Wickham Hall, Part 1

by Cathy Bramley

‘I even come here by myself sometimes,’ I confided, tucking my blonde bob behind my ears. ‘Just to enjoy the peace, the symmetry of the hall and orderliness of the gardens and . . .’

  To escape from the chaos of Weaver’s Cottage, I added mentally.

  ‘I can honestly say it’s my favourite place in the world. And the thought of being part of the team that makes all these wonderful events happen fills me with such joy that I can hardly contain myself . . .’

  My chest heaved and a lump appeared in my throat. Pippa’s eyes widened and she pressed a hand to her throat. I decided to revert to a more formal answer before we both ended up in tears. I coughed and ticked off my attributes on my fingers: ‘I’m efficient, extremely organized, I love a challenge and I’m sure I will learn a lot from working with you.’

  And I want this job. So. Much.

  I leaned back and exhaled shakily. Maybe I’d overdone it, but it was the truth and telling the truth had to be a good thing, right?

  Pippa smiled. ‘Thank you. That was very heartfelt, Holly, I must say. Your résumé is very impressive too and it’s a bonus that you’re already familiar with our events.’

  We talked for another fifteen minutes: me telling her discreetly about my personal circumstances and her giving me an outline of the day-to-day role of the vacancy, plus a run-down of her own story (married, four gorgeous children under six including twins, daughter of a vicar, lives in an old stone rectory that reminds her of home). What a superwoman! I was in total awe and it was all I could do not to reach across the table, squeeze her tight and beg her to pick me.

  ‘It’s not glamorous you know, this job,’ said Pippa, twinkling her eyes. ‘It probably sounds it, but running events here at the hall can be physically exhausting. Not only will you have to walk miles getting from one end of the estate to the other and back again, but we often have to set out chairs and tables, carry heavy boxes full of leaflets, climb ladders to fix signage—’

  ‘I’m fit and strong,’ I said, possibly sounding a little overeager.

  ‘Good. And we’re rarely acknowledged for our efforts; Lord and Lady Fortescue are the public faces of the hall. Nobody even notices us half the time,’ she finished.

  ‘That’s absolutely fine by me!’ I declared, holding up my hands. ‘Honestly. I’m much more of a behind-the-scenes person; give me a clipboard and a to-do list and I’m a happy bunny. I’m really not one to crave the limelight!’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ Pippa laughed, ‘because this job really wouldn’t suit a diva who isn’t prepared to get her hands dirty.’

  ‘I love dirt,’ I said hastily.

  She grinned and I smiled and blushed and thought what fun we would have working together.

  As Pippa made scratchy notes with her pen in the margin of my CV, I started looking around me again. These four walls would have been privy to hundreds of conversations over the past five centuries, I mused: shared secrets, rowdy debates, idle gossip, and now, Holly Swift’s interview for the position of assistant events manager would forever be part of the room’s illustrious past. I shivered; I had to get this job, I just had to.

  ‘Do you have any questions for me before you go?’ Pippa enquired, pen poised.

  ‘Oh, yes, I do,’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘Will I have an induction programme?’

  This sort of thing is very important to me. I like to know what I need to know, upfront. No surprises. Be prepared, that’s my motto.

  ‘Induction. Right,’ said Pippa, tapping her cheek with her pen. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  ‘Good, because I’d like to familiarize myself with the organizational hierarchy, key personnel and working practices first before I leap into the fray.’

  Pippa’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

  ‘Um. If I’m successful, of course,’ I added.

  ‘Of course.’ She pressed her lips together and I suspected she was swallowing a smile. ‘Any other questions?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, one more,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘What are the opportunities for progression in this role?’

  Pippa pulled a face. ‘In this department? None, I’m afraid.’ She snapped the lid back on her pen and shoved my application to the bottom of the pile. ‘Unless I leave. And I’m not planning on going anywhere. We’re a small team. Of two, to be precise. Sorry about that. Is that all?’

  I swallowed, giving the pile of application forms an anxious glance and worrying that my last question might have been too cheeky. But I was ambitious, I thought, no harm in being honest.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up so I did too.

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear that,’ I said.

  Pippa’s mouth lifted into a smile and she gestured towards the door. ‘I’ll show you out.’

  ‘About you not going anywhere, I mean,’ I explained over my shoulder as I walked along the uneven corridor. ‘I think we’d make a great team, don’t you?’

  She was still smiling as she stopped at a door at the top of the stairs. ‘There are a number of strong contenders for the job, Holly. I need to have a think about who would be the best fit.’

  ‘OK.’ I nodded, sending her positive ‘pick me’ vibes.

  ‘Right, here’s the events office, I’ll let you make your own way out.’ Pippa shook my hand warmly. ‘Lovely to meet you, Holly. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Will that be soon?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow. I’d promised to call the temp agency back this evening and I very much wanted to be able to turn them down.

  ‘You were my last candidate, so yes, very soon.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ I beamed, releasing her hand reluctantly. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Back home at Weaver’s Cottage, I called hello to Mum and ran straight up the stairs to my bedroom. My brain was whirring and my heart still pumping like the clappers from my hour at Wickham Hall. My dream job was within touching distance and yet I’d have to give the temp agency an answer before the office closed for the weekend at six o’clock. I needed a few minutes alone in my own sanctuary, my oasis of calm away from the stress of the rest of the cottage, to collect my thoughts.

  My room was the same size as Mum’s but that was where the similarity ended. All my furniture was white, white walls, white bedlinen and curtains. All the surfaces were clear except for a little dish on my chest of drawers where I kept my keys. I didn’t go in for ornaments but photographs, mounted in collages on the wall, added some fun to the room, reminding me of my school and university days and holidays with my best friend Esme. I opened the top drawer, slotted my silver bracelet and earrings into place in my jewellery case and then changed from my interview clothes and into a pair of jeans.

  ‘How did you get on?’ shouted Mum.

  ‘Down in a minute,’ I yelled back.

  I opened the wardrobe, hung my dress and jacket neatly, stacked my heels on the built-in shoe rack, tucked my phone in my pocket and ran back downstairs to find Mum. She was loading empty wine bottles into a plastic crate in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ I breathed, ‘I really want that job and I really liked Pippa. And the room was lovely, all wood panelling and sweet little windows . . . even the flowers were stunning.’

  ‘Fingers crossed for you, love,’ she said, patting my arm.

  The worktop was a jumble of pans and second-hand kitchen equipment – like the breadmaker and coffee grinder that she’d brought home from the charity shop and never used – but I spied the teapot in amongst the clutter. ‘Any tea left in that pot?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s gone cold,’ said Mum, reaching into the fridge for a new bottle of wine. ‘How about joining me for a glass of Pinot to celebrate your interview instead?’

  ‘No thanks, I don’t want to celebrate yet in case I jinx it,’ I said, taking the kettle over to the kitchen sink. ‘Let’s stick to tea and celebrate when and if I get the job. But . . .’ I hesitated, knowing I needed to get the tone right. ‘I was thinking, Mum, why don’t we have a go
at clearing some of the stuff out of the hall before dinner? It would keep my mind off the interview and I might not have so much time soon . . .’

  The change in her expression was instant; I’d seen it many times, but it never ceased to amaze me how quickly the shutters came down whenever I tried to make a sensible suggestion. Mum pressed her lips together, shook her head and searched the worktop for a wine glass.

  ‘There’s nothing to clear. I need all of that. Anyway, I’m busy tonight,’ she muttered. ‘I promised I’d knit another baby bonnet for the neo-natal unit. And I can’t let the charity down. I won’t have tea, thank you.’

  My heart sank as she took the bottle and glass and pushed past me into the living room in search of her knitting bag. Classic Lucy Swift; it was always the same. As soon as I tried to make a suggestion to help pull her out of this rut, she would miraculously come up with something else more pressing and disappear.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to remind her that charity begins at home but before I had a chance to formulate a suitably diplomatic reply, my mobile rang.

  I stared at the screen, which read ‘unknown number’. My heart thudded against my ribcage as I answered it.

  ‘Holly Swift?’ Please let it be Pippa, please . . .

  ‘Holly, hi. Pippa Hargreaves here. Congratulations, you’ve got the job.’

  ‘Yes!’ I yelled, punching the air. ‘Thank you. You won’t regret it, I promise.’

  My new boss laughed softly in my ear. ‘Glad to hear it. When can you start?’

  ‘Now?’ I offered.

  She laughed again. ‘It’s Friday evening, Holly. Monday morning at nine o’clock will be fine. I’ll meet you in reception.’

  ‘Nine o’clock sharp,’ I said, beaming. ‘Have a lovely weekend, boss.’

  Chapter 2

  It was a short drive to Wickham Hall – barely even a drive at all, in fact, but as the sky looked a bit threatening I took the car. I was waved into the staff car park by the security man, a dapper old chap in baggy shorts and a cagoule with a name tag revealing him to be Jim Badger.

  It was five minutes to nine and my stomach was fluttering with first-day nerves as I stepped through the staff entrance at Wickham Hall. Me – staff – happy, happy days! I took a seat on one of the high-backed velvet armchairs in the reception area at the foot of the wide staircase and waited for Pippa to fetch me.

  Almost immediately my phone dinged, alerting me to a text message. I fished it out of my bag and grinned when I saw it was from Esme.

  Have a fab first day, Holster. I’m sure you’ll wow them with your clipboard skills!

  I quickly tapped out a reply.

  Thanks Es. And you were right about the dress. I feel unstoppable in it!

  Ha, told you! I should be in Hollywood dressing the stars, I’m wasted here. See you later x

  I turned my phone onto silent, tucked it away and smoothed the skirt of my pale blue and white tea dress. Esme had persuaded me to buy it on Saturday. She and her mum, Bryony, own a boutique called Joop in Hoxley, which is the next village along from Wickham. Their clothes are to die for, if a little above my price range, even with my generous mates’ rates discount. However, Bryony has a knack for spotting what looks good on people and once she’d persuaded me to try on this dress, and Esme had offered to turn up the hem, it was a done deal.

  ‘As Coco Chanel said, “Dress shabbily and they’ll remember the dress, dress impeccably and they’ll remember the woman”,’ Esme had said through a mouthful of pins as she altered the length to suit my vertically challenged physique.

  And as today was all about first impressions on everyone at Wickham Hall, I definitely wanted them to remember the woman.

  There was a tall narrow console table opposite me in the wood-panelled corridor and on top of it was a leaflet dispenser filled with literature about Wickham Hall. I took a selection and began reading one about the conversion of some outbuildings into an art gallery. I’d seen one or two of the leaflets before because Mum was on the mailing list and she never threw anything away but there was a new one about the Summer Festival. She would definitely want to see that.

  Two women came through the door: one in chef’s whites, the other in waitress uniform. ‘Are you being looked after?’ one of them asked with a smile.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I answered. I think, I added under my breath, stealing a look at my watch. Ten past nine.

  ‘OK. Lovely dress, by the way,’ said the other.

  Result.

  ‘Thank you.’ I beamed as they walked away.

  Actually, maybe I wasn’t being looked after, perhaps Pippa had been waylaid. I shoved the leaflets into my bag to show Mum later and was just contemplating making my own way up to the office when I spotted a matronly woman in her late sixties bustling towards me along the corridor. Her short hair was set in perfect silver waves, she had reading glasses on a chain perched on her bosom, and one of those Wedgewood cameo brooches pinned to her cardigan.

  ‘Miss Swift?’ she asked briskly.

  ‘Yes?’ I leapt up from my seat.

  ‘I’m Mrs Beckwith, Lord Fortescue’s private secretary,’ she announced, shaking my hand briefly. ‘Welcome to Wickham Hall. I’ve been sent to sort you out. Introduce you and whatnot.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, and do call me Holly,’ I said with a smile. Mrs Beckwith reminded me of my old English teacher: a brisk, no-nonsense woman who forbade us ever to start a sentence with ‘but’. ‘Is Pippa—’

  ‘Pippa won’t be in today. Or possibly all week.’ Mrs Beckwith gestured towards the staircase. ‘Follow me to the events department please.’

  My face fell. That was a shame; I’d been looking forward to spending some time with Pippa this week, learning the ropes. How odd that she hadn’t mentioned on Friday that she wouldn’t be here this week. Perhaps I could phone her instead, unless . . .

  ‘She’s not ill, I hope?’ I asked as I followed Mrs Beckwith to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘No, not exactly, more of a family crisis,’ she said, beginning the ascent to the first floor.

  ‘Oh, how awful.’ I frowned again.

  What did that mean? Poor Pippa. I was dying to ask more questions but Mrs Beckwith was stomping up the stairs so quickly that I had to run to keep up.

  At the top, a rich red carpet stretched left and right along the corridor. There was a row of windows on one side and large white-painted doors with brass knobs on the other. The only open door was the one leading to the events office. My office.

  I was bursting to tell Mrs Beckwith what starting this new job meant to me and how amazing it was to be out of the house and working again but she didn’t seem the sort to welcome such confidences, so I followed her into the room, grinning behind her back.

  ‘You’ll share this office with Pippa. Make yourself at home. Ladies’ loos are along the corridor. And if you need anything, call me. Phone list is inside the top drawer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I stood in the middle of the room, eyeing up the space.

  It was a fairly small room with windows overlooking the gardens and just enough space for two desks, a photocopier and a table with a kettle, coffee machine and mugs on it. I glanced at the desks; one was clear except for a laptop and an A4 notepad, the other was barely visible beneath scattered papers, files and catalogues.

  ‘Good grief, she gets worse,’ Mrs Beckwith chuckled, walking towards the messy desk. ‘I don’t know how Pippa works in this turmoil.’

  I let out a sigh of relief that that desk wasn’t mine and rested my bag on the empty one.

  Would Pippa mind if I tidied up in her absence? I wondered. I really didn’t want to have to sit looking at that chaos all week. I had enough of that at home. I’m from the ‘tidy desk is a tidy mind’ school of thought . . .

  ‘Although I must admit, she always manages to lay her hands on what she’s looking for straight away,’ she went on, shaking her head as she sifted through the paperwork. ‘Ah, here we are: the plan f
or next year’s Wickham Hall calendar.’

  Mrs Beckwith picked up a document, flicked through it and sighed. ‘Oh dear, Lord Fortescue needs to know what is going on the cover as soon as possible. From the look of this, Pippa hasn’t decided.

  ‘Oh well.’ She smiled brightly at me. ‘That can be your job instead.’

  ‘Of course.’ I nodded. ‘I can do that.’

  How hard could it be? There must be loads of things at Wickham Hall that would make a stunning front cover.

  ‘Right, come along, we must press on.’ She marched to the door.

  I cast a look back at Pippa’s desk and the mounds of paperwork stacked haphazardly all over it and wondered whether I’d manage to lay my hands on what I needed to get me through the next week.

  ‘Um . . . Mrs Beckwith, what would you say are the main events that Wickham Hall is gearing up for at the moment?’

  Mrs Beckwith flapped her hand at me to hurry up. ‘Walk and talk, dear; walk and talk,’ she said as we hurried back down the stairs. ‘Well, I’d imagine the priorities, in order, are: wedding, calendar, Summer Festival.’

  ‘I didn’t know Wickham Hall did weddings!’ I exclaimed. I didn’t know I did weddings, come to that. I’d dealt with gaggles of hen parties, but never an actual wedding.

  Mrs Beckwith shook her head. ‘We don’t usually but this is Miss Zara’s wedding.’

  Of course, Lord and Lady Fortescue’s daughter! I remembered now; I’d seen it in the society pages of the Stratford Gazette. She was marrying some French chappie from a wine dynasty with his own chateau. Later this month.

  So my first major event in my new job was a society wedding? I felt an anxious knot form in my stomach. No pressure then . . .

  ‘I’m sure Pippa will be back before then,’ Mrs Beckwith said reassuringly.

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ I agreed confidently.

  After all, the wedding was not till the end of the month. What sort of family crisis could take that long to sort out?

  Chapter 3

  Mrs Beckwith was quite a swift mover for someone of her age and I had to break into a trot to keep up.