by Sarah Long
They didn’t listen much to Radio 4 at the château, but tuned in when they were driving.
‘It’s strange how quickly we’ve become acclimatised. All that UK domestic political stuff they cover seems so irrelevant now.’
‘Thank the lord. Oh look, here she comes.’
Eva had spotted their car and was walking towards them, pulling a wheelie bag and looking cross underneath her umbrella. She was stylish as usual, in a black belted patent coat and chunky boots. She reminded Beth so much of her younger self.
Beth opened the car door and stepped out to embrace Eva in a warm rush of maternal affection.
‘Hello, my darling, it’s so lovely to see you. How was the journey?’
‘Pretty bloody awful, actually,’ said Eva, flopping into the back seat while Beth put her bag in the boot. ‘Couldn’t sleep at all in the cabin for the noise of the engine. It was like a prison cell – no windows.’
‘Good to see you too, sweetheart,’ said Simon with a grin.
‘Hey, Dad. Sorry to be a grouch.’ She leaned forward to give him a kiss. ‘I’m here now, that’s the main thing. What’s with this weather, though? I thought the whole point of moving abroad was to have more sunshine. You should have gone further south.’
‘It has been beautiful. Dominic was swimming in the sea the other day. You must have brought the weather with you.’
‘You know me, I always carry my own little rain cloud.’
Her face broke into a smile.
‘That’s my girl,’ said Simon. ‘I always said your bad temper was just a front for the radiance within.’
‘I’m not feeling at all radiant, as it happens,’ said Eva. ‘Which is why I needed to come over for a break.’
Beth listened to her outpourings of woe on the journey home with a weary feeling of familiarity. She had forgotten how draining it was, especially as there was nothing she could do to fix it. It boiled down to pressure of work and a sporadically unsatisfactory boyfriend. The only advice you could give was quit the course or change the boyfriend, neither of which Eva was prepared to countenance.
‘Anyway, how are you guys doing?’ asked Eva eventually.
‘Great,’ said Beth firmly. ‘We’re having the best time, give or take the odd hiccup. Sorting the house out, planting the garden, hanging around boulangeries, endless dinner parties – it’s fab. Apart from the catastrophically damaged roof and the plumbing and electrics conking out, which is going to cost us a small fortune, but we don’t talk about that.’
‘You’re so lucky,’ said Eva. ‘Although I’m not sure I’d want to live with so many people. Especially when one of them is Dad’s ex. Don’t you find that a bit weird?’
Beth shuffled in her seat.
‘Not at all, it was a lifetime ago, as you know. Nicola’s my best friend; it’s perfectly natural for us to be together.’
Simon kept his eyes on the road.
‘Here we are,’ said Beth, as they swept in through the gates. ‘Mum and Dad’s new gaff. Not too shabby, is it?’
‘It’s amazing,’ said Eva. ‘It literally is a castle! It’s even better than in the photos. You can imagine an entire court living here. Shame about the scaffolding spoiling the view.’
‘That’s how we see ourselves,’ said Simon, ‘mini-Versailles. I hate to break it to you but you’re in the servants’ quarters. I’ll show you to your room.’
He picked up her bag and escorted her into the entrance hall.
‘Everyone’s still in bed, I’m afraid, so there’s no welcome party, but you’re allowed a glimpse of the grand rooms on your way through. There’s the crystal ballroom, where you’ll be joining us later for mah-jong and backgammon and other pastimes we early retirees engage in to while away the long afternoons. Beyond that lies the salon, then the dining room – the scene of many competitive dinners. On the other side of the staircase here we have the library, where your diligent father spends fruitful mornings writing his book and where those models of scholarship Dougie and Mary research their esoteric papers.’
‘It reminds me of my college,’ said Eva, as she followed him up the imposing staircase. ‘You can feel the weight of history on your shoulders. Now, show me where I’m sleeping.’
‘There’s a service staircase at the end of the wing. We could have slipped up via the scullery, but I’m taking you this way for the full effect.’
He enjoyed seeing the place anew through his daughter’s eyes. It was the whole point of having a grand home, surely, to see how it inspired and delighted your visitors. Once you were living there yourself, you became accustomed to its delights and barely noticed them.
‘Here are the noble bedrooms, where your elders and betters lay their weary old heads,’ he said, leading her down the corridor until they reached the door at the end. ‘And here are the backstairs.’
The smaller spiral staircase that accessed the top floor was a much humbler affair. Eva could imagine the legions of maids whose footsteps had worn the treads, as they rose each morning to prepare the fires.
‘You’ll be relieved to know this is one of the few rooms that’s not affected by the leaking roof, so you won’t be woken by a puddle of water – we wouldn’t do that to you, my girl. Here, this is you.’
He opened the door to reveal a simple room with a single iron bed and an old-fashioned washstand with an inset rose-patterned bowl and jug. Eva sat on the bed and swung her feet up, stretching out luxuriously.
‘How incredibly quaint. Am I supposed to fill my own water jug with cold water to splash on my plain maid’s face?’
‘Never plain, you know that.’
She had his own striking dark features, with a touch of Beth’s softness around the jaw.
Eva sat up and pulled her bag onto the bed, unloading a stack of medical textbooks.
‘I’ve got all this studying to do while I’m here, so I won’t be joining in all your fun and games, I’m afraid.’
‘We’ll keep you fed and watered; you’ll be free to do whatever you need to do. I’m proud of you, Eva, you know that – training to do something properly useful, unlike the rest of us.’
‘Apart from Nicola – she had a useful working life.’
‘Yes, and it’s handy to have a medic around in a houseful of future geriatrics.’
‘I look forward to talking to her, actually, now we’re in the same field.’
‘She’d like that, and she is your godmother after all.’
‘I only remembered when I was on the ferry that she used to be your girlfriend. I mean, I’ve always known, but she could have been my mum. How weird is that?’
‘Ah, but you wouldn’t be you if she was your mum.’
‘True.’
Eva looked at him.
‘Are you and Mum all right, now? I couldn’t help noticing you were arguing a lot before you moved here.’
He saw the anxiety in her face and couldn’t quite meet her gaze.
‘Yes, of course we’re all right. It took a bit of adjusting, with both of us stopping work and being under each other’s feet all day, but that’s to be expected. As you’ll find out for yourself one day, when you’re part of an old married couple like us.’
Old married couple – the term was a killer.
‘I just can’t imagine that, it’s so far from where I am,’ said Eva. ‘Good, I’m glad you’re getting along better – I know lots of couples find it tough when they retire. Suddenly they’re stuck with each other all day long. And anyway, I don’t want to cope with my parents divorcing – that would be another stressful thing to deal with in my stressful life.’ She laughed.
‘You millennials and your stress. I do find you all overthink things. Just get on with it, I say.’
‘OK, Boomer! It was all right for your generation, you had it much easier – houses you could actually afford, pensions that kick in before the dementia does and you got to have real relationships, not just online ones.’
‘Come on, Eva, don’t give me t
hat old trope! We’re attacked from all sides, we baby boomers! Our parents telling us about “when I was your age”, and banging on about the war, and now our own kids telling us we had all the breaks . . . We are the put-upon sandwich generation, if you must know, abused from both ends!’
‘You’re not sandwiches; you and Mum both lost your parents before you had to worry about them. I know you both miss them but you can’t deny the nest egg helped set you up. Anyway, if you are sandwiches, you’re the tasty filling in the middle with no boring crusts, so either way you win.’
‘Still the feisty one, I see!’
‘Don’t use that word, it’s sexist. When did you ever hear a man described as feisty?’
Simon wondered, not for the first time, why she was so angry. She had been given every advantage: a first-class education, even a flat they’d bought for her outright. Everything on a plate. He really didn’t get it.
‘How’s James?’ he asked. ‘Do the two of your ever find time for a little fun? Or is that off limits these days?’
‘Is that “how’s James” as in you hope he’s on the way out? I know you don’t like him.’
‘It’s not that I don’t like him, I’m just not sure how much you like him, if I’m honest.’
‘I like him very much, actually. It’s just that we’re going through a few issues at the moment. Which is why I’m here, partly.’
‘Call me old-fashioned, but when you’re in love with someone, you don’t waste your time working through issues. You rejoice in that person and seize the moment.’
‘Like you and Mum, you mean?’
‘Well, yes. When we got together, we just decided that was it. When you know, you know, isn’t that what they say?’
Although he really wasn’t sure at all if he knew anymore.
‘Very touching. And on that tender note, I’ll ask you to leave me to my studies and my millennial self-absorption.’
She gave him a dazzling smile.
‘Thanks for picking me up. I’m happy to be here, you know.’
Simon gave her a bear hug.
‘You are great, you know that. I’m here for you, even if I am a terrible old un-woke dinosaur. I’m still your dad.’
*
‘Those roofers are getting on well. I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to see them up there on the scaffolding,’ said Nicola, looking up at them from the terrace where she and Dom were enjoying a morning coffee.
‘Bloody noisy though,’ said Dom. ‘I can count at least six of them. Let’s hope it’s over before long. Tell you what, it’s a beautiful morning, why don’t we use it to move all that junk from the library into the barn, like we talked about.’
‘Excellent plan.’
Their unwanted furniture and boxes of files had been stacked in the library since the day they moved in. They agreed there was no place in their grand new home for a knackered old armchair and a threadbare chaise longue, which Nicola had bought for a song in a junk shop with the intention of using her upholstery skills to make them good as new.
The question of what to do with everyone’s furniture had been something of a bone of contention. Dominic and Nicola had not brought much with them – most of it was still in their London house – and the same went for Dougie and Mary, although they did bring their favourite old armchairs. Leo had left pretty much everything behind, and Will and Fizz had brought only a piano and a pink upholstered love seat, which Leo detested.
Beth and Simon, on the other hand, with no bolthole left in London, had arrived with a huge cargo of flashy and cumbersome items, acquired over thirty years of slavish devotion to every furnishing fad. The waterbed they were allowed to keep hidden in their bedroom so it would not offend the eye. The sprawling crimson sofas were permitted for the time being, on the basis that they all needed somewhere to sit while they waited for Leo’s design overhaul, but everything else of theirs – garish Indian paintings, a zebra print coffee table, a Wild West built-in bar and a stuffed badger – was stored in the largest barn. Leo had dictated that it could only be brought out for use in their private apartment, if they ever got that far.
However, one great advantage of the château was the opportunity to store all their possessions in the outbuildings. Even those housemates who had travelled light intended to bring more belongings over at some point, and each of them had been allocated a shed or barn. Here they would keep the stuff you would normally get rid of when moving house, or else pay exorbitant rates to pack into a warehouse where it would lie undisturbed until your death, when your children would throw it all away, wondering why you held on to such a load of old tat.
Dominic had earmarked a smaller outbuilding for their own use: a colombage wattle and daub building, with potential for conversion in the unlikely event of them ever needing more space. He and Nicola loaded up the car with the furniture – assisted by one of the roofers, who had gallantly climbed down to give them a hand – and drove it into the field, parking up beside the barn.
‘Here we are,’ said Dominic, pushing open the door. ‘This is better than a rip-off Big Yellow self-storage unit off the M25.’
‘Loads of room,’ Nicola agreed, looking around at the dark space.
There were no windows, so the only light came through the large open door, which revealed a hayloft containing a few straw bales and what looked like an old mattress.
‘You could imagine a horror film scenario here,’ said Nicola. ‘Someone locked up in chains and tortured by his captors.’
‘Don’t be gruesome. Let’s bring the stuff in.’
‘Look at the dovecot, isn’t it just beautiful?’ said Nicola. ‘If there was one single thing that sold this place to me, it was that – I can just picture a flock of white doves flying out of it.’
The tall and gracious dovecot stood at the far end of the field, its circular walls lined with nesting holes for birds, now long departed. Madame de Courcy had explained that it was only the most noble aristocrats who were given the right to construct an independent colombier away from the house, in an early form of planning permission. Less esteemed families had to make do with a pigeonnier attached to the château, she’d said with a dismissive wave of the hand, as if this were beyond the pale. Nicola was proud of the way she had seen off the former mistress of the château. It was great to meet her occasionally, to share snippets of information like this, but they all felt more comfortable since she’d handed back the key.
Simon had wanted to convert the dovecot into a wine cellar, installing a cooling system and expanding the niches to convenient bottle-sized slots, which could be reached with a long ladder. He was shouted down on the basis that the château already had several underground cellars, with dark and damp conditions ideal for the purpose.
‘The mice will probably get to this chair before we do,’ said Nicola, as they heaved it out of the car. ‘We should wrap it in a tarpaulin to keep them out.’
‘Or put it on the bonfire. Do you really think you’ll ever get around to it?’
‘Of course I will! Think of the long winter nights – I’ll need a project.’
‘Hmm. Just the history box to go now. Let’s do it.’
They trudged back to the car and carried out the battered cardboard box that had sat untouched for years in their attic, containing yellowing papers related to their past. Old bank statements and payslips, medical records, children’s school reports, estate agent details of their previous homes – the stuff you hang on to for no good reason except as a sentimental record of your history. Yet somehow Nicola had felt she couldn’t leave it behind. More precious were the birthday card from seven-year-old Maddie, with its large, slightly deranged letters declaring: ‘Mummy, I love you so much’, and a crude pottery vase that Gus had made for them. Best of all were shoeboxes of photographs from the pre-digital age. They couldn’t resist looking through them.
‘How cute we used to be,’ said Nicola, picking out a snap of them in their early twenties posing beside some
ruins on holiday in Turkey. She passed it to Dominic.
‘I remember that denim skirt,’ he said wistfully. ‘So short it was barely there and with poppers down the front so you could just whip it off. I’m surprised you weren’t arrested.’
He gave her bottom an affectionate squeeze.
‘You were lovely then and you’re lovely now. There are still a couple of stools in the boot, but don’t worry, I can manage them on my own.’
He left her to her nostalgic browsing, studying their evolution through different fashions and haircuts, snapshots of Christmas parties and holidays, Dominic standing on the doorstep of their first house, looking thin and sexy in a pair of jeans. Then she noticed a metal file container hidden at the bottom of the box.
‘I don’t recognise this. Is it yours?’ she shouted to Dominic, who was out of earshot.
She lifted it up. It was surprisingly heavy, like a safe box, and she had the mad hope that it might be stuffed with bank notes or priceless jewellery that would pay for the roof! Instead, when she opened the lid, she found only a collection of old manila envelopes, containing receipts rather than money. Lying on top was an exercise book bound in maroon leather. Curiosity got the better of her and she opened it up, recognising Dominic’s spidery writing.
‘It’s your teenage diary, how hilarious!’ she said to Dominic, who had returned, carrying one stool under each arm.
She flicked through the pages, seeing references to bands he had seen, clothes he had bought, and what appeared to be a star system attributed to Saturday night dates.
‘Don’t look at that, it’s private!’ said Dominic. He dropped the stools and snatched the metal box from her.
‘Calm down, I won’t. No risk of you finding my diaries – I burned them years ago. Far too embarrassing.’
Dominic scrabbled around in the box until he found what he was looking for – a small key on a piece of string. He took the diary from Nicola, put it back in the box and locked it, pocketing the key.
‘Yours must be really embarrassing,’ said Nicola. ‘There’s no shame in it, you were only a child. What does two stars stand for, by the way? Attributed to Kim, it seems.’