Chapter Four
Well, I can hardly believe what’s happened, though I must start at the beginning if I’m to keep a proper journal.
Ellen and I went shopping - I never thought I’d ever be asked to choose between two different types of hot water bottle covers, but I found myself seriously considering the advantages of tartan blanket over a more frivolous pink satin cover for Ellen’s elderly aunt, but just couldn’t agree to the plaids and checks in the end.
We bought a staggering amount of bath salts, bath cubes, and talcum powder, beautifully wrapped and smelling of hyacinth, apple blossom and wild musk, as well as a vast beribboned gift box with pink and blue hearts of Hartnell’s In Love for Ellen’s housekeeper, bottles of Edwardian Bouquet for her mother and aunt, and Chanel Number Five for her sisters.
Ellen bought me a bottle of Diorella before I could stop her - I’ve never had French perfume before - only Aqua Manda and Pretty Peach, and I can’t wait to use it.
I think I floated down the road after that, and the rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur of happiness.
Everything seemed perfect - the little French Bistro served sublime food, and I tucked into Moules Marinières, even though the sauce was full of rich cream.
We had a delicious platter of cheese, Crème Br?lèe for pudding, all washed down with a bottle of wine, and coffee to finish.
It was nearly six o’clock before the meal was over and we found ourselves hurrying home to get ready for the evening ahead.
***
We were a little late leaving, and ended up practically running down Upper Borough Walls to the theatre.
When we arrived, Roger hastily put our coats into the cloakroom and purchased a programme so we could see which actors we recognised from television, before we quickly followed him upstairs to find our seats.
There’s always a lovely buzzing excitement in the auditorium of a theatre, I love people watching and seeing how everyone is dressed, but the bell was ringing, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before the play started.
Entering from the top, as the lights were dimming, we made our way down to the front row, to the last three seats on the end.
I was so busy still looking about and taking everything in, that I wasn’t immediately aware of the person sitting next to me.
‘Hello, how are you?’ said a male voice in my ear.
I turned, but I still didn’t register the person who was speaking in the fading light, smiling as if he knew me. On his other side sat a very pretty girl, dressed in black crêpe with a faux fur tippet draped round her shoulders. She smiled at me, showing perfect white teeth.
‘It’s Caroline, isn’t it?’ he went on, ‘I met you yesterday at the Pump Rooms … I served your tea, as a matter of fact.’
I think my jaw dropped at that point, not only by the extraordinary coincidence, but because the young man sitting at my side had undergone an incredible transformation.
He was beardless, smooth-skinned, and looked several years younger.
His unruly mop of curls was cut into soft layers, his dark caramel hair just brushing the collar of his leather coat, which was full-length and made me instantly think of a swash-buckling hero.
I could see he had beautiful bone structure; a firm chin and a generous mouth that smiled often, making his eyes crinkle into laughter lines.
He laughed when he saw my expression. ‘You didn’t recognise me, did you?’
I grinned back. ‘Not immediately, no.’
‘My sister’s been telling me to get it all shaved off for ages. I finally relented yesterday, and she made me have a haircut too.’
‘I keep telling him he’ll never get a girlfriend if he looks so scruffy,’ said the girl at his side, ‘and I think he scrubs up quite well. The trouble is he’s always got his head stuck in a book, and doesn’t realise he’s turning into a hairy ape.’
I laughed. So, she wasn’t his girlfriend, and when she laughed too, I realised they had a similar mouth.
‘This is Elsa, my wonderfully persuasive and excessively truthful sister,’ he said, ‘and I’m Harry … Tate.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you both, I’m Caroline Heath,’ I managed to say as the conductor appeared to resounding applause, tapping his baton before the orchestra struck up the opening bars of the overture.
The performance started and we didn’t have any more chance to chat.
It wasn’t a play after all, and though I enjoyed it, I wondered what Dickens might have felt about his book being turned into a musical, which dispelled a lot of the dread and spookiness of the tale.
I felt very self-conscious sitting next to Harry, but a couple of times we laughed out loud at the same things, and he turned to whisper in my ear three times to comment in a jokey way, which helped to put me at my ease.
In the interval I introduced Ellen properly to the Tates, and when Elsa suggested we go and find an ice cream I agreed straight away.
She was really friendly, and Harry ushered us along, holding doors open for us, as we chatted away.
Ellen and Roger headed off for the bar where two gin and tonics were waiting, and so I was left alone with my new friends.
‘Are you here in Bath for long?’ asked Elsa.
‘Just about six weeks, we’re going back home to Hampshire for Christmas,’ I said, and thought I should add some explanation. ‘I’m here for a little holiday … I’ve been ill and having to take some time off from art school.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ said Elsa. ‘Where do you study … are you a painter?’
‘No, I’m hoping to be a fashion designer … I’m studying at St Martin’s in London.’
‘Are you really? It must be wonderful to be in London surrounded by galleries and famous designers. I’m at Bath University reading history … Harry’s there too … in his final year.’
I was surprised when she said that, and hoped it didn’t show on my face.
‘I love history,’ I said, ‘though I only read historical novels or watch programmes on television, if I’m honest. You must be so clever, history lessons at school used to make my brain ache with trying to remember all those lines of kings and queens, treaties and wars.
All those close texts, and dates … I’m so hopeless with numbers. ’
‘But, you’ve got a creative brain, which I envy, and I must admit, there are times when I’d far rather read a historical novel than wade through a lot of boring facts to find a nugget of information I need for an essay,’ added Elsa.
‘I love the way authors can bring a period of history to life, make up the conversations between historical characters, and add in their own theories,’ I said. ‘I suppose it’s impossible to do that if you’re a historian dealing with facts.’
‘And yet, I’m sure most history is based on fiction,’ interrupted Harry, ‘inspired by ideas and theories, many of which cannot be ultimately proved, unless we could become time travellers.’
‘Yes, that’s very true,’ said his sister, ‘though I’m grateful that’s not possible. If you’re a man, it might be an exciting idea, but I’d be frightened to find myself in a time where women were merely looked upon as chattels and goods.’
I couldn’t help thinking about the girl I’d seen in my room until I realised Elsa was asking me a question.
‘When will you be able to go back to art school?’
‘I’m hoping to go back next term, though in a way I’m dreading it; I’ve so much to do. It’s going to feel a bit lonely for a while working on my own. I do envy you having a sibling to study with.’
‘It’s good having Harry around,’ said Elsa with a grin, ‘though we do live apart.’
I could see the resemblance between them, though Harry was dark-haired with blue eyes, and Elsa fair with grey eyes.
‘She only calls me when she wants a revision partner or when she needs help fighting off undesirable men.’
‘That’s just not true,’ Elsa said nudging him playfully, ‘and, I can look after myself, thank you, Harry. Anyway, I think you probably ask for more help with revision than I do.’
I thought how warm they both seemed, and though they obviously enjoyed teasing one another it was done with a lot of affection that was lovely to watch.
‘What are you studying, Harry?’ I asked.
‘Theology … for my sins,’ he said and grinned at his own joke.
My eyebrows rose inadvertently, I was so surprised. I couldn’t help looking at him differently, and I realised I’d made up my own ideas about him.
As if he could read my mind he added, ‘I just wait on tables part-time to earn a little money until I become a renowned philosopher on world religion.’
I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me straight away until his lips curved into a huge smile making his blue eyes twinkle.
‘I enjoy being a waiter,’ he went on looking directly into my eyes, which made me blush partly with shame because I was sorry I’d judged him. ‘You get to meet some really interesting people.’
I felt his eyes linger on my face. Did he mean me? I was sure he’d seen through me. My mother would not have been impressed, and I felt really horrible.
‘I’m just going to powder my nose,’ said Elsa, hitching her bag up to her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in there.’
I felt nervous now we were left on our own. Harry was looking at me even more intently, and I found his eyes strangely hypnotic, and arresting. They were the colour of the sky, and the deep blue of the Mediterranean seas I’d seen in the travel agent’s brochures.
‘It turns out I got the wrong weekend for the horror film, and my friends are all busy,’ Harry said as soon as Elsa had gone.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me; it’s showing a week on Saturday.
Think about it, if you’d prefer,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation, ‘though if you can resist a film with vampires, I will know I’ve been completely mistaken about you. ’
I didn’t need to think about it - I said yes, straight away. Isn’t it funny how things turn out sometimes? Just yesterday I’d have run a mile if he’d asked me, but now I’m actually excited to see him. Yes, I really am.
***
When we got back home from the theatre Roger put the television on but I wasn’t in the mood for watching.
I couldn’t wait until I could go to bed and fetch out the diary I’d found - there hadn’t been a moment to look at it.
I sat in a huge armchair with my legs tucked underneath me and took out my book, spending a long time imagining myself as Catherine Morland dressed for a ball, and read two more chapters.
I laughed out loud at Henry Tilney and his references to Catherine writing about him in her journal, and wondered what he’d make of mine.
I could just imagine the scene being played out between them, and almost thought I had Henry’s face worked out, until it became obvious just whose features I’d transplanted into position over a frock coat and shirt.
I couldn’t help thinking of Harry, and remembered him being just as funny as Henry, though hopefully I’m not as naive as Catherine.
I thought of the journal upstairs that I longed to read, but the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to move extraordinarily slowly.
By the time I’d reached chapter five and got up to where Catherine realises Henry might have left Bath, at last I felt I could excuse myself and go up to bed.
There’s something very lovely about a room that feels quite your own, and I was feeling very much at home in my bedroom.
I took the diary from my writing box, switched on my bedside lamp, and placed Northanger Abbey on the table so I could read some more before I gave in to sleep.
I hopped into bed and lay back upon the pillows, wanting to lose myself in another time and place, in the thoughts of someone else.
It was time to examine the notebook more closely, and my eyes were drawn to the name inscribed on the flyleaf.
This journal belongs to Miss Jenny A. Weston of Hampshire, July 1st, 1788, I read, and marvelled at the tiny handwriting in brown ink, which I knew I could never replicate so neatly.
I wondered who she could have been, and exactly where she’d lived, and wondered if the journal would give up its owner’s secrets.