‘Perfectly.’
‘Well, we’ll send out a search party if you’re not back in half an hour. I’ll go and sort out Rae and get dinner started. You’re not vegetarian, are you? It’s not a problem if you are. Hattie is, so we always have a veggie option.’
‘No, I’m as carnivorous as they come.’
‘Jolly good! I’m roasting a big joint of beef. I’m hoping to lure Rae downstairs to watch Alfie carve. She thinks it’s a job only a man can do properly! The poor woman’s living in the Dark Ages.’ Vivien shook her head. ‘In more ways than one… I’ll see you later, Gwen. Enjoy the rest of your walk.’
Gwen
It was so cold, the grass crackled underfoot, stiff with frost. I strolled through the garden in the fading light, preceded by the cloud of vapour emanating from my mouth. The air felt heavy and cold as I drew it into my lungs, so cold it almost hurt. Skeletal trees cast long, weird shadows across my path. In the distance I could hear a cracking noise, a snapping and tearing. Something horticulturally violent. A tree or shrub being mutilated by the gardener, I supposed. As I turned the corner round a russet-leaved beech hedge, glowing in the last of the sunlight, I saw him bent low over some cut branches of holly and laurel, hacking the evergreens into pieces suitable for Christmas decorations. His white head was bare and he wore no coat, just a shapeless woollen jumper over what appeared to be another shapeless woollen jumper. Baggy cords and muddy wellingtons completed the ensemble: the last word in Designer Scarecrow.
His back was turned towards me. I doubted he’d heard my approach over the racket he was making, so I hailed him from a distance, hoping not to startle the old man. He turned slowly and easily, straightening up as he moved. Even before I saw his face, I realised I’d got it wrong. Really wrong.
He wasn’t old. His hair was silver - short and sleek, moulded to his head like a cap - but from his face and the way he’d moved, I guessed he was only in his forties, mid-forties at most. As I approached, I’d scarcely adjusted to his age when I was struck by the strange beauty of his features - a beauty so odd, it seemed almost to border on ugliness. His eyes were large and sad, so dark a blue, it looked navy - almost violet as he faced the low, setting sun. His brows were black and well-defined and dark stubble shaded his jaw. His nose was too long for handsomeness but high, wide cheekbones and a full mouth compensated. Together with his height (even stooping slightly, he was considerably taller than me), the overall impression was striking, but his features seemed out of place in an English country garden. There was something other than Anglo-Saxon blood flowing in his veins. He was too tall for a Celt and his cheekbones were too wide. Despite the wellingtons and the grubby Aran sweater, Mr Tyler managed to look exotic.
He returned my greeting. ‘And a merry Christmas to you.’
‘It’s Mr Tyler, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon. Are there two gardeners? Vivien only mentioned Mr Tyler.’
He smiled but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘It’s not Mr Tyler.’
‘Tyler’s your first name?’
‘No.’
‘Well, now I’m thoroughly confused. How should I address you? Or shall I just beat a retreat and pretend we never met?’
‘That would be a pity.’ Finally the smile reached those extraordinary eyes. ‘The family call me Tyler, but it’s not my name. Mrs Holbrook calls all the gardeners Tyler.’
‘Is there more than one?’
‘No. There’s a line of succession. My predecessor was called Tyler. So was his. I presume there was once a Mr Tyler who gardened for Mrs. Holbrook, in the days when her memory was in better shape than it is now. Miss Holbrook hired me and she likes to keep things simple for her mother. Out of consideration for the old lady, I was asked to adopt the dynastic name. So the family call me Tyler. Just Tyler. No Mister.’
‘Doesn’t anyone use your real name?’
‘I doubt anyone remembers it now. If they did, they probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.’
‘Will you tell me what it is?’ He regarded me, unsmiling. I took a deep breath and said, ‘My name’s Guinevere Rowland… Oh, well done for not laughing! Not everyone shows so much restraint. I’m known as Gwen. I only told you my real name to explain why I’m taking such an interest in yours. It’s not just nosiness.’
‘I didn’t suppose it was.’ He leaned forward and extended a hand towards me: large, long-fingered and very cold. ‘Marek Zbydniewski.’
‘Oh my goodness! What a wonderful name. Say it again!’
He laughed then, a deep, un-English sound and his face creased into dozens of fine lines radiating from his eyes. I decided I liked him and resolved on the spot to avoid him for the rest of my stay. He showed every sign of being dangerously attractive and I, like poor old Rae, liked to keep things simple.
As he released my hand he repeated, ‘Marek Zbydniewski. At school they called me Zebedee.’
‘In England?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re Polish?’
‘Half. Polish father, Scots mother. The two temperaments lived side by side for fifty years in semi-permanent discord. Now they slug it out in me. You’re here for Christmas?’
‘Yes. I’m a guest of Alfie’s. I don’t normally do Christmas. I’ve no family and my friends are always busy with theirs. I’ve always meant to go away and do one of those singles house parties, but I’ve a nasty suspicion they might just be like an extended office party, one that goes on for days and days, with matching hangover. So I usually just hole up in my flat with a lot of M & S food, a few good books and wait for it all to blow over. But I gather I’ll get the works here - brandy butter, silver threepenny bits and Charades.’ He smiled again and the word mistletoe drifted unbidden into my mind.
‘Yes, the Holbrooks keep a good Christmas.’
‘Do you join them? Or do you have your own family Christmas?’
‘I live alone. In the old windmill.’
‘Windmill? You’re in danger now of sounding terminally picturesque.’
‘It’s draughty, uncomfortable and the furniture doesn’t fit, but it comes with the job, so I don’t complain. But picturesque it isn’t.’
‘So will you be joining us at Creake Hall?’
‘I’m always invited for drinks on Christmas Eve. And I’ll see you at lunch on Boxing Day. Vivien and Hattie do a big buffet.’
‘And who gets to wash up?’
‘Mrs. Colman and Mrs. Judd.’
‘Named after long-dead domestics, I presume?’
‘No, they’re the middle sisters,’ he replied, unsmiling. ‘Deborah and Frances. There are four. Two married. Two didn’t.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to deck the halls with boughs of holly. I must go and unpack. Will I get back to the house if I continue along this path?’
‘Yes. It’ll take you back to the main entrance.’
‘Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’
He didn’t reply but raised a hand in farewell.
~~~
He watched as the young woman retreated. He tried to place her age. Rosy-cheeked in the cold December sunset, she’d seemed fresh-faced, girlish. But there was something knowing about the eyes. A hint of invitation. Twenty-two going on thirty-two, was his guess. Gathering up the cut greenery, he wondered when was the last time he’d seen an attractive woman, or rather registered one.
The holly had pierced his skin. He’d felt nothing - his hands were numb with cold, his skin hardened by manual labour - and he watched with dispassionate interest the slow seepage of blood, how it formed a scarlet bead on the heel of his hand, like a holly berry. He made a mental note (which he knew he’d ignore) to wear his gloves. He should protect his hands. There would be no work - nor any music - without them. But he liked to feel the living stuff in his hands: branches, leaves, flowers. Where was the sense in living and not feeling these things? You wouldn’t play a cello with gloves on. Your fingers respond to the feel of the
strings, the wood, the varnish. Touch was so important. It was something live. He needed that.
His blood was pooling now and forming a viscous trail. He stood very still and watched it trickle across the heel of his hand, felt his heart begin to race. He knew what was coming. He should move. Wipe away the blood, trim the holly, keep moving, think of something else, anything, before he saw, before he remembered…
Too late. There was just red in front of his eyes. Small, twisted limbs. And somebody screaming for help. Him.
He should wear gloves. It just wasn’t worth it.
Chapter Six
As Gwen headed back she looked up towards the house silhouetted against an improbable apricot sky. Lights were on at an upstairs window. The joyous reunion of Alfie with his mother, she supposed. Gwen hoped Alfie would behave, would make an effort to be kind. She’d been disappointed and puzzled by his performance so far.
She glanced up at the window again and this time saw a figure, dark against the warm glow of the bedroom. A woman. A tall woman. Vivien? No, but similar in bearing and build. Was this Rae? The figure didn’t move. Gwen was being watched, evidently. She hesitated, then raised her hand and waved. Still the woman did not move, then, eventually, as if with an effort, she lifted her hand and moved it slowly, in regal salute. Gwen remembered Alfie’s words: Rae doesn’t really do Christmas. She rarely emerges from her room. One is given an audience.
Daunted by the prospect, but buoyed up by curiosity, Gwen decided to request an audience at the earliest opportunity.
Rae
There’s someone in the garden… Looking up at me. Is it Frances? No, Frances isn’t tall. She’s thin, but she isn’t tall. And Frances never comes until Christmas Eve. That’s tomorrow. Today is the twenty-third. It says so in my diary. The twenty-third is the day Alfie comes. He’s here now. At Creake Hall. He was in the room a few moments ago. I didn’t imagine it this time. I didn’t need to. He was here. He took my hand and kissed me on the cheek. Then he said he loved the smell of my face powder. How it always reminded him of his childhood. And the bedtime stories. Stories about Tom…
Alfie was a sweet boy. My only boy. Four daughters, then a son. It was such a long wait…
That woman is still there. In the garden. She’s waving at someone. Is she waving at me? But I don’t know her. Should I wave back? I don’t wish to seem rude. Not at Christmas. Perhaps I do know her. I forget so many things nowadays… Her face doesn’t seem familiar. A pretty face. Very young.
I was never pretty. Not even when I was young. Just tall. And capable. Like a boy. Like Vivien. She’s no beauty either. Frances was the beauty, even as a child. She took after her father and Vivien took after me.
I think I ought to wave at that girl. She must be something to do with Alfie. He mentioned someone. I think he did… A guest. Alfie said I was to come down and meet her. This evening. I was to come down to dinner and he would carve the roast. He said it would be beef. Or did he say pork? I forget now… Alfie said he would introduce me to someone… His girlfriend, that was it! And her name was … Gwyneth. No, it wasn’t Gwyneth. But it was something like that.
I’m going to wave. There’s no harm in waving. She looks a nice girl. And if she’s Alfie’s girlfriend, she must be a nice girl. I’m sure Alfie would want me to wave… There! Now she’s smiling! What a lovely face. Poor Frances will be quite put out. She doesn’t like competition. Never did.
That girl’s gone now. I can hear the front door… She’s coming indoors. It must have been Alfie’s girlfriend.
He looked well. Very well. His hair needed cutting though. He has lovely hair - still soft as a baby’s - but it was very untidy. Looked as if it hadn’t seen a hairbrush for a week. She should make him cut it. That girlfriend… She had nice hair. It swung as she walked. I wish I could remember her name…
Alfie kissed me on the cheek. He said he loved the smell of my face powder. And he remembered its name! Coty. I’ve worn Coty face powder for - oh, how many years? Since I was eighteen. How old am I now?… I don’t remember. I know I’m old. But I don’t feel old. My mind feels old - worn out - but I don’t. Sometimes I feel quite young. Like that young woman in the garden just now…
Gwen! That was her name - Gwen. Yes! Alfie’s girlfriend is called Gwen. It suits her. She looks like a Gwen. Not a Gwyneth at all… Alfie doesn’t look like an Alfie, but that was his father’s name. Alfie’s a Tom. That’s a much better name for him.
Tom Dickon Harry. That’s our little joke. A joke we share…
Alfie isn’t Alfie. He’s Tom.
~~~
‘Oh, there you are!’ said Hattie, descending the staircase as Gwen pushed open the front door. She ran down the last few stairs and helped Gwen with the heavy door. ‘We thought you must have got lost.’
‘No, I had a wander around and then stopped to have a chat with… with Tyler.’
‘Chat?’ Hattie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You got Tyler to chat? Congratulations.’
‘Perhaps I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t exactly a chat. More of a verbal reconnaissance.’
‘He can be hard work,’ said Hattie, helping Gwen off with her coat. ‘But he’s very good at listening,’ she added, folding Gwen’s coat carefully, then casting it onto the untidy heap of coats and jackets piled on the settle. ‘And gardening of course. Though I believe he had to study that. The listening comes naturally, if you ask me. But you didn’t, did you? So I’ll shut up. Now, I’ve taken your case upstairs—’
‘Oh, Hattie, you needn’t have done that! It was very heavy.’
‘You’re telling me! I can’t wait to find out which of us is getting lead piping for Christmas.’
Gwen laughed. ‘That makes me think of Cluedo. You know, the board game. Colonel Mustard in the library with the lead piping.’
‘We play Monopoly, which Fanny always wins. Watch out - she’s quite ruthless, you know. No, that’s not the right word… Tenacious. That’s what Fanny is. She acquires things - and people - and she doesn’t like letting them go.’
‘Alfie said he wants me in his team for Trivial Pursuit,’ said Gwen, bending to remove her damp shoes.
‘Won’t make any difference. He’ll still lose, unless he’s got Deb. Deborah’s team always wins Triv because she’s a teacher and knows everything about everything. Except why Bryan left her.’ Hattie took Gwen’s shoes and stowed them under the settle. ‘Bryan was her husband. Did a bunk,’ she added, lowering her voice.
‘Yes, Alfie mentioned it. Poor Deborah.’
‘Whenever I feel depressed about being an ageing spinster, I just have to think about what poor Deb went through. She cried buckets, even though Bryan was the most boring man in the world… What was it in your case that was so heavy?’
‘Books and a couple of bottles. Port for Alfie and sherry for Rae.’
Hattie’s face brightened. ‘What did you buy me?’
‘I didn’t buy you anything.’
Her face fell. ‘Oh…’
‘But I have brought you a present. It’s a bit unorthodox but I think you might be pleased with it. At least, I hope you will. I took advice from Alfie, but it was my idea. And he thought it was a good one.’
‘What is it?’
‘Wait and see!’
‘I hate surprises!’
‘And I love them! The bigger the better.’
‘Can I eat it?’
‘No.’
‘Drink it?’
‘No.’
‘Can I wear it?’
‘Is Twenty Questions another one of your parlour games? Stop fishing, Hattie! You haven’t got long to wait now anyway. Are you going to show me to my room?’
‘Yes, of course!’ she exclaimed, linking her arm through Gwen’s. ‘Sorry. I’m being a rubbish hostess, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not! I feel perfectly at home already. Watch out or you’ll have trouble getting rid of me.’
‘No, we won’t, said Hattie, looking glum. ‘Alfie will drag you back to Lo
ndon in a couple of days. He never stays long. It’s such a pity… Right, come with me and I’ll give you a bit of a tour on the way up.’
The two women climbed the stairs, arm-in-arm. On the half-landing Gwen stopped to look at a sombre portrait of an aged Victorian gentleman. She studied it for a moment, scanning the man’s features for a resemblance to Alfie and finding none.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Sir Eglamour Slopbucket.’
‘What?’
Hattie shrugged. ‘No idea who he is, but that’s what we’ve always called him. Don’t you think it suits him? Rae named all the paintings years ago when my sisters were small, long before Alfie and I were born.’
‘These are not family portraits then?’
‘Oh, no! Rae bought them to furnish the house. Portraits by the pound, Alfie said, for those with more money than taste. Actually she got them in auctions and flea markets. I’ve always thought it was a nice idea - giving a home to unloved, unwanted portraits. We created a sort of artistic Battersea Dogs’ Home, taking in other people’s rejects.’
Gwen smiled and peered at another portrait: an attenuated flapper with a glazed expression, wielding a cigarette holder. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Henrietta T.T.D’
‘T.T.D?’
‘Too-Too-Divine. Isn’t she lovely? I wish I looked like that. Slim and elegant. Like you.’
‘Well, thank you! I may be slim, but I don’t think I’m elegant.’
‘You are compared to me,’ Hattie said firmly. ‘This one’s my favourite.’ She dragged Gwen across the landing to stand before a painting of a Highland soldier with a jutting chin and dark, tragic eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘When I was a girl I dreamed of marrying him. Isn’t he handsome?’
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