House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  As the car drove through the West Country, the Princess recalled days out with the Cattistocks and the Portmans in nearby Dorset. She thought about her great love for the Marquess of Salisbury and the weekends spent in the misery of unrequited love at Cranborne. They passed a sign for Mapperton and she remembered an ill-advised liaison with the younger son of the Hinchingbrooke family. It was too too sad, the Princess thought. Most of the great houses had gone; thank heavens for the Montagues and the Cecils. The rest had given up and their ancient seats were now hotels or outposts of the National Trust. It had been such fun. All her own children and grandchildren did these days was slave, slave, slave in order to snatch ghastly holidays on mosquito-ridden beaches. They had shown her the photographs. Even the very rich didn’t know how to enjoy themselves any more, going from one identical-looking cabana to another, ticking off location after location like a night at bingo (not that the Princess had ever played bingo but her butler loved it).

  The Princess thought back to her own holidays: a week with Nanny at West Wittering and then Scotland for the Glorious Twelfth. Mummy would never have “done” abroad. Daddy couldn’t have gone anywhere; the wars had seen to him. Lost one arm in the First and both legs and all his marbles in the Second. Poor poor Daddy. Princess Amelia could just remember the end of the conflict. They had been sent to their uncle’s estate in Norfolk. It had been such a hoot. Hundreds of children running about, long beautiful summers and no beastly school. After it ended, though, things became dowdy and England shrank into a dingy brownness. She remembered the rations which arrived in jam jars each week. Half a pound of butter and sugar for a whole seven days. Endless Spam. The rare treat of a boiled sweet.

  As they drove on into Devon, she wondered if Kitto Trelawney had kept his looks. Of course he’d married for money and she hoped the beauty genes had survived another generation of dilution. He had, like the best of his class, been perfectly languid. She recalled him dressed in a scuffed velvet smoking jacket, leaning against a fireplace, a cigarette held aloft in long, thin fingers. The car skirted the edge of Dartmoor, which looked like the Serengeti: great swathes of grassland scattered with wild animals and the odd crooked tree. In the cleft of a valley, she saw a picture-perfect village: little white houses around a stone church. She remembered a wonderful “boneshaker” with Enyon Trelawney in the back room of a public house. They had been hunting when a storm broke. Separated, accidentally on purpose, from the rest of the field, they sought shelter in the appropriately named Queen’s Arms. Enyon paid the publican to close off the private room and they had made love on the stripped-pine table. She remembered him shouting “Tally-ho!” at the moment critique.

  The outskirts of Plymouth began before the moor ended. Looking out of the window, the Princess noted a new business park: a collection of glass and steel set in a latticework of tarmac roads. The next cluster of ugliness was a shopping centre, a huge 24-hour supermarket surrounded by other outlets. One place to overfeed the population and another to provide ever larger pieces of elasticated clothing. In my day, she thought, no one was overweight and no one was anorexic.

  Plymouth had taken a pasting in the war. The Germans had blasted the heart out of the beautiful city. As the car bypassed the centre, navigating an endless series of roundabouts, the Princess remembered the rubble-strewn streets and slums. In the 1960s she had opened a new block of flats and wondered if the monstrosity was still standing. Thank heavens for her Cousin Charles; at least someone understood how to build houses.

  As the car left the outskirts of the city, the Princess felt the muscles in her neck relaxing. Back to open country, to the beautiful, unwrecked England which she loved so much. Her driver asked for a “comfort stop.” She wanted to go herself but feared the headline: PRINCESS PISSES AT PETROL STATION. That said, she wondered if anyone would recognise her these days.

  Another forty miles on, they turned off at a small sign to Trelawney and were immediately plunged into a canopy of dappled darkness. The trees joined branches overhead and the banks of the road, once an ancient cart track, grew narrower and steep-sided. The retaining walls, made from granite and stone, were lined with an electric green moss dotted with ferns and lichen. Almost improbably, trees had taken root in great boulders. The car slowed to cross a narrow bridge and, from the window, Princess Amelia saw a merry, twisting river, its blue clear water rushing over huge rocks towards the nearby sea. The road widened and the car passed through an ancient forest of stunted oaks, one of the last in England. In a clearing she spotted a herd of fallow deer arranged in a fan around a handsome stag. In the distance the estuary glinted in the sunlight and, beside it, the most magnificent house in southern England came into view. A knot of emotion caught in the Princess’s throat. “ ‘I vow to thee, my country,’ ” she hummed under her breath. “ ‘Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love.’ ”

  A couple of miles farther, and the car turned left towards a pair of ornate iron gates. The Princess looked at them closely. Once entirely covered in gold leaf, they were now rusty and broken. One of two Trelawney griffins remaining on top of the gateposts had been beheaded. On a large noticeboard was a hand-painted announcement. House open today. 12 noon. First time EVA. £8.

  Next to the sign was a makeshift camp, with a banner hanging from the other gatepost. On it, in large red writing, were the words: For 8 centuries the Trelawneys robbed from the poor to feed the rich. Stop them! We won’t forget Acorn. In his hand a man held up and shook a home-made placard: Get Kitto.

  “What do you think all that is about?” Princess Amelia asked her driver.

  “Something to do with the bank that went bust, Your Highness.” The chauffeur straightened his shoulders. “Viscount Trelawney was Chairman when it went down.”

  “I never understood why he had to take that job,” Princess Amelia said. “He was only bred to ride and shoot; anything commercial was bound to end in trouble. Stop the car.”

  “Are you sure, Ma’am?” The driver looked at his employer in the rear-view mirror.

  “One has a duty to explain to the governed how things work. Otherwise how will they ever learn?” Princess Amelia looked expectantly at her chauffeur who, remembering his place, put on his cap and leapt out of the front seat to open her door. Holding herself erect, and wearing a smile of utmost condescension and superiority, she stepped out of the car and walked purposefully towards the man.

  Gordon Sparrow recognised her immediately. It took every cell in his body to counteract the inclination to remove his cap and bow deeply to a member of the royal family, a relative—albeit distant—of the Queen. But he did resist, reminding himself that this lady was part of the establishment that had let him and his family down so badly. Princess Amelia presumed a man of his age would recognise her and be overcome, as so many had been before, by a mixture of gratitude (for her family’s contribution to society) and servitude (for their supremacy). From the flicker of his eyes, she knew that he knew exactly who she was. A quick scan over his face and body revealed all she needed to know about him. The bulbous nose (too much beer), the ferrety eyes (inbreeding some generations back), the calloused hands (manual labour), neatly darned jacket (a protective wife lurking nearby) and the hard-set mouth (serious umbrage taken). Princess Amelia was a clever woman who, had she been offered a scintilla of education, might have enjoyed a career in the civil service or teaching. Instead she had been trapped in the yoke of her class and the expectation of her relations and their subjects. Used to being listened and deferred to, she saw an opportunity to prove not only her superior lineage, but to bring comfort to a member of the flock who had strayed.

  She stood up straight, tucked her handbag under her arm and, placing her feet slightly apart, spoke from her stomach, just as her elocution teacher had taught her nearly seventy years earlier.

  “Good afternoon, my good man. Are you forgetting what the Trelawneys have done for this county
? All the houses and jobs and leadership?” she said imperiously. “I’m sure your family has relied on their good grace for many generations.”

  Gordon snorted. “Good grace? Blinking disgrace.”

  Princess Amelia was disconcerted by his rudeness. “Really,” she said, taking a pace backwards. “I would ask you to mind your language.”

  Gordon looked at the ground; he had gone too far. A lack of deference was one thing; rudeness to a royal personage was unforgivable. What would Glenda say? He dropped his chin to his chest. “Forgive me, Your Royal Highness.”

  The Princess nodded graciously; one had to be gentle with the lower classes.

  “We trusted them to know what to do,” he said quietly. “Or at least, if they didn’t know, to admit it.” He hesitated. “Kitto Trelawney thought his title was a good enough qualification. He knew nothing about finance, but he took the job, the salary and let us all down. I’ve lost the shirt off my back, will probably lose the roof over my head. Worst of all, I’ve failed my missus.” He fought back tears.

  “I hear Kitto Trelawney is not doing so well.”

  “People like that will always come out on top.” The bitterness had crept back into Gordon’s voice.

  The Princess decided to change tack. It was her duty to defend the ruling classes to the bitter end, but also to provide a tour d’horizon for those with less understanding of how things actually worked. She decided to help the poor man get a grip on what was really going on. “I blame Europe. If we hadn’t gone into the Common Market, we’d all be better off.”

  Gordon nodded. “I agree with you there. We elected MPs to protect our dignity and offer long-term benefits and they simply handed it all over to some faceless Gerry on the Continent.”

  “All this crisis has done is expose the absolutely useless, self-serving wops.” The Princess knew this kind of talk had got her into trouble before, but she couldn’t help herself. “If only Lilibet was in charge.”

  “Lilibet?”

  “Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth.”

  Gordon was surprised that he and the Princess shared so many opinions.

  “The only politician who talks any sense,” she continued, “is that Nigel man.”

  “Farage?”

  “Frightfully common, but at least he says it like it is.”

  “Or as he’d like it to be.” Gordon thought the UKIP leader was a little toad, but decided to keep quiet.

  “Now, if I might suggest,” the Princess concluded, “you put away your placards and go home and write letters to Brussels.”

  “I wouldn’t know who to write to.”

  “Exactly my point. Faceless bureaucrats can hide behind upstanding members of the aristocracy. Don’t be angry with Kitto. His worst crime was naivety.” She leaned in towards Gordon. “Go home, sir, to your wife. Take your fight, use your energy and acumen on a bigger stage.” She saw that her words had hit their target. The Trelawneys would have no more trouble from this man or his grievances. Princess Amelia nodded at him and, with one last regal curling of her mouth, walked back to the car. Her chauffeur, who had been standing alert in case of an “incident,” bowed slightly and opened the door for her. Settling herself into the back seat, she smiled graciously. “You may continue to the castle.”

  The drive was pitted with enormous potholes, some deep enough to lose a sheep, and the car creaked and groaned over the unstable ground. It used to be quicker by horse, the Princess thought. Silly old progress never got anyone anywhere faster. Just a lot of hype and nonsense.

  Gordon slowly packed up his banners and placards. The Princess was probably right; the fight was bigger than Kitto Trelawney. He had been myopic and small-minded; Gordon Sparrow was going to bring down the government.

  When she arrived at the main entrance to Trelawney Castle, the Princess found the place strangely deserted. A fire had been lit in the Great Hall and someone had put out a small table with a notice taped to the front saying Tickets. She wondered where the butler had got to and asked her driver to go to the servants’ entrance to enquire. Standing by the fire and looking around, she saw that the Van Dyck was still there—things could not be that bad. Minutes later a harassed woman dressed in jeans and a Fair Isle jumper appeared carrying a bucket of freshly cut wild flowers. The Princess assumed she was a gardener and nodded politely in her direction.

  “Oh, goodness—one of my children was supposed to be keeping a lookout for you. Hope you haven’t been here long,” the woman said.

  “Moments.” The Princess was well trained.

  The woman plonked the bucket of flowers on the floor and, wiping her hands on her jeans, advanced towards the fireplace.

  “Jane Trelawney; we met many years ago at my wedding.”

  “Your wedding?”

  “I’m Kitto’s wife.”

  The Princess looked at her aghast. What had happened to the pretty, pink-faced young woman she remembered? This one was haggard and far too thin.

  “Why don’t you come into the kitchen for a quick cup of tea before the hordes arrive?” Jane suggested.

  “The kitchen?”

  Jane smiled understandingly. “Or I could bring you a cup of tea here.”

  “I would like to powder my nose,” Princess Amelia said.

  “Of course. You could use my bathroom—not very neat but it’s the nicest,” Jane replied, hoping she had remembered to make her bed and tidy her knickers away.

  They were about to set off towards the Great Staircase when they heard the click-clack of a pair of heels and a tremendous rustling.

  “Amelia, darling, is that you?” Towards them, backlit by mid-morning sun, came Clarissa, her white silk gown with its layers of embroidered tulle swooshing from side to side.

  “Clarissa?” Princess Amelia said hesitantly.

  “You are such an angel to come all this way. I will forever be in your debt.” Reaching Amelia, Clarissa bowed into a deep curtsy. Unfortunately her knees were enfeebled and she sank to the floor. Jane came to the rescue and hoisted her mother-in-law to her feet. Arabella, who’d been lurking in the shadows, took the opportunity to introduce herself.

  “I’m Arabella, you’re my first royal.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see my collection of live insects?”

  Amelia smiled icily. “We prefer communion with humans or quadrupeds.” Then, turning to look at the now upright Clarissa, she asked, “I didn’t realise it was fancy dress?”

  “I thought the occasion merited something a little special. I wore this dress the night we first met at Buckingham Palace in 1946.” Clarissa had also put two round circles of rouge on her cheeks and smeared the tops of her eyelids with a turquoise shadow. Her white papery hair was a bit lank on the left, where she had obviously lain the night before.

  Blaze walked into the hall and looked at her mother. “What are you wearing?”

  “I am dressed for the Royal Court not the Law Court, if that’s what you mean,” Clarissa said, eyeing her daughter who had chosen a smart black trouser suit, black high heels and a white silk T-shirt.

  “Mum, you can’t wear that.”

  “Why not?”

  Blaze wanted to tell her mother that she looked like a cake left out in the rain. In the light, the dress had yellow age stains and the neckline was far too low for its incumbent’s figure.

  “Because you will show me up,” Princess Amelia said. “I am, I believe, your guest of honour and, as you know only too well, Clarissa, I must not be upstaged.”

  Clarissa’s hand flew to her mouth. “You are right, of course. How silly and thoughtless of me not to think of that. I’m a bit out of practice down here. Will you give me ten minutes to change?”

  Amelia nodded graciously. Blaze mouthed thank you to their distinguished guest and followed her mother back to her wing.

  “I really must po
wder my nose.” Amelia’s urge to pee was almost uncontainable. It must have been six hours now. She remembered the nasty bladder infection poor Cousin George got after a day-long inspection of the troops. It had taken months to get him right again.

  * * *

  At twelve noon, the band who were installed beneath the massive portico outside the Great Hall struck up with Kylie’s “Spinning Around.” It was a perfect English summer’s day and overhead a gulp of swallows swooped and weaved in eddies of warm air. Clarissa returned wearing a sensible wool suit. A long line of visitors stretching all the way from the front door to the far distance waited patiently. Toby and Arabella held a long piece of ribbon across the entrance and Princess Amelia stepped forward with a pair of kitchen scissors to cut it.

  “I declare Trelawney Castle open to the general public for the first time in eight hundred years.”

  Clarissa was the first to clap, followed by the family and then by those who could see what was happening.

  “Family, take your places in the rooms, please,” Clarissa commanded, before turning, with Arabella’s help, to make her way towards the Great Staircase.

  Arabella, who had been given the job of managing the ticket desk, explained to the first couple that the entrance fee was £8—unless you were from the village of Trelawney, over seventy or under eleven, in which case it was reduced to £3. “Under-fives get in free. For an extra £2.50 you could also get a home-made scone and a cup of tea.”