House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  For the first time in the castle’s 800-year history, Jane was inviting people who lived in the village.

  “Don’t expect me to come,” Ambrose said.

  “This is 2008,” Toby replied. “Times have changed, you know.”

  “Is this a ploy so your girlfriend can feel at home?” Ambrose mocked.

  Toby took a swing at his brother.

  “Boys!” Jane said. Having all three at the castle tested her patience to the limit. None could drive; all were bored. No wonder generations of Trelawneys had forced their children to ride, hunt, sail, shoot and partake in endless rural pastimes. It was a way of keeping them occupied. Once upon a time Jane had tried to limit social media and computers; now, at the first sign of trouble, she suggested FIFA.

  “What do you do when you sneak off with Great-Aunt Tuffy?” Ambrose asked his sister. Arabella longed to explain, but knew it would be met with incomprehension and ridicule. Tuffy’s latest paper, “Lyme disease as a lead indicator of climate change,” to be presented at a scientific conference in Birmingham early in the new year, would make the connection between warmer weather and the spread of infectious illness. Over the last five months, she and Arabella had been monitoring the significant increase in ticks and fleas on dead rodents and carrion, and correlating this to a rise in global temperature.

  “Why don’t you ask Taffy?” Jane asked.

  “She’s called Tuffy and she wouldn’t be seen dead at a party.”

  “Maybe she could hop in and have a bite?” Ambrose roared at his own joke.

  “I’m sure she’d jump at the chance.” Toby couldn’t resist teasing his sister.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Language, Arabella, language,” Jane remonstrated.

  Toby held up his hands in mock horror. “Bit late for that.”

  “Shall we ask the Plantagenet-Parkers?” Jane said, keen to keep the peace.

  “No!” The children were united in that at least.

  “The Beachendons?”

  “Those three chinless wonders? No way.”

  Jane put down her pen and paper. “So you do the guest list then. I don’t know anyone.”

  “We’ll just ask the village,” Toby said firmly.

  “I’m going to Courchevel,” Ambrose announced.

  “Who’s paying?”

  “My friend Mohammed’s dad is taking us in his plane. All we have to do is bring underpants.”

  “You lucky bastard,” Arabella said. “I want to go to the Caribbean.”

  “Courchevel is in France, you twat—it’s a ski resort.”

  “You’ll be cold in your underpants.”

  “I don’t know anyone who lives in the village,” Jane interrupted.

  “You know the Sparrows,” said Toby.

  “They’re not coming.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cross Mrs. Sparrow didn’t say.” Jane knew that Gordon had forbidden his wife to come; Glenda might have to take the Trelawneys’ money but she would never accept their hospitality.

  “What’s for dinner?” Arabella said, hoping that Mrs. Sparrow had left something; Jane could murder the finest ingredients.

  “Is the same vicar there?” Jane asked.

  “He left years ago, it’s a woman now.”

  “Does Mrs. Grundy run the corner shop?”

  “Her son John took it over.”

  “Has Dad got a ski jacket?”

  “Look in his cupboard.”

  “Thought you only had to bring underpants.”

  “What’s the name of the family who moved into the rectory?”

  “Jenkins.”

  “Did you know there was a war called Jenkins’s Ear? Might be a relation.”

  “Who’ll draw me an invitation card?”

  “Only children draw cards.”

  “You are children.”

  “Top Gear’s on in five minutes.”

  “My turn for the chair.”

  “Last one gets the floor.”

  A mad scramble, two upended chairs, a thrown punch, a spilt glass, followed by the clatter of footsteps on the stone floors, and then absolute quiet. Jane sat at the table, resting her head on her forearms. She felt so tired. Too tired to upright a chair, let alone give a party. Why didn’t Kitto come back? Surely if he loved her enough, he’d ignore her anger and make everything OK. Thinking about her husband brought a fresh wave of tears, too many to wipe away.

  * * *

  Eleven days later, on Christmas morning, Jane rose early to put the turkey in the oven. She went to let out the chickens, feed the livestock and tend to Milly. It was, even by Cornish standards, filthy weather. Heavy, freezing rain blew up the estuary at right angles to the house. The horse stood with her head between her front legs in the far corner of the field, refusing to hear Jane’s call. Having caught the animal, Jane decided to bring her into the kitchen as a Christmas treat.

  Ambrose was the first child to emerge. He walked into the kitchen in a pair of new slippers, hand-embroidered by his mother with the family’s crest.

  “What the fuck is the horse doing in here?”

  “It’s cold and wet outside.”

  “It’s a fucking horse.”

  “If you’d seen her, you’d have taken pity.”

  “It’s not house-trained or hygienic.” On cue, Milly lifted her tail and delivered a large, steaming turd.

  “I’ll have that out of here in a jiffy,” Jane said, opening the cupboard beneath the sink and bringing out a dustpan and brush.

  “You think this is funny and a bit eccentric, don’t you? But it isn’t funny. It isn’t cool. It isn’t hip. It’s just depressing, squalid and filthy. I wish you could see it through a normal person’s eyes.” Ambrose’s voice cracked. “You think I don’t bring people home because I’m snobbish. Wrong. I wouldn’t subject anyone I like to this place.”

  “You don’t mean that, darling.”

  The veins beneath Ambrose’s temples stood out and his face had gone as red as his slippers.

  “Look at your daughter. She’s feral. Runs around with a mad old woman collecting fleas. Poor Toby’s in love with a girl who’ll leave him for a boy with central heating. No wonder Dad walked out.”

  Jane was torn between wanting to shout at or comfort her son. “Ambrose, have a cup of tea.”

  “What is the role of any parent if it isn’t to help equip their children for the future?” He looked around the kitchen. “Is this the world you want for us?”

  “You have been given so many advantages,” Jane said, feeling aggrieved that her eldest couldn’t appreciate the sacrifices made on his behalf. “We sent you to one of the best schools in England in the hope that you might get an education and contacts. But you’ve squandered those opportunities.”

  “What was the point in doing exams? My future was set, mapped out. The prison of inheritance, of duty and ‘standards.’ I am trapped.”

  Jane thought he might cry.

  “This family hates and resents me for my so-called good fortune. As if it’s my choice to have been the firstborn, to have been left with this total dump.”

  Jane made a move to hug him but, sidestepping her, he put his foot into Milly’s turd. There was an ominous, audible squelch.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Ambrose said, hopping around on one foot while he ripped the dirtied slipper off the other. “Sleet says the aristocracy is finished, over, done with,” he spat out. “He’s right.”

  “He doesn’t sound awfully nice, your Mr. Sleet.”

  “He’s the most brilliant man in the whole world. I have finally found someone to admire.” Ambrose took a step towards the door. “You never liked me as much as the others. You made that perfectly clear from the day Toby was born—you thought I was a bit square, a bit bourgeo
is, like your own parents.” His voice wobbled. “I no longer care what you think. I don’t want to be like you or Dad: I’m going to make it. I’m going to be like Sleet.” He kicked off the slipper he was wearing. “I’m off to London.”

  “It’s Christmas Day, there are no trains,” Jane said, wishing she too could run away.

  Ambrose shrugged. “I’m probably not the only saddo trying to get away from home.” He stuck his thumb out like a hitchhiker. “Happy Christmas.” The door slammed behind him.

  Jane wondered if she should run after him, try to offer some words of reassurance, but she knew that, even if she found him, they were both too hurt and angry to put things right. Hopefully the journey to London would be grim and long enough for Ambrose to reflect on what he’d said and think of his parents and home in a more flattering light. She scooped the horse dung up in the dustpan and gave the floor a half-hearted wipe with the dishcloth. Unhooking the hay net, she led a reluctant Milly out of the kitchen, along the corridor and down the drive to the field.

  * * *

  Forty-three people accepted Jane’s New Year’s Eve drinks invitation and the first to arrive, on the dot of 8 p.m., was Clarissa, accompanied by Arabella.

  “Toby, darling, get me a stiff gin. Three fingers,” Clarissa told her grandson.

  “It’s wine or beer only,” Jane said.

  “I’ll have one small glass of red wine.” Clarissa pursed her lips. “Who’s coming? I hope you’ve asked the Plantagenet-Parkers and the Beachendons.”

  Jane braced herself. “Actually we’ve asked the village.”

  “The village? I don’t understand.”

  “The neighbours.”

  “Very funny, darling.” Clarissa took a sip of wine.

  Jane looked at Toby and shrugged.

  The next guests to arrive were Mary Clark with her husband and two children. They were followed by John and Marsha Grundy and his mother who was commonly known as Mrs. G.

  “I do wish the Plantagenet-Parkers and the Beachendons would hurry up,” Clarissa grumbled as she watched the other guests, none of whom she recognised, throng through the front door.

  Mark and Celia Sparrow arrived. Toby brought them over to meet his mother.

  “Why are they using the front door?” Clarissa asked.

  “People aren’t mingling,” Jane said nervously.

  The guests had split into two groups, both largely silent. In the middle, with her back to the fire, stood Clarissa, staring stonily ahead.

  “There’s been a bit of trouble in the village,” Mark explained. “Seems that John Grundy’s wife Marsha has been carrying on with Ted the publican. Ted’s wife smashed the windows of the corner shop.”

  Jane put her hand over her mouth to suppress a smile. Looking over at the diminutive John Grundy, she tried to imagine him at the centre of such drama.

  Taking a bottle of white and a bottle of red, one in each hand, Jane advanced towards her guests.

  “You are most welcome here,” she said. “Happy New Year.”

  The alcohol ran out by ten o’clock, the conversation some time before. Couple by couple, the guests sidled away, some thanking Jane for her hospitality, others simply nodding in her direction.

  “That was a terrific success,” Clarissa said, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice. “Next year, I’ll do the guest list.”

  “Feel free.”

  “You’re tight.”

  “Not nearly tight enough,” Jane retorted.

  “Arabella, walk me home before there’s a scene.” Clarissa held out her arm.

  The room was spinning slightly. Looking up, Jane was sure that Van Dyck’s horse winked at her. She winked back and laughed. She needed another drink. It was hours till midnight and she had to keep going. She picked up the bottles one by one. They were empty. She eyed the door to the corridor and walked determinedly towards it. One foot, two foot, one foot, two foot, whoopsie. She must have tripped, for she found herself flat on the floor. Ouch. That knee again. Pooter’s licking my cheek. Sweet Pooter. He understands. Who’s picking me up? Strong arms. Is it Kitto? Has he come back? I miss you, darling K. Thank you for coming back. Oh dear. It’s not you. Suppose you never could carry me. Big girl Jane. It’s you, handsome Toby. Stinker of a party, wasn’t it. Absolute stinker. Remind me never to do that again.

  When Jane woke, it was dark. Reaching for her phone, she saw that it was 5 a.m. How did the saying go? The darkest hour is just before the dawn. Curled up in the foetal position, Jane considered her options. Kitto didn’t want her; one of her children had already left home and the other two would follow soon; she was friendless, jobless and hopeless. With no other choice, she texted Blaze a message. If offer open, I will be your manager. Grand opening April 1st? Jane.

  19

  Sleet Hall

  WEDNESDAY 31ST DECEMBER 2008

  Blaze was facing pressure from Ayesha to accept an invitation to Sir Thomlinson and Lady Sleet’s New Year’s Eve party.

  “The papers say that it will be the party to end all parties,” Ayesha said. “I can’t believe that you’d put a little work issue before my happiness.”

  “The man is trying to ruin my business and my reputation.”

  “So hold your head high, put on your best frock and show the world that you are bigger than his idle, unfounded taunts.”

  “If only it were just vibes, but he’s run a campaign against me in the press and is using every trick, including bribery, to persuade my most important clients to move their funds.”

  “Then treat the party as a platform to refute and as a stalking ground to find more clients. By skulking in corners, being invisible, you are letting him win.”

  Eventually Blaze conceded and, at 8 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, a chauffeur-driven car arrived to collect the two women from Moonshot Wharf. Ayesha came out of her room swathed in one of Blaze’s floor-length shearling coats. Her eyes were ringed with kohl and her lips were stained a deep pink. Her long auburn hair was pinned around her face like a burnished halo. The effect of the black coat and the fine pale face reminded Blaze of a Renaissance Madonna.

  “You look extraordinarily beautiful,” she told her niece.

  Ayesha smiled graciously. “Your costume suits you.” She had found Blaze a fitted deep-red camisole and matching voluminous trousers that tied tightly at the ankles. The colour showed off Blaze’s creamy skin. “Try these on too.” Ayesha clipped two snake-shaped bangles on to her aunt’s upper arms and fitted a cobra-style pendant around her throat.

  “Where did you find these?” Blaze laughed.

  “Southall Market. It’s Little India—you can find anything there.”

  “How did you get my size?”

  “I took one of your shirts with me. The tailor copied the measurements but I made him take them in a few inches. What’s the point of all that running if you don’t show off your body?”

  “Can I see what you’re wearing?”

  “When we get there.”

  Blaze’s phone beeped.

  “Another text from him?” Ayesha teased. “And you thought that was it.”

  “We should go,” Blaze said, wanting to change the subject. Wolfe was in regular contact and recently she had started returning his texts.

  “To think how mortified you were after the first date,” Ayesha continued, remembering finding her aunt curled up on the sofa after a sleepless night.

  “It was a disaster.” Blaze couldn’t tell Ayesha what had happened.

  “So why did he send flowers?”

  Pulling on her coat, Blaze wanted to read Wolfe’s text but was embarrassed to appear keen.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  Blaze looked at her phone. My New Year’s resolution is to spend more time with you, JW. She tried not to smile or blush and failed on both count
s.

  Ayesha laughed and clapped her hands together. “You’ve gone as pink as a newborn rat.”

  Blaze read the text again. “He didn’t put an X at the bottom.”

  Ayesha snorted. She opened the door of the apartment and pressed the button for the lift. Blaze double-locked the front door and set the alarms behind her. In the lift, she stared at her telephone.

  “Yesterday he used an X,” Blaze said, scrolling through Joshua’s texts as the two women rode down to the ground floor. Then she laughed at herself. “Imagine if he could see me now. A middle-aged woman panicking about an X.”

  The air outside was biting. Ayesha shivered and buttoned up her coat. Their chauffeur jumped out of the car and opened the rear door. Ayesha nodded imperiously and settled herself into the back seat.

  “Destination as advised?” the driver asked.

  “Yes, please,” said Blaze, sitting next to her niece.

  “I think you’re in love,” Ayesha teased.

  “I hardly know him! We’ve had one dinner, two letters, eight phone conversations and eleven texts.” Blaze stopped and said quickly, “Not that I’m counting.”

  “If Mark doesn’t text me every day, I feel sick,” Ayesha replied. “I don’t care if the others fall off a cliff.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Blaze asked. Mark spent a lot of time at the apartment but he never stayed the night.

  “He is my true love,” Ayesha said softly. “Aunty, whoever this man is, you look ten years younger and fifty times happier than when I arrived in London. I have a whole car journey to get information out of you.”