House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  “Tuffy, we are in a meeting,” Jane said.

  “Won’t be long.” Tuffy went over to the fireplace, sank to her knees and started to scrape some of the ivy away from the hearth. “Quite amazing how quickly it grows.”

  “What’s she doing?” Cuthbert asked.

  Jane shrugged, hoping her worst fears wouldn’t be realised.

  “Excellent,” Tuffy said and, taking the plastic bag, carefully placed it over something in the fireplace.

  “What are you doing?” Cuthbert asked Tuffy, as the elderly woman slowly got back on to her feet.

  Tuffy triumphantly waved the specimen bag. “Arabella told me where to find an excellent Xenopsylla cheopis.”

  “Can I see?” Cuthbert stood up and approached.

  “I really wouldn’t,” Jane said weakly.

  Cuthbert leaned forward and stared into the bag. Seconds later she screamed and jumped backwards.

  “Dead rat!”

  “Of course it’s dead! Do you think I’d be stupid enough to try and catch a rat with a fork and a plastic bag?” Tuffy shook her head in amazement.

  “I wondered what that sickly smell was.” Cuthbert went and stood behind Acre’s chair.

  “It’s heavenly, isn’t it? The smell of a decomposing body and the certainty of lots of maggots and fleas.” Brandishing her spoils, Tuffy walked out of the room.

  Cuthbert, now pink in the face, straightened her shoulders and, mustering her most professional smile, returned to her seat.

  There was a long silence before Acre cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate, but would you mind my asking, Lady Trelawney, where your husband is? It’s irregular to conduct these kind of meetings without the owner present.”

  “Do you mean without the owner or without a male?” Jane asked.

  Acre shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “This is 2009, Lady Trelawney—I am not making any sexist judgements.”

  “Do you know that when my mum wanted a TV licence, her dad had to sign the form? That was only in the 1980s,” Cuthbert said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Cuthbert,” Acre replied. “Now, if you don’t mind telling us where His Lordship is.”

  Jane looked at her hands and then at the family portraits. She was unsure how to answer the question. Stuck for a good alternative, she settled on the truth. “I haven’t got any idea.”

  Acre and Cuthbert exchanged knowing glances.

  Jane didn’t trust herself to say anything rational. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” she said and ran down the corridor, through the hall and into the third drawing room. Here, some distance from Acre and Cuthbert, she screamed loudly. She went on screaming until she felt calm enough to walk back to the dining room.

  “We thought we heard someone shouting,” Cuthbert said.

  “The ghost of the 7th Countess,” Jane whispered.

  Cuthbert looked around nervously. “Are there many?”

  “Ghosts? Hundreds. It’s like living in a permanent cocktail party,” Jane replied. “The 7th Countess has developed a passion for hoovering and it’s been a great help. Like having unpaid staff.”

  Cuthbert considered this remark from an employment law point of view. “That would be a hard tribunal to bring.”

  Jane crossed her hands over each other and looked across the table at the two guests. “Today is the day we intended to open Trelawney to the public. But today, like many preceding days, we are mired in bureaucracy. Let me reiterate what we are and what we are not trying to achieve: we don’t wish to disturb bats, or to endanger anyone’s life by falling masonry or inhaling mould or any other kind of injury; we want visitors to share in the history of this great place; and we want to train and employ local people by creating new businesses. Imagine if we gave young people something to do other than smoking crack at the village bus stop. Unemployment in this area is rising fast and, for young women in particular, there are few job opportunities. We’re not asking you or any other government departments for grants towards this project. We want to give something back.” Jane hesitated. “But our dreams are being thwarted by pieces of red tape. Tell me, Mr. Acre and Ms. Cuthbert, what would you suggest we do?”

  Acre and Cuthbert sat silently for a moment.

  “We respect your intentions, Lady Trelawney,” Acre said. “But it’s a matter of health and safety. You need to do some repairs.”

  “No!” Jane’s voice rose and she struggled to catch it but, like a ball thrown too high, it slipped away and out of her reach. “No, no, no.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Jane breathed in deeply. “The whole point of the exercise is to show people what happens to buildings, to families, to society if they’re left untended. Nature takes over.” She got to her feet and, going over to the wall, tugged at a bit of ivy. The plant, as she suspected, was deeply embedded and to pull it even harder might bring down a chunk of plaster. “You see, we humans think we are in control but we’re not. Nature is waiting patiently and, at the first opportunity, she’ll pounce.” Jane lunged towards Cuthbert, who screamed and held her hands up in self-protection. She continued with her theme. “It’s the same with people. My husband’s forebears enjoyed uninterrupted wealth and privileges for eight hundred years. Without money and prestige, they’ve been returned to their natural state. Now they are no better, no different to animals.”

  Acre and Cuthbert looked at each other wearily.

  “The thing, Lady Trelawney, I don’t get,” Cuthbert’s expression was earnest, “is what are people going to see? There’s nothing to look at. Why would anyone pay to walk around an empty house?”

  “It’s a cautionary tale,” Jane said, echoing Blaze’s words and remembering how, only weeks earlier, she’d wanted to murder her sister-in-law for this preposterous suggestion.

  “I don’t think anyone wants more of those. It’s been a terrible year. Only yesterday they laid off fifty people at Tesco’s in St. Austell. All anyone wants now is fantasy and entertainment.” Cuthbert pursed her lips.

  Looking at the bovine Cuthbert with her shiny, moon-like face, Jane saw that the local council officer was correct. The crash and the recession had given everyone more than enough reality; who really wanted yet another story of decline and fall? The house’s purpose, if it had one, was as a purveyor of fantastic illusions. That said, neither she nor Blaze had come up with any viable, affordable alternatives. Yoga studios, five-star restaurants, B&Bs, hotels, amusement parks and things of that ilk required enormous investment.

  Straightening her shoulders, Jane mustered her best smile. “Where have we got to?”

  “You’ll need a SAG.”

  “Sag like my spirits,” Jane said, attempting a joke.

  “SAG as in Safety Advisory Group,” Cuthbert corrected. “They will help with risk assessments, emergency planning and damage limitations.”

  Jane felt the last drops of hope ebb away.

  “You’ll have to consider signage, traffic management, first aid, PR, admission costs, online and manual ticketing,” Acre added.

  “And facilities. We recommend one toilet per hundred lady visitors and one per five hundred males,” Cuthbert said. “And one per seventy-five disabled people.”

  “We have a total of eight—or maybe it’s seven—working bathrooms in the whole house,” Jane replied. “We can’t afford to add any more.”

  “And you’ll have to manage all this without disturbing the bats.”

  “The dear, dear bats,” Jane said without any irony.

  25

  The Auction Room

  THURSDAY 25TH JUNE 2009

  “Why have you brought me here?” Blaze asked Tony, looking around the auction house whose rooms were hung with works of art from all periods. A large marble statue of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love and Beauty, was placed near a painting by Picasso o
f a priapic Minotaur. On another wall there was a drooling dog painted by a justifiably forgotten Victorian artist displayed next to a metallic Jeff Koons balloon rabbit.

  “I thought you should leave the wilds of Cornwall and see a bit of real life,” Tony said. Even though it was lunchtime, a DJ with bulbous headphones stood by a deck in the centre of the room spinning vinyl records; rap music boomed out of huge speakers. A couple of sinewy women danced in front of a Damien Hirst spot painting and a reality TV star posed for photographers by an Andy Warhol screen-print of a soup can. The waiters and waitresses, all better-looking than the guests, handed out trays of bite-sized burgers and Bellinis.

  “You call this real life?” Blaze laughed. It was the first time she’d been to London for many weeks and she’d been instantly overwhelmed by the cacophonous noises and malodorous smells. With only a month to go before the opening of the house, she and Jane were working around the clock. But Tony had been insistent and, as she hadn’t seen her uncle for a long time, she’d agreed to make the long journey.

  “You should approve,” Tony told her. “The sale is in aid of those who were wiped out by the crash. All the works have been donated by hedge-fund billionaires.”

  Blaze hadn’t heard about the event and wondered what else she had missed out on during the last few months of self-imposed purdah.

  “I think it’s extremely bad taste, very Marie Antoinette ‘let them eat cake,’ ” he said. “Do they think they can salve their consciences and solve a problem by offloading art bought from the spoils of other people’s misery?”

  “At least they’re trying to do something.” Blaze felt guilty; she hadn’t done anything.

  “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Tony said, taking his niece’s arm.

  Finding a smaller room with a bar at one end, he helped himself to two glasses of champagne, handed one to Blaze and then groaned. “Alert at three o’clock: the Duke of Swindon with some new parlourmaid.”

  “That’s one of his daughters,” Blaze said, recognising Lady Ophelia’s distinctive carrot-coloured hair and strawberry-tinted face.

  “She looks like a parlourmaid.”

  “You are such an odd mixture,” Blaze laughed. “A committed socialist one moment, a rampant snob the next.”

  “Capriciousness is the preserve of the old. So marvellous to be able to let random thoughts pour from the mind to the tongue without pause or retribution.” He downed his champagne in one and, taking another full glass, scanned the room. “Where is she?”

  “Who?” Blaze asked.

  “Ayesha said she was coming.”

  Blaze had also neglected her niece who, since the sale of Moonshot Wharf in March, had moved to a flat in Marylebone and refused all offers of financial assistance.

  “Oh, no,” Tony said. “Here comes a frightful human hazard.” He tried to duck behind a Henry Moore sculpture, but a man, dressed in a white linen suit with orange shoes which matched his complexion, clapped a hand on his shoulder. The newcomer’s smile was disingenuous, his irritation palpable.

  “Anthony, I hear you are trying to steal my client.”

  “Maurice Sutchnot, meet my niece Blaze.” Tony smiled faintly.

  Maurice nodded in Blaze’s direction and leaned in closer to Tony. “What’s your explanation?”

  “Is Willoughby Bruff only allowed to buy works from you? I sold him a Monet sketch,” Tony said smoothly. “Where’s the harm in that?”

  “You let him have it for well below the market value,” Maurice chided. “That kind of bargain-basement price fucks it up for the rest of us. Now he keeps asking for reductions in everything.”

  Tony shrugged.

  “It was so cheap I thought it must be a fake.” Maurice loosened the collar of his shirt and wiped his hand over a sweaty forehead.

  “If you knew more about art, you’d know it is a great sketch and mentioned in all the catalogues raisonnés of Monet’s work.” Tony sipped his champagne with apparent nonchalance, but Blaze could tell her uncle was uncomfortable. “Besides, that sketch elevated your client’s portfolio.”

  Maurice took a step closer to Tony and hissed, “I’ve put together a first-rate collection for him.”

  “Poppycock and piffle. You’ve flogged him a mass of aspiring artists one has nearly but not quite heard of. The Monet adds cachet to that bunch of also-rans.”

  Blaze thought Maurice might strike her uncle. His face turned pillar-box red and sweat bubbled from his nose and forehead. He straightened his shoulders and, in a voice loud enough for most of the room to hear, said, “How’s your Earls Court bedsit, Tony-boy? You must come and stay at one of my houses near St.-Tropez.”

  Tony put his head to one side and thought for a minute. “The south of France had its best moment in the 1950s; now it’s full of the oleaginous in search of oligarchs—perfect for you!” Turning his back on Maurice, he led Blaze towards a minor Impressionist painting. Two small red spots had appeared on his cheeks. “Let’s get away from that horrible creature,” he said.

  “Is the art world always this pleasant?” Blaze asked.

  Tony didn’t answer immediately. “I’m too old for this game.” His voice quavered.

  “I can see why: that man was the bitter end.” Blaze leaned over and gave her uncle a kiss on the cheek.

  Tony stopped. “In any other era I would have been dead at least a decade ago. Instead, because of medical progress, I am condemned to a life of genteel poverty and decrepitude, permanently trying to get enough money together to pay the rent. Most of my friends are dead, and those that are living can’t remember who I am or hear what I’m saying. I’m too old to fuck or digest my food. I have to pee so many times during the night that I might as well sleep on the loo.”

  Blaze had never heard her uncle speak like this before nor had any idea of the extent of his penury or desperation.

  “You still give pleasure, make people laugh.”

  “Like an old clown.” Tony pulled the corners of his mouth downwards.

  “You only had to ask,” she said, knowing how feeble it sounded.

  Tony patted her arm. “Pride is the only thing I have left.”

  A gong sounded and a uniformed steward announced that luncheon was served.

  Blaze groaned. “I thought you and I were eating alone.”

  Tony didn’t answer and Blaze followed him to another room where two long tables were set.

  “There she is,” Tony said delightedly, as Ayesha sashayed across the room towards them. As she moved, the crowds parted, conversation stopped. She was dressed in a white wool suit, nipped in sharply at the waist. The hem stopped halfway down her thighs and her slim bare legs were accentuated by four-inch stiletto heels, while her auburn hair, teased into thick burnished curls, bounced on her narrow shoulders. The total effect was expensive, elegant and highly provocative.

  “We did it! We got them both here,” Ayesha pronounced. She and Tony exchanged happy glances.

  “What are you plotting?” Blaze asked suspiciously.

  “You’ll see.” Ayesha laughed. “Blaze, come with me.” She took her aunt by the arm and, leading her to the far table, pointed to an empty chair. Blaze’s heart sank. She knew that the next few hours would be torture: a slow death by polite and insincere conversation. She sat down and introduced herself to the man on her left, the head of a minor stockbroking firm who immediately started talking about his passion for golf. Blaze wondered how quickly she could escape. She was aware that the person on her right had arrived, but didn’t turn to introduce herself for a few minutes. When she did, she came face to face with Joshua Wolfe.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Wolfe laughed. “I’d forgotten how charming you could be!”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you.” She was flustered and knocked
over her water. Wolfe leaned forward and righted the glass.

  “I donated my William Nicholson painting.” Following his gaze to the opposite wall, Blaze saw the beautiful still life which had hung in his spare bedroom. Glancing along the table, she saw Ayesha and Tony watching her sheepishly. Blaze shot them a furious look.

  “Are you interested?” Wolfe asked.

  “In the painting?”

  “That’s what I meant,” he said, smiling. “But I could extend the question.”

  “I…um…I…” Words deserted her.

  Wolfe put his hand on hers. “It’s worth selling it, just to sit next to you.”

  “You didn’t return any of my calls,” she said, knowing how pathetic this must sound.

  He leaned towards her and whispered something in her ear.

  Later, on the train back to Cornwall, Blaze tried to remember what they had talked about. She knew they hadn’t mentioned investments, nor had they made any effort to talk to anyone else. After the first course, their knees had made contact and, somewhere between the main course and pudding, they pressed the sides of their bodies against each other. At quarter to four, long after most of the other guests, including her relations, had departed, they left the auction house, found her a taxi and he came with her to Paddington Station. They kissed on the platform until the guard blew the whistle, and then through the open window. He ran after the train, making her repeat the promise to meet again after the house opening.

  26

  The Opening

  SATURDAY 18TH JULY 2009

  Squinting through one eye, Jane watched the faintest halo of light glow behind the tattered curtains. A heavy blanket of silence hung over the house and she guessed correctly that it was not yet 5 a.m.; even the fox cubs were sleeping. Within half an hour, the litter would tumble out of their earth, the wood pigeons would commence their early-morning cooing and hordes of bees and other insects would feast on dewy fronds of wisteria outside her window. Most mornings, she allowed herself the luxury of counting in the dawn chorus, picking out the different songs: the deep milk-bottle throttle of the bittern, the staccato shout of the warbler, the babbling curlew, the chatter of the mistle thrush or the fruity melodic call of the blackbird. This morning she went through another list: of things to do, to check, to manage before the grand opening at midday. She let her hand stray to the other side of the bed, felt the cold, empty patch where her husband once lay and wondered if she would ever get used to sleeping alone.