Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
I wake at dawn to the sound of birdsong and don’t even bother trying to doze back off. I could barely sleep last night with the excitement. There’s a chill in the air as I climb out of bed and go to the window, drawing back the curtains. A thin layer of mist hovers over the garden within the walls, and I can see it drifting in long swathes across the fields at the front of the house. It creeps into the woodland in the north and sits on the hills in the west like a blanket – a bit further on are the Berwyn Mountains. Further still is Snowdonia National Park. Evan said I can borrow the staff Range Rover on days off and explore. I have so much to look forward to this summer.
I’m ready to go long before eight, champing at the bit to get started.
Evan laughs when I exuberantly open the door to him. ‘All set?’ he asks with a smile.
‘All set,’ I confirm.
‘Good morning!’ Bethan calls as I walk down the garden path.
I turn around to see her exiting number two with Harri hot on her heels.
‘Ah, the whole team’s here!’ Owain says as he comes out of the end cottage, reaching back to pull his yellow door closed.
‘Wait!’ I hear Gwen call from behind him.
He quickly opens the door again and she bustles out, shooing him from under the porch so she can get on her way. ‘Morning all!’ she calls curtly as she stomps off along the dirt path in the direction of the house.
Owain casts his eyes at the heavens. ‘She’ll be glad when today’s over,’ he says ominously.
‘What’s happening today?’ I ask.
‘Lord and Lady Berkeley’s fortieth wedding anniversary party. They’ve got about two hundred people coming to the Great Hall later. Gwen is stressed about a Women’s Institute afternoon tea she has to get out of the way before they can start clearing tables.’
I hate the thought of Gwen being stressed.
‘I forgot we were closing early today,’ Harri says.
He and Bethan turn to each other and start making plans for that afternoon – a friend of Bethan’s has just had a baby and she wants Harri to go with her to visit. I’m only half concentrating. Evan has just unlocked the big arched door to the walled garden. It’s made of thick, heavily weathered wood and is hung on big hinges that groan as he pushes the door open. He stands back and waves me through.
I smile at him and lead the way, looking around reverentially.
Garden beds that I couldn’t see from my bedroom window line this side of the wall. They’re heavily populated with ferns, and rising out of the feathery fronds are thick ropes of tangled wisteria exploding with long trailing purple blooms. We head out through an apple orchard of old trees with gnarled trunks and come to the centre of the garden.
It’s set to be another lovely day, weather-wise, and even though it’s a Monday and unlikely to be as busy as it was at the weekend, we’ll try to tackle the most invasive gardening work before the hall is opened to the public in a couple of hours.
While Owain mows the terraces, Harri and Bethan take two volunteers each to do some weeding and deadheading in the courtyard and East Court. Meanwhile, Evan and I get to work on the tall topiary columns on the upper terrace. We’re trimming them a little earlier than usual, but the Berkeleys want the grounds around the Great Hall to look shipshape for the party tonight.
My stomach feels as though it’s full of tiny bubbles of joy that don’t fade, even as the morning wears on. I’ll never take this job for granted – I feel like the luckiest person in the world right now and I don’t think that will get old.
After breaking for tea in the Mess Room, a converted Victorian garden shed that’s hidden from view of the house by an old yew hedge, Evan takes me for a proper tour of the grounds, teaching me the names of the garden ‘rooms’ I haven’t yet come into contact with. The formal gardens are all sensational, but my favourite bed is the one heading down towards the orangery. Every time I catch sight of the lupins, I think of Nan.
By three o’clock, I’m aching all over and ready for a hot bath, but I go with Evan to do a final check of the courtyard. The Regency wing opens right onto it.
The Great Hall has already been closed to the public, so it seems Gwen got her afternoon teas away on time. A hive of activity can be seen through the tall windows and double doors: people folding up tablecloths and moving tables and chairs.
‘Hmm,’ Evan says, frowning at the path where patches of dirt are spilling from some of the beds. A couple of the volunteers were here earlier, doing some weeding. ‘I’d better grab a broom and sort that out.’
‘I’ll help you.’ Together, we’ll make short work of it.
‘I’m so ready for a nice cold beer,’ he says when we’re almost done.
‘It’s only three twenty,’ I chide.
‘Perfect. You want to join me? Sit out in the back garden, put your feet up?’ He props his hands against the end of his broom and smiles at me.
‘Sure, but you’d better find me a patch of shade. I got a little sunburnt today.’
‘Ellie!’ he exclaims, half amused, half chastising.
‘I know, I wasn’t expecting it in Wales,’ I reply with a laugh, showing him one of my arms. ‘Usually I’m all factor-fiftied up.’
‘I can’t believe someone with your complexion chooses to work outside all day.’ He shakes his head at me as he gets back to sweeping, the muscles in his tanned arms rippling. ‘ And you get hay fever,’ he points out, teasing.
It’s true, I do. I’m laughing as a window in the Great Hall opens, and it’s like déjà vu when Lady Berkeley leans out, looking all panicky.
‘Evan!’ she shouts with relief.
‘Oh, hey, Mrs B. Happy anniversary,’ Evan replies.
‘Eleanor, you’re here too! Darlings, we’re having a nightmare!’ she exclaims and I get the feeling she tends toward melodrama. ‘The catering staff are dropping like flies – two more have just cancelled and another has gastric flu. Would any of you be available to help out?’
Evan glances over his shoulder at me, his brow furrowed, before returning his attention to Philippa Berkeley. ‘I’m afraid we’re the only two here. Harri and Bethan have made other plans.’
‘Would you be so kind?’ she implores, pressing her palms together in a prayer-like plea and giving us full-on puppy-dog eyes.
‘What would we have to do?’ I ask reluctantly, noticing that I subconsciously adjusted my accent to sound a bit more ‘proper’.
‘Just serve champagne, the caterers will do the rest. We would be so grateful.’
I really don’t fancy serving champagne to a bunch of toffs, but she’s asking nicely and is clearly stressed. Plus, she seems decent and the job sounds easy enough.
‘Okay,’ I agree just as Evan says, ‘No worries, Mrs B. What time do you need us?’
‘Could you come back at four?’ she asks hopefully.
Evan checks his watch as my eyes widen with alarm.
‘Or four thirty?’ she amends.
That’s still no time at all.
‘Do you need us to wear a uniform?’ Evan asks.
What have I let myself in for?
‘Yes, black. You can help yourselves to a polo shirt from the storeroom if you need to.’
‘All good, see you in a bit,’ Evan says.
She turns around and shouts jubilantly across the room: ‘All sorted, Gwen! Our glorious gardeners are stepping in!’
I shower, do my hair and make-up, and change into a knee-length black dress before grabbing a quick bite to eat. I don’t know how long I’ll be expected to help out, but hopefully it won’t be all night.
Evan knocks on the cottage door at four twenty.
‘Is this okay?’ I ask when I answer, waving my hands at my dress. ‘Or do I need to wear a polo shirt too?’ The black one he has on must normally be used by catering staff, but it’s the same design as our gardening uniform with a white embroidered crest.
‘No, you look great.’ His gaze catches on my lips.
I’m not sure he’s ever seen me wear red lipstick before. I wanted to feel bold and brave.
‘The only black shoes I have are heels.’ They’re the only pair of heels I have, period – I gave so much away when I left home and these have still barely been worn. ‘I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’
‘I’m not sure we had much choice,’ he replies with a grin.
‘No,’ I agree wryly, following him out the door and locking it behind me. I slip my key into a pocket, along with my lipstick. I’m travelling light tonight.
The Great Hall is beautifully bright and airy, with whitewashed walls, a cream stone floor and sunlight pouring in through a multitude of windows on three aspects. The garden views are stunning.
I had assumed Gwen would be overseeing tonight as she was here earlier, but I soon learn that the outside caterers are in charge. Their boss is a total dragon lady.
‘Can you put that ponytail into a bun?’ she barks at me as she proffers a frilly white apron, hustling me into it. ‘And your lipstick is too bright. Please remove it.’
‘I don’t have any bobby pins,’ I reply irritably, at which she huffs with annoyance and instructs another girl to go and get some for me.
Who’s doing who the favour here? Am I even being paid for this?
Once I’ve grudgingly removed my lipstick and styled my hair to the dragon lady’s approval, I’m shooed into the kitchen, a 1970s modern addition that is in dire need of updating. Guests are due to arrive from five thirty and there are still a lot of champagne glasses that need polishing. Evan is already hard at work at one of the pockmarked grey laminate counters. I’m in a foul mood as I grab a tea towel and join him, but when the string band starts warming up, I pause. What the hell? Is that ‘Creep’ by Radiohead?
Indie rock songs must be their thing, because ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ by The Verve is next. I wonder who booked the band.
Evan nudges my arm. ‘You’ve perked up.’
‘I like this music.’
I’m in a much better mood by five twenty-five when the resident viscountess pokes her head around the door. We’re in the process of filling champagne flutes, a mass of bottles laid out on the counter beside us.
‘Hello, darlings. All okay?’
I nod and Evan gives her a perky ‘Yep!’
Her hair has been blow-dried into a neat bob and she’s wearing a long mauve slip dress with a blinging necklace. Are those real diamonds?
‘We’re all set. I imagine we’ll be outside until speeches as it’s such a fine day. Do keep the champagne flowing!’
‘We will!’ Evan chirps.
‘And please make sure it’s extra chilled!’ she calls as she leaves. ‘In fact,’ she says, turning back and nodding at the trays we’ve already filled, ‘can you leave those now and top up as you go along?’
‘No worries,’ Evan agrees.
‘Wonderful.’ She swans out of the room.
Fuck this, I’m putting my red lipstick back on.
By six o’clock, the courtyard and upper terrace are swarming with people. The catering staff are outside, circulating with canapés and trays of drinks. Evan has just taken a bottle of champagne to top up glasses and I’m in the kitchen filling fresh flutes, trying to make sure they’re as close to ice-cold as possible.
Evan comes to grab another bottle and asks me to go and collect empty glasses from the windowsills outside, a directive from our dragon boss. I grab a tray and get to work.
As predicted, my feet are killing me, but I’m glad to be outside in the fresh air. I’m tempted to knock back a couple of half-empty glasses of fizz just to take the edge off my pain, but I resist, even if it is a crying shame to waste good champagne.
A string rendition of ‘Common People’ by Pulp is spilling out of the open windows and I smirk, wondering if this was on a predetermined playlist or if the band are taking the piss.
‘I hear congratulations are in order!’ a Hooray Henry booms from right beside me.
For a split second, I wonder if he’s talking to me, but then I see a twenty-something brunette coyly flashing a diamond solitaire the size of a rock at him. Someone get me my sunglasses.
‘Oh, that’s smashing,’ he effuses as I reach for an empty glass behind him. ‘Have you set a date?’
He’s completely oblivious to the fact that I’m trying to get past.
‘No, not yet,’ the woman replies.
‘You’d better get in quick before Berkeley and Bex,’ he says conspiratorially as I irritably snatch the glass.
‘Yes, Berkeley and Bex will be next,’ she concurs.
‘I heard there might be an announcement tonight,’ Hooray Henry adds, brushing up against me.
I freeze so abruptly that I almost lose the contents of my tray, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. It’s as though I’ve tumbled back in time to my school days and I both hate and resent being made to feel invisible.
I take a breath to steady my racing heart and regain my composure, then move on.
My mum would be in her element here, swanning around, trying to charm everyone. And perhaps some of the people here would be interested in what she had to say. Maybe she’d make a connection that would bring in business. Or maybe they’d just indulge her and as soon as she had her back turned they’d raise their eyebrows at each other, faintly amused by her gall.
My dad would also be sucking up, but far less gracefully, and he’d know deep down that he wasn’t cut out for it. He’d feel defensive and resentful if someone didn’t pay him enough respect and later there would be a dark cloud hanging over the house.
I used to try to cheer him up when this sort of thing happened, and my mum would make cutting comments about how I’m such a daddy’s girl, a people pleaser.
Flinching from the memories, I make my way out onto the upper terrace and pause for a moment to stare at the woodland in the distance, bathed in golden light. In the courtyard, the sun has sunk below the roof, but out here it’s perfect. I wish I could just keep walking and get away from these people. It’s triggering being here amongst them, serving them.
Ringing sounds out from behind me and the chatter dies down. I turn around with a sigh, intending to make my way back to the kitchen before the speeches kick off, but I see that my entrance is blocked by Lady Berkeley and a man I assume must be her husband, Viscount Peter Berkeley. They’re standing at the top of the steps to the Great Hall and Philippa is knocking two champagne flutes together to command everyone’s attention.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ Lord Berkeley says loudly. He’s wearing a sharp navy suit with a white handkerchief poking out of its breast pocket. His hair is more salt than pepper, but he’s quite handsome. ‘Might I just say a few words …’
I back up into the warm sunshine and try to ignore the stinging in the balls of my feet as Lord Berkeley addresses the crowd. Could I take off my shoes for a minute while everyone is distracted? I move closer to one of the topiary columns I was trimming earlier and try to balance my tray of empty glasses on one hand as I bend down to slip off my shoes. I almost groan out loud as my bare feet sink into the grass. Christ, that’s heaven.
‘Rebecca, come here,’ Lady Berkeley calls, and I straighten up in time to see her urging one of the guests to join her on the steps.
A sleek light-blonde bun rises up out of the sea of heads, and Philippa Berkeley smiles warmly as the woman, who looks to be about my age, takes her place on her left. Her eyes are dancing and she seems amused, as though she’s trying not to lose it laughing. Despite how I feel about this crowd, I like the look of her. Is she Philippa and Peter’s daughter?
I still know very little about the family I’m working for, and don’t really care too much; I’m here for the garden, not the people.
Lord Berkeley beckons to another guest. ‘You too, son.’
‘Put a ring on it, Berkeley!’ a posh twat heckles as a man with dark blond hair climbs the steps.
‘I think we can all agree that my parents are an inspiration,’ the man replies.
Why do all these people have cut-glass English accents when they live in Wales?
‘But I’ll put a ring on it when I’m good and ready,’ he adds, and my breath catches at his playful tone, even before he’s glanced over his shoulder at the heckler in the crowd.
I catch a glimpse of his profile and stop breathing.
No. It can’t be.
‘Come on, Ashton,’ Philippa Berkeley prompts merrily, opening her other arm to bring him into the gap between her husband and herself.
My heart pounds in my ears as Ashton Berkeley turns around and faces the dozens of guests standing before him.
Holy Mother of fucking God, it’s Ash.