Marlford (2 page)

Two

S
hortly after the death of Ellie's mother, much of the manor had been closed up, the long corridor on the first floor blocked off, the servants' quarters and back kitchens abandoned. The doors on the far side of the magnificent square hallway were locked and, in one case, barricaded with old furniture. The wing that remained open consisted of a breakfast room, a large study and, adjacent, a small, windowless den in which there was nothing except a billiard table, its baize faded. A dining room poked out beyond the breakfast room, an incongruous Victorian extension with fine windows affording views across the gardens and park, towards the mere. There was also a reasonably modern kitchen and scullery, packed with Formica cupboards in an unappealing shade of olive green, reached by a short corridor leading directly from the hallway; two bedrooms perched above.

Despite the closures, there remained a luxurious amount of space: high ceilings, wide passages, generous perspectives. What they were left with felt in no way meagre; in fact, Ellie often had the impression that
their rooms were somehow stretching, expanding, their proportions growing even more voluptuous, she and her father shrinking more and more within them. Sitting at breakfast the next morning, she had the momentary sense of the building pitching away from her, bucking and groaning like an enormous old sailing ship in a storm.

Ernest Barton did not seem to notice her unease. He was grumpy. ‘I heard the frogs.' He buttered his toast with precision.

Ellie did not look up. She poured her tea very carefully, blowing across the top of the chipped cup to cool it.

Her father tried complaining again. ‘After ten thirty, I should not hear the frogs.'

She said nothing.

‘And I heard them twice, Ellie, perhaps three times. Like damn banshees wailing in the park. I couldn't sleep, not a wink, not after that.'

It was mournful as much as angry, the unconvincing bluster of a cracked bell. She continued to ignore it, as she always did.

He began on his toast, frowned at the crust and ate around it. Then he looked at her with such solicitousness that the butter dripping from his lips might have been the thick fall of tears.

‘Did you sleep? Ellie? Did you hear them? You look pale.'

‘No, Papa, I didn't hear them.'

‘Are you sure? I can't believe that.' He shook his head, as though it were all incomprehensible. ‘It was a racket, all night.'

‘It seemed perfectly quiet to me. I didn't hear anything. I presumed Mr Quersley was on duty.'

‘Well, yes, exactly – he should have been. That's my point. I shouldn't have heard the frogs at all. Not once.'

He dropped his hands to the table. He had a way of looking at her, as though he could not see her properly, as though she were far away from him, too far, slipping into the distance; as though this might be the last glance he ever had of her.

She braced against it. ‘Perhaps you were mistaken, Papa.'

Disappointment tightened in his face. ‘I was not mistaken. I know the sound of a frog when I hear one. And it cannot be too much to ask, too simple a thing to—'

‘It was a warm night.'

‘Well, really, Ellie – when it comes to stating the obvious… Of course it was a warm night! Hence, I had all the casements open in my bedroom; hence the importance of Mr Quersley attending to his duties with at least a modicum of diligence.' He stared fiercely at the long breakfast-room window, as though it might have been in some way to blame for the nocturnal disturbance. ‘I cannot conceive how it might be too difficult a task. All I'm asking for is a peaceful night. Ellie, really – it's the slightest of courtesies.'

Ellie looked at him steadily. He had been old for as long as she could remember – she supposed he had already been old when she was born – but he seemed gaunt now, haggard even, the bones of his face pushing through where the skin was wearing thin.

His unconcealed age irritated her.

‘More tea, Papa? There's more tea, if you would like some.'

Her words grated, stone on stone.

‘No, I do not want more tea, Ellie.'

‘Very well. Then I'll clear the things.'

She collected their plates with perfect equanimity. Only when she picked up Ernest's knife did she pause in the rhythm of her work. The handle was still warm, her father's grasp retained in the yellowing bone, and she let it drop quickly, drawing back as though she had been stung. Then, without looking at him, she made a neat stack of dishes, balanced it across one arm, and slipped away.

Ernest waited for the men in his study, a room now completely without books, the shelves collapsing. He paced between the door and the narrow windows, the tattered length of his silk
robe de chambre
flapping around him, its jaded colours momentarily unequivocal again, jewel-like in the morning sun.

They appeared as he made a turn at the back of the room, entering without knocking.

‘Good morning, Mr Barton,' said the shortest of the three of them, slack in his skin, his expressions curtained. He was stocky, his loose bulk straining the seams of his brown tweeds.

Ernest spun on his heel; the
robe de chambre
swung. ‘Ah, Hindy, you're here. Already! Excellent – good morning, gentlemen.'

The men did not respond. Each of them went instead to one of the straight-backed chairs positioned around the walls, dragging it with effort towards the centre of the room.

Ernest unfolded a grubby rectangle of green cloth onto the table, spreading it flat with his large hands. He pressed
closed the tears and smoothed out the ingrained ridges. It was a hopeful routine.

‘Morning Glories, Ata, if you please.' He nodded in the direction of the sideboard.

The tallest of the men stepped forwards, almost as tall as the stately Barton, very similar in movement, like a younger brother, but his skin darker. He began mixing four drinks in long glasses, a complicated procedure requiring much rattling of tongs and bottles, and a low, intense incantation of what might have been a recipe. He wiped the spillages dry with his sleeve.

The other men waited, seated at the table, the deck of cards shuffled for the first time, piles of coins stacked in front of Ernest, the dealing box aligned carefully with the layout. As Ata came towards them with the glasses balanced on a wooden tray, Ernest looked around at the players, his smile wide and welcoming, the delight in his face so animated that this game might have been something new and special.

‘Very well, then, punters. Let's begin.'

They did not respond. They sipped their drinks; Hindy ran his hand slowly over his chin, as though checking the quality of his shave. No one reached for the cards.

‘Gentlemen?' Ernest picked up the pack and flicked it, a fresh enticement. ‘Are we ready?'

The men looked at each other.

The oldest of them was seated opposite Ernest. He was the smallest of them, too, bent over, his strength taut like wrung leather. ‘We have a concern, Mr Barton.' His face was thin and sharp, his voice meagre; the trace of a European accent creased his words.

‘A concern?' Ernest put the cards down and took a swig of his cocktail. ‘I really don't see – oh, what the deuce is the bother now? Well? Luden, spit it out. Let's have it.'

Luden smiled and inclined his head slowly. It was Hindy who spoke. ‘It's the bob-a-job.' He pushed his chair back.

‘The Cub Scouts,' Ata added.

Ernest grimaced. ‘What about them?'

‘In recent days, we've happened to come across them from time to time, on the estate – doing jobs.' Hindy was the only one of them who spoke without a burr, the clipped perfection of his English betraying his foreignness.

‘Well, of course they were doing jobs. That's what they're supposed to do – that's what they get paid for.'

‘You don't understand.' Hindy paused. ‘We've never had bob-a-job at Marlford.'

Ernest picked up the cards once more, running them through his hands and flipping them adeptly into a complicated shuffle, his eyes fixed on the quiver of familiar suits. ‘I know that,' he said, quietly.

‘We thought you must have known.' Luden was abrupt. ‘We imagined you were fully aware of the lack of precedent. That's what surprised us.'

‘You see, Mr Barton,' Hindy explained, with careful patience, ‘we considered it most unlikely that Oscar would have made arrangements of this nature without consulting us. And Miss Barton, of course, would not presume such a thing. So we wondered how they'd come to be here.'

‘Perhaps you could offer an explanation,' Ata suggested.

Ernest stared mournfully at the two of spades. ‘I thought it would be a jolly good thing, having them clean
up here and there. I asked them to pull some of the weeds from the drive and to sweep the paths. Nothing much – they're only boys – but God knows a bit of help from time to time…' Seeing their faces, his bravado failed him; he trailed off. ‘It was an experiment, that's all.'

The men seemed to consider this.

‘I'm not sure it was a very agreeable one. Nor a very successful one,' Hindy responded, finally. ‘It doesn't seem like the way at Marlford.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake – they're Boy Scouts!' Ernest puffed.

Luden shook his head. ‘They're an invasion.'

‘They didn't come anywhere near the hutments. I made sure of that. They fiddled around with a few weeds on the drive and I gave them a shilling.'

‘But it's not just the hutments, is it, Mr Barton?' Ata smiled.

‘We would contend that it's something more,' Hindy said. ‘We would suggest that it's the principle of intrusion. After all, we share Marlford to everyone's advantage, Mr Barton – for a long time, we've shared Marlford to everyone's advantage – and we know what a place like this should be. All of us.'

‘But a few Cub Scouts…'

‘A disruption. Unnecessary and unwanted.' Luden offered it as a final judgement.

Ernest regathered the pack of cards and placed it in the middle of the table. ‘What do you want me to do, then?'

‘It's quite simple,' Ata reassured him.

‘We require an undertaking that no such thing will happen again,' Hindy said. ‘We would like things to return
to normal. Otherwise – well, I believe we would be forced to end our happy years of faro together.'

Ernest flinched. He wanted to rise from the table and walk away. But they had him trapped there between them, in his usual place, and he could not imagine how he might pull apart from them, not now, after all these years.

‘But it was nothing.'

He clutched his robe tight to his chest. They heard the slight rip of old fabric. ‘I don't understand.'

Luden hissed something in response, too low under his breath to be heard.

‘What is it that confuses you, Mr Barton?' Ata asked, with kindness.

‘It does seem remarkably simple,' said Hindy.

‘No, it's not simple,' Ernest spat back, suddenly irritated. ‘Running this place, trying to work out what's best for it – it's a complete bloody riddle. For goodness' sake, when I was a young man…'

‘You are no longer a young man,' Luden pointed out.

‘I think we're rather losing the point.' Hindy spoke steadily. ‘Mr Barton, if you simply undertake to consider more carefully in the future, before you allow such—'

‘I'm master here, you know. I'm master of Marlford.'

All three of the men smiled at him, simultaneously, as if their mouths were drawn on a single thread.

‘Quite so,' Hindy agreed. ‘We would not wish to change that – it's exactly as we would have it, Mr Barton. But if you consult, perhaps…'

‘Then you'll agree to play?' Ernest was long ago defeated.

They nodded in unison. ‘Then we will play with pleasure,' Ata replied.

Ernest reached for the pack again and riffled the cards, watching the magic-lantern flicker of red and black. ‘Very well, then. No more Cub Scouts.'

‘Ah!' Luden held up a quick finger.

‘Yes, indeed.' Hindy acknowledged his friend's concern. ‘Mr Barton, Cub Scouts, as such, are not the issue. We have no objection to Cub Scouts, in principle. Indeed, I think I speak for all of us when I say that we fully endorse the objectives of the Cub Scout movement. You understand that what we require is an undertaking against intruders in general – against the principle of intrusion. Marlford is our home.'

‘I know how you want it,' Ernest said.

‘So you agree? It's settled?'

‘Of course I agree. I always agree, don't I?'

They ignored his pique. They seemed quite happy with the conversation: Ata immediately reached forwards to straighten the layout, Luden began to count his coins, Hindy put a slow hand on Ernest's arm, a reconciliation of sorts.

But the prospect of the game had lost much of its sparkle for Ernest and he did not join in with the bustle. He suspected he had let himself down again; he had the sickening feeling that he had failed. He drank his Morning Glory quietly and wondered, as he often did, how it had come to this.

Three

I
n the enclosure of the walled kitchen garden, Ellie kept her distance from Oscar Quersley – when he knelt by the untidy clump of lettuce, she stood back by the long weeds, flicking the seed heads with her hand, watching the gossamer float away. The jasmine that climbed up the rusting metal frames between the abandoned peach trees and trailing vines sent out a swirling, opiate perfume, the drone of insects in its flowers closing around her. The rest of the world seemed to have drifted away.

‘He heard the frogs last night, Mr Quersley,' she said, at last. ‘It disturbed him, you know. He hardly slept.'

Oscar was reaching forwards, his pocket-knife extended, ready to cut one of the largest lettuces through its stalk. He sat back on his heels, but did not look at her.

‘It was a warm night, Ellie.'

‘That's what I told him. He said it didn't matter. He said he still expected it to be quiet.'

‘When the weather's warm, the frogs are more insistent.'

‘Yes, I know that. I tried to explain. But, still…'

He bent forward again and sliced the lettuce quickly from its stalk. ‘Here.' He shook the leafy head as he stood so that loose soil and insects fell away onto the bare earth. ‘I think you'll find that sufficient. There'll be another in a day or two, should you require it.'

‘It will be warm tonight as well, won't it, Mr Quersley?'

Ellie stepped towards him to take the lettuce, shaking it again.

‘Yes – undoubtedly.'

‘But you'll see that the frogs are quiet.'

Her authority was captured for a moment in the statuesque tilt of her head, the ancestral timbre of her voice, the certain statement of her question.

Oscar looked at her, the anxious girl in a brash headscarf. He laughed without taking his eyes from her face. ‘Quite the lady of the manor today, I see.'

Ellie met his gaze. ‘I just wanted to be sure about the frogs.'

‘You're very like your mother when you address me in that way.' He drew his fingers across his face. ‘You look like your mother, too. More and more.'

She tried to move away, but he took the lettuce from her again; then held her hand in his. She let it rest there and looked at him. The mass of unruly dark hair, greying at the temples, his thin face, the expression of not-quite-understanding that seemed set there; all this she had known for so long that standing there with him brought her whole life simultaneously upon her. She could not remember how the days had unwound: the seasons seemed to have collided – the autumns in the orchard gathering apples; the long, winter evenings reading together at the
library; the radiance of the lime avenue in spring; picking lettuce from the summer garden. It was all there with her in that moment, in the way they stood together on the weedy gravel walk with the warmth from the flaking walls enveloping them; it was all, she saw, so brief, and so unconscionably drawn out.

‘I wish I'd known my mother,' she said. ‘As you did.'

She spoke simply again, with a childish longing, looking out over the dilapidated garden with new bewilderment, as though she were lost in it.

Oscar nodded, pleased. ‘It would have given you a better sense of your situation, it's true.'

‘I think about her all the time.'

‘You could have learned a great deal, I'm sure.' He spoke firmly, bringing her back to his way of seeing things. ‘She was genuinely aristocratic. But the Bartons…' He paused, a pained look crimping his face for a moment. ‘The Bartons have been at Marlford for only a very short time, not even a century – not even that – and with no lineage to speak of… commercial success, perhaps, for a while, but nothing of meaning. Your mother's heritage – generations of heritage – the Wilsheres – well, that's entirely different.'

‘Yes, I know that very well,' Ellie said. ‘You've told me before, Mr Quersley. And the men talk of it a great deal.'

He ignored her interruption. ‘It's for that reason that we've always felt it our duty to bring your mother to you, as best as we can.' He went on with the measured inflection of a history lesson. ‘For my part, I've endeavoured to keep her in your mind and heart, to bring her alive in some way. So that you can understand Marlford a little better.'

‘But I don't think I
do
understand – not always. That's the problem.'

‘Ellie, you know that's nonsense.'

‘But, you see, it's not.' She looked down at her hands. ‘You see, I've been thinking about the babies.'

He flinched, pulling away from her and staring at the resilient whiteness of her face. His words were careful now, slow. ‘You know this is not something I usually like us to discuss.'

‘No. I know. I'm sorry.' She looked up. ‘But, you see, you've hardly ever told me – not really. The men have said things, of course – and you and I have talked about it, but only once or twice, only briefly. Only – I mean, I don't know… I wanted to ask you about it again. I can't ask Papa, can I?'

He gripped his lower lip in his teeth, sucking through squeaky air. ‘No, of course not, no. Your father must never know we've had these conversations – never. You promised me that, Ellie, at the beginning.'

‘Yes, and I've never said a word. I wouldn't want to. I can't bear even to look at him sometimes, when I think about what he's done. Ever since you told me, ever since the first time, I've kept away from him. Even when he's seemed kind; even then, I've remembered – I've remembered those poor babies.' She put her hand to her chest, as though she could feel the tiny, black nugget of hatred that was lodged there, burning hot under the press of loneliness and betrayal, nurtured over time, crystallising, annealing, becoming hard and bright. ‘But, you see, I've got no one else to talk to,' she went on. ‘Only you, Mr Quersley.'

He bristled at her softness, shaking the lettuce again fiercely so that the outer leaves broke off and fell away. ‘It does not seem an appropriate moment,' he said.

‘But I don't know when an appropriate moment would be.'

‘But why now? I don't see why you've brought this up now, Ellie. Out of the blue.'

‘It was the men, last night, when I was taking the linen—'

Oscar gave a heavy sigh, a moan that interrupted her. For a moment, she thought he was going to walk away but then he thrust the lettuce in her direction. ‘Go on, Ellie – what did they say?'

‘Well, they had some complaint, about the Cub Scouts that were pulling weeds – and they said that children were never permitted on the estate, that I was the only child that had ever been at Marlford and that was only because…' She was trembling, her words seeming to shrivel, lost in the thick jasmine perfume. ‘They were rather unpleasant in their comments,' she went on, quietly. ‘And it seems important, Mr Quersley – it really does.'

He looked away, examining something in the straggling vines; then he took a step or two from her, broke a leaf from a branch and rolled it between his fingers, crushing the green fragrance from it before he spoke. ‘All right. What is it?'

She began tentatively. ‘The babies – my sisters. I was wondering… I never found out how, well, you've never told me how they were—'

‘I believe I have told you, Ellie. My father drowned them.' There was a pause. He did not seem to want to go on.

‘Yes, but – exactly. Can I ask how, exactly?' The question came oddly, the words buckling.

‘He took each of them to the mere and dropped them into the water.' Oscar smiled faintly, as reassurance. ‘You must understand, Ellie, that I only actually witnessed him render this service from afar – and not only was I a very young man, a boy indeed, but we never discussed it, he and I. It seemed reasonably efficient. The task was undertaken on each occasion before the child was a day old – they were naturally vulnerable at that age.'

‘I see.'

‘They made more of a fuss about the journey in the wheelbarrow, I seem to remember. I suppose it jiggled on the rough ground, disturbing or perhaps paining them.' He fixed his gaze on the cut lettuce stump, its white juice already congealing, recalling the ritual like a recurring dream: his father's slow progress through the woods, the unremitting groan of the wheelbarrow pushed to the very edge of the bank. There was a moment – he remembered that – when his father would let go of the metal handles, stand back and steady himself, praying perhaps, the dappled shadows from the oaks dismantling him. Then he would tip the barrow sharply, his head turned aside towards the unblinking gargoyles on the church tower, and there was the unconcerned plop of a weight in the still water, a stone or a baby swaddled tight, drifting awhile, bawling – a heavy sound hardly rising, pulling towards the silt – sinking only slowly, cheap linen soaking through and turning grey, already fraying, threads floating out across the soft ripples like the coarse hair of ducked witches, the mere settling again, the mallard and
teal serene, their heads nestled beneath their wings.

‘Unfortunately, the barrow was necessary,' he added. ‘My father didn't like to hold them.' He waited for her to respond. But she was looking at the ground beyond him, and he could not even be sure whether she realized that he had finished speaking. ‘Ellie? There's nothing more for me to tell you. You do understand? There's really very little to say – my father never spoke about it. He preferred not to, I believe. He was following orders, of course, but, nonetheless, I think he found the duty onerous.'

She barely moved. But there was something, a shiver.

Oscar shuffled his feet slightly, as though his shoes were suddenly uncomfortable.

She raised her eyes. ‘I don't think I've ever really understood why it happened.'

‘Ellie, please.' He touched her on the arm. ‘We shouldn't talk so much about such matters. It's inevitably upsetting.'

‘But I don't understand. Why would someone do such a thing to such little babies? I don't understand.'

‘Do you doubt me, Ellie?'

‘No, no, of course not.'

‘Because you've never asked such questions before – you've never required further explanation. This curiosity is rather unexpected, you must see that.'

‘Yes, I know… but it's as though the questions have been there all the time, and I've only just begun to realize.' She smiled at him ruefully, but she could not explain the tiny, constant goad, the increasing rawness of it; it was embedded too deeply, so that she could hardly grasp it. ‘I'm grateful for your help, Mr Quersley, I really am. I don't
mean to doubt you. I've never doubted you. But, well… it just doesn't seem quite real. I wonder, sometimes, whether I've simply dreamed the whole story – imagined it, you know. When I look at Papa and I think about it and about what you say happened to the babies – well, I find I want to know why, Mr Quersley. Don't you see?' She blinked at the prick of tears and sniffed, apologetic. ‘It's as I get older, I suppose, that's all. As I grow up.'

He remained stern. ‘Ellie, it's not a matter with which I wish to become entangled.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. But I can't help it. I do try to put it out of my mind, Mr Quersley. I really do, but every day, with Papa…'

‘You must not permit yourself such thoughts. It's a simple history and it certainly does not merit this kind of discussion. It seemed right that you should know what happened, that's all, and it was agreed to make the matter known to you – to place you in your family context, as it were.'

He looked away for a moment, taking in the square enclosure of sky above them. She saw the rings of exhaustion around his eyes, the lines cut deep into his face. At this time of year, with the patrol of the mere, all the work at the farm, the gardens and fruit, his days were endless, unbroken, piling age upon him.

It did not seem as though he would say anything else.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Quersley, but I need to ask one more thing. Do you think, Mr Quersley… have you ever wondered – what might have happened to me?'

‘That's enough, Ellie.' He was sharp. ‘I think we've spoken enough of this.'

‘But what happened to my sisters might have happened to me, too. I might have been drowned, Mr Quersley, just as they were. Isn't that true? Don't you ever think about that?'

He gathered himself and pressed the lettuce into her hand. ‘We can't imagine such things.' He began to walk away from her.

‘Please – Mr Quersley…'

‘Ellie, I have too much work.'

‘You must have thought about it – even then, you must have thought about it, or you wouldn't have taken me to the farm when I was first born. You wouldn't have rescued me.'

He stopped, and turned to face her. ‘That's melodramatic. I did not rescue you. With your mother's death, there was naturally a great deal of commotion at the manor. I simply removed you to a quieter place, where you could be tended to.'

‘But I've been told – the men have told me – how much you did for me.'

‘I was very young. I acted instinctively.'

‘But, Mr Quersley—'

‘Ellie, that's enough. I have my chores.'

‘You believed I was in danger, didn't you?'

He could not look at her.

‘No, Ellie. You were in no danger.'

And before she could begin again, he had left her, walking quickly through the arched gateway. Ellie remained, the lettuce dripping its thin sap onto her wrist.