Arden

by Nick Corbett

  “That crow won’t be in a rush to do that again,” says Joe.

  The beech woods are closing in now. The Bentley is lost to view under the trees. They descend a steep country lane, very slowly.

  “The brakes aren’t brilliant,” says Luke, anxiously.

  They stop at a tiny T-junction, no other cars around.

  “I think this is it,” says Luke, with some relief.

  They have emerged into an open valley. In front of them is a picturesque Victorian gatehouse, a folly, made from the now familiar crushed diamond flint and decorative red brick. The gates are low, they can see over them, across the pastoral lands of Chequers. It’s a rural idyll, bathed in soft sunlight. The only discordant features are security cameras on poles, a surgical reminder this is no ordinary country estate.

  “We need to drive around to the main entrance,” says, Luke struggling with a map on his lap.

  “I think it’s left,” says Joe.

  “Okay.”

  The country road runs between woods and ancient red brick estate walls. They arrive at a much grander gateway, flanked by symmetrically designed Tudor-style cottages. The gates stand open between enormous brick piers, but they can not proceed. In their way are three giant bollards, which would stop a tank. There are two policemen with machine guns.

  “I think the PM’s still in residence,” whispers Luke. “They wouldn’t have this level of security if he’d gone.”

  Another policeman steps out to greet them. They are relived to hear they are expected.

  The practicalities of the security check-in take a while. At last, they are released to drive up to the house. They drive slowly, windows down. The avenue of lime trees rustles in the breeze with the sound of ocean waves. The red kites have gone, replaced by a pair of black and white lapwings, whistling, whooping, throbbing wing beats, showing off with extravagant swirling. The park is dotted with splendid, ancient oak trees. A herd of black cattle completes the bucolic scene.

  There it is, Chequers! Solid gables, massive stone mullion windows, assertive, resolute, enduring. Remodelled by the Elizabethans, but parts of the building are a thousand years old. Its earthen bricks also speak of restfulness, England at ease with itself. The house has been associated with the country’s rulers through the centuries. It is a fitting country residence for the Prime Minister.

  The driveway takes them to the side of the house, the East Front. They pass under an ornate stone gateway. The wheels of the Bentley crunch over a gravel courtyard. There is a statue of a female figure. They pull up beside the front door. Joe turns to Luke.

  “I can’t believe we’re here. Do you think they’ll give us a tour? I’d like to look around.”

  “I don’t know,” Luke replies, gazing up at the gables.

  It’s become a warm, sunny day.

  As soon as they are out of the car, a middle-aged lady greets them. She is impeccably dressed in country tweeds. Her grey hair is styled and her face is rather like an English Cox’s apple.

  “Hello! I’m Marion, the housekeeper.”

  Marion has become rather like Chequers; steadfast, gracious, homely, unknowable, all at the same time. Elias walks over to her, carrying his violin case, gangling frame, completely unfazed. Marion remains perched on the doorstep, beaming. Hands are shaken, introductions made.

  “Would you like a brief tour of the house, just twenty minutes or so?” asks Marion.

  “Oh, yeah, that’d be great,” replies Joe. He looks at the others, “That’s if you two don’t mind?”

  Luke and Elias agree; they definitely want to go on the tour too.

  “Wonderful,” says Marion. “After the tour, I’ll take you to the Rose Garden for tea with the family and their guests.”

  Marion whisks them through splendid rooms and corridors. Chequers is an opulent mix of historic and contemporary. All is light oak panelling, colourful, embossed silk wallpaper, stone floors and architraves, and yet it’s also a chic, relaxed family home. The Prime Minister and his family have made every room their own. It is comfortable. They arrive at the Great Hall, soaring ceiling, enormous chandelier, clerestory windows, a perfect, clean light for viewing the masterpieces that hang upon the walls.

  “This Great Hall is actually quite new,” Marion tells them. “It was created in the nineteenth century, from an inner courtyard.”

  “It looks as if it’s always been here,” says Joe.

  “It does rather, doesn’t it?” replies Marion.

  They have to drag Elias away from the painting of a lion caught in a net. They press on to the Long Gallery with its extensive library. There are artefacts belonging to Churchill, there is Oliver Cromwell’s death mask.

  Marion times the tour to perfection, as might be expected, she’s done it a thousand times.

  “Right, follow me, it’s time for tea!”

  They follow Marion outside. They arrive at a Gothic archway set within the walls of the Rose Garden. They pause for a moment. Luke looks up, reads from a stone tablet set in the wall.

  “ALL CARE, ABANDON YE, WHO ENTER HERE.”

  They all nod reverently, entering into a silent contract, to do just that.

  They step under the stone tablet and enter the Rose Garden. They are greeted by a riot of colour and a delightful scent. Thousands of roses are in bloom, set within beds surrounded by topiary. A long terrace runs the length of the house; beside it are great swathes of flowering lavender, alive with buzzing bees. Beneath the terrace, and around the rose beds, are immaculate green lawns. Beyond the formal garden is the park, stately oaks, grazing cattle. Beyond the park, gently rising forested hills, either side of a narrow valley of fields. All of this is under a clear blue sky and warm sun. It is heavenly. To the far side of the garden is a large conservatory, containing a swimming pool. Alongside this building the Prime Minister sits, with his wife. Their two teenage sons are also in the garden, kicking a ball around. James and Hilary Montgomery sit opposite the Prime Minister.

  The Prime Minister looks rather incongruous in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt. He has just returned from a run in the woods. The friends follow Marion along the terrace. Joe glances at the Prime Minister’s wife. She has an unexpected beauty that doesn’t conform to conventional good looks, but she is radiant. Joe is reminded of a photo of Jackie Kennedy. The Prime Minister has spotted them. He gets up, waves his hand, shouts over.

  “I panicked when I saw your car. I thought I’d forgotten Her Majesty was coming for tea.”

  The friends laugh.

  Soon they are all sitting around the table, which is piled high with cakes. The Prime Minister and his family are very down to earth. They are easy to be with.

  “What do you do for a living?” the Prime Minister asks Joe.

  “I’m an urban designer.”

  The Prime Minister’s eyes light up. “I’m interested in the public realm,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

  Joe gets up, follows the Prime Minister across the garden. They stand together beside the house. The Prime Minister points towards a Latin inscription, sculpted into a stone balustrade. He pronounces the words slowly.

  “JUSTITIAE TENAX. Do you know what it means?”

  Joe doesn’t speak any Latin. “Can you give me a translation?”

  The Prime Minister smiles, reveals a near perfect row of shiny teeth.

  “It means tenacious of justice. I hope we can both live up to it, Joe.”

  Luke is catching up on family gossip with his cousin James, completely at ease. Elias is enjoying a relaxed conversation with the Prime Minister’s wife.

  “I did enjoy your concert at the Barbican,” she says.

  “Thanks,” replies Elias, before continuing thoughtfully. “I’ve tried to learn about art. I noticed your painting of the lion, by Rubens. We did a concert in the Banqueting House, it has a ceiling painted by Rubens. Is it the same artist?”

  “Gosh! It is. I’m impressed. I also saw that same ceiling, very recently. It’s mag
nificent. I was at a dinner to honour the queen.”

  “Ah, I like Rubens.”

  “I wonder, Elias, if you might like to play for us, but don’t feel you have to. My husband will have to leave shortly for the airport.”

  “I would love to play for you.”

  Elias unpacks his violin, places it to his chin. He plays Greensleeves for them, the sixteenth century English song. It’s perfect for the setting. The Prime Minister’s boys stop playing football, they come over, sit on the grass and listen. Their father closes his eyes. The others do the same. The music is exquisite. Elias sings to them, with the voice of an angel. A long boat scoops them all up, sails off along the fields in the valley and then over the forest. England is blessed, bountiful. The music stops, they return to earth. Joe opens his eyes; he can see the others have been affected. After a long silence, the Prime Minister speaks.

  “I’ll be going to Washington, refreshed. Thank you, Elias.”

  The Bentley makes steady progress northwards, on the M40. Luke calls it the scenic route. After an hour and a half, they turn off the motorway, and then follows miles of gently rolling, green countryside. The roads become more familiar. They are approaching their hometown. Luke turns to Joe.

  “You can store stuff at my parents’ house if you like, there’s loads of space.” This is a little way of ensuring they stay in touch.

  “Thanks, that’s a good idea, although I haven’t got much,” replies Joe.

  “What time’s your grandad expecting you?”

  “I just said early afternoon.”

  “I hope you’re not going to get another feed.”

  “Me too, I’m stuffed with lasagne and cakes.”

  They enter the suburban fringe. Elias has nodded off. Joe points out of the window at a new block of flats.

  “I don’t remember them being there.”

  “You’ve been away a long time, haven’t you?”

  They continue in silence, Joe stares into his memories. After a few more minutes, Luke pulls the Bentley in towards the kerb. They park on a main road, next to a bus stop, beside an alleyway that leads into the housing estate. Joe is busy getting his bits together. Elias has woken up; he’s confused about where he is.

  “Could you open the boot please, Luke?” asks Joe.

  “Sure.”

  Luke flicks a switch. They hear the lock open. Without saying another word, Joe gets out of the car, sorts through the bags and boxes in the boot. Luke and Elias join him. Joe explains which items can be stored at Lullingdon.

  “I’ll give you a call later, about going out,” says Luke. “Give my regards to your grandad.”

  “I will. Thanks again for the lift!”

  Joe turns around to leave, clutching his holdall and a Sainsbury’s plastic bag. A stooped, elderly man appears in front of him. He’s come over to look at the Bentley.

  “Dawn’t make ‘em like that iny more do thay, son?”

  For a moment, Joe is taken aback by the man’s accent, his wrinkled face, and by how poor he looks. He smiles back at him.

  “You’re right there.”

  Elias has drifted off down the pavement. He stands with one arm wrapped around a lamppost as he gawps at the housing estate. Joe walks over to him, drops his bags to the ground, braces himself. The low grey sky moves swiftly over the surface of the earth. The air is acrid. It is an overwhelmingly drab scene. All colour has drained away. There is litter, glass, graffiti and abandoned furniture everywhere. Most of the fences have been pulled down. The charred remains of fire stains the tarmac. At the end of the estate road, beyond the maisonettes, stands the empty tower block. For almost a decade, it’s been empty, awaiting demolition. Unbelievably, it is still there, surrounded by spiked palisade fencing. All the windows are smashed in. Crowning the summit of the tower are immense telecommunications structures. It is a mocking landmark to abandonment. The black clouds descend. It’s getting darker.

  Elias turns to Joe. “I didn’t know England was like this.”

  From the look on Joe’s face, Elias realises he’s been too blunt. He puts his hand on Joe’s shoulder.

  “Can I come and meet your grandad? I’d like to see your home.”

  “Yeah, sure, but later, if that’s okay?”

  “No problem, Joe. I’ll see you later.”

  Elias joins Luke in the Bentley; they drive off. Joe remains standing for a moment. Is this really the same England as Chequers? Joe begins walking, towards his grandad’s home. There is a burnt out car in one of the parking bays. His spirit lifts a little when he spots his own brown Skoda, apparently intact. He makes his way over and inspects it. Joe left the car with his grandad because there was nowhere to park it in London, he could easily get by without it. The Skoda’s paintwork is in surprisingly good condition. Joe peers through the side window, frowns. There are exposed wires where the stereo should be.

  Joe straightens himself up, looks down the road. There are very few other cars to be seen. A large removal truck turns into the estate. It’s stopping and starting, looking for an address. It is approaching Joe. The driver and his mate are open-mouthed, grimacing. The driver has a large potato-like head, he shakes his sagging jowls as he lowers his window. He looks like Jabba the Hut from Star Wars. He scowls, shouts at Joe.

  “Do yaw live ‘ere mate? Dawn’t suppose yaw know where number seventy-four is do ya?”

  Joe wonders if he looks as if he lives there. He tries to remember where number seventy-four might be. The driver turns to his mate, rolls his eyes, mumbles something about the locals.

  “No, sorry mate, I don’t live here,” replies Joe.

  “I didn’t think yer did. Blimey, it’s like Beirut in it? Are you a social worker?”

  Joe wonders if he looks like a social worker. He wonders if the estate is better or worse than the refugee camp in Beirut. Elias certainly seemed to be shocked by it. The mystified driver scowls and pulls off. The lorry disappears around a corner. The place falls back into a lonely silence.

  Joe is desperate to see his grandad. It’s been such a long time and yet, like somebody breaking a fast, he wants to savour the hunger before it is satisfied. He decides to have a look around the estate, to get orientated. He walks towards one of the inner courtyards, behind a maisonette block. When he was a boy, Joe played in these inner courtyards with his friends. He remembers them being a hive of activity, kids running about everywhere. But now the courtyard is desolate. The homes are empty, boarded up.

  Where has everyone gone?

  The place appears to be ready for demolition. A solitary washing line is fixed into the scorched earth. A white sweatshirt blows in the rain like a flag of surrender. Suddenly, a little boy, aged about eight, runny nose, comes around the corner. He gasps, startled to see Joe. Behind him, his older sister follows, on a little bicycle. The boy forces a nervous smile.

  “What ya doing ere mate?”

  Joe can’t believe these children are living in such an abandoned place. He smiles at the boy. His eyes scan around to see where his home might be. There is one front door that is not boarded up. Suddenly, faces appear. People standing in the shadows, huddled together, muttering, staring at Joe. Joe feels very uncomfortable. The huddle breaks up; one woman stands forward. She looks directly at Joe, sniffs the air with her sharp nose. She is only about twenty years old, dressed in a white shell-suit; her demeanour is hard, haggard. Her bleached blonde hair is pulled back tightly into a ponytail, accentuating a shrunken, weasel-like face. A much older woman appears, a pink dressing gown wrapped around her; she’s holding a baby in her arms. There are two young men, also in shell-suits. A powerful, black Rottweiler suddenly brushes past the men’s legs. It bounds over to Joe, barking fiercely, growling at his ankles. Joe addresses the young woman calmly.

  “Can you call him off, please?”

  The woman doesn’t respond. The men are laughing. Joe speaks again, assertively.

  “Call him off, please.”

  The dog stops growling
. Its jowls slobber over Joe’s shoes. Joe is shaking, his heart is racing. Fortunately, the Rottweiler isn’t in attack mode. It’s sniffing around his bags. Joe decides to ignore it. He takes a deep breath, looks at the young woman, tries to make a connection.

  “I wonder if you know my grandad?”

  The woman takes a moment to digest Joe’s words. She sniffs the air again, as if to get some clue about his identity. The little boy, still with his sister by his side, looks up at Joe.

  “So what are ya doin around ‘ere?” He sounds much bolder now he’s got serious back up.

  “I used to live on the estate. I’ve come back to visit my grandad. You might know him. He’s very friendly.” Joe points in the direction of Grandad’s home. “He lives in the block over by the alley.”

  The woman in the white shell-suit responds at last.

  “Oh, ang on, d’ya mean Ted, the very old bloke?”

  Joe has never heard Grandad be referred to as very old before. He feels more anxious to see him. The woman seems to soften a little.

  “He fixes the kids bikes, ain’t that right bab?” she says, turning to her daughter.

  The little girl nods in agreement. The woman continues.

  “We’re the last family with kids to be living on the estate. It’s a right dump, init?”

  “Yeah,” Joe has to agree with her.

  “What was it like, when you lived ‘ere?”

  “Oh, it was alright, it was friendly.”

  One of the young men butts in. “Yawl get a knife in yer back around ‘ere now.”

  The other young man cackles with laughter, only to be smacked on the back of the head by the older woman in the pink dressing gown.

  “Shut it!” she snaps and then she turns to Joe. “You’re a bit posh to be from around ‘ere ain’t yer, kid?”