by Lulu Taylor
Tommy was going through the accounts that Spottiswoode had drawn up for her and delivered now that he could drive through from his house on the other side of the estate when Fred put his head around the door.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m going to set up my easel this morning. I thought we ought to get our story straight.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Come in. Sit down.’
He walked towards her, smiling. ‘You look rather formidable behind that desk.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Like the young queen of some island nation, signing death warrants.’
‘I would sign life warrants,’ she said with a laugh.
‘All effective queens must know when to send an enemy to their death.’
‘Like Mary burning poor Ridley? And old Cranmer?’
‘I was thinking of Elizabeth really. Sending Mary of Scots to the block. Perhaps you’re right. Life warrants are better.’ He sat down on the chair where Spottiswoode had been only the previous afternoon. The contrast made Tommy full of warmth for him, with his languid grace and wise humanity, and she wondered why on earth she’d been avoiding him.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Are you really going to do this? Recreate Venetia in all her sadness?’
He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘If it’s what your majesty wants, then that is what shall be. I believe this deception is for the good of the realm.’
‘On your own head be it. If you’re captured, I shall have to disavow all knowledge. For the good of the realm.’
‘I’m almost ready to go. The easel is up in the hall. I said to Roger I fancied my hand at doing a copy of the Gainsborough for my own amusement. He didn’t think it was odd. He understands that sort of thing.’
‘That’s what we’ll tell Mother too.’
‘As your majesty wishes,’ Fred said with a small bow.
‘Listen, Fred,’ she said awkwardly. ‘It’s fun to pretend but I don’t think we ought to assume that we’re going to substitute it for the real thing. That’s just a silly idea, isn’t it? I don’t think I could really do it.’
‘Of course,’ he said easily. ‘It’s all a joke. Not a serious endeavour. Believe you me, I don’t have the talent Gainsborough had in his little finger. But it will be amusing to see how well I can copy him. Now, I shall get on.’ He got up and started on his way to the door. Tommy noticed at once that he was moving a little oddly.
‘Fred, are you all right?’
‘Oh yes. I’m fine.’ He turned and smiled back at her over his shoulder. ‘That doctor, the one in Oxford who prodded around and took a look . . . he’s rather messed me up and it’s got a little inflamed. I should have gone to my specialist really but it’s such a bally long way to Kent. I’m sure it’ll settle down in time.’
‘Do you want medicine for it? We have antiseptics.’
‘Perhaps. I’ll let you know if I do.’
‘Good.’ She watched him go out of the door, then turned her mind back to the accounts.
The sight of Fred standing behind his easel sketching was of great interest to everyone.
‘What is that young man doing, Thomasina?’ her mother asked as she came through on her way to the drawing room. To save fuel, her fires were no longer lit in the evening and she was spending more time in the main house.
‘He’s trying out a copy of the Gainsborough. You know how amateurs like to have a go – sometimes I could hardly move in the National Gallery for easels. Perhaps once he’s done that, we can get him to paint a picture of the house for us. What a nice memento of this winter it would be.’
Her mother shivered. ‘I’m not sure I want to remember this awful winter. I’ve never known it so cold.’
The newspapers were writing about this terrible sustained cold spell. The snow was incredibly heavy in Scotland and in the north, and in Wales, the sheep were dying out in the great freeze. It was not moving on. It was not really thawing. So far there had not been a day without snow somewhere in Britain.
‘It must get better soon,’ Tommy said, following her mother into the drawing room. ‘We’ll be all right, if we’re careful.’
Her mother settled down by the fire, drawing her shawl tightly about her. ‘It’s put me in mind of the Spanish flu that came right after the end of the last war. Just when we thought we were safe, that awful force of nature came to give us another bashing. This winter, this awful cold – it’s like that.’
Tommy said comfortingly, ‘It’s just a question of hunkering down for a while. Hibernating like bears. We’ll be all right.’
But privately she was worried. Her mother had got it right in a way – they were at their weakest, with so little food available already, and now this weather was going to punish them further. There was meat in the game larder but it would be harder to get more in this weather. Shooting and snaring would be impossible. And if the sheep were freezing in the fields . . . it made her sick to think about the waste of good meat. Vital meat. As if we can afford to lose so much, when there’s barely enough to live on as it is.
Tommy knew they had been sheltered from the kind of want that others endured. Thornton kept a good kitchen garden for them, and he was handy with the shotgun, knowing how to lure ducks into his sights, and how to shake game birds out of cover and tempt rabbits into traps. But the terrible weather had the potential to remove their ability not just to look after themselves, but to get to the shops where they might supplement their natural larder.
She asked Ada to make a list of all the supplies they had left, and to stock up as much as she could from the rations, just in case.
‘I don’t know how Fred paints, with the hall so freezing,’ Gerry said. ‘Especially when it’s going so slowly.’
‘I hope you’re not bothering him,’ Tommy said sternly. She was waiting for the children to get back from school, worried by the lowering skies with their nasty shade of yellow that made her think of an aged wedding dress, gone from ivory to the colour of crackled cream. It meant fresh loads of snow would soon be released upon them.
‘I’m not bothering him,’ Gerry said, ‘but Roger is.’
Tommy knew it was true. She had seen it for herself: Roger was orbiting around Fred like a moon around its planet, unable to leave him alone for long. When Fred was drawing, Roger would observe and offer advice, or sit on one of the hall chairs, smoking and talking at great length about whatever he had read in the papers that day, or a book that had absorbed him. Politics was a favourite topic, and the future of the world now that the war was won. Tommy went through several times a day to see what the situation was and found that, with nothing left to talk about, Roger would read aloud while Fred drew. The painting was coming along at a snail’s pace.
When Roger went upstairs the next evening to take his bath before changing for dinner, Tommy seized her chance and hurried to the hall. Fred was there, cleaning his brushes with rags and spirit.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, her heels tapping loudly on the flagstones as she approached. ‘Are you getting anything done?’
‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve barely begun. I didn’t take Roger into account. A mistake, I fear.’
‘But . . .’ Tommy gazed at him. ‘Is he always like this with you?’
Fred wiped the soft top of a brush clean with his rag. ‘Yes. He seems to need me to talk at, as much as to. I release something in him. Or else he can access something in himself through me.’
Tommy nodded. ‘Yes, I see. Well, perhaps this idea is a no-go. I didn’t think about Roger either, even though we all know how much he depends on you.’
‘Don’t give up. We might yet find a way. We could always explain to him what we’re doing. Perhaps he would think it’s a good idea.’
‘I really don’t think that Roger would ever understand it. It would run against everything he feels about keeping this place just as it is.’
‘Yes, he’s rather a conundrum. He’s very keen on world socialism. He thinks Russia must be some kind of paradise
on Earth and tells me often that he wants something of the sort in this country.’
‘That’s very odd,’ Tommy said, ‘because he doesn’t show the slightest inclination to want to practise any kind of socialism in the house. He’s quite the laziest of us all.’
‘I think we should be grateful for that,’ Fred said. ‘Goodness knows what he might take it into his head to do.’
The next day, the weather was more oppressive than ever and the bitterness was back with a vengeance. The papers said more snow was coming, and when the postman arrived, he said the village school was closing because of the low temperatures.
‘Closed till further notice,’ he said almost proudly and shook his head at the state of the world. ‘The way things are going . . . It’s all the government’s fault. They should never have thrown Churchill out, that’s all I can say.’
‘It’s hardly the government’s fault that the weather’s so bad,’ Tommy said, taking the letters he was holding out to her.
‘No. But they’re to blame for the lack of coal,’ said the postman solemnly.
‘No coal?’ Tommy felt a stab of anxiety.
‘That’s right, ma’am. The deliveries are late, and if the weather gets worse, there’s bound to be a delay. That’s why the school is closing. They can’t keep the heating going for more than a few weeks.’ The postman touched his hat. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I’m sure we’ll get our thaw before too long.’
‘Yes,’ Tommy said vaguely, trying to picture what was left in the coal bunker. ‘I’m sure we will.’ She looked down at her letters as the postman headed back to his van. One addressed in curling black handwriting was postmarked from Oxford. She opened it as she went back inside.
Dearest Tommy
Please forgive me, but I really can’t keep Barbara and her daughter any longer. She has nowhere to go and I must throw her on your tender mercies as you have the room for two more. I’m so sorry but I simply can’t think of an alternative. She promises me there is a cousin she can go to in a month or two, so it won’t be for long. She is a dear, very easy to have about. I know you won’t mind, as we were all schoolgirls together. She and Molly will be on the train to you on Friday so please arrange to have them collected at 5.05.
Do come for lunch when you’re next in Oxford, I’d love to hear more of your news.
Lots of love,
Veronica
Chapter Fifteen
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Caitlyn cried down her mobile phone. She was standing in the middle of the M&S lingerie department, and a lady rifling through the all-in-ones looked her way with interest. ‘How can that be the case?’
‘I’m afraid it’s in the standard contract you signed,’ said the estate agent apologetically down the line. ‘You can be served notice anytime from five months, and then you have to leave by the end of the sixth month.’
‘You’re telling me I’m going to be served notice to quit?’
‘On the next rent day. That will give you a month to make other arrangements. But I’m giving you a heads-up so that you don’t get a nasty surprise.’
Caitlyn thought of the little sitting room, homely and cheerful, the sofa covered in a bright patchwork blanket and the vase of drooping pink tulips on the coffee table. She had begun to think of the cottage as home, and couldn’t bear the thought of uprooting herself and Max again, not when they’d just settled in. ‘You said it would be a long-term contract because the owner had gone abroad for the foreseeable. Not six months!’
‘The owner’s plans have changed. I’m sorry, Mrs Balfour. There’s really nothing I can do. But I can set up some viewings of other rentals on our books – we’ve got some really delightful properties ready to view—’
‘No thanks, not right now. I’ll call you back when I’m ready to do that.’ Caitlyn clicked off the call and stood fuming by a stand of dressing gowns. A moment ago she’d been thinking about bras and pyjamas. Now she had to consider the fact that they were going to be homeless in less than eight weeks. Bang in the summer holidays, when she’d been planning to join Maura and the family on their trip to Cornwall.
Great . . . just . . . great!
She strode out of the shop, dropping her mobile into her bag and hardly seeing anything as she went. Out of Marks she turned right and a moment later found herself standing at the crossroads by Carfax, just up the hill from her old college. There it was, huge, golden and imposing, dominated by the great bell tower. Almost without thinking, as though following old song lines from her past, she started to walk down the hill towards it, past the queues of people in the bus stops outside its honey-brown walls, until she reached the cobbled ground under the great arch. Beyond the two enormous studded gates was the sunlit quad, its tended lawns like emerald velvet and a fountain playing in the centre. It hadn’t changed a bit in all the years since she had last been here. It seemed an obvious place to come, and yet she hadn’t made her way here until now. There were too many bittersweet memories to contend with inside the walls.
Shall I go in? She hesitated on the threshold, almost pulled forward into the old familiar place. Then on impulse she marched through the gate and into the porter’s lodge. The porter looked up as she stood at the desk. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Nicholas Brooke, he’s a fellow here—’
A voice came from behind her. ‘Caitlyn! It is you, isn’t it?’
She jumped and turned to look at whoever had called her and saw Nicholas coming towards her, beaming.
‘I can’t believe it!’ He was already at her side, and had enveloped her in a tweedy hug, his jacket scratchy through her thin top. He kissed her cheek and stood back to look at her. ‘Caitlyn Collins! You’re exactly the same. What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I came in on the off chance you might be here. I should have emailed first, I know . . .’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s great to see you. Have you got time for coffee?’
She smiled at him. A moment ago, in her memory, he’d been about twenty, fresh-faced, with spiky black hair and dark brown eyes, a legacy of his Italian heritage. Now that image was rapidly being overwritten with the reality of a man of almost forty, with silver-grey in his dark hair, and wrinkles round his eyes and mouth, a dusting of grey and black stubble over his chin. He was a little heavier than he had been, but then, he’d been skinny as a young man and it suited him to carry a bit more weight. He had aged well. His olive skin was only a little lined and the wrinkles were from expression rather than age. And where once he would have worn jeans and baggy T-shirts, he was now in muted cords and a tweed jacket, a well-washed checked shirt underneath. ‘I’d love that, thanks.’
‘Come on, then.’ He led her out of the porter’s lodge and into the quad. ‘What brings you here? Are you just visiting for the day?’
‘No. I live here now,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘We moved a while ago.’
‘I had no idea. I don’t do much social media or I probably would. I’m too taken up teaching the kind of bloody-minded, vaguely interested, lazy undergraduates that we once were. Well, I was.’
As he turned and led her down a small corridor and then up a winding wooden staircase, she was overwhelmed with memories. The sound of her feet on the wood, the dusty smell of the staircase, the echo of the stone walls transported her back in time twenty years while Nicholas was explaining how he’d gone to work in the City before feeling he’d missed his vocation and returning to academia. He stopped in front of a sturdy outer door with his name painted in white above it: Professor N. C. Brooke. He took out his keys and opened it, then the inner door that revealed the rooms within, and turned to smile at her.
‘Come in. Excuse the mess.’
She followed him in, fascinated. She’d always known that there was far more to the college than she’d ever seen, more than her own rooms, her friends’, the communal bits. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives going on within its walls. Whole houses existed unseen ins
ide the quads. There were hidden gardens, little-known staircases, secret libraries, invisible balconies, room after room behind stout locked doors, like a castle of secrets from a fairy story. She realised suddenly what a very little part of it she’d experienced. It was bigger and deeper than she’d guessed. And here was another part revealed: Nicholas’s rooms.
‘Aren’t they lovely?’ she said, as she came in, dipping her head beneath a low beam. Nicholas’s rooms weren’t on the grander lower floor, but tucked up towards the top, with high windows overlooking the battlements and the stately quad below.
He looked around proudly. ‘It’s bigger than you’d think up here. And as I’m stuck up under the roof, in the less desirable bit, they’ve given me a larger set than most. I’ve got two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and’ – he led her through a dark oak door – ‘of course, my sitting room and study.’
She almost laughed out loud as she looked around. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Exactly right. I bet your students love it.’
It was a cosy room, with a low ceiling with ornate plastered squares, and a thick black beam over a fireplace where the remains of a log lay in soft white ash. The walls were lined with bookcases full of volumes and ornaments and pictures. Where there was no bookcase, there were panels hung with pictures, and one side of the room had deep stone window seats in front of two windows. The curtains were dark red tapestry, and green and ruby-red velvet cushions provided softness on the hard stone. A squashy green sofa and two armchairs draped in colourful ikat fabrics were grouped around the fire, and everywhere were more books, piled on the coffee table and beside the chairs. By the fire was a drinks tray, with large bottles of sherry, gin and vodka, tiny tins of tonic, and an ice bucket shaped like a golden pineapple.
‘Sherry! I bet you hand out little glasses before a tutorial. You’re a textbook Oxford don,’ Caitlyn said, laughing properly now. ‘Your students must be impressed.’