She heard an echo of their earlier conversation on the museum as a fantasy. Apparently, Nick didn’t plan to continue that theme in the garden. Nonetheless, his frustration with Nelson was evident, and so much what she felt, that she smiled wryly. “What? No Lady of Shalott floating on a fish pond?”
He grinned, his expression lightening in sudden humor. “Don’t suggest that to Nelson or he’ll have you dressed up as a Pre-Raphaelite maiden in a microsecond.”
Her laughter vanished. She rubbed at the fireguard. “I’m not having anything to do with your program.”
Even as she concentrated on the fire screen and its depiction of a hunting scene, she saw Nick’s feet approach and stop near her. “The roof garden won’t be so bad. Did you look at the plans I sent you?”
He’d attached them to last night’s message alerting her to his early morning presence today.
She had looked at the plans for over half an hour. Then she’d put her coat on and gone and studied the roof.
His plans were good. They maximized space and sunlight and probably a dozen other things that she, with her lack of gardening experience, had never considered. What she’d looked at first was how he dealt with her flat. The ugly box couldn’t be ignored, but she’d feared it becoming an integral part of the garden—that or fenced off in a way that blocked the light from its south-facing lounge room windows.
Instead, Nick had renamed the flat a garden shed and allocated money for it to be painted green with a mural of garden trellis and flowers on the public western and southern sides, with the eastern and northern sides gated off.
“Thanks for keeping the flat private,” she said.
“Calling it a garden shed is an obvious solution, and hopefully, will keep people’s curiosity about it to a minimum.”
“People can be curious about anything,” Lanie said out of years of experience. “But a garden shed is probably the best solution. I thought you might try to screen it.”
“That would block your light,” he said instantly.
His awareness and concern for her comfort relaxed her and she extended more praise and interest than she’d intended. “Your plans are excellent. I like the iron framework sketching the illusion of a pavilion. A couple of croquet mallets, hoops and a ball would help with that.”
“Do you have any?”
“I’ll find some.”
They smiled at one another.
The moment broke as Nelson charged in. “Where is the bench going to go? That’s the focal point. We want to position you so that there’s some landmark in the back of the shot that’ll tie the before and after shots together. Now, do you know what you’re going to say?”
Nick pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “The Edwardians—”
“No paper! No notes! You must look natural.” Nelson snatched the sheet of paper and dramatically threw it into the fireplace.
Nick shrugged and ambled out of the room, Nelson circling him like a sheepdog.
Lanie frowned after them. There’d been a hint of amusement in Nick’s expression and a conspicuous absence of hunched resentment in his posture at Nelson’s high-handed ways. She rescued the paper from the fireplace.
It was blank.
She stared at it for a second, before crumpling it and standing.
Apparently Nick and Nelson were good enough friends to tease each other. And Nick had a wicked if hidden sense of humor, one he was willing to let her see.
From outside came the sound of a teenage horde.
She put away the cleaning gear and got ready for the onslaught of schoolchildren.
Nick waited patiently as Nelson organized the world to his satisfaction. Ophelia, their cameraperson squinted and assessed angles. Alex, who was fresh out of university and slamming back and forward between snooty know-it-allness and outright bewildered panic, did a sound check.
Finally, Nelson re-focused on Nick. “Well, go on, then.”
Nick didn’t need notes. He knew what he wanted to say. Ironically, it was Lanie who’d inspired him. Her resistance to the idea of a rooftop garden on the museum had woken the devil in him, and he’d tossed aside his perfunctory reading on the Edwardian era for some real if crammed research. The result was genuine enthusiasm.
The Edwardians had been keen gardeners and determined to improve their world.
He looked into the camera and spoke about the modern outlook of the Edwardian era, how they had addressed the challenges of city lives and country dreaming with new suburban housing estates, as well as re-inventing their upper class townhouses.
The emphasis had been on light, clean, healthy homes. Hygiene had grown in prominence through Victorian times, with housewives embracing the notion that cleanliness was next to godliness. The Edwardian era, with the continuing surge in factory work, meant servants were harder to engage and keep, but labor-saving devices were continually coming to market. Homes were expected to be retreats of leisure and lifestyle. In fact, gardening became a respectable activity for ladies to engage in.
“The Edwardians realized that gardening was a healthy exercise for both body and mind, and they embraced it. They made popular the idea of a cottage garden with its masses of color and foliage, but defined and given structure by a well-designed layout. Their idea of a secret garden captured the notion that gardens could be a respite from life, but the Edwardians also needed them to be practical. A good Edwardian garden included a vegetable patch and a few carefully chosen fruit trees. It also had an area laid to lawn on which games of backyard tennis, cricket or croquet could be played. Victorian houses faced the street, but Edwardian homes opened up to their private backyards and emphasized both family life and select entertaining.”
“That’s a bit long-winded, mate,” Nelson complained. “But go on. I can cut it later.”
Which for Nelson was a compliment.
Nick and he had discussed the television program for two years, now. They knew what needed to be said.
“In the twenty first century, city space is even more tightly held than in Victorian and Edwardian times, but like them, we crave our gardens. We crave open air and a sense of freedom, and if we can’t find that freedom at street level, then we look up.” Nick waved his hand. “On the roof, anything is possible. We are bounded only by our imaginations.”
Lanie finished the school group’s tour of the museum with a visit to the attics. The nursery with its array of toys fascinated them, and allowing one of them to pull the chain of the old-fashioned loo in the bathroom was always a sure-fire crowd-pleaser, but the attics were something special for the kids.
“They’re like something out of a horror movie, miss.”
“You’re welcome to explore.” Lanie checked her watch. “You have twenty minutes.”
The “attics” weren’t the original top floor of the house. That was now a narrow roof space following the 1950s alteration to allow her flat to be built and the elevator installed. These attics were one story lower and a century ago, would have housed the upper servants.
Lanie had organized for excess furniture from the floors below, and some that she’d found cheaply at markets and auctions, to be carried up here. She’d done her fair share of that carrying, but she had her reward now. Every bit of furniture was draped in white sheets, giving the three connecting rooms their eerie appearance and allowing the kids to discover their mysteries.
Of course, it meant that afterwards, Lanie would have to go around replacing all the coverings, but she didn’t mind paying the price of the kids’ fun.
The group’s two teachers sank down on chairs by the door.
“You had a friend of ours through here with her class and she raved about the attics. I see what she meant. This’ll keep the kids occupied.” The faded man in his late forties had twitching nicotine-stained fingers. He tapped them on the underside of his chair.
“And I’ll set them to write a story set in an attic.” The woman put her feet up on a crate. “Those stairs were something e
lse though. Imagine climbing them every day.”
Thirty minutes later they finally got the kids out and downstairs to pile into the waiting coach. A few of the kids found time to scribble messages in the guestbook on their way out. As the museum seemed to release its breath and settle back into quiet, Lanie read the notes.
“The house is definitely haunted. I heard something knocking on the ceiling.”
Lanie read the kid’s observation and looked up. What were Nick and his crew doing on the roof? She closed the guestbook and headed for the cleaning gear. In the library she could hear Velma Carnell, a museum volunteer, addressing another tour group. If they’d reached the library, that meant the drawing room was empty, and as much as she resented Nelson appropriating it for his purposes, she needed to tidy it after the teenage tornado had been through.
Kids, with their touch-everything habits, left smudges everywhere.
The polishing rag and a bit of elbow grease had the tea table shining again, and she flicked the duster over the fireplace mirror and the china dogs. A quick plump up of the needlework cushions and the room looked attractively staged. Someone had finished the patience, and Lanie left it like that.
From the hall came the sounds of Velma’s tour group departing, and then, Velma poked her head in the drawing room. “Can you hold the fort here if I go to lunch?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you want me to pick you up something?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” Lanie watched Velma’s head vanish. She sighed in frustration at her own head-in-the-sand ostrich act, and hurried to the door. “Velma!”
The retired woman, tall and active, was halfway out the front door. “Change your mind?” she asked cheerfully. She’d been a doctor’s receptionist and no quirk of human behavior surprised her. “Do you want one of those éclairs they make at the café?”
Lanie shook her head. “It’s about the film crew.”
Velma closed the front door, shutting out the cold wind, as they both looked up. “The roof garden people.”
That was the nice thing about Velma. She was unmoved by the idea of television fame.
Lanie wanted to hug her. “Yes, them.”
“I’ll bring in some of my Dean’s old drop sheets.” Her husband had been a housepainter. “They’ll do something to protect the hall floor as they tramp their garden rubbish through to the elevator.”
It was reassuring to hear that Velma, at least, saw the same practical problems Lanie had. Everyone else had made her feel ridiculous in listing them.
“Drop sheets would be great, if Dean wouldn’t mind us borrowing them. But what I wanted to warn you…say…I wanted to tell you that the producer, Nelson, has decided to shoot footage of the drawing room sometime this afternoon.”
“Without warning?” Velma was sympathetic, yet resigned. “Oh well. The visitors will like to see a film crew in action, even if we have to keep them out of the room and viewing from the doorway.” She opened the door again. “I’ll bring you back a cup of the café’s soup of the day. You’ll need your strength to deal with that TV producer. Although I quite liked the look of the star, Nick. Very tasty.” She grinned and exited, the wind catching the door and slamming it behind her. “Sorry.” Her voice floated back.
Lanie smiled. Velma was a whirlwind all on her own.
A lone visitor pushed open the door and blinked to find Lanie standing there.
“Good morning,” Lanie said. “Or is it afternoon?” She glanced at her watch.
The young Asian man in his early twenties glanced at his. “Afternoon,” he said in polite accuracy. “Good afternoon.” His English was strongly accented. He gazed around the hall with interest and approval. “I am a design student, yes. From Shanghai. This is Edwardian for my university project. May I take photos?” He held up his phone.
“Yes, you may take photos. And please, ask if you have questions.”
They nodded at one another and Lanie stepped back. The lone visitor headed for the drawing room and she sighed. Nelson was right to pick the drawing room as the room that featured most strongly in people’s imagination when they thought of the Edwardian era. Everyone entered it first.
The café’s soup of the day was carrot and ginger, and thoroughly warming. Lanie drank it in the kitchen between bites of her cheese and relish sandwich. She’d lit the coal stove first thing in the morning since the day was cold despite the sunshine, and she’d known the school group would enjoy it. Now, she curled up in cook’s chair beside it and contemplated the table.
Currently, she had it set for making puddings. Victorians were famous for their puddings, but Edwardians had continued the tradition. In some ways, the eras flowed into one another, households not changing their habits much over the years. A cookbook was open to the recipe for Eve’s pudding, and green apples were piled with seeming casualness beside the pudding bowl. The sponge-y cake mix would be poured over them and the whole thing baked in the oven. A number of the museum’s older visitors would recognize the recipe, and younger visitors frequently took a photo of it to try at home.
Lanie scrunched up her sandwich paper. She mightn’t be a qualified museum curator, but she suited the Horry Museum. They were both amateurs, brought alive by enthusiasm. In treating the house as a giant stage, she helped to tell its story; and to allow its visitors to find their own stories.
Velma pushed open the kitchen door, leaning in to call. “Help! A tour guide has just arrived with a dozen bewildered Americans. They were meant to go to a matinee, but some drama backstage caused a last minute cancellation. I don’t know why the tour guide brought them to us.”
They soon discovered the reason. The tour group were all historical romance fans. They’d visited Bath and Brighton and half a dozen grand country estates, and now on their return to London, having already seen its major sights, they had an empty afternoon to fill. Their exhausted-looking tour guide whispered in Lanie’s ear. “Please, take them on. They have so many questions!”
Lanie gathered them up with a professional smile, leaving Velma to watch out for new visitors. Lanie’s theatre experience frequently came in handy. Just now, she needed her voice projection to be heard over the group’s chatter. “Welcome to the Horry Museum.”
Eight of the group ceased chatting and focused on her.
She’d take what she could get. “We’re a special kind of museum. We don’t mind if you touch the exhibits, although we ask that you take care. Think of this place as your wealthy great-aunt’s home: if you break something, you’re out of her will!”
As always, that got a laugh, and she finally had the whole group listening.
She led the way into the drawing room, but kept her spiel to a minimum. If you wanted to engage this sort of tour group, you had to let them talk and share impressions, especially when they’d already tackled countless other museums together. They would have developed in-jokes and tensions. “The drawing room was where the family formally entertained. After dinner, the women would withdraw here while the men stayed to smoke and drink port in the dining room across the hallway. That’s why drawing rooms tend to have a more feminine feel.”
The eleven women and one lone male of the tour group split up to explore the room.
Lanie smiled determinedly through the thought that all her careful polishing was just vanishing in smeared finger marks as the visitors took advantage of her invitation to touch.
“Do you know, you’re the first museum that’s allowed us to touch the exhibits?”
“Yes. Most museums are understandably protective of their collection. It’s a policy we may have to revisit one day, but for the moment, as a private museum, we prefer to give a sense of welcoming you to our home.”
“That’s lovely,” a plump white-haired woman said. She studied the loveseat wistfully. “May we sit down.”
Lanie knew the tour group’s clothing would be spotless. Crumpled, but clean. “Of course.”
Twelve backsides hit the armchairs, lounge,
loveseat and the chairs pulled up to the table set for tea. “Ahhhh.”
The tour guide, a man Lanie’s age, laughed. “I swear I have not walked them the length and breadth of England.”
“No, it only feels like it,” two of his charges responded together.
Loud voices and tramping feet announced the descent of the television crew from the roof. Nelson paused in the doorway to the drawing room, beaming at everyone before focusing on Lanie. “We shall return after lunch.”
“I can’t wait,” she said drily.
He ignored her. “And then we shall film this glorious room.” He doffed an imaginary hat to the tour group and departed.
In the background, Nick gave a curt nod.
Three of the tour group stood hurriedly to peer out into the hall, and report back. “They had a television camera.”
The whole group stared expectantly at Lanie.
Her face ached with her determined smile. “The Horry Museum is very lucky. The people you just saw are making a program on rooftop gardens, and they’ll be creating one on the roof here. This afternoon they’ll be filming some additional footage of the drawing room.”
“Oh my.” The woman who’d dropped down on the loveseat stood. “I squashed your cushions. They looked so lovely and inviting, and now…” They all regarded the defeated cushions. The woman reached for one determinedly and gave it a healthy smack. It was a sign for everyone to do something to help make the drawing room shine. Handkerchiefs were produced and rubbed at finger marks.
The tour guide smiled lopsidedly at Lanie. “They mean well.”
She summoned her energy. “The dining room next!” She urged them out, taking one woman, who was enthusiastically polishing the sewing cabinet, by her arm and forcibly marching her into the hall.
Fortunately, the dining room conjured memories of television programs the group members had enjoyed, and while they rhapsodized, Lanie faded into the background. After that, the tour group led themselves, exploring and commenting knowledgeably. They surged upstairs and caught up with the Shanghai design student in the master bedroom
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