Hugh and Camellia

ONE

2010-02-02T11:46:00.003Z

Hugh walked heavily up the five steps into his house, filled a bucket with water from a standpipe under his most valuable painting, went into the drawing room, swung his shoulders back as far as they would go and, as forcefully as he could, threw cold water across the ancient carpet.

Sheep droppings bobbed along on the flood and slewshed with a rush against the pile of damp straw he’d raked into the hearth earlier that morning.

Across the room, beyond the sofas and chairs, a small flock of sheep clustered beneath a standard lamp. Hugh eased himself straight and nodded a greeting but they trotted over to the windows and watched him anxiously from the corners of their eyes.

Calmly, trying to look reassuring, he went for more water; more and more water - until the last of the debris was flushed into the hearth. Then he forked the whole dripping mess into a wheelbarrow, bumped it out down the steps, across the yard and into the kitchen garden - ran it up a plank and tipped it onto a heap of mouldering straw and manure. After that, he leant the barrow against a wall and stretched.

It was a cold November day - but he was happy. His back hurt, his arms ached and he was weary; desperately weary. But he was used to that - and happy.

Everything, in fact was as usual. The fields were waterlogged and most of the tracks impassable. The few animals he hadn’t brought indoors were muddy and listless and nearly as tired as he was and even the air inside the house was damp and cold. But it was winter - and the kitchen was warm.

Coffee.

The kettle was simmering and Camellia’s scones were warm on the Aga. There was bread on the table, newly baked, and his favourite cat was sitting contentedly next to it.

A scene from thirty winters.

Homely.

Normal.

Familiar.

But when he reached to take a mug from the dresser, his fingers gave way. The mug dropped, a plate shattered and the cat scrambled over the bread and went to settle more comfortably in an armchair on the other side of the room.

Camellia, startled by the noise, came in from the scullery.

“Just a mug and a plate,” said Hugh, flexing his fingers. “I expect it’s the cold.” He held them for her to see; red and swollen. “They gave way.”

Camellia wiped her hands on her apron and kissed him. Then she shoved the pieces of plate to the back of the dresser.

“We’re getting old,” she said, pouring the coffee. “We need a day off.”

“A week!” said Hugh rubbing the dirt from his hands. “A month. A year!"

Then he sat at the table.

Camellia smiled.

“More than a day and you’d pine!”

She brought scones but his spine jerked and pains flickered down his arm when he reached for one.

A holiday?

Too many animals.

Too much work.

“Maybe one day,” he said, judging his moment and grabbing at a scone between spasms.

But he hardly meant it.

________

For Two

FORTY-SIX

2009-05-27T12:11:00.003+01:00

continued from

"You've done what? What if Rosemary comes for us?" Camellia was not pleased. Duke Ellington was right about that! Hugh's excitement faltered.

"I forgot," he said.

Camellia went to the window and looked down. Rain was flowing over the roofs of railway carriages as they passed by. There seemed an awful lot of them. "It's raining," she said.

"But it will have stopped by then."

Camellia was furious "Don't be silly, Hugh," she said, turning back to glare. "You can't possibly know that."

"Camellia, I just feel it. It must. The sun will come out and everything will be fine. You should have heard them! Perfectly intelligent people complaining because someone who shouldn't have any power at all has organised a game of Bingo - and rather than say it isn't what they want to do, they troop along like automatons and put little counters on little cards. Week after week they keep doing it, until they are ground down. Once might make sense. Out of politeness. But this is ridiculous. Except for Professor Blake - who discusses vests instead."

"I know. And it's silly of him. Why doesn't he tell them to go away?"

"I don't know! But he doesn't!"

Camellia went over to the bed and sat on it. "They aren't our responsibility, you know."

"Yes, they are. I phoned Stephen."

It worked. Camellia stopped being angry.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing much, just that everything's alright. He says it's raining there too."

"It always does."

"I found the dining room."

"What?"

"It's down the corridor beside the staircase. The kitchen's along there too. We shouldn't have gone to the basement this morning. But I've found it now - and there are fifty chairs."

What?"

"I've counted the chairs so I know what size coaches to order."

"Coaches? Plural?"

"Well, some people like Bingo, don't they? Ghandi and Scotty seem quite keen. We've got to assume everyone wants to go to Bingo and that everyone wants to go to the Gallery so I've ordered two forty-seater coaches."

"Hugh, that doesn't make sense!"

"Near enough it does. Taking into account some won't want to go anywhere. There's a corridor between the office and the lift and there are five bedrooms at the end with two names on each door. Professor Blake's on one of them so we must allow for ten wheelchairs."

"Wheelchairs don't go on coaches."

"Blake says he'll manage. The others will have to try. If it doesn't work, they'll have to understand."

"I expect they will," said Camellia kindly. It was years since Hugh had been excited like this. Maybe the possibility of buying South Devons had raised his interest briefly. Or was it Herefords? She couldn't remember. Not that it mattered until they went home. She simply knew she mustn't spoil his pleasure now.

"We'll find out," said Hugh. "Meanwhile, there's a lot to do."

"How did you phone?"

"What? Oh, there's a little room down the corridor where the dining room is. It's got a chair and everything. Quite comfortable."

"So Mrs Bendicks doesn't know?"

"Not yet. Now, listen Camellia, I want you to go round the women. I'll go round the men. And I'll do the downstairs bedrooms if you do the television room and the lounge. Make a list so we can check we don't count anyone twice. And I've got to find sixty wheel-chairs."

"What on earth . . . ?"

"Never mind. It has to be ready by lunch. We can tell people not to talk - but they will. By the end of the first course, Mrs Bendicks will know everything. But every minute counts so if we can delay it till then, that's good."

"Hugh?"

"Yes."

But she had nothing to say after all. She just wanted to smile at him because she could feel her energy surging along with his. It was like sleeping on top of the Blackpool tower again. There was the year they'd moved to Thorncombe. They'd bought chickens then didn't know what to do with them. Rosemary's laughter at her first pantomime. Their wedding. Curry when curry was new. All sorts of things. Things great and small and remembered in the wrong order.

"I've just thought," she said. "I don't think they do photographs at the Portrait Gallery, do they?"

"Well they should," said Hugh, rushing out of the door. "Remember - ask them not to talk. We mustn't be stopped. Got it?"

Oh yes, she did! And the rain was petering out, just as he'd said it would. And the sun was emerging from clouds. And her heart gave a little leap. Safehaven seemed to be turning out alright after all.

_____

For The Post Before This One - Forty-Five

FORTY-FIVE

2009-05-26T16:11:00.006+01:00

continued from Forty-Four

The man who had warned Robert about the traffic warden came to the door, hesitated long enough to assess company available and bounced his zimmer frame towards the chair Camellia had vacated.

"Glen Millar," he said, sitting down heavily. "Who are you?"

"Hugh," said Hugh. "You will have passed my wife in the hall."

"You're the people who arrived when Alice was leaving."

"Alice was . . . ."

"Dead," Glen Millar finished for him. "Mrs Bendicks takes it personally, as if the food's to blame."

"How long till lunch?" asked Queen Victoria.

"A long time yet," said Gladstone, pulling a watch from his pocket. "Yes." And he put it back.

"How long till Bingo?" asked Hugh.

Gladstone almost answered but Professor Blake got in first. "It's at three. Surely you're not looking forward to it?"

"No," agreed Hugh. "I'm going to the National Portrait Gallery with Camellia. She wants to see photos."

"Wrong place," said Duke Ellington. "But it's worth a visit, none the less."

"Prince Charles in front of a fence," Ghandi shouted. Then she re-closed her eyes.

"I'm not sure . . . ,"

"Oh, go there anyway," said Professor Blake. "It's a good place and better than Bingo."

"Mrs Bendicks won't like it," said Glen Millar, placing his hands flat on the wooden arms of his chair, as if making ready for a quick gettaway. "She likes everyone here."

Hugh ignored him. "Would anyone like to come with us?"

"If my legs were better," said Gladstone. "I'd like to. But two short walks a day does for me."

"I think you see my difficulty," said Professor Blake. "Otherwise . . . ,"

"She won't like it," Glen Millar insisted, anxious and cross.

"I would," said Queen Victoria. "I wouldn't like the Gallery but I'd like to annoy Mrs Bendicks."

"What for?"

"Because I pay to be here," said Queen Victoria irritably. "If she paid me to play Bingo, it might be different, but she's not offered yet."

Appreciation rippled through the group.

"I like Bingo," said Ghandi firmly, her eyes still shut.

"Professor Blake, how bad are your legs?" Hugh asked.

"I can walk, just a bit. A couple of steps. Maybe three. Out of my chair, into bed, that kind of thing."

"Would you be able to get up onto a coach?"

"I'd need a lot of help."

"If someone pushed and someone else pulled?"

Professor Blake laughed. "Not quite like that, but I could do it if I had to."

"Meet me in the hall here at ten-to-three then," said Hugh. "You too, Ghandi. My treat. Proper Bingo for those who want. Art for those who don't. My wife won't mind."

"And me?" asked Scotty, suddenly serious and hopeful.

"Bingo in a proper Bingo Hall?"

"Why not?"

"Why not indeed? There'll be room for everyone. Two coaches."

"No-one's believing you," said Queen Victoria. She was cabling and didn't look up - and her voice was little, as if some great hopefulness had turned down the volume.

"Believe it," Hugh said, standing. "Believe it and be ready."

"It's like a campaign," Gladstone suggested.

"It is."

"I'd prefer the National Gallery," said Glen Millar.

"Well," said Hugh. "It's only next door. We're leaving at three. I'd better tell Camellia."

Everyone grinned.

"Good luck," said Duke Ellington.

"Oh, she won't mind," said Hugh. "In fact, she'll be glad. We haven't had company for years and sometimes I think she's lonely. Is there anyone prepared to discuss . . . Bill Brandt is it?"

"No photos."

"Never mind. She'll manage. Ten-to-three.!"

He began to walk to the door, then turned. "I wasn't looking forward to being here. I have cattle and . . . but I'm beginning to enjoy it. So pleased to meet you all!"

Then he went to tell Camellia.

_____

For the next post - Forty-Six

For the post before this one - Forty-Four

FORTY-FOUR

2009-05-25T15:00:00.010+01:00

continued from

Next to arrive was Gladstone with newspapers under his arm.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, spotting Hugh and Camellia as he came in. "If I knew you'd be here I'd have asked what you wanted. Lord and Lady Thorncombe isn't it?"

"Hamilton, " I think, said Camellia, miserably.

"Well, Lady Hamilton," he said, looking over a pair of half-moon spectacles, "next time I go out, I'll ask what you want. Probably after lunch to fetch the Evening Standard."

"We were talking about the washing," said Queen Victoria.

"Are you?" said Gladstone, manoeuvring a chair round to face into the circle. "They don't like us doing this, he said. "We're supposed to sit in rows so we don't trip over each other's feet."

"Ghandi does it on purpose," said Duke Ellington.

"Except to me," said Professor Blake. "I ran over her toes once. Now she keeps them clear."

“Washing," said Gladstone. "Most of the maids think ‘If the suit fits - wear it'."

“All clothes are equal” said Queen Victoria. Every time she spoke she turned her needles backwards so they hovered just in front of her ample chest. "But some are more equal than others." Camellia was mesmerised. Couldn't listen properly for wondering if Queen Victoria had ever speared herself on her knitting. "Especially knickers. They seem to be little Socialists. They go around in clusters and can't be separated. You’ve either got none, or you’ve got a drawer-full.”

“And another thing” said Ivy heavily. “Going back to what we were talking about . . . . . Not everyone's chosen their name. See Ghandi?" She pointed at a crinkly old lady sitting in a half doze on the other side of the room. She’s just plain mad. She really does think she's Ghandi. See her sandals?”

They all peered round.

“At least she's not religious," said Professor Blake.

“I'm C. of E.,” said Hugh defensively, surprising himself.

Everyone laughed, including the Professor.

“He doesn't mean that!” said Ivy, "Most of us are. Sort of. Except me. Just watch out if anyone say's they're Jesus. Those, you must avoid. It's the wrong kind of mad. But Ghandi's harmless. I'm going back to bed, it's been a long morning." She stood and flexed her shoulders. "I mean, no-one in the C. of E. would say they're Jesus however old they get, would they? You won't claim you're God, will you?"

“Of course not!” said Hugh, mildly affronted.

"There you are! No-one claims to be Jesus just because they're old. Funny that." And she marched off through the door to go back upstairs."

Gandhi opened her eyes. "Mrs Bendicks thinks she's mad." (She was meaning Ivy.) Her voice was thin and crackly and they had to strain their ears to hear her. "And you, Mr Gladstone. She thinks everyone's mad."

“Quite, quite,” Gladstone agreed indulgently. “But some choose madness, others have it thrust . . . . .”

"I'm not sure I want . . . ," said Camellia, feeling faint and leaning back so she could rest her head.

"Do it!" said Gladstone in a commanding but kindly voice. "Do you have family?"

"Yes," said Camellia, "a daughter and two grand-daughters, that's why . . . ,"

"Then keep your real self for them. You don't have to be Lady Thorncombe if you don't want to. Chose something else. Priscilla, you look like a Priscilla, how about that?"

"I don't!" said Camellia, sitting up straight again.

"Leave her be," said Lewis.

"He's right though," Queen Victoria said, leaning forward and nearly spearing herself again. "Come on Lewis, you know he is."

"Louis!" said Lewis.

"Louis, Louis," parroted Ghandi. "He's Louis, Louis. Got your trumpet Louis?" Then she closed her eyes.

"It's confusing," said Lewis. "Because I was Lewis as in 'Alice' when I came - but when the Duke arrived, I thought it would be more fun to be Louis. So I changed. He's more classical, of course but . . . ."

"Really?" asked Camellia. "I didn't get up properly this morning. I'll just go and . . . ."

Then she stopped. Why had she been about to tell this group of strangers that she needed to wash?

"I'm Camellia," she said. "I'm no-body but Camellia."

"Quite right," said Hugh. "I'll follow you up in a minute."

"Louis Armstrong," called Lewis as she moved away.

"Oh!" Camellia looked back and smiled. But she wasn't listening. She was wondering what Hugh might do.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Five

For the Post Before This - Forty-Three

FORTY-THREE

2009-05-23T16:55:00.012+01:00

continued from

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Residents' Lounge was comfortable, grand and south-facing, with walls the colour of pale butter; and big windows bright with yellow curtains, cheerful in the mid-morning sun.

"Coffee," shouted Ivy.

"Isabelle!" An elderly man rested his book on the arm of his chair and stood to greet her. "Come and sit down! Where have you been? It's gone eleven! And bring your friends over!" He walked towards them a few paces, opened his arms expansively and ushered them to comfortable chairs near his own.

"Coffee, Lewis, we're to have real coffee. It's been decided. We went to a meeting and they said from now on we can have real coffee."

The man frowned. "I'm not sure I'll like that. It's bad for my digestion." He rubbed his stomach defensively. "But I expect they'll give us a choice. Who are your friends?"

"This," said Ivy, pointing at Camellia, is Lady Hamilton, Duchess of Marlborough. And this (you don't mind me pointing, do you?) is, oh, I don't know," she said, fanning her face with her hand. "Napoleon did you say?"

"It'll do," said Hugh, smiling. "Did you say 'Isabelle'?"

"Sshhhhhh!" Ivy was startled and looked cross. "Lewis! You should know better, much better. You shout!" Camellia frowned. "Don't worry dear," Ivy said. "You've come to the bottom of it now, arrived at the end of it. No more names." She smiled. "I've run out." And she dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm Isabelle. That's my real name. Though I'd rather you didn't know."

"But why?" Camellia was feeling miserable again; tired and disoriented. "Isabelle is such a pretty name."

"Sshhhhhhh! No-one here is to know."

"Is that your boyfriend?" shouted a red faced man in a cardigan who was sitting at the other side of the room, next to a large fireplace with a vase of flowers in it.

"Shut up, Scotty! Ignore him, Camellia." " 'Isabelle'," she whispered, "is too pretty a name to use here. But 'Ivy''s an old person's name, don't you think? And Mrs Bendicks thinks I really am an 'Ivy'. It's in the records - and it's important you don't tell her it's wrong." She had gone pale. Clearly it mattered to her more than Camellia properly understood. Camellia decided from now on she'd not call anyone anything.

"Ivy, I really don't like real coffee. No-one does," said the man called Lewis. "And you're just making work for Maria, you know you are."

"He's worrying about his custard creams," said Ivy.

Maria came to the door with a large man in a wheel chair. He propelled himself over and parked beside Hugh. Maria went back to the kitchen . . . or somewhere.

"Professor Blake," he said, offering his hand. Hugh hesitated as he took it. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've forgotten who I'm meant to be. I was Napoleon just now but I don't think . . . ."

Professor Blake laughed. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll settle on something in time. Or you might decide to be like me and stay as you were before you arrived."

"Then are you a real professor?" asked Camellia hoping he would say 'yes' but not expecting to believe him, whatever he said.

"I was. Of mathematics. But, in Mrs Bendicks' view, no-one over seventy has a brain - and her ideas are curiously retro-active. All old people are idiots and in her view that proves they always were - so none of us could ever had careers, or done anything useful or thought an interesting thought. It's quite good as a cover. I can be myself because she doesn't believe I was ever me. How could an old person have taught mathematics?"

"Aliens!" shouted the man by the fireplace.

"Ignore him," said Ivy. "You always get one. I wanted to keep the 'I', you see?" Camellia didn't. "So they wouldn't send back my post." She was urgent to make Camellia understand. But Camellia didn't. She was lost. (She wondered if her eyes had crossed with the effort.) " 'I' - it has the same initial! 'I'. And Ivy's like me, still clinging on." She patted Camellia's knee tearfully and Camellia tried not to mind.

A large lady with a large knitting bag eased herself into a large armchair opposite. "Hello," said Hugh, "I'm Hugh and this is my wife, Camellia."

"I'm Victoria," said the lady with a sniff. "I used to be Queen you know."

"She knows I can count. (This was Professor Blake.) "Just about. Have you got your Bingo Card yet? No? You will. I have an idea she expects us to practice in our rooms. We all get one. Astronauts, scientists, actors, doctors, Nobel laureates - we all get Bingo cards. But don't worry if you have trouble with numbers. She'll organise a community volunteer to help you. The Church sends them round. The first time I met mine I told her I didn't like Bingo but, if she was at a loose end and wanted someone to talk to, I wouldn't mind if she stayed on a bit for a chat."

"He thinks Star Trek is still on the Telly," said Ivy. "You can hear him fighting Klingons in the bathroom."

"She told me where to buy thermal vests," continued the Professor. "She's very keen on thermal vests. Apparently they come in an infinite variety of shapes, styles, colours, lengths, widths, tensions, plies and prices. You can buy one in a packet or . . . "

"I use double knitting or chunky nowadays," said Queen Victoria. "When I was young and knitting for my children, it was all three ply. No-body bothers now. I'm not sure you can get it even."

"Here's Duke Ellephant," said Ivy, of a tall, thin man who had entered the room. "Come and meet our new friends - Lord Thorncombe and Lady Hamilton."

"Not Napoleon, then," said Professor Blake. (Lewis was saying he preferred Dr Who.)

"Bingo, this afternoon," said the Duke (who turned out to be 'Ellington', not 'Ellephant') as he joined the circle. "I don't know why the Queen doesn't send the cards out like telegrams when we retire."

"You like Bingo?" Hugh was surprised.

"Heavens no! But you know what they say - 'Birth, death and Bingo'."

"Mr Ellephant is a conductor," said Ivy.

"Philharmonic," said the Duke quietly. "But don't let Mrs Bendicks know you know. I sometimes go out to Berlin to guest, even nowadays, and she's jealous because she thinks I get more holidays than she does." Camellia studied him. He looked too frail to be working. "Just sometimes," he said, smiling across at her. "It makes a change from here."

“Of course,” said Queen Victoria, leaning over her needles, voice throbbing with drama. “If you’re really bright, they let you play Scrabble.”

Professor Blake snorted.

"If you had been holding a cup of coffee, you'd have spilled it on your legs," Ivy said gleefully.

"I'd not mind," said Professor Blake. "They're not mine. (The trousers, I mean, not the legs," he added quickly because he'd noticed Camellia was trying hard to look not-startled.) “Which reminds me. You’d better keep tabs on your clothes, Newcomers. Guard them closely - if you want to go home with the ones you arrived in.”

“Best thing,” said Lewis, confidentially, "is never let them go to the wash. Once they're there, you might get them back - you might not. They're common property all of a sudden and who knows who might be wearing them next?"

"Klingons!" shouted the man by the fire - and everyone laughed. Except Camellia - who couldn't stop wondering when Rosemary would arrive to collect them . . . and when Hugh would say they could go home. She was missing the mists of Thorncombe, the smell of the cattle - and rain.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Four

For the Post Before This - Forty-Two

FORTY-TWO

2009-05-22T15:09:00.012+01:00

continued from

But Mrs Bendicks hadn't finished.

“But you and your wife will be gone in four days! I don’t see the point of this at all.”

“Mrs Bendicks,” said the Chairperson patiently but firmly. "Let us now continue with the meeting. Let's see how it goes. If you still have concerns at the end, perhaps you would have a quiet word with me then, or, if necessary, bring it up in 'any other business'?"

“It ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it,” Hugh sang under his breath. The Chairperson turned back, startled. Hugh smiled as at a conspirator. Ah! The Chairperson replied with a smirk - shuffled his papers and pulled out an official looking document.

"We need now to deal with this question of Public Liability Insurance," he said. Then, looking at Hugh, "Is it alright if we pick up from where we left off? You don't need to listen to our debates about items one to three? Or should I give you a summary?" Hugh indicated that it would be fine for the meeting to continue from where it had left off. "I'll catch you up later," promised the Chairperson warmly. "Now, this is about the demarcation between staff-only areas and the areas relatives are allowed to visit. I know from previous discussions that some members of the committee think relatives should be allowed to inspect anything at any time and without notice but Mrs Bendicks has also indicated she doesn't like the idea of strangers wandering around unannounced and getting in the way." Secretly and definitely, Hugh sympathised with Mrs Bendicks and wondered what he would do if he found himself agreeing with everything she said. But Ivy had grown bored.

“Coffee,” she said, loudly. “Real coffee. Coffee that smells like coffee and tastes like coffee; not the muck that comes out of that machine in the Residents’ Lounge.”

“What?” said the Chairperson.

“Don’t you usually have coffee about now? I think so. I’ve seen it being wheeled in to other meetings. And smelled it.” She sighed longingly.

The Chairperson leant forward encouragingly. Over the three years he had been coming to Safehaven, he had found it very difficult to meet residents without Mrs Bendicks hovering nearby. Maybe something would come of this 'consumer involvement'? Truth be told, he was finding the arrival of these three new members more entertaining than Public Liability Insurance.

“Don’t you usually get fresh coffee?” he asked. Ivy cackled eloquently. “I see,” he said. “Well, we’ve come nearly to the end of our agenda and this insurance issue can be discussed next time. It wouldn't harm if it were studied further before we make a decision anyway. So, unless there’s no 'Other Business', I think we should close the meeting and ask Mrs Bendicks to have coffee brought in. Real coffee,” he added in a stage whisper to Ivy. "And I think we should take this opportunity to get to know our new committee members." He raised his eyebrows and looked round for agreement. All seemed to be going very smoothly. Except - Mrs Bendicks had something more to say. The Chairperson sighed. "Can this be dealt with quickly?"

“Oh yes, “ said Mrs Bendicks, combining enthusiasm with a simper. “It's just that I'd like to inform the committee of the new staff uniform I'm introducing. I thought you'd like to see a sample.” She bent down and pulled a long cardboard box from under her chair and placed it on the table.

“One moment, Mrs Bendicks," said an elderly clergyman with the air of someone whose sleep has been disturbed by a burglar. “Didn’t we agree, some time ago, that one of the good things about Safehaven is its informality and that uniforms would be out of place?” Mrs Bendicks flushed.

“Oh, but just wait till you see it!” she said, lifting the lid. The Chairperson sighed theatrically and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t suppose it can harm to take a look in your box, Mrs Bendicks, as long as you can be quick and bear in mind that we have already discussed this matter at length. We don’t want to drag out the meeting unnecessarily. Do we? We want our coffee!”

Mrs Bendicks glared and lifted out a bright nylon overall, decorated with large, yellow clematis flowers on a lime green background. Reverently, she stood, and draped it against her. "What d'you think?"

The Committee collectively opened its eyes and gasped.

Ivy leapt to her feet. “Yellow!” she shrieked.

Camellia folded her arms on the table and lowered her head. “Oh no!” she said miserably.

But Hugh shouted. “Bravo! I misjudged you again, Mrs Bendicks, I do apologise. I hadn’t realised you possessed such a wonderful sense of humour! What an excellent joke.” He gave an appreciative laugh and began to clap, looking round at the bemused committee members as if expecting them to join in. After a few moments - they did.

Mrs Bendicks dropped the overall back into the box, said she would 'see about the coffee’ and left the room abruptly. Tears of cheerfulness were running down Ivy's face. “Wonderful,” she said. "Mr Thorncombe, you really are wonderful." And she took Hugh's elbow with one hand while she fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief with the other. "A truly welcome addition to Safehaven. Wonderful, you are, Mr Thorncombe. Truly wonderful.”

Mrs Bendicks vanished for the rest of the day.

The coffee Maria wheeled in for them was good.

Very good.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Three

For the Post Before This - Forty-One

FORTY-ONE

2009-05-21T14:18:00.012+01:00

continued from

And he strode in - Mrs Thatcher enthusiastically at his heels; Camellia behind, less so.

***

The night before, Hugh had taken three baths. He'd had to do something to pass the time while Camellia slept. And the water was perfect; unlike at home where it had to travel so far between a boiler and the bathroom it was almost cold by the time it got there. And he'd brought a suit with him too; a smart one because he'd wanted to impress Robert and the girls; and imagining he and Camellia would be spending most of the day with Rosemary, he'd put it on.

He'd been in meetings of one kind or another for most of his life. He'd been on boards of companies. His election to the P.C.C. had been automatic. He'd even thought he might stand as a Conservative M.P. once he retired from The City. And he might have done just that if he hadn't decided to farm at Thorncombe instead. Even now, from time to time, he'd go to London with his briefcase, where he'd blend in instantly with his peers. And so it was now. The men round the table recognised him straight away as one of their own and nodded a greeting - then they went back to studying their papers. Even the Chairperson remained unruffled, thinking Hugh was a new committee member arriving late. So he half stood, looked round for an empty chair and motioned Hugh to take a place. Then he saw two women coming in behind and this puzzled him because they didn't look quite ‘committee types’. Indeed one was clearly so over excited she couldn't walk straight or stand without wriggling. The other, though more formally dressed, was slightly dishevelled and seemed reluctant to enter. "Mrs Bendicks?"

Mrs Bendicks, sitting with her back to the door and engrossed in her papers was hardly aware anyone had come in. The Vicar hadn't arrived yet. If she'd thought about it at all, she'd have thought it was him.

“Mr Thorncombe!” she exclaimed, twisting round in her seat. I’m afraid this meeting isn’t open to residents. It’s The Management Committee for Safehaven."

“Fine, fine,” said Hugh, pulling over some extra chairs and showing Ivy where to sit. Then, “Come on. Come on,” he said encouragingly to Camellia. “You sit here, opposite me.” Reluctantly, Camellia took her place. “We’re so sorry to be late,” said Hugh, addressing the Chair. “The invitations arrived in this morning’s post - but we came as quickly as we could.”

The Chairperson was gripped so thoroughly by Hugh's air of authority that he paid no further attention to the women but Mrs Bendicks looked between the three of them, bewildered.

“Excuse me,” she said. “But what invitations?”

“From the Charity Commissioners,” said Hugh. (He was good at this.) “Apparently, they are keen to hear the voice of consumers in policy making. They want them to have strong representation on all decision making bodies. This will be the first committee at Safehaven to be given the advantage of such input but I understand invitations will be sent to other residents in due course. They will be taking their places on subcommittees and delegated groups over the next few months. It’s a mammoth undertaking, making such changes throughout the whole Voluntary Pirate Sector. Over time, the means for choosing representatives will change and develop. But this was all put through in a bit of a rush." He paused. The committee members grimaced and smiled at each other tolerantly. They were used to this kind of thing - not very well thought out policies sprung on them without notice. "But it’s an important development," Hugh went on. "And we,” he made formal nods towards Ivy and Camellia, “are very honoured to be the first residents chosen to represent Safehaven.”

“But you and Mrs Thorncombe only arrived yesterday,” said Mrs Bendicks, trying not to sound indignant, hoping no-one else had noticed Hugh calling her a 'pirate'.

“Precisely.” Hugh turned earnestly to face her. “We have been selected precisely because we are new and will have the clear and unjaded eyes of the inexperienced. Mrs Thatcher here,” he moved a hand to indicate her presence “will be speaking for the older residents.” He gave her a little, patronising smile. “If she will let me express it that way.” Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

The committee members responded with a polite rustle of laughter at this little joke but Mrs Bendicks grew more agitated.

“Could we have a word outside, Mr Thorncombe?” she said, half rising.

“Later, later, Mrs Bendicks,” said Hugh airily. “I look forward to hearing your views on this project but think we should see how it goes first - and,” he looked apologetically at the Chairperson, as if sharing the thought that Mrs Bendicks was to be humoured but not listened to. "We don’t want to disrupt proceedings any more than we have done already." He turned to the rest of the meeting. Mrs Thorncombe, Mrs Thatcher and I had a short discussion before we arrived, to decide policy, as it were. We decided it would be best simply to be observers at this first meeting - while we feel for our feet. Please let the meeting continue just as if we were not here. I do apologise that we are late.” He looked round at everyone present, craving their indulgence which, with smiles and nods, willingly they did.

The Chairperson thanked Hugh and turned back to his papers.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Two

For the post before this - Forty

FORTY

2009-05-06T22:26:00.010+01:00

continued from

Except, the stairs didn't lead down to the kitchen but into a maze. They went down and up and along and round and through a door which led into what had once been a completely different building.

"Big, isn't it!" said Camellia. "I hadn't realised." And she screwed up her nose. "I think this is the 'ill' bit." Indeed, the smell of disinfectant had become horribly unpleasant and strong. "Let's go back."

So they went back and down and looked in the utility rooms and walk-in linen cupboards and dry food stores and a meter cupboard where the fuses were, and all sorts of places which weren't the kitchen - until, eventually, they came across an elderly lady with a huge handbag in the crook of her arm jumping up and down and trying to see through a square of wired glass in a door a distance ahead of them down a long corridor.

Hugh coughed politely as they came near.

“Hello,” she said, standing still for a moment and turning to greet them. “I’m trying to see in here. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“It's a meeting," said Hugh, bending to look through the glass. "There are eight people round a big table. We're here for a week."

“What kind of a meeting?” asked the lady. “Who’s there? I used to be a bit taller. It's a nuisance being short. Is Mrs Bendicks in there?”

"Yes," said Hugh. "I can see the back of her head."

"Who else, who else?"

"I don't know said Hugh. "Mostly men in suits."

“Brilliant!” exclaimed the old lady - and she pushed in front of him and held onto the narrow wooden frame round the glass and tried to lever herself up onto tip-toes so she could see through too.

Camellia was embarrassed. What if someone came along?

“My name is Camellia Thorncombe,” she said politely. "This is my husband, Hugh.”

The woman stopped bouncing up at the door for a second time and her manner changed. Very formally, stiffly, ostentatiously (but not offensively so) she offered her hand for Camellia to shake.

“Good morning. I’m Mrs Thatcher,” she said. Then, loosing interest in the meeting all of a sudden, she walked down the corridor a short distance and waited for them to follow.

“Mrs Thatcher?” asked Hugh.

“Yes!”

"No," said Hugh, pacing after her. "You aren't. The handbag proves it."

"I am." She paused. "Sometimes." Then she smiled.

"Who else are you?" asked Camellia, catching up. "When it isn't 'sometimes' and you aren't Mrs Thatcher?" For a moment, it looked as if the elderly lady had decided not to say any more and Camellia worried she might have misunderstood.

"Ivy."

This came out reluctantly, maybe things were moving too fast.

“Is that all?” Hugh asked. "Or do you have other names for other days?"

“It depends.”

Camellia decided to be as friendly as she possibly could. “What does it depend on?” she asked with interest.

“It depends on 'it depends'. How many names do you have? Will you say?" The woman looked challengingly between Hugh and Camellia and they looked back at her. "Go on," she said. "I’d be interested to know how many names you have.”

"Ah!" suddenly, Hugh understood.

“Well, generally, I’m Hugh Thorncombe," he said. "But just lately, by which I mean, since yesterday evening, I’ve become Lord Thorncombe as well.”

“There you are!” she said triumphantly. "And you are Lady Thorncombe?"

“Hamilton, actually. Lady Hamilton.” Camellia looked at her feet and back at Mrs Thatcher rather shyly. “That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Mrs Thatcher excitedly. “That’s exactly what I mean. I thought you’d be the ones. I heard Mrs Bendicks talking to Maria last night. She was saying you couldn’t really be Lady Hamilton because Napoleon is French and you don't seem the type to marry a foreigner.”

“She said that?” asked Hugh incredulously.

“Oh, she’s no sense of history,” said Mrs Thatcher dismissively. “It may have been because Maria took you tea. If you had been French, you would have asked for coffee wouldn't you? What would you prefer me to call you? Lady Hamilton or Lady Thorncombe? Which do you like best?”

“Neither, really,” said Camellia. "I'm Camellia. Just Camellia. I used to be 'Mrs Thorncombe' but everyone uses my first name now except for the milkman and he doesn't come any more. I'd like you to call me Camellia. Do you think that will be alright?”

“Absolutely fine," agreed Mrs Thatcher-Ivy. "Except in public. Then you had better be Lady Hamilton. Otherwise it might get confusing."

“And we are to call you 'Mrs Thatcher' in public but 'Ivy' in private?”

“If you don’t mind,” she said.

“Are you really a 'Mrs Thatcher'?" asked Hugh. "Ivy Thatcher perhaps? I ask despite the handbag."

"Nope," said Mrs Thatcher cheerfully. "I'm Mrs-Thatcher-the-Prime-Minister."

A burst of laughter in the room nearby drew their attention back to the meeting. “But why are you so interested in what’s happening in that room?” asked Hugh.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m not really interested. It’s just that I like to bug Mrs Bendicks. I wish she'd been facing the door. Then she'd have seen me. Pathetic, isn’t it? Really childish. But that woman is so annoying and there's so little to do here, it's a kind of mild entertainment. Not that Mrs Bendicks thinks it's entertaining. But she thinks I'm dotty so she can't throw me out. I fulfil all her expectations of dottiness; I'm short, white haired and mad. Shall we get some coffee? Or tea? It’s pretty awful - and comes out of a machine - but it's better than nothing. They won’t trust us with kettles. Come on.”

And she began to walk on down the corridor.

“Hang on,” said Hugh. “I'm with you completely. I've not given a false name since I was at school but telling Mrs Bendicks I'm a 'Lord' turns out to be a half decent joke. She 'half-believed' me! She certainly humoured me. We’ll help with this meeting if you like. Except - we’re here only for a few days. It doesn't matter what we do and we won't mind if we get sent home - as long as we see our grandchildren first. It could be quite fun. Like being expelled. But we wouldn't like to make things worse for you, would we Camellia?"

Camellia shook her head and wondered what Hugh was letting them into.

“You can't make it worse," said Mrs Thatcher. "And I can't be expelled. She has to be kind to me because I'm dotty. And we've got to have fun, us oldies, haven't we? What's the point of being old if you can't have fun because of it?"

“As long as you never wear a yellow hat!” said Camellia.

“No chance!” said Mrs Thatcher. “You have only to walk in through the front door here to get sick of yellow. She'd got through all the loos and showers and the entrance hall and the curtains in the Lounge and in some of the bedrooms before she was stopped."

“That's enough!" said Hugh. “I’ve always wanted to be ‘bad’. Now we'll seek 'vengeance for yellow'. Why peep in at a window when we could sit at the table? Come on!" And he strode back down the corridor and flung open the door to the meeting room. "Come on, I said! Come on you two. Hurry up now! We mustn't be late for the meeting!"

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-One

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Nine

THIRTY-NINE

2009-05-05T12:33:00.008+01:00

continued from

“Oh, Grandma,” Hugh said. “What great big eyes you’ve got! And what a great big yawn and what a ridiculous book! What a pretty shawl and snowy white hair. Shall I eat you or take you to breakfast?”

Camellia put down her cup and her book and levered herself reluctantly out of bed.

"Hey ho," she said. "The wind and the rain. I'd better get dressed."

"Everyone else was up hours ago," said Hugh. "This tea is supposed to be a signal that breakfast's ready, not an invitation to stay in bed. You really are a sluggard today." Camellia's face fell. Immediately he regretted joking. She'd looked so pink and happy when he came into the room, he'd forgotten how fragile she was. He hugged her and gathered up the slippery quilt which had fallen to the floor. "Don't worry," he said, dumping it in a pile on the bed. "They're all old people here, wake terribly early; can't sleep for remembering their youth. Shall I find your knickers for you?"

"Go away Hugh," she said crossly. "We're all old people now. That's why we're here!"

He kissed her again and went to sit in the comfortable chair. "I'll wait," he said. "Sorry I've pushed you out of bed the wrong side but I've been up for what seems like hours now myself. I'd expected you to be the same. I didn't know you had so much sleep left."

"Years!" she said. "Years and years of it. I’ll wash later if we're in a hurry.”

"Have you met Maria?"

"I have," said Camellia, from inside her jumper. "She seems to be the only one doing any work."

"Oh," said Hugh, crestfallen. "I was wondering if we might ask her if she'd bring breakfast to us here. There's a cook remember. We could ask for toast? She'll manage. Remember what you were like when we were young?"

"We had servants and farm labourers and gardeners. I couldn't have done it all on my own."

"Don't be silly, Camellia, it's not a farm or an estate. All I'm suggesting is a pot of tea and some toast."

Camellia contemplated the backs of her hands - the raised veins and sinews, the little brown patches; her rough skin, her broken nails, the ingrained dirt, the raw scratches and white scars. "I can't keep doing what I do," she said. "Look."

Hugh looked at his own hands too and sighed. “We can’t give up.”

“No. But rest shouldn't be a luxury; not at our age."

His heart lurched.

“You're not suggesting we stay here?” He looked so shocked, she laughed and a huge and beautiful smile rippled through the lines on her face.

“Heaven forbid! Oh help! No! What a thought! How could you think that!" She bent over and pulled on her shoes. "It's this talk of servants and farm hands - and having Maria to bring me tea. It's made me think of Stephen. Do you think he might stay?"

"Of course not! He's some kind of banker! I'm amazed he's stayed this long, Camellia. He's not going to be a farm worker!"

"But it's going to feel so empty, when we go home."

"Camellia, Stephen's not going to be bringing you cups of tea in bed!" He leaped out of his chair, scooped the quilt into his arms for a second time and put it back on the bed again. "Bothersome thing! Be realistic!"

"I am. We can't go on as we have been."

"I can't go on without breakfast."

"I can't sit with new people while I'm feeling like this," said Camellia bleakly. "I might cry."

"Oh, come on," said Hugh, hugging her tight. "We'll find the kitchen and fetch a tray of tea and toast and have an argument up here about what Stephen should do with his life - turn computers into cashiers or come and toss hay."

"I know what I'd chose," said Camellia.

"Yes, but you're not him, are you?"

"Dead ends," said Camellia as Hugh opened the door and hurried her through it.

"What are?"

"Computers. They've been tried and found wanting. I'd rather have a cow any day."

"Yes, well that's you," he said, nudging her towards the nearest stairs - which weren't the main ones but ones with narrow steps which probably led down to the kitchens. "Come on. Before the cook goes home."

_____

To continue - Forty

For the post before this - Thirty-Eight

THIRTY-EIGHT

2009-05-04T11:12:00.008+01:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

(continued from)

The next morning, Camellia was surprised how refreshed she felt. Along with the tea, Maria had given her sandwiches and cake and fruit and had helped her find her night-dress and had supplied her with a warm towel and a tooth mug. Then she'd come back with a hot water bottle. She'd even turned off the bedside light. When Hugh peeped in, half an hour later, Camellia was already asleep. Without Maria, she wouldn't have slept at all.

“Don’t you ever go home?” Camellia asked brightly, looking at her now over her reading spectacles. It was eight o'clock, the sun was shining through a crack in the curtains and she was sitting up in bed with a 'Who Dunnit' and feeling happier and more rested than she remembered feeling in years. Maria put a cup of tea on the little table beside her.

“I’ve been at home most of the night,” she said, smiling.

"I'm usually up too by now," said Camellia, feeling guilty because Maria was working and she wasn't.

"Yes?"

"We've got animals." She knew the maid was busy and didn't want to stop but she was keen to let her know she wasn't lazy. It was awkward, sitting up in bed like this while someone else brought things. "Cows and sheep - and we used to have hens. Then there's wood to be chopped and scones to be baked."

"Breakfast is at nine," said Maria, beginning to move towards her trolley.

"Oh," said Camellia. "Have you seen my husband?"

"He was here last night. He sat with you for a bit, then I suggested he got an early night himself. You were both tired after your journey."

"We were," said Camellia, feeling she'd missed out on something. "Will I be seeing more of you, through the day?"

Maria laughed.

"Oh yes! Lots. I start with tea and end with cocoa."

"Cocoa?"

"Twelve hours," said Maria, grimacing. "Cocoa's at seven, then I go."

"Seven!"

“I’m sorry.” When she apologised, she wrinkled her nose. “But I need to get round everyone before the night staff come in. They wash up the mugs for me, then they doze in front of the telly most of the night. They've nearly all got day-jobs . . . they’re only here for emergencies - or a fire. So . . . ”

Maria moved further towards the door.

“Well!” said Camellia, in a huff, not sure whether she was more cross that she'd have to drink her cocoa at seven or that the night-staff spent their time watching television.

Maria looked at her thoughtfully.

"They don’t get paid enough you know."

"I'll get a kettle," said Camellia. "That way, they can watch television without worrying about us and Hugh and I will make tea for ourselves when we want it. I'm not going to bed at seven."

Maria leant on the trolley and shook her head.

“No kettles?"

“You might scald yourself.”

“Well!” Camellia exclaimed crossly. But she knew it wasn't Maria's fault and she didn't want to say anything too angry or hurtful. "I told Mrs Bendicks I was Lady Hamilton.”

"Did you?" Maria nodded. "I expect that'll do. See you later." She shut the door and set off down the corridor with the trolley, tea cups clinking against saucers. Camellia heard cheerful 'Good Morning!'s and fragments of indistinct conversation as the bedroom doors opened and Maria went in to visit each resident in turn.

__________

To continue - Thirty-Nine

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Seven

THIRTY-SEVEN

2009-04-29T13:18:00.004+01:00

continued from

Camellia went to the window and watched grey comuter trains cross in the cutting below. She admired the horse-chestnut trees on the slope opposite and wandered round the room looking at prints of roses and of children peering down wells. She wondered what Robert had done with their other suitcases - and what Rosemary was doing now.

Then she sat in the chair. And on the bed. Then she looked in the speckled glass of the wardrobe mirror and pretended to be Mrs Bendicks for a minute. Then she went back to the bed, swung her legs up onto it, wondered how long Hugh would be - and fell asleep.

When she woke, the light was almost gone and someone was tapping at the door. Not Hugh. He would have marched straight in. She leaned up on an elbow and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. She'd been crying. Another tap. Definitely a tap - but a gentle one. She could have pretended not to hear.

"Come in."

It was the maid; the one she'd seen with the tea-trolley.

"Hello," said the maid, stepping half into the room. "I'm Maria. May I come in?" Camellia smiled. "I work on the day shift," said Maria, stepping further into the room and closing the door. "May I sit down?"

Camellia wondered how long she had been asleep. Her brain had gone all fuzzy. She nodded.

"I'll bring you some tea in a minute, if you would like?"

Camellia thought that would be very nice. She thought Maria looked nice too; soft round the edges; not like Mrs Bendicks. And her hair was soft, instead of rigid. Black and wavy. Even in the half-light, Camellia could see her un-made-up cheeks were round and cheerful and healthy. Tired though.

"I'm meant to be cleaning saucepans but I wanted to say 'hello' so I came up. I hope that's alright?"

"Thank you," said Camellia, gratefully. A tear ran out of her eye. Where was Hugh? "Mrs Bendicks . . . ."

"Don't be frightened of her," Maria said, kindly. "There's no need."

Camellia pushed herself upright. “But she keeps changing. One minute she's friendly - then she's . . . !” Her eyes were heavy and closed themselves. She couldn't stop them. It had been a long day and a mistake to lie on the bed. But it was quite comforting, being here in the half-light, with Maria.

“Just think of her like the central heating,” said Maria cheerfully. "Then she won't be so frightening." Camellia pulled her eyes open. "She just turns herself on and off so things stay under control. She likes things to be well organised. She likes to be the organiser! Once you know that, and think of her like a sort of thermostat, you'll see she's really quite predictable."

"But it's bewildering," said Camellia, hoping she didn't sound too childish. And it was bewildering. She wished she weren't here. She was very, very tired. That was about all she was properly aware of by now. That, and that she didn't want to be barked at or simpered at. And that she wished she could go home.

"You're not frightened of the central heating, are you?"

Camellia turned on the lamp beside the bed.

"Do you say this to everyone?"

Maria looked down at her hands, which she'd folded neatly in her lap.

"I find it helps."

"I'm sure it does," said Camellia - and she reached out her own hand for Maria to take. Maria did. For a few moments, they sat together quietly, just like that, holding hands in the lamplight. Then Maria offered to light the gas fire and Camellia reminded her that she'd like a cup of tea - milk, no sugar.

_____

to continue - Thirty-Eight

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Six

THIRTY-SIX

2009-04-28T14:36:00.009+01:00

continued from

The room Mrs Bendicks showed them to was at the back of the building, overlooking some very pleasant gardens and a railway.

“We’re proud of our gardens,” said Mrs Bendicks. “They’re surprisingly large because we have access to several. Some of our gentlemen like to stand on the bridge and watch trains going through the cutting. And it’s our very own bridge - a private one - with Safehaven gardens continuing on the other side!”

"Well, well," said Camellia. “Noisy, though.”

“You’ll not notice,” said Mrs Bendicks. "It's a commuter line. There are no trains after eight o'clock. Here’s the wardrobe.” Camellia looked into the wardrobe. “And a fire for the evenings.” Camellia looked at the fire. It was the kind where gas hums and pops over white pottery shapes. “Maria will light it for you if you need it. And here’s a chest of drawers.”

“And a table,” said Camellia.

“Yes,” said Mrs Bendicks. “A table and an easy chair.”

“And a lampshade,” said Hugh.

“What?”

“A lampshade, Mrs Bendicks! Don’t forget to introduce us to the lampshade!” Mrs Bendicks, looked up. “And a very pleasant view,” Hugh went on. “Nice sturdy garden tables. Solid looking benches. Wrong room.”

Mrs Bendicks' eyes darted from the window to Hugh.

“It’s only a single bed,” he said, pointing at it irritably. “We’ll need something bigger than that.”

Mrs Bendicks frowned.

“I’ll show you to your room now, shall I Mr Thorncombe?" she said, quietly. "I’m sure your wife will be perfectly comfortable.” Then she went to the door and stood by it, clearly waiting for Hugh to walk ahead of her. He didn’t. “We’ll leave you to unpack, shall we, Mrs Thorncombe?”

Camellia felt 'pointedness' creeping into her heart. It was like a wasp searching for a place to lay its eggs or for something delicate to sting.

“No, Mrs Bendicks,” said Hugh. “Not this room. A double room.”

Mrs Bendicks drew herself up proudly. “There are no double rooms here,” she said. “Residents are not expected to sleep together!”

“And you? Mrs Bendicks. Do you not sleep with your husband?”

“I am not a resident, Mr Thorncombe!”

“But when you go home you . . . ?”

“Ah! I'm glad you mentioned that. We have a flat at the top of the building, Mr Thorncombe. This is important, if you need anything, either of you, in the night, or in the day . . . "

“Then - you are a resident! And you sleep in separate rooms.” Mrs Bendicks drew her shoulders back regimentally - which made the clematis flowers slide up her chest. Camellia wondered what would happen if she asked Mrs Bendicks to do it a few times on purpose. Up. Down. No. “Or separate beds?" suggested Hugh. Silence. "Then we’ll have a double room please, Mrs Bendicks.”

“There are no double rooms, Mr Thorncombe.”

“Lord.”

"What?"

"Lord Thorncombe."

Camellia felt her heart shake free of the wasp.

"And my wife is . . . "

"Lady Hamilton," said Camellia, surprised at herself. She had no idea where the idea came from. It just jolted out. But Hugh smiled encouragingly so she ploughed on. "I used to be married to Nelson," she said. (Was this right? She hadn't read any history recently. Perhaps she should cover herself better? Introduce a little flexibility.) "Then I married Napoleon. Afterwards . . . " (What next? If she wasn't careful, she'd panic.) "Then I married Hugh," she ended, triumphantly.

Mrs Bendicks suddenly relaxed. It was as if she had reached somewhere she knew; a safe place, something she had come across before and understood perfectly.

"Lady Hamilton! Ah yes. Well, I very much hope you enjoy your stay. Shall I show you to your room, Lord Thorncombe?" and she stepped briskly onto the landing where she waited for Hugh to follow. After a moment, he did. But first, he kissed Camellia.

"Well done," he whispered. "I'll be back."

_____

For the Next Post - Thirty-Seven

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Five

THIRTY-FIVE

2009-04-27T19:54:00.009+01:00

continued from

The door to the common sitting-room (on the right) and to the attendant’s office (on the left) were painted highly and whitely in gloss; and the double doors to the lift (next to the office) were stainless steel. The ceiling was white. The wall of the television room (next to the sitting room) was solid plate-glass but all the other walls (and the thick, sound-quenching carpet) were unrelenting buttercup.

“Yellow,” said Camellia. And she sighed.

"Yes,” said Mrs Bendicks, arriving beside them proudly. “I haven’t been here long but my first action as Manager was to cheer up the decor.

"Really?" asked Camellia, wondering if she sounded interested.

"Yes!" said Mrs Bendicks again, enthusiasm softening her features and her cheeks pinkening until they clashed with her housecoat. "I wanted to put up yellow shutters but the council wouldn’t allow it. There are all sorts of planning restrictions on buildings this side of The Common. Such a shame." (Hugh grunted.) "I’ve made a special study of how colour makes people feel - and yellow "mellows". Residents and staff alike have been much happier since I had this done."

"Really?" said Camellia.

"Indeed!" said Hugh. "I expect you would have wanted the window boxes to be planted with red geraniums in the summer? A cheerful contrast. An Alpine effect?”

“Why yes!”, said Mrs Bendicks, looking at him with interest. “How did you know?” She reached out and touched his sleeve lightly - which startled Hugh so much he had to force himself not to jump backwards. She didn't seem to notice. “But the Management Committee was against that. Such fuddy duddies.” She ran her hands over her housecoat and smoothed the nylon clematis flowers against her hips. "I'll show you to your rooms, shall I?"

Hugh and Camellia stepped towards the lift.

“Stairs!” barked Mrs Bendicks. They turned back, startled. “We always use the stairs,” she said. “It keeps our hearts and minds in order.”

"Really?" said Camellia, resolving she'd try not to say it again.

"Our hearts and minds are fine, thank you Mrs Bendicks," said Hugh, pressing the 'CALL LIFT ' button.

The doors opened, more or less immediately, revealing two startled ambulance men; and a very pale old lady lying on a wheeled stretcher. Hugh and Camellia moved aside to let them through but instead of coming forwards, one of the ambulance men leaned over the lady and pressed a button on the control panel so the doors slid shut, and the lift went up two levels.

"There!" said Mrs Bendicks, "we'll walk shall we?"

"We'll wait!" said Hugh.

Camellia distracted herself by watching a maid trundle a tea-trolley into the television room, where an elderly man slept in front of a black and white race track. Through the glass, Camellia saw her raise his arm a little. Gently, she returned it to its position, clinked a cup against a saucer and spoke again. The man stirred. The maid smiled and put a plate with a biscuit on a table in front of him. Then, she seemed to be asking about the television. Did he want to stay on the same channel? - something like that, Camellia guessed. But her attention was pulled away by the arrival of the lift which had returned to Ground Floor and the doors had opened. The ambulance men and the old lady were still inside. The doors closed again. The lift went back up.

"Still here?" asked Robert, coming in with the first suitcases and putting them on the floor next to Hugh.

"We'll take them straight up," said Mrs Bendicks.

"Ah!" said Robert. "That's fortunate. Look, the lift is on its way down."

"There's a body in it," said Hugh.

"The stairs," said Mrs Bendicks.

Robert said "Right;" picked up the suitcases and began to walk towards the first step.

The lift doors half opened - and closed.

Mrs Bendicks immediately saw she would have no problems watching over Hugh's heart for him. In a flash, he was right past her, up the stairs and on the first floor landing so he could press the 'CALL' button in time to intercept the lift on its latest journey upwards. The doors opened and his foot went straight over the threshold.

"Hello," he said, cheerfully to the ambulance men. "May I introduce myself? Hugh Thorncombe." And he held out a hand to each in turn. Reluctantly, they shook it politely - though the lady on the stretcher carried on lying still. Hugh observed her carefully for a moment, then he smiled. "My wife, Camellia - she's on her way up - she and I are here for a holiday." He lowered his voice - but not so low that Mrs Bendicks wouldn't be able to hear if she wanted to listen. "We're farmers," he said. The ambulance men looked uncomfortable. He took this as a good sign. "Which means," he said, sternly, "we're unshockable." Then he winked. "You can take her out now." One of the ambulance men winked in reply. Couldn't help himself. It just happened. "Right," said Hugh - and he stepped back, pressed the button for 'Ground Floor' - and got out of the lift.

Camellia was half way up the stairs with Robert; Mrs Bendicks plodding indignantly behind. "They don't want to cover her face," Camellia was saying. "That would prove she's dead. Do you see? Quite funny really, in an Old People's Home. That's right, isn't it, dear?" she asked Mrs Bendicks.

She didn't usually say 'dear' - it was something to do with being two steps up from someone she didn't like.

At that moment, an elderly man emerged from the sitting room. "Is that your car outside?" he shouted. Then he stepped deferentially aside because the lift doors had opened and the ambulance men were wheeling the stretcher and the old lady towards the front door. One gave Hugh a half wave and smiled bleakly as they tipped it backwards and began to carry it down the steps.

Robert didn't turn. He didn't want to see. "Yes!" he shouted.

"There's a traffic warden," called the man. "In the street. Just thought you'd want to know!

_____

For the Next Post - Thirty-Six

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Four

THIRTY-FOUR

2009-04-22T12:51:00.007+01:00

continued from

Camellia moved away and stood watching The Common. Cars were threading themselves smoothly between the avenues of trees, sunshine glancing off their windscreens. An old man and a little boy were throwing bread to geese gathered near a pond. Every so often, the boy ran off, opening his arms to rush at pigeons. Further away, a fair was being set up, with a gang of men pulling a ferris wheel upright, while others were lifting painted horses out of a truck. Next to Safehaven, rush-hour traffic was slowing into the Wandsworth bottle neck. Camellia wrinkled her nose at the smell and watched as the heads and shoulders of drivers bobbed up and down when they searched for tapes or switched channels on their radios. They doubted they'd move much in the next hour.

Robert followed a little way. He wanted to reassure her, tell her everything would be alright once they'd seen their rooms and met other residents. But he thought too that he should rescue Mrs Bendicks who clearly wasn't inclined to be friendly with Hugh even though he was enthusiastically making bold attempts to grab her hand and shake it.

“Mrs Bendicks!" he was exclaiming. "How kind of you to have us to stay! And in such a wonderful location! A hint of the country side,” (he swept his arm theatrically across the view of the Common) "combined so enticingly with the promise of City life!” And he swept his arm back towards the east until a grimy index finger was pointing in the direction of central London.

“I hope you realise, Mr Thorncombe," replied Mrs Bendicks, coldly. "That this is a Rest Home, not a Hotel.”

He shuffled his feet and dropped his shoulders into a posture reminiscent of respect.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, in a low voice. “I’ll try to be quiet. That’s the trouble with young people, one little illness, one broken leg and the whole world has to be hushed on their behalf. You should work with older people Mrs Bendicks! Far less trouble. Especially deaf ones. Then you can sing as much as you like and be happy!" His voice had risen once more. Camellia walked back. Hugh had become so animated she wondered if he might break into a dance. Whatever was he doing? "There's not much to mind, is there, once you get old? Glad to hear anything I should think. How long is it before you retire?”

Camellia smiled. No. Not smiled. It was a smirk. A suppressed delight. Almost a giggle.

Hugh smiled back. “Camellia! Come on my dear," he shouted. "Don’t keep Mrs Bendicks waiting! Our holiday (Oh!)" he turned apologetically to Mrs Bendicks who had taken a couple of paces sideways. "Ah! There you are. I mean our 'REST' . . . Is about to begin.”

Camellia grasped the iron hand rail, lowered her head and walked slowly up the steps, as if taking care on each one.

Mrs Bendicks tried to look sympathetic. After all, a ‘relative’ was looking on and 'relatives' were, in her experience, generally the ones who paid. At the very least, they were the ones with influence; the ones in charge of money, even if it wasn't actually theirs.

Not only that, Mrs Bendicks had decided there were only three kinds of people in the world. There were old people who needed to be looked after. There were children - who also needed looking after. And there were the people in the middle who did the looking after - either by themselves or with the paid help of people like her. She certainly knew who was important and who wasn't!

"Mr Symmonds!" she said, extending her hand warmly towards Robert as he arrived at the top step with Camellia. "How nice to meet you again! And in the company of your charming parents."

Robert said "My," and Mrs Bendicks leapt in to finish for him.

"Ah, yes, your wife's! Come in, come in! It's won't be long until tea. You must be tired after your journey.”

“Indeed we are,” said Hugh.

“I was thinking of the driver,” said Mrs Bendicks coldly - with a smile that was directed sweetly, complicitly and exclusively at Robert.

“Thank you," he said. But he wasn't looking at her. He was trying to catch Hugh's eye; to communicate his alarm . . . to apologise - but Hugh turned his back and walked in through the front door. Camellia took one last look at the life of The Common - the children, the fair, the pigeons, the geese and the traffic - and followed him into the deadly quiet of Safehaven.

Robert began to go in too.

"No!," said Mrs Bendicks, "You must move the car first. You're on yellow lines."

“Right,” said Robert, seeing this might be a chance to escape. “I’ll just bring the suitcases up, then I'll . . . ." He could go home! "I'll tell Rosemary you're here,” he called. His voice shook. He was suddenly struck by the idea that there might well be a different world beyond that door, a world he should be glad he wasn't entering, however expensive it was, however 'comfortable' it might be. But Hugh and Camellia didn't hear him for they were being assaulted, once again, by brightness - except this time it was worse because it was in a confined space, horribly clean and smelled of polish.

_____

For The Next Post - Thirty-Five

For the post before this - Thirty-Three

THIRTY-THREE

2009-04-21T21:59:00.007+01:00

continued from

CHAPTER SIX

Camellia shoved the car door open and swung her legs round onto the pavement. 'Safehaven' seemed to be leaning over her, ready to collapse out of a startlingly blue sky where puffs of high white cloud were streaming over its grey tiled roof five stories up.

She blinked, and felt dizzy, and raised her hand to shield out the glare. It had been a long drive. Her head hurt and her eyes did too. Robert hurried round to her side of the car and held the door steady.

“When you’re ready,” he said.

“I’m not.”

Now she was here, she didn't want to get out - just sit - and look. Just let her get her breath, she thought, then, when she'd looked enough, she'd ask Hugh if they could go home.

It was a flat-fronted, medium-grand house in the middle of a terrace which faced The Common. Black railings bordered an old fashioned 'area' and there was a fan shaped flight of steps leading up to a bright yellow front door.

"They like yellow," she observed as Hugh came round to stand next to Robert.

Indeed, they did. There were yellow painted window boxes with yellow daffodils. And the curtains which stood to attention on each side of every sash window were yellow too.

Hugh leant down encouragingly.

"Better than orange," he said.

She sighed and pulled herself up on the frame of the car. She'd have to get out after all.

"I hope they've gone!" she said, quietly, so Robert wouldn't hear.

Hugh understood. Neither of them would have liked to meet a designer who chose nothing but yellow. Despite the sheep and the cats and the dirt, Camellia considered they were people of 'good taste'. By this, she meant the same as the people they'd grown up amongst. People like the parents of the girls she'd been to school with. She shuddered. This was what arriving here reminded her of - being delivered at the beginning of term and left there until it ended.

Hugh read her mind.

"It's only a week," he whispered encouragingly, bringing his lips close to her ear so he could kiss it too.

Robert was levering suitcases out of the boot and lining them neatly along the railings at the foot of the steps. He saw Hugh lean towards Camellia. He saw Camellia clutch Hugh's arm. And he felt guilty.

"For their own good," he told himself - though he was no longer sure. "For the children," he said. And of that, he was certain.

"Look!" said Camellia. She couldn't stop whispering. Beside the front door was a painted notice. Very professional looking. Very smart. Black letters on a yellow background. Camellia winced.

SAFEHAVEN
CONVALESCENCE, REST, RESPITE CARE
SHORT AND LONG TERM RESIDENTS
MANAGER - MRS R. BENDICKS

“We must be ‘Short Term’,” she said.

"I hope not!"

"Oh!"

Her heart jolted at the thought of being carried out, feet first.

“Mainly young people is it?" Hugh called out jauntily to Robert who was now stretching his back and wondering why the suitcases were so heavy. "Recovering from skiing accidents and that kind of thing? I think we may feel a little out of place here, old chap."

A strong looking woman, of medium height, walked onto the top of the steps. Her hair was a rigid perm and her house coat iridescent with nylon. Her smile was less bright.

“Ah,” said Robert with relief. “Here’s Mrs Bendicks.”

Camellia took one look at Mrs Bendicks and turned anxiously back to Hugh, expecting to see her own consternation mirrored in him. But something odd was happening. Squinting through the bright light, she could see admiring gleams of adoration flitting into his eyes and the twitch of a smile flickering about his lips. He looked younger. He appeared to be entranced and suddenly - surely not? - glad to be here?

“We are going to have the most wonderful time!” he said, speaking through his teeth and out of the corner of his mouth. Mrs Bendicks looked down at his distorted face with concern. At the same time, she seemed quietly pleased.

“Hugh?” said Camellia, still in an undertone. “Are you alright?”

“Just look at that overall!” he breathed rapturously. Violet and purple! Clematis flowers! How charming! And her shoes. She chose them specially to match the front door!

Then he turned to Robert, who was staring at Hugh with almost as much concern as Camellia.

"Robert!" he shouted joyfully! "We are going to have a wonderful time! Thank you so much!" And in an outburst of energy, he grabbed one of the bags from the pavement and bounded up the steps towards the stiff figure of Mrs Bendicks at the top. "Tell Rosemary," he called back. "She has chosen well. We're going to be very happy here!"

_____

To continue - Thirty-Four

For the post before this - Thirty-Two

THIRTY-TWO

2009-04-20T00:29:00.010+01:00

continues from

“They’re doing what!”

Harry had been asleep when Stephen got back to King's Hampton but he was too restless to let her be. His throat was already sore from talking with the Thorncombes but he had more to say . . . and to ask.

"Here Stephen, throw me that shawl and make us some coffee, will you?"

Harry rubbed her eyes with one hand, caught the shawl with the other, reached for her glasses and pushed back her hair, wriggled properly upright, turned on the lamp beside her bed and grabbed a book. Stephen was impressed. She seemed instantly alert. He'd expected her to be angry but she wasn't.

"I haven't been asleep long."

"You didn't wait up?"

"I couldn't help wondering what was going on. You're terribly late."

He began to apologise.

"It's ok, Stephen, but I would like that coffee. Just a small one. You don't mind bringing it here?"

In a way he did. He'd never before discussed anything with Harry when all she was wearing was her nightdress. It was high necked and long sleeved and Victorian but still . . . He often went through her room on his way to the lift but she wasn't usually there and if ever she was, she was asleep. This was the first time in years that he'd been with her after midnight. She was beautiful and exotic and clever and all sorts of things which Stephen admired. And he found it difficult.

Thoughtfully, he made the coffee.

"I still don't understand," she said, taking a mug from the tray and pointing to the end of the bed so he would sit there. "Biscuits! Well, done. It's like a midnight feast. One minute they're broken hearted, aging at the speed of light and possibly insane . . . and the next minute, they're rejoicing because they're being booked into some old people's home in Clapham and discussing paint. Or is that the insanity? Sounds like it."

"It's a horrible orange," Stephen remarked. "They've only kept it because Rosemary chose it. It's been oppressing them for ages."

"So it may. But surely they can have the kitchen painted without going into an old people's home first?"

"Care Home."

"Care Home then!"

"Well, it's not just that." He was beginning to feel sick. He really was awfully tired. He should have waited till morning. And he would have been better off with tea instead of coffee. "It's so they can have the windows opened between the kitchen and the terrace. That's another thing they've been wanting to have done for years but they couldn't bring themselves to have people around, builders and . . . ."

Harry didn't look impressed.

"They're very isolated," he said, putting his mug back on the tray. "You've got to understand." He moved it off the bed and onto the floor. "They're not used to having people round all the time like that. They wouldn't cope."

Harry looked doubtful.

"I know! It's Robert!" she said firmly. "I've never thought of him as a bully but if he's decided this is 'right' I expect he'll do everything he can to push it through."

"No!" Stephen felt loyalties tearing inside. "He's a bit of a stuffed shirt." (Harry smiled.) "And a bit conventional." ("You can say that!" she said.) "But he's kind. No, Harry, really!"

"Doesn't seem very kind to me," she said, gruffly. "Dragging them away like this. Why don't Hugh and Camellia ask Robert and Rosemary to come and supervise the builders now the place is tidied up?"

"Because they want to go to London. (And I wouldn't exaggerate the 'tidied up' bit either). That's the only way they've any hope of seeing the children."

Harry looked up sharply.

"They didn't come?"

"No".

Harry stared. Stephen tried not to flounder.

"It's all to do with grandparents, Harry. Robert wants Hugh and Camellia to be 'proper' grandparents - all neat and tidy and old and looked after. I think he quite likes the idea of country life but not farmers, especially not muddy ones."

"Goes with the territory doesn't it?"

"Possibly. But that's beside the point. It'll only be for a short while. Just a week. Two at the most. So they can try it out."

Harry looked at him. "But what's the 'but'?".

"It won't be till March."

"Yeah?"

"So . . . "

"So?"

"So I was wondering . . . "

"Yes?"

"If I could stay here until then - until the lambs are big enough . . . then, after they're back . . . "

"You're going to be a shepherd!?"

"No. I've been offered free-lance work from the people I was with in America. As long as I can use my word processor, maybe plug in a computer, I can tide myself over for a bit - it's only till March. I said I'd keep an eye on things while they're away. After that - well, by then I'll be ready to go back to London myself, maybe my old firm. There's a place."

"You don't know anything about animals!"

"There won't be much to know. The cows will be back in the fields. So will the sheep. And there's no milking. That's it."

"In the lift!"

"It would be a kind of office."

"Just till March? You're sure?"

He nodded.

"Right," she said. "Agreed. Till March, well, till they come back. Don't bother with the tray. Just shove it under the bed." She turned off the light, lay down and pulled the duvet over her shoulders. "Goodnight."

"Harry?" he whispered.

"Yes?"

"They don't know. I mean Rosemary and Robert simply haven't a clue."

"What?"

"That it isn't a real trial. That there's no chance they'll do anything other than carry on living at Thorncombe. There's no give. No flexibility. Once they've seen the children and the kitchen's done - they'll never budge again."

"But surely they realise that? They can't seriously think Hugh and Camellia would move to London.?"

"But they do! They think London's wonderful and that everyone would like to live there and that Hugh and Camellia will only be doing what people do when they're old - go and live near relatives. Move into a home."

"Oh gracious!" Through the dark, he could tell she was irritated. Then he felt the atmosphere change because she had begun to smile. "Well, I'm glad they're all in agreement and everything's clear and organised."

"It is," he said. "Goodnight!"

_____

To continue - Thirty-Three

For the post before this - Thirty-One

THIRTY-ONE

2009-04-13T08:08:00.014+01:00

continued from

The next day, Stephen waited until it was almost dark before he went to Thorncombe. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't arrive until close to the end of The Visit. It would be good to see Rosemary and Robert again - and the girls - but he thought he'd better wait till they were all back in Clapham before they had their own, special re-union. This one was for Hugh and Camellia. He'd sent a postcard, giving them Harry's address and phone number. And he'd mentioned that he'd bumped into Hugh and Camellia at Church and that he'd call by briefly on Saturday - he hoped they wouldn't find this an intrusion. Perhaps they'd let him know? But they'd neither phoned nor written. Maybe they thought he'd take it as read that they'd be glad to see him. It was odd though. Disappointing. Maybe the card never arrived?

Most days, now, he walked into The Hall un-announced, generally through the back door and straight into the kitchen, but formality, he thought, would be more appropriate this afternoon so he rang the front door bell instead - and waited.

And waited.

And waited . . . . . .

He rang it again.

It clanged. Loud. Un-missable.

He expected to hear the drawing room door open. Voices. Cressida and Cornellia rushing to meet him.

Nothing.

Perhaps not. Three years is a long time when you're growing up.

Silence.

He rang again.

Waited.

Gave up.

Went in.

The drawing room door was open but no-one was there. The fire was old; sinking into its embers. The standard lamp shed a gentle pool of light onto an open book and Camellia's knitting. Oscar was asleep on a sofa. There was an iron kettle in the hearth and an abandoned tea tray on a side table. But no people. No Hugh. No Camellia. No Rosemary. No Robert. No children.

He went through to the kitchen - which was equally quiet. Very, very still. Even Hugh and Camellia were still - though they were there - sitting in arm chairs at the side of the room and half hidden by boxes; their feet resting on drifts of newspaper. But all they did was to raise heavy eyes long enough to see who had come in - then they lowered them back and carried on staring at the floor.

Stephen took an upright chair from beside the kitchen table, carried it over and placed it between them.

He sat. Waited. Still nothing.

"They came then?" His voice cracked. It was as if he hadn't used it for years.

"They want us to go into a home." Camellia's voice was blank. Bleak.

Hugh still looked down.

Stephen felt his muscles go rigid; a snarl in his stomach.

He watched their faces. Backwards and forwards he looked. They'd grown old. Their shoulders drooped. Their hands rested loosely on the arms of their chairs.

"A home?" His mouth didn't want to loose the words.

"The brochure's on the table," Hugh said. His voice was harsh, rusted, bitter, grating. "They've picked one out for us They say it's a good one. Round the corner from them. By the common. We could see them more. Quite often."

"The children could visit us, sometimes," said Camellia. "On their way home from school. That's what they said."

"So they won't have to worry about us," said Hugh. "They said that too. When we are in safe hands; 'fed' and 'warm' and 'cared for'."

"They say the cooking's good," said Camellia. "It's not brought in." A little giggle burst out of her. "They say there's a resident cook. Apparently that's good. They should be commended for having one. And a kitchen. Apparently that's a plus too."

Stephen took the giggle as a clue.

"You're joking!" he exclaimed, much relieved. "May I put the kettle on? I saw that metal contraption you've got over the fire in the drawing room, Camellia."

"The blacksmith made it," she said, standing. "I'll do it. He brought it in this morning - just in time - so we could make tea without having to come in here. It works well too."

"It's one of those things," said Hugh, rising to his feet and stretching. "If you live in a big house, you can get things done quickly - things which would usually take weeks - like trivets. People may not like you - but they'll do things."

"It's a bit like being the Queen," said Camellia, smiling; going over to the AGA.

But it wasn't a very good smile.

Not a real one.

"We're not joking," said Hugh, turning back to Stephen. "Look, there's the brochure. There on the table." His voice shook with rage and disappointment. "Look at it, read it. What d'you make of that then?"

Stephen went over. Noted the name. The address. Turned the pages. Saw it was glossy, that there were pictures. But his eyes wouldn't work properly and he couldn't read. He put it back on the table.

"Where are the cats?" he asked, suddenly noticing there were only two, a stripy one and a ginger one.

"They've gone to a refuge," said Camellia. "The tabby's 'Octopus' and the ginger one's 'Rabbit'. We kept them because we remembered their names."

"The vet says it's a good one," said Hugh. "The refuge."

"Where they will be cared for and fed," said Camellia, in a sing-song voice, sliding the kettle onto the hob. "We don't need to worry. They'll be found good homes. The lady who took them said so."

"The one's they don't kill on the way," said Hugh. "Put to sleep. Put out of their misery. Would you like toast? They weren't here long and didn't eat but the sandwiches will have gone dry. They walked in, gave us this," he picked up the brochure, flapped it in the air and slammed it back down on the table; "warmed their hands at our fire and left."

Stephen wondered if he should be frightened. He'd never seen Hugh like this.

"So what did you say?"

"We said," said Camellia - and she glanced at Hugh.

"We said," said Hugh - smiling awkwardly back.

"That we'd do it!" they said.

They were loud. Triumphant.

Then they reached for each other's hands and laughed.

_____

For the post before this - Thirty

For the next post - Thirty-Two

THIRTY

2009-04-08T20:48:00.008+01:00

continued from

It wasn't until late on the Friday afternoon, just when they were feeling relaxed - and congratulating themselves that everything was ready for the morrow - when Camellia asked what would happen if anyone needed the loo.

The only one which worked downstairs, or was even vaguely clean enough, was opposite the gun room, beside the back door. Hugh and Camellia still tended to walk round the outside of the house to get to it because the donkeys were forever trying to follow through to the kitchen but that wouldn't be a problem while they were penned in the dining room. No. The issue now was the kitchen itself. They had been so engaged with making sure there was a clear route between the front door and a comfortable place to sit, that they simply hadn't thought of it. It was as unclean as ever it had been and they mustn't, absolutely mustn't let Rosemary see it.

"We should have left the drawing room be," said Camellia, growing pale. "We should have cleaned in there instead."

Hugh proposed that 'The Visit' be postponed a week.

"What?" asked Camellia. "Tell them now? At the last minute! That they can't come? We can't do that!"

So Hugh suggested they make it short. After all, it was intended to be the first of many. They could use the loo the next time they came.

"But they're coming from London!" Camellia shouted at him. "It's not like dropping in from down the road! Rosemary won't leave the house without telling the children they have to go to the loo first. It's what mothers always do before a long journey. Worse still, she might feel chatty, want to help make tea!"

Hugh scrambled for an answer.

"Sherry," he said excitedly. "Let's give them sherry! That way we won't have to go to the kitchen at all and they can find public lavatories on the way home."

Camellia threw down her sewing things on the newly 'upholstered' sofa and marched back to the kitchen to look; to see if there was anything that could be done before the morning. But there was no comfort here. Until this moment, it had been her base; her place of refuge. But for the first time in years, she saw it as others might see it. She hadn't really noticed before that multitudes of sick and feeble cats infested every surface. And she didn't even recognise most of them. Once, each had been special to her. She'd given them names; known their natures. Their grandparents and great-grandparents had purred on her lap in the evenings but the current generations fended for themselves, co-existed with humans instead of living with them as family. When an animal was slaughtered, they grabbed at the scraps. Sometimes Camellia bought cat food in tins but neither she nor Hugh ever washed the saucers so the cats would only eat from them when it was either that - or starve.

Camellia thought about the rows of teddies and dolls which used to sit on the end of Rosemary's bed. Rosemary had known every one separately, noticed when they went missing, demanded them back if ever Camellia attempted a cull. She'd named them, loved them, recognised them and cared for them.

But who was this? A nameless and thin creature was dabbing listlessly at the edge of her skirt. An un-named being but a living creature still, a newly independent kitten that should have been rushing after its own shadow, chasing pipe-cleaners, rolling cotton reels under the table, climbing into her work basket and ripping at her knitting. It shouldn't be lurking like this, sultry and miserable. She lifted it up and stroked it. A lump of sticky hair came off on her hand. Her lip curled. There was a two inch gash in its side, half healed but oozing and infected. Guiltily, she lowered it back to the floor.

. . . . . She sat there. Half an hour ticked by. The light dimmed. Hugh let her be. . . . . . Four o'clock. She looked at her watch. Time enough.

She phoned the vet.

Then the blacksmith.

_____

To continue - Thirty-One

For the Post Before This - Twenty-Nine

TWENTY-NINE

2009-04-07T17:10:00.020+01:00

continued from

CHAPTER FIVE

They did it.

And in less than a fortnight!

Hugh unblocked the windows in the little Tudor study and employed local builders to lay a false floor. The sheep seemed to like it.

On fine days, Hugh led them onto the terrace and they clattered down the grand steps to nibble their way into the parkland where the grass was still growing.

The donkeys moved into the dining room - which they didn't like and Stephen refused to go near them in case they bit. But when Hugh took away the panelled door and came back with a half one from the stables so they could lean over and see the Gainsborough paintings of stiff and pretty ladies, the dark and dusty Rembrandt and the marble busts wearing Hugh's old hats, the stags heads with coats hanging from their antlers and scarves round their necks, all the features of their usual lives - the older pair settled.

Rudolph and Santa seemed not to mind as much as Sam. He was very cross. He tossed his head and tested the wood with his hooves. Camellia took him for walks and brought him apples and carrots and told him it might only be for a few weeks. "Maybe until Christmas," she said. "At least, until Rosemary's been.".

A couple of times, she found herself nearly adding 'and gone'.

At night, the Jersey cow and her calf came into the hall. The donkeys watched malevolently and snorted. In the mornings, Hugh cleared away the dung and straw and took them back to stand miserably in their field. There were now frosts at night. At least they firmed the ground.

None of this was entirely satisfactory, though the sheep seemed happier now they were out and about a bit for a few hours each day. And it wouldn't be for long. After 'The Visit', the donkeys would live in the hall again and the Jerseys could have the dining room until spring. The floor there matched that in the drawing room - tough enough to support deep straw bedding until warmer weather. Then they'd be happy to go back to the fields.

The bull was another matter. Even Hugh and Camellia accepted he couldn't be quartered in the house.

"Sell him," said Camellia.

"That might be an idea," said Hugh, thoughtfully. We could buy heifers instead. South Devon Reds. I've always liked them. Or Hereford Crosses."

Stephen sighed and barrowed the latest load of straw down the front steps.

At least the drawing room was warm. They'd pulled a bush through the chimney a few times to brush out the soot and there was a fire in the grate most days now, making sparkles in the crystals in the great, grey floor slabs. Stephen and Hugh painted the walls stark white, took down the chandelier, washed it and polished it and put it back shining. Then they painted the insides of the shutters powder blue and hung pale green velvet curtains to soften the angles of the huge windows. In the evenings the room was cosy and warm. Camellia went to the Auction Rooms in Kings Hampton and came back in a lorry with chairs and sofas which she then draped with soft fabrics tacked neatly in place so they looked as if they'd been properly upholstered. If they were careful, the illusion would last until after 'The Visit'. There was no point in buying anything better. The sheep never used the chairs except to hide behind. On the other hand, the duck was in the habit of resting there. Goldilocks was nothing compared with Oscar, who hopped in through an open window and set to work with muddy feet, testing each one.

"Never mind," said Camellia. "She's made it look more used, as if we've had the room like this for years."

Hugh smiled uneasily.

Stephen looked doubtful.

“No, I mean it,” she said. “We don’t want to them to think we’ve put ourselves out too much.”

Hugh's eyes flickered up. Stephen wondered if he should withdraw.

But Camellia was cheerful.

"Come on Hugh," she said. "We've got some dignity. Let them see it - do!"

* * * * *

_____

For the next post - Thirty

For the post before this - Twenty-Eight

TWENTY-EIGHT

2009-04-06T16:32:00.013+01:00

continued from

Camellia brought the kettle back to the boil on the AGA and plonked a huge teapot in the middle of the table. “Planning meeting,” she said. "Provisions." And she took the fruit cake tin from the dresser and put that on the table too, next to an enamel jug of milk so tall it would be impossible to sit down while pouring from it. "We've a lot to discuss."

Mostly, Stephen listened. They wanted to change things so Rosemary would like them, while not really changing anything at all. Already the sheep were back in the drawing room.

"We couldn't leave them in the rain," said Hugh.

Camellia suggested drilling a gutter in a wide circle round the standard lamp; putting in a fence and a drain.

"They could share Christmas with us," she said.

Stephen forced aside sarcasm and listened, keeping his eyes as level as he could so he wouldn't look resigned or bored or impatient. After a quarter of an hour, he'd had enough.

"Would you show me round?" he asked, half rising.

Camellia started. Stephen flexed his arms, leaning forward against the table. "Maybe there's another solution? Perhaps if we looked at some of the other rooms?"

There had been a time when Camellia took every new visitor on a tour of the house and grounds - she was so proud of them. But recently . . .

"Of course!” she said. Suddenly she was animated. "Let's go straight away, while we think of it. Never mind the sheep. It's such a lovely place. You may have to imagine . . . "

"I will," he said. He'd imagine how it would have been without the dust and the dung: Camellia as a child, running through the rooms, playing hide and seek with her friends; parties; servants. What had her parents been like?

Then it struck him. Why Camellia? Why not Hugh?

* * * * *

They started with the ballroom - upstairs and grand. They looked in the guest rooms, many and Spartan. Back downstairs, to a room which matched the drawing room on the other side of the front door. "The dining room," Camellia said.

Then, in a little corridor beside the kitchen, a games room and, down a step, to a Tudor study with a brick floor and two blocked windows. Hugh turned on the light. There was something so still about it, Stephen felt bound to whisper.

"It's beautiful - but why not use it?"

“Oh, it was grandfather again," said Camellia. "He turned it into a store room when he turned the house round.

The next bit was delicate. He wasn't sure what tone to take so he hesitated. Camellia looked at him.

“Could you afford to have the windows opened up?"

He asked it quietly; looking at them briefly; then away. Kindly.

“Ah.” Hugh had been waiting at the door, expecting them to be quick because the room was empty and dark. But now he stepped down. “I think," he said briskly. "We have to make something plain." The way he said it reminded Stephen of the manner in which he'd decided to fetch the hand wagon. "We have money for anything.”

Stephen frowned. He didn't know what else he could do.

Camellia looked worried. Hugh saw.

“I think it needs to be said, Camellia,." He spoke firmly and with formality. "I think we may have given Stephen the wrong impression."

Stephen wrinkled his forehead. In part, he was showing interest. In part he was trying to suggest that, if he had got a wrong impression, he was certain it wasn't because they had, in any way, given it.

Hugh leant against a panelled cupboard. The door gave slightly. He levered himself upright. "We aren't like this all the time," he said, raising his hand as if to make a big gesture but stopping short. "It's just . . . "

"That we're tired," said Camellia.

"Yes," said Hugh. "Tired. But more than that." He and Camellia were using a kind of telepathy, putting out invisible antennae, trying to judge between them how much should be said. "Things have drifted a bit, recently. Along with being tired, I think we've been suffering from a crisis in imagination."

Stephen was surprised. What? But he said nothing. Waited.

"There's been no point in thinking," said Camellia. "We did for a bit. We thought we could open up the terrace, have the orangery. But we're too tired to be put out like that. Have builders. Be disrupted. As we said . . . ."

"But I think we should make it clear our decision not to do it wasn't because of money," said Hugh. "Look. I’ve spent my whole adult life in Merchant Banking. I really don't want to mislead you. I’ve been a director of several big companies and have shares in just about everything worth having shares in. And, quite apart from that, I've inherited much from my family. As Camellia has from hers. If you think having this window unblocked would be helpful, we could do it. We can do almost anything we want. It's the 'if we want to', which is in question. Not whether we could afford it."

"More than that," said Camellia.

"Yes. It's because we've been quiet for too long, perhaps" said Hugh. "It's makes us . . . ,"

"Insulated."

"Isolated."

"And happy to be so. We like it like this."

"But now . . . ."

"There's Rosemary," said Stephen.

"Yes," said Camellia, miserably.

"And that," said Stephen, "changes everything."

"Yes," said Camellia. "Except for being tired."

"And then, there's the village," said Hugh.

"The village?"

“The village used to think it owned us," said Camellia. "The gardener owned the garden, the gamekeeper owned the woods, the cook owned the kitchen, the cleaners owned the floors and the furniture so, together, they thought they owned us too. And they'd been working here for so many generations, in a sense, they did. They belonged here as much as we do. But it wasn't their home. And they were all so used to wandering in and out, they ended up believing they belonged more than we do. That we are ephemeral while they . . . "

"Are the people of England," said Hugh, under his breath.

"Go on for ever."

"So one day . . . ,"

"We just got fed up with sharing it and said they had to go," Camellia wasn't ready to hand the baton yet to Hugh. "They wouldn’t have liked us waltzing in and out of their cottages, telling them how to do things, going on about how wonderful our grandparents were to look after theirs, what we thought of the politics we thought they had but didn't really know because we'd never bothered to ask - just assumed. We would never had told them they'd starve without my casseroles, or fall over if Hugh didn't have a special non-slip floor polish recipe! I wouldn't dream of going into their homes and complaining that their flowers weren't in the 'right' vases, that the vases were no longer in the 'right' places; criticising them, bullying them and . . . but it was alright for them, they could do it to us because they are 'The Village' . . . . . except it wasn’t. So we said 'that's it!' - and they stopped . . . . .”

"But when you have a farm," Hugh said.

"You can't just tell the animals to go along with the workers. Not that we wanted to," she added hastily. They'd never 'owned' us, or tried to own us, told us we were all wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Oh, not about anything in particular, Stephen. Just everything. Come on," she moved towards the door. "It's musty in here. And cold." Stephen and Hugh began to follow but at the step Camellia turned, suddenly, so they almost all collided. "They thought we were nothing without them. We paid their wages but we didn't exist."

"But we do," said Hugh quietly.

And he put his arm round her - for she was crying.

_____

To continue - Twenty-Nine

For the post before this - Twenty-Seven

TWENTY-SEVEN

2009-04-01T12:41:00.007+01:00

continued from

Stephen drove back to Thorncombe through drifting sheets of fine, dense rain and turned into the yard just as Hugh and Camellia, triangular in waterproof capes and boots, were driving the sheep up the steps. Hugh’s hair was plastered darkly over his forehead, feeding streams of water down his nose and over his cheeks. Dorset Down ewes shoved and scuttled by, Shetlands with matted fleeces trotting trimly behind. Hugh stood back to wave a quick greeting and shooed the stragglers through the front door. In they went, streaming round into the newly cleaned drawing room, where Camellia was standing with her hand on a child's safety gate, ready to shut it behind them quick - in case they turned as soon as they'd arrived and ran towards the kitchen instead.

Hugh waited briefly 'neath the scant shelter of the lintel, then, beckoning Stephen to follow, ran round the corner of the house, under the arch and along to the back door where they burst in together like schoolboys, laughing and shaking their heads. Hugh flung his coat into the gun room and threw open the door to the kitchen so Stephen could pass by first - into the place where warmth and hairy scones made it the most homely spot in the world. Camellia who had come through the hall door already, was shaking herself out of her cape, smiling but apprehensive.

“How did you get on?” she asked, handing it to Stephen so he could put it out with Hugh's.

“Fine,” he said. “No trouble. Harry says I can commute from Kings Hampton. All we have to do now, is to get organised.”

Hugh made a movement.

“Just tell me what to do," Stephen added as smoothly as he could, "and I’ll do it.”

_____

To continue - Twenty-Eight

For the post before this - Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

2009-03-31T16:50:00.005+01:00

continued from - Twenty-Five

Harry came back with soup. She'd done more than warm the salad and stir it in. It smelled good. He roused himself.

“Do you know Thorncombe Hall?” he asked, taking a bowl.

“Where that odd couple live? Quite elderly?”

"Hmm."

"Everyone does," said Harry, dipping bread. "Round here. Sheep in the house. Dirt everywhere. Senile."

He winced.

“They’re not."

He was defensive. Harry looked up, surprised, so he tried to sound neutral.

“Do you remember my friend Rosemary?”

“Their daughter. As bad as them - except boring instead of daft. Don't know what's worse. She tore at a piece of bread and smiled grimly. Married that weed Robert. I never understood what you saw in her.”

Stephen felt something slip.

Robert wasn't a weed.

“You knew she was from there?”

“Went to school with her. Would you like coffee after?”

He frowned. He hadn’t expected this. He could have talked through the hatch but he was too disconcerted to speak. And tired. He wondered how much dust mattered to paintings. After all, most old paintings were older than most old people. Perhaps they weren't as sensitive as he'd imagined.

“You were friends?” he asked, when she came back and handed him a mug and a small piece of curved wood to put it on. She didn’t want rings on her floor.

He wished tiredness wasn't making him irritable; annoyed. But it was. He was irritated. Annoyed. Ruffled. Profoundly so. Rosemary might not be exciting but her predictability reassured him. Robert wasn't exciting either. True. And he wasn't interested in art, perhaps not even as an investment, so it was no wonder he didn't impress Harry. But, to Stephen, he was safe anchorage. He might never have gone to America if it weren't for Robert and Rosemary. All the time he was away, he'd imagined them doing the same old things . . . getting up, going to work, complaining about the post. Apart from Harry, they were the only ones who, for him, counted as 'family'.

Maybe she was jealous. Was that it? Stephen smiled indulgently and his good humour returned. Most of Harry's family were in Sri Lanka. Her mother included. She came to stay from time to time but her father, her English father, was dead. So Stephen told her about his time in America and his trip round England and made her smile and wound up with the invitation to tea at Thorncombe and how Camellia had fainted and how he'd gone back the next day . . . . .

Which brought them to Rosemary again.

"And you know her!" It was disconcerting.

“ ‘Know of her’ would be better," Harry said, coolly. "We've not seen each other since we left school. We don’t have much in common.”

“But what a set of coincidences!” said Stephen, trying to breathe life into the situation. “First I discover them. They turn out to be Rosemary’s parents. And now you say you went to school with her.”

“Not really. You stopping off for Church in Thorncombe - that was chance." She stacked the bowls and mugs onto trays, ready to be taken back to the cafe. "But once you'd done that . . . everyone who travels through gets invited to The Hall because no-one from round here will go near them. And as for school - if your parents have the money, that's where you go. Listen,” she said, growing more animated. “Rosemary is a pain and snob. She almost destroyed them. If she’s decided to come back, that’s great. But don't think she'll have changed. She's not the type. She’ll see the sheep are still there and leave. That's it.”

Quite. That was the point. Precisely. Stephen was getting desperate. Nothing was arranged and Harry had gone into one of her rants.

“People live with animals all over the world,” she said, slamming the rejected tomatoes onto the hatch so hard that they bounced out of the bowl and ran around loose on the floor. “They aren't indoors all the time . . . and, as for cats . . . ." She began to potter around distractedly, looking for stray tomatoes. “But there'd be animals there alright, in the house. Pigs, chickens, goats, all sorts. Depending where you are. In and out of the house. Under it in some places.” She picked up the last tomato. “If Rosemary had stayed around, maybe it wouldn't have got so bad. But she didn't. And no-one can stand it now. She won't stay, Stephen, she won't.”

He started.

"Except you, it seems." Harry smiled. "Well, good for you." (This was ambiguous. She was still cross.) "So, " (Stephen held his breath) "if you want to commute from here while you help them clean up, you can. But you’ll have to sleep in the lift. And you'll have to take these down to be washed up first."

* * * * *

_____

To continue - Twenty-Seven

For the post before this - Twenty-Five

TWENTY-FIVE

2009-03-30T16:39:00.005+01:00

continued from Twenty-Four

They fetched lunch from the Gallery Cafe and took it on trays to Harry's flat at the top of the building - a bigger gallery than the Gallery below. The walls were filled with pictures. Rows and rows of them rose in stages, up and up into the high inverted V of the roof. A floor had been taken out to make extra wall space and even then they crowded right up to the skylights, every one of them suspended between owners till Harry judged it the right moment to sell. They were, she said, maturing. Like cheese. Or wine. Only more personal - because she knew which buyers they were destined for before the buyers even knew the works existed. She monitored collections. She nurtured tastes. She drew on new artists. Targeted buyers. Scoured for old paintings. Sought new locations. She bought, . . . waited weeks . . . months . . . years . . . then she sold - and because she lived in her storehouse nearly everything conformed in some way to her own taste. It had to. There were vases on pedestals and sculptures in boxes; crates, cartons and opened exhibits. In the corners, at the extremities, for convenience, not for comfort, she'd left spaces for living in . . . a kitchen (which was cupboard, cooker, counter, hatch) a bathroom (with no window) and a small room at the far end with a bed and a wardrobe and a telephone on a table. Everything else was bare boards, bright sofas and - art.

Harry went to the kitchen for glasses. Stephen put his tray on the floor beside hers and turned, expecting to make a quick tour of the room, perhaps pick something they could talk about. Instead, he found himself staring, horrified, at a trail of muddy flakes which led directly from Harry's front door - to him. He undid his laces, slipped off his shoes and placed them neatly beside one of her sofas. Then he sat on it.

This wasn't the best arrangement. He had been working at Thorncombe all that morning and his feet were hot.

“Would you like Socks?” Harry was grinning at him through the hatch. "Afghan ones." (Thick and woolly with patterns up the sides and soft chamois soles? No. He wouldn't.)

So she tossed him a towel instead and he washed his feet in the tiny bathroom. When he came back, the mud had been swept away, his shoes had been put outside and there were glasses of white wine on the floor beside their bowls of salad. She'd filled a shallow basket with bread and brought butter on a plate. There was even a vase with three gold chrysanthemums.

"Right," said Harry, handing him a fork, "why are you here?”

“Told you,” he said, breaking a piece from the bread. "I need somewhere to stay.”

“No one needs to stay in King’s Hampton. Not till they’re seventy. At least.”

“You’re here.”

She popped a cherry tomato into her mouth and winced. Silly time of year to put them in salads.

“It suits me,” she said. "Would you like soup instead? Tinned? We could tip the bean sprouts into it. It might be quite nice. More seasonal than this trendy stuff. Things sell here." She meant paintings. "People know where I am."

She went to heat soup. Not that it felt wintry. Not up here. The temperature was constant throughout the building. Stephen wondered how much the heating cost.

The ceilings were high. The walls, cold. But Harry couldn't risk condensation. Not with these paintings. So she had the atmosphere under control. And there was more - a row of little screens set into her desk. One of the staff would be keeping an eye on it while Harry was up here for lunch. Every room was observed. Everything monitored. Temperature, atmosphere, safety, fire, security. Even up here. Harry was clever, he thought sleepily. Sophisticated. Yes, he was definitely tired. They'd been running the barrows up ramps and out through the drawing room windows. His legs and arms ached. How did Harry know about everything? Hugh had arranged the task so they didn't have to move the sheep again, shift the makeshift pen further from the front door. But it was awkward. At first, he'd pretended he was working on a building site, as if he were scooting up and down planks with barrows of cement. It was lovely and warm in here. Up the ramp. Down the other side. Dozy. But he'd soon got bored. His muscles hurt. Hugh and Camellia were farmers, with muscles to show for it. His was the physique of a financier.

_____

For the post before this - Twenty-four

TWENTY-FOUR

2009-03-26T08:41:00.011Z

And there she was. Harry. Sitting beside a small table, pen poised over a large note book while she turned the pages of a catalogue. Everything was still; clear, white light on pale vases and polished wood. There were three paintings; abstract shapes, gently angular - shy colours in thin silver frames. The cheerful clatter of knives on plates floated in from the other side of the corridor. There were bursts of laughter, snippets of conversation. But peace stayed. Undisturbed. It was as if sound and silence were co-existing. He didn’t want her to look up. Not yet. Not till he spoke - and he wanted to breathe first.

Winter sun fell through tall windows, lighting the room and glossing her hair - straight, black, thick, flat, pushed back and loose - all the way to her waist.

“Business good?”

She didn’t move but he could see a slight pinkenning on the cheek nearest him.

Skin darker than cream. Long, thin fingers holding firmly to her pen.

“Fine thanks.”

“If you’re busy. I mean, I wouldn’t like to disturb you.”

Her lips twitched into a smile.

“Not that busy.”

She looked up and round. Brown eyes.

“Are you buying?”

“No way, Harry! Not at your prices! And I've no-where to put anything yet. I’m only just back. That's why I'm here."

She tensed.

“You want to stay here?"

He glanced around uneasily, pretending to look at the exhibits; the wooden bowls, iron figurines, the pictures. Harry poised, staring into a gap in the light. She didn't want company; not company every day. She was to herself the only exception.

“No. Well. Just for a bit. Bed and breakfast? That kind of thing? While I . . . ” (He could explain about sheep dung later.)

It wasn't the right answer. Stephen was her best friend. Of course he would want to live here if there was no-where else to go. And she was glad he was seeing it as a practical arrangement; bed, breakfast. But she was a little hurt as well that he was thinking it would be a short stay only. Contradiction. She didn't want him around. But she didn't want him not to be here either, not now he'd arrived.

"What about your flat?"

"Rented out."

"What about Rosemary?"

"I want to be here." He was definite. She frowned. "I mean 'round here'. King's Hampton."

“You’re in trouble?”

He laughed.

“No. But I think . . . . .”

So she laughed too, and stood, and hugged him.

Loose cream jumper. New jeans. Long silk scarf - pinks threaded with gold. Sri Lankan and English. British and exotic. In King’s Hampton.

_____

TWENTY-THREE

2009-03-25T10:06:00.022Z

continued from

CHAPTER FOUR

King’s Hampton was the sort of little town that should have had a Minster or the ruins of an Abbey. But it didn’t. It didn't have a King either - though the people who lived there said different.

During the Civil War, villages in the area had chosen sides by habit, guided by custom and jealousy. Politics were irrelevant; religion led by landowners. So, when Ham, the biggest and grandest market town for fifty miles around, sided with the King - nearly everyone else opted immediately for Parliament and laid it under siege. The hill, with its moat-like river, its water meadows and distant views, had once seemed like a fortress. It turned out to be a prison. The citizens were starved into submission.

For a couple of hundred years after that, it lumbered un-dramatically on; little visited, very little known. That is, until Mr Dukes decided to sell his house. One of its major selling points, he said, was that the King had sought refuge in it (disguised as a parlour maid) around 1645. Cromwell's troops, getting scent of the ruse, marched in and told all the women in the household to strip off their clothes. The King vanished, the women were humiliated - and, in 1845, Mr Duke's managed to double the value of his property with little more effort than an essay in the Journal of the Ham Historical Society and a timely letter to the newly established local paper.

Over the years, rather remarkably, other home owners discovered that the King had played the same trick in their properties. Charles the First, it seemed, had spent almost the whole of his reign disguised as a woman in Ham and the name mutated to 'King's Hampton'.

Not much else had changed though. The hill and the river were still there, of course, as were nearly all the mediaeval and Tudor buildings the King might have been familiar with if ever he'd really visited; and Mince Street was just as full of shoppers as it ever had been. Men with vegetables and clothes and pots and pans shouted and swore as they forced their vehicles through the crowds - except nowadays they were heading for chain stores and supermarkets and there wouldn't have been gift shops in the seventeenth century, not in the same way, and The Lamb was now 'The King's Arms'.

All the well known stores bordered the high street - but they were in miniature and more 'refined' than in other places - dusted up to please the council, the preservation society and the smattering of tourists that stopped briefly on their way elsewhere. Stephen passed Jessops half way up Ox Hill and glanced in through the rotating doors of Woolworths where a polished wooden floor stretched the length of the pick-and-mix counter right down to kitchen-ware. There were pomanders in the bow windows of Boots and un-seasonal baskets of flowers in front of MacDonalds. Next and Dixons were squashed into listed buildings, their displays blurred behind pebbled glass; and the coffee shop beside the National Westminster Bank was a replica of an old Lyons Corner House.

There were traffic lights at the top of the hill and exhaust fumes and a maze of junctions because that was where all roads met - and, branching off - Charles Street, with its quiet, undistinguished, red brick Victorian villas and, on the left, about a third of the way down, one, narrow, Georgian town house beside a small patch of grass where a walnut tree grew. The front door was open. There was a brass plate:-

Araminta Smith

Charles Street

GALLERY

and a glass swing door.

Stephen went in.

_____

For the post before this - Twenty-Two

TWENTY-TWO

2009-03-24T09:53:00.002Z

continued from

"Hugh dear," she called, walking slowly down the steps and trying not to slip where the sheep had trotted down to the yard. "We didn't understand." Stephen followed. "He's not . . . . " Limply, she pointed at Stephen.

Hugh's heart leaped and soared and the weathered creases in his face curled into a smile. In a fraction of a second he had run forward and was holding Stephen's hand tight in the friendliest grip he'd ever experienced.

“I knew it! I knew it! I knew from the moment I saw you in Church. Didn't I ask if you'd brought your wife and children? Didn't I just! Didn't I ask?”

“He’s not Robert dear" Camellia said quickly. "Just a friend.”

Hugh changed direction. “Precisely!” he said, unwilling to let go of this new excitement. “He’s their friend. An advance guard so to speak! Come to check us out, have you?”

“No, no,” said Stephen, surprised to see how happy Hugh was that Camellia seemed to have uncovered a spy. “They have no idea I’m here. Nor had I until a moment ago.”

It was Hugh's turn to be lost. His eyes prickled. Emotion was new to him. He was still too weak to hate it but since Rosemary's letter . . .

“You didn’t know you were here?"

Oh, this was frustrating! Stephen was sincerely sympathetic. Moved. But angry too. What was wrong with them?

“Chance. That's all," he said. "It’s one of those coincidences that don’t happen. But it has.”

Hugh wiped his hand across his face. Camellia worried for him.

“I think we should talk this over,” she said. "Let's go to the kitchen. I'll put the kettle on."

Stephen’s holiday dissolved. He barely noticed how it happened. He didn't realise what he'd said until later. Not properly. Not that he regretted it. It was just that he'd never intended it.

"I'll help", he said. "We can talk as we work.”

Camellia now knew what a pauper would feel like if offered millions. Suddenly, their problems could be solved. But at expense. Where was morality? Dignity? She wanted to grab. She knew she shouldn't. She wanted to ask for everything - but not too much. More than Stephen should willingly offer. She knew that. Look at his clothes! Look at his nails. Think of his time!

“It's very kind but I don't . . . ,"

"Think we could possibly refuse!" said Hugh, offering Stephen his hand again. Stephen took it.

This was more than shaking on a deal. Camellia glared. "Welcome to the family," she said bitterly. "I'll fetch you a shovel."

_____

For the post before this - Twenty-one

TWENTY-ONE

2009-03-18T20:14:00.009Z

Continued from

Camellia was delighted. So much so, that she took him through the green baize door. For years, they'd gone the long way round, out through the back and in through the front, as if there were no connection between the world of sheep and the kitchen. But now, humans were reclaiming the drawing room (and with visitors!) so it seemed natural to go directly through the house. She noticed herself doing it - and wondered.

Camellia had achieved a lot. More than Stephen had expected. Half the granite slabs were exposed. Most of the carpet she had scraped up was piled in the fireplace. The rest was oozing in the middle of the room, dissolving under its own weight, sitting in a sea of spreading greenness which had already crept back across part of the cleared floor. The windows were open, there were streaks of sun and a bit of a breeze - but the smell hadn't lessened any. Stephen pretended to be interested in a set of fold-away shutters. It gave him an excuse to stand near the air. The duck, which had been sitting on the sill, quacked and jumped down outside.

"Oscar," Camellia said.

"Oscar?"

"The duck. She's called 'Oscar'." Then she laughed. It was a proper, happy laugh. "Daft, aren't we?"

“It must have been lovely in the winter when . . . " He abandoned what he was going to say and tugged at a shutter. It didn't budge. "When these worked." He looked to see what was obstructing it, couldn't see a thing, decided it must be the hinges and tried pulling at the one opposite. "Is it long since you used these? I can imagine them in front of the windows. The dark and the cold outside. A big fire and . . . . .”

“A Christmas Tree,” said Camellia quickly. “That’s just what I want - for Rosemary and the children and . . . ,” she fumbled for a name.

“Robert,” he said automatically.

She started.

“How did you know?”

Her shoulders went down and her arms tensed. She was frightened. How did he know?

Stephen let go and opened his arms.

Words fled and, for several seconds, they faced each other like animals, their bodies showing what they felt when sound couldn't.

Stephen thawed first. He looked apologetic. Tried to look sheepish. (!) It didn't work. How could it? She no longer trusted him. “But I didn’t know that I knew them. Not till you mentioned them over coffee. And then . . . ”

“You didn’t know that you knew them!” she was calling him a fraud, a liar.

“Well, of course I knew I knew them,” he said, moving away from the shutters, regretting it and not being able to go back. “But I didn’t know you did."

"You didn't know I knew my daughter?"

Stephen was perplexed.

Camellia was worrying she might faint again. It wouldn't do - but if she did - she couldn't help it. The world was going wrong.

“My . . . daughter!”

“Yes."

With a lurch, Camellia suddenly understood. Her voice flattened. “She’s never mentioned me.”

“Not often.”

Never with affection, thought Stephen.

But they had come through the worst. “Remember," he said, trying to soften things. "I’ve been in America. I had no way of knowing you were in touch. And . . . well,” he wished he could bring himself to sit on one of the chairs. Perhaps right on the very edge? No. “People don’t often call their parents by name. They say ‘my Mum’ or ‘my Father’. Honestly, there was no way I could have made any connection. If you'd carried on just saying 'my daughter', I'd probably never have known. Not unless Rosemary said something. Believe me, when you said "Cressida . . . "

"And Cornellia." Camellia couldn't resist it.

He nodded. "I was as surprised as you. It was awkward. . . . it is awkward. I'll have to work out what to say to Rosemary. Do I tell her I've been here? Before her?

She sighed.

“Yes. I see. But we'd better tell Hugh, hadn't we. Come with me.”

_____

For the next post - Twenty-Two

For the post before this - Twenty

TWENTY

2009-03-17T18:20:00.003Z

continued from

Hugh worried. Camellia was longing to tell someone that Rosemary was coming home. She'd tell Stephen the whole history. It wasn't that he didn't want Stephen to know about it - but the more Camellia talked, the more imminent the visit seemed. She no longer said ‘Rosemary will be coming’ but ‘Rosemary is coming’ - as she might have said about a visit the next day.

Stephen was riveted, incredulous and then embarrassed. 'Rosemary, Cressida and Cornelia' (Robert was more shadowy ‘her husband’). But it must be them. Should he say he knew them already? It was delicate. Camellia would ask questions he couldn't fairly answer. And he knew, absolutely and certainly that Rosemary wouldn't even get as far as letting her children cross the doorstep for fear that they'd catch dysentry, malaria, leprosy and the plague, diptheria, listeria, mumps, measles, salmomella and hay fever, let alone stay. She'd expect them to slip on sheep dung and break their arms, heads and legs, puncture their lungs and graze their knees. And as for their clothes . . . How could he tell her without making Rosemary's seem fussy? How could he explain how protective Rosemary was of her children without insulting Camellia? How could he admit to knowing she didn't want any 'family' beyond those she lived with every day? It was common knowledge. Everyone who knew her knew about it - because she told them. So how could he not tell Camellia? How could he leave her in hope when he knew there was none? And, looking at it coldly, if the impossible were to happen and the rift were healed, how could he explain to any of them why he had stayed silent?

Camellia, he noticed was shivering. After all, it was November, however sunny and spring-like the air had been.

“I’m detaining you,” he said, picking up the tray. "I'll take this to the kitchen, and fetch your shopping from the car. I expect you’ll be wanting to get back to work.”

“I am rather.” Directness and diffidence. Was this a glimpse of what she was like when she was young?

It took them a while to bring in the shopping. There were boxes filled with bags of flour, and packets of beans and rice, tins of fruit and huge cartons of washing powder, and cleaning liquids. Stephen wanted to carry it all but when Camellia wouldn't let him, he was struck by her strength. After all, she was used to farm work. But there were dark patches round her eyes and she sighed with relief whenever she let go of especially heavy boxes to ease them onto the kitchen table. If only he had arrived sooner, he could have helped prepare for the visit and Camellia wouldn't have been so tired - except it was only because Camellia was making herself ill that he had stayed yesterday and if he hadn't stayed yesterday, he wouldn't have come back today - and then he might never have known they were Rosemary's parents until too late.

“I was wondering,” he said, “whether I might see the drawing room again."

_____

To continue - Twenty-one

For the post before this - Nineteen

NINETEEN

2009-03-16T10:02:00.014Z

continued from

“The old farmers," he went on, "the ones in the really old days, they wanted the kitchen at the front - so their wives could keep an eye on things. And there wouldn't be too much trampsing through the house when the workers came in for meals or maids took out scraps for the chickens. Almost everything went on went on in the yard. Of course, the house was much smaller then. Even in Tudor times it was smaller ; though bigger than when it started. Possibly. We don't really know. They may have knocked bits down to put their own bits in. As I say, everyone's had a go at it sometime or another.

"But when the terrace was built they left the kitchen where it was because, as I say, they wanted to look . . . idle; preferring style over industry. And since the front was now the back . . . . . um, if you see what I mean, the kitchen, by staying where it was, had moved to the back." He paused, and thought, and raised an eyebrow to check Stephen was following. Just about, he was. So Hugh carried on.

"But old Grandfather Harry couldn’t have his friends sniffing cabbage could he? Which is what would happen now because he'd got everyone coming down the ravine and landing up in the kitchen instead of here. So he turned the kitchen into the drawing room and put a new kitchen at the back of the house, here, where the front was when they were all pretending to be Jane Austin. Is there any more coffee Camellia?” He handed her his cup. “Vandal”.

Camellia drained the flask and offered Stephen another biscuit.

"But he was worried people might still come to the wrong door. After all, this was the side they were used to coming to . . . and it was much easier to bring a carriage here than down the slope at the back . . . front . . . so he had the front door blocked up on this side and covered over - to make the point, and to make sure! Not that this was completely unfortunate. It meant people like us could come and sit out here without looking as if we're waiting for company, or like guests outside a hotel."

“If only the kitchen weren’t so dark,” said Camellia wistfully. “I suppose they thought it was alright for servants but it’s not alright for us, not when we spend so much time in it.”

“Couldn’t you have the door here opened up again?” asked Stephen "put the kitchen back where it was; or make bigger windows?" Instantly, he regretted it. To him, everything spelt poverty; the mess, the lack of proper fencing, the broken drives, the tumbled-down outbuildings, the state of the livestock and the way they were struggling with the remains of a farm that would once have employed hundreds of workers - cowmen and shepherds and field labourers, in a house that was once alive with maids and butlers and cooks and nannies.

“Oh, we’ve thought of it often,” Camellia said. “We’ve thought how nice it would be to have part of the terrace glassed in. We could grow palms and vines. Just imagine it, a real orangery. And proper windows so we could look out from the kitchen. (I wouldn’t want to change the house all round again.) But the balance of the building would be restored if we had a new back door in this wall and were to make it look like a front door. All shiny paint and Victorian. Or Georgian. The upper floors haven’t been messed with. It could all be rather beautiful.”

She sighed.

“But the upset of it all,” said Hugh. “It would be too much.”

“We could go away for a bit,” said Camellia. "While it was done."

They'd had this discussion many times. It was one of their rituals.

“Yes," said Hugh. "But we’ve no-where to go.” He said it firmly and stood up. "You have more coffee with Camellia," he said to Stephen. "Keep her quiet while I check on the sheep."

“Did you say your grand-daughters are coming?” Stephen asked politely, glossing over the emptiness of the flask and to change the subject. But he was also wondering why Hugh and Camellia couldn't stay with a son or a daughter while the work was done, money aside. There was no reason for him to expect any particular change in mood. But there was one. And, what was worse, harmony was broken. Camellia seemed to brighten at the mention of her grand-daughters but Hugh gave her a look that looked almost like a warning.

“What does it matter?” he said, after a pause. “You tell him. Bit of family drama." Already he was walking away. "Enjoy your coffee.”

“Don’t start back on the carpet without me!” Camellia called after him.

“As if I would!”

_____

To continue - Twenty

For the post before this - Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

2009-03-14T09:20:00.005Z

continued from

Hugh tied his last hurdle and directed Stephen down the path along the left hand side of the house.

"You'll see," he said. "There's a terrace and a table and I'll join you as soon as I've got the sheep in here."

The path was narrow, with laurels crowding it so densely Stephen doubted if the sun ever touched the ground. Indeed, the few small patches of earth not shrouded by branches were black and sterile. It was the kind of alley where people in town would put dustbins.

. . . Except, at the end, it opened onto a breathtakingly vast paved space, edged with a stone balustrade. A flight of shallow steps lead down to a gravelled circle where carriages would once have arrived; and beyond that - a wide and winding drive (much grander than the one on the other side of the house) crossed acres of savannah-like parkland. The steps were untended, cracked and spattered with lichen; and winter dandelions had tucked themselves into their corners - but they would have been magnificent once. Impressed visitors would have walked up from their carriages, admired the flowers in the urns at the top and crossed to be welcomed by footmen or butlers or whoever's job it would have been to stand and wait by the large front door. Except there wasn't a front door. There wasn't a door at all. Just a blank wall with a row of square windows high up in it - the kitchen . . . and no way in.

But there was a table - a white iron table and three chairs.

Hugh and Camellia weren't long. Camellia arrived carrying a tray with a flask, a jug and some cups. Hugh followed a few steps after with an unopened packet of biscuits (no cat hairs!) and sugar in a bag.

For a while, they sat companionably in the sun saying little. Then Hugh suddenly remembered he was the host.

“Of course,” he said. “This used to be the main entrance to the house. But nothing is as it was. The place is an architectural mess. Every generation has wanted to make its mark and (unsurprisingly) most of those marks have turned out to be blunders. The house been twisted and turned for centuries. Poor old thing!” Stephen took a biscuit and declined sugar. "In the old days it was nothing but a farm. Well, I say ‘nothing’ - but it was a big one - prosperous. Not everyone has a barn like ours."

Stephen said he had been admiring it.

"Mediaeval. But the world got smaller and fashion arrived. Even in Thorncombe everyone wanted to look idle all of a sudden - those who could afford it, you know. Jane Austinish. That kind of thing.” Stephen gazed across the parkland. “Until then, people had come in by the way we do now but in the late eighteenth century, round then, they stopped liking their visitors to arrive through a farmyard, however well run it was, so they landscaped this,” he motioned with his eyes. “And built a new drive and built the terrace and moved the front door to where this wall is now. All very Georgian and grand.”

He paused.

“Then Camellia’s grandfather came along, 'Engineering' was his thing. And fashion had changed. Suddenly, it took another direction, and everything had to look 'natural' again, even if it wasn't. And he wanted to make things look ‘natural’ in an un-natural way, to make sure everyone could see how 'natural' he'd made them and congratulate him and say 'well done for making this un-natural thing look so 'natural’.' Camellia smiled conspiratorially at Stephen. It was almost a wink. "So he turned the house round again. It's unbelievable! Just think of all the work that had gone into this!"

It was true. Not only was there the terrace itself . . . and the columnated facade. Someone had planned the view and the drive had been designed to make the most of it - to take a tour through the trees on its way to the now non-existent front door. And it was also clear that the Victorians, perhaps pre-Grandfather Harry, had added to them - for Stephen recognised a Sequoia and some other trees he didn't think would have been part of the original scene . . . were they Scot's Pines? Douglas Firs? He didn't know. But Hugh was right. Camellia's Grandfather must have been . . . very enthusiastic? about his new ravine in order to have abandoned this side of the house.

"He put the drive back at what's now the front." Hugh went on with his explanation. "And blasted out the cutting and had all those ferns planted so everyone could say how much it was like Italy or somewhere.” Hugh stirred his coffee for a second time, while he paused for breath.

_____

For the post before this - Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

2009-03-13T08:54:00.004Z

continued from

The next day was warm and sunny, like the morning before. There was an almost spring like glow to the fields as he drove down to Thorncombe with the groceries. He wasn’t getting far with his tour of England but he was enjoying himself. He smiled. He had wanted to get reacquainted with the country and that part was working well. Whatever else they were, Hugh and Camellia were heart-warmingly English.

He drove past the fallen gates and bounced down the rutted drive, thinking to himself about the milkman’s suspension - and his own for that matter! In some ways it seemed (even more than yesterday) as if he were coming home - though he didn't like the prospect of being back in the smelliness and dirt! The glow of admiration he'd felt for Camellia yesterday evening had been brief and had worn off and he'd decided the glimpse he'd had of an underlying strength in Hugh was probably an illusion. But he could hardly hand the milk and the tins of fruit and the cereal packets over without stopping to ask how they both were this morning. Nor could he leave a box on the doorstep like a tradesman for Hugh and Camellia to take in later. And, the funny thing was, and this surprised him, he was looking forward to seeing them again.

The car dipped into the cutting and round in front of the house where Hugh was setting up hurdles. He was planning to bring the sheep into the yard while he and Camellia worked together on the drawing room. The trouble was, he didn’t know where he'd be putting them after the drawing room had reverted to human use. The outbuildings were full of dusty old clobber. If all that had to be moved . . . well - where to? There was so much. And every shed and byre and barn was stacked with something. But there were some with empty pens alongside and the sheep might like to be out in the air for a bit after their long stint indoors, if the weather held. And there were several roofed shelters which had walls missing on only one side. They'd have to be scrubbed out though. It was obvious more time was needed than Camellia was allowing for and, as usual, they were doing everything in the wrong order. They should have prepared somewhere for the sheep before they started on the drawing room and, after yesterday, he really didn't feel he should leave Camellia to work alone in the house while he cleared sheds and scrubbed pens.

He sighed at the impossibility of it - but lifted a cheery hand when he saw Stephen's car - and called to Camellia that he'd arrived.

Camellia popped her head from a window which Hugh had hammered open earlier and which she'd propped up with half a broom handle. Her hair was tied under a silk scarf and her face was streaked with slime but her cheeks were pink and her eyes happy. She fluttered her rubber gloves at him and asked if he would like coffee on the terrace, then laughed because he was startled.

"It does sound rather over-grand, doesn't it? But it's such a beautiful day!"

Stephen was delighted. He couldn't but agree - it was certainly a beautiful day and the holiday atmosphere of spring cleaning was infectious and coffee on the terrace meant he could be friendly without having to go indoors! Hurrah!

_____

to continue - Eighteen

For the post before this - Sixteen

SIXTEEN

2009-03-12T07:09:00.015Z

continued from

Chapter Three

But Camellia couldn't walk. Every time Hugh and Stephen helped her to her feet, she sank against them, shaking. So they lowered her back to the chair and bid her rest. What to do next? She couldn’t stay where she was; her clothes were damp, the air was sour - and light through the windows was almost gone.

“I'll fetch a straw-barrow.”

"He won't manage," said Camellia, as Hugh left the room. But there was something in Hugh's step which alerted Stephen to Hugh's underlying sense of command. Camellia had noticed too and Stephen took her hand. She smiled. "He's perfectly capable really," she said. "It's just that he's . . . ,"

Something rumbled across the yard.

"But he'll need your help with that."

Stephen let go of her cold fingers and scrunched and slid his way to the front door, wishing he'd thought of coming to tea in wellington boots. Hugh was at the foot of the steps with a flat bed wagon. Its platform was made from rough and heavy wooden boards, its eighteen inch wheels had solid tyres and the tow bar was on a swivel - it would be difficult to manoeuvre it into the house but it was better than the wheel-barrow Stephen thought he might have brought.

And they did manage. Between them.

When they reached the drawing room, Stephen let Hugh go ahead so he could wipe his now filthy hands down his trousers; what else could he do? That was the end of them, he reckoned. He looked at his cashmere jumper too - and the band of mud and oil he'd acquired across his tummy when he steadied the three-foot wagon to lift it up the steps. Life, he thought, seemed to have changed pretty much since he'd set out for Church this morning - all crisp and new and two more weeks of holiday ahead.

Camellia struggled to move from her chair and onto the trolley. Stephen said goodbye to his jumper, took it off and folded it into a pillow. Then he helped her lie down as comfortably as she could and they set off for the kitchen.

- Which wasn't easy. After every few feet, they had to pull wadges of wet straw from the wheels and unwind it from the axles. Stephen let Hugh to do it nearly every time. He didn't want to touch the stuff so he stood back guiltily, wishing he were at work; that he had never left America; or let his flat; or even gone to Church; let alone come to tea - and he felt sad and mean as he watched Hugh tear the straw on his own.

And the donkeys weren’t happy either. Their ears went back and their eyes narrowed and they shuffled against each other and puffed at the air and looked at the humans sideways.

At the foot of the staircase, Stephen went ahead so he could prop open the kitchen door and let through some light. There was less straw here, which was good. The wheels ran smoother for the last few feet but the way was narrow and the wagon stuck. Panicking, Hugh started to push it back but it wouldn't go and in what little space there was left, it jack-knifed. Almost, he despaired.

“We’ll have to go the long way, round after all."

He tugged half heartedly at the wagon, knowing it wouldn't budge easily. And it didn't.

"Don't be silly Hugh," said Camellia, pushing herself up on her elbows. "I'll be alright from here."

.
Stephen pressed grimy hands against his temples and suggested Hugh went for a chair.

Camellia tugged at his elbow.

"Don't worry," she said.

He was irritated. He wasn't worried about her. He was worried about his clothes. About the mess he was in. How he'd get away.

And she'd meant more than that too. She meant, don't worry about anything. For she was trying to reassure herself. She didn't want to move off the trolley to the chair. She'd rather they'd simply bring blankets and let her be. Sleep. She didn't want to face the stairs. She didn't want to feed the cats either. She'd like a bath but if she did that, there wouldn't be enough water for Hugh until more had warmed and that would take an hour or two. She was trying to say she didn't want Stephen to feel responsible. Except - she did. She would have liked to tell him they were alright now and he that he could go without worrying. Except they weren't, and she knew he would worry - and, of that, she was glad.

Hugh helped her off the trolley, closed the door on it, brought a chair for Stephen and went to the AGA.

"There's a tin with peonies on," said Camellia, seeing that Hugh was lifting the cover on the hob. "In the larder."

Stephen rose hastily, glad for something to do.

"I'll get it."

Camellia closed her eyes. A dramatic act, thought Stephen, not necessary but effective. She had nothing more to say. And by the time the cake was on table and the tea ready to pour, she was able to walk over, though supported still by Hugh. Perhaps she didn't need that any more either, Stephen wondered. It seemed to him she was consciously taking on the role of a romantic heroine. And he admired her for it. It took them all into a world of black and white movies, far from the squalor, and the damp, and the tiredness - and it meant Hugh could be her hero.

Stephen hurried with his tea and drank it still standing. “I’ll call round in the morning,” he said, after a few sips. (If only it weren't so cold outside!) Hugh had opened the oven door and Camellia’s cheeks had begun to glow pink and she was already half asleep. The room had softened in the firelight. It would be dark in the yard and the car was up the hill. "Do you have a torch?"

Hugh found him his coat (crumpled under cats) and took a torch from a hook beside the back door.

"Is there anything I can bring you tomorrow?" Stephen asked. "I’ll be passing the village shop.”

“Yes,” said Camellia, startling out of her doze. “How kind. Would you bring us a couple of pints of milk? We used to have it delivered but the milkman said it wasn’t worth his while, we needed so little."

"He complained our drive was wrecking his suspension!" Hugh added.

"Painful," said Camellia, with half a grin and a mock grimace. "Where's my purse?"

Hugh started to hunt around the room.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Stephen. quickly. Now he was going - he'd go. “We’ll sort that tomorrow. Is there anything else?”

There was. It was as if a dam had broken. He'd need a supermarket.

Mrs Jenkins would advise. Mrs Jenkins. The lady with good food. Food without cat-hairs. Bacon for breakfast. Roast beef for lunch. What would she have ready for supper? Suddenly, her bed-and-breakfast-with-evening-meal seemed like home. And it looked as if he'd need one, for now he'd met Hugh and Camellia, he could see no way out of staying at least one more night.

_____

To continue - Seventeen

For the post before this - Fifteen

FIFTEEN

2009-03-04T10:20:00.004Z

continued from

While Hugh was gone, Stephen was at liberty to look round the room. The walls were painted oddly orange and the light from a central bulb, under a parchment shade, made everything distant from the AGA seem flat and dull. The windows were high, right up against the ceiling. They hadn't been touched for months, possibly years, for the pole with the brass hook on the end which would be needed for opening and closing them, and which was propped handily in a corner, was coated with cob-webs and the skeletons of spiders.

The room was bigger than any kitchen he'd been in before. The table would have been better sited in the grand dining room of The Hall than in here but there was still plenty of space between it and two arm-chairs (islands in a tide of newspapers) for broken baskets and cardboard boxes.

He had just sat down in one of them and was ruffling through the papers, thinking it might be interesting to read about something which had happened a long time ago, when he heard Hugh shout.

Then again.

His voice was muffled but coming closer. When he'd left the room with the tea, he'd gone through the door which led to the gun room and the yard so Stephen leapt up and headed for that. But the handle was round and brass and slippery and loose. There must be a knack. No. A catch. A catch to lift. It stuck. He rattled and pushed. It shot up - a second nick to his finger! . . . and Hugh burst through a green baize door on the other side of the kitchen.

“Stephen! I’m so sorry. It’s Camellia.” He steadied himself against the back of a chair. Stephen ran to help. Took his elbow. Waited.

Hugh drew a breath but couldn't say more.

“Show me,” Stephen said gently, his own heart thumping. Hugh didn't look well. What if Hugh and Camellia expired on him? Both of them. "Where's Camellia, Hugh?" Hugh just carried on staring. “Show me,” Stephen said again, raising Hugh's elbow a little.

Hugh turned and went back through the baize door. There was hardly any light on the other side. Just the smell of mould and manure. Stephen took Hugh's arm again, not to offer support but to know where they were going. Then they came out from under a huge staircase into a burst of semi-sunshine. A great long, high, wide, entrance hall, with tall windows and oil paintings, and a standpipe, and donkeys pulling hay down from wire baskets on the wall.

"There." Hugh nodded towards the open drawing room door.

Stephen let him rest, leaning against the wall, and went in.

Late afternoon light was filtering through dust into the most extraordinary room he had ever seen and Camellia was there, as if stranded, slumped like a drowned mermaid on a slimy rock that had once been a chair. A standard lamp lay smashed on the floor beside it and a shovel, half filled with muck, lay abandoned at her feet. She was pale. Very pale. And cold, with her hands resting limp on the arms of her rock, her head sideways against its mouldering back. Now Stephen knew what ‘digging up the carpet’ meant. There was a heap of the stuff in the fireplace.

“It could be lovely,” she whispered - and fainted again.

Stephen was worried he too might faint for want of anything worth breathing so he went to one of the windows and tried to push up the sash. It wouldn't budge. Something snorted behind him. He paused. Listened. Wondered. Didn't like to turn and look. Then there was tapping. A series of little taps on the granite floor where the carpet had been scraped away. He drew his arm across a dirty pane. He could see the barn in the courtyard now. It helped to know where he was. Thus strengthened, he turned.

Several sheep were standing in the room and more were arriving, clattering out from behind what had once been a sofa - to look at him. Sam appeared at the doorway. A duck shuffled past Stephen's ankle and hopped onto a chair opposite Camellia and settled on what once had been a cushion.

Hugh said something.

That was it. They must get her head down.

It wasn't easy. Hugh was feeling weak and worried. Stephen was feeling sick and scared.

“She wanted to make it nice for our daughter,” mumbled Hugh. Suddenly, he was angry. “I told her she'd be too tired.”

His voice didn't come out loud. He was anguished and tired and worried and cross and wondering if it would be more comfortable to despair.

Camellia groaned.

“Doesn't he go on!” she said. Then she smiled. It was a weak smile - but a definite one.

Stephen found himself grinning back.

“We though you might like some tea,” he said.

__________

To continue - Sixteen

For the post before this - Fourteen

FOURTEEN

2009-03-03T13:18:00.009Z

continued from

Stephen's hesitation lasted only for a moment but Hugh had noticed and cursed himself. Cat-smell meant 'home' to him. Camellia, he admitted, had been right. No-one else could bear it. And there was this horrible contradiction. The only people he wanted to invite back to Thorncombe were people he liked - and they were the very people he least wanted to offend.

But Stephen was stepping forward.

“Do you like cats?” Hugh asked.

“Love them,” said Stephen, triumphing over nausea. “Perhaps not this many at once . . . . . But I am, indeed, very fond of cats.”

(He wasn’t.)

Out of politeness, he wondered if he should stroke one but couldn't see any he was prepared to go near, let alone touch. Mostly, they were emaciated, their coats dull and their spines showing ridgey under their fur. Some had oozing eyes. Some were old and barely able to move and these watched and glared, warning that they'd fight if he came too close. Some were young though, with a bit of liveliness left. Of these a couple were taking it in turns to chase a pipe-cleaner across the floor and three more were playing catch-tail round saucepans.

Hugh swept an almost flat, doormat style cat off a chair.

“Sit down,” he said. He was apprehensive. “The tea’s ready. I made it before I showed Sam round. I thought you might be cold when you arrived.”

He fetched tea-cups and saucers and a tea-pot neatly wrapped in a stained, hand-knitted cosy from the back of the AGA, where they had been keeping warm, brought them over to the table and set them next to an enamelled milk jug.

It was, no doubt, very kind of Hugh to have tea waiting, very welcoming, thought Stephen, sipping the luke-warm, sludgy brown liquid. It was so bitter it worked backwards, taking moisture out of his mouth instead of adding to it. He tried not to wince and wished Hugh hadn’t been so well prepared.

Hugh poured milk for himself, took a gulp and slammed the cup onto its saucer.

"You can't drink this!" It was awful. "I thought this was what Camellia would do! She left me to it." He stopped and looked so deflated and dejected, Stephen decided to take over.

"Don't worry," he said, taking both their cups to the scullery and tipping the tea into the sink. "It was kind of you to be ready like this. I appreciate it."

Then he lifted one of the covers on the AGA, tested the weight of the kettle and set it to boil again. "Where do you keep the tea?"

Hugh smiled weakly; grateful. Whatever was Camellia thinking? To abandon him like this? Well, he knew. She wanted Rosemary for Christmas. But the sheep had slugs in their wool and there was no-where to put the cattle and there was far too much to do in the drawing room and Rosemary had never liked cats but in the spring there would be lots of lambs for the children to see and he might have bought another donkey by then. Perhaps a dog.

He pointed sadly to a cupboard in the dresser. Stephen reached for a caddy - then took his hand back quick. A finger was bleeding. He looked round at Hugh but Hugh was thinking; hadn't noticed. So he peered into the gloom, grabbed a spitting cat away from her nesting kittens and dropped her gently to the floor where she went and crouched under the table and swished her tail. Stephen left the door open so she could go back when she wanted and made the tea.

They'd just started drinking it, and Hugh had gathered himself enough to be offering a fur laden scone, when Stephen thought he heard a distant, sharp cry. Hugh didn't seem to notice. Stephen listened more, and tried to answer Hugh's questions about Clapham and America without looking too distracted while, at the same time, concentrating on the sound. For a few moments - nothing, then . . . there it was again . . . distantly but definitely, a cry - in the house.

"Do you think Camellia would like us to take her some tea?"

Hugh stared at him a moment.

Stephen heard something crash.

For a moment, Hugh said nothing, startled because he had been interrupted. Then he smiled, glad of the excuse to go and see if she could be persuaded to join them.

“Good idea,” he said. “I’ll take her mine.”

* * *

to continue - Fifteen

For the post before this - Thirteen

THIRTEEN

2009-03-02T08:51:00.007Z

continued from

Surprised to find himself nervous, Stephen pulled the car over to one side, turned off the engine and got out to breathe the stillness of rain-freshened air. It was even better than he'd expected so he reached into the back for his coat, shut the door quietly, and set off down the hill on foot as a sense of homecoming settled about him. The Thorncombes were strangers but - England was pulling him back, switching on the memories of toast and crumpets; memories of raking up great piles of leaves as a child, rolling in them, flattening them, raking them up for bonfires, barrowing them to the compost heap and coming back for more; days when he'd revelled in getting muddy because, even then, he'd known that, for the rest of his life, his adult time, he'd want to be specially neat and clean.

The drive was now running between a broken fence on the left and a holey hedge. Branches and tractor tyres had been piled loosely across gaps and pinned in place with rusty metal stakes. Old doors had been wired between gate posts and a Jersey cow and her calf stared over a thicket of barbed wire. A bull in another field skulked almost knee deep in mud, its legs and belly caked with clay and the hair at the end of its tail clogged into a heavy lump. Oily water filled the imprints of its hooves round the trough and what was left of the grass had been pounded, flattened, stretched and bruised into nothingness. Stephen frowned. He knew nothing about cattle and the weather was mild still but . . . Were there no winter quarters?

Another half mile - and the road dipped again, winding into a small cutting. Sparkles of water trickled between huge ferns on the rock faces and splashed from ledge to ledge. Dripping through heavy mosses it was making its way into a paved gully. At the bottom of the incline, the now fast flowing stream spluttered down a grating in a narrow yard but the main thrust of the drive twisted round the front of a stone barn and ended in a moderately sized courtyard where Hugh and a small brown donkey were emerging from the front door of The Hall.

“Welcome!"Hugh hurried enthusiastically down the last couple of steps, stretching his earth-caked hand towards Stephen for him to shake . "Meet Sam,” he said, with a flourish. But Sam had already peeled off and was looking in a cardboard box beside the open gate to the kitchen garden. “I bought him earlier this week." Hugh shut the gate before Sam moved on to nose among the brussel sprout stumps and empty fruit cages. "He's for my grand-daughters. They're coming to visit but our other donkeys are too old for riding now. I'm only hoping they won’t quarrel over this one.”

Sam went back to the house.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” said Hugh, seeing Stephen look puzzled. “He’ll be alright. He's still finding his way around but he's quiet and calm - just exploring. I hope you don’t mind tea in the kitchen? It’s warm there. We hardly ever use the other rooms.”“Not at all,” said Stephen, thinking it would be perfect. Cosiness, warmth and, with any luck, toasted scones and home-made jam.“I’m afraid Camellia won’t be joining us,” said Hugh, leading the way. She’s got this bee in her bonnet about digging up the drawing room carpet. I tried to persuade her it doesn't have to be done today but, once she’s got herself organised for something, she doesn't like to change tack.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if this has turned out to be inconvenient,” said Stephen, wondering what Hugh meant about the carpet. “Are you sure . . . . . ?”

“Yes, yes, of course I’m sure, I don’t want to be mucking around with mouldy old carpets on a Sunday afternoon. I think we should have a break from work sometimes, don’t you?”

“Indeed,” Stephen said - and he followed Hugh into a smaller yard where the smell of honey fungus drifted from a wood stack and where a door to a tool shed was hanging off its frame and where a row of castellated pig sties were stores for bits and bobs of rubble and broken brooms.“I have no idea,” said Hugh, noticing Stephen was trying not to smile, “why anyone would think it necessary to put battlements on pig sties! And the paint (he meant the paint on the guttering which was brightly green) " - well, that was a mistake."

Stephen grinned. “Arrow slits too!”

He was surprising himself. He should have been discomfited by the disorder. Usually he would have been but, this afternoon, he simply couldn't feel out of place. Hugh was so friendly and the idea of warmth was so tempting that he accompanied Hugh through the back porch and into the house without expecting anything but pleasantness. It did smell a bit. Sort of acrid. But there was a gun room on the right. That was probably it. He glanced in, expecting to see a half de-composed pheasant on the table, or the skeleton of a hare hanging from a hook. But no. The room was almost empty. Dusty and sparse but no dead animals.

“Come on in and make yourself at home,” said Hugh cheerfully, striding ahead and pushing open the door to the kitchen.

For a moment, Stephen stood there, not daring to move further. The smell had intensified. It filled his lungs. He knew it was already sticking in his hair, probably seeping through his clothes and right into his blood. His sight blurred. He thought he would be sick. He thought he might faint. He'd gone pale. He knew that - because his skin had gone cold and clammy. It tingled. But he gathered himself. Stood straight. Tried not to breath much. Forced his reluctant feet off the ground. And stepped forwards.

* * *

For the next post - Fourteen

For the post before this - Twelve.

TWELVE

2009-02-25T06:43:00.004Z

continued from

In the 1960s, when suddenly there were a lot of cars - the lanes were full of them; chugging around with fathers at the wheel, wives in the front seat, travel-sick children in the back; thousands of happy families exploring in a trail of exhaust, with bonnets rattling and big-ends at risk. There were sandwiches wrapped in grease-proof paper in almost every boot (along with a thermos flask of tea and a little brown medicine bottle for milk and a screw of paper for sugar). There were picnics in almost every farm gate and breakdowns in every lay-by. There were enthusiastic hootings at every bend in the road and unwieldy reversings whenever the way grew narrow. Trails of cars followed tractors; and trails of cigarette butts lay in the wake of cars. But by the time Stephen came to Thorncombe this tide had been swept onto by-passes and the lanes had grown quiet.

Indeed, they were even emptier than they'd been in Mediaeval times because sheep, pigs, cows and geese no were no longer expected to walk to market but were driven there in double-decker lorries. The farmyard one minute. The abattoir the next. Hedges had thickened across drove roads, and fields which were once the workplace for many were now ploughed (later harvested) by one man (or maybe two). There were no stonegatherers, birdscarers or reapers and no wives bringing lunch in covered baskets. Chemicals killed weeds and gleaning was theft. There were no horses, no carts, no wagons, few robbers and hardly any beggars and the world seemed empty to Stephen as he drove to visit Hugh and Camellia that afternoon. It was him, his car - and the countryside.

And there was Thorncombe Hall in the green bowl of a valley. It was large, grand and grey, with battlements on some of the roofs. Most of the gardens were hidden by the dip and there were woods which got in the way of a proper view - but he caught glints of water; a river beyond the house? Trout?

Not bad. Space, privacy, freedom and comfort. Not bad.

He looked up through the black tracery of ash branches and oak which would form a green tunnel in the summer. And he looked sideways at the lattice of beech roots where rain had washed earth from the banks. On the high levels, he'd passed thorn trees, bent and twisted like witches, but everything was softer down here. Even in winter, it was faintly green.

He checked an open map on the passenger seat. Turn right.

Thorncombe estate.

Huge stone columns stood empty on each side of the drive. He held his breath as he passed between them. Before long, they'd probably fall and smash against the massive wrought iron gates which were already lying flat in the nettles. And the way ahead, which once had been smooth and gold with gravel, was now little more than a rutty track with ridges and bumps, and potholes and wide spreads of seeping mud. He glanced in the mirror. The lane was already out of sight, hidden by the overgrowth of bushes. But, in the distance, on the other side of the valley, beyond the house, he could already see the estate road rising to a T-junction where Edgington Forest ran along the ridge. And, in the side of the forest, he could see the wide gash in the trees which marked the entrance to the Army Training Camp

But in between . . .

* * *

to continue - Thirteen

for the post before this - Eleven

ELEVEN

2009-02-24T11:14:00.004Z

continued from

"Oh, Hugh! How could you?" Camellia complained through a mouthful of scrambled egg on toast. She was really cross. "You know it never works. They look uncomfortable, drink only half their tea and leave the first moment they can - and some don't stay even long enough for pretend politeness. I thought we agreed you wouldn't invite any more holiday makers; and he looks such a nice young man!"

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?" said Hugh, concentrating on his plate so he didn't have to look at her. "I wouldn't have invited him if he seemed unpleasant."

Camellia sighed. "And I wanted to start on the drawing room floor this afternoon!"

"I know," he said wearily. "But it's the wrong time. We're always tired after church."

Which was right. Since Camellia's seventieth birthday, they had begun to find the two mile walk rather a trial.. They only took the Land Rover to the village if there was something heavy to carry - like a calf or sacks of kindling, or if they'd be coming back with shopping.

At least they didn't have the church right on their doorstep like some big houses. That would have been unbearable. Hugh always imagined he could hear people thinking about his sheep when they were supposed to be praying and if the sheep were only a couple of hundred yards away it would be even more oppressive. Silence never seemed quiet to him and he knew Camellia found being in the village difficult too. She didn't like to be looked at. Not in the way the people in the congregation looked at her anyway. Sometimes, he thought she would suggest they shouldn't go but, however hard it was, he wouldn't have liked that. It was one of the few links remaining between them and the rest of the world, even if it was uncomfortable. Besides, they had always gone.

"Well," said Camellia huffily. "I'm going to start on the floor. You can entertain."

Hugh examined his knuckles. They were huge. They hadn't been like that when he was a boy, he thought. He was trying to distract himself. He didn't want to admit his eyes were stinging.

Camellia gathered up the plates and didn't look at him either. It wasn't often that they quarrelled.

__________

To continue - Twelve

For the post before this - Ten

TEN

2009-02-23T11:31:00.014Z

Continued from.

"Hugh Thorncombe," he said, striding up beside Stephen so he could shake his hand and stand companionably near him while they looked out at the rain. "I hope you're not in a hurry." The Vicar turned to the next in line, Mr Smith, and asked how his leg was.

“Not really,” Stephen replied, glad of the chance to meet the binder twine squire. He didn't mind country drizzle but the rain was getting worse, turning into a downpour. If he waited, maybe it would stop as soon as it had started. Unlikely in November - but it might.

Mrs James pushed past. She'd forgotten to give in her hymn book and was forcing herself against the flow of the crowd to take it back into the Church. Stephen stepped out of the porch to let her through and Hugh felt a surge of panic. What if he lost him? What if the man kept walking? He followed, opened his umbrella and pinned Stephen under the shelter of its rim.

“Miserable weather,” he said, “Especially for visitors!”

"Yes,” said Stephen, peering anxiously into the whiteness of the disappearing churchyard and thinking how unpleasant the walk back to Mrs Jenkins would be. He'd be drenched. Would she let him have a bath? he wondered. Hugh tried to angle the umbrella so he could draw Stephen towards the porch again.

"Not as good as this morning”

“No,” said Stephen.

“It’s a real downpour,” Hugh observed, pressing shut his jacket. You won’t be able to do much for the rest of the day in this. I don’t know what you had in mind for this afternoon but, whatever it was, why don’t you come to tea instead?”

Stephen started.

Hugh noticed.

“We always like to meet new people.”

It was true. Hardly anyone came to eat cat-haired scones for a second time so first time visitors were all they ever had for company, apart from each other. He wondered where Camellia was. Discussing the flower arrangements? Offering to polish the brass? “It’s rather remote here," he said. "We don't have many guests. And I’m sure my wife will be pleased to meet you too," he added encouragingly. "Did you say you lived in Clapham?”

“Not really,” said Stephen, noting how little Hugh minded admitting to having listened to his conversation with the vicar. “Well, not recently anyway. I was just telling the Vicar, I'm touring the countryside. I've missed it while living in America. I've friends in Clapham though," he added. "And a flat - except I've rented it out."

Hugh wasn't sure this fitted so he avoided the Clapham discrepancy.

“Even the rain?” asked Hugh.

“Even the rain,” Stephen agreed.

They stood together, watching it fall.

“Three o’clock?” asked Hugh. “Then we’ll have time to show you round, if you like.”

Stephen was touched.

“Thank you,” he said, putting out his hand to shake Hugh’s and leave. “I’d like that. It’s very kind of you .”

“Do you have a wife?” Hugh asked. But it came out too quickly and he could see that Stephen had noted this and was non-plussed. But he had to know. “Or children?” he asked hopefully.

They seemed such odd questions, and Hugh was so intense in the way he asked, it crossed Stephen's mind to decline the invitation after all.

“Because my wife will want to know how many people I’ve invited," Hugh hurried on. "And, if you’ve children with you, you might like to tell them we’ve got donkeys. Sometimes children are reluctant to go to tea with complete strangers. They always expect to be bored. Donkeys help.”

Stephen relaxed and smiled, thinking he understood. But he wondered, none the less, why Hugh looked so desperately disappointed when he said “No, it’ll be just me.”

__________

to continue - Eleven

For the Post Before This - Nine

NINE

2009-02-18T08:33:00.009Z

continued from

CHAPTER TWO

As the congregation filed out of Church, Hugh took note of Stephen properly for the first time. Of course, he had been vaguely aware of him throughout the service, in the way one always notices strangers, but now he was suddenly struck with the idea that this might be Rosemary's husband, sent on a reconnaissance trip in advance of their visit.

It had begun to drizzle and the first people out had got no further than the porch because they'd stopped there to contemplate the weather. Nobody else could move forward. Those caught in the body of the Church huffed and puffed, umbrellas at the ready for unfurling - but mostly they settled for a chat and looked around for something to moan about while they waited. Hugh was trapped behind Mrs Crow who was complaining about her cat’s latest batch of kittens. Mrs Partridge was complaining about reduced postal deliveries. Mr Dint had lost his glasses and Mr Hobbs and Mr Martin were discussing seed catalogues. Hugh peered through the crowd and strained his ears.

'Robert' was already at the door, being said goodbye to by the Vicar.

He heard the man say ‘America’ and ‘bank’. And the Vicar said ‘London’. Mrs Cosborough started up about Christmas not being far away and Hugh heard Stephen say ‘Clapham’.

That clinched it. It was Robert!

If Hugh hadn’t been the kind of man who always sits in the front pew, he would never have got to Stephen in time - but as it was, he simply had to march forward casting loud 'Good Morning's about him and the crowd moved aside. “Good Morning.” “Good Morning.” He held each person's eye long enough for them to realise what was wanted, then stepped into the gap they made for him. Within seconds, he was at the front of the queue.

to continue - Ten

For the post before this (Eight)

EIGHT

2009-02-17T08:20:00.002Z

On a table near the door, someone had laid out little stacks of books; Book of Common Prayer, a booklet with the latest words for a Parish Communion, and a psalter with an A4 sheet of church notices folded in half and tucked between the pages. He took his little pile, put his collection money on a big brass plate and moved on into the central aisle, wondering where he should sit.

There was bound to be a squire - and he and his family would sit in the front row. He knew where the Church Wardens would sit because their staffs were held up in spring clips on the ends of their pews. Most congregations, he reckoned, had a collection of old ladies who always sat at the back because . . . . . well, he didn’t know why, they just did, so he didn’t sit there either. He slipped into a seat about a third of the way down (on the right hand side, so he wouldn’t crick his neck during the sermon) and looked about him.

The church was Saxon in style, with walls fortress thick and the windows high. The sound of the ringing bell was faint and distant now he was inside but the grate and click of its rope mesmerised him and drew him so deeply into the stillness of the place that the clunk of the iron latch and the heavy squeak of door hinges a few minutes later startled him almost into turning and glaring at whoever it was who had destroyed the silence.

A loud voice.

“Morning John!”

The rhythm of the bell faltered slightly and a muffled voice called back ‘Good Morning’ from behind the heavy curtain in front of the entrance to the tower.

Some more footsteps around the doorway, lighter ones, and the door shut with a soft thud.

A few whispers while the newcomers chose their books, then the confident steps of a man who ‘belonged’ coming up the aisle, the sharper tapping of his wife’s heels following and the crackle and rustle of waxed jackets (which turned out to be surprisingly dirty when their wearers came into view).

It was an elderly man and his wife.

Without hesitation, they headed for the front row and settled themselves in. A-ha! - the people from the ‘Big House’ had arrived.

For the next couple of minutes, Stephen was distracted by the way they were organising their books along the shelf in front of them; each one clearly being placed in its ‘usual’ position, and their constant turning to nod greetings at acquaintances filing slowly into rows behind. Not that their greetings seemed especially well received, for the smiles returned were stiff and the replies that went with them barely polite.

He wondered why.

Then, when the man took off his jacket so he could kneel more comfortably to say his prayers of preparation, Stephen noticed his trousers were held up, not with a belt but with a frayed length of nylon blue binder twine. Binder twine!?

The couple spent a few minutes in prayer, then with a lot of scuffling and a few more whispers, they rose from their knees, the woman to sit, the man to walk forward to the oversized Bible which had already been placed on the brass eagle-lectern facing the congregation. He found the Old Testament lesson, read it through once and marked it with a long green tasselled bookmark. Then raising himself slightly onto his toes, he leant over the Book and looked down onto his wife with such a dazzlingly gentle and loving smile that Stephen was completely taken aback.

Another clatter of the latch, another scuffle of feet, and the woman in the front pew turned again to see who had come in. This time, Stephen took more notice.

Her hair was as white as white hair can ever be and her eyes were the bluest of possible blues. Her face was weather beaten, her white skin sun-darkened and grooved with paler little channels where she had wrinkled it against the wind. She seemed awfully tired. Stephen guessed she was about seventy.

And she was beautiful.

__________

To continue

SEVEN

2009-02-16T09:18:00.001Z

It took Stephen about three quarters of an hour to walk to Thorncombe. The weather was deliciously Novemberish and, although it was too early in the day for bonfires, the damp, grey air seemed to breath yesterday’s wood smoke, and the rotting leaves along the banks of ditches were oozing a pleasant mustiness; the smell of England.

Just as he entered the main part of the village one high, unbeautiful bell began to ring (not very rhythmically at first). In another quarter of an hour the service would start. He was glad about the timing. He liked to catch the atmosphere of a place before anything much happened. He liked to sit down and look around and watch the way people came in, the way they prayed, observe the small muttered greetings, the furtive glances 'the regulars’ gave strangers. Him. He smiled and hoped, very fervently, that no-body would rush up to welcome him or shake his hand so he felt out of place. It did happen sometimes, even in these out of the way villages and, when it did, it disturbed him. He had come to be in the presence of God, not to be grabbed. So he paused a moment and thought. Then went up the three steps cut into the bank at the side of the road, opened the wooden gate and, walking more slowly now, up the curved incline towards the church.

It was a funny feeling this. Everything seemed so familiar: the churchyard raised high above the level of the road, the lopsided gravestones, the chirrup of the odd sparrow, the way the grass was encroaching along the uneven edge of the half gravelled path; then the deadening of sound as he went into the porch, so only his feet were loud as he stepped from the earth path onto stone flags. Then the rough grating of iron as he lifted the catch on the heavy door - this was the best welcome he could have had and its loud screeching (because no-one ever oiled its hinges) collected up the memory of all such church doors when he pushed them open, and it rolled them into one eternal sensation of always arriving, and going in, and belonging. This same scene, the same smells, the same quiet expectancy, it was the same here as in almost every parish in rural England. He smiled, and leaning against the latch, stepped down into the gloom of the church. Smells: smells of old hymnbooks, dusty hassocks, the peppery sweetness of dried out chrysanthemum leaves in cobwebby vases, wood polish . . . . . Home!

SIX

2009-02-11T07:29:00.007Z

Stephen rattled down the bed-and-breakfast stairs, plucked a parish magazine from a pile on a table by the front door - and followed the scent of frying bacon into the breakfast room.

It was Sunday - and he was three days into a meander round the English countryside - a sort of re-acclimatisation tour after his return from America.

It was Stoke-Upton, a hamlet ten miles short of King's Hampton and he'd come across it the evening before just when darkness was falling and he was beginning to panic. (He'd prefer not to be lost in the lanes till morning!)

And he'd struck lucky. The cottage was peaceful and old. The sheets were heavy and cool. The blankets warm. The eiderdown heavy and the curtains thin. The cups flowery. The tea strong. The biscuits plain. The air chill. (As was the water in the hand-basin.) The floors uneven. And the welcome was as welcoming as a welcome is when the landscape is otherwise empty of paying guests.

Mrs Jenkins brought toast in a rack and asked if he was planning to go to Church, it being Sunday, and him reading the parish magazine.

“Because, if you do, you’ll have to go to Thorncombe. We’ve got ‘amalgamated’. Would you like eggs with your bacon?”

"Eggs and fried bread. How far is Thorncombe?"

"Holy Communion at ten," she said. "Albert went at eight. Not far. About half an hour's walk. Lunch at one?"

He hadn't planned on lunch.

“Beef," she said, encouragingly. "Local. Yorkshire pudding . . . roast potatoes . . . ." She was wondering what might tempt him best. Broccoli from the garden and our own peas from the freezer. Blackberries. Custard?" she added hopefully. "And tonight . . . will you be staying tonight?"

Yesterday evening, he'd seen big hills with rocky, thorny tops. Pastures and woodland on the lower slopes. He’d driven through narrow lanes lined with ancient trees and thick hedges. There were streams in the ditches and a river in the valley. On his bedside table was a list of local attractions. Post Office. Bus stop - market days only. And a map to show where the library van parked once a month. There was a list of local produce on the back and a box advert for an art gallery in King's Hampton. He knew it - and smiled.

England.

The England he'd missed.

Why not?

"One night."

(Mrs Jenkins smiled too!)

__________

FIVE

2009-02-10T07:58:00.009Z

After the almost overwhelming emotion set off by the arrival of Rosemary’s letter, Hugh and Camellia surprised themselves by settling quickly into the routine of the day. Each hugged to each their excitement and it wasn’t mentioned again until supper.

“I think late Spring would be best,” remarked Hugh squinting to see Camellia beyond the flickering lights of their silver candelabra. Then, in order to conceal his feelings, he peered instead at his poached fish, flaking it to check for bones. “When the lambs are born and their mothers shorn; the ewes look tidier then.”

Camellia was startled. She’d decided next Saturday would be a good time for Rosemary’s first visit - and here was Hugh proposing they wait for months and months. She’d been making plans for Christmas too. They’d take a great, tall tree from the estate, set it up in the drawing room and cover it with decorations (children always like glitter, taste be damned!). She’d been imagining huge logs in the fireplace (there were loads of fallen branches around the fields) - and piles of parcels for Cressida and Cordelia. (So many Christmases and birthdays to catch up on!). It would, she’d decided, be a story book event; like the old days. She’d ask the vicar to send the choir and they’d sing carols and eat mince pies. How everyone would love it! And they’d talk to the sheep and feed the donkeys and walk through the fields and learn the names of the cows.

“D’you think we should buy a new carpet?” asked Hugh.

Camellia’s mind had wandered so clearly towards Christmas she couldn’t think what carpet he was talking about. Nor could she imagine why any carpet might have any bearing on Rosemary’s visit.

“It’s a bit slimy nowadays.”

Camellia sighed. What had she been thinking? The sheep lived in the drawing room. Forget the choir. It would have to be a Christmas like all the others they’d had in recent years. They’d cluster round the aga for warmth and eat in the kitchen as usual. (They could still have a tree and buy lots of presents for the children.) Did she want to go back in time? No. For the most part, she liked things as they were.

"Hugh," she said. "As much as I want to see her, I don't want a carpet for the sheep. They don't need one."

He looked up from his fish.

"Not for - "

But Camellia was in tank mode, pushing forward without interruption.

"We made our life as we want it." She tried to catch his eye and infuse him with a happy sense of conspiracy - tempt him to smile. But he was wary. "Now." She laid her hands on the table and hoped she sounded business-like. "Rosemary isn't like us." She waved brusquely to show he mustn't speak. "She worries about cleanliness. She likes to live a narrow line; be like the neighbours."

Neighbours? They had no neighbours.

"She worries what they might think."

"And we don't."

It was a flat statement. She looked at him sharply. She knew he was lonely.

"Not in the way Rosemary does, we don't. No . . . so . . . " She was still watching. "Suppose we change everything, everything we like but she doesn't - shift the animals, make everything cleaner than it need be, tidy away my knitting."

Had Rosemary not like knitting? He couldn't remember. Probably she didn't. As far as he could remember, she didn't like much.

"Hugh?"

He was listening. But he couldn't look as if he were listening.

"Suppose we do all that but it isn't enough for her . . . she arrives . . . sees . . . turns . . . " she was still watching "and goes."

He jumped.

"What are we left with?"

He didn't know. Broken hearts? Life never after?

"A carpet. A new carpet! That's all, Hugh. We could throw everything away and be left with nothing but a carpet." She leaned forwards, peering to see him beyond the candles, their lights stinging her eyes.

“Hugh,” she said firmly. “The sheep live in the drawing room and they don’t need a new carpet. Nor do we."

Hugh’s face twisted. They must, absolutely must, put all their strength, all their effort, all their fortune if necessary, into making Rosemary feel welcome. If it meant throwing everything else away, evicting the sheep, building a field shelter for the donkeys - well, he'd do it! - So long as she stayed. He'd even begun to wonder if her husband might be interested in farming.

“I want them here for Christmas Hugh,” said Camellia, her jaw tense and her eyes stinging.

Hugh sliced a potato.

Silence. Only broken by the strange scrape of silver forks on pottery plates.

Then,

“If we leave the sheep in the drawing room,” muttered Hugh. "She’ll walk in, she’ll walk out, just as you say, and that will be the last we see of her. Possibly for ever, Camellia. For ever.”

“She knows how we live,” said Camellia, tart and bitter.

(She didn't like to be bitter.)

“She'll say we’ve got worse,” said Hugh, quietly.

“Worse!”

(Tart, bitter and shrill!)

“In her terms,” he said, more gently now. “We're worse. Much worse. Imagine how she’ll see things, Camellia. We’ve got to see through her eyes.”

Camellia stilled and stared.

Then.

“Ok,” she said, with a little clap of her hands. “We’ll do it.” She saw him brighten. His shoulders unhunch. She snuffed the candles. She could see him properly now. “And by ‘do it’, I only mean we’ll do what we have to. Just that. The minimum. But NOW. That's when. Not in the spring. The sheep can go on holiday, we'll clear the drawing room and clean the table in here and she can come on Saturday."

It wasn't what he'd wanted and he didn't know how they'd do it, not by Saturday. It gave them only six days in which to effect a massive transformation. Six days and a morning if they didn't invite Rosemary to lunch. Not good - but agreed. Almost.

"A week next Saturday."

"Done!" said Camellia - and she felt something ripple inside her. It was pleasure creeping back in. And with it came a spark of contradictory hope. Perhaps the sheep could stay away till January? Then they might have that tree . . . and that choir . . . and that massive fire - and mince pies - after all?

After that . . . . But she hadn't a clue about after.

__________

For the Post Before This

To Start from the Beginning

FOUR

2009-02-09T07:36:00.004Z

While Hugh and Camellia were relishing their one letter, Rosemary and Robert were ploughing through a week’s worth. The postman had been off sick and there'd been no-one to replace him for several days so it had taken until 10:30 the night before, just as they were going to bed, before he’d finished delivering the backlog.

"We may as well make the most of having letters at breakfast,” said Robert, shuffling through the pile. "Very civilised." Nearly all of it was junk mail, but, eventually, he hit gold. "Ah! Here’s a good one! Very welcome.”

Rosemary looked up from buttering her toast and peered round his arm so she could see the handwriting.

“Stephen!”

Indeed a pleasure. It was from their oldest and best friend and his letters were always fun, long, witty, tightly written and full of anecdotes - perfect for reading aloud.

He liked America. He worked there. He'd lived there four years and if he hadn't liked it, he'd have come home.

He liked computers. He'd persuaded his bank to send him away to work on them. If he hadn't liked computers, he‘d have stayed in Clapham.

But his conservative core was embarrassed. He insisted that progress should be resisted. He despised technology. (He said.) He drank coffee for breakfast even though it was against nature to do so and he only agreed to it out of civility. (He said.) He was filled with respect for his colleagues - but complained when they didn't wear ties. He complained about the over-familiarity of people he met at dinner parties - but he went to them.

He sent to England for tea. He cut thin sandwiches and invited friends to share them in the afternoon. Everyone laughed at him. Everyone liked him. Everyone knew he was clever. Hardly anyone knew him - only Robert and Rosemary. To them, he told everything.

“He’s coming back!” said Robert.

________

For the Next Post

For the Post Before This

To Start from the Beginning

THREE

2009-02-04T06:57:00.007Z

Breakfast, a week later.

Camellia was complaining that the quality of journalistic photography was no-where near as good as it used to be and Hugh was saying nothing.

That was when Camellia looked round the edge of her newspaper and realised something awful was happening.

She had been expecting him to suggest they go to London for a few days, visit proper galleries and see proper pictures. It's what he always did. They’d discuss which ones - and then not go. That's how it went.

But Hugh was looking very odd and seemed incapable of saying anything. He was holding a letter and his hand was shaking but apart from that he was sitting stiller than she’d ever seen him. His face was white; paper white. Then his colour deepened. Sweat broke from his forehead and his lips parted and closed, parted and closed - without sound. Was this what a heart attack looked like?

She wanted to go to him. She began to stand. But time seemed to have gone sticky and, although she was sure she was moving as quickly as she could, her limbs would hardly budge from the chair and she felt as if air itself was pushing her back.

Hugh’s nostrils flared. She saw him suck large, silent, unsteady, slow-motion breaths. Her ears stopped working. Her body was swimming. Would he die before she reached him?

Then, he wrenched his attention from the half crumpled letter and, gathering his remaining strength, fixed her eyes with his and willed her to sit.

She did. And was flooded with relief so fierce it was as if her blood had been sucked away in a second and replaced the next moment with aniseed. She could feel it flushing her face and trembling her fingers.

Hugh smoothed the letter.

No dieing yet.

"Rosemary."

Camellia concentrated her face into a frown. She didn't want her eyes to widen too far. They might bounce out and fall into her cereal bowl.

The last they’d seen of Rosemary was when she graduated.

A cow had calved. Unfortunate timing. If they’d stopped to change out of their mud-spattered overalls, they'd have missed it.

So they'd crept into the back of the hall at the last minute and sat there proudly; pleased with their daughter; pleased with themselves that they were there.

Rosemary was not pleased.

“You stink!” she’d screamed. (They did.)

Fifteen years later - a letter!

It took a few moments before Camellia realised Hugh was reading aloud. Time seemed to be tidying itself but sound lagged still.

Faintly, she heard the word ‘husband’.

“Husband?”.

Delight ignited.

“They’re coming to see us?” . It was a whisper.

Hugh tried to say ‘yes’ .

“Have they . . . .?”.

“Yes,” said Hugh, suddenly explosive and noisy. A grin broke out and his eyes sparkled. Camellia felt her insides jump. And then - a distraction. A great lurch of love for Hugh; it happened from time to time.

. . . the sea-blueness of his eyes . . . their first summer . . . whiteness on waves . . . gulls and children shrieking, indistinguishable.

“Two,” he said joyfully. “Both girls. Cressida and Cornelia."

For a moment, they gazed at each other, wide eyed from their distant ends of the table. Then they bent over their plates and giggled.

“What?!” asked Camellia, suddenly able to speak - though the sound was odd and staccato.

(At least I can speak again, she thought.)

"It could have been worse," said Hugh. "Lady Macbeth."

Camellia felt her hands relax. She was returning to life.

“And Camellia isn’t ordinary as a name, is it?" Hugh continued. What if she'd chosen flowers to remind them of you? Um . . . Buttercup and Marsh Mallow?”

"Foxglove and Bindweed!”

“Dandelion and Burdock!”

They were hysterical with delight. Their dream was true. Rosemary was alive.

And they had grandchildren to boot.

Camellia raised the teapot.

Hugh looked at his watch.

“I think,” he said happily, “I can put off mending that gate for another few minutes.”

__________

For the Next Post

For Two.

To Start from the Beginning

TWO

2009-02-03T07:22:00.007Z

Eleven o’clock. Same time. Coffee time. Clapham.

Rosemary, Hugh and Camellia’s, daughter was sitting in her kitchen, staring resolutely into her wide, white cup.

“I want nothing more to do with them, Robert."

She pushed the biscuits towards her husband, not meeting his eye.

“But they’re your parents.”

Through the window, between gaps in the houses, he could see plane trees in the park, black and bare of leaves. Their branches were spiky and delicate against the grey, grainy sky.

“My parents.”.

“And my parents ‘in-law’. They're old. We should offer them care.”

“They have each other.”

She was snapping.

“But Rosemary.”

He was pleading.

“What about our children?”

Rosemary stared at him.

“What about them?”

“They need grandparents. Everyone needs grandparents.”

“Of course they don’t need grandparents.” She laughed. “Lots of people don’t have grandparents.”

He didn’t like her to laugh. It mattered.

Perhaps I should let him see, she thought. When he sees the mess in the drawing room, he'll change his mind. When the donkeys in the hall bite him . . .

. . . how old were they now? . . .

. . . when his expensive shoes had been ruined by fifteen years of urine and accumulated dung he too would want an escape.

"Of course children need grandparents! Doesn’t everyone?"

Rosemary tried not to look as she felt.

Robert kept his eyes on the view. The lawn below the chestnut tree had turned to mush. The flower borders were empty of everything except for a cluster of London-weary evergreens.

“Just let the children have grandparents Rosemary.”

She reached for the coffee pot. It was empty and she slammed it so sharply back down onto the table that its little feet drove dents into the wood. She licked her finger and rubbed at the marks, then, shoving the pot aside, settled for staring at them so she didn’t have to look anywhere else - but, every so often, her finger reached back, as if of its own accord, to have another go at smoothing them away.

“Listen, Rosemary,” said Robert, trying not to sound desperate. “This is something we must do. The children shouldn’t be separated from their grandparents and their grandparents shouldn’t be separated either from them or from any help we can give them in their old age.”

Robert was pompous when distressed.

She suddenly knew he'd planned this conversation. He must have. He was wearing a suit.

Bother, she thought, he's serious.

When her grandparents had lived at Thorncombe, there'd been a huge apple-wood fire in winter (there weren’t sheep in the drawing room then!). And the scent of it had floated up and out of the chimney. It had drifted across the roofs of the big house. It had dropped sleepily into the parkland. The shelves in her room had been filled with story books (not warble fly tracts). When it was time for bed, her grandmother read from them until her until her eyes closed.

Cows and sheep lived in the fields, not the house. There were two cats, just two - healthy and tame - not the countless, nameless, sickly ones her parents let crawl in and out of the cooking pots.

Everything her parents touched turned to mud. They'd turned Thorncombe to mud. But they existed. Whereas . . . Robert . . . his parents gone before he knew them. And his grandparents . . . never met them.

Her heart lurched. She’d always known she’d give in one day - well - that day might as well be this one; at least she’d have got it over with.

“Ok," she said. “We’ll go. We’ll go to Thorncombe.”

She didn't want to see him pleased. Not about this. So she filled the kettle.

“You can change now,” she said. "It is Saturday."

But still, she didn't look at him. "I'll make fresh coffee," she said.

Then, at last, she turned, and smiled. “And while you’re doing it, you can work out where we can buy wellington boots in Clapham.”

__________

For One.

For Three.