Doubting Abbey

by Tonge, Samantha

  ‘What a berk.’ Edward clenched his fists. ‘I didn’t realize we were watching the adverts.’

  ‘There’ll be an accident before you know it,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘Rifles are a serious business, not to be handled in between pints of beer.’

  ‘Silly bugger, that Baron chap,’ said the old Earl. ‘He’ll soon destroy anything worth preserving about that castle.’

  ‘Your son, Harry, has some wild party games up his sleeve, I believe,’ said Charlie Chingo’s voice.

  While the Baron talked, louder than a town crier, the camera panned the large room the interview was being held in. A variety of swords hung from the grey stone walls. There were stuffed animals, plus coats of arms.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to show you these,’ said Jean to everyone, cheeks red as she passed around a handful of celebrity magazines. ‘They came out today,’ she said. ‘I was in the corner shop and saw the Honourable Harry Gainsworth’s face stare out from every cover.’

  ‘I seem to remember he was a popular lad in the qualifying heats,’ said Kathleen. ‘Canny face.’

  Hmm. He had a mega popular fan page on Facebook. I’d been on the computer today and taken a peek at how much people were chatting about me and Nick. Plus I’d bobbed onto Edward’s blog. It almost read as if he was enjoying writing his e-diary and chatting to some pretty weird strangers.

  Edward snorted as he turned to a photo of the Baron’s son in nothing but a crown and pair of designer Y-fronts. With his fake tan, white teeth and playboy good looks, I could see why he was their ‘Torso of the Week’.

  ‘Oh my God… um, goodness,’ I said, reading an article. ‘Next weekend this Harry is inviting his new celebrity friends to the Castle for a party. How do we compete with that?’

  ‘Who’s going?’ said Nick.

  ‘Dodgy Dirk, the lead singer from, um, some new rock band.’ I fought to keep the excitement out of my voice. Hot or what? If I wasn’t stuck here, I’d deffo watch the show anyway, to drool over Dirk in paintballing overalls and gorging on lush food. ‘Also several cast members from one of the soaps.’

  ‘A publication called Top Shelf Totty contacted me to do a photo shoot,’ said Edward, cheeks flushed.

  ‘Really! How aw…’ awesome! ‘…awful,’ I said. ‘Although it would have been terribly good publicity.’

  ‘You think so, Cousin? Me, wearing nothing but an apple in front of…’

  My eyes widened. Kathleen and Jean giggled. Mr Thompson shook his head with disapproval. The old Earl tutted loudly.

  ‘This house was awarded to my family for their efforts protecting this country,’ said the old man and stood up. ‘Four hundred years later, is this what’s it’s come to? My son, a grown man, stripping down, butt naked, in front of the nation?’ He headed for the door. ‘I can’t watch any more of this tosh. I’ll be downstairs, in the library.’

  We sat in silence until the door clicked shut, itself sounding like an ancestral tut.

  ‘Sorry, My Lord,’ said Jean. ‘I didn’t mean those magazines to upset His Lordship.’

  Edward offered her another biscuit. ‘Nonsense, Jean. Father has a strong constitution. It’s best that he knows exactly what’s going on and what it takes to win this competition. I’m sure he’ll watch the rest of this on catch up. If nothing else, he very much enjoys seeing the panoramic shots of our estate.’

  I glanced sideways as Edward sat back down on the sofa, shoulders sagged. He was staring vacantly at the floor’s worn rug.

  ‘Charlie Chingo’s just been splatted with red paint,’ said Nick with a snigger. We looked at the screen. Marwick Castle’s antics really were mega good telly. Poor Edward’s shoulders sagged further. The programme cut to commercials and we flicked through the magazines again.

  ‘And just when we thought things couldn’t get worse,’ I muttered as Charlie Chingo came back on screen and introduced my cookery lesson from yesterday. The camera focused on Nick as he’d squeezed my hand just before the lesson had started, to wish me luck. Next to me, on the sofa, Edward’s body stiffened.

  ‘Um, thank you once again, Nick,’ I said to the room, ‘for hurrying upstairs to fetch one of my homeopathic calming pastilles and discreetly putting it in my palm. I couldn’t have got through the morning without it.’ Despite my innocent tones, Kathleen gave me a funny look.

  The footage moved on to my demonstration and a bubble of laughter inflated in my chest. Oh, come on! Well, it was funny, me trying to work out how to use that garlic press. At first I’d thought it was a tin opener. As for Miss Diamond’s face when the smell of burning apples filled the air… Look at me shaking my dressing like a manic cocktail maker doing the Macarena!

  ‘Tell me when it’s over,’ I mumbled, not daring to watch any more. It was so baaad, I felt an irrational urge to giggle.

  ‘Now, Miss, don’t you fret,’ said Kathleen. ‘Nerves were understandable and you’ve practiced so hard today – that oatmeal was toasted to perfection. I’m sure tomorrow’s filming will run seamlessly.’

  ‘Yeah, that pheasant you cooked today smelt wicked.’ Nick gave the thumbs-up.

  Kathleen let me eat a bowl of your Cranachan.’ Jean smiled. ‘It tasted divine.’

  ‘I can second that,’ said Mr Thompson’s deep voice. He tilted his Sherlock Holmes hat.

  ‘Thank you all for being so terribly kind.’ My cheeks felt hot.

  ‘The Bloody Bull I tried before dinner tonight tasted very decent, Cousin,’ added Edward.

  I poured everyone another cup of tea and went to the loo, hoping the Titanic scene would be over before I got back. I was riding high on their compliments and didn’t want to come back down to earth. However, no such luck. I walked into the Parlour and my mouth went dry. As I sat back down, Nick and I were on screen, at the top of the hill, just as I clambered onto the tractor. In the jumper and at a distance, to your average viewer, I didn’t think it would be obvious that it was me. However, I’d texted Lady C that afternoon to warn her; said she may not approve of tonight’s show, but for her to trust that everything I did was part of a game plan to win the contest. Without reading, I deleted all the messages she’d already left and then turned off my mobile.

  I swallowed hard. On screen I’d just adopted the crucifix pose. I lifted my teacup to my lips, then up in front of my eyes. Jean giggled. Kathleen snorted. I put down my cup. Fuck—I looked ridiculous.

  ‘Who on earth is that lassie?’ said Kathleen.

  Edward jumped to his feet and glared at Nick, who smirked for Britain. Tears of laughter streamed down Jean’s cheeks.

  ‘This is hilarious,’ she spluttered.

  The words ‘Look at me fly’ resounded around the Parlour.

  Kathleen shook her head. Jean dabbed her eyes. Mr Thompson leant right forward, to the telly, when that footage suddenly ended.

  Eyes ablaze, Edward faced me. ‘Did you take leave of your senses, Abbey? As for you, Nick, good God, man – did you not consider the dangers?’

  ‘It wasn’t m…’ I began.

  Edward snorted. Sigh—there was no fooling him

  ‘I insisted that he do it,’ I muttered. There was no point trying to convince Edward that it was an accident and that the lawnmower had a life of its own.

  ‘Good God, woman, why? Not only could you have destroyed hundreds of pounds’ worth of machinery, we could have ended up in court if Nick was injured.’

  ‘And, of course, Abbey might have been hurt,’ said Nick. ‘I’m sure you were also concerned for your cousin.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ said Edward to him and scowled. ‘Before I… Go on, leave. Everyone, else… Mr Thompson, Kathleen and Jean – I wish to speak to Abbey. Alone.’

  ‘Abbey?’ said Nick to me.

  Without looking, I could feel Edward glower.

  Mr Thompson put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and patted it. They all got up and, as they left, Edward grabbed the remote from the Earl’s chair and flicked off the programme. He paced around the room.
r />   ‘Look, I’m sorry, Edward, but—’

  ‘Surely you aren’t going to attempt to justify such behaviour? You…’ His voice wavered. ‘You could have killed yourself. And what did you hope to achieve? I can’t imagine any other lady I know, like…like Henrietta, for example – conducting herself in such a manner.’

  Why did he have to bring her into this? My stomach squeezed. But then, he did have a point. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t come up with a suitable excuse. It hadn’t looked remotely lovey-dovey. But boy, had I enjoyed the freedom. I’d found it hard to control my behaviour and speech every single minute of the day since my arrival on Saturday. It had been a bloomin’ relief to do something wild and wacky.

  ‘And with him… The gardener…’ Edward couldn’t even say his name.

  ‘I never had you down for a snob,’ I said and thought back to one of Lady C’s many lectures. ‘I was always brought up to believe that…that a position of privilege was an honour and that no lady – or gentleman – considered themselves above any other person.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why do you always sneer at him? If that’s not snootiness, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘Clearly, in four days, you’ve nailed my personality,’ he said stiffly.

  We stared at each other for a moment.

  ‘Look, if it was me, I would never have agreed to such a daredevil plan,’ he said.

  ‘So, he should have refused, even though I’d threatened to fire him?’ Well, okay, Nick knew I was joking, but still, technically I’d ordered him to drive that mower or join the dole queue.

  ‘You did what?’ Edward shook his head. ‘But yes, you could have been seriously injured or… or worse…’ His voice petered out to a whisper. ‘I would have lost my job, to protect you.’

  Ooh… Why was my stomach tingling?

  ‘I mean… you’re my cousin—family,’ he said in a firmer voice and sat back down. ‘Although that’s hard to believe at the moment—such a let-down. What ludicrous behaviour.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of fun and I don’t think, with Nick’s jumper on, every viewer will believe it was me,’ I said, eyes tingling. A lump rose in my throat. Despite all my good intentions, I just seemed to be making things worse for the Croxleys. ‘Look, the sun had gone to my head – it was a momentary lapse of judgement…’

  ‘How self-indulgent,’ he muttered. ‘Fun?’

  ‘Yes. You do know what that is, right?’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘Or perhaps not. I mean, I’ve been here, what, four days, and hardly seen you smile. Pleasure is not a crime. Nick and I…’

  ‘Are young and foolish.’

  My lips pursed.

  ‘You’re hardly geriatric,’ I said, ‘yet act as if you belong to the time of dinosaurs.’

  A muscle flickered in his cheek.

  ‘Apologies if I don’t live up to your expectations,’ I said in a measured voice, ‘but I refuse to discard my sense of humour – even to save Applebridge Hall.’

  Edward folded his arms. ‘I don’t think you understand the seriousness of our situation. If we don’t win this competition, that’s it – Father and I are homeless. Jean, Mr Thompson, Kathleen; they all lose their jobs. The cemetery where Mother and other relatives are buried…’ His voice cracked. ‘We will probably have to move the bodies, as God knows who will buy this land and what they will do with it. Even worse than that, four hundred years of our ancestors’ sweat and tears will have come to absolutely nothing… History will be lost. Stories of visitors disappear for ever. And all because of a bit of fun?’

  ‘So it’s all my fault if we lose?’

  ‘You’ve done little to help so far, what with your inadequate cookery class and childish, impulsive behaviour. Within minutes of arriving you collapsed.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Perhaps you should never have come.’

  Impulsive? Oh, dear. Lady C would not be impressed. But then, impulsive was the real me, Gemma, all over. Inwardly, I sighed. What if my sex-up plan backfired? What if the Croxleys became a laughing stock and the likelihood of the public voting for them was now smaller than ever? Calling me self-indulgent, however, was a step too far. I’d given up two weeks of my life to save his bacon.

  ‘I was thrown to the lions, Monday morning,’ I said in a quiet voice, ‘having never taught cookery to anyone, let alone in front of rolling cameras. On Sunday, I stayed up practically all night, trying to pick up presenting tips from well-known TV chefs on the Internet. I may not have fought against the Spanish Armada, or wined and dined famous playwrights—but in my own way I’m doing my bit. Maybe I should leave if I don’t meet your impossibly high standards of what it means to be a thoroughbred Croxley.’

  ‘A thoroughbred Croxley?’ He gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘What is so funny?’

  He pursed his lips, as if afraid of what words might tumble out.

  ‘Fine!’ he said eventually. ‘Leave if you must.’

  My stomach squeezed.

  ‘Applebridge Hall has managed without you all these years.’

  ‘So you really believe I’m no help at all?’ I said and got to my feet.

  ‘Go on – abandon ship.’

  I was tempted to explain that’s precisely what I’d done in my imagination, by falling off that lawnmower, but my throat hurt too much to make a joke.

  ‘Abandon ship?’ I stumbled to the door. ‘Point me to the plank, then, Cousin. I’ll happily jump.’

  LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY

  Tuesday 4th September

  9.30p.m. Apologies for this late posting – it’s been a busy – in fact, exhausting day. This morning I was caught up in an interview with the local press. Then Charlie Chingo questioned me, in the High Drawing Room, about my childhood and education – ‘last resort filler footage’, in his words. It’s a good thing I’ve got a thick skin. After lunch, Top Shelf Totty magazine contacted me to request a quite unsuitable photo shoot, featuring my naked silhouette, a long gun and two apples. Naturally, I declined. The Croxleys won’t be joining the celebrity circus. But I’d be open to sensible offers from Country Life or the BBC History Magazine – on the understanding that the only photos of unclothed figures came from our various pieces of art depicting nudity.

  No doubt, blog-readers, you’ve just seen tonight’s show. If nothing else, I hope the, erm, bizarre lawnmower incident gets you talking. I suspect, as Million Dollar Mansion progresses, you’ll realize that our family is not much different from that of Joe Bloggs: a mixture of different elements with no obvious properties in common. Yet, one would hope, when it matters, they bond together, strength fused to act as one – despite previous fireworks or unexpected sporadic behaviour.

  In fact, truth be told, tonight I’ve behaved in a fiery way myself. Talking of which, the truth is very important to me, friends, even if…sometimes in life…duty prevents one from being totally transparent. Imagine that—having to betray the very principles that are core to your beliefs in order to protect somebody… something else…

  But please, excuse the low spirits. Today I’ve experienced feelings that are unfamiliar and it’s knocked me off balance. The new strong sense of caring for someone… The depth of my concern must be due to that DNA bond I spoke of before. Mother Nature must have a way of hard-wiring relatives together, regardless of whether they’ve spent every day of every year together, or not.

  Ahem. I’ve indulged my longwinded thoughts enough. Sleep well, friends. Until tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Let me buy you a drink, love,’ leered a man at the bar.

  Not difficult to guess, is it, that I’d changed out of my Abbey disguise? Head all over the place after my argument with Edward, not only did I hurry out of the Parlour – I got changed and practically ran to the Green Acorn, the local pub. The further I got from Applebridge Hall, the more my upset turned to anger.

  Okay – it was hard times for Edward, but how much criticism could a girl take? Do your best; that’s what
counts most, my dad always says.

  ‘Pear cider, if you’ve got it, mate,’ I said to the barman and breathed in the lush smell of hops, thrilled that he hadn’t looked at me twice. Without anyone suspecting that I might be Abbey, I could release my inner Gemma. ‘And a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Plus a Kit Kat. Ta.’ Mmm, comfort food that I could just shove in without worrying about which fork or knife to use or whether I’d got crumbs around my mouth.

  Cos I needed comforting. Perhaps Edward really wanted me gone. Well, tough. I wasn’t leaving. Whether he liked it or not, the Croxleys needed me and my ‘childish, impulsive behaviour’.

  With a yawn, I went to rub my eyes but remembered, just in time, that I’d got my false eyelashes on. Without telling anyone – in other words, Lady C – I’d smuggled a handful of my own ‘Gemma’ clothes into my suitcase. Having left Edward, I’d gone straight to my bedroom and – yes, you’ve guessed it – adrenaline rushed through my veins and a sudden urge to become me again overpowered all rational thinking.

  I’d pulled on my shortest skirt and tightest top (ignoring bleeps from my phone – a disapproving Lady C, no doubt.) Then I slapped on a mega generous helping of make-up, dusted on bronzer and squished two chicken fillets into my bra cup. As for my demure blonde locks, I sprayed them with a wash-in-wash-out red hair colour I’d brought with me on a whim, and wore a headband topped by a big black bow.

  I gazed around the pub, having admired the cute thatched roof and window boxes on the way inside. It was small, with round mahogany tables and gardeny green walls. On the floor, in the corner, was a dog’s bowl. Laughter and chat almost blocked out the strum of a guitar, played by some guy sitting by a brick fireplace.