“You tell him,” Windy Swindon bellowed. “Stinking little toad letting the side down.”
“Like anyone gives a flying fuck what you think,” Ambrose shouted back. “You overblown, overfed child molester.”
“I’m going to shoot you!” Swindon strode towards the young man but fell over one of the dogs and ended up on his knees.
Damian inadvertently squealed with joy.
“You’re done for!” Swindon hauled himself to his feet.
Ambrose held his hands up. “Oh, shut up, you old bore!”
Swindon, unused to being spoken to in that manner, hesitated.
Ambrose stamped his foot to get everyone’s attention. “I want to introduce you to Trelawney’s new owner. He’s been waiting patiently in the wings for the last hour.”
He ran up a few stairs to the library door and, opening it, said, “Come on out.”
Ambrose stood back and the unmistakable figure of Thomlinson Sleet stepped out on to the staircase. Blaze’s hand flew to her mouth. This had to be an elaborate joke. Kitto turned to his sister. “Did you know?” Blaze shook her head.
Sleet walked nonchalantly down the stairs, waving one hand. Dressed in a large navy-blue cashmere coat with two scarves wrapped around his neck, he looked like a man who had lost his way from Bond Street.
“Welcome to my house!” he said cheerfully. “Never thought an upstart like me would get the keys to the castle. For those who don’t know about my past, I was one of those abandoned babies. Found in a phone box in Delaware, parcelled out around foster parents, but eventually adopted by a nice old childless Catholic professor and his wife. I met the Scott family at Oxford and to me they seemed like glamour incarnated. I wanted what Kitto had—” he paused “—and now it looks like I’ve got it.” He spoke with gusto and certainty, but his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. “Some things took longer to win than others. For those of you who are worried about Trelawney’s future, don’t be. I’m rich. Ask Blaze—she helped me. I’ve got enough money to gold plate the fucking roof. And I probably will.”
“Who is this frightful man?” Lady Marchmont asked Alice.
“It must be a party trick. They’ll have strippers later.” Her companion pursed her lips into a thin, disapproving line.
“Disgusting,” Lady Marchmont said.
Sleet stopped and dropped his voice. “I didn’t buy this place as a status symbol. I bought it as a wedding present for the love of my life. It’s what she wanted most in the world and it was my duty to give it to her.”
Blaze swallowed, trying to remember the woman’s name. Trish? Jackie? She thought they’d separated, but apparently not. Sleet looked back up the staircase and called, “Come out, my darling.”
Damian’s camera and sixty pairs of eyes swivelled to follow his gaze. A few moments later, a sylph-like figure appeared, wearing a simple red slip, her auburn hair shining in the candlelight, her legs bare, her feet in delicate gold sandals.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I present Ayesha, Lady Sleet.”
Blaze felt her heart lurch. Jane’s mouth slackened. Kitto froze. Clarissa, now back on her feet, leaned heavily against Toby. Uncle Tony tucked the Landino volume into his satchel, out of sight. Windy Swindon let out a long, low, appreciative whistle. Damian mentally accepted the BAFTA for best documentary feature.
Mark Sparrow shoved forward through the crowd and ran up the stairs. Reaching Ayesha, he stared up at her, his despair palpable.
Ayesha gazed back down at him, but her expression remained blank.
“Who is that?” Sleet asked his bride. She didn’t answer. Mark stood rooted to the spot until Glenda Sparrow appeared from a side door and, hurrying through the guests and up the staircase, took her grandson firmly by the arm and pulled him away.
Then Blaze ran up the stairs and stabbed her finger in the younger woman’s face. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“Fulfilling a promise to my dying mother,” Ayesha replied in a low voice.
“What promise?”
Ayesha didn’t answer.
Putting his arm protectively around his wife, Sleet steered her down the stairs and across the room.
Seeing Ambrose, he reached forward and gave him a clap on the back. “Clear your desk first thing on Monday. I want you out.”
Ambrose looked at him in amazement. “You said we were partners.”
Sleet laughed. “Who’d trust someone who fucks his own family over?”
Turning to the guests, he said, “We’re off to South America to continue our honeymoon. The builders move in shortly, so enjoy the place till then.”
He led his new wife to the front door. Ayesha kept her eyes on the floor, her gaze soft. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.
Outside, the guests could see a gleaming car and a chauffeur holding open the door. Ayesha slipped into the back seat and pulled a rug over her knees. Sleet went round to the other side and got in next to her. Moments later the car growled into life and everyone watched the tail lights disappear up the driveway.
30
The Coffee Shop
TUESDAY 9TH MARCH 2010
Glenda waited for Mark in a coffee shop in Exeter, looking at the pastries held captive in overchilled glass cabinets; biscuits the size of Frisbees catching germs on hastily wiped counters; frazzled immigrant workers steaming up milk for bored-looking locals. This chain had real lamps and low-slung armchairs; maybe that was the point—to make people feel familiar in a home from home, although she couldn’t imagine many wanting fringed lamps and flock wallpaper. The tea, milky and tasteless, had cost £2.25, which Glenda thought was daylight robbery, although it was worth paying to see her grandson who had not been back to Trelawney since the night of the party.
“What brings you here today?” Mark asked, bending down to kiss his grandmother. Her call had come out of the blue. “Is Grandad OK?”
“He’s fine. I had a bit of shopping to do.” It was a disingenuous excuse and they both knew it. Anything Glenda wanted, and quite a bit more, was available in Plymouth.
“Would you like a top-up?” he asked, heading towards the counter. Glenda handed over her empty cup. She’d got here an hour early; the traffic and parking were a worry and she hadn’t wanted to miss a moment with her grandson. She had sat there watching people and rehearsing what she was about to say. She’d promised Gordon not to mention anything “personal,” but it had been ridiculous to think she could drive all the way here to talk about the weather. The truth wouldn’t kill him; it might set him free.
“How have you been?” she enquired when he returned with another cup of tea for her and a black coffee for himself.
“I’ve been busy. We had a big order from Apple. We’re hiring a hundred extra people and have taken over a new factory.”
“Glad the recession isn’t hurting you. You should see the queues around the job centre every Monday morning—it’s heartbreaking. I blame those bloody foreigners coming over and undercutting our workforce.”
“It’s the fallout from the financial crisis, not the immigrants.”
“I can see who’s working and who isn’t.”
“My business couldn’t survive without skilled workers from abroad.” By far the most talented members of his team were either immigrants or first generation to the UK.
“I’m not talking about the boffins.”
Mark didn’t say anything—it was useless trying to explain the principles of net migration to either of his grandparents.
“Look, there’s one.” Glenda pointed to a man of Indian origin mopping the floor of the coffee house.
“He was almost certainly born here. His grandfather probably fought alongside your grandfather in the war.”
“The people of this country are revolting.”
You can
say that again, Mark thought.
“They’re not going to stand for it.”
They’ll just lie down and moan on and on, Mark said to himself. “Tell me about Grandad,” he said out loud, changing the subject.
“Your grandad’s got a new lease on life since he set up the Acorn action group. Our kitchen has become the front line in the battle to recover the value of everyone’s investments. There’s a constant stream of people coming in and out. They’re going to court, or so they say, to try and get their money back.”
“But the money’s gone.”
“Your grandad says the government bought Acorn at a knock-down price and it owes the shareholders compensation.”
“That sounds fair enough.”
“One janitor against the great and the good: can you see that happening?”
“At least he’s no longer camped outside the front gates threatening to kill Kitto Trelawney.”
“I don’t recognise my husband any more,” said Glenda. “He talks about nothing else, he thinks about nothing else.”
“Do you blame him? He lived for his dream of retirement.”
“He took a risk. If he’d done as I said and just kept the money in a deposit account, all would be well, but he wanted to be clever, he thought he could play the markets. There’s consequences for him just like there was for Kitto. He lost it all too.”
Mark leaned across and put his hand over his grandmother’s. “I’m making money. Why don’t you let me treat you and Grandad to a nice cruise? Get you out of England for a bit?”
“He’d never go. He’s fighting on behalf of all the widows and the dispossessed.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching a woman trying to persuade her child to eat a biscuit rather than her car keys. At another table a young couple were making out, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world. Mark looked at his watch.
“I should get back.”
“What are you making?”
“We’re creating a piece of software that can recognise faces.”
“Isn’t that what eyes are for?”
“Robots don’t have eyes.”
Glenda shivered. “You’re giving me the collywobbles. It’s not right to give machines eyes and brains—who’s going to police them?”
“It’s the future, Gran, whether you like it or not.”
Glenda shifted in her chair.
“I saw Lady Trelawney in the market the other day. Her Uncle Tony sold an heirloom and bought her and Kitto a little house by the sea in St. Garaway. She’s set up a workshop outside St. Austell and her wallpaper is selling all over the world. Aunt Tuffy has paid for Arabella to go to a posh school to study biology, so it’s only Toby at home now. He seems to have put Celia behind him and is going out with Mr. Fogg’s daughter.”
“The weird hippy preacher?”
Glenda nodded. “I’ll have another tea for the road, please.”
Mark went over to the counter.
When he returned to their table, Glenda continued with the news.
“It looks like every builder in Cornwall is working on the castle trying to make it habitable. You can hear the banging and clanging for miles around. Sleet wants it ‘state of the art,’ whatever that means, and now he’s trying to get selected as the Conservative candidate for Plymouth Moor. Even though there’s a waiting list of twenty good locals, he’s bound to get it.”
“He’s American. It wouldn’t be allowed.”
“He’s got dual nationality now.”
Glenda took a quick peek at her grandson’s expression; he hadn’t asked her to stop talking.
“Of course the Dowager Countess won’t move out of Trelawney—she’s got rights, apparently. Sixty years’ continuous habitation, so the builders are working around her—lucky she’s so deaf and determined. She’s still doing her reality TV series. Do you ever watch it? It was on BBC One but ratings fell and it’s been moved to BBC Two. She carries on like Posh Spice, changing her clothes frequently and yabbering on about standards, and she has two thousand followers on Facebook. If you ask me, it’s revenge on her husband.”
Mark glanced at his watch, but Glenda was determined to continue.
“You’re too young to remember Enyon in his prime. He was the best-looking man in Cornwall, maybe in all England. All the women loved him. Girls used to throw themselves at him and he loved catching them. The Countess knew what was going on. There was no point trying to stop the hanky-panky; she knew he wouldn’t ever leave. Then she came along.” Glenda stopped and waited until she had her grandson’s attention. “She was so young and so beautiful.”
Mark looked at her. “Who?”
“Anastasia.” There, Glenda thought, I’ve said it—finally let the secret out.
“What are you talking about?”
“Anastasia wasn’t in love with Kitto; she was in love with his father and he with her.”
“Gran, that’s rubbish.” Mark pushed his cup away and looked towards the door. Glenda leaned over, looked to the left and the right and then in a low voice told him, “You forget who changed the sheets, who did the laundry, who had to sneak Anastasia out past his wife’s bedroom in the morning.”
Mark stared at his grandmother in astonishment. “Did Kitto know? Or her friends?”
“Lady Blaze walked in on them one afternoon. The shock damn nearly killed her; her beloved father with her best friend. She tried to tell her mother, but Clarissa slapped her and called her a liar. Blaze left the house the following morning and never came back. Told everyone it was about a bedroom, but if you check the timings, she had gone long before Ambrose arrived.”
“What did Clarissa do?”
“Nothing at first. She mostly did nothing. Thought the infatuation would burn itself out, but then Anastasia told her she was pregnant and that she was keeping the child. Enyon said he wanted it too. You should have heard the palaver! Clarissa told him that she’d tell Kitto and Blaze and bring down the House of Trelawney.”
Mark exhaled slowly, letting out the air with a soft whistle. “How did she persuade Anastasia to go?”
“Clarissa and Enyon received her in the library, together. The Countess told the girl that Enyon didn’t love her any more. They were going to give the baby a settlement. Same as she did with the others.”
“How did you know all this?”
“I was sent to pick Anastasia up off the library floor. She was curled up in a ball and couldn’t move. I brought her back to our place and your grandad and I looked after her for a couple of weeks—she had nowhere else to go.”
“What did the Trelawneys do?”
“Enyon shut himself up in his study for months. Wouldn’t eat or see anyone. Clarissa said it was because he missed Lady Blaze.” Glenda drank the last dregs of her tea. “I thought she might—you know—get rid of the baby, but she was adamant about keeping it. One morning I took her a cup of tea and she’d gone. Vanished. No note. Nothing. And then the phone call, followed by news of a daughter.”
Mark ran his hands through his hair, wondering if Ayesha had any idea. There were so many things about the young woman he couldn’t understand. How or why she’d married one man while professing to love another, for a start.
“How old was Anastasia when it began?”
“About sixteen.”
“What about Kitto and her? I thought that was supposed to be the great love affair?”
“It was a front to throw people off the scent. Poor Kitto fell in love with her, of course.”
Mark grimaced. “The old man should have known better.”
“I think they loved each other.”
“Who is Ayesha’s father?” he asked.
“Enyon.”
“So Ayesha is Kitto’s sister, not his daughter?”
Mark pushed his chair back, sud
denly overcome with longing for his erstwhile girlfriend. “Why are you telling me all this, Gran?” He started looking in his pocket for his keys. He rose to his feet, but his grandmother put a hand on his forearm.
“You’re not the first man to lose his heart to a young woman. There’s no shame in it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. You wouldn’t understand.” He was clearly intent on going, but Glenda wasn’t letting him off that easily.
“Sit down.”
Mark slowly lowered himself back into the chair.
“If you’d have fallen for any other girl from any other family, I’d have told you to follow your heart. Not this one. Ayesha is half Trelawney and wholly unwanted. I’m told her mother hated and abused her; blamed her for everything. Poor child suffered a triple rejection: from her father before she was born, from her mother when she was born and now from her father’s family when she came back here. What does that do to anyone?”
Mark was silent. He’d been devastated by Ayesha’s unexpected marriage to Sleet, but believed she had been driven by circumstance into making a foolish decision. He would wait for her; she was worth waiting for.
“You’re too good, too principled for them. The Trelawneys didn’t last eight hundred years by being nice or being the best.”
“We are going to be together,” Mark said.
Glenda’s heart sank. Had she inflamed rather than doused her grandson’s passion? She saw herself as an ordinary woman who had lived an ordinary life, hardly venturing from one small patch of England, rarely challenging the attitudes handed down by generations of her own family. Yet she felt certain that Mark had the ability to make a difference and to change society. Glenda didn’t understand technology, but she knew there was going to be a revolution and that her grandson had an important part to play in it. She chose her next words carefully.
“I don’t blame you for loving her. But Trelawney will destroy her like it has the rest of them. That place is more than just bricks and mortar; it’s rough magic.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; he was listening.
House of Trelawney Page 36