‘That’s settled, then. I shall meet you at Charing Cross in the first-class carriage of the ten o’clock train to Ashford on Saturday. I shall have your ticket with me. Now, I must disappear back upstairs to discover whether Wi-Fi – our great modern god – has deigned to appear to us mortals.’
‘Where are we going, exactly?’
‘Haven’t I told you?’
‘No.’
‘To Kent, of course,’ he said airily, as though it should have been obvious.
For the rest of the week, I was torn between excitement and fear of the unknown. I’d been to Kent once on a university trip to see Sissinghurst, the glorious house and gardens that had once been the home of the novelist and poet Vita Sackville-West. I remembered it as a gentle and mellow county – the ‘garden of England’, as one of my fellow students had told me it was nicknamed.
As promised, Orlando was already in the carriage when I arrived at Charing Cross station on Saturday morning. His midnight-blue velvet jacket and paisley scarf – not to mention the enormous picnic hamper that took up the whole of the table we were supposedly to share with other passengers – made for an incongruous sight on the modern train.
‘My dear Miss Star,’ he said as I sat down next to him. ‘Perfectly on time as always. Punctuality is a virtue that should be lauded more often than it is. Cup of coffee?’
He opened the hamper and produced a flask and two china coffee cups, followed by plates of fresh, still-warm croissants wrapped in linen napkins. As the train pulled out of the station and Orlando served me breakfast, chatting to me as usual about everything and nothing, I noticed nearby passengers looking at us in bewilderment. I was only thankful that no one was sitting in the seats opposite.
‘How long is the train journey?’ I asked him as he took out two further plates of perfectly arranged chopped fruit and removed the cling film.
‘An hour or thereabouts. Marguerite will collect us from Ashford station.’
‘Who is Marguerite?’
‘My cousin.’
‘And Rory?’
‘A charming little boy, who will be seven tomorrow. Mouse will be there too, although, unlike your good self, the poor dear has no concept of time-keeping. Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he said as he returned the dishes to the picnic basket then fastidiously wiped every last crumb off himself and the table into a napkin, ‘I must take forty winks.’
With that, Orlando folded his arms across his chest as if to protect himself from being shot, and nodded off.
Thirty minutes later, just as I was beginning to get nervous about getting off at Ashford, but not liking to disturb Orlando, his eyes suddenly snapped open.
‘Two minutes, Miss Star, and we will alight.’
The platform was bathed in mellow autumn sunlight as we walked along it, dodging other travellers.
‘Progress takes its steady toll,’ Orlando lamented. ‘With the Eurotunnel station they are building, we’ll never have peace and quiet here again.’
As we emerged onto the station forecourt, I noticed there had been a frost the night before, and I could see the faint smoky tinge of my breath.
‘There she is,’ Orlando said, marching at full speed towards a battered Fiat 500. ‘Dearest Marguerite, it’s so kind of you to come and sweep us up,’ he said as a statuesque woman, as tall as he, extricated her long limbs from behind the wheel of the tiny car.
‘Orlando,’ she said haltingly as he kissed her on both cheeks. She pointed to the large wicker hamper. ‘How on earth are we meant to get that in the car? Especially as you have brought a guest.’
I felt her large, dark eyes sweep over me. They were an arresting colour – almost violet.
‘Allow me to introduce Miss Asterope D’Aplièse, more commonly known as Star. Miss Star: my cousin, Marguerite Vaughan.’
‘What an unusual name,’ the woman said as she approached me, and I saw from the faint lines on her pale skin that she was older than I’d initially thought, probably in her early forties.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she continued. ‘I can only apologise for my cousin’s thoughtlessness by bringing this ridiculous hamper, which you’ll now have to squeeze in next to. God knows what’s wrong with the coffee at Pret,’ she said, rolling her eyes at Orlando, who was attempting to load the hamper onto the back seat. ‘But I’m sure you know what he’s like.’ She smiled at me warmly.
‘I do,’ I said, finding myself smiling too.
‘Personally, I think we should make him walk the five miles home as penance so that you can sit in comfort.’ She patted my arm conspiratorially. ‘Come on, Orlando, I’ve got a lot to do when we get home. The beef isn’t in yet.’
‘I do apologise, Miss Star.’ Orlando looked like a chastened child. ‘I am completely thoughtless.’ He held the door open for me as I clambered into the back and wedged myself into the tiny space beside the basket, my arms pinned to my sides.
We set off down the leafy country roads, Marguerite and Orlando in the front, both so tall that the tops of their heads almost brushed the roof. I felt rather like a child again, but busied myself by looking out of the window, admiring the beauty of the English countryside.
Orlando talked nineteen to the dozen about books he’d bought and sold, and Marguerite admonished him gently for overspending on Anna Karenina – Mouse had told her, apparently – but I could hear the affection in her voice. Sitting behind her, I was close enough to smell her perfume – a comforting musky scent that filled the car.
Her thick, dark hair fell in natural waves to her shoulders and when she turned to Orlando to speak to him, I saw she had what Pa Salt would have termed a Roman nose, which sat prominently in her striking face. She was certainly not classically beautiful and, from the look of her jeans and old jumper, did not care to make herself more so. Yet, there was something very attractive about her and I realised I wanted her to like me – an unusual feeling.
‘Are you coping back there?’ she asked me. ‘Not far now.’
‘Yes thank you.’ I leant my head against the windowpane as the thick hedges, their height exaggerated by the low car, flew by me, the country lanes becoming narrower. It felt so good to be out of London, with only the odd red-brick chimney stack peeping out from behind the wall of green. We turned right, through a pair of old gates that led to a drive so potholed that Marguerite and Orlando’s heads bumped against the roof.
‘I really must ask Mouse to bring the tractor and fill in these holes with gravel before the winter comes,’ she commented to Orlando. ‘Here we are, Star,’ she added as she pulled the car to a halt in front of a large, graceful house, its walls formed from mellow red brick, with ivy and wisteria fringing the uneven windows in greenery. Tall, thin chimney stacks, which emphasised the Tudor architecture, reached up into the crisp September sky. As I squeezed myself out of the back of the Fiat, I imagined the house’s interior to be rambling rather than impressive – it was certainly no stately home; rather, it looked as if it had gently aged and sunk slowly into the countryside surrounding it. It spoke of a bygone era, one that I loved reading about in books, and I experienced a twinge of longing.
I followed Marguerite and Orlando towards the magnificent oak front door, and saw a young boy wobbling towards us on a shiny red bike. He let out a strange muffled shout, tried to wave and promptly fell off the bike.
‘Rory!’ Marguerite ran towards him, but he had already picked himself up. He spoke again, and I wondered if he was foreign, as I couldn’t make out what he was saying. She dusted him down, then the boy picked up the bike and the two of them walked back towards us.
‘Look who’s here,’ Marguerite said, turning directly to the boy to speak to him. ‘It’s Orlando and his friend, Star. Try saying “Star”.’ She particularly enunciated the ‘st’ in my name.
‘Ss-t-aahh,’ the boy said as he approached me, a smile on his face, before holding up his hand and opening his fingers out like a shining star. I saw that Rory was the owner of a pair of in
quisitive green eyes, framed by dark lashes. His wavy copper-coloured hair glowed in the sun, and his rosy cheeks dimpled with happiness. I recognised that he was the kind of child that one would never want to say no to.
‘He prefers to go by the name “Superman”, don’t you, Rory?’ Orlando chuckled, holding up his hand in a fist like Superman taking off into the air.
Rory nodded, then shook my hand with all the dignity of a superhero, and turned to Orlando for a hug. After giving him a tight squeeze and a tickle, Orlando set him down, then squatted in front of him and used his hands to sign, also speaking the words clearly.
‘Happy Birthday! I have your present in Marguerite’s car. Would you like to come and get it with me?’
‘Yes please,’ Rory spoke and signed, and I knew then that he was deaf. I rifled through my rusty mental catalogue of what I had learnt from Ma over two decades ago. I watched as the two of them stood up and walked hand in hand towards the car.
‘Come inside with me, Star,’ said Marguerite. ‘They could be some time.’
I followed her into an entrance hall that contained a wide Tudor staircase, which I could see from the wonderfully turned and carved oak banister was not a reproduction. As we made our way along a passage, the old stone flags cracked and uneven beneath my feet, I inhaled the atmosphere, scented with dust and wood smoke, imagining the thousands of fires that had been lit over the centuries to keep its occupants warm. And felt a definite envy for the woman who lived in this incredible house.
‘I’m afraid I’m dragging you straight to the kitchen, as I have to get on. Please excuse the mess in here – we have God knows how many for Rory’s birthday lunch and I haven’t even peeled the potatoes yet.’
‘I’ll help you,’ I offered as we entered a low-ceilinged room awash with beams, an inglenook fireplace forming the centrepiece with a cast-iron range inside it.
‘Well, you could certainly help by pouring us both a drink,’ she suggested, her open gaze mirroring the warmth and beauty of her home. ‘The pantry is over there; there’s a bottle of gin, I know, and I’m just praying there’s some tonic in the fridge. Otherwise we’ll have to be inventive. Now, where on earth did I put the potato peeler?’
‘It’s here.’ I picked it up from the long oak table, strewn with newspapers, cereal packets, dirty plates and one muddy football sock. ‘Why don’t you get the drinks, and I’ll do the vegetables?’
‘No, Star, you’re our guest . . .’
I had already grabbed the bag of potatoes and taken down a saucepan from a rack. I pulled out what I saw was a week-old newspaper to put the peelings on and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Well’ – Marguerite smiled in gratitude – ‘I’ll go and get the gin then.’
In the following hour or so, I peeled all the vegetables, prepared the joint of beef and put it in the range, then set about straightening the kitchen. Having found the gin and added some rather flat tonic to it, Marguerite left me in charge as she floated in and out to tend to her son, greet arriving guests and set the table for lunch. I hummed as I pottered round what – without the current disorganised detritus – was my dream kitchen. The heat from the range warmed the room, and as I looked up at the cracks on the ceiling, I imagined the old yellowed walls with a fresh coat of white paint. Clearing the oak table, which was pockmarked with wax from dripping candles, I then washed up what was probably a week’s worth of pans and plates.
Once everything was under control, I gazed out of the window, with its uneven glass panes, onto a kitchen garden that must have once been the source of vegetables for the house. I stepped out of the kitchen door to look closer and saw that it was now overgrown and in disarray, but I found a hardy rosemary bush and clipped some of the herb off it to flavour the roast potatoes.
I could live here, I thought as Marguerite returned, having changed into a rather creased honey-coloured silk blouse and a purple scarf that complemented her eyes.
‘Oh my God, Star, you miracle worker! I haven’t seen the kitchen look like this for years! Thank you. Do you want a job?’
‘I already have one with Orlando.’
‘I know, and I’m so happy you’re there for him. Maybe you could occasionally dissuade him from spending large amounts of money to fund what is becoming his own personal library.’
‘He does actually sell quite a lot of books online,’ I replied, defending him as Marguerite poured herself another measure of gin.
‘I know,’ she said fondly. ‘Right, Rory’s having a fine old time opening all his presents in the sitting room and Orlando’s gone down to the cellar to get more wine for the guests, so I can sit down for five minutes.’ She checked her watch before letting out a sigh. ‘Mouse is late again, but we shan’t postpone lunch. I presume you gathered this morning that Rory’s deaf?’
‘Yes, I did,’ I replied, thinking that, just like her cousin, Marguerite’s brain flitted from one subject to the next like a butterfly.
‘And has been since birth. He has a little hearing in his left ear, but his hearing aids only go so far. I just . . .’ She paused, meeting my gaze. ‘I never want him to feel as if he can’t do something, as if he’s lesser than anyone else. The things that people say sometimes . . .’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘He’s the most wonderful, smart little boy there is.’
‘He and Orlando seem very close,’ I ventured.
‘Orlando was the one who taught him to read when he was five, having mastered British Sign Language so he could speak to Rory and teach him. We’ve mainstreamed him – that is, placed him in the local primary school – and he’s even teaching the other children to sign. He’s got a fantastic speech therapist working with him every week to encourage him to talk and lip-read and he’s doing brilliantly. Children at his age learn so quickly. Now, I should be taking you through to meet the guests, rather than keeping you locked away in the kitchen like Cinderella.’
‘Really, it’s fine. I’ll check the beef.’ I walked over to the range and bent down to retrieve the joint and the roast potatoes. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve added some honey and sesame seeds I found in the pantry to give the carrots some flavour.’
‘Goodness! I don’t mind at all. I’ve never been much of a cook and it’s been heaven having you do the lunch. What with Rory, and this troublesome house, not to mention my job, which I desperately need to pay the bills on it, I’m constantly chasing my tail. I’ve been offered a fantastic commission to paint a mural in France, but I just don’t know if I can leave Rory . . .’ Marguerite’s voice trailed off. ‘My apologies, Star, these aren’t your problems.’
‘You’re an artist?’
‘I’d like to think I was, yes, although someone said to me recently that I merely design wallpaper.’ Marguerite raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, thanks for today.’
‘I don’t mind helping, really. What time do you want to eat? The beef is done, it just needs to rest.’
‘Whenever you’re ready. Everyone who comes to High Weald is used to waiting for as long as it takes.’
‘How about half an hour? If you have some eggs, I can make Yorkshire puddings.’
‘Oh, we have eggs; the chickens run free range round the kitchen garden. We live on omelettes here. I’ll get them for you,’ she said as she walked into the pantry.
‘Mag! I’m hungry!’
I turned and saw Rory entering the kitchen.
‘Hello,’ I signed, then tried to mimic Orlando’s hand movements from earlier, clapping my hands together twice, then sweeping my palms flat upwards and forwards. ‘Happy Birthday,’ I managed.
He looked startled, then smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he signed back. Then pointed at the range and tapped his wrist as if there was a watch, before shrugging his shoulders in a question.
‘Lunch is ready in thirty minutes.’
‘Okay.’ Rory made his way over to look at the beef.
‘Cow,’ I signed, putting my fingers against my head in little horns. Rory burst into giggles and
made the sign back to me with the correct finger placements. I took a knife and sliced a little off the joint for him as Marguerite emerged from the pantry. Rory put it into his mouth and chewed it.
‘Good.’ He gave me a thumbs up.
‘Thank you,’ I signed by placing my fingers against my chin and then moving my hand away, hoping the French and British signs were similar.
‘Don’t tell me you know sign language as well, Star?’ Marguerite said.
‘I learnt some when I was young, but I’m not very good, am I, Rory?’
Rory turned to his mother and signed quickly to her, making her laugh.
‘He says your signing is dreadful, but your “cow” makes up for it. Apparently you’re a far better cook than me. You cheeky monkey.’ She ruffled his hair.
‘Mouse here,’ Rory said, as he gazed out of the window. He made a little darting motion with one hand, like an animal scurrying.
‘And about time. Star, do you mind if I leave you here for a while and go and entertain my guests?’ She put the eggs for the Yorkshire puddings down on the table.
‘Of course not,’ I said as Rory grasped his mother’s hands and dragged her out of the kitchen.
‘I promise to be back to help you serve,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘No problem,’ I said as I went to the pantry in search of flour.
During the next half hour, I put some of the tricks I had learnt on my course into practice, and by the time Marguerite returned, lunch was ready. I’d sourced serving dishes from the pine dresser and Marguerite’s eyebrows raised in surprise as I began handing her dishes to carry through.
‘Goodness, I’d forgotten where all this china had got to. Star, you really are an angel to do this.’
‘I don’t mind. I’ve enjoyed it.’
And I had. It was rare I got to cook for anyone other than CeCe. I was just thinking that perhaps I should place a card in our local newsagent’s advertising my services when a man appeared in the kitchen.
‘Hello, I’ve been sent to carve the beef. Where is it?’ he said shortly.
The Shadow Sister Page 8