‘I like a bit of Alan,’ Dora chimes in. ‘You know where you are with him. No smut. Lovely man. Lovely man.’
‘Are you going to have that one, Dora?’ I ask.
‘Can’t, love,’ she says sadly. ‘All my money’s gone this week. Had to buy some new beddies. My others had worn right through.’
Perhaps if Dora didn’t run round the estate in her slippers, they might last a bit longer. Still, it’s not exactly as if she’s blown her benefit on living the high life.
‘I’ve got a little surprise for you. Spencer’s given me some money to treat you and Mrs Kapur. Pick whichever one you want.’
‘Isn’t that nice, Mrs Kapur?’ Dora says, clapping her hands together. ‘Our Sally’s young man is buying us a necklace.’
‘He doesn’t have to do that, Sal,’ Mrs Kapur says.
‘I know, but he said that he’d like to.’
‘Perhaps I’ll have this one,’ Mrs Kapur says, stroking her bling.
‘It’s frigging awful,’ Debs says, carelessly flicking her cigarette out of the window and sliding down from the ledge. There’ll be no more of that once this project starts. All litter will be properly disposed of. You’re going to be able to eat your dinner off the pavements on this estate, come the revolution. ‘Let me pick you something a bit more tasteful, love.’
Mrs Kapur eases herself from the sofa and shuffles to the table, smiling broadly. ‘Perhaps we ought to try them all on again just to make sure which one we like the best.’
Dora clearly likes the idea and pounces on the jewellery again.
‘That all right, Kathy?’ I check with the jewellery lady.
Kathy, sitting contentedly in the corner with a big glass of wine, smiles on. ‘No worries, girl.’
I sidle up to Debs as she’s sorting purposefully through the chains, dangly earrings and bracelets. ‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’
‘About what?’
‘Spencer wants me to meet his parents. Isn’t it a bit soon for that sort of thing?’
‘If you ask me, even the wedding day’s a bit too early to meet the in-laws. It’s best left until about five years after you’re married. Preferably longer.’
‘We’re staying in their house.’
‘In Outerbumblefuck?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where exactly is that?’
‘I’m not sure. Surrey somewhere.’
‘You say that he’s taking all his mates along too?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can’t be a little two-up, two-down then.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Isn’t that a bit weird? What’s a bloke like Spencer still doing living with his folks?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But it looks as if I’m about to find out.’
Chapter Sixty-Five
‘We’ll take the football up to the school field, lad,’ Johnny said. Ringo barked enthusiastically when he heard the word ‘football’. ‘I’ve just got to drop into the garage first.’
‘You could go to the garage tomorrow,’ Charlie suggested. ‘Or maybe Sunday.’
‘Best get it out of the way. I need to order some paint but I can’t remember what colours I’m short of. It won’t take long.’
‘But it’s still nice and sunny, Johnny,’ Charlie whined. ‘We could be playing football instead. It’ll be dark soon.’
‘Five minutes,’ Johnny said. It wasn’t like the boy to complain. Perhaps he was just edging nearer towards those teenage years when it was compulsory to complain about everything. ‘That’s all I’ll be. I promise. I haven’t been there for a few days and I need to get this done.’
He put his arm round Charlie’s shoulder and shepherded him towards the door of Sally’s flat. Ringo followed at heel. ‘Normally you like to go up to my workshop.’
Charlie shrugged uncomfortably, and Johnny wondered if the lad was feeling a bit out of sorts because his mum had gone away with her new fella again. Though, if he believed Sally’s account, it was Charlie who’d suggested that they spend the weekend together.
His ex would be on her way now to Spencer Knight’s home in the country. It was best if he tried not to think about that. Every day that passed seemed to take Sally further away from him, and it was something that he was going to have to live with. He’d just try to enjoy the time that he had with Charlie before Spencer muscled in on that as well.
They walked up to the garages, ball tucked under Charlie’s arm, Johnny burbling away to cover the lad’s reticence. His little friend’s steps got slower and slower as they got nearer to the workshop, and Ringo hung back with him.
‘Come on, our Charlie,’ Johnny said. ‘Otherwise this is going to take a lot longer than five minutes.’ And he tried to hurry the boy and dog along – without success.
As they approached the garage, Johnny could tell that something wasn’t right. The up and over door wasn’t fully closed. Not a good sign. ‘Someone’s been in the garage.’ He put a spurt on, rushing towards it. The little dog chased after him, barking.
When he turned back, he saw that Charlie was rooted to the spot, his face white.
‘Stay there,’ Johnny instructed. He didn’t want them both to go blundering in if any of the intruders were still inside.
When he got to the door, Johnny stood stock still outside. He put a hand out and Ringo was silenced too. Inside there was no noise. It seemed like whoever had broken in had already gone. Probably just as well, as Johnny would have liked to flatten them, the bastards.
Swinging open the door, Johnny gawped at the scene of devastation that greeted him. He felt like he’d been thumped in the chest. Paint had been thrown all round the garage, his canvases scattered all over the place. Some had been kicked in. He let out a deep, shuddering breath. Ringo whined in sympathy.
Then he heard a sobbing noise and turned to see Charlie standing behind him, crying.
Johnny put an arm round his shoulder and pulled the boy towards him. ‘Don’t worry, our kid,’ he said. ‘Probably looks a lot worse than it is.’ He wasn’t sure that was strictly true.
Charlie leaned against him and sobbed noisily. Ringo put his paws up on the boy’s legs and licked at them.
‘Little bastards,’ Johnny muttered. ‘I’d like to get my hands on the scum who did this.’
‘Your paintings are ruined.’
‘Not all of them.’ Johnny wandered aimlessly into the garage. The splattered paint had now dried. This had probably been done a day or two earlier. He picked up and moved a couple of the broken canvases. ‘Looks like some are missing though.’
Why couldn’t people leave well enough alone these days? Why was it that everything that was good or clean or beautiful had to be sullied? Still Charlie sniffed loudly, tears rolling down his face. To be honest, Johnny felt like joining in. It was all very well, people like Sally wanting to champion good causes, clean up the area, but when things like this happened it made you wonder why anyone bothered. Why shouldn’t all the decent people just move out and leave the trash behind to wallow in their own muck?
‘I should call the police,’ Johnny said. He felt Charlie start at that. ‘But what would be the point? This is one of a dozen things like this that happen every single day. Where would they start? Besides, they’re not interested in helping the likes of us.’
‘I’ll help you to tidy up,’ Charlie said. ‘It won’t take long if we try really hard. We could get it done before Mum comes back.’
‘Yeah,’ Johnny said. ‘Let’s get some of these canvases stacked up again. See what the damage is.’
As he moved into the garage, Ringo started playing with something on the floor that had caught his eye. ‘Leave it,’ Johnny said, and the little dog stood aside. There was a piece of toilet paper with a cigarette butt wrapped carefully inside it. ‘Hmm,’ Johnny said. Where had that come from? ‘Seems the vandals have left a little clue behind. Maybe I should call the police after all.’
At that, Charlie burst out
crying again.
Chapter Sixty-Six
We’ve been driving for hours now. Down the M6, then the M1 and, finally, the M25. The Porsche has eaten up the miles and now we’re winding down country lanes as dusk is closing in. My eyes are getting heavy and I’ll be glad of my bed tonight. Wonder if Spencer and I will be sharing a room or whether his parents are the old-fashioned kind and I’ll be sleeping chastely down the hall.
Spencer pats my knee. ‘Nearly there.’
Minutes later we swing through a pair of majestic gates and head up a drive that’s lined on either side with trees, possibly poplars. They’re tall and straight, anyway. The lights from Spencer’s car pick out a rash of bunnies hopping across the surrounding parkland, white tails bobbing as they scatter in alarm. In the distance, a mellow stone building looms ahead of us. It looks like a posh hotel. Welcoming lights blaze from every window.
‘Are we stopping here for dinner?’
Spencer turns and grins at me. ‘This is it,’ he says. ‘Alderstone House. My home.’
When I say Alderstone House, think as far away as possible from Bill Shankly House and you’ll just about have it. I do a gasp and a gulp at the same time and nearly choke myself. I splutter out loud, ‘No way!’
‘Do you like it?’
My guess is that this place is Georgian, something like that. My lack of knowledge involving trees is second only to my ignorance concerning the architecture of stately homes.
‘You’re not a lord or something, are you?’
‘Heavens no!’ Spencer laughs. ‘My family are commoners.’
Mine too. But some of us are way more common than others.
I still can’t believe this is true. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘No,’ Spencer says. ‘This is it. We’re here.’ And with that he pulls up outside the main part of the building, showering gravel in our wake.
Alderstone House has two enormous wings and, in the time I’ve got, I can’t even begin to count all of the windows. The place is vast. It should be a hotel. I can’t believe that normal people live here.
A man in a formal dark jacket comes out of the enormous front door and I wonder whether this is Spencer’s dad.
‘Good evening, Mr Spencer,’ he says as he opens the car door. ‘I hope you had a pleasant journey.’
‘Wonderful,’ Spencer says. ‘This is Miss Sally.’
‘Good evening,’ the man says deferentially.
I feel as if I should curtsey for him.
‘This is Brookes.’ Clearly not Spencer’s dad then.
‘Hello, Brookes.’
‘Cook has prepared a light supper for you in the dining room, sir.’
‘Thank you. We’ll just take a minute to freshen up before eating.’
It’s fair, at this point, to say that I feel somewhat underdressed in my jeans and my Asda price military jacket.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting Miss Sally in the Princess of Wales bedroom.’
‘That’s fine, Brookes.’
‘I’ll bring your bags straight up, sir.’ And with that we sweep into the house, leaving this poor old bloke to carry our bags. Though, to be fair, we’re not exactly packing excess baggage, Spencer’s car having a boot the size of a ham sandwich.
If the outside of the house is breathtaking, inside the hall nearly makes my lungs collapse. It’s bigger than my entire flat, much bigger. The floor is covered with black and white marble tiles. Huge paintings depicting horses cover the walls and, as you well know, I’m no art expert, but these look like the real deal. In the centre of the hall hangs an enormous golden lantern.
‘That’s beautiful,’ I whisper. This is not a room you could talk out loud in.
‘Ormolu,’ Spencer says, as if that would mean something to me. ‘Eighteenth century.’
‘Has this been your home for a long time?’
‘Five hundred years or so,’ he says dismissively, as if he’s told me they picked it up in 1975 for a song.
‘Come on,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘Let’s find your room.’ Spencer leads me out of the hall and up the oak staircase ahead of us. Portraits of his ancestors line the walls and I have to say that they’re all a handsome bunch. No wonder Spencer likes art galleries so much – his own home looks just like one. At the top of the stairs, there’s a gold brocade chaise longue and above it hangs a painting of a formidable couple. The woman’s slim with long blond hair and she’s wearing a red evening gown and a single string of pearls. The man’s in a black suit and looks like an older, harder version of Spencer.
‘Mother and Father,’ he confirms. They look like a force to be reckoned with.
I haven’t got any pictures of my ancestors. They were probably all too poor to afford cameras, let alone commissioned portraits. Spencer guides me along the corridor, past a dozen different doors.
‘This is a very peaceful corner of the house,’ he tells me as he opens the door. ‘You have lovely views of the gardens.’
A four-poster bed dominates the enormous room. The canopy and the headboard are covered in a lavish cream, green and terracotta fabric decorated with gold. The bedspread’s made of cream and gold plush velvet which is just begging me to bury myself in it. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. More portraits adorn the walls and there’s a gilt mirror above the marble fireplace.
‘This is gorgeous,’ I breathe in a hushed voice. I’m going to have to get used to talking at a normal level in this place, but it’s all so overwhelming.
‘Come and look at the view.’ Spencer takes my hand and we walk to the window. Formal gardens border the house, then, for as far as the eye can see, there are rolling fields.
‘You own all this?’
Spencer nods.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Could I have described this?’ he says. ‘I wanted you to see it for yourself.’
I look up at his handsome face that’s glowing with pride. He clearly adores this place and I can easily understand why. ‘What are you doing with me, Spencer Knight?’
‘I love you,’ he says, and holds me in his arms.
This is all too much to take in. It’s as if I’ve been transported into a new world, a world that I didn’t know existed, and in which I feel like I don’t belong. ‘Why is this called the Princess of Wales room?’
‘Because Diana stayed here once,’ he tells me. ‘When she was a girl.’
‘The Diana?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘My parents have dined out on it since. But do you know what the best thing is about this room?’
I shake my head. He takes my hand again and tugs me gently over to a big oak door. He flings it open. ‘It adjoins my room.’
‘Oh?’ That makes me smile. ‘And what’s your room called?’
‘The Spencer Seduction Suite,’ he teases.
And, for the first time, I think I might be able to relax and enjoy myself here.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The dining room is just as vast as the other rooms – no cosy nook here. It’s decorated in rich shades of burgundy and dark blue. Another rash of portraits cover the walls and I’m beginning to think that the Knights were a vain lot.
A mahogany table dominates the room. Around it are sixteen intricately carved chairs. Spencer and I sit opposite each other at one end. Our voices echo in the void.
‘Hungry?’ Spencer asks.
‘Starving,’ I say, though my stomach is a mass of anxiety.
Supper is a simple affair – a platter of cheese, some crusty bread and a tureen of home-made soup. Except that the platter and the tureen both appear to be silver, as is the cutlery. The crockery is white, edged with gold and is made of a china so fine that I can almost see through it.
‘What was it like growing up here?’
‘Wonderful,’ Spencer says, as he cuts into the cheese. ‘Although I spent a lot of time away at school.’
‘I wouldn’t ever want to leave somewhere like this.’ Though it does feel a
bit like living in a museum.
‘I’ll take you on a tour after supper, if you’d like. Help you to get your bearings. This place is a bit of a rabbit warren.’
‘I’d love it.’ The soup’s hot and nourishing and I can feel my tension dropping away as it warms me through. ‘Are your parents around tonight?’
‘Brookes has probably told them we’ve arrived,’ he says, ‘but I expect we’ll see them in the morning.’
How strange that they don’t want to see their son as soon as they know he’s here. Perhaps they’re giving him time to get me acclimatised.
‘When are your friends coming?’
‘They’ll be here after breakfast,’ he tells me. ‘Small turnout during the day, I’m afraid. There’ll be just the eight of us. But they’re all dying to meet you. Another crowd will be arriving in the evening, then things will liven up.’
Not sure if I’m feeling quite the same level of enthusiasm about meeting them. I’ve got this vision of them all being snooty Hooray Henry types who’ll hate me on sight.
‘You’ll love them,’ Spencer assures me, and I hope that he’s right.
After our meal we wander through room after sumptuous room, each one seemingly more grand than the last. I want to know how Spencer’s family made their money to be able to afford all of this, but it seems rude to ask. I’ll have to Google him when I get back to my computer. Who knew that the Internet would come in so handy?
We take in the picture gallery and our footsteps clonk on the oak flooring just like they did in the Tate. Charlie could skateboard the length of here. Then there’s the south drawing room, which Dora would love as it has more sofas than DFS. After that comes a library and a room with a full-size billiard table.
Another dining room and I lose count at thirty chairs. Then there’s a comfortable lounge, which has more normal proportions compared to the rest of their house. This only has six sofas in it, along with myriad other furniture. I stifle a yawn.
‘I think it’s time for us to retire,’ Spencer says.
‘I’ve walked further round your house than I have in years,’ I tell him.
He laughs at that – but, to be honest, it wasn’t a joke.
All You Need is Love Page 21