The House of Hopes and Dreams

by Trisha Ashley

  After that, fortified by the excellent Spanish omelette we had for lunch, I walked down to the workshop … and my feet began to lag, the closer I got to it.

  My Pollyanna gene curled up in a corner and whimpered the moment I opened the side door because I knew, as I walked into a heavy air of discord, that things weren’t going the way Grant had hoped.

  He and Ivan were leading up panels of the chapel windows on adjoining tables, and the sixth-form college term mustn’t have started yet, because Ivan’s teenage grandson, Louis, was busily stretching lead calme on the workbench, ready for use.

  They all looked up at the sound of my Doc Martens clumping across the floorboards and I raised my eyebrows questioningly. They grimaced like unpractised gargoyles, nodded at the studio door and made thumbs down gestures.

  Through the heavily ridged greenish glass top of the door, distorted shapes moved like large fish in an uncleaned aquarium.

  ‘Ructions,’ said Ivan in a conspiratorial hiss, made more sibilant by his badly fitting top teeth. ‘Nat and that Skinny Minnie of his are in there and he’s just fired me – only he couldn’t really, because I’ve already retired. But he told me not to come round here again after today.’

  ‘The way he’s heading, I think he’s going to cut his nose off to spite his face and you’re for the chop next, lass,’ Grant said quietly. ‘He’s seen me and put my wages up,’ he added with a twisted smile. ‘Though if he gets rid of you and Ivan, then I’ll be doing most of the hard graft and it should be double.’

  While Julian and I carried out all the designing and artwork, we’d also worked alongside the others in every aspect of the process, and when there was a commission to be completed to a deadline, it was often all hands on deck. To be part of a team, working together to produce something wonderfully beautiful – there was no feeling quite like it.

  ‘So you really think he’s going to hand me my notice today?’ I asked, surprised. ‘I thought he’d want to find someone with design skills to replace me first. And I was really looking forward to pipping him to the post by resigning, even if it did mean I wouldn’t get my redundancy money.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he realizes how much you’d be entitled to. But I told him if he had any sense he’d persuade you to stay and make you a partner, because your name’s been pulling in the commissions almost as much as Julian’s lately,’ Grant said.

  ‘Well, we all know that isn’t going to happen!’

  ‘Yes, but he must know he’s got no original ideas of his own,’ Grant said. ‘And that’s what the studio’s got a name for.’

  ‘That’s right. And what does that Willow know about making a window, I ask you?’ demanded Ivan. ‘Nowt!’

  ‘Willow!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, he told Grant that he and Willow were going to design the windows from now on.’

  ‘I know she’s a freelance graphic artist, but I didn’t know she’s worked in this field.’

  ‘She hasn’t,’ Grant said.

  ‘Well, actually, I suppose quite a lot of artists have designed successfully for stained glass – think of Matisse and Chagall,’ I offered.

  ‘Matisse and Chagall she ain’t,’ said Grant.

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘Because she was talking to me at lunchtime,’ Louis chipped in, looking up from the workbench. ‘I was reading a manga book and she said she did a lot of illustrations for them. Graphic novels, too.’

  ‘Manga are sort of strip cartoons,’ Ivan explained to me seriously, so I must still have been looking blank. ‘Like Batman comics.’

  ‘They’re nothing like Batman comics, Granddad,’ Louis said long-sufferingly.

  ‘I do know what you mean,’ I told them. ‘And maybe there’s a market for manga-style windows? Or she might do other kinds of illustration, too.’

  ‘Perhaps she might, but you’ve worked hard to get to where you are now,’ Grant said. ‘You’re on the website and everything. When it comes to creating something modern and outstanding, Nat wouldn’t know where to start and Willow’s just going to have to make a name for herself like you did. She can’t use yours.’

  ‘No, though I suppose they might cannibalize the cartoons and cutlines I’ve had to leave behind in the loft, because they belong to the business. But not under my name. And my style is distinctive enough to be recognized.’

  ‘Nat was rooting about to see what you’d taken when I got here this morning,’ Grant told me. ‘He seemed to think those sketchbooks of yours belonged to him, but I told him you only stored them there; he’d no entitlement to them.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’ Ivan said. ‘I told him you’d only taken what belonged to you and he should be ashamed of himself.’

  ‘They’d certainly only get my sketchbooks over my dead body,’ I said grimly. ‘Oh, well, I suppose I’d better go and get fired – unless I can get my resignation in first!’

  When I opened the studio door, the first thing I saw was Willow, sitting at my desk, sifting through the drawers, though she wouldn’t find much left in there unless she was interested in my collection of odd bits of Conté crayon, dried-out putty rubbers and shrivelled elastic bands.

  The big blue plastic toolbox containing my art materials was open on the desk, the tiers of compartments pulled out to each side like wings.

  ‘Did you want to borrow something, Willow?’ I asked politely. ‘Only, I’m a bit fussy about my personal pencils, paints and brushes, so it would be better if you used Julian’s. You’ll find them in the cupboard by the window.’

  ‘I assumed these were just common to the workshop for anyone to use,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, that would be why my name is stencilled in big letters on the lid,’ I said sarcastically, and went over and closed the box with a snap.

  She recoiled slightly, the wheels of the chair squeaking. ‘I’ve got my own things anyway – why would I need yours?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard you’re going to try your hand at stained-glass design.’

  ‘Willow’s going to be our new designer,’ Nat said from behind me.

  When I turned he was standing by the corkboard on which was still pinned Julian’s initial design for the rose window.

  ‘Once I’ve shown her how to do a cartoon and cutline, she’ll soon get the idea of what works and what doesn’t. I can handle the more traditional commissions myself.’

  ‘Well, no problem then,’ I said brightly. ‘She’ll pick it up in no time and you won’t need me then, will you?’

  ‘I don’t need you now,’ Nat said bluntly. ‘The place is overstaffed and I’ve already told Ivan I don’t want him hanging around after today, let alone that grandson of his. Grant and I can do everything between us.’

  ‘So, you’re giving me my notice?’

  ‘Making you redundant, shall we say? We don’t want any tribunals for unfair dismissal, do we? But we won’t expect you to work a month’s notice.’

  I shrugged. ‘I was going to tell you today that I was handing in my notice anyway, though for Julian’s sake I wouldn’t have left you in the lurch before you’d found someone to replace me.’

  ‘And I already have – Willow,’ he said triumphantly, obviously not realizing that if he hadn’t been so quick to fire me, he’d have saved himself a whole lot of redundancy pay.

  ‘As soon as we’ve sold our flat, we’re going to build a big extension on the cottage, including a studio space for me, so I can carry on with my other graphic work, as well,’ Willow said.

  ‘So, there it is, and I’d be glad if you removed yourself from the workshop as soon as possible – without taking any more of my property.’

  ‘You know very well that I wouldn’t take anything from here or the cottage that didn’t belong to me.’

  ‘I think that’s debatable,’ Nat said unpleasantly. ‘Anyway, we’re off to the cottage for our lunch now and you can clear off before we get back.’

  They went out, slamming the door behind them, and though I wa
s vaguely conscious of voices in the workshop, I was struggling to get control of myself. I thought of all the hard work Julian and I had put into the business, the happy years of working as a team … the difficult eighteen months I’d spent trying to nurse him back to health while keeping the business running, always hoping that he’d get better and life would resume its happy pattern once again …

  The door must have reopened without my hearing it, for behind me a voice like dark heather honey trickling over gravel suddenly said, ‘Hello, Shrimp!’

  I turned quickly, thinking I must have conjured up Carey’s voice, just as I had Julian’s, but no, there he stood, tall, pale and gaunt, but more or less upright, propped up by the doorframe on one side and a black walking stick studded with shiny silver skulls on the other: the witchdoctor will see you now.

  I told Lily all about it at the first opportunity and she teased me, saying that the handsome Mr Revell must have been motivated by a romantic interest in me. But I told her roundly that it was no such thing, for apart from my lack of inches, figure and beauty, he is very much the gentleman, while I am a tradesman’s daughter – and working in the business.

  He had been very friendly, it was true, and talked with great enthusiasm about his new house, having been involved in every aspect of the design, both inside and out. Everything, from the fittings, furniture and soft furnishings, right down to the smallest details such as door handles, must be unique and fit in to the Grand Plan. He had a true understanding of the workmanship that went into the various crafts involved.

  A day or two later, as I was coming away from one of my art classes, I was surprised to see Mr Revell passing by, and as soon as he saw me he stopped and raised his hat. Lily and one of her numerous younger brothers had called by to walk home with me, but Mr Revell, after some conversation, somehow became one of the party.

  When the same thing happened again a few days later I knew it could not be coincidence, but that he had sought me out for some reason. I invited him into the house that time to meet my aunt Barbara, which threw her quite into a flutter.

  Unfortunately it also seemed to have awoken the most uncalled-for romantic ideas in her head, just as it had in Lily’s, though if they could only overhear my conversation with Mr Revell when we are alone, they would soon change their minds. It is entirely concerned with architecture, art and especially glass, with nothing lover-like at all about it! In fact, I think he forgets that I am female during these lively discussions, much as Father and my cousin Michael often do, which is very refreshing.

  11

  Cursed Windows

  ‘Carey?’ I gasped, before doing something totally out of character: I threw myself on to his broad chest and burst into a Niagara of tears.

  Even under the onslaught of my slight weight he staggered slightly, before gathering me in against his hand-knitted cream Aran jumper and patting my back with one large hand, in a reassuring kind of way.

  ‘Angel – Grant’s just told me about Julian and I’m so sorry! It was quite a shock because I thought he was getting better.’

  ‘Yes, we all did … or that he was stable, at least,’ I said, my sobs having quickly subsided to the odd hiccup and snivel.

  I released myself, feeling rather embarrassed at my display. I expect I had the intricate pattern of his jumper (probably knitted for him by one of his many adoring fans) imprinted on my damp cheek. I fished out a tissue and blew my nose.

  ‘Sorry to cry all over you. I don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t like you, but I don’t mind,’ he said amiably. ‘In fact, it’s good to be useful to someone after all these months of being a crock.’

  ‘That’s a point – how on earth did you get here?’ I asked, my mind beginning to work again. ‘You surely didn’t drive yourself up, when you’ve only just got out of rehab?’

  ‘I wish people wouldn’t keep saying “rehab” as if I’ve been drying out, or getting over a drug problem at some posh private clinic, rather than being stretched, pummelled and bullied back on to two feet by the NHS.’

  I picked up the walking stick, which he’d dropped on the floor when I threw myself at him, and handed it back. He seemed to be leaning heavily against the doorframe now, as if he needed its support, rather than just unconsciously falling into a naturally photogenic posture in the way he usually did.

  ‘I drove myself up,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s OK, because I’ve swapped the old Land Rover for an automatic car, so I can manage without using my left leg. And I’d have been here sooner if you’d told me about Julian. Why didn’t you? After all, we’ve swapped several messages and you’ve never said a word about what’s been happening!’

  ‘Since you’d only just escaped from hospital, I didn’t want to cast a cloud over your Christmas. You deserved a bit of fun after everything you’d been through, Carey.’

  ‘So did you after the time you’ve had recently! I assumed you’d chilled in Antigua and then come back with your batteries recharged to spend a quiet Christmas with Julian.’

  ‘And I assumed you were going to stay with Nick for a few weeks, so now I feel guilty that you’ve driven all the way here to see me. I mean, I’ve only managed one visit since your accident.’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, because I knew you’d been looking after Julian and, anyway, your letters kept me entertained and cheered me up. After the last one, telling me you were going to Antigua, I thought Julian must be feeling a lot better or you wouldn’t have left him.’

  ‘He’d seemed stable, or I wouldn’t have gone. Though actually,’ I added wryly, ‘he really wanted me to go, he was so desperate to be on his own for a while!’

  ‘Poor Angel. And now Grant and Ivan were telling me you’ve been shoved out of your home and the workshop, too – though I overheard some of that bit myself,’ Carey said.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m past caring and I meant to hand my notice in today anyway. I just wish I’d got it in first. Nat and Willow must have been surprised to see you – did they say anything on their way out?’

  We’d both vaguely known Nat at college, though he’d been in his final year when we started our first. The fact that his father was the famous Julian Seddon, designer of the Tidesbury Abbey Heaven and Hell window, gave Nat a sort of reflected glory. I suppose it might have been why it occurred to me later to apply to Julian for work experience. And then when I landed both Julian and a job, Nat put me down as a gold-digger.

  ‘Nat assumed I’d come to persuade you to do some more work for me for another programme. He doesn’t seem to be up to speed on my having been dropped for the new series. He said you weren’t employed here any more, but he’d consider doing it himself for some publicity. I said he could get lost, I’d only come up to see you.’

  ‘That probably went down well.’

  ‘He looked a bit taken aback, to be honest, and walked out without another word. But his wife – did you say she was called Willow? – was still staring at me as if I’d dropped in from another planet. Then she said, “Aren’t you Carey Revell from The Complete Country Cottage series? I thought you’d been killed in an accident!”’

  ‘Tactful,’ I commented, though grinning at his imitation of Willow’s fluting voice with the questioningly raised endings to every sentence.

  ‘I told her the rumours of my decease were grossly exaggerated, and then Nat shouted for her and she shot out.’

  ‘Didn’t you like her? She’s a leggy blonde – I thought she’d be just your type.’

  ‘She’s more like an albino stick insect than a woman, and anyway, I’ve given up leggy blondes,’ he told me.

  ‘Again? That’s just what you said in our last year at uni.’

  ‘I should have stuck to my guns.’

  ‘So … if you didn’t know about Julian before today, what are you doing up here so soon after you got out of hospital, Carey?’ I asked. ‘Usually it is because you want me for something.’

  ‘Not always,’ he said, looking hurt. ‘
And I did tell you I’d be up in the New Year, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but I took it as a general sometime-during-the-year kind of thing – and you always let me know when you’re going to stay with us. But even if you were fit to go back to work on a new TV series, which I don’t think you are, they’ve replaced you with that actor who fronted a series about historic houses in Scotland. I’ve forgotten his name – the one with dark hair and crossed eyes.’

  ‘Seamus Banyan, and I don’t think his eyes do actually cross, they’re just very close together.’

  ‘Does he know anything about interior design, the history of domestic architecture, or traditional craftsmanship? Has he had your years of experience, learning new crafts and skills and making contacts with experts in all kinds of relevant fields?’ I demanded indignantly.

  ‘I doubt it. I heard he mugged it all up from a script for the Scottish series, so I expect they thought they could do the same when he took over mine – not to mention persuading all the specialist craftspeople and tradesmen they needed for the project to work for them for nothing, like I did.’

  ‘But that’s your particular forte. They come because you appreciate their skills and often they’re people you’ve hung out with and learned from in the past. Or, like me, they do it from friendship and for the fun of being part of an interesting project, not for the publicity.’

  The format of the series was that over six episodes Carey worked on restoring, renovating and redecorating one dilapidated cottage, learning new skills along the way, or inviting specialists like me to help out. In the final programme he refurnished the cottage in an eclectic manner, ending up with a beautifully restored cottage that looked as if it had been occupied by the same family for generations, each adding a layer of their own to it. The owners always cried tears of joy and amazement. Add in the factor that Carey was enthusiastic, energetic, big, strong, handsome and very charismatic – not to mention having that wonderfully sexy voice – and you can see why The Complete Country Cottage was such a winner.