Tremarnock Summer

by Burstall, Emma

  ‘She hardly ever goes out. She’s so deaf, she probably hasn’t heard.’

  When the old woman finally appeared, it was immediately clear that something was wrong. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her face was damp and putty-coloured. Her snow-white hair, normally so neatly combed, was bedraggled and sticking to her forehead, and she seemed perplexed, almost as if she couldn’t remember who they were.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said at last. ‘I thought it might be the postman. I’m not feeling too well, to be honest with you.’

  She didn’t ask them in as usual, or enquire about Rafael, whom she hadn’t met. She didn’t even seem to notice Lowenna, now gently snoring in her stroller, a thin streak of saliva dribbling from her slack mouth down her chin.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Liz, stepping inside despite the lack of invitation and taking Pat by the arm. ‘You should have rung.’

  Rosie lifted the pushchair inside with the assistance of Rafael and Felipe, while Liz helped Pat into the little front room, where she almost fell into her armchair, gripping the sides as if to keep herself from falling off.

  ‘It’s that blasted indigestion again,’ she complained. ‘I’ve taken some tablets but they don’t seem to do much good. I was up half the night with it, and I’ve got this pain in my back.’ She gestured to an area behind a shoulder. ‘And here,’ she went on, clutching her abdomen. ‘I thought it was getting a bit better but it seems to have come back. I must have slept in a funny position.’

  Rosie, trying to be useful, offered to get her a drink, but Pat shook her head wearily.

  ‘Help yourself to anything you want, dear. You know where everything is. I’m sorry I’m so hopeless today.’

  But Rosie didn’t move. She was watching her mother, who was pulling at her bottom lip with two fingers and eyeing the old woman carefully.

  ‘I’m going to call the doctor,’ Liz said at last. Ignoring Pat’s protests, she disappeared into the kitchen to use the phone. She was soon speaking to a woman from the NHS helpline who fired off a list of questions.

  ‘Does she have any nausea, light-headedness, unusual fatigue...?’

  Liz carried the phone next door to ask. ‘Yes, all of them.’

  ‘Shortness of breath? Palpitations?’ the woman went on, tapping away on her computer.

  Pat nodded. She hadn’t mentioned those before.

  ‘Pain, particularly in her arm, neck, jaw, shoulder, upper back, abdomen?’

  Pat explained where it hurt, and when Liz had finished relaying the information, the helpline woman cleared her throat.

  ‘I’m going to call an ambulance,’ she said firmly. ‘Keep her calm but don’t try to move her.’

  Feeling sick with anxiety, Liz pulled up a chair and sat by Pat, holding her hand while they waited. The old woman kept insisting that the ambulance wasn’t necessary, that she’d feel better after a good night’s rest, but even in her confused state she realised from her friend’s expression that things might be bad.

  Rosie knelt by her other side, looking so upset that Pat tried to comfort her.

  ‘I’ll be fine, lambkin,’ she said, stroking the girl’s head clumsily. It was so typical of her to think of others even at a time like this.

  The minutes seemed to tick by painfully slowly and Liz tried to appear cheerful, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘It’s best to get checked out. You’ll be home in a jiffy, and when you’re better I’ll take you out for lunch in the countryside, to a nice pub or something. We’ll have a bitter shandy to celebrate your recovery.’

  As she spoke, the sky clouded over, there was a rumble of thunder and the rain started to come down, lightly at first, then in thick sheets, splattering on the road outside and against the windowpanes. It was so sudden that it seemed like a sign; everyone felt it.

  After a while, the tension started to get to Rafael, who needed a pee, so Rosie took him to the bathroom upstairs, while Felipe hovered by the window, looking out and trying to crack jokes to lighten the atmosphere. Liz did her best to explain them to Pat, but they were rather complicated and didn’t translate well from Portuguese.

  ‘I’ve heard better,’ Pat grumbled, and Liz managed a small smile.

  Felipe was rather sensitive and might have taken offence, but luckily the ambulance arrived in the nick of time, pulling up in the middle of the damp street as there was nowhere to park. Soon two paramedics, a man and a woman, entered the front room. They talked in oddly cheerful voices while they took Pat’s blood pressure and pulse. Then they gave her aspirin and put a drip in her arm as the others looked on fearfully.

  When they’d finished, the woman paramedic took Liz aside.

  ‘She has the symptoms of a heart attack. They’ll be able to tell you more in Cardiac.’

  Liz’s teeth chattered despite the heat in the room.

  Felipe volunteered to go with Pat, and Liz said she’d join them at the hospital as soon as she could, thinking all the while that she couldn’t quite believe this was happening, that it must be a dream – or a nightmare, more like. As they lifted Pat on to the carry chair she turned to Liz, who saw for the first time that the old woman’s watery blue eyes were full of fear.

  ‘You’ll look after my plants for me?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And let Emily know where I am?’ Emily was Pat’s favourite niece.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If anything should happen to me...’

  A painful lump lodged in Liz’s throat. ‘It won’t. You mustn’t worry.’

  Then she kissed the old woman on the forehead, waved to Felipe and went outside with Rosie and Rafael to watch the ambulance drive away, its tyres splashing through puddles and spraying water as it went. They didn’t care that they were getting wet themselves; they hardly even noticed.

  Once the ambulance had rounded the corner, Liz turned back to her companions.

  ‘I should have called for an ambulance the other day, when we visited. I feel so bad...’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Rosie, giving her mother a hug, while Rafael stuck his hands in his pockets and hung back awkwardly.

  A strange silence seemed to have settled on the house when they re-entered, as if the life had gone out of it. They checked that all the windows were locked and everything was in order before slamming the front door, relieved to get away.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Rosie asked as they hurried home in the wet, and Liz took a deep breath. She wanted so much to be positive, but it was difficult.

  ‘I don’t know, darling. She’s very old, you see. But she’s in excellent hands. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do now but wait and pray.’

  11

  WHILE LIZ WAS helping Pat, Bramble and Katie were on their way back to the manor, munching chocolate and discussing plans. They’d watched the sun vanish and the sky turn from bright blue to an ominous shade of grey, and soon big, fat raindrops started to splash on the windscreen.

  ‘Bugger!’ Bramble said as she passed through the rickety iron gates and screeched to a halt near the old oak door. ‘I thought it was supposed to be glorious sunshine all day? It’s going to bucket down.’

  Right on cue, a flash of lightning lit up the manor’s turrets like a laser beam, followed by a crack of deafening thunder, and the rain descended in thick sheets that smacked on the car roof and resonated like a tin drum roll.

  ‘We’ll have to wait till it eases,’ Katie shouted, ‘or we’ll get soaked.’

  Bramble peered up at the swirling blackness overhead. ‘I don’t think it’s going to stop for a while. We’d better make a run for it.’

  Clutching their cardigans over their heads, they dashed towards the main door, which opened, as if by magic, to allow them in.

  ‘Thanks, Maria,’ Bramble said, spying the housekeeper behind the entrance and hurrying past her into the hallway. Bramble paused for a moment, watching the water sluice off her clothes and make puddles on the marble floor.
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  ‘It’s disgusting out there,’ she said apologetically. ‘Sorry about the mess.’

  But Maria, unreadable as ever, merely nodded before closing the door firmly behind them.

  ‘Will that be all?’ she asked, and Bramble was relieved when she turned her back and made for the kitchen with her short, determined strides. She was so disagreeable that it was no wonder she and Lord Penrose had got on well. They might have been made for each other.

  The girls ran upstairs to peel off their sodden clothes, and took it in turns to have baths as the ancient boiler couldn’t cope with more than one at a time. When they’d dressed again, in jeans, socks and warm sweatshirts, they sat on the end of their bed and debated what to do. They hadn’t anticipated an indoorsy type of day at all.

  ‘We could see a film?’ Katie suggested. Her face and arms were pink and flushed from the hot water and she’d tied back her dark hair in a damp ponytail.

  ‘I don’t feel like going out again in this,’ Bramble replied gloomily, staring through the window. ‘Anyway, it’d take ages to get to the nearest cinema. We’re in the middle of bloody nowhere, remember?’

  For the first time since they’d arrived, the reality of their location really hit home. Back in Chessington, if the weather was bad and they were off work, the girls would pop to the shopping centre for a spot of retail therapy, drink skinny lattes in a cosy café, maybe wile away some time with a mani-pedi, before taking in a film, eating out at a restaurant, meeting up with Matt and friends in a pub or wine bar and perhaps heading into central London later to hit the clubs. The climate hardly mattered because there was so much to do. Here, though, the elements ruled, and there was nothing for it but to remain inside until the sky brightened.

  ‘I think I hate the country,’ Bramble muttered.

  ‘We could always take up needlepoint?’ Katie joked. ‘Isn’t that what grand ladies used to do on rainy days?’

  Bramble scowled before giving herself a mental shake. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she declared, and she suggested that they sort through Lord Penrose’s old belongings.

  ‘I haven’t even seen his rooms properly yet. I’ve been avoiding them, as if he’s still alive, watching our every move like a bad-tempered ghost. This place won’t feel like ours till we’ve filled it with our presence and our stuff. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do.’

  Katie looked doubtful. ‘I don’t like the idea of touching his things. Can’t Maria take care of it?’

  Bramble shook her head firmly. ‘He was my relative and it should be me who decides what to keep and what to throw away.’

  The old man’s rooms were in the west wing of the building, through a heavy oak door that normally stayed shut. So far, the girls had only poked their noses in and retreated quickly, spooked by the stale smell; the worn leather slippers positioned by the four-poster bed, as if their owner might emerge at any moment from beneath the covers to put them on; and the dusty garments hanging on wardrobe doors in the dressing room next door. This time, however, Bramble led the way in purposefully, drawing back her shoulders and trying to ignore the wobble in her knees.

  ‘It’s so cluttered,’ said Katie, gazing at the various portraits, the stag’s antlers, the stuffed birds in glass cases on assorted surfaces, the thick gold curtains and the tattered rug on the wooden floor. Despite the size of the room and its two large windows, it felt quite dark, owing not just to the dull weather but also to the murky-green walls, the gloomy drapes around the four-poster and the heavy mahogany furniture.

  Bramble wandered into the adjoining room and scanned the dressing table, on which sat a silver hairbrush, two clothes brushes, a mirror, an ivory comb and various little bottles of cologne. Daring herself, she picked up the hairbrush, and she felt its rounded end before turning it over. She started when she noticed a few stray white hairs still clinging to the bristles. Had they been shed the last time her grandfather had brushed his hair before he died? She replaced the item quickly, feeling like an intruder in a man’s world – for it was, indeed, a very masculine place. No hint of femininity, nothing pretty or flowery, no sense of a woman’s touch.

  The only surprise, perhaps, was an elegant spinet in one corner of the bedroom, with a book of classical music still propped against its rest. Lord Penrose had written his name on the front in small, squiggly letters, and when Bramble looked inside she saw that he’d made various annotations in the same hand: ‘quicker’ and ‘two beat’, and ‘EGBB’ beneath a particular chord. Bramble had only learned the piano for one year at primary school but she could tell that he must have been good. She wondered why he’d kept the instrument here rather than downstairs like the grand piano, which looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Perhaps he’d preferred to practise in private.

  ‘Where do you want to start?’

  She jumped. So lost had she been in thought that she’d forgotten all about Katie.

  ‘Can you sort through his clothes and put the decent ones in there?’ Bramble pointed to a large leather suitcase on top of one of the wardrobes. The rest, she said, they’d take to the charity shop, try to sell or chuck away.

  She, meanwhile, resolved to begin with his bedside drawers. Feeling a little guilty, she slid open the first; it contained nothing more than a pair of grubby spectacles and a packet of prescription pills. She took a deep breath and emptied them into a large wastepaper basket, along with a battered copy of Birds of the British Isles from the drawer beneath. There was no point hanging on to them. No one would wish to stay in the room until it had been cleared of the old earl’s personal possessions.

  The third drawer down contained a box of tissues and, underneath that, a sketchbook of the type used in art classes at school. Bramble opened the first page and discovered a rather appealing drawing of the view from the old man’s bed. The lines were few but conveyed beautifully one carved pillar of the four-poster and the spread of smooth floorboards leading towards the window, which looked out over rolling fields and the sun rising, or setting perhaps, behind the rugged cliffs.

  Intrigued, she flipped to the next page, where there was a quite different drawing: a fluffy cat, its head cocked slightly to one side, its back leg raised at an awkward angle as it lazily washed its furry outstretched paw. Behind it was the same carved pillar, and beneath that, a hint of eiderdown and a bulge – perhaps of someone’s feet. She shivered, wondering if they had belonged to her grandfather and if a cat had once sat there while he sketched, propped up against some pillows perhaps, his book on his lap, lovingly re-creating the arch of his pet’s back, the oval smoothness of its pads and its absurdly long whiskers.

  There were other drawings, too: a vase of delicate wildflowers; a cheeky sparrow perched on the windowsill, eyeing the observer inquisitively. Lord Penrose must have loved nature, and he could certainly draw, she thought, putting the sketchbook to one side and resolving to keep it in a safe place for further perusal. Music and art? Such interests didn’t seem to fit with what she knew of his boorish personality. Perhaps he’d had further talents, too.

  On top of the set of drawers was an empty glass and a water jug that had left a round stain. They were functional rather than attractive, and went in the bin as well. Bracing herself, she knelt down and peered under the bed. She was relieved to find nothing but dust, until she felt mouse droppings and removed her hand swiftly. Ugh. The whole bed would have to be pulled out so that she could vacuum underneath, but she’d need Katie’s help with that.

  Next, she walked over to the heavy chest of drawers against the wall, in the centre of which sat a mirror flanked by a stuffed pelican and an owl. Poor creatures. These, too, Bramble had no intention of keeping, so she lifted them carefully and carried them to the landing, where she set them on the floor. Someone, surely, would want them as weird collectors’ objects; she’d have to find them a home later.

  The bottom few drawers were full of jumpers that smelled of mothballs. One or two that looked quite smart and expensive she handed
to Katie for the Oxfam shop, and the rest she flung beside the other rubbish, ready for recycling. Higher up were piles of silk handkerchiefs and cravats, which she put in another suitcase for items that she might be able to sell online. The trouble was that disposing of all this stuff would be a lengthy task in itself, and it was the same throughout the manor. If she thought about it for too long, she could get depressed.

  Cupboard by cupboard, she told herself, room by room. She must just put one foot in front of the other and allow herself a sense of achievement for completing even the smallest job, otherwise she’d go mad.

  The top two drawers, which were smaller, contained socks and underwear, which Bramble quickly binned. The pile of rubbish was now a mini-mountain, but not so big that she couldn’t bag it all up and cart it to the dump. All that remained was a black leather wallet that had been carefully placed under the old man’s pants. An ancient trick, Bramble thought, that every burglar must surely know.

  Expecting to find cash, a few notes perhaps, maybe the earl’s passport, she opened the wallet and felt inside. To her surprise there was no money, but in one of the sections were four black-and-white photographs, yellowed with age and crinkled at the edges as if they’d been regularly thumbed.

  Intrigued, she sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at them. One was of Lord Penrose himself in middle age – she recognised him from other pictures around the place – standing in a dinner jacket on the front steps of Polgarry Manor and gazing, unsmiling, at the camera. To his right was another, younger, man with slicked-back hair and a silk scarf in his top pocket, and to his left, a woman in a long evening gown with flared sleeves, her hair arranged, Princess Anne-style, in a stiff updo. Beside her was a slim girl of sixteen or seventeen with wavy hair, wearing a light, calf-length dress. The photographer must have been standing quite far back, as it was difficult to make out the faces, but Bramble could tell that the girl was pretty, with big dark eyes and a slightly awkward demeanour.