CHAPTER THREE #3
‘Anyway, “Mr Wolsely has the Range Rover 2020 Standard Model, sir,” says the salesman, so Bumpa, being the hero that he is, orders the latest model – I’m talking brand, spanking new – with a supercharged engine and Autobiography makeover.
I mean, it’s ridiculous to drive, a complete monster.
Bumpa struggles to even open it, and keeps locking himself in – he can’t work the electric key fob and simply cannot get his brain around not putting the key into the ignition any more. It’s good sport to watch, you wait!’
Casper opened his door and unfolded his slim frame from the scruffy vehicle which looked all the worse for wear parked alongside Bumpa’s sleek new purchase, then went to gather up Hal, who clung happily onto his uncle.
Leaving all their luggage, Sage sprang out herself, desperate to go into the house and find her beloved grandparents.
The pull of their familiar, comforting home was like a magnet dragging her in and she wondered how she could have stayed away for so long.
She went in through the door to the boot room.
The smell of dog beds, muddy wellies, wet Barbour jackets, washing powder and beeswax all mingled in an intoxicating hit of nostalgia; it had always smelt the same, and she was glad of it.
Another smell pervaded though, that of cooking bacon and fresh coffee, and she instinctively followed her nose through the winding corridors until she found herself in the enormous, warm kitchen.
It was the room in which she had spent most of her childhood.
The far side opened up into a beautiful orangery in which sat a long, scrubbed pine table that was probably older than Sage, while an assortment of plants growing in large pots positioned all over the place made it feel almost tropical.
The roof was domed glass and the floor was made up of faded terracotta tiles.
Light poured into the room, even on a dull and grey January day.
At the other end of the kitchen was a duck-egg-blue Aga that filled almost the entire wall.
Copper saucepans and pots with blackened bottoms lined the dark blue shelves above it and a pregnant black whippet and a white-black-and-tan wire-haired terrier lay possessively next to the warming oven.
Betsy Seymour, Sage’s grandmother, was leaning against the Aga holding a large mug of coffee in one hand with, as always, a well-handled book in the other: A Motley to the View.
She was talking to Maggie Richardson, their cook, who was getting on with breakfast. Sage paused for a moment, taking in the welcome scene before her.
Maggie had come to North Place when Sage and Casper had been about ten.
She had originally been employed as Dennis’s secretary but had barely been able to type, so had not been a roaring success in her office position.
Everyone had loved her though and as Betsy could not bear to lose her – and was not, herself, a particularly enthusiastic cook – she had asked for some help in the kitchen.
Maggie had been delighted to stay and look after the family, especially since the twins, having been knocked sideways by the loss of their parents, needed all the help and support they could get.
She was a maternal woman with no children of her own and had happily clucked over the twins and their grandparents all year round.
The only problem was that all she seemed to know how to make was about three different variations on a shepherd’s pie.
If Betsy came across some elaborate new recipe in a magazine and asked Maggie to follow it for a dinner party – trainers had to entertain their owners a lot – Maggie would nod and smile, saying, ‘Yes, absolutely, Madam Betsy,’ before cooking one of her own particular recipes, faithfully served up with carrots and peas.
It was a well-rehearsed play that always ended with a peaceful debate, and had endured for almost sixteen years.
Sage felt a surge of affection for these two older women, both in their sixties, who had given her and Casper a never-ending supply of love, care and support.
Betsy, or Gammy as she and Casper called her – her long slim legs encased in ancient cord breeks and tattered woollen socks, and the top of her body clad in layers of vests, cotton polo necks and a thick woollen jersey – was still the most effortlessly glamorous woman Sage had ever known.
Her iron-grey hair fell in a sleek bob and would not have looked out of place in a top Parisian salon, yet Sage knew with certainty that Maggie would have cut it at the table with the kitchen scissors.
Gammy’s svelte, loose-limbed and unconscious beauty was juxtaposed by the round and unfailingly jolly figure of Maggie, reassuringly still clad in her jaunty red apron that decreed Never Trust a Skinny Cook in swirly letters across her ample bust.
Casper and Hal tumbled into the kitchen behind Sage and the two women turned to look at them all, anticipation on their faces.