The Journey Home: A Novel (2 page)

As a rule we look forward to this evening with quiet anticipation, for whatever happens it marks the beginning of summer: bright days, open windows and white sheets flapping on the line by the laundry. The house springs to life like the grass outside; in the east wing, which has been shut up all winter, the staircase creaks again under the guests’ feet, and the cooker is never cold from dawn to dusk. It’s a long time since Anthony has been in such good spirits, though he does try to keep himself under control; fortunately he was taught as a child not to give way to unseemly displays of emotion but in the spring his childish joy tends to shine out as if through a thin veil.

“Spring is on the way,” he began with a smile last night, “and I’m delighted to bring you the news that we’re already fully booked for the first seven weeks!”

Mrs. Wakefield broke the ice by starting to clap. The others were quick to join in, as if they needed an outlet for their emotion.

He reminded them that we have increased the number of guest rooms from twenty-two to twenty-four by converting the sitting room in the east wing and the games room here in the main house, as these two rooms had hardly been used at all.

“I have a hunch—I know I shouldn’t say it because it never pays to get one’s expectations up too much,” he continued, “but I suspect it won’t be long before we have to start putting people on a waiting list.”

He had become emotional and I thought I knew where all this was leading, so I kept my head down, hoping he wouldn’t make a meal of it. As usual he continued with a few words of praise for our dinner guests, first turning his attention to Miss Lynch and saying that everyone knew it was thanks to her that the rooms were so spotless and comfortable. He claimed to have firsthand knowledge of how much our guests looked forward to returning to their rooms at the end of a long day to be greeted by vases of flowers, birdsong from the open window and a soft quilt. (Though I think he went a bit over the top when he likened the quilt to whipped cream.)

Sean also received his share of the compliments.

“You make everyone feel as if they had done a good deed and deserved nothing but gratitude. You and your team are always ready to serve but never obtrusive, invisible but always at hand.”

He said that Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield raised the best partridges he had ever tasted.

“And you have the welfare of our guests as close to your hearts as we do.”

He contented himself with patting Old Marshall on the shoulder, then cleared his throat, groped in his pocket for a handkerchief and dried his eyes.

“My dear Disa,” he said, lowering his voice, “you brought life and soul to this house at a time when it was cold and dark, and have allowed me to stay by your side all these years.”

I got up and helped him to sit down—or rather thrust him into his chair.

“There, there,” I said, “you’d better stop before everyone bursts into tears. Anyway, the trout’s ready.”

We sat down and he took my hand under the table, squeezing it every now and then, so I could tell he was still emotional. Dear man.

“Disa is going to Iceland tomorrow,” he announced after a pause. “For the first time in twenty years. Let’s all drink to her health.”

They raised their glasses. Judging by the smell, the apples in the kitchen were just about ready.

In the thirty-second edition of the travel guide
A Gentleman’sGuide to Fine Hotels
the following review can be found on page 19:

Ditton Hall is beautifully situated at the foot of the Mendip Hills, between Wells to the east and lush farming country to the west. The premises are attractive with a relaxing atmosphere, while the grounds surrounding the three buildings, with their lily ponds and avenues of neatly trimmed hedges, cannot be faulted. It is very pleasant to sit on one of the stone seats imported from Spain in the middle of the last century, especially on a warm day when the birds are holding court in the garden. Inside, the hotel is peaceful and comfortable with nothing to disturb the guests but the worries they have brought with them, though even these should evaporate after a few days’ stay in this place.

The neighborhood offers facilities for fly-fishing and riding, while at the hotel itself there are two clay courts for tennis enthusiasts, and a cricket pitch.

The main body of the house dates from the early eighteenth century, and was bought in 1891 by Lord Lonsdale as a holiday home and hunting lodge. His heir converted it into a summer hotel and runs it with his wife. (This needs to be corrected in next year’s edition; Anthony and I are certainly not married.) It is fair to say that the couple have been pioneers in this field.

There are twenty-two rooms (we need to correct this too), each one cozier than the last. The service is all one could wish for and every member of the staff is discreet and professional.

Yet there is one area in particular in which Ditton Hall stands head and shoulders above most other country-house hotels . . .

It’s probably best to cut short the reference to
A Gentleman’s
Guide to Fine Hotels
at this point. Though I should like to point out, in case anyone comes across a copy, that the author has got it quite wrong when he says I serve quail with dates; it should actually be figs, which I have sent over by a friend in Provence. However, he’s not the first person whose taste buds have been misled by this dish.

My reason for referring to this travel guide is not to draw attention to myself and the food we serve our guests but because I suspect we have this review to thank for the fact that it looks as if we’ll be busy this summer. To be honest, I hadn’t expected such high-flown praise after the guide’s reviewers visited us last year. Not that their stay was less than satisfactory; everything went smoothly while it lasted. But there was an incident on their last day which caused Anthony a great deal of anxiety.

What happened was that Anthony and I were sitting with them in the summer house, where the old winter garden used to be, as we wanted to take tea with them before they left. It was an afternoon early in August, lovely and sunny outside with the pleasant sound of rackets hitting balls on the tennis courts. It must have been about four o’clock; at least I hadn’t yet started to think about supper. We discussed cookery and I tried to put them right about some misunderstanding I thought I’d detected on the subject of goose and duck livers. They listened with interest and attention, especially the younger of the two. (They were both about forty, I suppose, but for some reason I felt one was a little younger than the other, though perhaps it was only the impression given by their different builds.) We got on well as they were both polite and good-mannered, though not very chatty. Anthony entertained them with stories about when he lived here as a boy with his grandfather, Lord Lonsdale, becoming quite animated as he was fond of the old man and can never recall those carefree, lazy days without getting nostalgic.

They were on the point of getting up to leave when I blurted out: “Isn’t the name a bit of an anachronism?”

“I’m sorry?”

“A Gentleman’s Guide to Fine Hotels.
Isn’t it a bit of an anachronism?”

They looked at each other.

“It’s not only men who travel these days or decide where to go on holiday or for a rest cure,” I continued rashly. “I can confidently claim that women have caught up with men in that area. We see it here. Don’t we, Anthony?”

Embarrassed, Anthony coughed awkwardly and rose to his feet, muttering something about the guide being reliable and confidence-inspiring, whatever it was called.

He was saved, so to speak, by a young bird crashing into the glass in the summer house, creating a flurry as we all jumped up to help it. Our guests seemed relieved by the interruption. The bird had recovered by the time they were ready to leave and was no doubt singing on a branch somewhere in the garden. I’d organized a picnic hamper for them, containing salmon, an omelette, some bread and even a bottle of rosé. But Anthony, upset and sure that my criticism would be the end of us, remained skulking in the summer house.

As I mentioned before, everyone awaited this day—or rather this evening—with polite anticipation, which always broke out into genuine cheerfulness as the meal progressed. But this evening there was something else in the air, something indefinable. Looking back, I suspect it was unleashed by Anthony’s announcement that I was leaving the following morning.

When Anthony finally finished his speech, everyone began talking at once, Marshall telling anecdotes about Anthony when he was a boy, Miss Lynch and Truelove making plans for a staff outing to the seaside (though goodness knows when they’ll have time to go), Anthony unable to resist recounting wartime heroics, which we’d all heard before and knew to be fictitious, and Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield making fun of our neighbor, the Earl of Helmsdale, who seems to live in the past and sometimes wakes them late at night by bursting drunkenly into the courtyard and trying to shoot clay pigeons in the dark. So the meal went on until I brought in the apple pie and Old Marshall’s daughter suddenly caught my eye and said:

“How do you manage to cook such delicious food?” adding, “it’s out of this world.”

Everyone fell silent, as it was clear from her tone that she asked out of genuine curiosity, not an attempt at flattery. I didn’t know what to do. If I answered her question it would be a tacit admission that I deserved the praise. On the other hand, it would be rude not to answer at all.

“When I first arrived in London in thirty-six,” I began hesitantly, unsure where my answer was leading, “I lived next to Holland Park. My room was small, hardly more than a rabbit hutch. There was nothing in it but a bed, a washbasin, a wardrobe and a small desk. The window looked out over a little square with a bakery on one side and a chemist next to it. In the mornings I’d wake up to the clatter of carts outside or the racket from the kitchen downstairs where my patron Boulestin’s friend Mrs. Brown lived. She was a tiny creature but a divine cook who taught me a great many useful things, blessed be her memory.

“Anyway, one evening, when we were sitting in her kitchen looking out over the square, where the light was gradually fading, I asked her what qualities good cooks should have. She answered straight off: ‘They must be wicked sinners.’ ‘What?’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘they must be so wickedly sinful that their only hope of redemption is to bring happiness to others through good food.’ ”

I wasn’t in the habit of referring to my years in London before the war, which perhaps explains why they listened with such attention. I don’t think I’ve wasted much time thinking about them, either. I suppose I’ve probably done my best to forget them. But now with this story I’d stirred up the dust of old memories which would have been better left undisturbed. Perhaps my expression revealed my awkwardness, because a silence fell when everyone had finished laughing at the story of Mrs. Brown and her sins. Lydia, Old Marshall’s daughter, restored the balance by saying:

“Sins can hardly be the explanation. Or we’d all cook far better than you.”

Everyone burst out laughing again and we quickly raised our glasses. Then one story followed on from another about wickedly sinful people who couldn’t even be trusted to boil an egg without disaster.

Seizing this chance to pop into the kitchen, I went out on to the steps to breathe in the evening air and the stillness which lay over everything. My darling Tina came to me and I told her I’d miss her while I was away.

When I realized I was well on the way to convincing myself that it would be best to postpone my trip to Iceland, I went back in to our guests, for I suspected this thought might take root if I were alone much longer.

His eyes change color in the dream, first brown, then blue, as his hands run over my body. His breathing is rapid and eager, his hair, damp with sweat, flopping against my face. I can’t move; however hard I struggle I can’t shift him.

I woke up early that morning. The repairman had been in to mend the cooker the previous evening and I had to make sure the gas was working properly again, burning with a steady blue flame. It was the middle of summer, the height of the season, and I couldn’t risk the cooker breaking down or becoming temperamental. The repairman was still at work when I went up to bed, shortly after midnight, but when I came down at five in the morning he and his tools were gone. I remember noticing how neatly he had tidied up after himself.

I was quite satisfied with the flame and it was only when the clock struck two in the afternoon that I realized I’d been at it without a break since dawn. Not only had I wanted to keep an eye on the cooker myself following the repairs but there was also an unusual number of guests for lunch that day. By two o’clock, however, the dining room had emptied and the guests had gone out, some to cast a line for trout, others to enjoy the mild afternoon by going for a walk or drive. I looked around the empty dining room, listening to the silence, and suddenly it dawned on me just how exhausted I was.

I’ve never been able to lie down during the day, never liked wasting time in this way, so I decided to go and sit in my favorite armchair in the games room in the east wing. I liked this chair for two reasons. Firstly, it was extremely comfortable, not too hard or too soft, and secondly it looked out over the hills to the north where beautiful cloud patterns often formed in the sky.

I sighed with relief as I sat down and before I knew it was so relaxed that my eyelids drooped. For some reason, my rest was uneasy from the beginning. I quickly found myself in that state between waking and sleeping where the subconscious occasionally whispers that you’re awake, yet at the same time I was utterly exhausted, the handmaid of oblivion. At first I thought I was in the kitchen of the house in Fjolugata. The morning paper lay on the table in front of me but the heading was all wrong, with the date as large as a bold headline: October 16, 1940. I was sitting on a high stool at the kitchen table with the paper in front of me but the pages were so heavy I couldn’t turn them. Disconcerted, I tried to shift them with both hands, but to no avail. It was then that I heard the mistress calling from upstairs: “Disa, Christmas is here! Light the candles! It’s Christmas! Christmas is here!”