Chapter 4 #2
Her dress was still crisp, and the sun on the journey had brought out her freckles.
They made her look even younger, for she barely looked her age as it was – twenty-three!
How had that happened? How had she been out in the world for nearly five years, standing on her own two feet, navigating city life and earning her own money?
She could sense change coming. With Henrietta’s wedding on the horizon, life would be different.
The flat wouldn’t be the same without her.
Clementine couldn’t imagine a replacement, though one would have to be found.
Was today going to herald an even bigger change?
There was a sharpness and a sweetness inside her, like a lemon sherbet.
Anticipation and excitement. A delicious mix.
Just outside Breverton, the car left the main road, plunging into woodland, the trees whispering above them, bright with new foliage, and the air thick with the scent of wild garlic.
They wound their way through, the little lane twisting and turning further and further into the depths until it became quite dark, and Clementine shivered.
Alfie put out a hand and touched hers reassuringly.
‘Nearly there,’ he said.
He dropped the car down a gear and roared up the final hill.
‘This is my favourite bit of the journey,’ he shouted above the roar of the engine.
She thought they might fly off into the air when they reached the top, he was going so fast. But as they roared down the other side, the trees cleared and a magnificent view of a rolling valley appeared in front of them.
They turned a corner and there, there was a set of gates made from the same pale stone she’d seen in Breverton, a statue of a fox on top of each one, sitting demure but watchful, coiled ready to spring.
Foxwood.
Alfie didn’t stop as he drove through the gates.
Nestled at the top of the valley, with views over undulating fields and a ribbon of winding river in the near distance, Foxwood was set back from the road behind a mossy stone wall.
It had a facade the colour of set honey and a slate mansard roof with a row of dormer windows hovering over two rows of sash windows draped in loops of pale blue wisteria.
Shallow steps led up to a yellow front door.
Drifts of box softened the frontage, and the sweeping lawns either side were studded with daisies.
It sat there, quite sure of its position as the most beautiful house for miles around.
Yet it wasn’t showy. It looked like a home.
As Alfie drew up and stopped the car, two dogs shot out of the front door. With their pale ginger coats they were the perfect match for the house.
‘They’re like teddy bears!’ cried Clementine.
‘Irish terriers. My mother’s pride and joy. Hello, Oscar. Hello, Joyce. Named after Oscar Wilde and James Joyce, of course.’ He rolled his eyes with a grin. ‘They are absolute menaces and they’ll want to sleep on your bed.’
She looked around her, digging her fingers into the dogs’ soft coats as they nudged at her, marvelling at the scene: could there be anything more perfect than an English country house in May?
‘How do you ever want to leave?’ she asked.
‘I don’t,’ he said, and they headed for the front door.
Inside, the house was quiet and cool. As she stepped into the hall, Clementine gave a gasp of pleasure. The walls were buttercup-yellow, like the door, and smothered in paintings. She recognised the artist straight away.
‘We emptied his studio after he died,’ said Alfie. ‘My parents didn’t want to sell a single picture. It’s a bit of a shrine.’
Clementine took in every detail. It was as if Edwin Arbutus had tried to paint everything he came across in life, seeing beauty in the most mundane object.
There was a pair of riding boots, shining conker-brown and captured so perfectly you could smell the leather.
A wine bottle and two half-full glasses next to a plate of cheese.
A dog just like Oscar and Joyce stretched out in front of a fire.
‘That’s Oscar’s mother,’ Alfie told her. ‘Clodagh.’
‘I can almost see her breathing.’
‘I know.’ Alfie sighed. Clementine put a hand on his arm.
It must be hard, to have such a vivid reminder of the person you’d lost. It was probably easier if you lived with them; went past the paintings every day, rather than being reminded every time you came back.
She could see a muscle twitch in his cheek as he looked at them, and his eyes were blinking rather fast. She felt her heart fold over, overwhelmed by the strength of her feelings: a kind of warmth, a tenderness, a compulsion to make everything all right, but she didn’t know what to do.
It was so quiet and still in the hall it felt like a museum, as if any moment now a guard might appear, to ask for a ticket.
Alfie shook his head and stepped away. ‘I wonder, where is everyone? In the garden, no doubt. Come along.’
She could barely keep up as he swept through a half-open door and led her through a room with periwinkle-blue walls and a cluster of flowery sofas. Alfie headed to the French windows, standing back to allow her through first. She stepped outside, blinking at the brightness of the May sunshine.
On the terrace beneath a loggia running along the back of the house, a long table had been laid with a white embroidered cloth. A woman standing with a tray of tea things was the first to spy them. Her face split into a radiant smile.
‘Mr Alfie!’
She must be Daisy. The cook. Alfie had run through everyone in the household for her.
At her cry, everyone turned around to look at them.
Clementine composed her features: she didn’t want to grin too inanely, but she wanted to seem pleased to meet everyone.
There were two men, a watchful creature with strawberry-blonde hair who must be Alfie’s sister, Diana, and from the foot of the table, a woman who rose and began to glide towards them, arms outstretched.
Alfie’s mother. Clementine remembered Henrietta’s description, and decided she had played her down, rather.
Elizabeth Arbutus wasn’t technically beautiful.
Her eyes were slightly hooded, her nose rather Roman, her mouth a little too wide, but her cheekbones were exquisitely sharp and as she drew closer Clementine saw her eyes were a shimmering green set off by a fitted dress in jade brocade.
Her outfit made Clementine feel immediately underdressed, although Diana seemed to be in an Aertex with grubby jodhpurs and Alfie had repeatedly assured her that she was to wear whatever she felt comfortable in.
‘Clementine. It’s so lovely to have you here.
’ Clementine felt the icy metal of a cluster of rings as Elizabeth slid a cool hand into hers and led her to the table.
‘Come and meet everyone. This is Michael. Alfie’s father.
’ She put her hand on the shoulder of the man at the head and Clementine was struck by the family resemblance between him and his sons: he was tall and slender with thick grey hair that swept back from his forehead.
Handsome, she thought, the archetypal English country gentleman.
Elizabeth waved an airy hand towards the others. ‘And these are Diana and Rory, Alfie’s sister and her husband.’
Diana gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she lit a cigarette. Rory beamed.
‘Hello, Clementine.’ He had the eager air of an unwanted puppy that was only too aware it was a mongrel and was on borrowed time.
‘And let’s not forget Daisy, the most important person in the house,’ said Elizabeth, sliding an arm around the cook’s shoulders.
Daisy rolled her eyes and shook her head at the hyperbole, but she looked pleased.
She seemed much younger than Clementine had imagined when Alfie described her as the lynchpin of the household, the provider of three square meals a day – four, if you counted tea.
She was in a flowery overall and flat brown lace-up shoes, and her fine brown hair refused to stay in its ponytail, but there was a wisdom in her eyes, a self-assuredness that wasn’t always present in household staff.
‘You must be thirsty after that drive,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ll get you some lemonade before you have tea.’
‘That would be so kind.’ Clementine made her way around the table, shaking hands. The men had got to their feet. Diana remained seated, gazing at her coolly with a rather fixed smile.
‘Sorry. I can’t get up.’
She nodded down at a small Jack Russell in her lap. Clementine could feel the wariness rolling off her. Was it simply sisterly protectiveness? She couldn’t blame her for wanting to protect Alfie.
‘Here. Sit next to my father.’ Alfie pulled out a chair, and as Clementine sat down, she assured herself her dress was just right, somewhere in between Diana’s dowdiness and Elizabeth’s elegance.
‘How’s business?’ Alfie asked Michael, who gave an uncertain shrug.
‘There seems to be a bit of a boom now the war is truly behind us,’ he answered. ‘People are starting to take an interest in their homes again.’
‘There wasn’t much point for a long time,’ said Diana. ‘Not when you thought a bomb might drop on your house any minute.’
‘A boom’s good, though, isn’t it?’
Michael grimaced. ‘In theory, but it’s got very competitive. Everyone’s getting in on the game.’
‘It’s the women you have to fire up. Everyone knows it’s the woman of the house who makes the decisions.’ Diana looked meaningfully at her mother.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Personally, I couldn’t care less about the colour of my walls,’ said Diana. ‘But trust me, the women are the key.’ She pointed her cigarette towards her mother to emphasise her point.
‘Well, maybe I should ask your mother to come and advise us.’ Michael looked over at his wife. ‘You’re always saying you have too much time on your hands.’
‘Oh, not now the garden’s in full bloom. I couldn’t be busier,’ said Elizabeth.