was far too low for its incumbent’s figure.
“Because you will show me up,” Princess Amelia said. “I am, I believe, your guest of honour and, as you know only too well, Clarissa, I must not be upstaged.”
Clarissa’s hand flew to her mouth. “You are right, of course. How silly and thoughtless of me not to think of that. I’m a bit out of practice down here. Will you give me ten minutes to change?”
Amelia nodded graciously. Blaze mouthed thank you to their distinguished guest and followed her mother back to her wing.
“I really must powder my nose.” Amelia’s urge to pee was almost uncontainable. It must have been six hours now. She remembered the nasty bladder infection poor Cousin George got after a day-long inspection of the troops. It had taken months to get him right again.
At twelve noon, the band who were installed beneath the massive portico outside the Great Hall struck up with Kylie’s “Spinning Around.” It was a perfect English summer’s day and overhead a gulp of swallows swooped and weaved in eddies of warm air. Clarissa returned wearing a sensible wool suit. A long line of visitors stretching all the way from the front door to the far distance waited patiently. Toby and Arabella held a long piece of ribbon across the entrance and Princess Amelia stepped forward with a pair of kitchen scissors to cut it.
“I declare Trelawney Castle open to the general public for the first time in eight hundred years.”
Clarissa was the first to clap, followed by the family and then by those who could see what was happening.
“Family, take your places in the rooms, please,” Clarissa commanded, before turning, with Arabella’s help, to make her way towards the Great Staircase.
Arabella, who had been given the job of managing the ticket desk, explained to the first couple that the entrance fee was £8—unless you were from the village of Trelawney, over seventy or under eleven, in which case it was reduced to £3. “Under-fives get in free. For an extra £2.50 you could also get a home-made scone and a cup of tea.”
Looking up the line of waiting people, Jane thought there must be at least five hundred, maybe more. If half were full-paying adults, they’d make enough to cover the rope. Out of little acorns great oaks grow, she thought, repeating one of Kitto’s maxims, and the absence of her husband made her throat swell and close. Don’t cry now. Not now.
“Come along, Jane, take your place,” Clarissa nagged.
Feeling the crib sheet in her pocket, Jane made her way up to the grand salon, where the bloodied standard hung.
On the landing halfway up the Great Staircase, Clarissa took her position. To avoid any strain on her grandmother’s voice, Arabella, self-appointed technical adviser, had set up an old karaoke machine with a microphone. Clarissa looked down into the motley crowd below: a woman trying to get a double buggy up a small stone step; a little boy running his mucky fingers along the edge of the marble hall table; an oriental couple (Japanese or maybe Korean) dressed in identical grey plastic mackintoshes and matching ankle-high wellington boots; two gum-chewing bleach-blondes in their mid-twenties with stocky swains who thought “house opening” meant a new pub. Arabella bounded up the stairs, turned on the karaoke machine and handed the mike to her grandmother.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” Clarissa stopped. Her voice caught and she was surprised by the tremor of emotion fluttering in her heart. It couldn’t be nerves, she thought. She had made many speeches in her day—at the WI, local fetes, opening the new hospital in Truro, announcing the winner of the Trelawney dog and flower show, and supporting her husband when he tried (and lost three elections in a row) to become a local MP. She cleared her throat and looked down at the floor. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that her audience, sensing a minor disaster, was paying attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clarissa repeated, “welcome to my family’s home.” Her voice sounded strong and surprisingly young. Her heart rose. Once again she was being looked at and listened to. Glancing down at the assembled crowd, she smiled graciously.
“There has been a Trelawney on this site since 1073. The history of the family is about custom and continuity, about evolution, not revolution. Some might blame us for being snobby and out of touch—let them. I am proud for upholding standards, for keeping the flame of my forebears alive.”
She pointed to a huge flagstone. “If you look down there, that was the first stone laid by Enyon de Lawney in 1086. Imagine how many footsteps have worn it away. In the first one hundred years, the family slept with its animals. Cows, sheep and horses were an early form of central heating. As my husband’s forebears accrued a fortune, they enlarged the house. Some of you might recognise those magnificent Gothic-style pillars and round-headed arches to my left. They were almost certainly built by the same stoneworkers who transformed Durham Cathedral at the end of the thirteenth century. A century passed and more money accrued: if you look upwards at the remarkable hammer-beam ceiling, it will certainly remind you of Henry VIII’s hall at Hampton Court—he copied us. To my right, those huge windows, three storeys high, which lead onto the knot garden, were designed by Robert Smythson, who later in the sixteenth century created Hardwick Hall for Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury. The interior, a fine example of British baroque, was remodelled by Inigo Jones, who put in the Minstrels’ Gallery. The family were, you won’t be surprised to hear, loyal to the Crown, and after Jones had worked on buildings for Charles I and James I, my husband’s ancestors decided to employ the royal architect. Perhaps, though I haven’t thought of it before, this is where the term ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ originated from.”
Clarissa laughed at her little joke and looked down at her audience; to her horror each and every one looked bored. A few stared blankly around, one or two checked their watches, the children lay on the floor or were being forcibly restrained by their parents. A couple had actually wandered off in a different direction. A spotty youth was texting on his phone. At first, Clarissa was deeply irritated, but this was followed by an uncommon emotion: fear. If she couldn’t interest these people in the house, who could? And then what would happen? They’d all be turfed out. Trelawney would crumble into dust. Clarissa knew she had to inspire and infect them with love for this wonderful building. If she didn’t, her whole life would be declared void and pointless.
“Come closer,” she called to the Japanese tourists and the woman with the double buggy. “I was eighteen when I first set eyes on Trelawney. It was 1947; the war had recently ended. I had spent five years on a remote estate in Scotland, sent there with my sister and a nanny for safekeeping during the bombing. My marriage was to all intents and purposes arranged; the season had stopped during the war and there were no opportunities to meet young men. The good ones were away, fighting. I met my husband once at a small cocktail party in London; the next time was at our wedding in Claridge’s. There was no honeymoon in those days; we were still on rationing. Our wedding cake was tiny, since there wasn’t enough sugar, let alone ground almonds to make marzipan.”
A girl of about twelve put up her hand. “No sweets?”
“Goodness, no. That explains why no one was fat.”
“Did you meet Hitler?” another child asked.
“No, but my husband’s Cousin Unity knew him well and her sister the Duchess of Devonshire had tea with him.”
“Really? We’re doing him in history,” a boy called out.
“Apparently he had a very common brown apartment and nasty little napkins with ‘A. H.’ embroidered on them.” Clarissa beamed. She was happy to share important historical insights.
“What did you think when you first saw the house?” the lady with the buggy asked.
“It was raining so hard that all I could see was the car windscreen wipers. Just as well, for if I had realised how large it was, I might have run away. I remember coming into this hall and all the servants, thirty-two in total, were lined up in uniform waiting to curtsy or bow to their new Countess.”
“What did they all do? I’d love to have thirty-two servants,” someone said.
“It was lovely having help, but also like running a small and inefficient business. There were constant rows, people coming and going, the cooks were extremely temperamental.”
“My nan was your lady’s maid,” a middle-aged woman said.
“What was her name?”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah what?”
“Dawson.”
“Oh, Dawson—of course I remember her.” Clarissa looked at the woman keenly. Dawson was one of the maids her husband had got pregnant. “Was your father or mother her firstborn?”
“My father was number three.”
Clarissa felt mightily relieved. She hated meeting Enyon’s illegitimate progeny.
“When I arrived,” she continued, “there were two men whose job was just to fill up the log baskets, one to brush our top hats; there were clock winders and under-butlers.”
She came down from the stair landing and walked over to a huge wooden chest. “Who’s feeling strong? If we lift up that lid there’ll be many treasures inside.” A fit-looking lad tried and failed. His father stepped forward to help him. In the end it took three to heave up the heavy oak lid studded with metal spikes.
“My husband could do that on his own,” Clarissa said proudly. “He was one of the strongest men in the whole county.” She bent down and looked inside. “Let’s play lucky dip. Who wants to pull something out?”
The Japanese tourists edged their way to the front and gingerly reached into the dark interior. The man took out a red wooden ball; the woman chose a wooden box full of counters.
“Who knows what these are?” Clarissa asked.
She was met with blank faces.
“This is a croquet ball—to be played on the front lawns with long mallets, metal hoops and small holes. Pull out something else.” She waited until a little girl opened a box with brightly coloured circles inside. “These discs are for baccarat, a game introduced to Cornwall by Queen Victoria’s son, the then Prince of Wales. It was made illegal, because so many aristocrats lost all their worldly possessions on the gaming table. The 22nd Viscount gambled away an estate the size of Wales in one evening.” There was a gasp from the crowd.
“Gran, Gran?” Arabella fought her way to the front. “You have to finish your talk now; the next group is waiting to come in.”
Clarissa looked crestfallen. “We are just getting going.” Her audience nodded.
“You can come back tomorrow or next weekend,” Arabella said.
“Yes, do come back—it was such fun meeting you all,” Clarissa added graciously.
Arabella steered the visitors up the Great Staircase and into the main ballroom where Jane stood waiting beneath the bloodied standard. She had changed at the last minute into clean trousers, but had not realised that the waistband, now several sizes too big, was in danger of falling down to her ankles. Unable to find a belt small enough, she had tied a piece of orange baling twine around her middle to keep it up.
Jane waited for the crowd in front of her to settle. She wished her nerves would do the same.
“Good afternoon. I am Jane, Countess Trelawney, and this flag, known as the Bosworth Standard, was a memento from the Battle of Bosworth in…” She froze; she simply couldn’t remember if it was 1485 or 1585. Or was it 1464 or 1525? It could even be 1920, for all she knew. She tried to quell the sense of rising panic. Clearing her throat, she started again. “This bloodied standard is supposed to be smeared with Richard III’s blood when he was killed at the Battle of Bosworth.” All facts flew from her head and she tried to remember what and who Richard had been fighting. She took out Blaze’s notes but the figures refused to come into focus. The crowd began to fidget and two of the children splintered off from the group. A pair of Japanese tourists looked at each other in bemusement. A woman with a buggy bent down to wipe snot from her child’s nose. Jane opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to stick somewhere between her brain and her throat. Beads of sweat formed on her neck and temples. Members of the audience talked amongst themselves.
“You might well ask what the Trelawney family were doing at Bosworth.” A male voice from the back of the room rang out loud and clear.
Jane, startled, looked up.
“To know the history of my family is to understand the history of England. Since the first dwelling was built on this site in 1086, the Trelawneys have involved themselves in the key moments of our island story.” The crowd turned to look behind them. Standing in the doorway was Kitto.
“Let me through, please,” he said and, working his way through their midst, went straight up to Jane and stood next to her, his shoulder touching hers. “Most powerful families hang on to power and wealth for a few generations—ours is unusual, we have survived for twenty-six. Why? By cleverly and ruthlessly backing the winning side, even if it meant switching loyalties at appropriate moments. Take this episode—Everard Trelawney supported Richard III for 700 of his 777-day reign; but, seeing the tide turning, he switched and fought for Henry Tudor who became Henry VII.”
“How do we know it’s his blood?” someone asked.
“For over five centuries this was what the family believed. We have never had it DNA-tested, but maybe we should. Perhaps, with science’s extraordinary advances, we’ll be able to re-create Richard.”
“Bosworth is nowhere near here,” another voice piped up.
“You are absolutely right but, although there was no Great Western Rail, no M4 or M5, the family did manage to get out a bit.” There was a titter in the crowd. Kitto felt a tiny splash of water on the back of his hand. Looking down, he saw Jane’s head was bent and, from the quiver of her shoulders, assumed she was crying. He whispered into her ear. “Are you OK—do you need to get out of here?”
Jane didn’t trust herself to speak—the bubble of anger building up inside her chest had become so large that she had to fight for breath. How dare her husband presume that she needed his help, how dare he take over her presentation without permission? Kitto, oblivious, carried on with his talk.
“If you look over here,” Kitto said, pointing to a wall covered with family portraits, “you’ll get some idea of the many generations.” Above him, placed like peeling postage stamps blackened by time and woodsmoke, hung his ancestors. Even the frames, ornate and once covered in gold leaf, had lost their sheen. The earliest portrait, of the 11th Earl, was a two-dimensional depiction of a warty man in heavy red velvet robes. He looked out as if surprised by their attention, his right eyebrow arched, a sneer on his lips. The 11th Earl reminded Kitto of his own father and, thinking back to the day of the burial, he shivered slightly. He spoke more quickly; all he wanted was to talk to his wife, to reassure her, to tell her how he’d missed her. That morning he’d woken up and felt quite differently. A fug had lifted and his head had cleared. His only thought was to get back to Jane, to Trelawney and his family, and beg their forgiveness.
“I wonder how many of you know where your grandparents are buried, let alone your great-grandparents or their parents?” The crowd before him shrugged and tried to think that far back.
“I have no hope of forgetting my past. Each and every one of my forebears has been painted at least once. Their remains are in the burial ground on the top of the escarpment a few miles from here.”
“So no escape?” someone called out.
Kitto shook his head ruefully. “It can feel like a heavy burden indeed. As if all those eyes are trained on me.”
“Why’s the lady so red in the face?” a little boy asked, pointing at Jane.
“She gets terrible hay fever,” Kitto said. Jane clenched and unclenched her fingers.
“Now, look up at the lady and gentleman in the middle.” He pointed to a woman in an elaborate silk dress, low-cut and off the shoulder. While her bosom was barely covered, her arms were encased in an explosion of white taffeta and around her neck was a huge diamond hung on a simple velvet ribbon. “That is the 17th Viscountess Trelawney, my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. In her day, she was a famous actress and a mistress of King Charles II. She was a commoner, the daughter of a fishmonger from Essex, so it caused a huge scandal when my ancestor decided to make her his wife. I’m sure you agree, she was a beauty. Underneath is inscribed ‘No man breathing can have more love for you than myself.’ She died out hunting and he buried her with that enormous diamond around her neck. As you can imagine, there have been times when the family was tempted to dig up the body, but my ancestor foresaw those problems and only he and the gravedigger knew where she was interred.”
As Kitto spoke, he felt Jane’s breathing steady. Looking at the crowd before him, he saw with relief that they were listening to his every word. “The ugly old bat on his other side was his second wife, the daughter of a wealthy businessman, hence a more successful financial alliance, though apparently loveless despite the fact that eight children came of it.”
“Hello, Dad.” Arabella appeared. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The crowd looked bemused.
“Family joke,” Kitto explained. “We always greet each other like this.”
“No one tells me anything.” Arabella looked both angry and tearful.
“Is it time for the group to move on?” Jane found her voice.
Arabella nodded.
“Would you show them where to go, please, darling,” Jane asked.
Arabella hesitated but, seeing her mother’s expression, turned reluctantly to the visitors. “Please follow me to the library where my Aunt Blaze will tell you about another aspect of the family’s history.” Shooting a look at her parents, she led the way out of the ballroom.
When everyone had gone, Kitto looked at Jane. “I have been the most absolute fool and rotter. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
Jane gazed up into his earnest face. She saw that his hair had streaks of grey and there were new lines around his eyes and mouth. He was noticeably thinner. None of this or his apology made any difference; Jane pulsated with fury.
“You can’t just waltz out one minute and canter back in the next. Life doesn’t work like that,” she said, walking towards the door. Kitto, unused to seeing his wife angry, struggled for something to say.
“Jane, Jane, wait, please,” he pleaded. Jane stood still, but didn’t turn around to face him. Kitto looked at his wife’s back: at her limp, slightly dirty hair, her trousers bunched about the ankles. Clearing his throat, he said, “I can’t do the business of life without you. You are my rock, my friend, my love. I’m so sorry that it’s taken me this long to realise what I had and what I hope and pray I haven’t lost.”
Jane listened to these words, the ones she had wanted to hear for so long—perhaps their whole marriage—but the sentiments hardened rather than melted her resolve. The silly fool; his absence had set her free—she could manage perfectly well without him. For the last twenty years her greatest fear had been him leaving; and she had clung to him, squeezing the oxygen out of their love. His absence had achieved the opposite of everything she’d feared. The last months had made her realise how strong and capable she actually was.
From her silence, Kitto understood it was too late. “I’ll go. This is your home. Indeed, seeing everything today—what you have managed—is humbling. I would never have thought of doing this or got it together. You’ve given the old place a purpose.” He walked past her towards the door and the staircase beyond, hoping she’d call him back, but Jane didn’t move; there was nothing to say.
As Kitto went down the stairs, Arabella ran after him. “Dad, stop, what’s going on?”
He turned towards her. “Your mum doesn’t want me here.”
“Do you blame her?”
He shook his head.
“Things have changed,” Arabella said.
“I just hoped she might still love me.”
“Only thinking about yourself.” His daughter’s face was twisted with pain.
“I’m so sorry, Arabella. I haven’t been well.”
“There you go again: me, me, me.” Arabella clenched and unclenched her fists and took a step towards her father. For a moment Kitto thought she might hit him.
“We don’t need you, Dad. We’re doing OK. Mum’s getting better. She doesn’t cry so much any more. She’s beginning to eat again and two days ago she actually laughed. I’d forgotten what that was like.”
“It’s one of the sweetest sounds,” Kitto agreed and carried on down the stairs towards the Great Hall, where there was another group of visitors listening intently to his mother. Unable to face Clarissa, he veered left and opened the door to the servants’ staircase.
“Where are you going?” Arabella called.
“I’ll stay in the pub tonight. Look after your mother. Whatever you think of me, please remember that I do love her, and you and your brothers. Maybe one day you’ll forgive me; some people grow older but forget to grow up.”
“You can say that again.”
Arabella watched the door close behind him. Turning around, she saw Jane standing at the top of the Great Staircase. Her mother looked as pale as the white plaster ceiling.
“I don’t think I can quite face another group, darling.”
“Go and lie down. I’ll take the next lot straight to Aunty Blaze. Can I bring you anything?”
Jane shook her head and, holding on to the wall for support, made her way along the passage to her bedroom. She didn’t bother to undress, but lay down on her bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep.
It was, without question, the worst day of Toby’s life. Dressed in stiff tweeds, his fake moustache aggravating an outbreak of acne on his upper lip and cheeks, he had performed, over and over again, the part of the stuffy, charmless preacher husband while Celia took the opportunity to use the role of Pocahontas to flaunt her curvaceous body in a sensual dance in front of groups of strangers—for the obvious delight of Roberto Syson, who stayed through three performances. Many hours later, Celia left, pretending to be tired but clearly bound for a secret assignation. Watching her go was like reliving the car crash in slow motion: the lorry coming closer and closer, the screech of tyres, the tearing sound of metal on metal, the vicious bite of the seatbelt against his shoulder and torso, the screams of his grandparents, followed by utter darkness.
He lay with the lights turned off in his bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but the early-evening sun spilled through the tears in the fabric and cast mocking beams across the floor. A piece of wallpaper had come unstuck and quivered in the breeze. The tap in his basin dripped. Outside, the rooks cawed to each other, a mournful song of broken promises and hearts. Toby knew he had lost Celia and that life without her made no sense at all. He would have to lie there until he died.
The door burst open and his sister stood there, clouds of auburn hair framed by the light on the landing.
“Guess what? Dad came home. And I told him to go away,” she said triumphantly.
Toby squinted at her, unable to react; the news couldn’t penetrate his obsession.
“Mum’s in bed asleep, so Aunty Blaze tried to make us dinner, but it’s so dissssssgussssssting that she’s offered to buy us all something at the pub. So you’ve got to get up now, because the Princess and Gran are waiting.”
“The Princess?” Toby sat up. That was his private name for Celia; perhaps she was downstairs rather than in Roberto Syson’s arms.
“Princess Amelia is still here. Her uppity chauffeur said it was against EU rules to drive more than seven hours in one day so he couldn’t take her back to Kent tonight. She tried to fire him on the spot, but of course she can’t drive her own car so she has to spend the night here until she can go home tomorrow.”
Toby sank back into his pillow. The wrong Princess.
“Get up!” Arabella pulled at her brother’s sheet. “I’ll tell you a secret. Dad’s at the pub.” She looked at Toby, who hadn’t moved a muscle. “And the special tonight is chicken korma.”