Honeymoon Suite

by Wendy Holden

  Before starting on this, Dylan went to empty his bucket on the compost heap. Walking back, he saw that Mrs Palethorpe was standing in front of his recent theatre of operations. She turned to stare at him through her half-moon glasses.

  Dylan smiled, expecting praise. The soil was not only weed-free but freshly dug over. It looked dark and inviting.

  Mrs Palethorpe stabbed a finger downwards. ‘You’ve missed some here. Look.’

  Dylan looked. The few grass blades in question were so small he could hardly see them.

  The old woman suddenly cocked her head. ‘What’s that ghastly noise?’

  A faint crackling was coming from the direction of the woods: music interspersed with shouting people.

  Mrs Palethorpe’s eyes met his, aghast. ‘Could it be a radio? I’ve told Daniel before that I will not have radios blaring out all over my garden. Kindly go and turn it off.’ She strode away, the sharp pleats of her skirt quivering, her shoes crunching agitatedly on the gravel.

  Dylan went to find his employer. Dan did not complain, or offer any comment. He merely shrugged and turned the radio off.

  ‘She’s horrible,’ Dylan exploded, unable to keep it in any longer. ‘Why do you work for her?’

  Dan’s impassive gaze met his. ‘How much choice d’ya think I’ve got, mate? This game, you take whatever work comes. Gotta put up with it. Can’t pick and choose.’

  Dylan reddened as this lesson in the casual gardening economy filtered through. He’d had a charmed life before, only working when he wanted to, for vast sums, and for himself. All the same, strangely, he preferred what he was doing now.

  He started to pull out long handfuls of bright grass from among the purple-topped lavender stems. This labour, while it lacked the visceral excitement of the earlier dandelion-pulling, was not without interest. The rasping stickiness of the blades was unexpected. And the sudden release of roots from soil sent the astringent, peppery lavender scent pouring into the air.

  Dylan had a vague idea of the sun being to his left when he started but when next he looked up it was high in the sky. Surely it was lunchtime. His stomach certainly thought so. It was – or so it felt – cleaving to his backbone. The physical work and the fresh air had done exactly what physical work and fresh air were supposed to do. Dylan was starving, more so than he had ever been in his life.

  He thought of his lunch in the bag in the car. That pork pie had looked exceptional, as had that creamy-looking piece of cheese, shot through with blue veins.

  He rose and stretched, pushing his arms into the sunny air, enjoying the release of his muscles. He shoved back his hair from his perspiring brow and went in search of Dan, whose whereabouts were easy enough to guess at. The bottom of the garden was billowing with smoke.

  At the sight and smell of flames, Dylan’s heart began to thud. He tried to calm himself; this was just a small blaze for leaves and weeds. And he was a gardener now, for goodness’ sake. Gardeners made bonfires.

  Dan stood at the edge of a neat heap of burning debris, stoking with a garden fork a blaze from which smoke twisted rapidly out, unfurling itself into the air. Twigs snapped and crackled. Sparks flew. Dylan’s breath was coming fast and panicked. He struggled for control.

  ‘Aren’t we stopping for lunch?’ he managed to croak at last.

  Dan turned to look at him. ‘She don’t like us to,’ he said flatly. ‘We’re supposed to work all day.’

  ‘Without a break?’ Dylan exclaimed. Weren’t there rules about this sort of thing? European Union directives?

  ‘Aye.’ Dan continued to fork the leaves on to the blaze. He had taken his top off and his muscled and naked torso shone with sweat. Underneath his baggy workwear, Dan cut a finer figure than one would imagine, although it was a sight wasted on Mrs Palethorpe, Dylan thought. With his huge muscles and massive height, he looked like some magus in an ancient grove. All he needed was a dryad or two. Dylan found himself wondering if Dan was married.

  ‘Got nowt to eat, anyroad,’ Dan added.

  ‘You’ve brought nothing to eat?’ Dylan remembered the doorstep sandwiches the last time they had met.

  ‘Were in a bit of a rush this morning. Then t’van packed up.’

  ‘I’ll go and get mine. We can share it.’

  Dylan hurried back up the path, relieved to escape the fire’s heat and noise. Even a small, controlled bonfire brought it all back. His legs shook, his vision blurred and a band of iron was squeezing his chest.

  Dan’s level stare wobbled when Dylan returned with the pork pie and cheese. His eyes positively sparkled when Dylan fished out the small plastic tub of pickle that the Countess had so thoughtfully added. Watching the great jaw crash hungrily through the pie crust, Dylan felt a glow of satisfaction. It was good to help another human being. And Dan, he was sure, wouldn’t sack him now.

  After lunch, Dylan started on the vegetable beds. Some droning bees, heavy as bombers, kept him company. Plus a couple of appealingly cheeky robins whose beady black eyes were peeled for shining, writhing, purplish-pink worms in the soil.

  The sun shone warmly on and Dylan felt pleasantly stunned with the power of it and the smell of earth-scented air eddying about him. A sense of deep peace was growing within him, as well as pleasure and pride at the ever-expanding frontier of clean, dark soil. Where there was chaos, he had brought order. This really was a good day’s work. He had done the right thing, giving up writing.

  Dylan was surprised to discover that Dan wanted to be taken straight home; the van, it seemed, was to be left in the pub car park. The question of whether the manager of the Edenville Arms would mind having the rotting wreck there was not addressed.

  He dropped Dan at a house on a council estate which, while only a short distance from Edenville, might have been another world. The streets were lined with houses with broken fences; what had been gardens were now full of battered furniture and cars mounted on bricks. Dan’s house, when they drew up outside it, did not look as if the occupant made his living from horticulture.

  ‘I’ll see yer tomorrer,’ Dan said.

  Various pale and villainous-looking boys, either very skinny or very fat, were kicking a football about. ‘Shit car!’ one of them yelled at Dylan.

  They were spot on, Dylan had to admit. The smell of the manure had strengthened during the day.

  The boys had now turned their attention to Dan and were shouting something at him. Dylan couldn’t quite hear it but it sounded like ‘All right, Shagger?’

  But surely not, as Dan didn’t seem offended in the least.

  ‘Want me to pick you up here tomorrow?’ Dylan asked, as Dan shut the passenger side door.

  ‘Shagger!’ shouted the boys. They were definitely addressing Dan, Dylan saw. ‘Shag-ger! Shag-ger!’

  Dan offered no explanation, however. He looked back steadily at Dylan as he started up his engine. The gang of youths roared and waved their middle fingers at him.

  Dylan wound down the passenger window and leaned out. ‘Here at seven thirty, yeah?’

  ‘Reckon so,’ Dan nodded, adding, deadpan, ‘I’m not sure it’s safe, meeting at t’pub any more.’

  It was the only time all day that he had referred to the morning’s scene. As, now, he turned his craggy head away, Dylan was almost sure he saw Dan grin.

  CHAPTER 29

  After shutting the door of the honeymoon suite on Jason and Ryan, Nell began to pack her things.

  Jason had not asked her to leave; far from it. He had fallen on his managerial sword and apologised profusely for having misled her. He had sincerely believed Adam Greenleaf to be nowhere near the pub and had no idea why he had returned.

  Adam Greenleaf! That was Fake OutdoorsGuy’s real name? It seemed all wrong to Nell. It sounded so pleasant, entirely unlike its owner.

  She had tuned back in
to hear Jason ending his spiel by promising all manner of luxurious extras to make up for the distress caused. Champagne, spa treatments and a free cream tea had been among the reparation offered.

  For her part, she had apologised for hanging, shouting, out of her bedroom window in a manner likely to embarrass the establishment. But Jason had assured her it couldn’t matter less.

  They had parted friends, all ruffled feathers smoothed, and Jason’s last act before leaving the honeymoon suite was to go to the window and assure her that Greenleaf had gone.

  Nell had not wanted to upset Jason by telling him that, despite his efforts, she intended to leave on the first train back to London, wherever it went from. She had had enough of Edenville. She had no intention of going to see Angela in HR. She was finished with the whole place.

  And so she was packing her few items – her wedding outfit, basically. The jeans and T-shirt that had been her one change of clothes had now been laundered – beautifully – by the hotel. While comfortable, they were hardly suitable attire for a job interview, which seemed yet another good reason not to bother. Nell zipped up her bag and opened the door of the suite. She was going, going . . .

  But not quite gone. Just before she could shut the door behind her, the mobile in her bag rang. Nell fished it out and saw that Rachel was calling.

  She groaned and went back into the suite. More comfortable to talk in there than the corridor.

  Rachel, as ever, got straight to the point. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right. I won’t.’

  ‘Juno’s found out – don’t ask me how – that there’s a touring production of Murderous Death coming to Chestlock.’

  ‘What’s Murderous Death?’

  ‘One of those Agatha Christie-type murder mystery plays,’ Rachel’s tone was amused resignation.

  Nell, on the other end, rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that would have been great, but the thing is, Rach, I’m—’

  ‘She’s desperate to see it,’ Rachel cut in.

  ‘Won’t it come to London?’

  ‘No chance. It’s one of those really cheesy touring productions you only get in the provinces.’

  ‘Well, great, but as I say, it’s not very convenient because—’

  Rachel was obviously not listening. ‘And, hang on a minute, Juno’s here, she’s telling me that it’s the last night. The production finishes in Chestlock on Saturday.’

  ‘The thing is—’

  ‘So you see, you’ve got to get tickets. And by my calculations, Saturday is your last night in the honeymoon suite. So we could come up again and stay.’

  ‘Er . . .’ She had it all mapped out, Nell realised. And gainsaying Rachel in full determined flow was not for the faint-hearted. Nonetheless, she had to try. ‘Look, Rach, I’d love to but the thing is, you see, I’m leaving.’

  There was a short, disbelieving silence.

  ‘Leaving?’ shrieked Rachel. ‘You’re leaving Edenville?’

  ‘Er, yes. You see, I have to come back to London, because . . . um . . .’

  ‘Why? Why?’ the other end demanded fiercely. ‘You can’t possibly have a good reason! There’s nothing for you to come back for! You were going to that job interview today, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Nell battled, trying to keep her end up. But she was no match for Rachel.

  ‘It drives me mad,’ the other end stormed. ‘I do my best to support you, to point you in the right direction, and the minute I turn my back it all crumbles. You just dissolve and give up. I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t.’

  She sounded angrier than Nell had ever heard her. Determinedly, she rallied her defences. ‘Look, Rach, I have to leave. I’ve run into someone I want to avoid.’

  ‘Joey?’ Rachel gasped, her anger now all concern. ‘God, I’m sorry. I never imagined you meant Joey.’

  For a second, Nell was tempted to lie. Then: ‘No, not Joey.’

  ‘So who?’ Rachel’s tone was climbing the anger register again.

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘You’d rather not say?’ came Rachel’s mocking echo. ‘Well, I’d rather not tell my small daughter – my small, fatherless daughter – that she can’t see something she desperately wants to because you’re getting the hell out of Edenville for no very good reason that I can see.’

  There was another silence, then Nell cracked. ‘OK then!’ she shouted into the void. ‘Have it your own way! So I won’t go! I’ll stay! I’ll go to the interview! I’ll get tickets for Murdered By Death, or whatever.’

  There was a giggle from the other end. ‘That’s more like it,’ said Rachel. ‘Oh, hang on a minute,’ she added, ‘what was that, Juno? Oh, right. Juno says please can you get seats in the front row?’

  The call over, Nell flopped back, arms above her head, and stared at the lilac pleats on the inside of the bed canopy. So she was stuck here. Stuck here with an unmade bed and a bath full of black towels: she’d thrown them in the empty tub as her last act before leaving.

  She groped for her smartphone, now lost among the sheet folds, and consulted the website of the Pavilion Theatre, Chestlock. Unexpectedly, seats for Murderous Death seemed to be selling out fast. There were only four left in the front row. Nell fished out her credit card.

  The production was being put on by something called the Backstabbers Theatre Company. The synopsis was suitably bloodcurdling. A group of friends come to a country house for the owner’s birthday party. But when they start to die, one by one, a damper is put on the celebrations. In a thrilling two-hander, world-famous detectives Miss Mandrake and Hercules Pierrot arrive to solve the mystery.

  Looking down the cast list, Nell could well believe Rachel’s assertion that the ensemble rarely trod the boards inside the M25. The Backstabbers Theatre Company seemed to be made up of ‘stars’ which had long since faded.

  Nell had never heard of Gilly Davenport, the actress playing Miss Mandrake. Gilly’s pouty, airbrushed photo showed a vintage sexpot; she was also, the website explained, the actress who had for many years played Karenza in Bodwithian, a Seventies TV drama series set in Cornwall. While the company’s male star, Pete Leather, who played someone called Major Wilderbeest, had apparently once been a rival to Elvis.

  The other leading man, Caradoc Turner, who played Pierrot the Poirot-like detective, had evidently seen better days too. He seemed to have a more serious thespian background than the others; his finest hour was a play called Strangling Percy, a West End hit in 1996. But things had evidently been on a downhill slide since: panto in Richmond and stints in Holby City and The Bill were among Caradoc’s more recent achievements. Everyone in the entire cast had done Doctors.

  The Backstabbers Theatre Company had toured Murderous Death for six months, Nell read. Their itinerary, which was astonishing, had touched almost every point of the national compass. They had been from Glasgow to Gillingham and all points in between and to the sides. They were, she guessed, relieved to be winding it up this week, although the Pavilion Theatre, Chestlock, hardly seemed to equate to going out with a bang.

  Afterwards she called the human resources department. Angela Highwater was not available in person, but a pleasant-sounding assistant went to consult her and returned with the news that the Director’s earliest available slot was four o’clock.

  Four o’clock was six hours away. It was going to be a long, tedious day. Should she, Nell wondered, kill time by going into Chestlock to buy clothes for the interview? But she didn’t want the job, so why bother?

  Instead, she dealt with the other item on her to-do list, which was to ring up Carrington’s and take her flat off the market. The salesperson, disconcerted, put on the manager, who tried to change Nell’s mind: the price achieved was an excellent one given the state of the market and the location and state of
the flat (Nell bridled at this). He added that the buyers, newlyweds, would be disappointed.

  Nell, who had been through all this with Rachel anyway, did not care about the disappointment of the newlyweds. Nor did she care about Carrington’s. Had Carrington’s not existed, she herself would have been spared a great deal of disappointment. 19a was to be taken off the market, and she was moving back in. No one, throughout the whole exchange, mentioned Joey.

  She told the agency she would be back next week, when she would complete the formalities and get the key to the flat. Nell pushed to the back of her mind what Rachel would have to say about the disappointed newlyweds.

  Slipping the ‘Please Tidy My Room’ sign on the doorknob of the honeymoon suite, Nell now set off for a walk through the village.

  But so frustrated and resentful was her mood that the delightful, neat little houses; the pretty, tidy little gardens; the glorious setting on the edge of the splendid stately park had no power to soothe or impress her.

  She was here against her will. She had not wanted to come and she did not want to stay. But behind all that was something else, something Nell was trying to suppress: the fact that she didn’t really want to go back either. It wasn’t just a matter of facing Rachel, it was the thought of facing and re-establishing the dreary routine in the back bedroom.

  Pacing glumly on, Nell found herself walking up towards the church and lifting the wrought-iron gate into the churchyard. A smooth gravelled path on the other side led through carefully tended plots. There seemed not a single slumped gravestone, weed or broken cross. In Edenville, the resting places of the dead were as well cared for as the houses of the living.

  Nell wandered through the neat lines of stones and reached a slightly raised area set aside from the rest. It seemed to be the personal plot of the Earls of Pemberton. There they were, planted next to each other, their final resting places marked by imposing yet simple gravestones. No vast tombs or mausoleums, as one might have expected given the splendours of where they dwelt in life. When it’s over, it’s over, seemed to be the view taken by the Pembertons.