The Key to Flambards

by Linda Newbery

  She sipped the light fruity drink and listened to the grown-ups talking. Jamie’s parents, she gathered, were teachers at the local comprehensive school, which both Marcus and Jamie attended; Charlie too, in the sixth form. Gail taught geography there, while Ian was head of art. He said that he’d be over at Flambards each Friday from now until the end of the school holidays, to teach a weekly class.

  ‘Art is Grace’s favourite subject,’ Mum told him. ‘She’s really quite talented.’

  ‘I’m really not.’ Grace heard how sulky her voice sounded. PE’s my favourite subject, Mum, she was thinking. Used to be. And she wished her mother wouldn’t do that: praising her, making her sound special. ‘I like art, but that’s mainly cos I’m not much good at anything else.’

  Ian and Gail both laughed, obviously thinking she was being modest.

  ‘If you’re at a loose end you’re welcome to come and join us this Friday,’ Ian said. ‘Ten o’clock, two hours, with a break in the middle.’

  The coming week would be a quiet one at Flambards, Roger was saying: a course on local architecture had been cancelled because of low numbers. That didn’t sound good; Grace saw her mother’s grimace.

  ‘Crime writing next weekend,’ Roger went on. ‘We’ll be inundated by people talking about poisons and asking about the best way to dispose of a dead body.’

  Gail laughed, and said, ‘It’s never dull, is it? All these people coming and going with their different interests and obsessions.’

  ‘You said your family’s owned this house for a few generations?’ Grace’s mother asked Roger.

  ‘Yes, from the 1920s. Before that it was owned by an interesting character called Dermot who was keen on flying, like your Will.’ For the benefit of Ian and Gail, he added, ‘William Russell, that is – Polly’s great-grandfather. Dermot had that barn built’ – he nodded towards it – ‘to house a light aircraft he was making. Eventually he killed himself flying it. Out there in the fields.’

  Mum looked astonished. ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘It was in the local paper – I came across it in the archives in Colchester. 1913. I made a copy – I can show you. He must have been a bit old for capers like that. But very brave. It was a risky business.’

  ‘So there was quite a bit of flying going on around here at that time,’ Mum said. ‘I wonder if Will and this Mr Dermot knew each other? Otherwise it’d be an odd coincidence for two amateur pilots to live just a couple of miles apart.’

  ‘I don’t know of any airfields close to here, but it might have been different back then,’ Ian said. ‘Exciting times! I gather there was quite a craze in the early years of the twentieth century, for flying the Channel and looping the loop and suchlike.’

  ‘There was a film, Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines,’ Gail said. ‘I remember seeing it as a child. Men with handlebar moustaches and women in floaty dresses, all very dashing.’

  A movement beyond the garden, in the orchard where Plum was grazing, caught Grace’s attention. Charlie led Sirius through the open gate from the stable, patted his neck and released him. The horse walked on, head lowered, then all his legs seemed to buckle and next moment he was rolling on his back, hooves waving in the air.

  ‘Oh!’ Grace was alarmed, thinking he must be ill.

  Gail turned to look. ‘It’s all right – he always does that when he’s pleased to have his saddle off and be out in the field. He loves it.’

  With a snort, the horse finished rolling and sat up like a dog for a moment with forelegs braced before lurching to his feet and giving himself a vigorous shake that sent dust flying. Then he walked slowly over to join Plum, pausing to snatch a mouthful of grass. Beside him, Plum looked small and rather tubby. Charlie walked up through the garden to join the group there, and at the same moment Jamie came out of the house.

  Introductions were made; while Jamie fiddled with the barbecue Charlie said she was going indoors for a quick wash, and reappeared a few minutes later, helping herself to punch. Smiling briefly at Grace she settled herself in the chair next to Mum, who asked about her horse.

  ‘He looks beautiful. Roger says you’re getting him fit for competitions?’

  ‘Yes, for a couple of events in October. And for hunting, as soon as it starts in the autumn.’

  ‘Oh! I didn’t realize there was still hunting round here.’

  ‘Well, course,’ Charlie said in her don’t-you-know-anything way. ‘It’s part of country life.’

  ‘I thought it was against the law now?’

  ‘No. We don’t do anything illegal. We follow a trail, not a fox.’

  ‘So it’s not fox-hunting, then?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Well, sometimes hounds pick up the scent of a fox. It’s hard to stop them. Either way, hunting’s brilliant fun. Sirius loves it.’

  ‘But if they …’

  Grace stopped there on receiving a look from her mother that said best keep quiet.

  ‘It’s kind of you to let Grace ride your pony,’ Mum said, and Grace added, ‘Yes – thank you! She’s lovely.’

  She knew that she should have thanked Charlie without being prompted. Yes, Charlie had been obnoxious the first time they met, but learning to ride Plum was the best thing that had happened since she’d arrived at Flambards. Still, that was down to Jamie, not his sister. From what Jamie said, Charlie was merely letting her ride a pony she had no use for.

  Charlie smiled. ‘Good old Plum. Sounds like you weren’t too bad, considering.’

  Considering! Grace bristled at that, but Charlie added, ‘Considering you’d never been on a horse before. Jamie said you did really well.’

  ‘Did he?’ That was better. ‘But I haven’t done much yet.’

  ‘Sometimes you can tell though, straight away. Some people look all wrong in the saddle, and you know they’ll never be any good. Others have a feel for it – the way they sit, the way they respond to the horse. Marcus is like that.’

  ‘Marcus? Does he ride too?’

  ‘Only now and then. It’s a waste. Jamie only sees horses as transport when he wants it, but Marcus is a natural.’ A pause, then as if regretting being so generous, Charlie added, ‘Jamie’s no expert. I’ll give you a lesson myself when you’ve done a bit more. Then we’ll see.’

  With a whisking rush of black and white, Flash the collie was among them, whuffing and smiling as he dashed from one person to another.

  ‘Ah, here they are,’ Gail said, and everyone looked round as Marcus and his mother, Sally, approached. There was something hesitant in Sally’s smile, and Marcus was looking at no one.

  Ian got to his feet. ‘Oh – what, no Adrian?’

  ‘He couldn’t make it after all,’ Sally said, with a brightness that surely everyone could see was fake. Marcus, after a brief and reluctant look at the group, gave his attention to Flash, calling him to heel, telling him to sit.

  Grace guessed from the briskness of Gail and Ian’s response – ‘Sit down, anyway, and relax. Let me get you a drink’ – that this wasn’t altogether unexpected. Otherwise, surely, they’d have been all concern: ‘Oh dear, what a shame – is he ill?’ But no one was asking any questions at all. And she had caught Charlie’s reaction: upward eye roll, smirky smile. No surprise there, either.

  Sally sat next to Mum and started talking quickly about the weather and the garden. Marcus took a can of Coke from Gail and sprawled on the grass beside Jamie; Grace saw them exchange a few muttered remarks, then Marcus flipped open the can and they sat in silence.

  Jamie seemed different here, Grace thought. Apart from a quick ‘hi’ he’d barely looked in her direction. After a while the two boys got up and went down to the bottom of the garden, where the grass was left rough and unmown, and began kicking a football to each other. Roger had gone indoors to find the newspaper cutting for Grace’s mother, who was deep in conversation with Sally. Charlie was looking at her iPhone (Mum would have frowned at Grace if she did that in company), while Ian and Gail lit t
he barbecue and lined up sausages and chicken pieces on the grill.

  Grace went down to the orchard fence, past the boys, to look at the horses. They were grazing side by side now, and the air was so still that she could hear them steadily tearing grass with their teeth. Jamie and Marcus occasionally called to each other, and she heard Jamie laugh. Before, she’d have wanted to join in; she used to love playing football. But now her leg made her awkward and clumsy, and she could tell that the boys didn’t want her with them. She watched them unnoticed, taking in their different styles. Jamie was playful, making little dribbling runs and jinks and feints; Marcus played with more serious purpose, every now and then giving the ball a powerful kick that sent it smashing into the hedge past Jamie’s flailing arms.

  Marcus is good looking but quite rude, she would text to Marie-Louise later. Wish you could be here. What are you doing?

  There was something wondrous about the summer dusk: the sky in the west turning a hazy pink, then a colder blue as darkness crept over the fields and trees. Lights were appearing in the garden – candles, lanterns, the glow of the barbecue coals – and she smelled the drift of lighter fuel and smoke and, soon, of slightly charred meat. The stars slowly revealed themselves in patterns and individual dots of light. The familiar shape of the Plough was tilted over to one side, the Pole Star glittering remote and high. They were there all the time, Grace realized; but why should that feel surprising? Of course they were, the same stars that had shone through the centuries of people on Earth and long, long before that. It was dizzying to think like that, making herself and her feelings completely unimportant.

  She had seen beautiful sunsets and starry nights in London, the sky streaked brilliant gold as the sun dropped below houses and flats, but there the expanse was chopped up by high buildings, the stars outshone by fluorescent lights. Here she imagined she could feel the land breathing, and creatures stirring. Down beyond the orchard she heard a harsh cry, and she saw Jamie stop in mid-dribble to listen. An owl, was it? If you lived here it would be easy to be interested in wildlife.

  ‘Food’s ready,’ Gail called. ‘Come on, you lot.’

  You lot. She was trying to include Grace with the boys, even if they weren’t.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Grace asked. ‘Marcus’s dad not coming, and everyone not talking about it? Did Sally tell you?’

  They were back in the flat, turning on lamps, about to get ready for bed.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult,’ Mum said carefully. ‘He’s apparently a bit difficult. Well, more than a bit. Moody.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Difficult seemed to be what everyone said about Marcus’s father. Grace waited for more, and after a moment Mum provided it.

  ‘He used to be in the Army, till he was invalided out. He was in Afghanistan, in a tank regiment. This was a few years ago now, but Sally says he hasn’t been the same since. And he won’t accept help. Won’t even admit there’s anything wrong. Typical man,’ Mum said with fervour, making Grace think of Dad, and the arguments he and Mum used to have while she strained her ears from her bedroom and pretended not to know or care.

  ‘So now he’s a farmer?’

  ‘No – but he works over there, at Home Farm. He rents a couple of farm units, his workshop. He’s a carpenter. He makes doors.’

  ‘Doors? Is that all?’

  ‘Well, he can make other things too, I expect. But mainly doors. He made all the doors here, Sally said, for the conversion. He made those stable doors in the yard that open in two halves.’

  Grace had never thought of doors being specially made. She thought doors were just there.

  ‘And Sally thinks it’s not good for him to spend so much time alone, in his workshop. But Adrian won’t listen to her. Or to anyone else.’

  ‘But Marcus works with him, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, in the school holidays. And Sally worries about him too. He broods, takes it all to heart. She’s so glad he’s friends with Jamie. Jamie’s such a good-natured boy, isn’t he?’

  Grace began to understand. Yes, Jamie was kind enough to spend time with her, and to be friendly whenever they were together. But Marcus came first. Marcus needed him, it seemed.

  ‘Have you even met him?’ she asked. ‘The dad?’

  ‘Only to say hello, in the yard the other day.’ Mum hesitated. ‘I was wondering whether to invite them for a meal with us, in the flat. I’d like to get to know Sally better.’

  ‘All of them? Marcus too?’

  ‘Yes, course.’

  ‘Mu-um.’ Grace was dismayed. Mum wasn’t much good at cooking; she was unsure of herself and easily flustered. Grace foresaw disasters, apologies and awkward silences. ‘That’s a seriously bad idea. Why would you want to invite two really grumpy people?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Something Wrong, Something Bad

  ‘Oh, sorry!’

  Opening the door at the bottom of the Hayloft stairs, Grace had almost collided with a man walking fast down the yard.

  Adrian.

  Always in a hurry, the taxi driver had said. He had been, but now he’d swerved and stopped dead, his eyes fixed on her face. He seemed to do a double take, and stared again before looking away, turning his head with a deliberate effort as if it pained him.

  Close up for the first time, she saw the strong resemblance to Marcus. Adrian was a more worn and weathered version, with the same crisply curling black hair, dark eyes and strongly marked eyebrows as his son. And the same air of being intensely preoccupied.

  He didn’t so much speak as gather words together in his throat and force them out.

  ‘Uh. Huh. You all right there?’

  ‘Yes. Er – thanks.’

  And that was the limit of their conversation. He stared at her for a moment longer, nodded as if something was understood, and turned away, walking on towards the field gate. Grace stood for a moment, puzzled, gazing after him. What had he seen that made him react with that look of fascinated horror? She turned her head in case he’d been staring past her at something else, but there was only the empty stairway.

  From what she’d heard of him from Jamie and her mother, she’d been imagining Marcus’s father as some kind of ogre: brutish, bad-tempered, demanding. Instead, what she’d glimpsed in him just now looked more like dismay. But he’s an ex-soldier, she thought, a fighter, and I’m just a girl.

  He saw something wrong when he looked at me. Something bad.

  But that was just stupid! How could he have? She walked slowly towards the house, trying to push the troubling thought away.

  Later, in the cool, long-shadowed evening, Roger walked with Grace and her mother down to the village churchyard to find their Russell relations.

  On the way, they passed a big signboard facing the road from a grass meadow where cows were grazing. The notice said: NAYLOR HOMES – Coming soon, COWSLIP CLOSE – an exclusive development of three- and four-bedroom houses, with website details and a red logo.

  ‘Naylor Homes!’ exclaimed Grace’s mother. ‘That’s—’

  ‘Rex Naylor. Yes,’ said Roger.

  ‘Cowslip Close! It’s a bit twee.’

  ‘I know. Let’s hope some of the cowslips survive the diggers.’

  ‘The other day,’ Grace reminded her, ‘you said people have got to live somewhere.’

  ‘I know. But it does seem awful, building on green fields. And exclusive development – that’s not exactly the affordable housing that’s most needed.’

  The church was behind a row of cottages. It had a squat bell tower where jackdaws gathered, clacking. A blackbird sang from the yew tree, leaning and gnarled, that dominated the graveyard. This tree was hundreds of years old, Roger said, like many churchyard yews.

  ‘Here they are.’ He stopped by a row of gravestones in mown grass.

  Mark William Russell, 1894–1925. The carved name was encrusted with yellow lichen, but still legible. Grace’s eyes went straight to the inscription below, in sharper, mo
re recent letters: and his beloved wife, Christina Mary, 1896–1985.

  Here she was. Christina.

  But not here. Grace thought of her as the lively girl back at Flambards, not as someone who’d lain here dead for – wait – thirty-three years. She couldn’t think of her as a beloved wife, either – especially not as Mark’s beloved wife. Christina had been William’s wife first, and that mattered more to Grace because Will was theirs. Direct family. If Christina and Will hadn’t got married and had a baby, neither Grace nor her mother would exist.

  Grace had seen old-lady photographs of Christina in colour, but much preferred the lovely girl of the older black-and-white images: the bold rider, the Channel flyer. The girl who had learned to ride at Flambards, who had ridden through these same fields and woods. Christina would have looked up at the same stars and moon, and listened to the song of birds that might be the ancestors of the birds that lived and bred here now.

  Again, Grace had that sense of the long line of Russells, their loves and desires and pairings leading to her own self, the simple fact that she was standing here like a marker-post between past and future. The generations marched back, back, back, while in the other direction all the possibilities of the future reached out, spinning off beyond imagining.

  ‘So, Gracey,’ Mum said, ‘Christina’s husband, Mark, is your great-great-uncle.’

  That made him sound ancient. William and Christina were nearer to her own age, she thought, knowing that was a stupid thing to think. She thought of them standing together in the photograph, gazing back at her with confident smiles as if they expected the future to hold nothing but good. They didn’t know then that the war was coming, or that it would so soon take Will’s life.

  ‘But what about our William?’ her mother was asking. ‘He’s not here, is he?’

  ‘No, Polly. Will’s grave is in France,’ Roger said. ‘I found it on the Commonwealth War Graves website. But his name’s here on the war memorial.’