House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  When she wasn’t with Clarissa, Blaze read newspapers and watched the news obsessively. Britain was formally in a recession. Neither the programme of quantitative easing begun in March nor the G20’s global stimulus package of $5 trillion had any effect on local lives. Unemployment was rising steadily; small and large businesses were failing. While RBS and Lloyds shares had fallen dramatically, Barclays had risen to more than 200 pence. Blaze’s original investment was secure, but she didn’t want to liquidate it yet, believing that the bank was undervalued and the stock could rise further.

  The impact of the recession was stark and plainly visible in Cornwall. High streets were deserted and shops abandoned. Only the cheapest supermarkets and charity shops were thriving.

  TiLing had been made the CEO of Moonshot Capital and she and Blaze spoke most days. Officially, Blaze had nothing to do with the company, but her former number two lacked confidence and sought her advice; based on her own market research in Cornwall, Blaze encouraged TiLing to buy shares in the low-budget supermarkets and pubs, Morrisons and Wetherspoons. Sleet had made even more by shorting ailing banks and mortgage brokers but, as this practice had been subsequently banned by the Financial Services Authority, she wondered where her nemesis was putting his money.

  Most of all, she thought about Wolfe. He haunted her days and nights. Three months had passed since their encounter at Moonshot Wharf, and no word. Late one night, fortified by a bottle of wine, she decided to telephone him. It rang for a long time; she was about to cut off the call when she heard his voice.

  “Hello?”

  Blaze opened her mouth but no words came out.

  “Hello?” he asked again.

  Overcome by embarrassment, she hung up. Then she looked at the phone in amazement. What was happening to her? How could she let a man she hardly knew rob her of her sense of self and decorum? It had to stop. Refilling her glass, she made a toast. “Here’s to the end of self-pity, madness and sadness. Here’s to being a single, independent, capable, healthy woman. To making the most of life.”

  * * *

  Moonlight had turned the track into a silvery ribbon stretching from the house all the way to the escarpment. Pooter ran in front, his head down and tail waving from side to side, as steady as a metronome. Jane took care where she walked—a few nights before she’d tripped over a fallen branch and skinned her knee. By the time she got home, an hour later, the blood had hardened into her jeans and ripping them off had been more painful than the original hurt.

  The midnight walks began after Kitto’s departure; Jane’s inner demons felt more manageable outside. In the first few months she walked around the garden, but had recently ventured further afield, taking the lane towards the escarpment or following the river towards the sea. The colder the weather, the easier the journey; tonight, unseasonably chilly even for April, created perfect walking conditions and her boots crunched on frozen grass.

  Winter had stripped the trees. New leaves were beginning to unfurl and, backlit by the moon, their canopies of bare branches quivered like lace fans in the breeze. An owl called, low and mournful. Was it looking for a mate or warning others off its hunting ground? Jane wondered if birds, like humans, sent out confusing signals. She was thinking of Blaze, so obviously lonely and yet aggressively keeping everyone at a distance. Jane hardly saw her but, from the glow of the light in her bedroom, knew her sister-in-law kept similarly strange hours. For the time being there was oil in the tank, the butcher and grocer turned up and Mrs. Sparrow’s wages were paid, but Jane lived in fear of Blaze withdrawing support.

  The incline grew steeper and the frosty air caught inside Jane’s lungs. In the distance she saw an unmissable streak of black and white: a badger working its way along a fence line. She hoped that Pooter hadn’t seen it; she didn’t fancy the dog’s chances. Since Kitto had left, the Labrador had gone into mourning and spent hours sitting by the kitchen door, waiting for his master to come home. Any crunch of tyre on the gravel sent him into paroxysms of excitement and, with the realisation that the car belonged to another, he slumped inconsolably by the Aga. Jane knew how he felt. If it weren’t for the children, she might just lie down and never get up.

  * * *

  Blaze couldn’t sleep. She sat at her desk listening to the BBC news bulletin. More cases of swine flu had been identified: maybe, she thought, I will get it, die and everything will be a lot simpler. Checking her watch, she saw that it was 2 a.m. and her sister-in-law had not returned. The last thing she needed was anything to happen to Jane. Blaze’s admiration for her tenacity and hard work had grown by the day; it would take six people to replace her. Pulling a pair of trousers over her nightdress, Blaze went downstairs, grabbed a thick coat and some boots, and opened the back door. The air was biting cold. Two hours earlier, she had seen Jane set off towards the escarpment and, following in her footsteps crystallised in the freezing ground, she walked for half a mile up the track. The moon was bright and she didn’t need a torch to see. Two hundred yards ahead she caught sight of an unusual shape in a rut. At first she thought it was a sheep or small cow lying down, but the closer she got, she realised that it could only be a person. Then she heard a gentle keening. She ran, slowly at first, but when the cry became louder she speeded up, sure that Jane had fallen and hurt herself. When she got within fifteen yards, she saw her sister-in-law rocking backwards and forwards holding Pooter’s body in her arms. Blaze sank to her knees beside her.

  “What happened?” she asked, leaning over to stroke the dog. Pooter was warm to the touch, but inert.

  “He was fine,” Jane sobbed. “Then he seemed to jump into the air and landed on his back. He let out a yelp and collapsed. I ran to him; he licked my hand and went limp.” She cried harder. “He was my friend, my only friend. I can’t bear it. I can’t.” She rested her face in the animal’s coat. Her whole body shook. Blaze didn’t know what to do, but instinctively leaned forward to stroke her sister-in-law’s back. After a few minutes, Jane raised her head and, wiping her tear-stained face, looked at Blaze.

  “Will you help me take him home?”

  “Of course.” Blaze nodded and, standing up, took off her coat. “Let’s wrap his body in this. It will be easier to carry.”

  “Won’t you get cold?”

  “This is warm compared to my bedroom—they never insulated the Mistresses’ Wing.” She bent down and laid her coat on the ground. Jane got stiffly to her feet and together they folded the garment around the dog’s body. Jane took the front end, Blaze the back, and they walked slowly down towards the house. Pooter was surprisingly heavy and they had to rest several times. They reached the back door and lowered the dog on to the flagstones.

  “Would you like a hot drink?” Jane asked.

  Blaze nodded. “Maybe we should bring him just inside?”

  Jane smiled gratefully. “Let’s put him in the cold store. Tomorrow I’ll bury him in the rose garden. He used to love it there.” She burst out crying again. “I haven’t cried for months—and now this. I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Maybe it’s easier to mourn the loss of a dog. Oh, God, how can I tell the children? After all that they’ve been through.” Her voice rose to a wail and she took vague swipes with the back of her hand at the tears and mucous streaming down her face.

  They brought Pooter in and Blaze unrolled him from the coat and put a large blanket over his body. The dog’s eyes were open, liquid brown and trusting. His tongue lolled out of the corner of his mouth. Jane bent and kissed his head. Blaze held her sister-in-law’s arm and led her along the back corridor to the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Jane sat at the table staring into the middle distance, too tired or overwrought to do or say anything. When the tea came, she blew on its surface, enjoying the warm steam on her cold face. After a few minutes she asked, “What do you do all day?”

  Blaze sat down opposite and took a sip of tea. “I
listen to the news obsessively, watch what’s happening on the stock markets and transcribe Mother’s history of the house and its inhabitants.” (She missed out the hours spent thinking about Wolfe.)

  “Your mother must be so happy to have an audience,” Jane said. “I was too busy.”

  “We assumed she had no hobbies or interests outside our father’s life, but she spent years researching and thinking about the different incumbents. Some of her recollections are slight and only give an insight into the family or social life; others reflect the history of the country or the times.”

  “I can’t imagine you having the patience to sit through her long-winded explanations.”

  “Maybe I’ve got to that age when a woman turns to God, gardening or genealogy.”

  They both laughed spontaneously and then regarded each other, remembering old jokes, bygone ease. “I think God deserted me some time ago,” Jane said.

  “God who?” Blaze asked and they both giggled.

  “Perhaps we could use some of the stories when you open the house?” Jane suggested.

  Blaze looked at her. “That’s a wonderful idea. It would animate the rooms and be much more interesting than passing out written sheets. Do you think we could persuade Mum to tell a few?”

  “Try stopping her.”

  Glancing up at the wall, Jane saw that it was already 3:30 a.m. Only a few hours until she had to get the children up for school. “I need to try and get some sleep.” She pulled herself up to standing. “Thank you for helping me tonight.”

  “Thank you for letting me,” Blaze said in return.

  Jane closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Maybe, she thought, I have lost a dog and regained a friend. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow? We can have lunch.”

  Blaze nodded. “I’ll have to look at my diary; it’s so full.”

  “Mine too.” Jane laughed. “Come at one.”

  “I look forward to it,” Blaze said and, with a shy smile, turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  24

  Red Tape

  TUESDAY 12TH MAY 2009

  Even though the temperature in the dining room at Trelawney was just above freezing, the Plymouth District Local Planning Authority’s senior officer was perspiring; for John Acre, this case was an unusually exciting break from his normal roster of shop signs and building codes. His number two, Penny Cuthbert, was supposed to be taking notes but was entirely distracted by her surroundings.

  In preparation for the visit, Jane had made an effort to clean and polish one end of the thirty-foot-long, rarely used, mahogany dining-room table. The huge open fireplace was spattered with bird droppings, and she had not dared light a fire in case the nest (or nests) lodged somewhere in the flues ignited. Trelawney could only open to the public with the local authority’s agreement; and Acre was the person to convince. Jane wished that Blaze was there to help argue their case but, with the cost of preparations for the opening of the castle rising unremittingly, her sister-in-law had taken a job advising a company specialising in ethical investments and was working three days a week in its offices in Bristol. Since Pooter’s death, the two women had begun to spend time together, either over a meal or going for a walk. Both wondered, separately, if their friendship had been rekindled from old embers or by the sparks thrown off by loneliness. Either way, it didn’t matter; they were grateful for glimmers of light on their dark interior worlds.

  “This is like Hagrid’s room from Harry Potter,” Cuthbert had said when Jane showed them in earlier that morning. Unlike her boss, Cuthbert was clearly feeling the cold and her long, thin nose ran constantly.

  “Have you filled out form 67ART1?” Acre enquired.

  “Which one is that?” Jane asked, flicking through the many papers on the table. She’d had no idea that opening a house to the public would involve so many forms.

  “It’s green,” said Cuthbert. “A kind of hospital green.”

  Jane spread the papers out like a fan and found three pale, sickly-green forms. “Is this it?” She held one up.

  Acre studied it. “No, that’s the 69ART2.3. It relates to sewage. We’ll discuss your septic tank later. I have a list of things to talk about.” He waved a piece of A4 paper with two columns of “topics” numbered from 1 to 64. Words like “access,” “safety” and “regulations” swam into view. Stifling a feeling of panic, Jane shuffled through the documents in front of her. She must stay calm.

  “This?” She held out another.

  Acre smiled. “Yes. Now let’s see if you’ve checked the right boxes and filled it in correctly.” He had a high-pitched nasal voice that reminded Jane of a mosquito circling its prey. His eyes flicked greedily down the form and alighted on paragraph 9 of section C, clause 4. “I see that this one is blank,” he said triumphantly. The insect has landed, Jane thought, suspecting he was only interested in faults and omissions.

  “And which section is that?” Jane was determined to keep her temper in check; on the occasion of Acre’s last visit, she had snapped at him, a tactless move given his power over their future plans.

  “It’s the section on bats.”

  “Bats?”

  “Yes, bats.”

  “What about them?”

  “Whether you have any, what kind and whether the public might disturb them.”

  Jane had heard about the power of bat protection societies and decided to tread carefully. “I’m not a bat expert.”

  “You will need to consult one.”

  “What will they tell me?” Jane tried to keep her voice neutral.

  “For a start, what kind of animal you have,” Cuthbert piped up. “There are the crevice-dwellers like the common pipistrelle, the soprano pipistrelle, Nathusius’ pipistrelle, Brandt’s or the whiskered bat. But you are more likely to have the roof-dwellers like the serotine, Leisler’s, Daubenton’s or, if you are lucky, a barbastelle.”

  “Too much detail for now, Ms. Cuthbert,” Acre said, unable, nevertheless, to suppress a hint of pride. Jane wondered if they were sleeping together and entertained visions of them both carefully folding their beige suits and drip-dry shirts on the back of the chair before engaging in frantic copulation. She forced herself back to the present.

  “Actually, it is relevant because some, like the brown and grey long-eared bat, need flight space in the roost while others, like the great horseshoe, need flying access as well.” Cuthbert smiled lovingly at her supervisor. They are sleeping together, Jane thought.

  “But as you know, Mr. Acre, none of the proposed visitors will venture above the ground floor. That leaves two between the public and any bats.”

  “That is not the issue.”

  “Perhaps you could explain what the issue is?” Jane was confused.

  Acre, hardly able to suppress a smile, turned to his number two and, with the excitement of a father asking his child to play “Chopsticks” at an adult party, suggested that she might like to enlighten their client.

  “In this country, due to a decline in bat numbers during the last century, all species are protected by the Wildlife and Countryside Act of 1981,” Cuthbert said. “There is also the Countryside and Rights of Way Act from 2000, the Natural Environment and Rural Communities Act 2006, and we are awaiting other amendments in the forthcoming Habitats and Species Regulations.”

  “And what does all this mean?”

  “It is, therefore, illegal to deliberately or recklessly kill, injure, capture or disturb bats, or to obstruct access to bat roosts or damage or destroy bat roosts, whether occupied or not.” Cuthbert took a deep breath and smiled broadly.

  “So it makes no difference if the roosts or the properties are occupied?” Jane asked.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “This house is eight hundred years old; what happens if there’s a bat roost from the fifteenth century—is that protected?�
�

  Cuthbert turned to her supervisor for clarification.

  “I think we look for reasonably recent occupation.”

  “What does it matter if we’re not going upstairs?” Keep calm, Jane reminded herself. Don’t antagonise these people; imagine you are on the same side.

  Cuthbert leaned forward with excitement. “Like you, I thought bats lived upstairs but actually they live wherever it suits them. We found bats in a downstairs toilet once, didn’t we, Mr. Acre?”

  “We did, Ms. Cuthbert.” Acre nodded. “So next you need to consult your local SNCO.”

  Jane wrote this down. “What does it stand for?”

  “It is short for Statutory Nature Conservation Organisation.”

  “How do I get in touch with them?”

  “Yellow Pages.”

  “Or the internet. There’s a very interesting website—the Bat Conservancy Organisation’s portal,” Cuthbert said.

  “And then what?” Jane’s heart sank.

  “If there are any building works pertaining to the opening, you will need an S80 demolition notice completed by you and an S81 issued by the building control officer at the local authority.”

  “Is that you?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, no. That’s Len Beamer,” Cuthbert said.

  “Len Beamer retired,” Acre corrected her.

  “So he did. Who took over?”

  “They haven’t appointed anyone yet.”

  Cuthbert turned to Jane. “You’ve no idea how convoluted the appointment processes have become. It can take months and months to fill one position.”

  The door burst open and Aunt Tuffy stormed across the room holding a plastic bag and a fork. “Don’t mind me,” she announced cheerfully.