The Key to Flambards

by Linda Newbery

  ‘So what did she tell you about the, erm, accident?’

  ‘They’d had one of their quarrels, she told me, a real shouting match. She never did say what about. Mr Mark, he goes storming out of the house and down to the stables, and he gets up on one of his horses and goes haring off. Ragtime, its name. I remember that – it was a name I liked. From what she said, he’d have gone off on a mad gallop, the mood he was in – he always rode hard, I knew that much from my grandad. There was a big gravel pit at the edge of the woods, back then – years later it was filled with water for the lake that’s there now. Mr Mark jumped the horse over a fence and right into the quarry. Broke his neck, and the poor horse’s as well.’

  A pause, and an intake of breath, then Roger’s voice said, ‘He did it deliberately, you mean? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Christina told me. She was the one who found him. When he didn’t come back she went out on her own horse, looking.’

  ‘How awful!’ Mum’s voice was barely audible.

  ‘Accidental death was the coroner’s verdict. But Mrs Christina knew it couldn’t have been an accident. Mr Mark knew his way around those fields and woods like the back of his hand – he’d been riding there all his life. He knew the quarry was there, the other side of the fence. It could only have been on purpose. But she kept all that to herself at the time. Didn’t want it known.’

  There was a pause in which both Roger and Grace’s mother started to speak, then the old lady gave a slow sigh. ‘Broke my grandad’s heart, it did. I remember he cried – for the horse, not for Mr Mark, begging your pardon. Grandad loved horses, spent his whole life looking after them, and at Flambards they always had the best. He said ever since Mr Mark was a boy, he was a tough one, a real thruster – always thought of himself, never his horse. If one went lame or broke down he’d just sell it and buy himself another. And to kill a lovely horse like that Ragtime … Grandad couldn’t bear to think about it. It was unforgivable, he said.’

  ‘Poor Christina. After all she’d gone through,’ said Roger’s voice. ‘And the son she had with Mark was killed too, in the Battle of Britain.’

  ‘I know. Robert, that was – a lovely young man. A pilot, like her first husband. Proper knocked her for six, that did, when he was shot down. Must have been like losing her William all over again. But she was tough too, in her own way – she was a Russell, remember. Picked herself up and carried on. After Mark died she lived on at Flambards with her daughter Isobel—’

  ‘My grandmother!’ Mum said.

  ‘Oh yes, you told me that. I never saw much of Isobel, Izzy they called her. By the time I went to work there she’d left to do war work and never came back. Never really a country girl, she wasn’t. So Mrs Christina was on her own again when she gave me the job. I started off as her servant, but ended up as more of a companion. She was always sprightly, right up to the end. Went out riding nearly every day, and hunting, well into her seventies. She had shares in a racehorse as well. Used to love a day at the races.’

  ‘I remember that,’ said Grace’s mother. ‘Granny Izz said she was never going to settle down to an old age of knitting in front of the television.’

  There was a pause, then Roger spoke again. ‘Christina was young when Mark died – still only in her late twenties. Was there ever any question of her marrying again?’

  ‘Not that I knew about. But late in life she had a gentleman friend she saw a lot of. And he was a gentleman – Mr Ashley-Clark, from over at Marsh House, who used to fix and sell cars.’

  ‘He was my great-grandfather!’ Roger’s voice had a smile in it.

  ‘What? Oh – yes, your name’s Clark, isn’t it? You told me. Oh, that poor lovely gentleman – he’d been a flyer, you know, as a young man, one of the first. He flew in the first war, like Mrs Christina’s first husband that got killed before his daughter – young Izzy – was even born. Very brave they must have been, them pilots. Poor Mr Ashley-Clark – half his face was burned away. Terrible. I remember when I was a little girl, us children in the village used to scream when we saw him and run off – it was mean of us, treating him like a monster, but we were just kids who didn’t know any better. Then later he had work done and didn’t look quite as bad, at least not like before. And in spite of everything, he got married and had a son. But you don’t need me to tell you that’ – another laugh – ‘cos here’s you, sat here large as life, to prove it.’

  ‘That’s right! His son was my grandfather.’

  ‘Mr Ashley-Clark and his wife Helen were very friendly with Mrs Christina for years and years. And then he was widowed. When would it be now? Let me see … in the sixties, it would have been, that year there was a man on the moon …’

  ‘1969.’

  ‘That’s it. And after, it was natural the two of them liked spending time together. They’d see each other most days.’

  ‘I wonder they didn’t marry,’ Mum’s voice said, and Grace guessed she was thinking of Fergus’s unsent letter. ‘Still, it’s nice to know.’

  Other voices came in then, a loud cheerful one asking if they all wanted tea, and someone else wanting the television on.

  ‘One more thing, though.’ Mrs Wright’s voice became confidential. ‘Her first husband, Will. The flyer. She told me once – an anniversary, I think it was – he was the love of her life. She’d never have wanted anyone else if he’d lived.’

  The recording ended there with thanks and exclamations from Roger and Mum. Roger sat cradling his phone as if in wonder at what it contained. He, Grace and her mother looked at each other in the sudden silence, absorbing what they’d heard.

  ‘Oh, but there must be more!’ Grace said after a few moments. ‘I want to know everything. Christina must have told her lots of things about Will, and about Flambards. We’ve got to get it all before she – you know. While she’s still around. While she still remembers.’

  ‘I know. She was getting tired, but she said afterwards we could go again. But – there’s so much there to be going on with!’

  There was. Roger went over to the office for his family tree folder, and he and Mum sat at the table making their diagram, listening to the recording again, pausing to make notes. Grace went downstairs and out into the yard.

  A few of the guests were coming or going from the stable bedrooms, heading for their evening session over in the house; a three-quarter moon was visible through the trees beyond the cottages, even though it was still daylight.

  When she thought herself back into the past, Grace saw the younger Christina on a horse, or with Will. But now it was Mark she was thinking of – Mark with his terrible temper, Mark who looked just like Adrian, Mark who had stormed down here in a rage and had a horse saddled and galloped off, hunting himself to his own death. Killing a beautiful horse along with him.

  What had he been thinking?

  Trying to picture Mark, it was Adrian’s face she saw, clenched in anger; Adrian’s destructive energy, that could lash out or just as quickly turn inwards.

  Mark had come down here hot and blazing from a row with Christina. What had they quarrelled about? Did Christina blame herself when he didn’t come back, or was she in a fury too, leaving him to burn out his rage in a wild gallop? But then she’d gone out searching; she was the one who found him. Grace saw Christina riding up to the edge of the quarry, looking down at the smashed bodies of horse and rider, knowing at once what had happened – that Mark had chosen this rather than carry on living with his wrecked body. She pictured the horse, catching its rider’s urgency – leaping out into space, realizing too late that there was no safe landing, crashing …

  Christina would have known that, would have understood how it happened.

  Now there was Adrian, in a direct line. And Marcus. They were family, sort of. It gave her and Marcus an extra bond.

  Grace thought of Sally, loving Adrian but hating his violence, and Marcus, drawn into himself: the family split three ways, seeing no end to their unhappiness
. New generations at Flambards. People hurting each other, as it seemed they always had.

  In spite of thinking about the long-ago tragedy she realized that she was hungry; her mother and Roger seemed so absorbed as to have forgotten about food. She went indoors to look for something to eat.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Missing

  ‘Roger’s been thinking about the readings for the Armistice weekend,’ said Grace’s mother. ‘Poems, extracts. He wondered if you’d like to do one?’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  They were having breakfast in the flat. The dreaded day had come; this morning the Trustees would decide the fate of Flambards. Mum’s folder and laptop were ready on the table, she had put on make-up and earrings and her smart jacket hung over the back of a chair, but she was chatting about anything other than the meeting as if to put off the decision that would be made today.

  She passed Grace a slice of toast. ‘He thought it would be good to have young voices. And you read well.’

  ‘What would I read?’

  ‘We thought a piece by Vera Brittain. She wrote a wonderful book about the First World War, Testament of Youth. A memoir. You should read it some day. Roger’s going to ask Marcus as well. Jamie too, only Roger thinks he’ll need more persuading.’

  ‘Well, he’s doing his talk today. And that’s really important. After that, how hard can it be just to read out a poem?’

  Grace was pleased with her own small contribution to the meeting. To both Roger and Sushila, separately, she had put the idea of Jamie speaking to the Trustees about the wildlife of the wood and lake, and showing them his photographs. He was now an agenda item, which had daunted him at first. ‘But I hate talking in front of people! I never do in lessons, if I can help it.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Grace had told him. ‘Which would you rather – have your say, or wait for them to make up their minds without you, then wish you’d done it when you had the chance? Besides, if you want to be a wildlife presenter like Chris Packham, you’ll have to get used to it, won’t you?’

  Now she felt anxious for him, butterflies in her own stomach as if she was the one preparing to talk.

  Her mother poured coffee. ‘Shall I tell Roger that’s a yes, then, about the reading?’

  ‘OK then.’

  When Mum headed over to the house, Grace was at a loss to know what to do with herself. In just a couple of hours, plans for the special weekend might seem pointless. Would it still happen? And if it did, would she even want to be here? So much could happen between now and November. She and Mum would have to drive up from London, probably not even staying overnight. It might be a time to mourn their own losses, rather than those of a hundred years ago.

  She didn’t want to think of being back in London. Soon they’d pack their things; the pink-bedroomed flat awaited them, though Mum hadn’t said exactly when. Perhaps she too wanted to put it out of her mind now that she was so involved here – with Sally and with Roger, as well as with her work.

  Heavy with gloom, Grace went outside. This was getting to be a habit: another meeting, and a helpless wait while people argued and made decisions. Except that Jamie was involved this time. The sky was grey, the air cool, hinting at autumn; the potted geraniums in the yard scattered their petals to the ground like scarlet tears.

  Today her ghosts were absent: she had no sense of Christina or Will being close. Bad sign, she wondered? Had they already fled, sensing change? Instead she heard the slam of car doors and calls of greetings as the Trustees arrived and made their way to the house. It was all down to them. Mr Naylor wasn’t among them and she supposed that as usual he’d parked outside the porch, as if he found it too much effort to walk from the car park.

  As she passed the meeting room she saw Jamie inside, with Roger. On the screen was the title picture she’d helped him choose: one of his photos of the otter and cub, with the heading Wildlife at Flambards.

  Good luck, she texted, though he was no doubt too busy to look. You tell them!

  Knowing that he’d give his presentation and then leave, she waited in the office, helping Irina, while the meeting began. Her ears were tuned for footsteps in the corridor and as soon as she heard them she hurried out, intercepting Jamie on his way to the door.

  ‘How did it go?’

  He pulled a wry face. ‘OK. Ish. Hard to tell. Some of them asked questions, but old man Naylor didn’t say a word. Just wrote down a few notes. Come down to the lake? I can’t face hanging around here. Skye said she was coming over too. I’ll text her to say we’re on our way.’

  They walked across the meadow, meeting Skye on the path through the woods; she had run over from Marsh House. They settled themselves in the hide and Jamie took out his notebook. Skye hadn’t yet seen the otters and was disappointed that they were nowhere in sight. She was usually so cheerful, a good person – Grace thought – to have around, but with little to see from the hide today she was soon bored.

  ‘I think I’ll run some more. See you later.’

  Grace watched her jogging along the side of the lake, envious of her strong legs and easy stride, wishing she could go too. It could have been so different, meeting someone fit and athletic like Skye, matching her energy. If only … That useless, pointless if only – it still teased her with its jibes and reminders. No amount of dreaming could make It unhappen. Would she ever stop wishing?

  Jamie looked downcast: whether because of the meeting, or because Skye had so quickly tired of his birdwatching, Grace couldn’t tell. The lake was listless, with little to ruffle the grey surface other than a solitary coot that gave its loud prrruk and disappeared into the reeds.

  He huffed, wrote Coot 1 and the date in his notebook, then slammed it shut. ‘This is pointless. Might as well give up.’

  Giving up wasn’t a good omen. Nothing was.

  ‘Marc’s on a real downer,’ he said abruptly. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Not since we went riding yesterday. He was quiet, but seemed OK.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what’ll happen about his dad. He’s clammed right up.’

  ‘And he’s still at yours? He can’t stay for ever, can he?’

  ‘Mum and Dad don’t mind. There’s room, as long as he wants, now Uncle Rodge has moved out. But his mum wants them to be together. He sees her every day at Flambards, but it’ll be different when school starts. I s’pose if Adrian’s cleared off for good, Sally and Marc can go back to the cottage.’

  ‘Do you think he has cleared off, then?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Might be best if he did. I can’t see how things’ll work out otherwise, not since he went for Flash. Marc might get over being hit in the face, but attacking Flash – that’s something else. Fact.’ He lowered the flap, and the hide was instantly dark, just a crack of light showing through. ‘I’m going home. Catch you later if you come over to ride. Uncle Rodge says he’ll text me when the meeting’s finished.’

  Grace looked at her watch; it wouldn’t be over yet. They parted at the wood’s edge and she walked slowly back to Flambards, where she saw, to her surprise, that Adrian’s white van was parked outside the cottage. Had he returned last night?

  Her mother might know, from Sally. She went on past the side of the house and the meeting room, trying not to stare in too obviously. The Trustees were seated round a table with papers spread in front of them, and Sushila – in purple and green today – was talking earnestly, with many gestures. And everyone seemed to be listening to her intently, so that at least looked hopeful.

  She found her mother in the office; she had made her presentation with Roger, then withdrawn, like last time.

  ‘Mum? How was it?’

  Her mother made a so-so face. ‘OK, as far as I could tell. They’ll be a while yet. Jamie’s bit was good – he had some great photos, and he knows such a lot. D’you want to help for a bit?’

  Grace read names from lists, while her mother double-checked bookings for the next few courses – none of them full, she noticed
. The office door was open, and all was quiet. When Irina brought coffee her footsteps were loud on the tiles of the hall floor.

  At last they heard voices, and people coming along the corridor. Grace listened alertly. The volume of sound – several people talking at once, even someone laughing – must surely be promising?

  Grace’s mother stood up, and at that moment Roger strode in.

  ‘We did it, Polly – we did it!’

  ‘Oh!’

  He threw his arms around her in a bear hug, lifting her right off her feet; then he noticed Grace was there and swept her into the hug as well.

  Almost too squashed to speak, she managed, ‘You mean Flambards is safe?’

  Letting go, they all stood back and looked at each other a little giddily.

  ‘For at least two years, yes,’ Roger said. ‘And there’ll be no sale, no building. Oh, it’s the best we could have hoped for!’

  Grace sagged with relief, thinking of Jamie, the otters, the bats. The Trustees were filtering through the hall on their way out, some of them looking in at the office door. ‘Well done, Roger!’

  ‘Polly too! So pleased.’

  ‘It’s the right thing for Flambards, I know it is.’

  ‘Sushila!’ Roger said, seeing her behind the others. ‘Come in for a minute. It was Sushila’s ideas for involving school groups that swung it,’ he told Grace and her mother. ‘She was brilliant. No one could have resisted.’

  Sushila smiled modestly. ‘Well, one or two of them did try. But I’m so glad everyone else was in favour. Outdoor and environmental education is so important. And Jamie showed us all what a really good site this is for wildlife. Well done him! And you, Grace, telling me about the otters and the birds – that started me thinking this way, so you can take some of the credit.’