Chapter Fourteen #3
The rain does not relent but pelts against the windscreen in an incessant torrent.
The small wipers are quite ineffectual and can barely keep up with the bombardment.
Cavill drives slowly for the lanes are narrow and the visibility bad, and his car is not like modern vehicles which are robust. The suspension is terrible.
Every time we go over a dip or drive through a puddle I bounce up and down as if my seat is made of springs.
I feel as if I’m in a rather rickety tin can.
After about ten minutes, I notice an old drystone wall that surrounds what appears to be a large estate.
I try not to look too interested; after all, I’m sure Eddie has seen it many times before.
Behind the wall is dense woodland and I try to get a glimpse of the house through it, but my window is too fogged up to see anything more than green and brown smudges.
Eventually, we reach the entrance. There’s a pretty, fairy-tale gate house and prestigious iron gates, which are wide open.
So, this must be Hartismere, although there is no name displayed anywhere.
I suppose, with a property this grand, everyone knows what it is.
Cavill turns in and we make our way up a long, sweeping gravel drive.
On either side is rolling parkland, leafy trees and meadows of long grasses and yellow and purple wildflowers.
Then the house comes into view, and I struggle to hide my excitement, because it’s absolutely gorgeous.
It’s a magnificent Jacobean manor built in red brick, with pointed gables and black lead windows.
It reminds me at once of St Sidwell and I wonder whether Cavill notices the similarity and what he makes of it.
I’m keen to see the interior, but we don’t drive up to it.
Instead, we take the left fork when the drive splits and enter a farm.
Cavill draws up outside one of the barns alongside a van.
A couple of workmen in caps are loading into the back of it large objects wrapped in brown paper.
‘We’ll be quick,’ Cavill says, turning off the engine. ‘This is simply cover.’
He climbs out and puts up his umbrella, then he comes round to my side and opens the door for me. I take his hand as I step out and then we hurry through the wide-open doors of the barn.
I was expecting farm machinery or haybales, instead I’m faced with an artist’s studio on a grand scale.
Above us, half the roof has been replaced by glass, which now reveals grey clouds and rain, but still gives light.
There are enormous canvases leaning up against the walls along with planks of wood, rolls of hessian, furniture, storage boxes, tins of paint and all the paraphernalia associated with artists displayed on shelving and on the floor.
At the end, busy with what is obviously the stage set for Macbeth, is Lydia, accompanied by a few assistants.
‘Tallyho!’ she calls out when she sees us.
‘Come on in.’ She waves enthusiastically.
She’s now back in her knickerbockers and smock, with her hair tied up beneath a knotted handkerchief.
Her smile is radiant, and she looks much more comfortable than she did in church in that ill-fitting dress.
‘You’d have seen more if you’d come earlier,’ she says. Then she looks specifically at me. ‘But what do you think, Eddie? It’ll look better when it’s set up on the stage later today, but you get the idea.’
‘Goodness, I most certainly do. It’s spectacular,’ I gush.
And it most definitely is. Painted on giant panels are the eerie grey walls of a distant castle being taken over by a dark forest. The twisty-turny branches wind through the walls like snakes, as if they’re consuming it.
It’s brilliant, and I’m full of admiration for this wonderfully creative young woman.
She can’t possibly have done it all on her own.
But I can’t ask for fear of undermining Eddie, who would most likely know.
Cavill goes to help her now, lifting the panels and turning them round so I can see the backs.
‘Then, hey presto, we have the interior!’ she exclaims. ‘Smashing, don’t you think?’
‘It’s really stunning,’ I tell her. ‘You’re a genius, Lydia.’
She’s clearly relieved. She glances at Cavill, then back at me, and I sense they’ve discussed this quietly together.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased you’re happy, girlie,’ she continues.
‘I’ve done something very different from when Tom directed Macbeth.
I was worried. Well, you know. I’m just happy you like it. ’
Ah, so now I know why this play means so much to Eddie. ‘You’ve made the right decision,’ I tell her. ‘I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s perfect.’
‘We have a long afternoon ahead,’ she says, stepping aside so the workmen can reach one of the panels which is already wrapped in brown paper. ‘It will all be in place by tonight.’
A vision flashes before my eyes, of the fire ripping through it. All her hard work going up in flames. Everything destroyed. As she smiles proudly, I feel terrible that the play will never be performed, and that this magical set will be reduced to ash.
That Nessa will lose her life.
‘I’ve got a very good feeling about this production,’ Cavill says.
‘Me too,’ Lydia agrees. ‘It’s going to be the best yet.’
And I can do nothing but agree with them. I wish I didn’t know better.