House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  “Are you OK?” he asked.

  The voice was unmistakable. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question all evening.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I searched all over for you.”

  Blaze, bedraggled, snow- and mud-spattered, was glad that her coat hid the fancy-dress outfit. What bad luck had led to this chance encounter with him of all people? She wiped her face and ran her hands through her hair to try and straighten it. “I’m not at my best.”

  “You must be cold.”

  Her teeth were chattering.

  “The car’s warm.” Walking over to the Land Rover, he opened the passenger door and helped her climb in. From the front seat, he leaned into the back, found a blanket and placed it over her legs, then turned the heater up high.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “If I could find my driver, I was going to ask him to take me to the nearest station. My niece will need the car later,” Blaze said in hope.

  “A train at nearly midnight on New Year’s Eve?” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Blaze said nothing, aware how ridiculous she must appear. “I’ll drive you back to London,” he said.

  “It’s out of your way.”

  “I came tonight in the hope of seeing you.” He put the car into gear and headed towards the exit.

  They drove in silence for about half an hour; the only noise was the slapping of wipers on the windscreen and the hum of the radiator above the engine. In a small village they saw the lights of a pub and outside a few hardy people huddled under a makeshift awning smoking cigarettes.

  “I have an overnight bag in the back with a clean set of clothes,” he said. “Why don’t we stop for a whisky and you can get changed?”

  “I would like that,” Blaze stuttered, feeling the wet silk of her trousers clinging to her thighs and stomach. Every part of her was cold.

  He stopped the car a little way up the road from the pub and, leaning over the seat behind him, took out a small holdall. Blaze opened the door and, stepping into the snow, gave an involuntary yelp.

  “Put your arms around me,” he said, getting out and coming to her side of the car.

  She clasped her fingers around the back of his neck and let him scoop her up in his arms. His jacket smelled of hay, with a slight tang of mothballs. His face was roughly shaven and she felt the bristles against her cheek.

  The pub was full of revellers and the walls were covered with Christmas decorations. The landlord stepped out from behind the bar. Blaze’s companion let her down gently.

  “It’s past closing time; we’re only allowed to serve residents,” the landlord explained.

  “Do you have any rooms left?” the man asked.

  “Only one. It’s small and at the back. £50.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “What’s your name?” the landlord enquired.

  “Wolfe—Joshua Wolfe.”

  By the time Blaze had changed into Wolfe’s jeans and jumper and returned to the bar, her hair roughly towel-dried and face free of make-up, he was sitting on a small sofa by the open fire. On the table there were two tumblers, a bottle of whisky, a pot of freshly brewed coffee and many packets of salted peanuts.

  Waking up in the small bed, in an unfamiliar room the following morning, Blaze tried to piece together the sequence of events. Had they drunk the whole bottle of whisky? Did they really dance with strangers around the bar? Did he kiss her first or did she kiss him? She remembered the feeling of his caresses on her neck, his fingers on her thighs, the urgency of their lovemaking, but all those sensations had merged. Now she lay watching his sleeping face, the rise and fall of his chest, his mouth slightly open, his right arm thrown behind his head like a child, and was filled with a feeling of contentment; she had only known him for three months, but felt as if she’d loved him for decades. She let hope in—hope for a different kind of future and another long-lost dream: the longing to make someone else happy.

  Carefully, so as not to wake him, she wriggled out of bed and went to the bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was pleasantly surprised. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her hair was tousled beyond help, but she noticed a softness around her mouth and a rosy hue across her cheeks. Even her scar looked less vivid. Her naked body was lithe and firm, and she turned to the left and right to admire herself, thankful for the hours of training in the gym. Her reverie was broken by a loud ping and, turning around, she saw his mobile phone flashing on the cabinet. She wondered what the time was: early for someone to be messaging. The phone pinged again. Don’t look at it, she told herself, and then picked it up. You’re only checking the time, she thought reassuringly. Taking the Nokia in her hands, she saw that it was 7:40 a.m. Put the phone down now. She pushed the button and two messages flashed up. Both were from someone called Amanda. The first one read: Morning. Can’t wait to see you. XX. The second said: Really can’t wait. Blaze felt the energy drain from her body. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, cradling her thighs. Of course there was an Amanda, she thought miserably. There was bound to be a Laura and a Cassandra too. How could she have been so naive? To him, she had been nothing more than a New Year’s Eve conquest. She washed her face with cold water and tried to smooth her hair before going back into the bedroom to gather her clothes.

  Wolfe opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. “Are you coming back to bed?” he asked, pulling down the sheet for her.

  “I have to get going,” Blaze said coldly.

  He sat up. “Has something happened?” He looked confused. “Last night was so…” he hesitated, “…so lovely.”

  “Glad it was for you,” Blaze countered. “I was drunk.”

  Wolfe recoiled. He’s certainly a good actor, Blaze thought, looking at his bereft expression. She pulled on her harem pants and picked up her damp, long coat. “I’m going to ask for a taxi.”

  “It’s too early—I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” He got out of bed and looked for his clothes. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “Who’s Amanda?” Blaze turned to face him.

  Wolfe stepped back. He looked incredulous. “Have you been reading my texts? Snooping into my private business?” His face flushed with anger. “I don’t like people who do that.”

  “Your phone was in the bathroom; the messages flashed up.”

  Wolfe shook his head and started getting dressed. “This is the second time you’ve seen the absolute worst in a situation and jumped to a conclusion; once again you’ve played judge and jury and found the accused wanting. And I have not even been allowed a trial, let alone the opportunity to make a statement.” He pulled on his trousers and slipped his sweater over his head.

  Blaze stood by the door with her arms crossed. How typical of a man to go on the offensive; it proved her worst fears.

  “I can’t be with someone who sees the negative in everything and catastrophe at every turn.” Stuffing the rest of the clothes into his overnight bag, he picked it up with one hand and held open the door for her with the other. They walked downstairs in silence. He had prepaid the bill with a credit card and stopped to hand the room key to a young girl wiping the bar. This time he didn’t carry her or open the passenger door of the Land Rover. Blaze got in beside him and he drove, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. After seventeen minutes they arrived at Reading Station.

  “Do you have money for a ticket?” he asked.

  Blaze nodded and opened the door.

  “Wait.” He turned towards her. “For the record, Amanda is my ex-girlfriend. I was with her for nearly seven years. She was and is a very important and much-loved person in my life. She recently had a child on her own and asked me to spend a few days over New Year with her. I have few significant people in my life but those I love, I wi
ll die for. She is one of them.” He hesitated. “I’m not a philanderer and I don’t end up in bed with random women. I’m sorry that you have such a low opinion of me.” His face was impassive and stony. “Happy New Year, Blaze.”

  Blaze slid out of the car, burning with shame and regret. Before closing the door, she looked at him. He was right; for the second time, she had assumed the worst: first with Molly and now with someone called Amanda. The first time, he’d given her a chance; now her jealousy had snuffed out any hope.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Wolfe didn’t answer. He put the car in first gear.

  Blaze closed the door and watched the Land Rover pull away. She stood there for ten minutes, maybe more, just in case he changed his mind and drove back to find her. When it was clear he wasn’t coming, she turned and walked into the station.

  20

  Seeds

  SATURDAY 17TH JANUARY 2009

  When Arabella came down to breakfast, she found her mother hiding underneath the kitchen table.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I thought you were the vicar.”

  “Why would I be the vicar?”

  “He’s always lurking.”

  “It’s seven in the morning; he’ll be having breakfast. Which is something that Toby and I would like to do too.”

  The day before, Arabella had passed her mother running from the Mistresses’ Wing to the kitchen door with a wastepaper basket over her head.

  “I’m incognito,” Jane had hissed.

  Then there were the culinary fads. One week, Jane had cooked only Mexican food, before switching to Greek. Neither had been a success. Driven by hunger and necessity, the children borrowed a cookery book from the library and worked their way through the recipes. Occasionally their mother came to meals, but often she stayed in her office shuffling through endless correspondence, bills and paperwork. She spent most nights closeted in her studio printing new, even more morbid, wallpaper designs.

  Arabella had stopped going to school. Her mother hadn’t noticed and her brother was too wrapped up with Celia to care. Instead she spent her time with Aunt Tuffy, whose latest research project involved feeding caterpillars the leaves of marijuana plants grown in the fourth ballroom.

  “When will you see results?” Arabella asked. The experiment had been going on since the month before Enyon’s funeral and had been repeated through many life cycles of caterpillars.

  “Butterflies sequester and store toxic substances from their larval food-plant to use as part of their chemical arsenal. Cabbage whites store mustard oil from cabbages and put it into their caterpillar eggs to make them less palatable to predators. Monarch butterflies use poisons from milkweed, aphids like cardiac glycosides and swallowtail butterflies prefer aristolochic acids for the same purpose.”

  Arabella could hardly contain her excitement. “What will the marijuana reveal? Why not use a simple cabbage?”

  Tuffy looked at her thoughtfully. “I might make a scientist out of you yet. You’re asking the right kind of question. Marijuana is pungent, potent and easy to grow. I’m interested in two things: can we identify plant compounds that bring about changes in colour and might the same compounds smell so awful that they scare a predator away?”

  “And if you could?”

  “Imagine if there was a pill to repel mosquitoes? Think how many millions of lives could be saved. Or if we could genetically modify a wheat or grass seed with a compound that would render wild animals repulsive to ticks or fleas.”

  “Using nature to fight nature without having to invent anything new.”

  The older woman nodded. “As so often in life, the answers are right in front of us.” Unused as she was to human company, Tuffy could see that something was troubling her great-niece. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? If not, go away.” Although she sounded cross, Arabella understood that Tuffy was trying to be kind. She told her about Jane’s recent behaviour.

  “Your mother is taking measures to stop people from bothering her,” Tuffy said. “She has to decide if she values friendship over productivity. Both require a significant investment of time.”

  “Have you got any friends?”

  Tuffy thought about this question as she moved seven bright green caterpillars from one box to another. “It’s been a great relief to find the company of insects and animals far more interesting.” She looked at her niece and smiled. “Now make yourself useful. Fetch down those specimen jars on the top shelf and in your best handwriting copy out the following names.”

  * * *

  For the first time in over forty-six years of marriage, Gordon and Glenda Sparrow were sleeping apart. Every night she asked him to come back to their marital bed; his answer was always the same.

  “While you work for the enemy, I’ll have nothing to do with you.” Gordon’s anger, humiliation and grief had made him irrational. As far as he was concerned, Kitto was responsible for Acorn’s bankruptcy and the loss of Gordon’s savings and job. At the age of sixty-five and in the present climate, he was unlikely to find other work. Mark had offered help, which neither grandparent would accept. It went against everything they believed in; penury would be preferable. If Glenda could have found work elsewhere, she’d have taken it. Unlike her husband, she didn’t blame Kitto. He was an irresponsible ass but not a bad person. She bore Gordon’s fury in case it made him feel better, less powerless. Her heart broke for her husband and his shattered dreams. It was Mark who persuaded his grandfather to create an activist group of former employees and shareholders of Acorn to lobby the government and the bank’s creditors, hoping that proactivity would give Gordon a sense of purpose. Mark drove from Bristol to Trelawney three evenings a week to teach the older man how to use a computer and search for other people who had lost their savings. Glenda didn’t think it would do any good but was, at first, pleased that Gordon had an outlet for his rage. But the interest became an obsession and grew into a mania; sometimes she came downstairs in the middle of the night to find her husband hunched over the laptop (lent by Mark), stabbing the keyboard with two fingers. She comforted herself that Gordon had a cause, even if it didn’t have an effect.

  Gordon’s network began to spread. He found associates in Cornwall, but also as far afield as Scotland and Scandinavia. Then he began to research their legal position and case law. The once-pristine kitchen was turned into his centre of operations. In the past he had picked flowers for his wife; now he made notes—pages and pages of notes—which were piled into neat stacks. Glenda’s domain shrank to a small corner around the kettle. If she watched television (always alone), the volume had to be almost inaudible so as not to disrupt the Skype calls Gordon made to his new friends. Glenda’s world had contracted; Gordon’s had exploded. She no longer recognised her husband: the man who had loved nature; who could name any tree in the forest; who coaxed cuttings out of sandy soil; who would nurse an injured mouse back to health had morphed into an angry and embittered campaigner. Before the crash, Glenda had counted the hours until she returned home to her husband; now she could not wait to get to the castle every day.

  * * *

  Jane stood at the sink, trying to make headway with the washing-up. Looking out of the kitchen window, her hands in soapy water, she saw a single rose trembling on a branch, a splash of colour against the January gloom, and she smiled. It was bound to be a good omen. This fleeting moment of pleasure was dashed by the sight of Magda, head down, coat on, suitcase in hand, marching determinedly towards her. Jane didn’t need to be told what had happened. Magda was just one of a long line of carers—eleven in six months—driven to resignation by Clarissa’s rudeness. The agency had been absolutely clear: “Magda Pawlokowski is the last person we will send you. There aren’t many who are prepared to live in the back of beyond and even fewer who will put up with such a cantankerous old woman.” Jane had been to five different ag
encies. She had even registered under a fake name; news, it seemed, spread quickly in that part of the world and the House of Trelawney was on a blacklist.

  The kitchen door swung open and Magda entered, brandishing a sense of righteous indignation like a sword.

  “Enough! Lady is too rude.”

  “What happened this time?” Jane turned and wiped her hands on a tea towel.

  “Food too hot, food too cold. Food too salty, food too sweet.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Jane hoped she could calm Magda down and persuade her to stay. The alternative—looking after her mother-in-law herself—was too bleak to contemplate. She leaned her face against the windowpane, hoping the glass would cool her hot brow and wondered if she had the emotional resilience to cope with any more upsets; she felt that one more problem would tip her into insanity.

  “Taxi,” Magda said firmly.

  “We could increase your wages?”

  “Taxi.”

  “An extra day off?” Jane was running out of ideas.

  “Taxi.”

  “Please, Magda, please.” Jane wondered if going down on bended knee would help. At that moment she was prepared to consider anything.

  Magda shook her head. “Taxi.”

  Jane drove Magda to the station and, once alone in the car, took out her phone and sent Blaze a message. Last carer has walked out. Your mother, your problem. Jane.

  21

  Black Monday

  MONDAY 19TH JANUARY 2009