Escape to Honeysuckle Hall

by Rebecca Raisin

  ‘Yeah, sounds good, Esterlita,’ I laugh, imagining myself in sequins and cringe. ‘Or we could eat a few litres of ice cream and catch up on a season of The Real Housewives?’ I can’t remember when I had time to just be. To watch trashy TV and not be interrupted by phone calls. To stay up as late as I like because I can also lie in as long as I need! I don’t need to do anything on schedule, and the idea appeals to me in a big way. My mobile phone has been glued to my ear for the last four years and I am relishing the fact it’s not ringing anymore – not like it used to at any rate.

  ‘The Real Housewives? OK, why not. You could learn a thing or two from those ladies. That’s what you need, a good plastic surgeon …’

  I touch the bridge of my nose. ‘Let’s not get too carried away. We don’t all need ski jump noses for crying out loud.’

  She guffaws. ‘I meant as a husband, darling!’

  ‘Oh.’ I figure it’s time to tell Esterlita about my plans to host an adventure camp for adults, so she stops hounding me about finding a man and having the babies. When I explain my still somewhat murky idea her brow knits.

  ‘There were whispers in town about this adventure camp proposal. No, no, no this is not a good idea,’ she says with disdain in her voice. ‘This place should be full of children, not adults! Why can’t you just focus on finding a man, eh? Why complicate things?’

  ‘Oh, Esterlita, really! Haven’t you been listening? A man is the reason for all the complications in my life. This is the first time I’ve had my own home, my own business, without having to consult anyone else. And no way am I going to muddy waters by adding a man into the mix. Never again.’

  ‘This place is a cash drain! You’ll lose everything!’ Why the sudden change in the Firecracker? Does she really think a man will be the answer to all my problems? She can’t be that last century!

  My eyebrows pull together. ‘Yeah, well that’s the risk I have to take. Let’s forget about all that tonight, eh? I’ve got some comfort eating to do.’

  We set up my laptop because the TV is out in the hall somewhere, clean up the living room as best we can and settle down to watch The Real Housewives. I don’t actually have any ice cream so we make do with a block of chocolate, some popcorn and the rest of the bottle of red.

  ‘I’m going to grow into the size of a house, living off chocolate and popcorn,’ I promise myself. The plant-based yoghurt, matcha-drinking me seems a thing of the past after just one day. And what a relief. If I have to slurp down one more celery juice – the much-lauded toxin-removing, blood-pressure-stabilising magic elixir of choice in L-Town – I’ll scream. Though, I suppose those kind of health trends only work when they’re not followed up by bingeing on a box of petit fours. Why can’t we just admit that drinking our food is a punishment and be done with it? Fads are horrific when you’re trying to fit in.

  ‘You shouldn’t go to sleep hungry, anyway,’ Esterlita says an hour into our marathon TV sesh. ‘Or your spirit will go to a place where there’s no food and you’ll be trapped there. Didn’t your mother ever teach you anything?’

  I think of my spirit going to a foodless place and being stuck for all eternity. Not ideal. Especially now I plan to eat my feelings, and I have a lot of feelings right now. ‘No, she must have missed the memo on that one, Esterlita.’

  We spend hours watching glamorous women argue with each other, drink too much wine and backstab their friends. It’s quite honestly the most fun I’ve had in ages.

  I mean to ask her about the hall and what she knows about its history but my eyelids grow heavy and Esterlita makes excuses to leave. ‘So same time tomorrow,’ she says more as a statement than a question. ‘I’ll make you some Filipino snacks.’

  ‘OK, sure,’ I say. ‘Sounds lovely.’

  We say about a bazillion goodbyes. Esterlita seems to pause as she takes a step and we repeat the process of farewell all over again. It’s the kind of long, drawn-out departure you’d give if the other person was leaving for somewhere like Antarctica …!

  I wonder what I’ve got myself in for as Esterlita waves yet again then stops on the front porch and turns for one more hug.

  I bet I wake up tomorrow and this is all a dream. The type of whimsical dream where I magicked myself a zany neighbour to keep the panic at bay. I go to the window, and rub a hand through the dust. Esterlita ambles to an immaculate little cottage across the green.

  There’s no traffic, no noise. Just a bunch of stars in the sky that sparkle as if saying goodnight and I’m left with a silence that’s just a little unnerving after living so long in a bustling, loud city.

  I make up my bed and settle in for a good night’s sleep but it doesn’t quite pan out that way. Around the witching hour there’s an almighty bang, and I creep deeper under the covers, until I remember I left the ladder (a present from Maya of all things) on the back deck and it’s probably blown over in the wind. As I lie awake, comparing my old life to the new, the cottage creaks and groans as if trying to lull me back to sleep. It must work because soon sunlight streams in and I yawn and stretch, wondering what this new day will bring.

  I brew a big pot of coffee, make some toast laden with marmalade and head to the deck to enjoy the morning before the day gets underway. When I open the back door of the cottage I see an envelope placed under the mat. I go back inside and get my letter opener, so I can preserve the envelope for my collection, even though there’s no stamp and it’s only addressed to: The homeowner.

  Inside is a grainy old picture of Honeysuckle Hall. There’s nothing else, no markings on the photograph, no note. Perhaps a local thought I’d like to see the hall as it looked back in its glory days? I think back to the loud bang the night before – surely they didn’t come then? No, of course not. No one would be out walking at that time. The ladder simply fell over in the blustery winds.

  I snatch a glance and see that it is lying prostrate on the gravel and remind myself I’ll have to be more careful in the future, especially when campers arrive. It won’t do to leave things around that they can trip over or hurt themselves on. I take a big sip of coffee and go back to the picture of the hall. While the hall itself looks remarkably the same, the grounds were well manicured compared to now, and there was a large fountain out front that is no longer working. It conjures up bygone times, different lives. Who stayed at the hall? What were their stories? There’s so much history here, it’s like I can feel the air pulse with it.

  Chapter 7

  A week later the full humidity of summer hits, which makes every task a little more arduous. The cottage doesn’t have a fan, so I put that on the must-have list. It’s a dense sweltering heat, like travelling on the tube in London at summertime, and I’m reminded that I’m free of all that. I think of all my friends, stuck underground, pressed against strangers in peak hour as they make their way to work, dreaming of being anywhere but there.

  I open all the windows, hoping there’ll be a breeze from the lake, and inhale the scent of the climbing roses that creep up the side of the cottage in wild abandon. I’ll have to prune them, but part of me wants to leave them – they’re so pretty escaping the trellis as if they have somewhere to be. Paintbrush in hand, I cut in under the cornice when there’s a knock at the door. My progress is slow when there’s always someone popping over to quote on repairs or introduce themselves, but it’s a nice distraction and I’m enjoying it.

  I open the door to a sprightly looking fifty-something wearing overalls. ‘You must be Malcolm?’

  He nods. ‘That’s me. Here to sweep the chimneys.’

  ‘Lovely. You can start with this one if you like, before I paint the walls in the living room in case it’s a dusty business?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Come in. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

  He gives me a wide smile. ‘No thanks, I’ll get started, so I don’t hold you up with the painting before I move on to the fireplaces in the hall. Haven’t swept them in must be five or six years now.’
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  Ooh, finally someone who has had some connection with the hall. ‘So you swept the chimneys, even though they weren’t in use?’ That’s a good sign.

  ‘Sure did. Every year until the owner died. The fella never came here though. Probably had a barrage of country houses, and left the running of them to his staff. I was always paid like clockwork as soon as the job was done.’

  ‘So you don’t know who the owner was?’

  ‘No, it all went through the name of a trust. Sad really that the place was left empty for so long, but now you’re here, eh? Making the grand old dame shine once more. Rumour has it you’re setting up some kind of camp for adults, eh?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ I smile. ‘I hope to make my business thrive and bring some tourists to town, which will hopefully help out the community too.’

  He smiles. ‘Lord knows we need it. I’m sure you’re going to make a success of it, lovey. Who wouldn’t want to stay in such a place? It’s been locked up tight for too long.’

  We chat for a bit longer before Malcolm works his magic, and then heads to the hall to sort the two chimneys there. Before long he returns, face black with soot, like something out of Mary Poppins. ‘Found this by the fireplace. Looks like someone left it for you, lovey.’

  He hands me a dusty envelope bearing the inscription: for you. I thank him and he says his goodbyes, promising to visit once the hall is up and running. I take the envelope outside with a glass of iced tea, enjoying the chance to sit down for a bit and rest. My body aches in new places, muscles long dormant suddenly revived from all the physical work.

  As birds sing to one another from trees surrounding the hall, I open the envelope, noticing on closer inspection the same small block handwriting as the note I’d found in the kitchen that very first night. Stop your plans now before it’s too late.

  I’m intrigued, and the philatelic in me senses a mystery to be solved. So I go back, and piece the clues together. A black and white photograph of the hall, the note in the kitchen on a pad, and now this one. Could they be from former occupants, young girls from the finishing school arguing with each other? Or did local teens hang out here and leave missives for their friends? Could they be more recent? I study the handwriting, the paper and the envelopes themselves, and get the distinct impression they’re not very old. The notebook, for example is a run-of-the-mill cheapie you’d find in any newsagent. It’s a mystery for another day, as painting calls. I finish my tea and head back inside.

  After an hour or so of cutting in and sweating buckets, a local woman with ruddy cheeks arrives to quote me on fixing the fireplace mantle. She introduces herself as Celeste. ‘It’s better to do things right first go,’ she says with an apologetic shrug at the price, as if it’s exorbitant. I can’t help but feel relieved as it’s much lower than I accounted for.

  ‘I agree,’ I reassure her. ‘Let’s get that mantle replaced and I won’t have to worry about it.’

  ‘Great. I’ll come by in a few days to fit it.’

  ‘Perfect.’ I am a little in awe of Celeste with her strong physique that suggests a lot of time lifting heavy things. ‘That will tie in quite nicely with the painting being finished.’ I hope. How long can a small cottage take?

  ‘You’re the envy of many of the townsfolk,’ she says with a grin.

  ‘Oh, yeah? I’m surprised no one snapped this place up sooner.’

  She’s suddenly shifty-eyed and I wonder if there’s something she’s not telling me. ‘Yeah, you know what small towns are like. It’s hard to make a living at the best of times. Don’t think many around here had that kind of cash spare. And it’s far too big for a regular-sized family. We’re not royals, are we?’ She lets out a bellow and I grin. She’s a salt-of-the-earth type and I feel a real warmth for her. Maybe she’s just nervous around new people?

  ‘No, I’m not royal, that’s for sure. That’s why I’m so happy this cottage came with the property. Suits me to the ground, and I can run my business and still have my own cosy little haven.’

  We talk about the camp for a while, which she’d already heard about, just like Esterlita and Malcolm had. Celeste grills me in that usual small-town way, which I’ve come to realise is some kind of test to make sure I’m not here to renovate and sell and make a buck; that I’m here for the right reasons. And I get that. I don’t take offence.

  By the time she says farewell, the morning has escaped and the paint has a film over it. I’m so used to the hectic pace of London life, meetings held on Zoom over lunch, phone pressed to ear while typing reports, always working on three things at once. This laid-back meandering and talking instead of working will take some getting used to.

  I stir the paint, hoping it’s salvageable, and get back to cutting in. I’ve chosen a soft white to brighten the place up and make it appear bigger. It will make a nice contrast to the wooden ceiling beams that are almost as old as the hills around here, probably taken from the woodland behind the hall once upon a time.

  After a late lunch Esterlita pops over. ‘Ooh, you’re doing it wrong. Why paint first? Shouldn’t you remove all the junk?’

  I harrumph. ‘I have moved the junk, Esterlita. These are boxes of my things.’

  ‘OK, then why have them in here?’

  With hands on hips I say, ‘Are you going to help or hinder?’

  ‘Can’t I do both?’

  It takes all my willpower not to flick her with paint but I know if I do that we’ll have an all-out paint fight and I don’t have the energy for cleaning up! I give her a brush. ‘Cut in, if you know what’s good for you.’

  She laughs. ‘I’m a very busy person, I’ll have you know.’ But she takes the brush.

  ‘Oh, yeah? What do you do, Es?’

  ‘I have a small catering business – it suits me. I can choose my own hours and work when I need to.’

  ‘Filipino food?’ I squat down to cut in above the skirting, my thighs burning after about three seconds.

  ‘Yes, the best kind of food. It’s not just cooking, it’s pouring passion into what you love that makes it so great. You can taste my love in every bite.’

  ‘Sounds amazing, Es. If there’s one thing I like doing, it’s eating.’

  ‘And yet here you are about to take on this crazy idea of a camp. Why not just find a rich husband? I’ll never understand the youth of today,’ she grumbles as if I’m living on the edge by wanting to make my own way in life without a man’s money! A rich one at that.

  When I frown, at a loss for how to answer such an idea, she says, ‘You won’t find a man if you keep frowning like that!’

  I shake my head, laughing. ‘Why?’

  She shoots me a look that says I’m dense. ‘The wrinkles, of course!’ I wonder if Esterlita pitches in just so she can continue to harangue me as we work.

  ‘Did you always do catering?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not for a long time. I let Edward do the work while I made our home a haven. He wasn’t rich, but he didn’t need to be. We had enough to get by and I liked everything being ready for him at home after a long day in the workshop. He always came home to a hot meal, and the bath drawn. It might seem too old-fashioned to you, but that’s what I was taught by my mother, to make my husband feel like a king as long as he treated me like a queen, and Edward surely did.’

  I consider the little pocket rocket of a woman in front of me, who seems so much younger than her sixty-six years. While her once-black hair is peppered with white, she has this uncontained energy about her, coupled with a largely unlined face that makes her seem youthful, but when she talks about Edward it’s like she shrinks into herself. Becomes so sad and lost and she loses a bit of her zest for life. I’m not quite sure what to say to comfort her, and whether words are enough anyway. But I have to acknowledge her story. ‘He sounds like one of the good guys, Es.’

  She gives me a half-smile, rather than the full constellation that is the usual for Esterlita. ‘He really was. I know everyone says that about people
they’ve lost, but it was really true of Edward. I remember meeting him on a beach in Cebu and knowing instantly he was the one. He looked so lost and uncertain as if he’d walked onto another planet. Love at first sight – for me, at any rate.’

  ‘I’m sure he loved you on sight too.’

  She laughs, loud and startling. ‘He thought I was trying to sell him mango juice and kept saying no, since he already had two in his hand. Back then sellers up and down the beach sold cups of juice to foreigners, following them until they gave in and paid the small amount of pesos. He said something like if only I had three hands, and of course, I made a bawdy joke about what a man with three hands could do and it went from there.’

  ‘Oh, Es! I can imagine. You and your saucy sense of humour even back then. How old were you?’

  ‘Twenty. Old enough to know better!’ She cackles at the memory. ‘We were married fairly quickly and I applied to return to the UK with him. The only dampener was the weather, such a shock to the system. The first few winters I thought I’d freeze to death. Even in the so-called summer, I wore two pairs of trousers, but eventually I acclimatised.’

  ‘From tropical paradise to drizzly cold Britain.’

  ‘Lucky I had Edward to warm me up.’ She cackles again.

  ‘And there’s our cue to paint!’ I say, laughing.

  We joke around as we work before we finally get to rolling the paint on the walls. For a small cottage, it seems to take forever to get one room done. It’s all the drop-ins, the drink breaks and the relentless heat and hearing the gossip about everyone from Esterlita.

  ‘Orly, if you listen to only one thing I say today, let it be this. Avoid the town busybody Freya, if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Oh, is she really that bad, Es?’

  Esterlita widens her eyes. ‘Acid-tongued and bored out of her wits. Never had a man, you see?’

  And I do see. It’s Esterlita’s way of alerting me to the fact I need a man again! Freya’s probably a sweet innocent lady who bakes cookies for her neighbours and helps at the local community garden. ‘Rightio, Es. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for such a menace.’