A Hopeless Romantic Part 10

"Well," said Angela, much disconcerted by this question. "I don't...well, I don't know, do I?"

Suddenly the sentry booth spoke. "House and grounds, or just grounds," it said in a low Norfolk accent.

George and Angela jumped in their seats.

"What?" said George. "My goodness. What?"

Angela was suddenly alert. She peered toward the booth, her dark eyes flas.h.i.+ng with interest. "Well, my goodness," she said. "Have you got someone down there?"

The vision chewed a lock of her hair. "f.u.c.k," she said, apparently unbothered.

"She's got what?" said George.

"She's got someone down there. Whereabouts down there...I don't know," Angela said, showing a rare glimpse of camp humor. "Do let him get up and let us in, dear, then you can get back to what you were doing."

"Forty-five pounds for house and grounds, please," said the voice from within, even more quietly than before. Laura surrept.i.tiously looked over to the tollbooth to see if she could see anything; suddenly its back door shot open and a lanky youth was seen bolting across the gra.s.s, behind the trees and out of sight.

His former companion sighed, and tossed her hair again. "Well, he said forty-five pounds, so I suppose he's right."

"Forty-five pounds!" said Laura in a stage whisper. 'That's b.l.o.o.d.y daylight robbery!'

As ever, the stage whisper was totally ineffectual, as it seemed to her everyone within fifty paces could have heard her. The girl shot her a look of pure dislike. "Have you got a problem with that?" she said.

"No, no, no," said George hastily, fumbling in his wallet. "There you go. It's cash, there you go."

"Great," came the reply. "Keep on driving."

"Any tickets with that?" said George desperately as the girl made to turn away. She was examining something under her fingernails.

"G.o.d, right. Uhm...yeah, here," she said, and carelessly flicked four tickets out from a roll on the counter. "Great. Have a...great day, then." She peered in at Laura, her stare of curiosity verging on the rude. "I'm sure you'll all really enjoy yourselves. Bye."

And she turned away and, tossing her hair, called someone on her phone. "Sean! Get back here and finish what you started. I'm so bored!"

As they drove on, George gazing about him wildly as if expecting other t.i.tian-haired beauties to pop up in their path, Angela looking back and saying, "Well, really! Who was she?"

Laura gritted her teeth and scowled.

chapter fifteen.

T hey drove on, through the near-silent park. The only sound was the faint rustling of the heavy leaves of the huge oak trees fanning out away from the drive. They were vast, st.u.r.dy things, standing in a line like sentries, and their branches hung low, casting a velvety green shadowy band across the landscape. The car crawled through them, out to the other side.

"Look!" said Angela. "There it is. Beautiful, isn't it."

There it was, and Laura turned her head to look. It was beautiful, it was true. The great house rose up out of the gently curving parkland, a crouching lion, n.o.ble and welcoming at the same time. The sun warmed the old stone, giving it a rich, golden glow. The windows glinted in the patchy midday sun, and the clouds that raced above the house were reflected in the gla.s.s. It was a huge, gracious thing; Laura could see additional wings and flanks stretching off it again and again, almost as if it were a small town. Though it had been built by hand, it was part of its own landscape; and she found it very easy to imagine how it might have been three hundred years ago. Remove that family with the screaming toddler and the stroller at the front. Take out the sign saying CAFe THIS WAY, and the five old ladies in identical summer-print lawn frocks oohing over a guidebook, and the Range Rover peremptorily parked right outside-surely it shouldn't be there?-and replace all that instead with footmen in wigs, some Mozart in the background, and Laura herself, her hair piled up, one ringlet escaping and curling over her shoulder, dressed in a gown of beautiful red and gold, the door to her carriage being flung open as she was handed daintily down onto the gravel, waving a delicate fan made of ivory and silk. She allowed herself that one. It was a beautiful house. But as they parked in the car park, a field some distance from the house, and Laura got out of the car, a new rush of gloominess overtook her as the mundanity of the situation hit her again.

"Ha-ha!" said George, gripping his guidebook as tightly as if it were the key to a new Aston Martin. "Right, let's be off, then. Shall we start with the house first?"

"Great," said Angela, fluffing her hair out of her raincoat. "Then we can have the picnic, then look at the grounds. And the orangery. Oh, George! The orangery-"

"Yes, mustn't forget that," George said, winking at his wife.

"What?" Laura asked.

"There's an entire re-creation of the Battle of Waterloo in there," George said, pleased.

"Isn't the room a bit small for that?" asked Laura, deadpan.

George ignored her and strode on ahead. "No," said Angela beside him, as Laura brought up the rear, scuffing her flip-flops childishly along the dry gravel. "A miniature re-creation. Toy soldiers. Thousands of them. The eleventh marquis painted them all himself."

"Wow," said Laura as they rejoined the drive that led to the house. "That is quite simply incredible."

"The great hall was the first room to be fully completed, and it was here that guests would be welcomed as they arrived. This tapestry was designed especially for the north wall and woven in Mortlake, which was the preeminent location for tapestry weaving during the latter half. The seventeenth century. The chandeliers, moldings, and fixtures were designed as part of the overall decor for the hall by Jean-Bastide Rousseau, the preeminent artisan of his day in this area. This map of the county that you see above the great fireplace is very old. It dates back to 1485 and the final battle of the Wars of the Roses at Bosworth, in which the Danvers and Needham families both fought. On the winning side, of course. Lady Anne Danvers was betrothed to John Needham afterward, and the two great families were joined. This map was made to commemorate the union. Thus, it is central to the story of Chartley. And now we move through...into the ballroom.... Do follow me. Thank you. No flash photography. Thank you."

"Cynthia," said George keenly, annexing the fearsome woman who was their guide, "may I just ask about the significance of the map? It is interesting when one thinks that the Needhams..."

He danced alongside Cynthia, whose hair was set in tight curls of an iron and tin hue, and whose back was as straight as a wall. She frowned at him as they pa.s.sed into the next room. Laura watched as her mother gazed around, Angela's birdlike eyes darting from one object to another, taking it all in, wondering what she should say and think about it all.

Their fellow day-trippers on this guided tour were as Laura had feared. Three clearly hysterical middle-aged women who were on some kind of day out, and who displayed such a degree of overexcitement about everything that Laura wanted to tell them never to go somewhere really actually exciting, like Las Vegas-the shock would kill them. Two separate dour-looking men, one very thin, one verging on obese, cameras round their necks. An overwrought family trying to pretend they were having a lovely day, whereas in fact the husband looked bored, the wife exhausted, and the children bewildered and tetchy by turns.

She seemed to have been there for about three days already. As the group returned to the great hall and ascended a majestic wooden staircase, she spotted her mum waving at her, pulled herself together, and trotted obediently over to join her, wearing what she hoped was a pleasant smile of enjoyment.

"And here is the library," said Cynthia, opening the door and flattening herself against it, sentrylike, to allow the group to file past her well-harnessed bosom into the final room on their tour. "Hm," she muttered, as the large camera-wielding man wedged himself between her and the doorframe, and eventually pushed himself out the other side, spluttering. Laura followed, trying not to laugh.

"The library is perhaps the most famous room in Chartley," Cynthia began. "It-"

"Excuse me, Cynthia?" one of the three ladies said, waving her hand in the air. "h.e.l.looo."

Cynthia just looked at her as if she would like to have her executed for treason.

"It's so lovely to be here!"

The other ladies nodded enthusiastically.

"Can I ask you something?"

Cynthia inclined her head. "Of course," she said coldly. "Briefly."

"When was the last time you saw Lady Ranelagh?" said the first lady, as the other two looked on expectantly.

"Excuse me?" said Cynthia. "There is no Lady Ranelagh. His lords.h.i.+p is not married."

She turned to move on, but the second one stopped her. "Shh, Clare! Sorry. What my friend means is, the marquis's mother. Vivienne Lash. Has she never been back here? Did you ever see her?"

The rest of the group watched nervously as Cynthia looked at the three ladies in turn.

"Oh, Frances," the third one said crossly. "We shouldn't have asked."

"As I said before," said Cynthia, turning magnificently on her heel. "There is no Lady Ranelagh. I believe Mrs. Needham-as she is known now-lives in the south of France. I have never seen her."

There was silence. The three ladies looked crushed. Laura smiled sympathetically at them as Cynthia made her way down the room.

"Now," she went on. "The library."

It certainly was a stunning room, as George had said. It looked about as long as Laura's street at home. Shelves rose high on both sides, and light poured through the long, high windows on three sides-it took up the whole side of the house. It was like a big, glorious lantern, humming with interesting things, and although Laura desperately wanted to be interested, she was fast running out of steam. The old Laura would have cast herself as the bookish marquis's daughter, Lady Laura, creeping in here to study John Donne by candlelight while her brutish, unintelligent family slept on, but she simply couldn't work up the enthusiasm. She could almost block out the sight of George leaping up and down by a painting on the far wall.

"Yes, the famous Hogarth series," said Cynthia, marching the length of the gallery as the tour dribbled along behind her. "Harrrem. The jewel of the Needham family's art collection. Long thought to have been unfinished by Hogarth. In fact, they were only discovered fifty years ago, by the present marquis's grandmother. Chartley Hall was used as a boarding school during the Second World War, and many of its most prized possessions were put into storage, in the attics above us here." She stopped in front of the painting. It was boldly executed, showing a man and a woman holding hands, emerging from a country church, with a plethora of characters-the grasping mother-in-law, the sozzled father, a beggar, and some children playing to the side-fanning out around the central bride and groom. "Some of his greatest work is shown in the eight different scenes that make up the series. All his life, Hogarth struggled to reconcile the twin demons of narrative subject matter and what he saw as great 'historical' painting in the grand manner.... With this sequence, which shows the happy courts.h.i.+p, wedding, and subsequent life together of a young aristocratic couple, he found it. Note the..."

Laura's attention wandered. What was Yorky doing at the moment? she wondered. Yorky, and Jo-and all of that-it seemed so far away, a lifetime away. It was good to be away from it all but-did she miss it? She didn't know, didn't want to think too closely about it all. She liked the fact that her life was on hold, as if she'd pressed the pause b.u.t.ton on a video of her life and gone off for a while. On a tour of stately homes with her parents. Hm. She bit her lip and turned back to Cynthia, who was still talking, her clipped tones hurrying the information along.

"...It was only when Amelia, the new marchioness, was taking these pieces out in 1947 that she stumbled upon a secret cupboard in the depths of the last room. There, rolled up and tied with twine, miraculously preserved-five of the eight paintings of this series. This is the only one of Hogarth's series that actually tells a happy story, I am pleased to say."

There was nodding of heads and pleased clucking from the group as Cynthia smiled benignly down at them.

"Where are the others?"

Cynthia looked around her. "I beg your pardon?"

Laura, to her astonishment, found herself saying again, "Where are the other paintings?"

Cynthia turned toward her, her smile a little more forced. "The other paintings?"

"In the series," Laura said. "You said they found five all rolled up. Why's there only one up, then?"

"Oh, dear girl," said Cynthia. "We couldn't hang the others. Too risky. Someone might cause them damage. They're very frail, you know. This one's the strongest."

"But-" said Laura. "What's-well..." She stopped, not wanting to sound rude.

"Go on, dear," said Cynthia, her eyes glinting.

Laura looked wildly around, regretting having started this conversation. Why? Why couldn't she just keep quiet? She felt the heat of someone's gaze on her and realized her mother was staring at her, eyes silently beseeching politeness. Laura plowed on.

"Sorry. But-well, what's the point of keeping them in storage? Why can't you put them on display so they can be together?"

"It's not as simple as that, dear," Cynthia said firmly. "And it's up to the trustees of the house. It's not really about putting every one out so the general public can enjoy it, is it?"

"Why?" said Laura, feeling heat rise within her, suddenly so impatient with this sad middle-England, middle-aged debate, setting, scene-everything. The new pragmatist in her rebelled. This wasn't fairy-tale, it was extortion! "You've charged us fifteen pounds each to get in, yet most of the rooms are roped off, the car park's miles from the house, everyone here is about eighty-no offense, Mum and Dad-no one seems particularly pleased to see us here, we're treated like cattle...I just wonder why you bother."

"Laura!" said Angela, horrified.

There was a short silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet on parquet floor as the majority of the group edged surrept.i.tiously toward Cynthia and away from Laura, putting as much distance between themselves and this crazy, dangerous recidivist as they possibly could.

"Well. Really," said Cynthia slowly, puffing up like a tweedy balloon. "I mean, really. That's not nice, now, is it?"

"Sorry," said Laura. "My fault. I apologize."

Laura had been in a negotiation skills workshop a few months ago, where she learned how to deal with reluctant, lazy volunteers, undermined, exhausted teachers, parents who were sometimes demanding, sometimes hopelessly bewildered. The key, in most situations, was to apologize. Say sorry. People love it. It makes them feel much better, even if nothing gets done. The verbal action is greater than the mental commitment, in nine cases out of ten. It astonished Laura, depressed her, amused her sometimes, the power of an apology.

She looked around her, down the long hall at the suns.h.i.+ne that had suddenly broken through the great window at the end, the honey-colored books lining the shelves. She looked at the collection of flared-skirted, guidebook-clutching, middle-aged, middle-cla.s.s tourists in front of her, and just wanted to be on her own. She should never have come in the first place. She should have stayed at home. What was she doing here, arguing with some tweedy woman about car parks and fees?

"I'm really sorry," she said again. "I'll wait outside. Mum-Dad-you take your time. I'll meet you back at the car, okay?"

Her parents nodded mutely. And so Laura turned and left, moving swiftly down the old wooden staircase that swept majestically down into the great hall. The sun was pouring through the great wide door and, with her flip-flops flapping on the black and white marble floor, she ran outside, away from it all.

chapter sixteen.

L aura walked briskly away from the stable block, leaving the house behind her, the dry ferns and gra.s.s crunching satisfyingly under her flip-flops. Ahead of her was a grove of trees, cool and dark amid the yellow-gray meadow. Above her in a white sky, the hazy sun shone down. She could feel sweat pooling at the base of her spine.

Behind the trees was a huge field where, at one end, a mower worked methodically, making his way toward the heavy, nodding gra.s.s at the nearer end of the field. Laura could hear the humming sound of the blades, growing louder in the distance. In amongst the edge of the trees there was a little bench. She looked around anxiously, hoping against hope not to be accosted by yet another happy family or irritating fact-giving middle-aged people, such as those who had accompanied her here; but, happily, she was alone. She reached into her bag for her sungla.s.ses. Her hand felt a square shape beneath the torn lining. It was a packet of cigarettes. She hadn't smoked for days; she only really had with Dan-in fact, she was pretty sure they were Dan's, from some s.n.a.t.c.hed moment somewhere when she'd rammed them into her bag, in the rush to be somewhere, not late. How strange. They were a bit bashed around, but there was a lighter in the packet, too, so she leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette, closing her eyes and listening with blessed relief to the silence all around her, underpinned only by the sound of the engine growing louder as it came closer.

Something made her open her eyes. It was a deer, moving toward the copse at the edge of her line of vision. Its antlers were huge, fascinating to one who hadn't really seen a deer close up since she was six on a school trip to Richmond Park. Laura stared at it in wonder, mesmerized by its proud beauty, the contours of its body. The deer stared impa.s.sively back. I must take a photo of this, Laura thought, and rummaged in her bag again for her camera. Finally, something that might actually be a good photo, after four days of snapping remarkable road signs, or Mum, Dad, and Granny giving the thumbs-up sign whilst seated around a collapsible camping table.

Laura pinched out her cigarette and threw it on the ground. The noise from the mower was louder in her ears. She crouched amid the gra.s.s and tried to make a cooing noise, the better to lure the deer closer, but it stayed where it was, perfectly still, gazing dreamily at her in the sun. Suddenly, the noise behind her stopped, but Laura didn't care. She edged toward the deer, crouching and shuffling, camera in place.

The afternoon scent of mown gra.s.s and the tangy, sharp smell of a bonfire, crackling, filled her nostrils. In the distance, a bird cried harshly in a tree, and Laura remained as still as possible. Suddenly, the deer reared back and ran away, fleeing lightly back into the wood. Laura got to her feet, disappointed, as the smell of the bonfire grew stronger. Perhaps they were burning the fields now that harvesttime was here. Or something.

She turned around, and was appalled by the sight that met her eyes. The cigarette she had put out had obviously not been put out, and at her feet was a small, smoking black haze, with tiny flames that licked the brittle straw around it, that crept along the ground. It was alarmingly big, over a foot wide. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. She was so stupid! Where was her cardigan? She knew you were supposed to put fires out with damp towels, perhaps it would do.... d.a.m.n! Her mum had it. d.a.m.n! She looked down at the fire, and for one mad second thought perhaps she should throw herself on it; then someone from behind grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the way.

"What the f.u.c.k do you think you're doing?" came a furious, low voice. It was a man, a tall man, and he was glaring at Laura as if she were a c.o.c.kroach he'd found in his kitchen. He was wearing old jeans and a battered T-s.h.i.+rt, and a soft cotton s.h.i.+rt tied around his waist, which he pulled off, flung to the ground, and stamped on, his boots blacking out the center of the blaze.

"Stand back," he said briefly, not looking at her. "You'll burn your feet in those shoes."

"No, I won't-ouch!" Laura yelled, as she stepped on a small line of flames that had crept away from the main conflagration. She stumbled back and fell over.

He held out his hand and Laura took it, and he pulled her up to her feet with amazing ease. She realized he was furious.

"Are you okay?" he said, steadying her as she hopped backward to put her flip-flop back on. "Good. Do you realize how stupid that was, putting your cigarette out here? Apart from the fact you shouldn't be smoking in the first place, you idiot, we haven't had any rain for two weeks. This place could go up like a tinderbox."

"Right," said Laura, bending down again and picking up her bag and camera, to cover the embarra.s.sment she felt at being told off. She caught sight of some keys in his hand and deduced that this cross, scruffily dressed, rude man must have been the person driving the mower. She looked up, a ready answer on her lips, but stopped as she caught sight of him.

Mr. Mower was obviously much angrier than she'd realized. He breathed as if he had been running. He was sweaty, and there was gra.s.s or hay in his messy black hair. His dark brown eyes were glaring at her with something akin to loathing. He was broad-shouldered, tall, powerful-looking; his face was tanned. Laura suddenly felt rather scared, as if he might pick her up by the scruff of her neck and fling her amongst the blades of the mower, to be shredded to small pieces.

She squinted up at Mr. Mower, annoyance written on her face. "Look, I'm sorry," she said, trying not to feel upset. He stared impa.s.sively back at her, his only expression one of enormous disdain. "But I'm not an idiot. It's a free country, you know, I can have a cigarette if I want. They should have signs up, if they're that against it, how was I supposed to know? I'd have picked it up afterward, and I certainly wouldn't have left it to catch on fire, not being blind or anything, you know," she finished with a note of triumph in her voice. "Sorry, okay?" She swung her bag over her shoulder and made to leave.

"Typical," said Mr. Mower behind her as she walked off. "Typical townie. It's not your fault, is it? It's always someone else's fault. I don't know why we bother sometimes." Laura carried on, pretending not to hear him. "Here," he said suddenly. "Hey. You forgot your camera case." He gripped Laura's arm lightly.

Laura turned around and smiled up at him, unable to be cross with him for long. He was nice, even if he was fairly rude, p.r.o.ne to throwing people around cornfields. "Thank you," she said. "I'm not doing very well, am I? Listen, thanks. I'd better get back. Good luck with the seed-sowing, or whatever it is."