When the song ended, an enormous cheer went up from performers and onlookers alike, the shared emotion bringing tears to Elsie’s eyes as the café staff wolf-whistled and applauded like maniacs. Then, this being Brighton, the unwitting flashmob performers self-consciously returned to their tables as if nothing had happened.
Elated, Elsie high-fived her grinning sister. ‘How was that?’
Daisy gave a low bow. ‘You are my official hero, Elsie Maynard! Heck of a way to start something new.’
‘I thank you.’
‘This calls for cake – no, I’m sorry, you can’t protest, sis. You’ve just attained legendary status. Cake is the only fitting tribute to your genius.’ Daisy hurried into the café.
Elsie smiled to herself, a strong feeling of fulfilment rushing through her. The stunt had been daft in the extreme, but it had awakened something deep within her. She had been looking for something new: and, while she wasn’t altogether sure that this discovery actually meant anything, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had just been achieved. And she wasn’t wrong. For unbeknownst to Elsie Maynard, someone had been watching her spontaneous appearance carefully from the promenade railings. Someone who was about to change her life completely …
MIRANDA DICKINSON WHEN I FALL IN LOVE
What happens when your happy ever after is suddenly and painfully taken away from you?
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WHEN I FALL IN LOVE: 9780007478477
My Midsummer Miracle
Claudia Carroll
‘Now if you’ll all just follow me through the Red Drawing room, as you’ll see, that takes us on into the Long Gallery, probably the largest room in the whole of Beauford Hall. In fact, it dates all the way back to 1779, and is a classic example of Palladian architecture at its most ornate. And if you’ll just look to your left …’
‘’Scuse me, Miss?’ a kid with spiky, gelled hair interrupts, yelling at me from down the back. ‘I’ve a question for you, Miss!’ I immediately identify him as the class messer, (because there’s always one), and brace myself.
‘Great, go ahead!’ I smile brightly. ‘And please, call me Lizzie.’
‘Well … it’s a really big house and all, but there’s no telly! I mean, you actually live her don’t you, Miss? On account of, you know, you being one of the Beaufords and everything.’
‘I certainly do!’ I tell him, proudly.
‘So how do you manage without a telly, then? I mean, that’s like … primitive!’
‘I bet she probably, like, goes out fox hunting or something like that,’ says another swotty looking boy with Harry Potter glasses from up the front. ‘Don’t you Miss? People who live in posh houses like this are always mad into anything horsey that involves killing things.’
‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ I laugh. ‘And actually, there are no horses here at all, but …’
‘Well then in that case, you probably sit around, giving orders to butlers and scullery maids all day,’ this kid insists, to yet more sniggers from the messers down the back, ‘or else do flower arranging. You know, like they do in Downton Abbey and all those old lady programmes my mum watches.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but there are no full-time staff here either, I’m afraid,’ I smile back at him. ‘In fact, I’d say the last time this place paid anyone to live and work here was long before your granny was born. But just to let you know I do actually have a telly, though it’s downstairs in the back kitchen …’
‘And have you got Sky Plus on it?’ the kid with the spiky hair shouts up cheekily, like it’s a basic tenet of civilised life.
‘Ehh, well no …’ (Mainly because I can’t afford the subscription.)
‘What?’
‘Yeah, well … emm … just leaving the whole telly and Sky Plus issue aside for a minute, if you all would like to move down this way, I’d really like to show you some of the Beauford family portraits.’
I skip past the eighteenth-century paintings of all my dim, distant ancestors; oh, you know the type, you see them in a dozen country houses. Plump, bosomy women with scarily pale skin and absolutely no eyelashes and their husbands and sons, almost glaring accusingly down on me. This is what our home has been reduced to? You carry the distinguised name Beauford and just take a look at what you’ve done with it! Guided tours to bored schoolkids who couldn’t care less?
‘No offence Miss,’ says Ugg Boot Girl, ‘but some of the women look absolutely nothing like you. I mean, look at this one, she’s scary looking.’
I follow her eye and see she’s talking about my great-great-Grandmother Mary Molesworth, a daughter of the Earl of Belvedere who married into the Beaufords –bringing a sizeable dowry with her – over a century ago and probably the last time the family were actually flush with cash.
‘I mean, look at her Miss! Not exactly debutante of the year, is she?’
Have to admit, the kid’s right. Poor old Mary looks haggard, pinched and like she hasn’t had a decent night’s rest in approximately twenty years.
‘Yeah well …’ I answer, ‘you have to remember this portrait was taken when she was well into her forties. You have to remember that in those days there was no such thing as hair straighteners or even Mac Bronzer … because you know, that would have made all the difference …’
‘Excuse me, Lizzie!’ says a blonde girl with braces and two glittery pink scrunchies in her hair. ‘There’s a load of saucepans down the back of that funny-looking sofa!’
‘Oh ehh, yeah, that’s actually called a chaise longue …’
‘And they’re full of filthy dirty water! Looks a bit like cat wee. Look!’
More sniggers as they all dive to have a look for themselves and next thing, I’m suddenly aware of thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes now all turning back to me, just waiting on an explanation.
‘Ehh … yee-ess,’ I tell them, ‘well you know, the roof here at Beauford Hall is well over two hundred years old, so obviously there’s the odd little patch of it that may be just a teeny bit leaky …’ Like approximately eighty per cent of it, I think, cursing myself for not having the foresight to at least empty the rainwater out of them earlier.
‘The wallpaper is peeling off in places too. Look!’ says Pink Scrunchy Girl and all I can think is, Jeez, what a scourge this one will be to estate agents later on in life.
‘Yeah, and what’s that funny smell in here?’ asks a tall, twiglet-thin girl beside her, who looks like this whole tour is some kind of medieval torture to her and an unnecessary distraction from valuable time she could be spending trawling through the racks at Topshop.
‘Oh that!’ I smile over-brightly, trying my best to laugh it off. ‘Oh that’s absolutely nothing. Just, you know, old houses each have their own characteristic smells and this one is no different. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it in no time!’
‘It’s damp, that’s what it is,’ says Pink Scrunchy Girl, arms folded and giving an authoritative swish of her ponytail. ‘My dad is a quantity surveyor and he says damp is a total health hazard. Aren’t you at all worried, Lizzie?’
Not if you saw the size of my bank overdraft love, I think, hardwiring my jaw into a grin and trying not to grit my teeth back at her.
‘Anyway, leaving the smell of damp aside for the moment,’ I manage to say, ‘and if we can just get back to the family portraits …’
‘Bloody freezing in here too,’ yawns a porky looking kid, who’s slumped himself down into an armchair, like he’s a lodger who’s just moved in.
‘Yeah!’ says a voice from the back of the room. ‘And I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the middle of June! You’d swear it was January in here!’
‘Is there even a Starbucks or something where we can all go and get lunch?’ Porky Kid insists. ‘And, like, maybe thaw out a bit?’
‘Nearest coffee shop is in the town, I’m afraid, but just to tell you a bit about this particular painting here, there’s a really intriguing
story behind it, you see …’
‘You know something? I think it’s actually warmer outside than it is in here,’ Pink Scrunchy Girl says defiantly, to more sniggers from the rest of her classmates. Which of course, they know right well they can get away with, given that their teacher was last seen outside, having a sneaky fag.
‘In fact, if you ask me, this house is unfit for human habitation,’ Pink Scrunchy Girl goes on. ‘I told my dad we were coming here on a school trip today and he says Beauford Hall should have been condemned years ago.’
Swear to God, the child can’t be more than about thirteen years of age and already I want to strangle her with the glittery bit off her own ponytail. And to make it worse, the little madam’s only telling the truth. For all that Beauford Hall looks stunningly impressive on the outside, the sad fact is that the minute you step inside, it doesn’t take two seconds to see the decay it’s fallen into. But the killer is that here’s me moving heaven and earth to do everything I can to keep the old place going, but the pathetic few quid I make from school tours like this one are a small drop in the ocean compared to what’s actually needed to keep the house from quite literally, being held up by the wallpaper.
Pink Scrunchy Girl has a point. You’d seriously want to be insane to live here.
‘And Miss Lizzie? Do you really live here all on your own?’ asks a deathly pale red-haired girl, looking worriedly up at me.
‘That’s right,’ I smile back at her.
‘You mean you’ve no husband or brothers and sisters to help you out?’
‘No, and I’m an only child,’ I smile, shrugging. ‘So it’s up to me to keep things going here, you see.’
‘And where are your parents then?’
Funny, but ever since I moved here three months ago, I’ve become almost inured to answering that.
‘My dad passed away when I was just a child and I lost my mum … only last year actually.’
The kids look from one to the other, simultaneously sorry for me and mortified.
‘That’s awful Miss.’
‘Sorry to hear it, Miss.’
‘And does that mean that you’re totally alone here?’ Deathly Pale Girl insists. ‘Do you not have a boyfriend either?’
‘Ehh … afraid not.’
‘That’s so sad, Miss,’ she says, shaking her head and looking back at me with big mournful eyes.
‘Well, it’s not that sad really, is it? Come on, there’s nothing wrong with being single and living by yourself!’
‘Course there is Miss! It’s OK when you’re young, but you’re like, really old now,’ she insists. ‘If you were ever going to get married, you’d have done it by now.’
‘Well I’m hardly really old, am I? I’m only twenty eight,’ I tell her, trying my best not to come off all defensive.
‘Oh Miss, that’s even worse! Miles older than I would have given you! Twenty eight and living alone in a place like this is just so … sad. You poor thing. I feel really sorry for you.’
‘But I’m perfectly happy living alone, I promise you!’
‘You know what? You should totally try internet dating,’ says a really cool, model-y looking girl, in fluffy cream Ugg boots, that I immediately and irrationally dislike her for, purely because I could never afford them.
‘My sister is older too, though she’s not nearly as old as you Miss, but anyway, that’s where she met her last three boyfriends. There’s this site called It’s Just Lunch and you just meet in a restaurant and you take it from there. My sister says, once you learn how to filter out the saddos, whackos and weirdos, there’s some lovely guys online. And even if you don’t fancy the one you do meet, then it’s just an hour out of your day, that’s all. The key thing to remember Miss,’ she adds, tossing unnaturally glossy, silky hair over her shoulders like some kind of teenage dating consultant, that’s seen it all and done it all. ‘It’s just lunch.’
‘Ehh yes,’ I say, flushing scarlet to my roots by now, ‘well … I’m not certain how we managed to get from eighteenth-century Palladian architecture, to talking about my love life and online dating, but I really do want you all to take a look at this painting, right here …’
‘Or you know, if dating websites don’t do it for you Miss,’ Ugg Boot Girl barrels over me, with all the confidence of the born beautiful. ‘Then you could always just stick to good old-fashioned Facebook, you know. My auntie is, like, this really elderly spinster like you too, you know, and she says Facebook is a total pickup joint these days. Better than any nightclub or bar, she reckons, because you can meet fellas from the comfort of home with manky three-day old hair and no make-up. It might just suit you, Miss.’
‘Yes well, thanks so much for that,’ I say, aware that the entire class seem to be far more interested in this than they ever were in the tour. First time all morning that you could hear a pin drop.
And half of me wants to tell them that actually, I sort of do have a crush on someone who’s lovely, so they needn’t all look at me so pityingly, but then remind myself, sure what’s the point? A) he lives in Dublin and B) he has a GIRLFRIEND.
Nah, best all round just to forget all about him. Never gonna happen, is it? No matter how well we get on. And no matter how bloody attractive he is.
Story. Of. My. Life.
‘You know, we really do need to get back to …’
‘Miss, I’ve a question for you,’ says the same worried-looking girl who bloody well started all this.
‘About Beauford Hall, I hope!’
‘Well, sort of. Are you not a bit scared here, all by yourself Miss? I’d be petrified. A single woman, all on her own in a place this size? It must be terrifying! And the nearest town is miles away, so say if an axe-murderer did break in, you wouldn’t stand a chance. It would take ages for the cops to even get here and by then, he’d probably have chopped you up and buried you under a patio.’
‘Though God knows why anyone would bother breaking into a freezing kip like this,’ I can clearly overhear Pink Scrunchy Girl muttering to her pal beside her. ‘Sure there isn’t even anything worth nicking.’
‘And I’ll bet you’ve got ghosts here too,’ Worried Girl goes on, looking at me sympathetically. ‘Old ruins like this always have unhappy spirits floating around. My heart goes out to you, Miss. It’s a miracle you manage to get any sleep here at all.’
I smile, try to rise above the old ruin comment and resist the temptation to say that the only evil spirit haunting me these days is my bank manager. I’m dimly aware by now that the entire class are looking at me and I can practically see the thought balloons coming out of their heads. They’ve all gone and formed this impression that I lead this lonely single existence in a house I can’t afford to heat, spending half my time feeling like I’m living on the set of Poltergeist and the rest of it stressed out of my mind that an axe-murderer will come and get me.
Most of which is rubbish, but still.
There’s a bit of shuffling and I can see them all taking in the manky state of the place, not to mention the fact that I’m trying to keep what’s left of the roof over my head pretty much alone, before they decide that posh Georgian house or no posh house, they’d far rather go home to warmth and comfort.
Prefer it anyday.
*
Beauford Hall is in Co. Wicklow, pretty isolated and set in about twenty acres of what was at one time considered some of the most beautiful rolling parkland in the county, but which is now one big, largely overgrown jungle. (Long story, involving probably the single most knackered lawnmower known to man and you can guess the rest. But put it this way; Alan Titchmarsh can take one look at the gardens here and sleep easy.) Nearest town is Avoca in Wicklow, picture-postcard perfect and where I’m literally just halfway out the hall door to meet my friend Hilary to head off to the annual Midsummer Garden Fete in the local park, when suddenly I hear the unexpected scrunch of gravel as a plush, Celtic-Tiger-y looking jeep swooshes up the driveway.
Black jeep, 08 Dublin
registration. Shit. Only means one thing.
And with an unerring instinct, I instantly know why my unwanted visitors have landed in on top of me and more importantly, exactly what it is that they want.
I risk twitching the curtain on the window beside me and take a quick, sneaky peek outside.
Yup it’s them alright.
Paddy and Jayne, just dropping in for one of their regular spot checks on me, cunningly disguised as a ‘friendly chat.’ It’s happening about bi-monthly at this stage, in fact I could almost set my watch by the pair of them.
I shove the door open and with my jaw practically hard wired into a fake grin, step back out to face the firing squad.
‘Lizzie!’ says Paddy, wrapping me in a bear hug and completely overlooking the fact that I was effectively hiding from him. ‘Delighted that we caught you! We were just passing and we thought we’d drop in …’
Just passing, my arse, I think, plastering a fake grin on as Jayne elegantly strides across the gravel and lightly mwah-mwahs me, ladies-who-lunch style.
‘Lizzie,’ she coos, ‘it’s so lovely to see you! Any chance of a little coffee, maybe? It’s been ages and we’d love to have a good old catch-up with you.’
‘Emm … great to see you too and I’m so sorry about this, but I’m actually off to meet a pal …’ I tell them, delighted to have a cast-iron excuse to get out of there. ‘It’s the Midsummer garden fete tonight and we’re going along to it.’
The Perfect Escape Page 9