She had spoken so warmly of her children and the old rectory where she lived in our one meeting and it was heartbreaking to think she would lose all of that. And part of me was disappointed, too; whilst I’d coped running the events department singlehandedly, I’d been really looking forward to having some company.
I offered to send her some photographs of the wedding and she made me promise to phone her if I had any problems to do with the forthcoming Summer Festival and we rang off.
I sat for a few more moments on the oak settle and tuned in to Lord Fortescue, who must have been making his father-of-the-bride speech.
‘All my most treasured memories are somehow connected to Wickham Hall. Beatrice and I celebrated our own wedding here and I vividly remember returning here thirty years ago when you, Zara, were just a tiny thing, with your brother Benedict. And now I stand here, an extremely proud father, as you embark on a new life with Philippe in France. I know that you have always been proud to call Wickham Hall home, but it’s time to build a loving home of your own and I wish you both every happiness in the world. To Zara and Philippe!’
‘To Zara and Philippe,’ chorused the guests and I joined in silently as I made my way to the front door.
Tears pricked at my eyes as I stepped out into the afternoon sunshine and walked out to the staff car park. Lord Fortescue had made a lovely, lovely speech but his words struck a chord and I couldn’t help but question my own life. Was I proud to call Weaver’s Cottage home? Because if not, something had got to change.
When I pulled up in Mill Lane a few minutes later, my heart sank. Mum was in the front garden, knee deep in aluminium cans. She lifted a hand and gave me a cheery wave as I climbed out of the car.
‘How was the wedding?’ she asked, brushing her hair out of her face with her forearm. ‘I bet Wickham Hall makes a lovely venue for a summer wedding. Some of my happiest memories are of days spent in those gardens. And I expect Zara looked beautiful.’
‘Perfect,’ I said quietly, trying to ignore the thudding of my heart against my ribcage. ‘The whole thing was perfect.’
‘Lovely.’ Her face scanned mine for a second before she picked up an empty can, squashed it flat and dropped it into a refuse sack. ‘A penny a can, Holly. Can you believe it! Just for other people’s rubbish. I’m going to collect five thousand cans and donate the money to the homeless shelter in Stratford.’
‘So it’s aluminium cans now?’ I swallowed.
There was always a cause, always something demanding her time other than the state of her own house. I loved her for her selflessness but right now I just couldn’t bear it.
‘I picked up twenty cans this afternoon.’ She looked up as I unlatched the gate. ‘Littering the path by the canal. Honestly, I don’t know how some people live with themselves.’
I cast an eye over our front garden. Black sacks spilling out their contents filled the space under the living-room window and eight large green plant pots, which she’d brought home from the charity shop, lay abandoned on their sides along the path. And now the cans. It was like living in a junkyard.
I thought back to the gravelled entrance to Wickham Hall – the manicured lawns, the perfectly trimmed topiary hedges, the pristine flower beds – and my throat tightened with sadness.
She followed my gaze and turned away quickly, bending down over the pile of metal at her feet.
‘Mum?’ I said, wanting her to look at me. ‘The mess. Mrs Fisher collared me last week and mentioned it again.’
‘We have to look after others less fortunate than ourselves, Holly. It’s our duty.’
But what about us? What about me? Couldn’t she see how her behaviour cast a shadow over both of our lives? It affected my friendships, especially with men. Just as I started getting close to someone, I’d pull back, too afraid and embarrassed of them finding out how I lived. The last serious boyfriend I’d has was at uni, eight years ago. When would I get the chance to build a loving home, like Zara?
Something inside me flipped and I felt my legs tremble. I had reached my absolute limit; I couldn’t turn a blind eye to this anymore.
‘Mum,’ I repeated firmly, ‘we need to talk about your hoarding.’
‘Hoarding?’ She looked at me blankly but I noticed a tiny twitch in her eye. ‘Oh, love, you’re making something out of nothing. I’ll get this lot tidied—’
Tears flooded my eyes and I shook my head. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. I’m sorry. I know it upsets you every time I broach the subject, but we have to talk about it. If I thought you were happy, I’d leave you to it. But I don’t think you are, are you?’
Mum’s face crumpled and she dropped her arms to her side, defeated. ‘Oh, Holly.’
‘Come on, let’s talk inside.’ I sighed.
I took her by the hand, led her into the house and closed the front door behind us. I knew this conversation was going to be painful for both of us but it had been a long time coming and it was time I got it off my chest.
We stood in the small patch of clear carpet amidst the piles and piles of things and I placed my hands on her shoulders, waiting for her to meet my eye.
‘Mum, I think this hoarding is because something makes you very unhappy and as there’s only you and me in this family, I can’t help thinking that that thing must be me.’
My cheeks burned; I hadn’t realized I thought that until now, until the words were out there, hanging between us like a black cloud. But it was true. I could hear my pulse thrumming in my ears. She was a single mother who had never revealed who my father was. Perhaps I was somehow at the root of this?
‘Oh darling, you mustn’t think that,’ she said. ‘You’re all I’ve ever had since Granddad died.’
‘Then what is it, Mum?’ I pleaded, gripping her shoulders.
‘I like to keep hold of things. They comfort me.’ She sighed, stroking a finger against my cheek. ‘Nothing more sinister than that.’
‘Look at this,’ I said, forcing open the door to the dining room. ‘We can’t even get in this room. That isn’t comforting. When was the last time we were able to sit down together and eat normally?’
‘I don’t like that room anyway,’ she said, peering in. ‘It faces north and doesn’t get the sun. I’d far rather have a tray on my knees in the living room.’
Give me strength. I felt the frustration rise like a tidal wave inside me and forced myself to stay calm.
‘The light is the least of its problems, Mum; it’s full of junk,’ I said quietly. ‘You can barely see the table, let alone the chairs. I mean, do you seriously need to keep Granddad’s old fishing tackle? Or every newspaper or magazine you ever bought? Or my pram, for goodness’ sake?’
‘It’s not junk. Everything holds a memory, take Granddad’s—’
‘What would Granddad say if he could see you now?’ I asked. ‘He left you this cottage when he died. What would he think?’
She picked at a bit of loose skin on her fingertip and lifted one shoulder.
‘He’d be disappointed, I suppose, but then he’d probably have stopped being proud of me a long time ago anyway, so what does it matter?’
‘It matters because . . .’ I blew out a long breath, heart pounding. ‘It matters because I can’t carry on living at Weaver’s Cottage. I can’t live like this, Mum. Not anymore.’
She stared at me, a mix of horror and fear etched across her forehead. My words seemed to have sucked all the oxygen from the air and my head began to throb.
‘I need some air,’ I said and stumbled from the hall into the kitchen and beyond into the back garden.
The back garden thankfully was clear of Mum’s stuff. It had narrow borders full of self-seeded summer annuals and even though it wouldn’t have met Nikki’s high standards it was pretty and a million times more relaxing than inside the cottage.
‘Holly?’ Mum cried, following behind me.
I sank down onto the garden bench tucked under the overhanging branches from next door’s
apple tree, rested my elbows on my knees and dropped my head into my hands. Mum sat next to me and began to rub my back.
‘I’m sorry, love. I couldn’t bear it if I chased you away. You’re the most precious thing in my life.’
I sat up straight and turned to face her. ‘Then help me to understand. Please.’
We stared at each other for a few moments and I watched the dappled shade dance across her features. I knew that face so well and yet I suddenly felt like I didn’t know her at all.
Finally she smoothed down the skirt of her dress and took my hand.
‘I’ve never told you this because, I . . .’ She paused to take a deep breath. ‘Well, I am so ashamed of what happened the summer before you were born.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ My heart thumped and I squeezed her hand tightly. ‘I’m not going to judge you.’
Her eyes sparkled with tears. ‘I was seventeen, my life was just beginning and I was so happy. But then I met a man and fell in love.’
‘My father?’ I whispered.
‘We were both at the Wickham Hall Summer Festival and . . . oh God, this is awful.’ She lowered her eyes to her lap. ‘I thought we’d be together for the rest of our lives. But the night after we made love, we kissed goodbye and . . . I never spoke to him again. You were born nine months later.’
I felt the hairs at the back of my neck stand to attention. I was conceived at Wickham Hall?
‘Who is he?’ I stared at her in disbelief. ‘Is it someone I know?’
She shook her head and pressed a hand to her mouth as tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘What must you think of me?’
‘Why didn’t you speak to him again?’ I begged. My body was fizzing with adrenalin; she had never opened up to me like this. I was so close . . .
‘Please, I can’t tell you anything else. Not now. Except this . . .’
She took my face in her hands and gazed at me. The pain behind her eyes made my heart ache.
‘Holly, you were the best thing, the only good thing, to happen to me that year. I thought I had it all that summer and I let everything I loved slip away. And I never want to lose anything important ever again.’
My face was wet with tears and I brushed them away, nodding slowly.
‘So you keep it all, you keep everything?’ I said, my voice trembling with sadness.
Mum nodded. ‘Over the years, it has got harder and harder to let go of anything. I know you don’t deserve to live like this, but please don’t go. I promise things will change. Without you I—’
She burst into tears and sagged against me. ‘I have no one.’
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ I whispered, throwing my arms around her shoulders. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I love you.’
We sat, the two of us, surrounded by thirty years of treasured memories, wrapped in our thoughts. I didn’t try to make her open up any more; my head was already spinning with all this new information and Mum was clearly too upset to talk. I had learned more today about the reason behind the hoarding than I had ever done and I knew two things for certain: I was determined to help Mum overcome her hoarding and I was going to find out exactly what happened during that Summer Festival at Wickham Hall.
The next morning I was up bright and early. The roads were deserted as I drove to the only café open on a Sunday to buy two bacon sandwiches. Mum and I had had an emotional and productive evening: she had agreed to go to see the doctor about some counselling and the two of us had bagged all the aluminium cans and driven them to the recycling centre and cleared the front garden.
It was only a small improvement but it was a start and I was proud of her. And proud of myself, actually, for not pinning her down and forcing her to tell me who my dad was.
What I needed now was a heart-to-heart with Esme accompanied by breakfast and large mugs of tea and as she’d said she’d be working on a prom dress today, I thought she’d be glad of the company.
I pushed open the door to Joop and found Esme standing in front of one of the fitting rooms, hands clasped and pivoting on the spot from side to side.
‘Morning, Es. Am I glad to see you.’
‘Morning, Hols.’ She flashed me a big smile and squeaked as I gave her a quick hug.
‘Nice welcome, nice flowers.’ I nodded my head towards the vase of roses on the counter.
I did a double-take: they were almost identical to Zara’s wedding flowers. Although I supposed roses were pretty much everywhere in June. Nikki had told me it was England’s best month for the scented blooms.
‘They are, aren’t they?’ She giggled, pressing her lips together mysteriously. ‘You’ll—’
‘Breakfast,’ I said, waving the paper bag under her nose.
She shook her head. ‘Er, I’ll have mine in a minute, thanks.’
I shrugged and dropped it on the counter. ‘Suit yourself.’
I perched on the chaise longue and patted the seat beside me.
‘Come and sit down before any customers arrive, I’ve got so much to tell you.’
‘Actually,’ she said, widening her eyes oddly, ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment.’
I glanced round the shop dubiously, but frankly, I was so desperate to tell her my news that I would probably have spilled the beans even if the shop had been jam-packed full of customers.
‘You will not believe the events of the last twenty-four hours of my life. Firstly, well not strictly firstly in chronological terms, but anyway,’ I said, taking the bacon sandwich out of its bag. ‘Massive discovery in the history of Holly Swift last night. Massive. Turns out, I was conceived, yes you heard that right, conceived at Wickham Hall during the Summer Festival. Think about that for a moment, Es.’
‘Bloody hell, Hols!’ she gasped.
I puffed out my cheeks and shook my head.
‘The brilliant thing that came out of it was that Mum has agreed to go for counselling.’
Esme pinched her lips together and shot me an anguished look. ‘Holly, you probably shouldn’t—’
‘I know, I know! What a mystery,’ I exclaimed, ripping the corner off my ketchup sachet. ‘She wouldn’t tell me who he is, though. Could be anyone, could be him out there.’ I chuckled, pointing to an old man zipping past on his mobility scooter.
I bit into my sandwich and tugged at a particularly stubborn bit of bacon. Esme jerked her head bizarrely towards the kitchen.
‘Don’t panic, I won’t drop anything,’ I tutted. ‘Second item on the news agenda . . .’
The saltiness of the bacon was beginning to make my mouth tingle.
‘Hold that thought while I make some tea. Want one?’
‘Um, no thanks.’ Esme’s eyebrows furrowed and she was plaiting her legs as though she needed the loo.
‘You OK?’ I said, frowning at her as I set my bacon sandwich on the counter and made my way into the store room.
‘Yep,’ she squeaked.
‘Secondly,’ I shouted, flicking the kettle on, ‘Pippa has resigned. So I guess I’ll be organizing the Summer Festival by myself, which should be interesting. Although maybe it’s in my genes, given my start in life. Ha!’
I clattered around with the tea caddy and spoons and thought I heard Esme speak but couldn’t make out what she was saying over the sound of the boiling kettle.
‘And lastly, but by no means least,’ I said, sitting back down with my tea, ‘I met Benedict Fortescue yesterday. And get this . . .’ I paused to snort and catch Esme’s eye. ‘He was stripped down to his boxers in the churchyard. He’s quite fit, actually. Made a complete fool of myself by accusing him of being paparazzi and calling security. Hardly my fault, though. I mean, what sort of idiot gets ready for a wedding in a graveyard!’
Esme was now jumping up and down on the spot, waving her arms wildly. ‘Holly, um, I don’t know how to tell you this but—’
She was saved saying anything at all as the bolt of the fitting room behind her slid back with a thud and the door swung open revealing—
; ‘Benedict!’ I gasped, jumping to my feet and spilling hot tea on my flip-flop-clad feet. ‘Ouch! Bugger.’
Esme leapt forward, took the mug from my hands and scurried to the store room for a cloth.
Leaving us alone.
My face burned. Possibly even hotter than my feet.
‘Holly Swift.’ Benedict’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. He was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. Again. ‘We must stop meeting like this.’
I’ve just admitted that my mother had sex in your garden.
‘Indeed we must.’ I swallowed.
‘Lady Fortescue sent Benedict down with some flowers from the wedding as a thank-you,’ said Esme, bending down to wipe the drips from my feet. ‘And he brought a pair of trousers to alter too. Wasn’t that kind?’
‘Very kind,’ I agreed, nodding manically.
My brain scrabbled to try to remember what I’d said about him. Fit! Oh God, I’d called him fit. Which, looking at him a second time, was quite accurate, with his soft curls and deep brown eyes. Although not my type, clearly, because everything I knew about him so far pointed to unreliable, scruffy and irresponsible . . . not qualities I normally rated in a boyfriend. Boyfriend? Boyfriend? What was I thinking?
I moaned softly under my breath.
Esme did a sniggery sort of laugh from her position on the floor. No help at all.
Benedict picked up a pair of shorts from the floor of the fitting room and pulled them on. ‘Thanks, Esme,’ he said as he wriggled his feet into a battered pair of Converse. ‘I’ll pick them up on Wednesday.’
‘Wednesday is too late,’ I reminded him, finding my voice at last. ‘You’re going back to London tomorrow.’
‘No I’m not.’ He grinned, handing Esme a pair of beige linen trousers with pins at the hem. ‘Change of plan.’
‘But . . .’ I began.
He sauntered casually to the door, opened it and turned back to face me. ‘Didn’t Ma and Pa mention it? I’m taking over from Pippa for a while. I’m your new boss.’
‘You?’ I gasped.
‘See you in the office. Don’t be late.’ And with a wink he was gone.
Wickham Hall, Part 1 Page 10