***
FIFTEEN
When the door closed behind his son, Claire’s father seemed to relax and become smaller, shorter. It was as if he had maintained some act of standing tall in Robert’s presence that he didn’t need to continue in front of Claire.
“Cup of tea, Dad?”
Her father turned and smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, love. Now he’s gone maybe we can have a proper natter. Feels like having my old boss in the house, with him in his suit and tie. Doesn’t the boy ever relax?”
Claire grinned, feeling like a collaborator. “He’s got a lot on his mind, I guess.”
“Yes, that stuck up cow of a wife is giving him a hard time, from what I can gather.”
“Dad!” Claire stared, open-mouthed, as her father shuffled into the lounge and settled in his favourite chair. She followed him in, perching on the sofa, all thought of making tea forgotten.
“Well, don’t tell me you like her? I don’t suppose you’ve visited once since the wedding: silly pretentious affair that it was.”
Claire wondered when aliens had come and kidnapped her father. He was the one always a stickler for formality. When he was working, chief financial officer of some major company or other, he’d seemed so stiff and unapproachable. She’d never seen this side to him, lounging in a comfy chair having a gossip.
In fact, I never see him at all normally. Last time I was home he was off playing golf all the time. She thought about his question. When had she last seen Francesca and the boys?
“I Skype now and then, on the boys’ birthdays. If I remember.”
“Ah, yes. Easy to put on a front on the phone. Even with that new-fangled thing that allows you to see the other person.” He shuddered, as if the future made him uncomfortable.
“The truth is in what Robert doesn’t say. Never talks about her, you know. Nor about the boys much. It’s all work, work, work. Well, I gave all that up. Glad to see the back of it, too.”
Claire raised her eyebrows. “I thought you hated leaving your job? Mum says you’re never here. I guessed you were busy with non-exec roles, that kind of thing.”
Her father’s face flushed, and he looked towards the door, as if expecting to see his wife enter at any moment. Then he turned back to Claire and his face was conspiratorial. “Don’t tell your mother, but I’m usually at the library.”
Claire felt like a clown that had just been splatted in the face by a custard pie. “The library? Why? Mum says you play golf, when you’re not working.”
“Golf? Whatever for? Stupid game. I go to the club sometimes, to catch up with the old boys. Really, though, what’s that thing Twain was meant to have said? ‘A good walk spoiled.’ No I’ve been doing research.”
Settling back into the sofa, Claire leaned on the arm so she could face her father. “Research for what?”
“I’m writing a book.” He beamed, like a child admitting they’d won first prize in a competition. “Your mother would think it was foolish, so I haven’t told her. She’s so busy keeping up with the Jones’s and doing her WI things. She would think it awfully common to be writing a book.” He frowned. “You won’t tell her, will you?”
Claire’s mind whirled with the flood of new information. She felt like she had never truly known her father. Either that or her first surmise was right, and aliens had kidnapped Gerald Carleton and replaced him with someone new.
“Of course I won’t tell Mum, if you don’t want me to. What’s the book about?” She expected him to say Business Finance, or Military Strategies in the Second World War.
“It’s a thriller. I’ve been having writing lessons. You know, one of those free Adult Learning courses they do at the college? They say everyone has a book in them. I think mine’s tending towards a Grisham.”
Laughter built in Claire’s chest for the first time in days. She threw her head back and the sound filled the empty magnolia room, rolling off the walls.
“Oh Dad, that’s brilliant. Can I read it?”
“It’s not finished yet.” He looked furtive. “You won’t tell your mother,” he repeated.
“Why not? It’s great that you’re doing something with your time, now you’re retired. Maybe Mum could proof-read it. She did used to be a secretary.”
That was how her parents had met. Her mother had been her father’s secretary, just to prove that clichés did happen in real life.
“Lord no, I couldn’t do that. She hates being reminded of the past. Between you and me, I think it makes her feel uncomfortable, as if she’s a fraud.” He gestured at the room. “Take this house. It’s got no warmth, but she’s so afraid of it turning into her Mother’s house, full of tat and mess and pictures. As if clutter somehow makes you working class.”
His words, said in a thoughtful tone, amazed Claire. Who knew the old man was so astute? It came as a surprise to think there were busy thoughts going on behind her father’s placid face. He’d always been in the background of her life, rarely getting involved in the day to day events. Now he seemed to come alive, three-dimensional and vivid before her.
“Anyway, girl, how about that tea? And then I suppose you best be getting on your way. You’ll be stuck awhile chatting at Ruth’s and you don’t want to drive to a new hostel in the dark.”
Almost numb to the shock of fresh revelations, Claire knew she shouldn’t be surprised that her father knew she was booked into a hostel for the night, and needed to drive by Ruth’s place to say her farewells. Carl had agreed to only the week’s holiday and, with Sky returning to school in the morning, her presence was no longer required.
“Okay, Dad. Coming right up.”
***
SIXTEEN
Claire was conscious of nerves as she waited on the doorstep. Things had been strained between her and Ruth since the revelations about Chris and the ballet teacher. Even so, it hurt to be saying goodbye to her sister and her niece. The week in the hospital, reading on the bed next to Ruth, entertaining Sky in the canteen or taking her to the park, had been strangely restful.
The week was spent encased in a cocoon of waiting: Ruth had responded well to treatment and the days were merely marking time until the doctors said she was strong enough to return home. Claire had enjoyed helping Sky complete the remainder of her homework. They had even written a letter to Sky’s father, although Claire had felt a stab of guilt, knowing she wasn’t brave enough to tell her sister about it.
Claire stood waiting for her mother or Sky to open the door. Even though she had stayed with Sky at her house for the week, now Ruth was home it felt impolite simply to walk in.
In the back of her mind she remembered the last time she had waited in the same spot, when she had come to look after Sky, the day of the hospital tests. Blimey that was nearly two months ago. In some ways it felt like only days before. In others ways, a lifetime had passed. She had experienced so much, travelling with Josh and looking after Sky. That morning’s conversation with her father still echoed in her mind.
How little we really know our family. Look at what I’ve discovered in a few weeks, that I hadn’t realised in nearly three decades: My brother and his perfect wife aren’t so perfect, Ruth’s ex isn’t a bastard but actually a doting dad, my father is writing a novel – a thriller for goodness sake – and hiding it from his wife. He hates golf. And Mum spends her time keeping up with the Jones’s to forget she used to be her husband’s secretary. You couldn’t make it up. We’re living an episode of Days of Our Lives.
Hearing footsteps thundering down the corridor, Claire braced herself for a whirlwind of blonde hair and beads. At least Sky hasn’t changed.
Claire held her sister tightly, aware only now of how awful it would be to lose her. She knew, too, that when Ruth was better they would never be quite as close as they were at this moment. Even the betrayal of introducing Sky to her half-sister was forgotten.
“Stay well, sis. Be strong. If you need anything, call me.” Claire spoke deep into her sister’s shoulder, w
here her hair would once have been. All that tickled her neck was the floral scarf tied tightly round Ruth’s head. Words that couldn’t be said face to face could be whispered cheek to cheek.
“You have an amazing daughter. Thank you for letting me get to know her better.” She stood back, tears blurring her vision. “I promise I’ll call more often, and I’ll stop by when I head south again. It won’t take long to get through the hostels on the east coast I didn’t get to with Sky.”
Ruth squeezed Claire’s arms, then let them drop as she reached for a tissue. “Thank you for everything, sis. Sorry I got upset about the whole Chris thing. I know you were in an impossible situation. And, well, if the worst does happen.” She stopped, unable to say the unthinkable words.
Claire was glad they remained unspoken. In the whole week she had spent in the hospital with Ruth, they had never talked about what might happen. While Ruth was responding to treatment it seemed like tempting fate to discuss the future.
“Try and enjoy your travels. I know it isn’t what you wanted, but you seem…” Ruth searched for a word. “You’re more alive, since you started the trip. When you looked after Sky in February you looked tight and tired and, I don’t know, somehow bitter at life. Now, well actually now you still look tired.” She laughed. They both knew what looking after Sky was like. “But it’s different. It’s a lack of sleep because my niece was up all night tired.”
The words seemed to run out and Ruth let them trail away. Even though the doctors had sent her home, she still looked exhausted. Claire gave her another hug, then turned to where Sky was snuggled up with Nana in the armchair, her face wet and blotchy.
“Come here, Sky, give Auntie Claire a cuddle.”
The girl hesitated, them scrambled down and ran across the room, sobbing.
“Don’t go, Auntie Claire. Please.”
“I have to poppet. I’m not ready to be fired just yet, and my mean old boss won’t let me take any more holiday.”
Sky clung tightly to Claire’s neck, and she was conscious of a warm sensation deep in her heart. She no longer wanted to shake her off.
“I’ll be back soon. You take care of your Mummy, okay, and do what Nana tells you. I’ll call and find out what your teacher thought of your story.”
Pulling the thin arms away from her neck as gently as she could, Claire took Sky’s hand and led her back to sit with Nana. Then with a quick wave and no more words, she hurried from the room, swallowing down the lump stuck deep in her throat.
***
SEVENTEEN
“You have reached your destination.”
The satnav’s prim voice startled Claire out of her reverie. She looked out the window, not sure what to expect. She hadn’t studied the website for this hostel and so was arriving blind. Her heart pattered anxiously, remembering her arrival at Sheringham.
“Alright, Thurlby, let’s see what you have to offer. Please be nice.”
It seemed strange pulling up outside the hostel, alone in the Skoda. There had been too much time for thought, driving north with all the Sunday commuter traffic. There wasn’t even the novelty of new, as the area was close to where she had grown up. Signs for Burghley House and Rutland Water only reminded her of rare family trips out, sibling bickering and a desire to hide.
Claire climbed out of her car and gazed up at the building. Her soul soared like a Red Kite riding a thermal. Tall Georgian sash windows beamed from deep red brick as tree branches in early bud danced over her head. Two weeks of tension drained from her shoulders as she took in the idyllic surroundings.
I don’t know what surprises me more; that these places exist as hostels, where you can stay for a tenner a night, or that I never knew they existed before I started this assignment. It felt a betrayal to be glad of anything Carl had done to her, but at that moment she was conscious of a deep sense of gratitude that she could come and stay in a Georgian Manor. By myself, for free. I’ll take it. Even if it does mean I’ll have to cycle round Rutland Water and oo-ah at Burghley. Again.
Curled up on the sofa, once more immersed in the adventures of Katniss, Claire felt like something was missing. She glanced up at the empty room, and wondered where the strange sensation was coming from. Maybe I’m hungry. Dry cereal isn’t really dinner. That will teach me not to check whether it was a catering hostel or not. Her tummy gurgled in agreement, but still that didn’t seem to be it. She glanced round the room again, and then she knew. She missed Sky. How is that possible? This is the first time I’ve felt free in a fortnight. And it was good to be alone, without the endless worry and chatter. But still, the room seemed too silent, the night stretching out before her too long.
“Ah well,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet. “It’ll wear off.”
***
EIGHTEEN
Claire was glad of the satnav, reassuring her she was on the correct road. I don’t remember Burghley being this far out of town.
She’d decided to visit the stately home and get some information together for the blog. Her visitor numbers had suffered, during her fortnight minding Sky, although she had maintained the regular posts by discussing trips out with children. It surprised Claire that they had been her most popular posts for a while.
Mental note to include children’s activities in all my blog posts from now on. There’s a whole world of parenting out there I was oblivious too. I imagine it’s even harder to cater for the tiny ones, although how much entertaining do they need when they can’t walk and talk?
At last the satnav announced the words, “turn right.” Claire looked across and saw the gate houses nestled deep in the hedgerow, with a wooden sign directing visitors to use that entrance. The last time I was at Burghley it was for the Horse Trials. I don’t think we came in this way. In fact, during the horse trials they had barely seen the house. Only a sea of white marquees and a milling throng of people.
She had come with some university friends and, as far as she could remember, they hadn’t left the champagne tent, except to go shopping. Did I even see a horse? I can’t remember. Those were the days. With a sigh of regret for her lost youth, Claire negotiated the cattle grid, hoping it didn’t shake any rusty parts off the Skoda’s bodywork, and drove up the lane. The car park nestled underneath large spreading trees, beginning to leave behind the nakedness of winter and don their spring clothes.
The car park was nearly empty, and Claire wondered if maybe the house wasn’t open. I suppose there aren’t many people visiting a stately home on a Monday morning in April. She shivered as a gust of wind swirled round the car, prompting her to reach into the back for her jacket. When she stood up, she had the impression that someone was watching her. Turning slowly, memories of the mugging in her mind, Claire gave out a startled cry at the sight of a large stag standing only two car-lengths away.
“Blimey, where did you come from?”
The stag didn’t move at the sound of her voice. He merely stood in silent scrutiny, reminding Claire of Bambi’s father surveying the herd from his hilltop lookout. The stag’s antlers spread wide and high above his head.
Barely breathing, Claire walked steadily forward, reaching into her pocket for her phone. The stag showed signs of restlessness when she was a few feet away, so she stopped and slowly took a photo. Then she stood, barely breathing, eyes connected to the impassive stare of the animal. They stood motionless for a minute, and Claire wondered if she could chance getting closer. With her arm outstretched she crept forward. The stag threw up his head, then turned and galloped off to join the grazing herd on the other side of the car park.
Bloody hell. Claire let out the breath she had been holding, and gave a shaky laugh. That’s today’s blog sorted. I can’t imagine some boring old sixteenth-century house can have anything to top that.
***
NINETEEN
Claire flicked through the photographs on her iPad, as she waited for the serving person to bring her coffee. Maybe I should just put photographs up on the blog ever
y day, rather than writing my usual waffle. Some of these are quite good.
Her Burghley House folder had nearly 100 pictures. The tour had taken some time and there had been endless things to see. There was the shot from behind the building that was straight out of Kiera Knightley’s Pride and Prejudice. This one showed the rooms used for the interior of Castel Gandolfo in the Da Vinci Code movie. And that one was from Elizabeth: The Golden Age.
Oh and of course all that lovely architecture and works of art. Not that anyone is interested in that sort of stuff, certainly no one who follows my blog.
Claire looked at the photograph of the stair-lift going up the ‘Hell Staircase’. There was something slightly creepy about old and infirm people being able to take a stair-lift to hell. She shook off the thought as inappropriate, and continued to flick through her images.
Draining the last of her coffee, Claire looked at the blue sky and then at her watch. It’s too nice to get straight back in the car and drive to the next hostel. She wandered into the rose garden that filled the courtyard outside the Orangery. There was a low railing surrounding a large circular pond. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she went to peer in the water, phone in hand to take some pictures.
“Holy crap!” Claire nearly dropped her phone, as a fish the size of a small shark rose out the water beneath her. Heart thumping loudly, she took a step back, then glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed her outburst.
Relieved to see she was alone, Claire ventured back to the railing and peered into the murky pond. Dozens of silent shapes glided and danced in the water, glowing gold or white in the darkness. I hate fish. Particularly big fish. With a shiver, Claire took a couple of photos, then turned and went back through the restaurant to wander in the sculpture garden.
Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume Five Page 4