In the Crypt with a Candlestick

by Daisy Waugh

  ‘See?’ cried India triumphantly, taking the glass. ‘Thank you, darling. See that, Emma? Those little pink spots? He’s excited, aren’t you sweetheart?’ India grinned.

  ‘I really – are you? I don’t know,’ Lady Tode sounded flustered. Smiling unhappily, she looked up at Egbert, now standing between them with the pink spots at his cheekbones. She gave a little shrug. The conversation had accelerated to a speed well beyond her preferred pace and she wasn’t sure how to pull it back again. Added to which, of course, India was quite right. Spot on. She said, ‘Well, I don’t know quite what to say. I mean, obviously, I have a great deal to say. But in principle… yes. Of course the house and contents are very much tied up in all sorts of family trusts, as you may imagine, and could never be sold – not that you would want to—’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Egbert agreed.

  ‘Nothing could be sold without the say-so of the trustees – and they are myself, obviously; and my children Ecgbert, Nicola, Esmé. But the running of the estate, and the income from the estate is really…’ Lady Tode paused.

  ‘Up for grabs!’ cried India, and giggled. ‘What fun!’

  ‘Well,’ Lady Tode would have put it another way, and did. ‘It’s at the disposal, obviously, of whomever is at the helm, living at the Hall and overseeing its many businesses. Of which, you may not be aware…’

  ‘Oh I’m aware it’s very large,’ said Egbert.

  Again, India giggled. ‘Funnily enough I was looking up the public accounts the other day, wasn’t I Egg—’

  ‘No you weren’t,’ said Egbert, blushing furiously.

  ‘I was! When Mummy told me Sir Ecgbert had died, she and I were wondering who would inherit everything, given – you know. Your kids having minds of their own. I wanted to remind myself of what my Egbert was missing out on, because of the “c”. I said to him – didn’t I Egg? We were laughing about it! – I said, maybe you should think about putting the “c” back in!’

  ‘No,’ said Egbert, ‘I don’t really remember.’

  ‘It’s not just a missing “c”,’ Lady Tode said, still smiling but now really quite irritated. ‘With or without the “c”, your husband is the son of the younger son. That was the reason.’

  ‘But not anymore!’ cried India. ‘Anyway, who cares? I’m up for it. What about you Egg? I think it could be absolutely good fun. A brilliant adventure. The kids can have ponies. And those adorable little electric cars. Everything. They can have everything! God, they’re going to love it! Who wants another drink?’

  Egbert looked embarrassed. Emma Tode hadn’t yet made a formal offer – and really, there was so much to discuss. Not least, how his disinherited cousins might feel about their usurpation. Also, Egbert enjoyed his life in London. They had only just finished doing up the house, he had friends nearby, he’d just been given a promotion. Life was pretty good.

  ‘India,’ he muttered, ‘I think you may be jumping the gun…’

  Lady Tode smiled. ‘The fact is, the house desperately needs someone young and enthusiastic to bring in new ideas… Really it’s a constant – I won’t say “battle” but it’s certainly a challenge to…’ she took a breath and started again. ‘For one reason or another, my children, who in any case really aren’t that young anymore, are – how does one explain it? – they are wonderful people. I am tremendously proud of their achievements. However they are none of them in a position to take on the responsibilities of a house like Tode Hall. It’s my duty to find someone who is. Which leads one, as your wife guesses correctly, to you Egbert, and to your delightful family. I am happy to stay on at the Hall for a while, to help oversee the transition. In fact—’ she glanced at India, ‘I think that would be essential… But India is quite right. I would like to hand over responsibility while I am still young enough to enjoy my life… I can’t live forever, after all!’

  ‘Yes you can, Emma!’ interjected India, warmly. ‘Never say die!’

  Lady Tode nodded. She turned to Egbert.

  Egbert said, ‘What do the others think about the idea?’

  Lady Tode looked blank. ‘Who?’

  ‘The children.’

  ‘Your children?’

  ‘No – yours. What do my cousins think about India and me coming in and taking over? Are they happy with the idea?’

  Lady Tode didn’t flinch. ‘Trust me,’ she said at once, ‘they’ll be delighted.’

  Egbert smiled. ‘Well in that case… Obviously India and I need to think about it. Look into schools and so on. Consider the financial implications. It’s a big move.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ agreed Lady Tode. ‘I’ll put you in touch with our finance man. He can talk you through all the ins and outs. He’s based in Darlington, but he works for us most of the week – perhaps you and he—’

  ‘And me,’ said India.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lady Tode agreed quickly. ‘You and Egbert and our money chap should get together over lunch. And then you can come up for a weekend and we can show you around – I know you’ll fall in love with the place. Everybody does…’

  ‘I bet,’ Egbert said.

  Lady Tode thought a moment, felt a spark of life inside her frosty little heart: a flicker of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. She could almost smell the Tyrrhenian Sea. ‘In fact,’ she added, with something quite like openness, ‘we’re looking for a new household manager. Our last one gave in her notice – can you believe this? – on the day of my husband’s funeral.’

  ‘That’s a bit much,’ Egbert agreed.

  ‘So, if you’re interested, and I hope you are, because I think you would both be very happy at Tode Hall – I think you would be perfect for it – perhaps you could help me sift through the applicants? Since, ultimately, I very much hope, whomever we choose will be working, not for me but for you.’

  ‘Oh, what fun!’ said India.

  They persuaded Lady Tode to stay for supper. She didn’t want to stay, and they didn’t really want to have her – but it seemed unavoidable. She was offering them a home in one of the largest, most beautiful houses in the country; and the income from an estate whose annual turnover, when you took into account the two cafés, the trinket shop, the organic grocer, the tourist entry tickets, the film and TV locations fees, the farming subsidies, the farming income, the holiday cottages… came in at nearly £10 million.

  In exchange for which they would submit to life in a house they could never alter or call their own, which for half the year was full of tour guides and red ropes and goggling tourists; a house surrounded by grounds that were open to the public 365 days a year. They would never again be able to look out of their own window without fear of being confronted by a coach-load of barbarians goggling in.

  Oh, and the paperwork!

  And the lack of privacy.

  And the unrelenting demand for gracious manners.

  And the lack of privacy.

  And the lack of privacy.

  And the lack of privacy.

  For fifty-four years, beneath that serene, close-lipped smile, Lady Tode had been suffocating. Now, it seemed, there was an end in sight.

  And Egbert and India would be able to leave London and all the irritations of urban life: they would buy ponies and little electric cars for their lucky children, and instead of being just one of thousands of rich couples in the rich Wandsworth crowd, they would be King and Queen of their own castle.

  So everyone was happy, really. More or less.

  * * *

  Of course it couldn’t last.

  CHAPTER 9

  In an overheated one-bed flat at an assisted care home in Clapham, London, meanwhile, ninety-six-year-old Violet Dean was attempting, slowly and clumsily, to dial her granddaughter’s landline. Balanced on her lap, she had the most recent issue of The Lady, and she was so excited with what she’d read inside it she kept botching the number and having to start again.

  But she cracked it eventually. The call went directly to voicemail, which meant Alice was i
n – and on the line. Her grandmother pressed redial once, twice, seven times. She had nothing else to do with her time. She would keep at it until she got through.

  Alice Liddell, only three hundred yards up the road, and on the phone to a friend, could hear beeps on the line and knew exactly who was calling. Her grandmother, Violet Dean, whom she loved better than anyone (after her sons, obviously), could be quite annoying. And although Alice had every intention of ignoring the beeps and finishing her call in her own good time, that soon became impossible, so she said goodbye to her friend and then, calmly, unplugged the phone.

  The house was a mess. She wanted a glass of wine and her end-of-day spliff and a hot bath. Unfortunately not all of this would be possible at once. Upstairs, she could hear one of her sons taking a shower in the only bathroom. She looked up at the ceiling. Sure enough, drips of water were leaking through the light fitting again. She muttered something under her breath, and headed out to the hallway.

  ‘Jacko! You’re flooding the kitchen again. Jacko – you’re FLOODING the kitchen!… Drez – can you tell him? Drez? Tell your brother he’s flooding the kitchen!… Can anyone hear me?’

  A long pause. Water thundering from the bathroom. Music thumping from the boys’ bedroom. And then, ‘What’s that, Mum?’

  ‘Drez can you tell your brother he’s flooding the kitchen! And tell him not to take all the hot water. I want a bath.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘Drez?’

  ‘Drez’s gone out, Mum. This is Morman. Shall I tell him?’

  ‘Yes!’

  And yet somehow, between Morman’s good intentions and the incredibly short journey from his shared bedroom to the landing outside the bathroom, the message went astray. And the shower kept running, and the water kept dripping through into the kitchen – and Alice Liddell lost interest in the battle. Jacko would come out of the bathroom eventually. And the ceiling had been dripping through the light fixture for months. Aside from the damp patch, which was definitely growing, it didn’t seem to be doing any harm.

  Alice thought she should probably find out what her grandmother had been calling about, in case it was important. (This was unlikely. Violet called Alice approximately twice a day.) The hot bath would have to wait.

  The grandmother, the spliff and the glass of wine, on the other hand, could easily be dealt with simultaneously.

  * * *

  That’s how Alice first heard about the job at Tode Hall.

  But first – rewind (very briefly) to the year 1946, when Alice’s grandmother, Violet Dean, arrived at Tode Hall with a small child in her arms, looking for a job. The child was Alice’s mother, born of a brief fling with an American soldier, since killed in combat, or so Violet claimed. Alice’s mother never laid eyes on her father, and Violet, so far as we know, never heard from him again.

  Tode Hall was struggling, like all the great houses, under the post-war financial strain of a high tax government; not to mention, after so many had been killed, a shortage of available servants. The incumbent Sir Ecgbert (10th Baronet 1900–1947) and his wife, Geraldine (1907–1971), were so desperate for staff that they set aside their usual concern for the morality of the lower classes, and opened a sort of ‘crèche’ for babies of any female servants who had somehow mislaid their spouses in the war. The crèche wouldn’t have passed today’s health and safety requirements, but there was a room, just off the kitchen, where servants’ bastards and orphans could be dumped and sometimes attended to, during their mothers’ long working day.

  Violet was employed as a maid. When she left Tode Hall, thirty-four years later, she was the Hall housekeeper. She would never have left – she loved it there. But in 1980, her wayward daughter (Alice’s mother) died of an overdose-induced heart attack, after a lifetime of drink, drugs, and gentle hopelessness. In her beautiful youth she’d been drawn into a world that hit the headlines with the Profumo affair; a few years later she’d hooked up with a fashion photographer, also a junkie, who had fathered Alice and then disappeared.

  In her short life, Alice’s mother had not been good at much. With her sweet nature, her open heart and her unusual beauty, she had lurched from one badly thought-out love affair to the next. But through it all, to the best of her limited ability, she had loved and cared for her daughter. Alice was fourteen when her mother died. She had never met her father, had no siblings, and no cousins. Her grandmother Violet was the only relative left. Violet, at that point, was living in a pretty cottage on the Tode Hall estate, and could have moved Alice up to Yorkshire to live with her there. It might have been preferable.

  But in grief we do not always make the wisest choices. Violet felt terribly that she had let down her daughter. She wanted to make it up to Alice. So instead of moving Alice to Yorkshire, she moved herself to London.

  Years passed and Alice grew up; and in due course, like mother and grandmother, bred with a man who failed to hang around to deal with the consequences.

  In one respect, she fared better than either of them, because by the time the man abandoned ship, Britain’s laws had changed. Also he was reasonably well off. He left Alice with the house that she and her children now shared. In another respect, she fared less well: where the previous generations had been abandoned to look after only one child, Alice had produced triplets.

  Jacko, Drez and Morman were twenty years old, delightful, handsome and sweet natured. They loved their mother, believed wholeheartedly in equality, inclusiveness, diversity and tolerance, and studied just hard enough to keep their places at their various colleges. And they all still lived at home.

  When the boys were about ten, Alice, in need of money, had started a cookery school. That is, she offered one-on-one cooking tutorials from her Clapham kitchen, and for a while the classes did well. London being full of rich, insecure people, and Alice being full of careless bohemian charm (not to mention an excellent cook), she had, without much effort, managed to attract a fairly solid stream of clients who liked the cut of her jib, and wanted to be a tiny, safe bit like her. But these days it was getting harder. Her kitchen (her entire house) had grown just too tatty. Added to which her sons, who were barely house trained, never seemed to attend any lectures and consequently spent their lives loafing agreeably around the kitchen, making toast and leaving marmalade blobs exactly where Alice wanted to teach people about puff pastry.

  Her boys went to bed at the time Alice got up, and each morning when she came downstairs, she would be met with a fresh carpet of beer cans and ashtrays and pizza boxes and dirty socks. When there were clients due to arrive she had to rush around Hoovering and opening windows. Even so – the house always smelled of beer and cigarettes and cannabis. It looked old and dirty. Where once it might have appeared, to the Clapham bankers’ wives, thrillingly bohemian, now it looked slutty: a breeding ground for salmonella and botulism. Not a place where rich people would dream of wanting to learn to cook. Bad reviews had appeared online. Clients had started complaining to her face: the last had taken one look at the kitchen and demanded her money back.

  Short of throwing her children onto the street, which was out of the question, or persuading them to behave like responsible adults – also impossible – it seemed to Alice there wasn’t much she could do about the situation. Or maybe she didn’t care enough. Truth be told, she was bored. Bored of cooking. Bored of rich housewives. Bored of clearing up after her agreeable children. Bored of London. Bored of life. The time was ripe for a new adventure.

  And now, here was this.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Granny!’ she said. ‘I’m nowhere near qualified. Anyway I’ve got my cooking school…’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Violet Dean.

  Alice had lived in London all her life. The thought of leaving it filled her with a sticky, lazy kind of dread. Add to that the prospect of applying for a job; putting together a non-existent CV, turning up in clean clothes, at the right time and in the right place – all of it seemed to Alice, as she puffed on her spliff
in her leaking kitchen, to be beyond all realms of achievability.

  Nevertheless, as her grandmother talked, Alice’s gaze moved from the dripping light fitting, to Morman, just then rummaging through the fridge, dumping half its contents onto a nearby pile of clean laundry, pulling out a chicken leg, shoving it in his mouth and wandering away, leaving everything where he’d dumped it… Her business was dying and her children didn’t really need her anymore…

  ‘The job comes with a cottage,’ Violet Dean was telling her. ‘Doesn’t say which one… but it’s a good job, Alice, so I expect it’ll be one of the better ones. You’d be HOUSEHOLD MANAGER, Alice! And have you forgotten how big the house is? That’s like being Town Manager. It’s like being Mayor, Alice! Imagine that! Imagine being Mayor of the most beautiful town in the entire world. And you get a free house… And a free car. And it pays… says here… “salary negotiable”…’

  Alice, puffing quietly on her joint, listened intently.

  ‘Salary negotiable… What do you suppose that means, Alice?’

  ‘Don’t know, Gran,’ she said. ‘I haven’t really had a job before. Not a real one… Why would they want to give it to me?’

  ‘I should think it means that if they like you, you could charge whatever you wanted! That’s what I think it means. And they’ll like you, Alice. I know they will. Everybody always likes you.’ The last remark sounded dismissive. Not everybody liked Violet. For that matter, there weren’t many people that Violet liked. So it evened out. She had a Northerner’s baldness about her, and a Londoner’s sharpness, and the two combined tended to frighten most people off. She’d not made many friends since leaving Tode Hall.

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Alice, thinking.

  ‘Never mind “Mmmm”,’ snapped her grandmother. ‘ “Mmmm” doesn’t get you on the train to Todeister in time for an interview, does it? What are you doing?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘That’s right.’