Chapter 30
The next morning, when Stella woke, she could hear the chime of a grandfather clock in the distance, but lost count of the chimes in her fug so she had no idea what the time was.
She pulled back the curtain: it was light outside.
The bedroom looked out onto swathes of velvet lawn encircled by oak trees.
A gardener was tidying away the flower beds for winter, gathering up all the dead leaves and cutting back the bare rose branches. Ted was still asleep, snuffling gently.
She headed for the door to go to the bathroom.
There was a neat pile of clothing on the landing outside.
A selection of blouses, jumpers and skirts for her that, judging by the quality, must be Elizabeth’s, and another pile of clothes for Ted.
Someone must have been to Purkiss and Son, the outfitters in the high street.
There were vests and pyjamas, and a smart pair of corduroy trousers and a checked shirt.
He would look like a mini Michael, thought Stella, and for a moment she felt a flicker of concern.
She didn’t want them to be moulded into something they weren’t.
But then she told herself to be grateful, and not so touchy.
This was a country house, and she supposed these were the clothes you wore for an aristocratic country life.
Ten minutes later she was washed and dressed.
She was taller than Elizabeth, so her clothes were a little short in the arm and leg, but it was interesting to wear someone else’s choice: a lambswool cardigan in cornflower-blue, and a pleated skirt in a heathery tweed with flecks of the same blue in it.
She gave herself a fleeting grin as she looked in the mirror – quite the lady of the manor.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to see if Ted might stir, but he was out for the count and she thought it was best to let him sleep on.
There was a lot to think about. A lot to decide.
How did you start again, when you’d lost everything?
There were people to contact. The school, to say that Ted might not be in for a few days.
Monsieur Corbières – she must tell him what had happened.
He was her constant, her adviser, the one who understood more than anyone about love and art and life.
And Harriet. She would have to tell her that her story had been lost, that it was going to take some time before she could rewrite it.
She thought of her poor typewriter, that had served her so well. How was she going to afford a new one?
She sighed, covered Ted over with the eiderdown, and headed downstairs, not quite sure of the etiquette or how she was going to make herself known.
Should she go to the kitchen? She stood at the foot of the stairs in the hall, looking more closely at Edwin’s paintings – the still lives, the portraits, the landscapes – and it was as if he was in the next room, for all of his outlook on life was here, his eye for detail, his sense of beauty, his sense of awe, his sense of humour.
Oh God, how she missed him. She sat down on the bottom step and put her head in her hands, feeling all her hope drain away.
It had been hard enough, building a new life when he’d died. Could she do it again?
She heard footsteps, and looked up to see Elizabeth looking at her with concern.
‘Stella. Is everything all right?’
Stella looked up wearily.
‘I miss him so much.’ She waved a hand at all the paintings.
‘I know,’ sighed Elizabeth. ‘Oh, I know.’
She came and sat down beside her on the step, reached out for Stella’s hand and held it tight. They sat there, the two of them, until the sheer utter misery of their grief passed through them.
‘It knocks you off your feet sometimes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But you get up eventually. You have to.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stella. ‘For everything.’ She was still holding on to Elizabeth’s hand. ‘The clothes. Ted’s clothes.’
‘I nipped into Breverton first thing. I hope I chose well. And I hope it all fits. We can alter anything that doesn’t.’ She looked at her approvingly. ‘But that looks lovely. I chose things I thought might go with your hair.’
‘Oh gosh,’ said Stella. ‘I’ve given up trying to make things go with my hair. But thank you.’
The grandfather clock stirred into action, chiming out the half-hour. Stella looked at it and realised the time.
‘Half past ten! I’m usually up at six.’
‘You needed the sleep.’
‘Mum?’
They both turned round to see Ted standing at the top of the stairs in his vest and pants.
‘Teddy! You must be freezing. Let’s get you into some clothes.’ Stella jumped up.
‘Hello, Ted,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking confused.
‘In that case you must have. You’d better come and have some breakfast. Daisy will make you poached eggs on toast. Are you keen on eggs? We have chickens, so it could be your job to collect them every day, if you like.’
Stella eyed Elizabeth with interest. She was sliding into her unexpected role of grandmother with consummate ease. She was a natural. A sliver of guilt rose to the surface, but she batted it away. She didn’t have room for guilt on top of everything else.
Michael was dealing with the practicalities of the situation with a quiet authority.
He disappeared into Breverton after Elizabeth came back, heading to the bank to put twenty pounds in Stella’s account to tide her over so she didn’t have to ask for money.
He went to see the headmistress of Breverton Infants, securing assurance that Ted needn’t go back to school until he was good and ready, and a promise that thereafter they would keep an eye on him.
He spoke to the head of the local fire brigade, who informed him the fire had most probably started from a build-up of creosote in the chimney.
‘It does happen,’ he said. ‘Especially if you’ve been using wet wood. You can only be grateful they weren’t on board. That would not have ended well.’
Stella was overwhelmed by his generosity.
‘I don’t want you to have to go cap in hand to anyone,’ Michael told her. ‘Use it to get yourself back on your feet. And if you need anything else, please don’t be afraid to ask.’
‘I’m going to need a typewriter,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my magazine stories to write, or I’ll never be able to pay you back.’
‘Leave it with me,’ he said.
She sat down later that morning to write to Harriet.
The most dreadful thing has happened. I finished The Towpath Gang yesterday afternoon, and went to collect Ted from school.
When we got back, our boat was on fire. We’ve lost everything, including the manuscript.
I’m staying with Ted’s grandparents, and I’m hoping to be able to rewrite everything as soon as I can.
But I fear it might not be this side of Christmas …
She prayed that Harriet would understand her position, and wouldn’t think her unprofessional, or imagine she was making excuses.
She wrote to Monsieur Corbières too, for she wrote to him at least once a month to keep him up to date with what they were up to.
The old man would write back in his flowing French script, often including some money which she put aside for Ted.
That had all gone up in flames, she thought sadly.
It wasn’t a fortune but it might have bought him something to remind him of Mr C one day.
Lunch was late, for breakfast had been. Daisy made leek and potato soup and there was delicious home-made bread and a slab of craggy Somerset cheddar with apple chutney.
Ted ate with relish, and Stella was relieved that he seemed to have his usual chirpy spirit.
This was an adventure for him so far, and she was glad he hadn’t actually seen the fire.
She herself couldn’t bear to think back on it, and kept remembering things that she would never see again, especially all her reminders of Edwin, for the boat had been full of his belongings: his pen knife and a long woollen scarf and his favourite cup.
And the pictures. Especially all the silly little sketches he’d been going to turn into paintings.
They had reminded her of him and had given her comfort every day.
‘They’re only things,’ she told herself, for she had shuddered when Michael had told her what the fireman had said. What if they’d got back to the boat with their ginger nuts and had been sitting there, happily dunking, when the chimney caught fire?
Things only went sour when lunch was nearly over, and Diana arrived, bursting into the dining room with Bingo in tow. She stopped short when she saw strangers at the table.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Visitors. Are you going to introduce me?’
‘Diana!’ Elizabeth looked at her daughter. ‘Gosh. Um – this is Stella and this is Ted. Stella was a friend of Edwin’s.’
‘A friend?’ Diana raised an eyebrow.
There was an awkward silence.
‘More than a friend, actually,’ Stella said. ‘Edwin is Ted’s father.’
Ted was eating one of Daisy’s brandy snaps filled with cream. He was sitting to the right of Michael, and the family resemblance was striking.
‘You don’t say.’ Diana managed a glimmer of a smile. ‘Well, it would have been nice if you’d all telephoned me with the good news. It’s not every day you turn up and find a lost … a lost …’ She frowned for a moment, as if working it out. ‘Nephew.’
‘We were going to tell you. This afternoon. But it’s been a bit chaotic, to say the least …
’ Elizabeth was gabbling. She knew she’d made a mistake.
She’d been trying to keep things calm and she’d kept thinking of telling Diana, but Diana would bring another layer of drama that no one needed, especially Stella, so it was about finding the right moment.
‘It’s my fault. We’ve been taking up a lot of everyone’s time. But it’s very nice to meet you,’ said Stella.
Diana looked at her. ‘So what’s brought you out of the woodwork?’
‘Diana.’ Michael shot her a stern glance.