A Dark and Stormy Night (2 page)

‘My dear, you're
still
fixated back in 1930s novels. Cooks don't leave in huffs nowadays. They're paid enormous salaries and demand exactly the equipment they want, and cook exactly what they please. Most of them are caterers, actually, just coming in for special events. This one is a permanent fixture, lives here with her husband, who's a sort of general factotum – butler cum chauffeur cum handyman. And she's not old and fat and comfortable. Quite the contrary, in fact. Young,
très chic
, cooks divine nouvelle cuisine. Her husband is a hunk – tall, fair, great bones, classic good looks.' Lynn rolled her eyes in a mock swoon as the elevator came to a stop on the second floor, or in English terminology the first floor, the one above the ground floor. She led us down the hall, up a step, to the right, then down a step and around a corner.

‘We shall need a trail of breadcrumbs,' said Alan mildly. ‘Do you mean to tell me one man looks after this entire sprawling house? Because I won't believe you.'

‘Mr Bates – note the
Mister
, please, he doesn't like to be called Bates or whatever his first name is. And he doesn't look after the house at all, except for maintenance jobs, plumbing and electric and so on. There's a cleaning service that comes in for the dusting and scrubbing and all that, and a lawn and garden service for the grounds. Mr Bates supervises – in grand fashion, I might add.'

‘And voilà, the servant problem is solved,' I commented, slightly out of breath. ‘It must cost a small fortune.'

‘Probably, but Jim Moynihan still has a biggish fortune, so it's all right. And here we are, finally. I had Joyce put you in one of the Tudor bedrooms. I thought you'd like sleeping where Queen Elizabeth might very well have slept, once upon a very long time ago.' She opened the door.

‘QE One, that would be— oh!' My first sight of the room took my breath away.

This wasn't fake Tudor, ‘stockbroker Tudor' as the English sneeringly used to call it. This was the real thing, a room created or at least redecorated when the first Elizabeth sat on the throne. The walls were panelled in carved oak, the linenfold panelling so often seen in the stately homes I had visited. Everything else was carved, too – the fireplace in stone, the ceiling in elaborate plasterwork. The casement windows had tiny diamond panes, and the floor was made of wide oak planks darkened to near-black over the centuries.

‘Wow!' I said brilliantly.

Lynn grinned. ‘There are no words, are there? And this,' she said, opening a concealed door in one corner, ‘is not the priest's hole or the powder closet – though it certainly may once have been one or the other – but your very own bathroom. Joyce and Jim remodelled them all – after
months
of delays getting planning permission, I might add – and all done in the very latest American-style plumbing. Yours has a whirlpool bath,
with
steps to get into it.'

I sank into a chair by the fire, which was blazing away. ‘I've fallen into a dream of paradise. Don't anybody wake me up.'

‘Told you you'd like it,' said Lynn triumphantly, and left us to get settled.

I walked over to the window. Alan came to stand beside me, and we looked out on to one of the most beautiful landscapes I've ever seen. A broad stone terrace next to the house gave way to a sloping lawn, the kind of lawn I'd never seen anywhere but in England – lush, green, and perfectly smooth. I remembered reading, somewhere, someone's recipe for the perfect lawn: You plant grass, and then mow and roll it for four hundred years.

The rain had stopped for a bit, mercifully, and the clouds had thinned enough to let colours assert themselves. To one side, flower gardens were still brilliant with chrysanthemums and asters, though the roses were getting sparse. In the middle distance, perhaps a hundred yards from the house, shrubs and a pond gave way to taller trees, oak and ash and some I didn't recognize. A path wound through the plantings down to a silver river on which a few swans floated, pale and graceful, their feathers ruffled now and then by the rising wind.

‘“This scepter'd isle”,' my husband quoted softly, ‘“. . . this other Eden, demi-paradise . . . this precious stone set in the silver sea . . .”'

‘Mmm. Or, as we crass Americans have been known to put it, this is what God would do if He had money. No wonder the Moynihans love it here. The view alone is worth however many million pounds they paid for the place. And Joyce is a perfect dear. You were right, Alan – as is your irritating habit. I'm going to have a good time here.'

I took a long, luxurious bath in the wonderful tub. I hadn't been able to get in and out of a regular tub in ages, what with the bad knees, so I was especially grateful for the steps.

‘You're going to turn to a prune, love,' Alan said finally. ‘Besides, tea awaits, and I'm feeling rather peckish.'

So I reluctantly got out, dressed, and found my cane, and we set out in search of a staircase to take us down to tea.

Alan has an excellent bump of direction, which is a good thing, because I have virtually none. Give me a map and I can find anything. Without it I'm hopeless. I paused in the hallway. ‘This way?' I said tentatively, pointing to the left.

‘No, to the right, I'd think. We didn't pass any stairs on our way from the lift, so it must be on down the corridor.' And of course he was right – again. The next little jog brought us to a somewhat more modern part of the house and a grand staircase down to the entrance hall. ‘Georgian?' I ventured, looking at pillars and pilasters, marble and polished stone.

‘Well done, my dear! Basically Georgian, modified a trifle so as to blend in with the rest of the house. I imagine this part was redone when a particularly prosperous owner began to entertain largely, and wanted to show off. The place must have an interesting history, though the Internet didn't mention much.'

‘Aha! You
did
look it up! Well, I'll just bet our hosts are dying to give us all the details. I tell everybody about our house, and it's not at all in the same league.' Monkswell Lodge, the house where Alan and I live in Sherebury, was built in the early 1600s as a gatehouse for the man who bought what used to be Sherebury Abbey before Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. It's a wonderful house and we love it, but it's always been a modest dwelling. Branston Abbey was a showplace.

The stairs were broad and shallow, easy even for my not-quite-perfect knees. They were feeling better, anyway, after my bath. The house was, true to Lynn's word, filled with a gentle warmth that spoke of efficient central heating, and when we followed the sound of voices to what was probably called the drawing room, we found the fire lit and the temperature almost too warm. Several people were gathered in the room, chatting and drinking various beverages.

‘There you are,' called Joyce. ‘Found your way, I see. I keep meaning to have maps of the house printed up, but I keep forgetting. It really isn't complicated, anyway, once you figure out the basic plan. So sit and have some tea – or whatever you'd prefer – and let me introduce everybody.'

Evidently the kitchen crisis had been solved. The meal laid out on several trays was an elaborate, Ritz-style spread of the kind I didn't know anyone ever did in private homes these days. Alan and I sat down next to Lynn and Tom, and I looked dubiously at the array of sandwiches and scones and cakes. ‘It's all right, D.,' said Tom,
sotto voce
. ‘Dinner isn't till eight. Eat all you want.'

Well, I wasn't going to do that. I engage in a perpetual struggle with my love of carbohydrates. Besides, I'd lost some weight after my surgery, and I didn't want to gain it all back. But I accepted a cup of tea from my hostess – ‘Yes, milk and two lumps, please' – and took a couple of tiny sandwiches and a scone. Lunch was a distant memory, and I was truly hungry.

‘Now, let me introduce you to everyone,' said Joyce, when we'd eaten and drunk our fill. ‘You know Tom and Lynn. And this is my husband, Jim. Jim, this is Dorothy Martin and her husband Alan Nesbitt. We'll all have to behave ourselves this weekend; Alan's a retired police VIP.'

My husband, who was a chief constable for many years, was used to this kind of remark and took it with equanimity. Jim Moynihan smiled and hoisted a teacup in salute, as another, very graceful and good-looking man approached.

‘And I, my dear lady, can
not
wait another moment to meet you. Michael Leonev, at your service.' He pronounced it Mee-kha-ail, but his accent reminded me of the Beatles and his hair was blond. I must have looked sceptical, because he took my hand, kissed it, and grinned. ‘Between you and me, luv, Mike Leonard from Liverpool, but all the best dancers are Russian, so—'

‘Royal Ballet,' I said, a faint memory surfacing. ‘
Swan Lake
. I saw the reviews, though I didn't get to town to see a performance.'

‘Yes, well, next time I hope to do Siegfried, but Von Rothbart isn't a bad role. More acting than dancing, actually, and usually done by someone
much
older.' Mike, or Michael, frowned, which was unwise. Lines appeared that made me wonder if he was really too young to play the evil sorcerer, but then he gave me a winsome smile and looked like a boy again.

Joyce deftly disengaged us and led us to the two men sitting in front of the fire, who rose as we approached. The smaller one extended his hand. ‘Ed Walinski. Glad to meet you.'

‘You're American!' I said, pleased. He looked the part, too. He was dressed like most of the men in slacks and a sweater, but the clothes looked more Brooks Brothers than Savile Row. Of modest height, he nevertheless looked as if he could hold his own against most challengers. At the moment, though, his round face was creased in a smile.

‘Of Polish descent, with a touch of Irish and some German somewhere. And that's about as American as they come!'

‘Ed's going to do a book about this house,' said Joyce with obvious pride. ‘We're very excited, because no one's ever done a proper history of the place, and certainly not an illustrated one.'

‘Oh, how stupid of me!' I slapped my forehead. ‘You're
that
Walinski – the photographer! I've admired your work for years, and your narratives are just as good as your pictures. Are you going to take pictures of the fireworks?'

‘Sure! Fireworks over that roofline – wow! And I can afford to waste shots – I brought tons of film.'

‘You're not a convert to digital, then?'

‘Yeah, for some things. Snapshots, Bertha-in-front-of-the-Parthenon, that kind of junk. And I use it for test shots, to make absolutely sure the picture's set up right. I'll use it for the preliminary house shots a lot, because that's going to be tricky, particularly those gargoyles. I may have to spend the whole weekend just figuring out how to get up there for a good shot.'

‘No, you won't,' said Joyce firmly. ‘Aside from the pyrotechnics, you're going to spend the weekend having a good time and getting to know the house a little. And Mr Upshawe, here, is going to help. Dorothy and Alan, meet Laurence Upshawe, the former owner of Branston Abbey.'

Upshawe, tall, thin, graying at the temples and looking almost too much like an English landowner, gravely shook our hands.

‘Oh, my, how could you ever bear to sell such a wonderful place?' I gushed, and then could have kicked myself. If the man had had to part with his ancestral home to pay death duties or something awful like that . . .

But he smiled. ‘You mustn't think it was a frightful sacrifice, or anything of that sort. Actually, you know, I didn't grow up here, and I was never terribly fond of the house. Branston Abbey belonged to my father's cousin. My father inherited it because his cousin's son died quite young, and Father was the next in line. The estate was entailed then, you see, and Father was thrilled when it came to him. He had visited the place often as a child, and he loved every gable and gargoyle with quite an unreasonable passion. But entail's been done away with, so when my father left the house to me, I was free to do with it as I liked.'

‘And what you liked was to sell it to the Moynihans and go to – Australia, was it?'

‘New Zealand,' he said with the patient air of one who grows tired of explaining the differences between two widely separated countries. ‘But in point of fact, I sold Branston Abbey—'

He was interrupted when the door to the room was flung open and a couple marched in, puffing and stamping and complaining noisily.

The woman wore several layers of sweaters. The top one looked expensive, as did her wool slacks, but the net effect was lumpy and shapeless. The man was dressed in a red plaid flannel shirt over a rather dirty yellow sweatshirt, over a black turtleneck, with goodness knows what underneath that. His pants were liberally splashed with mud, as were his L.L. Bean boots. He had in one corner of his mouth a large cigar from which issued a cloud of foul smoke.

‘Holy shit, tea you're drinking!' he roared, removing the cigar for a moment. ‘That stuff's for old grannies and pansies. Gimme some Scotch, Jim. It's cold enough out there to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Why anybody lives in this godforsaken country's beyond me, let alone in a draughty old wreck like this. Cheers, everybody.' He drank down at a gulp half the stiff drink Jim had silently handed him, while the rest of us sat dumb.

Joyce cleared her throat. ‘Dorothy and Alan, my sister Julie Harrison and her husband Dave.'

TWO

T
he party broke up quickly after that. Alan left with the photographer, after getting my assurance that I'd much rather the two of them toured the house without me. The dancer, whose eyebrows had risen nearly into his hair, did an elaborate stage shrug and performed a neat series of pirouettes out the door. Upshawe murmured something inaudible and drifted away, and I had only a moment to wish I'd gone with Alan and the photographer, after all, when Tom took me on one arm and Lynn by the other. ‘The ladies are tired, Joyce. I'm sure you'll excuse us.'