by Liz Trenow
I was so overwhelmed by the wonder of the place that there was barely any time to get nervous, but after Pa pulled the long cast-iron bell-pull and we waited, listening to the reverberations inside the hallway, my confidence seemed to slip away. Whatever would I say to Kit? What did people talk about over tea? What was the correct way of holding a teacup and saucer?
I’d seen Mrs Waddington at the party and occasionally in church, but she wasn’t the sort of woman who made an instant impact. In fact, my first impressions had been that she might waft away in the wind, for she was as slim as a willow branch and just as delicate. Or she might simply dissolve into the background because, with her pale skin, white-blonde hair and a wardrobe consisting of soft pastel shades of grey and cream, she appeared to have no colour of her own.
‘Come in – come in, my dears,’ she said in her light, wispy voice and ushered us through the dark hallway into a bright living room. The sun poured in through tall windows overlooking an expanse of perfectly trimmed green lawns and beds of flowering shrubs, displayed against the darker green of the woods beyond.
Crisply pruned box hedges created intricate geometric shapes in what looked like a low maze, lined with gravel paths that enclosed beds of red roses and purple lavender – a knot garden, she called it. Beyond that, a perfectly trimmed lawn of the purest green led to the edge of the moat where a pair of swans stood, serenely preening themselves. It was a picture of perfect harmony.
Jimmy said it first. ‘Pretty,’ he whispered, tapping the window with his fingers and leaving sweaty marks on the pane.
Mrs Waddington turned to Pa. ‘What a sweet boy you have, Vicar. And look at you, Molly, growing up fast. Now, let me call the others, so we can have tea. We’ll take a stroll in the garden afterwards, if you like.’
When Mr Waddington walked into the room everyone automatically pulled their shoulders back, even Jimmy, like troops standing to attention.
‘Where’s that wretched boy?’ he barked, as though it was his wife’s fault their son had not yet appeared.
She flinched a little and went to the door, calling, ‘Our guests are here, Kit.’
When Kit finally sloped in, I felt a certain sympathy with his father’s impatience. He greeted Pa with a casual and rather cursory handshake, before slumping into the chair next to me with his long legs stretched out, brushing back that lock of dark hair, a slightly grumpy expression on his face. ‘What’s for tea, Ma?’
‘Sit up straight, for heaven’s sake, Christopher,’ his father snapped.
Kit glared at him as Mrs Waddington chattered on about the weather and other inconsequential matters, trying to ease the frosty atmosphere.
A maid in crisply starched black and white uniform arrived with the tea trolley and there was much fussing over passing cups and saucers, sugar and tongs, plates and napkins, along with a plate of elegant white-bread sandwiches cut into tiny triangles and containing either cucumber or fish-paste. There was cake to follow, with a choice of chocolate or lemon – clearly they suffered from no scarcity of eggs and butter in this house.
As Pa and Mr Waddington started a conversation about St Martin-in-the-Fields, Kit turned to me. ‘And how are you this fine day, Miss Molly Goddard?’ That old-fashioned way of talking disarmed me, along with his manner: cheeky and a little insolent, but at the same time luring you in, as though he might be about to tell you the most delicious secret. He had a languorous kind of confidence about him that was both intriguing and disconcerting in equal measure.
‘I am well, thank you.’ My head whirled, trying to find another topic of conversation, but I could come up with nothing. ‘I suppose you are back from school for the holidays now?’
He sighed. ‘Afraid so. There’s not a lot to do here in Wormley, is there? Don’t you find it rather dull?’
What should I say? Should I admit that it was lonely and boring, and I longed to go back to the city? ‘I’m growing used to it. It felt odd at first, being in the country after London.’
‘I’ve always wanted to live in London. My father has a flat near Hyde Park, where he stays during the week and some of the weekends. I’d prefer to be there, to be honest, even though we don’t really get on too well most of the time. But they won’t let me, cos he’s out all day and they think I’ll get up to mischief. Which, of course, I most certainly would, given half a chance. What about you?’ Blue eyes met mine, searching and challenging.
‘I suppose so . . .’ I was stumped. It had never really crossed my mind to ‘get up to mischief’ in London; I’d been too young, I supposed, and anyway was never given the chance. Meeting school friends in a coffee bar in Colchester was the current extent of my excitements.
‘You go to the Girls’ High, I suppose?’
‘Yup.’
‘Thought so. You seem the brainy type.’ Was that code for ‘boring’? It was hard to tell. ‘I failed the eleven-plus, so they shipped me off to boarding school,’ he went on. ‘Actually I didn’t mind. It was more fun than being stuck here.’
In the pause I could hear Mrs Waddington explaining to Pa how it had come as something of a surprise when she’d inherited the Hall, after her elder brother – a pilot in the war – was shot down and her father died of a heart attack a few months later.
‘Which is why we are so keen to create some kind of memorial for him, aren’t we, darling?’ She looked across to her husband for confirmation. ‘And we were wondering whether the church authorities might consider a new stained-glass window – you know, to replace one of those blown out in the war?’
So this was why we had been invited to tea, with the elegant sandwiches and the beautifully decorated cakes. I watched Pa’s face working, as he sought the right response.
‘That sounds like a splendid idea,’ he said. ‘Although, of course, the church has a number of rather pressing demands on its finances at present, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, more earnestly now. ‘We wouldn’t ask the church to pay for it. We are offering to foot all the bills: design, creation, installation. My friend Melissa has already offered to do the design for us, and I’m sure she’ll come up with something delightful.’
‘Mrs Blackman?’
‘She’s a very talented artist, you know. It would be our memorial to my beloved brother, David.’ Her voice wavered to a whisper.
After a second, in his best clerical consolation voice (I swear they teach it at vicar college), Pa said, ‘We are so sorry for your loss, Mrs Waddington. And this is such a generous offer. I am sure we should be able to ease the way forward with the diocese to make it come to fruition. Leave it with me.’ She looked at him like an adoring angel at Christ’s crib, as though she might simply collapse into his arms. In the uneasy silence that fell over the room, Kit glanced at me and raised an eyebrow in such a comical way I nearly giggled.
All this while Jimmy had been sitting quietly beside me on the sofa. He’d been on his very best behaviour, drinking his barley water and eating his sandwiches in a remarkably civilised way. Sometimes he did this awful gobbling, stuffing food into his mouth as fast as possible and then chewing with his mouth open. But that day he was perfect, and I loved him for it.
As Mr Waddington embarked on an account of the former inhabitants of the house, which included several rogues and near-royalty, I watched Kit out of the corner of my eye. For all his casual air and the veneer of confidence, I began to sense that, inside, he was actually rather ill at ease. He could barely sit still for a few seconds before shifting his pose, putting down his plate and then picking it up again, reaching for more food before it was offered, finishing his tea and immediately holding his cup out for more. What was making him so edgy, I wondered? Surely we were not too scary: two children and a vicar? Or was there something else going on?
Kit’s gaze flicked disconcertingly between us: to his father and Pa, then to his mother and back, then to Jimmy, then me. I caught his eye and he smiled confidentially, as though we were conspirators in
some obscure game. I still could not decide whether I liked him or not. At times he came across as plain arrogant; at others he was funny, and even sensitive. I was fascinated, all the same. Kit intrigued and unsettled me, all at once. It affected Jimmy, too. He began to wriggle, upsetting his plate and the remains of his sponge cake onto the floor and spilling some of his lemon barley water.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ I heard Mr Waddington mutter. ‘Get the maid, will you, Christopher.’
Kit unravelled himself, stood up and disappeared.
Mrs Waddington padded the spill ineffectually with her napkin. ‘Never mind, my dear. It’s an old carpet and doesn’t matter at all. Anyway, isn’t it time for a walk in the garden? Time to wear off some of that energy, young Jimmy? There are swans on the moat – we can take some bread to feed them.’
Jimmy pushed past me to her side and took her hand, which is the sort of thing that breaks my heart. He falls in love so easily with anyone who takes notice of him, and then has to learn the hard truth that their affections are only temporary.
We were walking through the knot garden, and Mrs Waddington was telling us how it had been laid out in an ancient Celtic pattern like the original Tudor versions, and I suppose none of us noticed that Jimmy was missing until we heard him shouting from the far side of the lawn.
‘Look at me!’
He had somehow managed to climb a high pillar at the edge of the moat and was teetering dangerously on the top, embracing the outstretched wings of a large stone swan with one arm and waving excitedly with the other.
Kit was the first to react, leaping over the box hedges like an Olympic hurdler and sprinting across the lawn at impressive speed. He climbed a low wall and reached up for Jimmy, calling to him to turn and come down backwards, the way he’d climbed up. The rest of us were rooted to the spot, watching the drama unfold.
After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Jimmy turned to look at Kit, but at the same time he let go of the stone swan and lost his balance, wobbling for a second before starting to topple. Kit stepped forward on the wall and managed to catch him, but couldn’t keep his own balance, and the pair of them tumbled down together, with Jimmy on top and Kit below, breaking his fall.
By the time we reached them, Jimmy was already on his feet, looking a bit dazed but apparently unharmed. Pa grabbed him by the arm, rather roughly, shouting, ‘For goodness’ sake. Whatever did you think you were doing? You’re a big boy now and should know better than to run off like that.’
Jimmy burst into tears.
Kit was still sprawled on the ground, his face a funny shade of grey. His mother kneeled beside him, lifting him up tenderly into a sitting position.
‘Oh, my darling, are you hurt?’
‘A bit . . . strange.’ His head slumped to one side, and there was blood all over his white shirt and his mother’s sleeve.
‘Call for a doctor,’ his mother cried.
‘Don’t fuss, dear,’ Mr Waddington snapped. ‘He’s only bumped his head.’
Kit came round soon enough. His father helped him onto his feet and then half-walked, half-carried him back to the house, where he collapsed into a chair. We stood back, feeling rather helpless as Mrs Waddington appeared with a first-aid box. Her husband elbowed her out of the way and began to investigate Kit’s injuries. He must have cracked his head on something hard and sharp, because they found, concealed under his hair, a rather large wound still oozing blood.
‘We need to control this bleeding. Lint-compress, quick sharp.’ Mrs Waddington produced a white pad that he held to the wound. ‘He’ll need stitches. Ring the doctor. Say it’s urgent,’ he commanded, and she scuttled away.
Pa whispered, ‘Time to make ourselves scarce, I think.’
We offered profuse apologies and thanks, and let ourselves out. We walked home in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts. Jimmy was sulking because Pa had ticked him off, and my own footsteps were heavy with guilt. The accident would never have happened had I not allowed Jimmy to wander away like that. Kit had been a hero all right, saving Jimmy’s fall, and it could have been so much worse. But now he would probably never want anything more to do with us.
That evening I read Jimmy my dragon story. He loved it and wanted more, but I had to admit that was as far as I’d got. I was heading for my room, fully intending to write the next chapter straight away, when I heard a crash in the kitchen, followed by a muttered oath, and went running downstairs to find Pa on his hands and knees, trying to sweep up shards of glass out of a puddle of brown liquid. The room smelled like a public house.
‘What on earth? Are you all right? Mind you don’t cut yourself.’
I fetched an old newspaper from the scullery and, between us, we managed to clear up the mess, wrapping the glass carefully before putting it into the dustbin, just as I’d seen Mum do long ago.
‘Thank you, my darling,’ he said, rinsing his hands under the tap. ‘I was only trying to find a bottle opener and I dropped the damn thing.’ As he reached for a tea towel, I noticed his hands were trembling.
‘Are you all right, Pa?’ I asked. ‘You look a bit shaken up.’
‘I’ll be fine as soon as I get a beer inside me,’ he said.
I went to the pantry, but the shelf was empty. ‘None left – sorry. Will this do instead?’ I said, bringing out a half-empty bottle of sherry. Pa had never been a big drinker, but he did like a tipple from time to time.
‘That’ll do perfectly.’ He poured a large glassful and swigged it back in a single gulp. ‘That’s better.’
‘What’s up?’
He demurred for a few moments, trying to put me off. ‘Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, my darling.’
‘I’m already troubled by what I see,’ I said.
‘It’s this church-window plan,’ he said. ‘The Waddingtons say they’ll pay for everything, but honestly, it’s hardly a priority, when the roof is leaking and the loose slabs in the aisle are a veritable death-trap. But I’m being steamrollered, I’m afraid. The wives have already been talking to each other, before I’ve even had a chance to take the idea to the diocese.’ He poured himself another glassful. ‘And, frankly, I could do without that, what with everything else.’
‘Everything else?’
‘It’s the church finances, my darling. Not to put too fine a point on it, they’re a complete mess. It’s worse than I expected.’
‘Hasn’t Mr Blackman been sorting them out?’
‘He’s trying to. But it seems the previous incumbent got in a terrible muddle. A substantial sum appears to have gone missing.’ He rubbed his temples, looking worn and weary.
‘Where’s it gone?’
‘If I knew that there wouldn’t be a problem, would there?’ he snapped.
I knew so little about the world of money. We’d never had much, but always enough for the basics of life and so, apart from feeling mildly envious about the luxuries that other girls seemed to prize – large houses, ponies, new clothes, tennis lessons – it never troubled me much. But I knew, from court reports in newspapers, how easily people could get into trouble over money: debts, bankruptcies, lost inheritances, theft. Theft. The word left a metallic taste in the mouth. But who would steal from a church?
8
I passed an anxious night worrying about Kit and hoping he had not been too badly hurt, as well as wondering what excuse I could invent to make contact again without being seen as a bother. Then I had a brainwave: we would write a thank-you letter to the family and deliver it by hand, with a bunch of roses from the garden.
As Jimmy and I passed through the gates, a first-floor casement flew open and Kit’s head appeared, swathed in a large white bandage.
‘Hey there, you two,’ he shouted. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes. The parents are both out, but the doc said I’ve got concussion and must take it easy for a few days. I’ll come down.’
Despite the bandage and the blue-black shadow on his forehead, he still resembled a Gr
eek god, almost too beautiful to be among us ordinary mortals. Was I already falling in love? No, not yet. That would come later.
‘These are for you and your parents,’ I said. Jimmy thrust forward the roses and I handed Kit the letter. ‘We wanted to thank you for saving him.’ I nudged my brother. ‘Go on, Jimmy. What I told you.’ I’d been coaching him all the way down the hill.
‘Sorry, and thank you,’ he said, clear as anything.
‘I hope your head is mending?’
‘It’s fine,’ Kit said. ‘I woke up with a bit of a headache, but I’ll be right as rain. I won’t have to wear this thing after tomorrow, and the stitches will come out in a week. Honestly, I don’t know why everyone made such a fuss.’
‘You were covered in blood. It was very dramatic.’
‘Yeah. The shirt’s a goner anyway.’
There was a slightly uneasy pause, and I tried to think of something interesting to say. Reluctantly, after a moment, I said, ‘Well, we’d better be going.’
Kit glanced up the drive behind me. ‘Won’t you come in for a bit? I’m under house arrest and as bored as a badger. You won’t believe how pleased I am to have visitors. No one else is at home. My father has gone back to London, and Mother is at one of her endless classes – painting or knitting or keeping fit, whatever it is today – and she’s given Elsie the day off. It’d cheer me up no end.’
He led us into the kitchen, a room four times the size of our own, with an old-fashioned flagstone floor, a wide table in the centre and a long range – the grown-up version of our old Rayburn – along one side. The worktop and shelves were arrayed with the latest varieties of kitchen equipment, crockery and utensils.