Secrets of the Past

by Estella McQueen

  ‘I’ll fill you in, I promise.’ Finally pushing her towards retreat, Astrid escorted Mrs Toon into the lobby and off the premises. She returned to the living room and slid back onto the sofa. ‘Phew! Battle over. We live to fight another day.’

  ‘What an unpleasant woman,’ said Charlie.

  Astrid gave a grim laugh. ‘Ignore her. She’s a thorn in my side. A self- appointed expert on country house restoration. She’d prefer Addleston to preserve its slumber; appear trapped in time. I can’t afford sentiment. I’ve had to make hard decisions for the benefit of everyone. The place can stay as it is and rot, or we can transform it into something vibrant and living. It’s my job to make the venue a success, not pack it in mothballs.’ She rolled her head back against the sofa.

  ‘Modernists versus traditionalists,’ said Charlie. ‘I understand. You have a firm concept of what you want for the place, but can’t guarantee taking the staff with you. Why won’t you let Mrs Toon have the letters?’

  ‘Eventually, I will,’ she said. ‘But - I don’t think she can do what you can do.’

  ‘It’s her line of duty,’ Charlie argued. ‘Won’t she be mortally offended?’

  ‘It’s actually Louis’ line of duty, but as he’s not here…,’ she left the sentence unfinished. ‘I think as it’s a fairly innocuous, private correspondence by someone in a not very famous or important family, we can risk some obfuscation, for the present at least.’

  ‘Big word,’ he said. ‘Like it.’

  ‘I’m an educated woman. I have a wide vocabulary.’ She looked at the clock. ‘I’ll try not to keep you late at the pub. You’ve a long drive ahead of you.’

  ‘I could check in at the B and B for the night.’

  ‘You can always stay here,’ she offered, before adding swiftly, ‘in the attic room. It’s poky, but it’s quite comfortable. And it’s free.’

  ‘I might take you up on that,’ he said, ‘but first let’s go and get dinner.’

  Chapter Four

   The Addleston Arms was the proverbial heart of the community. Unrepentantly un-modernised, its traditional stone walls, thick beams, horse brasses and copper kettles defiantly maintained the spirit of a bygone age. No TV screens or jukeboxes; tonight it was full of villagers and estate workers full of pre-Christmas cheer.

  Astrid was about to guide Charlie towards the empty nook next to the fireplace, when they were spotted by Megs, the auburn haired woman who’d accosted him on the path when he’d first arrived. She was sitting on a red dralon covered settle under the window. ‘Budge up everyone!’ said Megs. ‘Make some space!’

  Arranging themselves around the table opposite they were soon joined by Maureen, a woman blessed with a pronounced bosom and incipient facial hair, Megs’s daughter Victoria and her husband Gareth, and Northern Gordon, who was chewing on a mint and pontificating about the history of vegetables.

  ‘Originally,’ said Gordon, ‘carrots weren’t orange, they were purple.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Maureen rejoined, ‘and potatoes were blue.’

  ‘Maureen here,’ Megs introduced tipsily, ‘has been working with us over a year, and still doesn’t know the east front from the west, whereas Gordon rambles on so long, the house closes before the visitors have finished seeing it! Astrid has to offer them a refund.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  ‘If Astrid were a flower,’ said Megs, ‘she’d be a whatsit, tiger lily. Gorgeous, isn’t she, Mr Gilchrist? All legs and lips.’

  Astrid caught Charlie’s eye.

  *

  ‘What do you want to eat?’ he asked, handing Astrid a bar menu. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Brilliant girl, our Astrid,’ said Megs, clanking her empty glass on the table. ‘Full of the most wonderful ideas. I’m always saying she should get on to Alan.’

  ‘Who’s Alan?’ Charlie asked in all innocence.

  ‘Alan Titchmarsh of course! I’m always saying we should get on to Alan’s people, see if he wouldn’t mind making one of those, whatsnames, personal appearances. He could open something for us. It might bring some extra visitors in, take the pressure off. Make things easier for her. What do you think?’

  ‘Is she feeling the pressure?’ Charlie wondered.

  ‘Oh yes, not having a fantastic time of it at the moment… broke up with her boyfriend, a few months back. Not really over it. Little bit lonely, if you ask me.’

  ‘I am here you know,’ said Astrid. She followed Charlie up to the bar when he placed the food order. She spotted a photo inside his wallet. ‘Who’s that -?’ she asked.

  ‘Adam, my step son.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘In that picture? Five, no – six.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘Never see him.’

  Holly sprigs nestled around the fireplace, the alcoves, the tables - in fact any available space the landlord could find. Gleaming red berries reflected in the bubbles in the glass. Very festive, very jolly. When the food arrived - and after some judicious shunting - Astrid managed to move them to a separate table. ‘Come this way, there’s more space.’

  For a while they ate in silence, and then Charlie said, ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure you can. Fire away.’

  ‘Is Addleston in trouble?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that why you want my help?’

  ‘It’s losing its way a bit…,’ she admitted. ‘Ooh look,’ she said. ‘Pudding!’

  Victoria was handing out leftover mince pies from earlier. Charlie demurred but Astrid wolfed one down and after licking her sticky fingers, she brushed away the crumbs and slumped back in her seat. ‘It really isn’t healthy to eat mince pie on top of burger, on top of lager.’

  ‘Here, Astrid!’ Megs leaned over towards their table. ‘We’ve come up with another visitor attraction for next season. I keep telling you, don’t I, that we should do some of those whatsits, re-enactments. Me and Victoria could get in character as Victorian chamber maids or Regency ladies - hee hee,’ she could hardly finish the sentence, ‘and Gareth here,’ she patted her son in law’s knee, ‘well - he -’

  Quick as a flash her daughter joined in, ‘Oh, he’ll dress up in tights! He does it for me all the time!’

  High pitched squeals of hilarity burst from all sides. The whole of Meg’s upper body shook as she giggled into her gin, and Victoria was positively gasping.

  Charlie ignored the mayhem and quietly studied the froth on the side of his glass as it slowly slid down to the bottom.

  ‘So Charlie,’ said Astrid, ‘we’ve discussed my problems; let’s discuss yours.’

  At first he didn’t think he’d heard properly over the noise of Victoria’s shrieking, but when he met her eye he realized she was serious. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The reason you’re so sad.’

  ‘Not me,’ he said, rotating the beer mat left and right. ‘I’m renowned for my sunny disposition.’

  ‘Believe me,’ she said, ‘I know a sad man when I see one. You try and hide it, but your inner grief eats you up. I can see it in your soulful eyes. It’s the break up with your wife, isn’t it? Andy told me all about it. Heartache,’ she said, ‘and recent.’

  He disagreed. ‘Old news. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I was sad when my boyfriend ran off. Very, very sad.’

  ‘It’s a sad business.’

  ‘I was flattened,’ Astrid burbled on. ‘Absolutely steamrollered. Lost without him, absolutely lost. And I don’t even know why! I knew it was coming! I’d been expecting it!’

  He gave a conciliatory nod. ‘It’s still a shock when it happens.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘tell me.’

  ‘Not much to tell. We rushed into marriage,’ he said at last, ‘probably should have waited, you know how it is.’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve never rushed into anything.’

  Maybe it was the convivial atmosphere, maybe it wa
s the three pints of lager he’d already drunk, whatever the reason was, he found himself telling her all about it. ‘I met Melanie in the third year at Uni. She told me from the word go she already had a child, but it didn’t bother me. We got married six months after graduation. Fast work, but she had Adam to think about. She couldn’t waste time on any old feckless wastrel, she needed commitment, and I wanted to give her that. But of course, none of our friends were married. They were all out having a good time, blowing their wages on drink, drugs and beach holidays, while we were stuck at home playing grown-ups -’ He stopped. ‘Your eyes are glazing over.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘carry on, please.’

  But self-consciousness overwhelmed him. ‘Sooner or later boredom sets in; boredom with me that is.’

  ‘I had a bit of a wobble,’ she said. ‘I almost gave up on Addleston. I still might. Listen, if you don’t want to do this job, I’ll understand. I’ll find something else to get the punters in.’

  Her speech ended, she leaned against the back of the chair for support. He realized she was pissed.

  ‘You’re a little pale, Astrid. Maybe we should call it a night.’

  ‘Oh, am I? It’s my natural colouring. I don’t mind staying a bit longer. With all my lovely people.’ She gestured around the pub, ‘it’s absolutely chocka tonight, isn’t it? Actually,’ she suppressed an uncomfortable burp, ‘I think I might need a little lie down…,’

  ‘Come on then, let’s be having you. Time to go home.’

  ‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘My legs don’t work. You’ll have to help me.’

  He hefted her out of the seat, her arms crossing in front of her face like the limbs of an elongated cat. It took an awful lot of effort, bumping past tables and chairs, before they could forge a path to the exit. Megs and Victoria were loudly singing a strangled version of The Impossible Dream. Gareth chatted comfortably with Mrs Gibbs from the tearoom. Northern Gordon was propped up at the bar. Moustache Maureen had her arm round his neck.

  He’d already shoulder-charged the heavy wooden door when he remembered he’d left his mobile on the table. ‘Wait there. Two secs.’ Depositing Astrid against the pub wall he dashed back inside. When he got outside again she’d gone.

  He trotted across the road towards the B and B. Alone in the cold he scanned the street both ways. She must have decided to head home by herself. He followed the road out of the village. There were no street lamps on this stretch, the only light came from the dim glow of the lanterns either side of the entrance gates. What if she fell drunkenly into a ditch?

  He felt his way along the wall until he reached the gate. The branches of the monkey puzzle tree near the cottage appeared ghoulish, silhouetted against the inky sky, like something from an eastern European fairy tale. He felt a tiny flicker of fear. Two pale orbs winked at him from the dark. ‘Fox,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Only a fox.’ The side gate creaked as if someone had bypassed the cattle grid, but he couldn’t see anything in the shadows. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charlie? Is that you? Are you there?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

  ‘Oh shit! Oh, Christ!’

  ‘Don’t panic, Astrid. It’s me.’

  He took hold of her elbow and guided her up the path towards the cottage. Her toe ends scuffed against the thick doormat. She fumbled for her keys and opened the front door, almost falling through it. In the dim light he propped her against the wall and donkey kicked the door shut. She slowly and inelegantly slid sideways. He grabbed her arms and hauled her upright. ‘Steady!’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘How about a coffee to sober up?’

  ‘It’s a ruse!’ Her eyes travelled up towards the ceiling. ‘You want to take me upstairs, is that it? S’ fine by me!’

  Without further ado she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the face, somewhere between his chin and mouth. After the initial shock of first contact, she tried again, a bit more professionally this time, but he disentangled himself and held her rigidly by the elbows. ‘Astrid, you’re pissed. It’s not that I’m not flattered and everything, but it wouldn’t be right, would it?’

  She was puzzled by his absolutely firm and unequivocal response. She tried harder, shrugging off her jacket, resting her head on his chest. No, it wouldn’t work. She didn’t get it.

  ‘I’m doing it wrong, aren’t I?’ she said glumly. ‘I always do it wrong.’

  Chapter Five

  Day light, clearly visible through the tiny dormer window above, woke Charlie early. He focused and looked around.

  The attic room where he’d spent the night was absolutely enchanting, in a Famous Five kind of way. Accessed via a narrow, untreated wooden staircase, the room occupied space under the eaves, with a rolled out camping mattress for a bed. A tiny chest of drawers, and one of those funny spindle-legged bed trays that invalids use, were the only other items of furniture in it. Probably because they were the only things small enough to fit through the hatch.

  He rolled over and caught sight of the diary lying next to him on the floor. He picked it up and re-examined the first page.

  Deciphering calligraphy wasn’t a problem; he had an eye for archaic and elaborate handwriting and could interpret the most complex of scrawls and scribbling. Instinct told him the handwriting was too elegant to belong to a lowly housemaid. ‘Mary Ellen’ was a refined person, an educated woman. He skipped over the first section and went straight to the journal.

  Thursday 18th March 1819

  Today is my birthday, and I have decided it is time I kept a journal. Although there are precious few activities for me to relate. Nothing of note occurs in my unexceptional life, but it will be a useful tool to keep note of my dreams, my fancies, perhaps make sense of them. I know I am being watched, my every move is followed. Everything I say, everything I do, every morsel that I eat is scrutinized and commented upon. If I so much as say one thing slightly obscure, my words are pounced upon and examined for fault. I do not care so much, after all I have borne this and much worse for a very long time, however, Tunney has other plans to keep me from ‘mischief’. He decrees I must spend all my time with Amelia. It will give me sensible occupation, he says, and there will be no time for my ‘jumbled thoughts’ and my ‘play acting’, as he calls it. Indeed, all my current activity relates to Amelia, and how best to entertain her. ‘I hope you ladies will find much amusement together,’ Tunney says, ‘and that you will lift Amelia’s spirits, as she is very downcast of late.’

  This week she has been melancholic in the extreme. Her spirits are wont to be low, but I declare it is very trying to be in her company for more than an hour. She fetches a great sigh almost every minute, and complains that the sun is too hot, or the air is too cold, or the food is not nice, such that I must bite my tongue for fear of causing offence. But as soon as her husband is away, she smiles and chatters most winningly.

  Friday 19th March

  Tunney is home. We had forgotten how peaceful the house is without him. Mary Ellen, says he, please bring me a dish of something warm before you retire, and tell me what has been occurring in my absence. Thus am I instructed to sit down and relate what I know. ‘Amelia has been quite resistant to my endeavours,’ I tell him. ‘You will find your wife quite unaltered.’ I said it in the hope that he would then excuse me from the task, but in fact the opposite has happened. He wishes more of my time to be taken up this way.

  ‘She is very trying, is she not?’ he asks me. ‘We must keep our eyes upon her.’

  Monday 22nd March

  Tunney has been in a monstrous passion for much of the day after studying the household accounts. Mrs Appleby is such a thrifty housekeeper that he need not worry himself about our domestic finances. His wife’s personal allowance, however, is another matter. He allows her hardly any money of her own, and watches most closely everything that she buys, including her needles and silk. Today he accuses her of neglect. ‘Would you strip
me of all my dignity?’ he cries. ‘You spend more time plying your needle than you do on me – your own husband! Do you think I shall continue to allow you to devote yourself to your pointless embroideries?’ And he took the bedcover she was working on from her hands and ripped at it until it was torn in three, the fine detail she had so painstakingly worked upon for many weeks, ruined and spoilt in an instant. ‘That’s for you!’ he cried, throwing it at her feet, and then stormed from the room. Amelia had tried to seize it from him before the worst of the damage was done, but he was too quick and too strong for her. She did take up the cloth from the floor and sit awhile, to see where it could be mended, but I fear her mind was discomposed and she could not settle to it.

  Charlie glanced at his watch. Five thirty. He was thirsty, his eyes itched, and he quite fancied some breakfast. Even so he settled himself more comfortably in the sleeping bag and began to read again.

  Wednesday 24th March

  We were to have company today, and Amelia was ready to appear before my Lord and Lady Fawley, when Tunney peremptorily announced that she was ill and could not be seen. Lady Fawley, much surprised, saying she had greatly anticipated seeing Amelia, and had much missed her the last time they called. Tunney seemed rather rattled by Lady Fawley’s questioning, and tried to describe Amelia’s symptoms to her. Lady Fawley requested a visit to the invalid, but Tunney was most insistent that she should not be seen. I wonder what physical state she is in, for him to be so reluctant to show her? The Fawleys must make do with Captain Armstrong for company, although Lord Fawley seemed to relish his conversation, Lady Fawley was not quite so forthcoming, and decided to take a walk in the garden instead, with myself as her companion. ‘Sweetheart,’ she says to me, ‘let me tell you about my nephew Samuel. He is just your age. I am longing to introduce you.’ Thinking any such outcome unlikely, I happily let her describe the young man, and indeed he sounds quite the catch.