The Peacock Summer

by Hannah Richell

  Since then, Maggie has noticed traces of him about the place: a wheelbarrow of weeds standing by the overgrown borders below the terrace; the sound of leaves being raked in the old courtyard, the distant sight of him perched up a ladder in front of one of the old barns; and every day she’s found reasons to avoid him.

  She can’t deny Will is working hard and while she has no doubt his efforts about the place are not only valuable but also, in most cases, absolutely essential, her conversation with Harry has only served to increase her worry. She knows they need to have a conversation.

  She follows the scent of smoke until she comes upon him at the bottom of the arboretum near the giant monkey-puzzle tree, shovelling last winter’s debris onto a bonfire. His dark, unruly hair is a little longer than she remembers, his frame a little leaner. He is so distracted by his work he doesn’t notice her until she clears her throat loudly. He stops shovelling and steps back from the fire, shaking his hair from his face and eyeing her through the rising smoke. ‘You’re back then?’ he asks. His words sound more like a challenge than a question.

  ‘Yes. I came home as soon as I heard about Lillian.’ She forces herself to hold his gaze. ‘You didn’t think I’d stay away, did you?’

  ‘After last year, I don’t think any of us knew quite what you’d do.’

  A damp branch spits in the fire. She is the first to drop her gaze, scuffing at the grass with the toe of her shoe, annoyed to feel the blood rising in her cheeks. ‘Thanks for helping Lillian out,’ she says, ignoring the barb and trying a more conciliatory approach.

  He shrugs. ‘I was between jobs and Lillian asked if I’d take over for a few weeks and . . . here I am. There’s a lot to do,’ he adds.

  ‘Yes. I’m only just beginning to realise how much. God knows the place could do with a little TLC.’ She smiles at him but he remains blank-faced, staring at her across the smoking pile with expressionless blue eyes.

  ‘How is she doing?’ he asks after a moment, adjusting the spade slightly to lean his weight on it.

  ‘Much better. They’re releasing her later today.’

  ‘That’s good. Where to?’

  Maggie sighs. First Jane. Now Will. ‘She’s coming home, of course,’ she explains patiently. ‘To Cloudesley.’

  ‘You think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Yes, of course it’s a good idea. It’s the only place she wants to be.’

  Will frowns. ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I’ve been a little worried for her. This place . . . it’s a lot to manage on her own. Surely you can see for yourself how it’s starting to crumble around her?’

  ‘But she’s not on her own. She’s got Jane . . . and you.’ She takes a breath. ‘And now she’s got me, too. I’m going to look after her.’

  ‘You are?’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘OK. Wow.’ He picks up the spade again and tosses another heap of leaves onto the bonfire between them. Sparks crackle and fly into the air.

  Maggie feels another surge of annoyance. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Wow?’

  He looks as though he wants to say something but then stops himself. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, go on. Don’t hold back. Say what you were going to say.’

  They face off under the trees, smoke billowing up into the air, both of them bristling with tension. She knows what he’s thinking. She knows he doesn’t think she can do it . . . that she doesn’t have it in her to commit to this responsibility, nor the staying power to remain at Cloudesley for Lillian. But he just holds her gaze, shifting the spade in his hands, and suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly, she finds herself speaking again, blurting the one question she knows she has no right to ask. ‘How’s Gus?’

  Will eyes her coldly, then looks away to a space somewhere just above her head. ‘He’s fine. Actually, he’s great.’

  She nods. ‘Is he back here too?’

  ‘No. He’s still in London.’ With a sudden sigh Will seems to sag, resting his weight onto the spade, running a hand over his brow, his fingers leaving black soot streaks on his temple. ‘What a massive fuck-up, Maggie.’

  She hesitates, unsure if he’s talking about Lillian’s decline, or the state of Cloudesley, or what happened last year between her and Gus. Perhaps he’s just giving a general character statement about Maggie. In any case, she supposes it’s an accurate summation. ‘Yes,’ she agrees, feeling overwhelmingly exhausted, ‘a massive fuck-up.’

  The wind sends another gust of smoke spiralling between them. When it clears she finds Will is still staring at her with that dark, inscrutable look. Unable to look away, she feels a deep ache of longing, a sudden, desperate urge to close the gap – to walk around the fire and hug him. She wants to ask him how it came to this, how all those years of friendship could just dry up, count for nothing, go up in smoke like the dead wood and mulch burning in front of them. But Will doesn’t seem to want to hang around talking about the past. He doesn’t seem to want to spend a moment longer in her presence. He lifts the spade again and makes to shovel another pile of leaves onto the bonfire. ‘I can’t stand here chatting all day,’ he says brusquely. ‘Things to do.’

  Maggie starts talking, before he can turn away. ‘I know Gran’s behind on the wages she owes you. I’ve spoken to Harry Granger and I’m planning to get everything sorted. You won’t be out of pocket for much longer.’

  Will nods but he doesn’t look at her, just tosses another heap of cuttings onto the smoking bonfire. ‘OK.’

  ‘And I’m sure Lillian would love to see you, when she’s settled back in,’ she adds through the billowing smoke.

  ‘Sure.’ He still won’t look at her and feeling the full force of his judgement, she throws her hands up in defeat and turns to leave. There is nothing more she can say.

  Trudging back through the arboretum, her mind skips over their conversation. Gus. He said Gus was fine. No. Better than fine. He said he was ‘great’. She gently tests how she feels. Relieved? Disappointed? Ashamed? Yes, it’s still there: that deep, burning shame she carries right at her core. The mistakes she made last year – the way she handled things – she knows she was in the wrong.

  Will hadn’t asked where she’d been all this time. She supposes he doesn’t care enough to ask. And why should he? She let Gus down badly. Of course he is going to play the protective older brother. She just wishes she knew of a way she could make it right.

  The western side of the house appears through the trees. She doesn’t approach Cloudesley from this direction often and at this angle it’s all jutting chimneys, crumbling stonework and unruly vines. Closer still and she can see the boarded-up windows of the separate wing, the curved, single-storey turret room with its crenellated roof. Virtually hidden from view behind the overgrown creepers, it’s the part of the house she doesn’t know; the part she has never stepped inside, not in all the years she has lived there. The door leading into the west wing had never been unlocked. Never go in there, Maggie, her grandfather had told her in his sternest voice. It’s not safe.

  Thoughts of collapsing walls and roof beams meant she had obeyed him, for the most part. Just the one time she’d attempted entry, inspired by a childhood story, bending one of her grandmother’s hair pins and twisting it hopefully in the old lock until her grandfather had come upon her, silently wheeling up behind her and roaring so loudly she’d fallen back onto the floor, snapping the end of the pin in the lock.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he had shouted in his strange, slurring voice, wheeling his chair close enough to grab her by the arm with a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Get away from there!’

  She had never seen him so angry, his face turning an alarming scarlet. ‘I just wanted . . . I wanted to know what was inside.’ She’d held her arm, rubbing at the red marks where he had held her, blinking back tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Snooping. That’s what you were doing. You mind your own business, young lady. There’s nothing for you behind that door. There’s nothing for anyone i
n there.’

  The next day she’d found a heavy tapestry had been nailed across the door in the hall leading to the wing, obscuring it completely from view. Charles must have requested it be done overnight. Soon, it was as though that part of the house had never existed. She’d forced all thoughts of the abandoned rooms from her mind – preferring to forget the altercation with her grandfather – and had never attempted entry again. The house and gardens had plenty of other corners and curiosities to satisfy an inquisitive mind.

  Thinking of the locked door and realising that the whole house stands empty, Maggie feels the first thrill of an idea. Who is to stop her now?

  She makes for the entrance hall and stands looking at the tapestry hanging exactly as it always has over the door. Only, the more she studies it, the more she realises that something is amiss. She bends to examine the lowest corner and reaches out with her fingers. It is heavy and coated in a layer of dust, but peels away from the wall easily. ‘Huh,’ she says to the empty room.

  She’s not sure who would have pulled the tacks out of the tapestry, leaving it open on two sides, or why they might have done so, but now that she’s standing there alone in the hall, there seems to be no valid reason not to satisfy her curiosity. She pulls the tapestry back a little further and reveals the old wooden door behind; the same one she’d tried to prise open all those years ago.

  She reaches out, feeling both a sense of daring and a tremor of fear – half-expecting to hear the booming voice of her grandfather at any moment as her hand tries the handle. It rattles beneath her fingers but will not turn. The door is still locked and she doesn’t have the key.

  Disappointed and perhaps a tiny bit relieved, she drops the tapestry back over the door. Her grandfather’s words echo in her mind: There’s nothing for you behind that door. He’s right. She’s already got more than enough on her plate – more crumbling house and maintenance than she can handle. She needs to focus on the job at hand: Lillian and the house. Mentally, she rolls up her sleeves and steels herself for what’s ahead. There’s just enough time to put the finishing touches to Lillian’s room. She needs to stop getting distracted by Will and silly childhood memories and focus on the real issues.

  Chapter 6

  The sunlight dances in the treetops. Lillian lies in the ambulance watching the flickering patterns cast through the window high above her head. They are driving at a slow and steady pace, climbing higher and higher into the Chiltern Hills. No need for speed or sirens today; just a feeble, old lady being delivered home.

  The vehicle turns sharp left and the familiar sound of gravel crunching beneath the tyres tells her that they are almost there. The driver’s low whistle, when it comes, is right on cue. ‘You never told us you were to the manor born, Mrs Oberon. If we’d known we’d have charged you double. Isn’t that right, Tony?’ The paramedics laugh and Lillian tries to smile at their joke, the muscles in her face feeling strangely stiff.

  To the manor born. A charmed life. Isn’t that what they’ve always said? She can still remember the piece that had run in The Lady all those years ago, the one Charles had urged her to do after they were married, accompanied by that awful photo of her standing in a stiff tweed suit by the front door, one hand resting on Monty’s shaggy head. Mistress of the Manor had read the headline. Charles had thought it perfect. A nice profile raiser for the clientele of Oberon & Son, he’d toasted that night. ‘You’ve come a long way from the shy little thing you were when you first came to visit.’

  The ambulance slows then comes to a complete halt. The man in the passenger seat unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out. She can hear him greeting someone outside as the rear doors are opened, bringing a rush of sunshine and the fresh, clean scent of recently mown grass.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ a female voice asks. Maggie, Lillian realises and her heart gives a little leap.

  ‘No. All part of the service, love.’

  ‘Welcome home,’ Maggie says, her face coming into view as Lillian emerges from the ambulance, propped half-upright on the stretcher bed. ‘It’s so nice to have you back.’ The girl squeezes her hand.

  Lillian blinks at her in the bright daylight, gripping her warm hand in return, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Where to then, love?’ the driver asks her granddaughter, as if he were wheeling a cumbersome piece of furniture into the house. Lillian tries not to mind.

  They carry the stretcher bed up the front steps then in through the entrance hall. Lillian wants to protest that this is all ridiculous and she’s sure she could walk if they would only let her, but the words won’t seem to leave her mouth. ‘Amazing place you’ve got here,’ says one of the paramedics, staring about as they move through the hall. ‘It’s like the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Maggie. ‘My grandfather was something of a collector. His father before him, too. A long history of hoarding.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ says the other, giving a long low whistle as they pass a row of glass cases housing a collection of vases and ceramic figurines. ‘What’s with all the peacocks?’ he asks, nodding at the dusty taxidermied bird staged on a branch over the door arch.

  ‘Oh, my grandfather had a bit of a thing for them. He kept them on the estate, back in the day. I’m told they’d wander about the grounds causing havoc and digging up the flower beds. Isn’t that right, Gran? Oh, watch your step on that rug,’ she warns suddenly.

  Lillian doesn’t reply. She is remembering the feel of a favourite silk scarf running through her fingers and sunshine glinting on a blue car; eyes meeting in a wing-mirror and a small, shared smile. Thank you, my dear, for your dazzling ornithological knowledge. The words rise up and bob on the surface of her memory like corks floating on water.

  ‘Through here,’ Maggie directs, ‘to the drawing room,’ she adds, addressing Lillian now. ‘I thought you’d be more comfortable. You won’t have to worry about all those stairs . . . and you’ve got a telly and your radio and a lovely view of the garden.’

  The paramedics lift her carefully from the stretcher then lower her into the new bed. Maggie adjusts the sheets. ‘You’re home now, Gran . . . at Cloudesley,’ she adds, presumably to check she recognises her surroundings.

  Lillian looks about. ‘My gloves,’ she says, to no one in particular. ‘It won’t do to go without my gloves.’

  ‘You don’t need gloves,’ says Maggie, patting her hand. ‘It’s a lovely, warm day.’

  The ambulance men seem to need various signatures from her granddaughter and are talking loudly about medication and physical therapy. ‘Her memory,’ she hears Maggie say softly. ‘It still seems a little off.’

  ‘Yes,’ says one of the men, ‘nothing to worry about. Being home should help her settle. If she wants to move about a bit, that’s fine but it’s best if she uses the walker until she’s really steady on her feet again. Any concerns or worries, call your GP. If it’s an emergency, call 999.’ They turn back to Lillian. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Oberon,’ they shout cheerfully. ‘You take care of yourself.’

  Lillian gives a small wave. ‘Thank you,’ she says, although she’s not sure anyone hears her, for they are already halfway out the door, Maggie showing them back towards the entrance hall.

  Lillian glances about. The bed they have put her in has been set up in one corner of the drawing room, her favourite kingfisher-blue velvet armchair shifted slightly to accommodate it. Her reading glasses lie upon a table beside a collection of framed photographs. Her eye is drawn to a black-and-white image of her and Charles on their wedding day standing outside a register office, Charles looking handsome but sombre in a dark suit, Lillian clad in a simple white lace tea dress. A young Albie stands at her side, his small hand held in hers, and while Charles looks straight into the camera lens, her own smiling face is tilted to look at the little boy. She studies her younger self for a moment. So innocent – so certain of her choice to marry Charles and become a step-mother to Albie. How confident she had been that she would make everyth
ing better for them all. How impossibly naive.

  The wedding photo stands beside a framed black-and-white image of a young Helena, aged about eleven or twelve, sitting on the top step to their house in Pimlico. It is the only photo she has of her sister from their London days. She wears a smart blue-and-white dress with a neat Peter Pan collar – a dress Lillian can still remember her mother running up late into the night on her sewing machine, a dress Lillian herself had coveted with barely disguised envy. The photograph, she knows, would have been taken by their father on the Bakelite camera he loved to mess about with.

  Another silver frame houses a portrait of Charles dressed in full captain’s uniform, while beside it stands a formal photograph of Albie as a young boy, contrasting markedly with the printed photo propped in front, one of him as an older man, relaxing on the prow of a yacht in dazzling sunshine, his face weathered, his eyes crinkled against the glare. The last photo is of a younger Maggie at her college graduation, Lillian standing at her side, beaming with pride. She eyes the photos for a long while before turning away.

  It is good to be away from the stale, sterile air of the hospital ward, free of the stiff starched sheets and the endless muffled coughs and murmurs, beeps and buzzers. She probably doesn’t need to be in bed exactly, but perhaps a little rest won’t hurt. She relaxes back against the pillows and looks out towards the garden where the light is beginning to fade, the sky shifting slowly from blue to soft dusky pink. From far away comes a blackbird’s warble.

  ‘Can I get you some tea? Something to eat?’ Maggie is back. ‘Shall I let a little fresh air in?’

  Lillian swallows the saliva building in her mouth. ‘The birds,’ she manages, although the words sound a little garbled.

  ‘You’d like to hear the birds? Of course!’ The girl rushes to the glass doors and pulls them open, seemingly grateful to be able to do something to make her a little more comfortable. ‘They sound lovely at this time of day, don’t they?’