by Beth Corby
Though it was a bizarre, manufactured occasion, meeting you has been one of the great pleasures of my recent years. (Watching Nicholas squirm came a close second.) Your personality, position and need to experience life – not for the sake of it, but to facilitate your ambition – fascinated me, and our discussion at lunch inspired a scheme. A scheme intended to fulfil both your need to widen your experience and my need to make a difference and be truly known by someone delightful.
Here is my plan. You shall complete the tasks I have set for you and at the end of each task you will receive a diary entry that will enlighten you as to my colourful and most interesting past. It will not always be easy or nice, for that would be dull (be delicious, be delightful, be disastrous, but never, dear girl, be dull – free advice) but persevere and it will all be worth it. Not only will you receive an undisclosed reward of my choosing, but I fancy you will have built up the wealth of experience that you currently feel is lacking in your life and in your writing.
As for tackling the tasks – you will not be alone. Alec shall accompany you and my dearest friend, Jane Forester, has kindly offered to escort you on the occasions where a female companion would be better.
I would like to assume that you have accepted my offer and will persist through to the very end, but my solicitor informs me that you have the right to decline or cry off at any point. Why you would wish to do so, I cannot imagine, but if you do, know that I shall be baffled and disappointed beyond belief. I’ll have you know that I have taken a considerable amount of trouble over these arrangements. Should you decide, however, that this wonderful challenge demands too much of you, Sanderson has insisted I tell you that the reward you were to receive shall be disposed of and in no way settled upon you or your family.
With my greatest respect and sincerest hope that you will enjoy the experiences as they are intended.
Yours, most expectantly,
Uncle Donald
‘No pressure then,’ I mutter, refolding the letter and slotting it back in the envelope. I lift my eyes to find Mr Sanderson and Alec watching me. ‘So he wants me to learn about his life and carry out some tasks?’ I clarify.
‘Yes,’ they nod.
That doesn’t sound so bad on the surface, but I can’t help feeling concerned. ‘What if I’m not the person Donald thinks I am?’ I ask quietly, not meeting anyone’s eye. ‘What if I can’t manage the tasks?’
Mr Sanderson defers to Alec, who shrugs dismissively, irritating the hell out of me. ‘Donald wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t think you could handle it, and there’s nothing in the tasks beyond your capabilities.’
Mr Sanderson starts putting some of the papers away in a file. ‘How about you try the first task and see how you get on? You can withdraw at any time,’ he reminds me. ‘There are provisions for that instance.’
I bite my lip. There’s so little to go on, but if I can back out at any time . . . ‘How do we do this? How long will it take? Do I apply for jobs at the same time, or might I still be on an island somewhere trying to retrieve the lost Ark of the Covenant this time next year?’
Alec glances at Mr Sanderson, but he’s back to putting his papers away. Alec sighs and rubs his eyes as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. ‘Donald will support you as long as you are doing the tasks, and if you come and stay at The Laurels we can probably get through everything in a couple of weeks. If you’re at home or at college, it will take longer.’
Stay at The Laurels with Alec for a few weeks? That possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind. It would be like a holiday in a gorgeous country house. Except it would be with Alec – a man who clearly dislikes me and has made it abundantly clear that he would rather get on with his grief in seclusion without a gold-digger gallivanting about like a child on a hobby horse. Even so, it’s got to be better than going home every evening and facing everyone’s questions . . . especially Lauren’s. I stare at my fingers, and stop myself from picking at a hangnail.
‘I suppose I could stay at The Laurels,’ I agree tentatively.
‘Mrs Crumpton will be there most of the time, so we won’t be alone,’ says Alec, but I don’t know if he is trying to reassure me or scare me.
Mr Sanderson hands Alec a thick brown envelope. ‘Give her the allotted tasks at your convenience,’ he says. ‘And let me know when they are completed.’ Alec takes the envelope and stands up with bleak acceptance.
‘But what if I can’t complete them?’ I ask desperately.
‘Any questions, ask Alec. He’ll contact me if he needs to,’ replies Mr Sanderson, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘In the meantime, good luck.’ Glancing at Alec’s moody face, I reckon I might need it. I get up and shake Mr Sanderson’s hand, and allow Alec to escort me out.
Outside, Alec and I stand on the sunny pavement and he looks down at me with eyes so tired he can’t even keep up his hostility. ‘How soon can you start?’ he asks.
‘A few days? I just need to sort out my university stuff, and do some washing,’ and field questions that I still don’t know the answers to, ‘that sort of thing.’
He nods. ‘Well, you know where we are. And here’s the phone number.’
He jots it down on the back of the envelope I’m still holding.
‘Come to The Laurels when you’re ready. We’re not doing anything else at the moment,’ he says, and with that, he walks off.
After a few seconds I realise I’m gazing after him, watching him trudge up the road like a lonely figure in the Arctic. Shaking off the thought, I get in my car and crank down the windows, firmly reminding myself that he thinks I’m a gold-digger, and he doesn’t deserve my pity.
Starting the engine, I turn my mind instead to what I’m going to tell Mum, Dad, Lauren and Grandma Betty. I can’t imagine how they’ll react to the idea of me staying at The Laurels, but I suppose I can only tell them the truth. Trouble is, I’m not sure how realistic it sounds:
‘No, I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Yes, I am moving to The Laurels.’
‘No, I don’t know how long for.’
‘Yes, Alec will be there.’
‘No, I didn’t find out what the reward is.’
I have a feeling it’s going to be a long couple of days.
Chapter 8
A few days later, I pull up in front of The Laurels and look up at the house. It seems a lot more imposing without everyone else, but I try not to let that faze me. I get out and ring the doorbell, bracing myself for my first encounter with the mysterious Mrs C. Alec opens the door and looks down at me. He looks a little less drawn – the clean, ironed shirt helps – but he still looks tired and gaunt, and he’s regarding me with all the resignation of finding yet another baby on the orphanage steps. We stare at each other awkwardly.
‘Hi—’
‘Do you—’
We break off, and there’s an uneasy silence. I gesture for him to go first.
‘Would you like some help to bring in your bags?’ he asks, making some attempt at civility.
‘Oh, that would be great, thanks.’
‘Mrs Crumpton has made up a bedroom for you,’ he says as we walk over to my car.
‘That’s kind of her,’ I say, though I find his continued use of her surname worrying.
‘You didn’t meet Mrs C at the funeral, did you?’ he asks, and I shake my head. ‘She’s been here since before I came. She’s . . . formidable.’
Is he trying to put the wind up me, because how hard is it to find one positive thing to say about someone?
I open the boot and hand him a bag and, when he indicates he can take more, a box.
‘You’ll see what I mean,’ he says. ‘She’s a wonderful cook, though. I hope she likes you,’ he adds doubtfully. I hate to admit it, but if he’s trying to scare me, it’s working.
I pick up my remaining bag and follow him in, and he leads me up the staircase that winds around the sides of the entrance hall forming a balustraded walkway in front of the bedr
ooms. It’s all so elegant. Alec opens a door to reveal a stunning dual-aspect room, complete with a four-poster bed that, with a few more mattresses, could be a convincing set for the The Princess and the Pea, and my breath catches in my throat. I gaze at the original fireplace and mouldings, and what’s possibly a Persian carpet. There’s even a beautiful writing desk under the far window – not that I feel up to the Brontë-style writing it looks like it deserves.
Alec plonks my things on the bed and I do the same. It’s so lovely, I can’t help touching the curtains strapped to the bed-posts. I wonder if it’s possible to draw them all the way round and completely cocoon myself? I make a mental note to try it out later. I spot Alec watching me and let my hand drop. Suddenly shy, I head for the nearest window, which has a window seat and a view of the garden.
‘OK then . . .’ he says, slightly less abruptly.
I glance at him, but he’s still frowning. ‘Thanks for bringing my things up.’
‘No problem. Mrs C has made some celeriac soup and homemade bread in case you’re hungry?’
What’s celeriac? ‘Great.’ I risk another glance at him, but I can’t think of anything else to say and an uncomfortable silence falls.
‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ he says, and he’s about to leave when I realise I’ve had enough of his attitude.
‘Look, I know that you don’t want me here, that you think I’m a gold-digger and that I somehow tricked Donald into whatever this is with the will.’ I pause, and Alec doesn’t disagree. ‘But the truth is that’s not the case at all. We have these tasks to do, and it was what Donald wanted, so can we please try to work together amicably?’
Alec regards me for a long moment, his distrust of my motives finally giving way to resignation. ‘I suppose that’s fair enough to ask,’ he agrees.
I relax a little. ‘Good.’
He nods and giving me one last glance, he leaves.
As the door clicks shut, I let out a sigh of relief, and turn to look at the room. My belongings look paltry against Donald’s antiques, and I feel just as out of place as they look. I head for the wardrobe mirror, and take a tissue from my pocket. I wipe away the smudged liner from under my eyes and stare at myself appraisingly. My mid-length, mousy-brown hair is a mess, blown about by the air coming in through the open car windows, so I root around in my bag and find my brush. I pull it through my hair and feel a little better. I consider putting on some more make-up, but since I don’t usually wear much, it might look odd if I reappear looking made up.
I stand back and look at my reflection wondering, not for the first time, what Uncle Donald expects of me. And why assign Alec to run the tasks when he’s so obviously against the whole idea?
Unable to make sense of any of it, I square my shoulders and frog-march myself down the stairs, because right now, I have to face Mrs Crumpton.
As soon as I enter the dining room, Mrs Crumpton’s shrewd eyes land on me, and I return the favour. She must be well past retirement age, but I still wouldn’t like to cross her. Her short, neat haircut suggests a no-nonsense attitude, and though her apron depicts buttercups, wild flowers and a welcoming summer meadow, her expression is anything but sunny. I’d find the contrast amusing if her thunderous look was directed at anyone but me. As it is, I try a tentative smile, but it hits stony ground, so I sit in the place set for me opposite Alec and do my best not to cower as Mrs Crumpton ladles soup into sturdy bowls, carves doorstops of warm brown bread and pours us some strong tea with the solitary word ‘Milk?’, glowering the entire time. Not sure what to do, I accept everything she hands me, and breathe a sigh of relief when she finally leaves the room.
She’s left the door open and I can hear her reprimanding someone in the kitchen.
‘Well, it seems you’ve made an impression,’ says Alec.
How? I didn’t even say anything. ‘Did I?’
‘Oh yes, she’s cross.’ I examine his face to see if he’s winding me up, but he seems less hostile than before, and there’s even a slight crinkling of amusement around the corners of his eyes, so perhaps he is making an effort. Still, it’s difficult to know what to say to that, so we fall silent and listen to more scolding from the kitchen.
‘Who’s she talking to?’ I whisper.
‘Donald,’ he says shortly.
‘But he’s . . .?’
‘Oh yes, but that doesn’t stop Mrs C. She thinks he’s hanging about somewhere near the kitchen ceiling, and she gives him what-for just the same as if he was here.’
She sounds mad, in every sense of the word. ‘Really? Is she . . . you know . . . all there?’
‘More than any of the rest of us,’ says Alec. ‘In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s proved right one day, and Donald materialises just to answer her back.’
I love that idea.
‘Come on,’ he says, his face taking on an impish expression. ‘If you’re going to be here for a while it’s best if you understand, but don’t be upset by what you hear.’ He gets up and I follow him on tiptoes to the door. We peer down the corridor to the kitchen, and I can just see Mrs Crumpton removing a steamed pudding from its basin.
‘Just look at ‘er. I don’t know what you were thinkin’!’ she tells the kitchen ceiling. ‘I dare say you thought yourself very clever, what with all your plans and your tasks, but I could’ve given you a dozen better ideas. I mean, what if she gets scared, or fed up? I’m tellin’ you now, she’ll be off before mornin’, and then where will we be, eh?’ Alec and I glance at each other uncomfortably. Mrs Crumpton clatters about in a cupboard looking for something – possibly a mace – but eventually comes up with a pan. ‘And don’t go expectin’ Alec to pick up the pieces. He’s been mopin’ about ‘ere like a wet weekend. You didn’t think this through, did you? No! Well then.’
Alec jerks his head to indicate we should go back and he looks thoughtful as we sit back down. Strangely, her words don’t bother me. At least she only criticised my likelihood of getting scared, which is better than I thought, and Alec had an equal share in her scorn. I don’t think he was expecting that.
‘Sorry about that, but it is quite funny,’ he says apologetically.
I smile at him, glad the truce seems to be holding. ‘So does she do that a lot?’ I ask. ‘With the ceiling, I mean.’
‘Yes, ever since Donald died. I think she misses arguing with him, so the ceiling gets it.’
‘Did they argue a lot?’
‘Like cat and dog. They loved scoring points off each other, but it was always done good-naturedly. I think it gave their day extra meaning. Trouble is, the ceiling hasn’t mastered the art of answering back and it certainly doesn’t have the grace to look ashamed.’
We both pause to listen to Mrs Crumpton’s ranting, but there’s an ominous quiet coming from the kitchen. Alec’s eyes widen in warning, and we both dig in to our lunch.
Just as we’re scraping our bowls clean, Mrs Crumpton comes in to replace them with bowls of steamed jam-sponge pudding and custard, which she dumps unceremoniously on the table. Alec catches my eye and I feel the sudden urge to laugh, but manage to hold it in. Mrs Crumpton regards me imperiously before leaving with the tray of dirty crockery.
I let out a breath, relieved I didn’t disgrace myself.
‘Is she like this with everyone?’ I ask, wondering if she’s just annoyed about Donald’s will.
Alec snorts. ‘Yes, everyone! You have to earn her respect, but until then, from her point of view, you need watching. It’s odd, but that’s how it works with Mrs C. Her cooking is great though, isn’t it?’
I have to admit it is. It’s not exactly cordon bleu, but it’s brilliant comfort food. ‘Yes, but her glares make it a little hard to swallow.’
‘That wasn’t glaring. Not by her standards. Some of the looks she gave Donald deserved medals, but he loved it. Laughed like a child,’ says Alec reminiscently. ‘They had a strange relationship.’ He pauses for a second, staring into the distance. ‘But it worked. Speaking
of Donald, how about you take a look at your first task after lunch? I brought it down with me.’
My heart leaps into my mouth. I’m a little afraid I might not do it justice.
‘OK,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound nervous.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, so I obviously haven’t hidden my anxiety that well. ‘How about we set up deckchairs in the garden, and you can read it in a nice relaxed environment?’
‘Are you going to bring panpipes or do you prefer whale song?’ I ask, to show I know he’s patronising me. But since I don’t want to be left alone with Mrs Crumpton, who’s berating the kitchen ceiling again, I get up and indicate he should lead on.
Outside, I finally succeed in unfolding my deckchair, and Alec hands me a white envelope marked ‘Task 1’. I lower myself into the chair and watch as he turns his own deckchair over, frowning as he struggles to unfold it from the other side.