From the porch, I watched Bert’s car grind its wheels on the drive, sending the gravel stones flying. Ruth turned the corner, just missing the car.
‘Ready?’ she asked, joining me as I locked the front door.
‘I’ll fill you in as we walk up the lane. Perhaps Tony will have more to say than Bert.’
·•●•·
‘Come in, come in.’ Tony Pyke had bandy legs and stooped shoulders, as if he’d spent his life shovelling shit, which was probably quite accurate given our filth encrusted shoes. As Ruth and I had hurried across the farmyard, it had been a challenge avoiding the congealed mud and our detour around the worst of the slurry caused a scattering of squawking chickens.
We kicked off our soiled footwear on the doormat. The stench of manure followed us into his farmhouse where we were confronted by the equally strong aroma of roses – the flowers bundled into a vase on the hall table. After I’d introduced my friend and myself, the farmer’s drawn face broke into a welcoming smile and he led us into the kitchen. An Aga occupied the old fireplace and copper saucepans hung from the low beams, their polished surface reflecting the light.
With its crooked walls and exposed timber, I suspected the farmhouse to be older than Heachley Hall by a couple of centuries. A few weeks ago I would have shown little interest in the vagaries of old properties, but that indifference had gone. I surveyed properties with a keen eye, trying to gauge what made them appealing and marketable. I was fascinated why a cottage with low ceilings and bowing walls, assaulted by the harshness of nature and constant occupation, still presented itself as cosy and habitable.
My hardy Victorian house even with its straight walls and spacious salons depended on human intervention to transform it into a dwelling – abandoned rooms would need an inspiring imagination to make them attractive. Tony’s home probably would look welcoming regardless of its furnishing, although the copper pans and antique decorations delivered the finishing touches in style. I’d happily live in a well-maintained cottage if I could afford one, although, the small windows were a disadvantage for a light oriented worker. It led me to wonder if I should present Heachley as old or new to a possible buyer, which would they expect as they crossed its threshold?
‘So you’ve moved into the Hall?’ Tony pointed at the coffee machine. ‘Cuppa?’
Coffee with fresh milk or perhaps even cream – luxury. ‘Yes, please,’ Ruth and I said in unison.
Taking our seats around a pine table we wallowed in the aroma of ground coffee beans. Compared to the pub, the farmhouse was seamlessly decorated. Nothing clashed or looked out of place, including the little china dogs on the windowsill, and gilt framed landscapes hung from the walls.
He asked about my plans. I didn’t reveal the details of the will, only that I was experimenting with the idea of living in the house. ‘Although, I don’t have the income to do much to improve it.’
‘Pity,’ he murmured. His tone maintained a mournful edge. ‘We’d heard on the village grapevine about your aunt. Sorry for your loss. Bootiful house in its time.’
The round lyrical vowels were a prominent feature of his accent. I’d steered away from my native Essex, preferring to sound neutral and unattached to a province. Norfolk speech was one I could happily listen to all day, although I doubt I had the analytical ear to adopt it myself.
‘You remember Heachley Hall back then?’ I asked.
Tony was probably a little older than my late father at the time of death. The signs of middle age were acutely identifiable: speckled grey hair thinning close to his pate with short wisps falling thicker behind his ears. Soft wrinkles had formed in an abundance around his eyes, tiny trenches that rippled up and down in duet to the rhythm of his smiles and frowns. Tony’s weather worn face was not like Dad’s, who favoured the indoor life.
‘Aye, as a kid,’ he replied. ‘I’d play in the gardens with my brother. Felicity didn’t mind as long as we called in advance to let her know, although she didn’t like us wandering into the woods in case we got lost – no paths, you see.’
‘She never married or anything, not even a companion?’ For weeks, I’d formed a picture of a lonely grey haired spinster in a crumbling house, forlornly living out her life and shockingly neglected. But, frankly nobody had given me that impression, only myself, and it was based on lost memories that I’d cobbled together with little care.
‘I doubt any man could handle her,’ Tony chuckled. ‘Formidable lady. Kind, too. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t an easy person to like, but she had a soft soul tucked away. I think her upbringing was tough.’
The rim of my mug rested against my lower lip, poised ready to taste, but the coffee remained untouched; I didn’t want to miss a word. ‘Her childhood?’
‘India. She grew up in India. Came over to England when her brother—’
‘John, my grandfather,’ I interjected, then apologetically nodded for him to continue.
‘That’s him. She lost her father during the war. She never spoke much about it. He died in Burma when she was young – late teens. It was obvious from what she’d told me that she’d always loved it out there and tried to stay on afterwards with her mother, but when her mum passed, well, they didn’t take kindly to Felicity’s presence, not in those days.’
Finally a trigger. A little clue that nudged away the pretence of knowing Felicity. Grey haired and stooped, but her face had been richly tanned and glowed with a subtle kiss of mocha warmth. Nobody in my family had spoken of her mixed race, but now in my adult recollections, her ethnicity was obvious. Her illegitimacy might explain why my grandfather lived in England and had no contact with his father and half-sister. My mother – how I wished I could remember Mum – her views regarding her side of the family had scarcely registered in my youth; Dad’s relatives always took precedence.
Great-aunt Felicity had a multitude of skeletons in her closet and they were tumbling out in rapid succession. Was that why she lived in seclusion in a Victorian house, out of sight and away from awkward questions? I glued my lips shut. I had to process this revelation later, when I had the space to think.
I moved the conversation on. ‘I’m trying to find out why the house was abandoned and emptied. Didn’t she want to keep her belongings?’
Tony fingered his mug. ‘I don’t rightly know, to be honest, Miss Chambers.’
‘Please call me Miriam. I gather she fell and broke her hip.’
‘Tumbled downstairs. I called the ambulance.’
‘You found her?’
‘No, Maggie did, her domestic help. She rang all upset and not making much sense. Never one for a crisis, Maggie. I dashed up the lane and found Felicity in a lot of pain. The paramedics carted her off. Sad moment as she never came back. My wife, Liz – she’s at church this morning – collected a few personal items, clothes and the like, took ‘em to the hospital in Kings Lynn.’ He frowned. ‘Very sad.’
‘She went to a nursing home, I understand.’
‘A local one in Hunstanton. Liz and I visited a few times. She seemed happy and expected to come home. Very keen to get back. Social services was arranging assistance.’
‘How old was she back then?’
‘Eight-five.’
I sucked in air sharply through my teeth. Ruth reached over and squeezed my hand.
‘I’d no idea she was that old,’ I admitted, somewhat ashamed at my ignorance.
‘It made no matter – those arrangements. I went to visit one day and they told me she’d had a stroke and they’d taken her to Norwich hospital. Later, they moved her to another nursing home near the city.’
‘For five years she lived there.’ If she’d been lonely in Heachley, she’d coped. However, a nursing home surrounded by strangers – poor Felicity, an independent, forthright woman – so like me – stuck in a nursing home and unable to communicate. Life could be cruel.
‘Liz and I went to see her. She was bedridden and couldn’t speak. It’s quite a drive to make at harvest time. W
e were very busy. I’m sorry, we just couldn’t keep…’ He ducked his head, avoiding eye contact.
‘Please don’t apologise. You’ve been a good neighbour. Who cleared the house five years ago?’ I wanted to address the critical matter of the house’s decline.
Tony scowled. ‘The van came charging down the lane and almost collided with my tractor. When it pulled into Heachley Hall, I was curious and went to see what they were up to, because there are scoundrels about who steal and pretend to be legit.’
‘You checked?’
He crossed his arms and leant back in his seat. ‘I demanded to see their instructions. Who’d authorised the clearance.’
‘Do you remember a name?’
‘Parker. Barker?’
‘Porter?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, probably. Sometime ago this happened.’
Ruth and I shot a glance at each other. ‘Her solicitor. He authorised the disposal of everything, including her personal effects: photos, letters, everything?’
‘I don’t know. They took the furniture. Tore up the carpets. They were thorough. Liz thought they’d set fire to the trees with their bonfire. Just like before.’
‘They burnt her things?’ I gasped, horrified.
‘They didn’t care and nobody was there to represent her,’ he stumbled over his words. ‘Sorry. I didn’t have anyway to stop them.’
He felt guilty; five years on, it still upset him. I was her only living relative and nobody, especially Porter, had bothered to contact me and check whether I’d wanted anything. Tony’s unjustifiable shame fed my more legitimate version – I’d not tried to stay in contact.
‘No,’ I said softly, ‘This wasn’t how it should have been, but it wasn’t your fault.’
Ruth pushed her mug aside, leaning forward. ‘What did you mean about the trees catching fire?’
Tony flicked his hand, as if to dismiss his own remark. ‘Oh, it was something Felicity had told me years ago. Not long after the house had been built, it caught fire and the wind whipped up the flames and blew the sparks across into the trees. The story is that the cloud of ash blew right over into the fields into the village, like snow.’
‘Crikey, was anyone hurt?’ Ruth’s eyes had lit up. She loved a good mystery.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The house still stands. Perhaps it was a rumour, an exaggeration. Felicity told me because I was curious about the growth of the trees. They’d come out of the stumps; new growth from old.’
I felt inundated with new information. It was time to leave. ‘We’d best get back. Loads to do before we drive back to Chelmsford this evening.’
We shook hands.
‘Do you remember the name of the nursing home?’ I asked abruptly on the doorstep, slipping on my mud-caked shoes. I could ask Mr Porter, but this was an opportunity to stoke the locals into providing me with more information. The solicitor was useless, and obviously uninterested, in helping me with personal stuff. The less I dealt with him, the better.
He scratched his fuzzy crown as he considered my question before shrugging. ‘Forgotten. Liz might know. I’ll ask her.’
‘I’m wondering if they kept anything of hers.’ It was a long shot. However, I might get a chance to talk to his wife. What did she know about my aunt?
‘Maybe.’ He trekked across the yard with us; his boots better equipped to deal with farmyard detritus.
Coming to the farm gate, Ruth held back for a moment. ‘Did Miriam’s aunt mention a man who helped out at the house?’
For the first time Tony lost his soft features. Something moved across his face, like a shadow and it darkened the rings under his eyes. ‘There was a, a gardener,’ he stuttered, before bolstering his voice. ‘My wife had the most contact with Felicity. We were neighbours, but your aunt was a private person. If she had other friends or acquaintances, she kept things tight to her chest.’ He dragged the gate open.
‘Yes,’ I passed through the small gap. ‘She did.’
We waved goodbye to Tony as he leaned on the gate, his shoulders slumping, relieved – it appeared – at our departure. Ruth’s question had stirred up some other issue.
SEVEN
Waking early on Monday morning and extracting myself from my sleeping bag – my duvet had been left at Heachley Hall – I yawned several times, massaged my aching thighs and examined my hands; the callouses showed the signs of prolonged and unaccustomed physical labour. However, the hard work had only just started. Dad’s mantra ticked over in my head, reminding me it was worth it, and I carried that philosophy with me as I returned the hire van.
My Fiesta groaned after I’d laden it to the roof with stuff: computers, art materials and more clothes. I raced to complete the packing, determined to be back on the road straight after lunch.
The note I shoved through my neighbour’s letterbox was the final act, one last moment to get to grips with doubts before leaving. There was nothing else left to do but switch off the lights, turn down the heating to the lowest setting on the thermostat and secure my front door. It felt strange. I was turning my back on my cramped flat that for several years I’d been proud to call mine in order to take up residence in a neglected, unfurnished mansion with acres of uncultivated, unproductive land. The paradox caused me to both pine for my humble flat and yearn for the spacious living quarters promised by Heachley Hall.
I thought about my impending first night alone at Heachley Hall with its cavernous empty rooms and convinced myself I was on an adventure akin to a Girl Guide camping trip. I had conveyed my excitement to Ruth when I’d dropped her off.
‘Don’t fret about me, I’m more than capable of looking after myself,’ I’d reassured as we hugged.
‘You’re strong, Miriam,’ she said, patting my back. ‘Don’t let the house put you off enjoying yourself. Make some friends up there.’
I owed her so much and needed to find some way to say thank you properly. A fancy restaurant or something.
Arriving at the house in tandem with the descent of late afternoon darkness, I unloaded the car, dumping most of my things in the dining room alongside the bulk of my other possessions. With little energy left after three hectic days and many car journeys, I supped on soup, bread rolls and an apple before retiring to my attic room.
Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I crawled upstairs, changed into my pyjamas and burrowed under the damp duvet. Unfortunately, I’d not anticipated two things: the frigid temperature and the opaque darkness; the latter was stunning, if daunting. I’d only known omnipresent streetlights.
The duvet was a winter tog variety, but it afforded little warmth. I wrestled with it in the vain hope it might trap my body heat. Admitting defeat, I added extra layers of clothing and a pair of socks. Tomorrow, along with the essential shop for food, I’d buy blankets – fleece ones to snuggle into when the wind howled and the icicles formed.
During the night, neither a gale nor a cold frost kept me awake, rather, I struggled to cope with the noises outside. My familiarity with the sounds of night extended to traffic, sirens, the raised voices of pedestrians, and the aeroplanes flying out of Stansted airport. Here, with no major roads nearby, I had to adapt to other intrusions: owls hooting, foxes barking and the constant, never-ending rustle of dying leaves. I shuffled down the bed, amazed at how such innocuous, supposedly comforting, sounds of nature could disturb my slumber.
The thunderous pounding of rain on the roof woke me early. The window had misted up with condensation through which weak splinters of light penetrated. I stuck out my toes and grazed the cold floorboards and recoiled, tucking my feet back under the covers with a shiver. Summing up courage, I threw off the duvet, dashed down the staircase to the floor below and into the bathroom.
I added a rug and bath mat to my growing shopping list.
It was only October, how would I cope with a bitter winter? I would have to toughen up. Felicity had managed, somehow, so could I. My opinion of those fireplaces, which I had considered as largely decorative, cha
nged. There was one in the dining room, the library, drawing room and upstairs bedroom, which I suspected, given the relics of decent wallpaper, had been hers.
Each fireplace had its own style, reflecting differing levels of requirement and embellishment. The one in the bedroom was basic and functional, taking up little space and a minimal hearth to trip over. The drawing room’s mantel had stone carved surroundings depicting a simple scene from some Greek myth. It exemplified the Victorian love affair with the overly decorative. It had survived because it had been too large to rip out, but I noted the cracks in the figures and the poor workmanship in the detail. Whoever built the house aspired to a grandeur they couldn’t afford to replicate.
The library had a wooden mantel and a degree of carved stonework, where as the dining room had bluish Delft tiles laid around the fireplace and a marble plinth buttressing the iron grate. I suspected each of the other bedrooms once had their own simple hearth, but had been boarded over to prevent draughts; unsuccessfully, I believed, given the constant rattling of doors and creaking window frames.
I was coming round to the idea of using at least one of the downstairs fireplaces. What I needed was fuel, but I’d no experience at gathering suitable wood and I wanted to avoid buying coal.
I hurriedly dressed, grateful for the thermal underwear I’d packed. I’d two electric heaters: one I’d keep up in the attic to heat my workroom, the other in the kitchen. I switched both on, uncaring of electricity bills. Until I adapted, I had to make do with what I had and I’d no intention of suffering.
With breakfast swiftly dealt with I demisted the Fiesta’s windscreen and went to explore the local amenities. I located a supermarket at Hunstanton and made a note of smaller general stores closer to Little Knottisham.
Having filled the Fiesta with food, a blanket and household wares, I returned to the Hall – my new home. Should I think of it as home? I’d not really come to terms with my relocation. Although the post office was forwarding my mail, I’d not formally changed my address. During the drive back, I’d convinced myself I was on assignment. Something temporary and necessary, rather like a secondment. However, regardless of my mental exercises in denial, Heachley Hall was now where I slept and worked.
The Women of Heachley Hall Page 5