Tremarnock Summer

by Burstall, Emma

  The second photo was of the same foursome, but this time inside the house, sitting around the fire in the main reception room: Lord Penrose in the armchair, the man and woman side by side on the sofa and the girl perched on the arm. It was most likely the same evening as their clothes hadn’t changed, though the adults looked more relaxed and the girl was posing with one slender leg in front of the other, her hands resting on her lap, her head tipped at an angle and an amused smile playing on her lips. Behind Lord Penrose, interestingly, stood the spinet that was now in his bedroom.

  Eagerly, Bramble turned to the third photo, which was a close-up of the girl, showing just her head and shoulders. It was less formal than the other snaps and seemed to capture something that only the very best photographer can achieve: a moment in time that conveyed the very essence of the subject, a core part of his or her being.

  The girl was throwing back her head and laughing gaily. It might have been spontaneous, yet the tilt of her head, the wide-open mouth and arch of her slender neck suggested a degree of self-awareness, as if she were already beginning to understand the power of her beauty. It could have been called ‘The Spirit of Youth’, a picture to make old men and women sigh, lamenting their lost years and withered prospects. Only the young laughed like that, when they thought that they could rule the world and their whole lives seemed to spread out before them like a sumptuous carpet.

  Bramble stared at it for quite a while, wondering if she recognised the girl. She looked a little like Mary, Bramble’s mother, but it couldn’t be her because the clothes were too dated, and besides, Mary had never met Lord Penrose. What’s more, the woman beside Bill in the wedding picture that Bramble had seen at home was fuller-figured, with a rounder face and that big, curly hair that was fashionable in the late eighties and early nineties. She wasn’t smiling either. She looked lost and a bit miserable, clinging to Bill as if for dear life. Bramble had never liked the picture and rarely dug it out of the album, preferring to imagine her mother as a wild, carefree young thing, the exotic creature too beautiful for this world who had stolen Bill’s heart away.

  A thought crossed her mind that was at once thrilling and a bit frightening. Could the young girl be Bramble’s grandmother, Alice, on the very night that she and Lord Penrose had met and conceived Mary? It might be a fanciful notion, but there was something about that shot, at once intimate and also slightly obsessive, that seemed to suggest there was more going on than simply three friends and one younger person enjoying a sociable evening together. Was Alice, if that was who it was, teasing Lord Penrose, and was he at that very moment determining to have her?

  The fourth photo was of a baby in an old-fashioned Silver Cross pram, but it was so far away that you couldn’t see the face, only its woolly hat and the hint of a snub nose and downy cheek. Bramble was about to put the snap away when she felt something stuck behind it, another photograph. She eased it off with a finger and it soon dropped down – and she almost gasped in disbelief.

  The picture was in colour this time and showed another baby, perhaps six months old, with wispy fair hair, blue eyes and a dimple in her chin. She was wearing a pink summer dress and propped up against some cushions on a tartan rug in the garden, one chubby arm raised as if in greeting, the other clutching a blue toy. She looked happy, this child, and well cared for, obviously loved. Bramble recognised her instantly, and the photograph, too, because there was an identical, larger one in a frame on a windowsill at her parents’ house. This baby was herself.

  A thousand questions raced through her brain, making it ache. Who had given Lord Penrose the picture? Bramble understood that there’d been no contact between him and her grandmother, Alice, after their brief encounter, and certainly none between him and Mary. Why had he kept the photo hidden away here in his underwear drawer for all these years along with the others, and what, if any, feelings did he have for Bramble, the granddaughter whom he’d never met or shown the slightest interest in?

  She didn’t hear the door to the bedroom open or Maria walk in, and it was only when the housekeeper spoke that Bramble realised she’d been watching.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said softly, gazing down at the baby picture. ‘He said you took after his mother more than her side of the family. He said you were bonny.’

  Her expression was unusually gentle and there was a mistiness in her eyes, or was Bramble imagining it?

  ‘Did he?’ She was astonished. ‘I didn’t think he knew anything about me.’

  ‘Oh, he knew more than you realise. He cared about you very much.’

  ‘He had a funny way of showing it. I’d hardly even heard of him until he died.’

  Bramble realised as soon as she’d spoken that it had been the wrong thing to say, for Maria’s eyes hardened and her face seemed to shut like a clam.

  ‘That was not his choice,’ she said icily. Then: ‘Luncheon is served.’

  Before Bramble had the chance to reply, she’d turned on her heel and left the room.

  Bramble didn’t mention the photos to Katie over lunch, partly because Maria might have overheard but also because she wanted time to process her discovery. It was possible, of course, that her grandfather might have tucked the snaps away because he didn’t like them, but then why keep them at all? Why not burn the lot? Bramble was almost positive now that the pretty young girl in the first pictures was indeed her grandmother, and that the baby in the Silver Cross pram was Mary. This meant that there must have been some communication between Lord Penrose and her family, yet Bill had never suggested this to be the case and Bramble was certain that he wouldn’t lie.

  She wanted desperately to call her father, but he would be working now and this wasn’t something to discuss in a hurry. There was a great deal more to do upstairs and so she resolved to contact him later.

  She and Katie carted bags of rubbish down to the car bit by bit and piled them in, before returning to Lord Penrose’s rooms to sort through more of his belongings. Most of the contents of his dressing table were disposed of, while the grooming set went in a suitcase with the items that might fetch something in an antiques shop or at auction. The tatty carpet was rolled up and carted to the car, too, along with the heavy curtains that gave Bramble the creeps. Then, together, the girls stripped the bed and gave the sheets to Maria to launder.

  By about five p.m. the rooms had been emptied of virtually everything relating to their former inhabitant and all that was left to do was a thorough clean, which they set to with a vengeance. Wood and mirrors were polished to a gleam, windows washed, shelves dusted, drawers tipped out and thoroughly scrubbed. The girls even managed to push the heavy bed to one side so that Bramble could vacuum underneath.

  ‘Do you know, I might paint the walls and move my stuff in here,’ she said at last, feeling a lightness of spirit as she gazed around at the empty surfaces, the bare floorboards, the wardrobes waiting to be filled.

  But Katie wasn’t keen. ‘It’s a long way away from where we’re sleeping. I’d be scared on my own.’

  Keen to reassure her, Bramble said that they’d redecorate her room, too, and make it really cosy. ‘We can’t sleep in the same bed for ever. People might talk.’

  ‘What people? There’s no one here but us and Maria.’

  ‘Let’s have a housewarming party! It’s time we cheered the place up!’

  At this, Katie’s face brightened immediately. Bramble could guess what her friend was thinking. She was imagining Danny coming for dinner; Danny dancing with her on the terrace on a moonlit night, glass of champagne in hand; Danny following her upstairs at the end of the evening to her boudoir...

  ‘Great idea,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘The sooner, the better.’ She eyed Bramble quizzically. ‘Why don’t you invite Matt? I bet he’d come for the weekend. He might even decide he likes the place now we’ve cleaned it up a bit.’

  Bramble hesitated. It was true that he’d suggested visiting, but there again he wouldn’t get on with Piers, who wasn’t his type.


  ‘Nah,’ she said quickly. ‘Matt usually works Saturdays. It’d be difficult for him to get the time off.’

  After that, they agreed to go to the dump and then try to pick up some paint for the bedrooms on the way back if they could find anywhere open. It had stopped raining at last, and as they jumped back in the car it crossed Bramble’s mind that they weren’t going about things particularly logically, starting one job and moving on to the next before the first was remotely finished. Still, with a huge place like this it was difficult to know where to begin, and at least some progress was being made.

  For a moment, she found herself wondering if her grandfather would have approved of their efforts so far, but she dismissed the idea immediately. He’d behaved appallingly towards her grandmother and mother, and the fact that he’d kept her baby photo in his wallet didn’t mean a damned thing.

  *

  ‘Hey, Crumble, what’s up?’

  Crumble was another of Bill’s pet names for his daughter, and his pleasure at hearing her voice on the end of the line was palpable.

  Now, crashed on the end of Katie’s bed, Bramble proceeded to give a blow-by-blow account of their exhausting, action-packed day, including the trip to the refuse centre and their good fortune in finding a late-night DIY discount store on the return journey.

  ‘We got loads of paint,’ she informed him proudly. ‘All white. We wanted something nice and fresh.’

  ‘Er, emulsion?’ he asked, sounding apprehensive.

  Bramble knelt down and examined the writing on the side of one of the tins, which the girls had heaved into the bedroom, ready to start work on Lord Penrose’s room tomorrow.

  ‘Gloss,’ she replied, ‘and undercoat. We bought paintbrushes, too, and rollers.’

  ‘You can use gloss on the woodwork, love, the skirtings and doors and that, but you’ll need emulsion for the walls.’

  Bramble’s skin prickled with irritation. ‘Nobody told us.’

  ‘Um, did you ask?’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ she replied haughtily. ‘I’ve kept all the receipts. We can always swap it.’

  Wisely, he decided to let it pass.

  ‘What else is new?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Seen any of them pixies?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Pining for the bright lights and the big smoke yet?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Bill sighed. ‘I thought you’d be sick of fields and cows by now.’

  There was a rustle in the background and a clink, as if he were fiddling with something, playing for time.

  ‘Matt came over for supper last night,’ he went on finally. ‘He brought Cassie a lovely plant.’

  His fake-nonchalance didn’t fool Bramble for a second.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she replied, feigning casualness herself.

  ‘They’ve asked him to manage their main fitness centre now. It’s a big job. They must think very highly of him.’

  ‘They must,’ she repeated, surprised that Matt hadn’t told her. There again, he had been trying to get in touch...

  ‘He said he hasn’t heard from you for a few days,’ Bill persisted, as if reading her mind.

  She paused. ‘I’ve been so busy—’

  ‘Don’t keep him dangling, love. It’s not fair.’

  She bristled. First Katie, now her dad. Quite frankly, it was none of their business.

  ‘He’s the one who chose not to come, remember?’ she said.

  ‘He didn’t think you’d like it. He thought you were making a mistake.’

  ‘Well, he was wrong.’

  Bill coughed diplomatically before changing tack again, this time to Cassie’s most recent and surprising hobby – belly-dancing.

  ‘They’re doing a performance on Saturday week at the old concert hall. She’d love it if you’d come; it would really make her day.’

  Bramble shuddered. It was Cassie’s friend Sheila who’d signed the women up for a starter course some while ago, allegedly to build their core strength and improve their posture.

  ‘Anyone can do it. It doesn’t matter what size you are,’ Cassie had declared as she’d headed off to her first class in black yoga pants and a baggy white T-shirt, clutching a spangly hip scarf.

  At the time Bramble had been supportive, but she felt now that witnessing her stepmother in action might be a step too far.

  ‘I can’t...’ she started to say, remembering the miserable hours she’d spent as a child on rickety chairs in draughty church halls watching Cassie in oratorios, and later in a gospel choir. It had felt like torture then, but at least the belly had been kept well hidden.

  ‘I know it’s a long way,’ Bill wheedled, ‘but it would mean such a lot to her. She misses you something dreadful. We both do.’

  A groan rumbled at the back of Bramble’s throat. She loved both of her parents more than anything; even thinking about them made her feel guilty. And she didn’t really have an excuse, did she? She hadn’t planned on returning to London so soon, but the weekend after next was free at the moment, and it was true, it would give Cassie so much joy.

  ‘All right, I’ll come,’ she promised. ‘But I’ll have to drive back on Sunday morning. I’ve got a ridiculous amount to do here.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Bill chirped, his cup overflowing.

  It was a shame, Bramble thought, that there’d be no time for her and Matt to see each other, but then again, Cassie’s first public appearance with the Chessington Daughters of the Silk Rose Belly-dance Troupe would hardly be the occasion for a heart-to-heart.

  While her father chattered happily about how excited Cassie would be, what he’d make for supper and so on, Bramble walked over to the chest of drawers where she kept some of her clothes and pulled out the photos that she’d found in her grandfather’s room. She was a little nervous about broaching the subject, but felt that she had a right to know the truth.

  ‘Dad?’ she said tentatively, before going on to explain her discovery. ‘Am I right – is the girl in the pictures my grandmother? And how did he get the photos of my mother and me?’

  Bill cleared his throat noisily and Bramble could imagine him at the other end of the line, his whiskery grey eyebrows knitting together like a couple of caterpillars.

  ‘Look, love,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t going to tell you but...’ He sighed again. ‘I guess you’re old enough now...’

  Bramble’s heart pitter-pattered and, taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, trying to tell herself that she was a woman now, and mistress of a manor no less. The past was over and done with, but unless you could unlock its secrets, it was difficult to understand the present or look to the future.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, sounding braver than she felt. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘You see Mary, your mum, she decided to get in touch with Lord Penrose after you were born,’ Bill began.

  This was news to Bramble.

  ‘She wrote to him,’ Bill continued, ‘and sent him some photographs that Alice had given her. I guess the one of you, too.’ He hesitated, as if gathering mental strength. ‘I didn’t see what she wrote, but she received a letter back from him not long after. Just a short note it was. She wouldn’t show it to me. I – I don’t know what she did with it,’ he stammered, ‘probably threw it away.’

  There was another pause and Bramble waited expectantly.

  ‘All I do know is, it upset your mum terribly. Inconsolable she was, for days. Drinking, crying, crying, drinking. That’s all she did. From that moment her drinking got much worse than it had ever been, ten times worse. I didn’t know what to do, how to help her. It wasn’t long after that she died. I don’t believe she would’ve if it hadn’t been for him. Before that letter I could still talk to her, still get through to her just about, and she loved you...’

  There was a catch in his voice and tears pricked in Bramble’s eyes, too. She wished that she could burrow into her father’s arms, where she’d always felt so safe, because she
needed comforting right now.

  ‘Whatever was in it sent her over the edge,’ he explained, collecting himself a little. ‘I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you or make you hate your grandfather any more than you already do. He was your own flesh and blood, after all, and it didn’t seem right. But as far as I’m concerned, that man killed your mum as sure as if he’d held a knife to her chest and driven it in himself. He was wicked, inhuman. That’s why I didn’t want you to have anything to do with him or that godforsaken manor of his.’

  Bramble’s mind was racing. Her father’s account was entirely plausible, but it didn’t explain why the old earl had kept the photos in his underwear drawer. Bill, however, couldn’t help.

  ‘He was weird, twisted. Maybe it gave him satisfaction to take the pictures out and look at them and know that he’d wrecked Alice’s and Mary’s lives. Maybe that’s what kept him going all those years.’

  He made Lord Penrose sound like a monster, the devil incarnate, yet the description didn’t seem to tally with the man who’d lovingly sketched the view from his bedroom window, the vase of flowers, the cat at his feet lazily washing its paws.

  ‘I guess we’ll never know the full truth,’ Bramble said sadly, staring once more at the photos in her left hand. ‘One more thing: do you know who took the close-up of Alice laughing?’

  ‘He did,’ her father replied savagely. ‘Mary told me. With Alice’s parents’ camera. One of them servants must have taken the others. According to your mum, he asked Alice to pose for him. Like some filthy pervert...’ Bill growled. ‘The parents should never have allowed it. He was old enough to be her dad.’

  The harsh words made Bramble shiver, yet there was one thing that slightly baffled her. The liaison was undoubtedly scandalous, given the age gap, and so the story went her grandfather had seduced the defenceless Alice before abandoning her. However, the young woman in the photographs seemed quite worldly for her years – playful, almost coquettish. Had there been a bit more to the brief relationship than history would have her believe? Had they, in fact, really rather liked one another, rather than the attraction being all one-way?