The Key to Flambards

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Oh, dear. I drove Sally round to her parents, but she doesn’t know where Marcus is, and his phone’s turned off. He didn’t say where he was going, did he, when you saw him earlier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She thought he’d want to be with Jamie.’

  Grace coloured up, thinking of her stupid assumption. ‘No. I texted Jamie but he hasn’t seen him. I expect he’s gone somewhere on his own, with Flash.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘That’s another problem. Sally wants Marcus to stay with her parents too, only he can’t take the dog – they’ve got two ancient cats. And he won’t leave Flash with Adrian, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Couldn’t we look after Flash? Have him to stay with us?’

  ‘I did think of that. I suggested it to Sally. But she says he’d never settle without Marcus.’

  Grace told her about Mr Naylor turning up unexpectedly in the office, and how he’d seemed to be telling Roger off. ‘But he’s not Roger’s boss, is he?’

  ‘Not exactly. Roger works for the Flambards Trust. But Rex Naylor pulls the strings, being the main sponsor. We could have done without him turning up today, on top of everything. Just when I was skiving off. I’m sure that’s how he saw it.’

  ‘He seemed to think everyone was skiving,’ Grace said. ‘I thought he was horrible.’

  ‘Can’t say I like him, either. He’s good at putting people’s backs up. But he does get things done.’

  ‘Things that make money for him!’

  Her mother pulled a face. ‘It’s not that simple. Without his money, the Flambards Trust wouldn’t exist, and we wouldn’t be here. He’s not a person to get on the wrong side of.’

  Irina brought their food and Grace poked at it, not feeling much like eating. Everything seemed so gloomy today. At last, when they’d nearly finished, Roger came in. Both Grace and her mother looked up alertly.

  ‘Did you find him?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Yes, he was still in the workshop, just sitting there. He was gutted. Said he didn’t mean it, what happened. But, well …’

  He shook his head; Grace knew he’d have said more if she hadn’t been there.

  ‘This can’t be ignored. Or excused,’ Mum said. ‘To my mind it should be reported, but Sally just won’t. I asked if he’s ever done that before, but she said no. He’s got angry, thrown things and smashed things, but never actually hit anyone.’

  ‘Perhaps some cooling-off time is a good idea. Might make him realize how serious things are,’ Roger said. ‘At least we’re on hand, and Sally’s got her parents. They’re not on their own, either of them.’ He picked up his phone in response to a buzz. ‘Oh. Text from Ian. Marcus is over there now, and Ian says he can stay the night.’

  ‘That’s good. What about Adrian? Will he be OK on his own?’

  ‘I wanted him to come back with me, but he wouldn’t. Said he’d clear up and go on home. I’ll go and see him in the cottage when we’re finished here.’

  Roger ate his meal quickly, refused dessert and coffee and left.

  ‘Why doesn’t Sally leave Marcus’s dad for good, if he’s so awful?’ Grace asked her mother.

  Mum gave a wistful smile. ‘Because – it may seem unlikely, but she loves him.’

  Grace thought of the way Sally had looked at Adrian in the yard that time, how she’d spoken to him so tenderly. Yes.

  But how could you love a man like that?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dearest Christina

  Next morning Grace and Mum were in the office early to listen to Roger on BBC Essex.

  ‘So – tell us about the exciting things going on at Flambards,’ said the presenter, and Roger did: talking about courses for everyone, photography, dance, cookery, crafts, writing, and more. ‘The courses so far have been residential, but we’re holding open days with taster classes. I hope people will come and see for themselves – try a class, listen to live music, stay for lunch. For next year we’re planning a series on gardening, with guest speakers and demonstrations, and one-day yoga workshops.’

  Mum smiled approvingly; these were her ideas.

  ‘And we hear there’ll be a special First World War weekend?’ the presenter said. ‘You’ll be back to tell us more at the start of November – but just to give listeners an idea. You’ll be drawing on the history of Flambards itself, I gather, and some of the people who lived there?’

  When the interview ended and the presenter introduced his next music track, Mum sat back, looking pleased.

  ‘Great! Roger did well there. I’ll invite Stewart Green to the launch evening, along with local journalists, and that might get us some more coverage. Let’s hope the Trustees were listening. Especially Rex Naylor.’

  The meeting was due to start in an hour, giving time for Roger to drive back. Grace helped her mother to sort out the papers and spreadsheets and get the classroom ready. The radio thing had been good, but still – so much could change in the next couple of hours, and all she could do was wait.

  People began to drift in, and Pam trundled a trolley round from the kitchen with coffee and biscuits. She pulled a face as she passed, and Grace guessed that she knew her job here was under threat.

  Grace had pictured the Trustees as smart people in suits, sitting round a table like a Cabinet meeting, but those arriving looked so ordinary – mainly oldish, chatting to each other as they came into the hallway, some in jeans and shirts as if they’d just been gardening or walking their dogs. Could they really make such crucial decisions?

  Among them was Sushila, giving Grace a little wave and a smile as she entered. She stood out from the others, dressed in a kingfisher-blue salwar kameez and scarf in bright red making a gorgeous clash, and hair swept up elegantly. She carried a document folder, obviously wanting to look smart and organized at her first meeting. Mr Naylor parked his four-by-four at the front of the house, as he’d done yesterday, instead of using the car park like everyone else, and gave Grace a curt nod as he passed her in the entrance hall.

  Mum ushered them all into the meeting room; Roger arrived, a little out of breath, and joined them, closing the door behind him.

  Back in the office, Grace’s phone pinged: Jamie.

  Otters. Now. Come and see? Hide.

  Coming! she returned.

  She was glad of a distraction, to make things a bit more normal.

  In the woods she crept along the far side of the lake, already seeing the splash and ripple as the otters played. As silently as she could she opened the door of the hide and sidled in, sitting on the bench beside Jamie, who had his camera ready as well as his binoculars. The otter and cub were swimming, dark flat-headed shapes in shining water.

  ‘They’ve been here a while. I’ve got lots of good shots.’

  They sat and watched as the otters put on a display: dashing in and out of the shallows, shaking themselves, sliding in again to roll and twist with easy, sinuous grace. Their energy seemed boundless. When at last they had slithered away into the deep undergrowth at the far end, Jamie took a notebook and pen out of his rucksack and made a quick entry.

  ‘I saw a common hawker, earlier. Dragonfly,’ he added, in response to Grace’s blank expression. ‘And the otters. Dad told me my notes might be useful.’

  ‘Useful for what?’

  ‘If there’s a planning application to cover the field in houses and demolish half the wood.’

  His voice was bitter. Abruptly Grace felt all the joy of the wild encounter draining away. Down here it was easy to ignore the rest of the world, with its pressing need for houses, shops, children’s playgrounds, but today it was intruding.

  ‘Where’s Marcus?’

  ‘Gone out for a run, with Flash. You’ll see him later if you come over to ride. He’s staying with us for a few days.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘His face has gone technicolour, but otherwise yes. You know what happened?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘His dad – he just loses it, sometimes.’ Jam
ie puffed out his cheeks. ‘Can’t imagine my dad ever hitting me.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  He looked at her. ‘Where is your dad?’

  ‘Lives with his girlfriend in Stoke Newington. They’re having a baby soon,’ she added, remembering. Dad and Chloe hadn’t been much in her thoughts.

  Jamie scanned the lake with his binoculars again. ‘Marc thinks his mum and dad’ll get divorced.’

  ‘Does he want that?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s bad if they do. Bad if they don’t.’

  Grace was silent, thinking of the time when she’d thought her parents divorcing was the worst thing that could happen. Now – it was just the way things were.

  ‘His dad’s never been the same since he came back from Afghanistan,’ Jamie said, still scanning the water. ‘I’ve known him years – me and Marc have been friends since junior school. Adrian used to take us on camping trips and do football coaching and stuff like that. But then – out there he saw people on fire and bits of bodies on the ground and awful stuff like that. And his best friend got hit in a mortar attack and Adrian tried to save him but he died right there in front of him.’

  How could anyone forget such horrors? Grace was silent for a few moments before asking, ‘Shouldn’t he get help, then? I had therapy after my accident, more than I even wanted. There must be something for him.’

  ‘Oh, there is,’ Jamie said. ‘But he takes a tough-guy line. Nothing the matter. Nothing he can’t cope with. Only he’s getting worse, not better. You never know what sort of mood he’ll be in. And there was that time when he got confused about—’

  He stopped abruptly, holding himself tense.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When he got confused about something.’

  Grace looked at him expectantly, but he was looking closely into the reeds, adjusting the focus of his binoculars.

  ‘How do you know all that about Afghanistan?’ she asked. ‘Did Marcus tell you?’

  ‘No. Uncle Rodge did. Marcus hardly ever talks about him. Except once when he told me he’d never be good enough for his dad—’ He grabbed Grace’s arm. ‘Kingfisher! Quick! On the post behind the reed mace …’

  Grace gazed in panicky haste and saw, just in time, the vibrant turquoise of head and back, rusty orange belly, long sharp beak: impossibly exotic, it looked. Then the bird took off from its post and flew low above the water in a flash of jewelled colour, vanishing in to the density of reeds.

  ‘My first one!’ she said, and Jamie wrote the date and Kingfisher in his book. Watching, she asked, ‘Have you only just started that list?’

  ‘No – I’ve got records going back months.’ He turned the pages to show her – dates in a column, and notes in his small, meticulous handwriting. ‘Birds, insects, badgers – all my sightings are in here. The otters might count for something, and the bats. What we need is a real rarity, something to show this is a significant site for wildlife. A great-crested newt would be good. I keep looking.’

  ‘Would anyone listen?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s hard to imagine a newt or a dragonfly stopping the bulldozers, but there you go. It’d be worth a try. They’re having their meeting right now, aren’t they? Uncle Rodge was a bit wound up about it.’

  ‘You ought to be there! Showing them your photos and telling them what’s here.’

  Jamie hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Bit late now. They’re probably deciding to sell off the whole place. It’s all about money. That’s all anyone cares about. Fact.’

  ‘Some people do. But Roger and my mum are thinking of whatever they can to make a go of Flambards. Isn’t there a way of – I don’t know – putting on courses for people who’d come specially to see birds and bats and otters? Turning it into a proper nature reserve?’

  Jamie seemed in no mood to consider anything other than loss and disappointment. Grace recognized the feeling. It made a change to see someone else mired in gloom, herself the one trying to stay buoyant.

  ‘It’s not going to make much difference to you, is it?’ Jamie said. ‘You’re only here for a couple more weeks.’

  ‘Jamie!’ She was stung. ‘You know it matters! Yes, we’re going back to London – it’s not a hundred miles away, is it? Besides, I don’t want to go. Mum and I, we …’

  Belong here, she had nearly said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We, I, we love it here. But it’s not about us, is it? It’s about the place and the people. Our people, the Russells. Did Roger play you the tape? Your … what is he … great-great-grandfather, Fergus?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jamie picked up his binoculars. ‘But I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. It’s the future that’s important, not the past. Everyone’s got ancestors. We can’t expect them to be kept alive for ever. Flambards isn’t a museum.’

  ‘I know it’s not a museum! No one wants it to be.’

  Grace had talked herself into a muddle. They seemed to be disagreeing, but she wasn’t sure what about. They both wanted Flambards to be kept as it was, and especially the woods and the lake. But if Jamie wanted it all to himself, he surely couldn’t have it.

  ‘There’s got to be a way,’ she said. ‘There’s just got to be. And I hope they’re coming up with it right now.’

  All Mum would say, when Grace asked, was that the feeling of the Trustees was split, and that they’d scheduled another meeting for next week. ‘But I wasn’t there for all of it, not being one of them.’

  ‘All these meetings! Do they actually do any good?’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Your art class friend, Sushila, had some good ideas, Roger said. She’s a school governor, and she talked about running courses for schools – day courses and residential – and working with the local education authorities, London ones too. Bringing children and teenagers here for outdoor and environmental education.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very exciting.’ Grace didn’t think much of the idea of gangs of kids trooping about – she had come to think of it as her own special place, and didn’t want to share. Even though, as she’d just pointed out to Jamie, that might be the only way Flambards could be saved.

  ‘Think about it,’ her mother said. ‘You’d never been anywhere like this, had you? And now you love it. I talked to Sushila after the meeting – she’s nice, isn’t she? She was saying that lots of children who live in towns don’t get out into the countryside at all, or see wild animals and birds, or learn about trees and ecosystems. And that makes it hard for them to understand how important it is to look after the environment. She says most of the people who come to Flambards at the moment are well-off middle-aged people who can afford to do whatever they want, and that’s fine, but we could offer it to others who might not otherwise get the chance. She’s a breath of fresh air. Very persuasive.’

  Grace didn’t see Sushila at Friday’s art class. Her father – on his own, this time, as Chloe was at work – took her out to the cinema and to Frankie and Benny’s afterwards. He liked the American diner ambience, with the old film photos and music, and Grace had learned to like it too. He and Chloe were leaving next day for their Lake District holiday, and he repeated his invitation for Grace to go with them.

  ‘It’s not too late to change your mind! You could quickly pack a few things and come back with me tonight. We’re leaving early.’

  ‘Oh, but I can’t,’ she said quickly. ‘I want to be at Flambards.’

  ‘You’ll be leaving soon, though, won’t you? It’s only a couple of weeks before you move into this flat your mum’s found.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I don’t want to miss any of the time that’s left. Thanks, though.’

  Even while sitting in the cinema she’d felt her thoughts edging back to Flambards. She enjoyed the film, one that Marie-Louise had already seen and told her about, but it seemed a waste of a sunny afternoon to be sitting in stuffy darkness. Leaving for a whole week would be unthinkable, with her Flambards time dwindling fast.

  Dad drov
e her back, saying that he’d have a quick word with Grace’s mother to remind her about the holiday. They found the office empty; Mum and Roger were sitting together on the terrace bench outside the dining room in the quiet hour before the evening meal.

  It was the first time Roger and Grace’s father had met. Her mother introduced them. They shook hands and smiled and exchanged friendly remarks, but Grace had a sense that they were sizing each other up, like rivals. Mum was wearing her flowered dress, rather than her usual working clothes of jeans and top. Noticing earrings and make-up, Grace wondered why she’d made a special effort.

  ‘Are you going out somewhere?’ she asked, when Dad had left.

  ‘No – no.’ Her mother took out two pages of writing from a document folder she’d been looking through with Roger. ‘Can I show this to Grace?’

  ‘Course. Go ahead.’

  ‘Roger found this in the box of papers,’ Mum said. ‘It’s a letter Fergus wrote to Christina. And there’s a card from Christina to Fergus too.’

  The letter was written on two sheets of fine notepaper, headed Marsh House, New Year’s Day, 1921, in a flowing hand: tiny, but neat and easy to read.

  ‘My dearest Christina,’ Grace read aloud.

  ‘No, sit down and read it to yourself.’ Mum stood up, making room. ‘Back in a minute. I’m going inside to phone Sally.’

  Roger got up too, and wandered over to the rose arch, where he stood looking out over the fields. Grace settled on the bench to concentrate, holding the small script close to her face.

  My dear Christina,

  Only by telling myself that I need never send it am I finding the courage to sit down and address this letter to you.

  As I think you must be aware, I have come to regard you as a dear and treasured friend. You have done as much as anyone could to help me pick myself up from the wreckage of my life, and to begin building something worth having. You have been more than kind, and as the weeks have passed I have delighted in your company. Your laughter, your generosity and especially your willingness to acknowledge me publicly as your friend, though others flinch in disgust and turn away, have given me a hope and optimism I never expected to find again. Your example has encouraged others to follow, and to endeavour to see the man beneath the grotesque exterior.