“Good morning, ladies and gents, and welcome to Trotter’s Tours, where we go that extra mile for you. Actually, these days that should be ‘We go that extra 1.6 kilometres for you’, but somehow the powers-that-be didn’t think that was quite so catchy.” Polite titters greeted this little sally. “Well, I’m really glad to have you all with me today, because of all the many tours that Trotter’s does, this one has to be my absolute favourite, and I think you’ll see why by the end of the afternoon.”
The coach made a sudden swerve into another lane, which caused Ron to stumble and provoked a horn blast from a fellow motorist. Ron regained his balance. “Before we go much further, everyone, I should introduce you to Terry, our driver.” Terry raised a hand slightly in acknowledgement of this introduction. “Terry’s one of our most experienced drivers; he should be, the number of refresher courses he’s been on! I’m not saying he’s a bad driver, mind, but he is on a first-name basis with most of the policemen in the county, and the lads in the service department say he’s single-handedly responsible for keeping most of them in a job.”
More polite titters. Frank laughed aloud, and turned to Charlotte. “You Brits kill me with your humour,” he said. “Benny Hill, Monty Python; and that Are You Being Served?—it just kills me every time. You know that show?”
“A little.”
“It’s great! We get it every night on one of our local channels. It’s a real classic, believe me!”
At the front, Ron was continuing his well-worn patter, and Frank turned his attention back to the guide. Charlotte breathed a small sigh; partly of relief, partly of dismay. It was going to be a long day.
Their first stop was Snaresbury Abbey, already familiar to Charlotte (and, it appeared, to everyone else on the coach) from its appearance in the Academy Award-winning film One Day Last Summer. The lushly romantic epic had come along at a time when such qualities had almost been forgotten by the British film industry, and the movie-going public, in Britain and abroad, had lapped up its gorgeous settings and costumes, sumptuous score, and doomed central romance. Snaresbury Abbey had been one of the film’s key settings, and soon after the party had filed off the coach, excited little groups of people were pointing out familiar scenes and vistas, and taking pictures of each other waving and smiling.
Charlotte had hoped that Frank would leave her once they were off the coach, and perhaps attach himself to another group; but a glance at her fellow travellers showed this to be an unlikely prospect. Most of their companions were elderly—or at least older—women travelling in twos and threes, although there were a few couples, one with a bored-looking boy of twelve or thirteen in tow. A group of foreign-looking people offered a brief promise of hope, but when she got close enough to hear them speaking Charlotte realised that they were German, and thus unlikely to prove an attraction to Frank. She was right.
“I just loved that film,” confided Frank, as they milled about the abbey ruins. “You Brits sure know how to make great movies! And you’re lucky: when you need to film at a castle or palace or cathedral or whatever, you just have to go out and find the nearest one! In America we’d have to build it all from scratch, and then it wouldn’t look anything like the real thing; more likely end up looking like something that belonged in Vegas or Reno or somewhere. You ever been to Vegas?”
The thought of going somewhere like Las Vegas made Charlotte wince. “No.”
“I tell you, you’re not missing much. I mean, it’s okay for a little while, but then you just get bored with the whole thing, unless you like to gamble, and I can’t see the point in throwing my money away like that. Everyone knows it’s all rigged anyway. A lot of my friends, though—they think that Vegas is just great. Well, they can have it! Give me something like this any time.”
Charlotte looked around her. The abbey, while undeniably beautiful in its angular way, looked vaguely unsettling, like the carcass of some once-noble beast which had been left to rot itself quietly away in this corner of English countryside. She shivered slightly. Everyone else was now well scattered through the ruins, and she could hear low exclamations and cries of delight as yet another familiar vista was spotted. The young boy had wandered a considerable distance from his parents; indeed, Charlotte was startled to see that he had managed to climb to some height, and was now surveying the scene from a position half-hidden by crumbled stonework. He must have felt her looking at him, for he turned towards her, and she caught a glimpse of dark, unsmiling eyes before he darted from sight.
Frank pointed something out to her, and she dutifully looked, realising that she had not taken in a word he had said. Fortunately, he did not seem to require her input in any way; her mere presence was enough, and Charlotte realised that if he insisted on attaching himself to her for the rest of the trip, she could at least tune his voice out to a large extent.
With this somewhat cheering thought firmly wedged into her mind, Charlotte surveyed her surroundings once more. Most of the party, having exhausted the immediate pleasure of seeing the abbey, were making their way to the gift shop, a red brick structure which seemed to have been designed and built with the one aim of clashing as jarringly as possible with the abbey ruins. The young boy had caught up with his parents; he must have moved quickly after Charlotte had spied him. Perhaps he had thought she would cause trouble for him by reporting his actions to someone. Climbing on the ruins was not, she suspected, looked upon favourably by those in charge.
Charlotte and Frank inevitably found themselves in the gift shop, which was doing a thriving business in the sale of merchandise related to One Day Last Summer. Charlotte had a quick look round, bought a token postcard or two, and then escaped from the shop while Frank was trying to decide whether to get an expensive coffee-table book about Snaresbury and its vicinity, or an equally expensive “making of” book about the film. As she left the building, she passed the boy, who was clearly bored rigid with the proceedings and was waiting for his parents to finish in the shop. As Charlotte walked by he gazed at her with a sullenness which she guessed was habitual, and not directed at her personally.
Ron was waiting at the door of the coach, smoking a cigarette and exchanging bored chit-chat with the driver. When he saw the first of the passengers heading his way he took a last drag at his cigarette before stubbing it out and resuming his professional manner with long-practised ease.
“Well, well, well, glad to see you all back again so punctually. I wish I could add another hour or so to each day, but that’s beyond even me, I’m afraid, and we have schedules to keep to; at least, I have a schedule to keep you to, so that we can get the most out of everywhere we see, and the longer we have to wait the shorter the time we have somewhere else, which would be a shame, as I know that you’re all looking forward to getting to Brindford, which is our next stop. So if you’ll all just take your seats, ladies and gents, then I can do a quick head count and we’ll be on our way.”
Frank was the last person back on the coach, which earned him a ribbing from Ron: “Usually it’s one of the ladies we have to wait for; you’ll have to do better at the next stop, mate, and not let the side down.” Frank, sinking down into his seat as the coach lurched into movement, grinned good-naturedly and pointed proudly to the plastic carrier bag he was holding.
“Bought them both,” he said, fishing the books out to show Charlotte. “Well, I’m not going to get this way again, am I? Seemed a shame to leave one behind. It’s not like I can get them at home this easily.”
“No, I suppose not.” Perhaps, thought Charlotte, he’ll look at his books for a little while, and I’ll get some peace. But it was not to be.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil them.” He tucked them carefully back into the bag. “Besides, I’ll have plenty of time to read them. I hope my pictures turn out. I’ll have to watch the movie again when I get home; it’ll mean a lot more now that I’ve seen the place. I’ve got it on DVD; you should see how great it looks! And there are all sorts of extra things on it, too; behin
d the scenes stuff, really great. Did you know . . . ”
And he was off. Charlotte, who had seen the film once and enjoyed it well enough, found herself listening to an extended lecture on the finer points of the filming of One Day Last Summer, interspersed with encomiums on Frank’s DVD player, which was, she gathered, absolutely top of the line. She had only the faintest idea of what a DVD actually was, but she did not want to expose her ignorance on the matter. Besides, it was easier to let Frank talk, and merely chime in with the odd comment when a pause alerted her to the fact that something in the way of a response was required.
When they arrived in Brindford, Ron was most explicit on the matter of timing. “I need everyone back here by two o’clock sharp,” he said, in a tone which made Charlotte think he would follow this up with “Synchronise watches!” “Keep an eye on the time, ladies and gents,” he continued. “There’s a lot to see at Wynsford, and we don’t want to keep everyone waiting here. Now, I can recommend a couple of good places for lunch, if anyone’s interested . . . ”
They spread out from the coach, and Charlotte found that Frank had once more attached himself firmly to her. For a brief moment she wondered if he had any amorous inclinations in her direction; but the thought was gone almost as soon as it had arrived. She had long since abandoned any notion that men found her a romantically attractive prospect. She was a good listener, and that attracted men of a certain type, who wanted little more than to have someone to talk to, someone who would not interrupt or argue or want to tell a story of their own in turn. Charlotte never interrupted or argued, and any stories which she might have had she kept to herself.
Stepping into the High Street of Brindford was rather like visiting once more a place she had not seen for many years, but which had not changed an iota in the intervening time. It was, of course, familiar to the millions of viewers of the long-running show Blue Skies, which had occupied a much coveted spot on BBC-1’s early Sunday evening line-up for many years. It was, or had been, a show which revolved around the lives and loves, fortunes and misfortunes—some comic, some dramatic—of three generations of one family living in a small village; but over the years the three generations had become four, and the characters had seeped into the nation’s consciousness. Had she been asked, Charlotte would not have called herself a particularly avid watcher of the show; but she knew enough about it to feel vaguely excited to be in the actual village where the outdoor scenes were shot, and to spot locations which were familiar in an oddly distant way.
Frank, of course, was a dyed-in-the-wool enthusiast.
“Oh yes, we get it at home; it’s been on for ages. I think we’re maybe a season or two behind, so I haven’t been watching it while I’ve been here, in case I spoil anything. It’s a great show; really makes you think that this is how people in England live. I mean, I know that they don’t, most of them, but it’s how people should live, if you see what I mean. Hey, that’s Jim Anstruther’s house! Can you take a picture of me in front of the door?”
The people of Brindford must, Charlotte reflected, be used to hordes of tourists wandering their streets, taking pictures, and generally acting as if they’d returned to their dearly-beloved homes after several years away. Being used to a thing wasn’t the same as enjoying it, though, and she wondered if the people living in the neatly kept houses and working in the trim shops ever cursed the fame which had come to their sleepy village. She waited patiently while Frank found the perfect place to stand to have his picture taken. The house, which in the show belonged to curmudgeonly old Jim Anstruther, gave little sign of anyone being home, and Charlotte was therefore startled when the net curtain of one of the windows twitched and a face appeared briefly behind it. It looked like a young boy or girl—boy, she thought—and she had an impression of malevolence and something else, something less easily defined.
The face disappeared almost immediately, leaving Charlotte blinking dazedly, as if trying to focus. She heard Frank calling her; he sounded puzzled, as if a dependable piece of electrical equipment had suddenly malfunctioned.
“Hey, Charlotte, you okay? Have you got the picture yet? I want to get a few more shots before we have some lunch.”
“Yes, just a minute,” she mumbled, swinging the camera up into position. It took her a moment to focus properly, and when she had taken the picture Frank paused only long enough to retrieve his camera before heading off down the street to the next location. Charlotte glanced once more at the house, but there was no further movement from behind the curtain. Whoever it was must have gone. Still, she had no inclination to linger; and for the first time that day she felt almost glad of Frank’s company.
They had lunch with Ron and several other members of the party in a pub, the exterior of which played the part of The Cross Keys in Blue Skies. The interior, Charlotte noted with some surprise, looked nothing like its television counterpart, but the walls were hung with dozens of photographs from the show, black-and-white giving way to colour as the years went by. The talk was mostly about the show, and Frank took an eager part in it, while Charlotte picked at her ploughman’s lunch. The thought of the face in the window was making her shiver. Much of Brindford seemed to enjoy basking in the reflected glow from the TV series; but at least one person appeared hostile. How many people, she wondered, had posed in front of that door, trampled through the garden, and peered in the windows? It must take a toll. Whoever it had been, though—and she was inclined to think that it had been a young boy, certainly no older than twelve or so—must surely be used to it by now. More likely it was merely a case of pre-teen resentment of the world at large. Still, she would be glad when they were safely on their way to Wynsford.
Charlotte and Frank were back at the coach before the appointed time, earning them an approving nod from Ron, who was casting appraising glances at the sky.
“Won’t be surprised if we get a spot of rain before the afternoon’s out,” he announced. “Shame, that; the grounds are magnificent, some of the finest in England. Still, the house is well worth seeing; you could spend a whole day just looking around that, if you had a mind to. And maybe the rain’ll hold off; you never can tell.”
No indeed; you never could tell, thought Charlotte, as she glanced at Frank, who was mercifully quiet for a few moments, looking through some of his Brindford purchases. She sighed. She wasn’t having a bad time—not exactly—but she wished that Frank didn’t feel the need to comment on absolutely everything they saw. Perhaps things would be better at Wynsford.
And things were better, at least for a time. Frank had filled the trip there with his eager, excited chatter, and Charlotte had managed to allow most of it to flow over and around her, responding only when pauses informed her that some input was expected. The sight of the great house, looming before them in its Capability Brown-designed park, had been enough to silence even Frank, however, and by the time he regained his tongue they were inside the house and in the hands of a professional guide, who left only miserly pockets of silence for the group to fill as she shepherded them from one stately room to the next. As soon as they had all assembled at the next point she would be in full flow again, rattling off names and dates, identifying portraits, pointing out significant pieces of furniture or china or silverware, and answering questions from the group. Charlotte noted that the guide seemed impatient with any questions having to do with the TV miniseries which had brought the house, some four hundred years after it was built, a new fame. It was almost as if she was resentful of the intrusion which had been made into the well-ordered house, the inevitable upset of routine, the sudden superficial fame which had doubtless attracted many people who would otherwise never have darkened the door of Wynsford.
They proceeded to another room, Frank filling the silence with a whispered, “No wonder they needed so many servants! I’d hate to have to dust this place. And how can one house need so many sitting-rooms, anyway?”
It was, thought Charlotte, an unexpectedly apt question. She was becoming rather
tired of the guide’s incessant drone, which had started as a welcome change to Frank’s but had quickly grown just as tiresome. She turned her attention away, towards the windows, and through them to the coolness and silence of the grounds beyond. It was not raining, although the sky was a dull, heavy grey which promised rain before the afternoon was over. Suddenly Charlotte was impatient to be outside; to leave the stifling house and relentless guide behind and wander through the gardens, restore to herself some of the tranquility which she had sought, and thus far not found, on the trip.
She chafed restlessly as the tour proceeded to its close. The guide, who was clearly more at home indoors than out, gave what Charlotte thought was a somewhat grudging run-down of a few of the delights available to them outdoors and then left them to find their way out; a way which led, Charlotte was not surprised to see, through a well-stocked, and expensive, gift shop. She made her way determinedly to the door, leaving the rest of the party clustered around the displays of boxed soaps and tea towels.
Once outside she paused and took several deep breaths, like one who has just escaped from terrible danger. A glance at the sky showed that the rain was still in abeyance; with luck it would hold for another hour or so, and see them safely back on the coach. She pulled out the information leaflet she had been given about the house, and examined the list of possibilities.
There was a great lake with bridge, a waterfall, several temples and follies of various periods and/or historical interest, a grotto, an Italian garden, a conservatory, something depressingly called “The Wynsford Experience”, and, of course, the famous water terraces, without a view of which no visit to Wynsford was complete (or so the leaflet claimed). Charlotte hesitated, trying to decide; and in that moment was lost, for the door behind her opened and Frank and a number of others from their party emerged into what was left of the day. Frank hailed her.
Northwest Passages Page 17