‘You can see how glorious it must have been once,’ Orlando said, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Oh yes, I can,’ I murmured. I saw Rory winding his way along the overgrown paths, expertly manoeuvring his bicycle round the overhanging plants as if he was taking some form of proficiency test.
‘I must show you the greenhouses where my great-grandfather grew and nurtured specimens from all over the world. But now,’ Orlando said, ‘do you think there is something that you could perhaps rustle up for lunch? Then for tonight I’ve ordered a tenderloin fillet. The farm shop’s beef is quite the best I know.’ Orlando gave a large yawn. ‘Goodness, that walk has quite exhausted me. Thank God I live in town. There’s little else to do but walk in the country, is there? And one feels so guilty if one doesn’t.’
After lunch, Orlando rose from the table. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me if I take a short nap. I am sure the two of you will muddle along together while I’m gone.’
‘I like your cooking, Star,’ Rory signed as his uncle left the kitchen.
‘Thank you. Help me with the washing-up?’ I indicated the full sink.
Rory pouted at me.
‘If you do, I’ll show you how to make chocolate brownies. They are delicious.’
We set to work and just as I’d allowed Rory to lick the bowl, the back door opened and I heard the footfall of heavy boots outside. Thinking it must be the delivery from the farm shop, I turned and saw the Sewer Rat step through the kitchen door. Rory and I stared at him in surprise.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Rory.’ He nodded at the boy, who waved back, his attention taken by the last remnants of the chocolate mix. ‘Something smells good.’
‘We’re making brownies.’
‘Then I’m sure Rory is in heaven.’
‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’ I muttered, his presence making me nervous.
‘Only if you’re having one.’
‘I am.’ I flicked the kettle on. ‘Rory,’ I said, turning to him, ‘let’s get you cleaned up.’ As I took a cloth to his chocolatey mouth, the Sewer Rat didn’t move, just stood and surveyed both of us with his unwavering stare.
‘Star, can I watch Superman?’
‘Is he allowed to watch a film?’ I asked the Sewer Rat.
‘Why not? I’ll come and switch it on for you, Rory.’
By the time the Sewer Rat returned, the tea was brewing in a large earthenware pot on the table.
‘Bloody freezing in that drawing room. I’ve lit a fire. Thanks for the tea,’ he said, sitting down, still in his Barbour. ‘I presume Orlando is taking his nap. My brother is a creature of habit.’
I saw a glimmer of an affectionate smile cross his features, but it was gone before it reached its full potential.
‘Yes.’
‘As a matter of fact, it wasn’t Orlando I’ve come here to see, it’s you,’ he continued. ‘Firstly, to offer my thanks for being here this weekend. It’s saved me from playing babysitter when I’ve had the shoot on the land.’
‘I’m sure Orlando could have managed equally well without me.’
‘Marguerite would never have allowed it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Hasn’t he told you? Besides being asthmatic, Orlando has severe epilepsy. Has done ever since he was a teenager. It’s more or less under control these days, but Marguerite was nervous that he might fit, as Rory can’t make himself understood by phone. He’s learning to text, of course, but as there’s zero signal here at High Weald, that’s not an awful lot of use.’
‘I didn’t know.’ I stood up and walked to the range to check on the brownies and mask my shock.
‘Then that’s very good news, as it means Orlando’s being a good boy and taking his medicine as he should. While you’re working alongside him, I feel it’s important that you know, just in case. Orlando is embarrassed about it. The bottom line is, though, if he does fit, without immediate medical attention, he could die. We nearly lost him a couple of times when he was younger. And the other thing is . . .’
He paused and I held my breath as I waited for him to continue.
‘I wanted to apologise for being less than polite to you when you were last here. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment, one way or another.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘No, it isn’t. But as I’m sure you’ve already gleaned, I’m not a very nice person.’
Of all the self-absorbed, self-pitying and generally selfish excuses I’d heard over the course of my life, this one took the biscuit. I felt anger fill me, as if I was absorbing heat from the range.
‘Anyway, I brought you this. It’s my shortened transcription of Flora MacNichol’s journals, written by her between the ages of ten and twenty.’
‘Right. Thanks,’ I eventually managed to say to the brownies on the range in front of me.
‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace.’ I heard his footsteps cross the kitchen towards the door. Then a pause. ‘Just one more question for you . . .’
‘What?’
‘Did you bring the animal figurine with you? I’d like to see it.’
I knew it was childish, but my irritation at his infuriating manner got the better of me. ‘I’m . . . not sure. I’ll have a look,’ I replied.
‘Okay. I’ll be back tomorrow. By the way, our Sunday lunch is in the lobby. Bye now.’
Once I had recovered and drunk two glasses of water straight down to quell the burning heat from the anger I felt at my unwanted guest, I ignored the pile of pages set neatly on the table and looked into the lobby. There I found a brace of pheasants alongside a box of assorted fresh fruit and vegetables.
I’m ashamed to admit that the largest pheasant took the brunt of my wrath as I plucked its feathers viciously, gutted it, and chopped off its head, feet and wings. Once that was done, I sat down at the table exhausted, wondering why a person who meant absolutely nothing to me could rouse the depth of anger and frustration I felt.
I fingered the manuscript in front of me, the very fact that his hands had touched the pages making me shudder. But here it was, a possible clue to the past I had been searching for. And whatever I felt for its transcriber, a far higher cause had led me to High Weald.
I found a plate and placed three brownies upon it, clamping the manuscript under my other arm. Then I went in search of Rory, whom I found glued to the television screen, watching Christopher Reeve zooming through the sky.
I tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention and indicated the plate of brownies.
‘Thank you!’
I watched him help himself before turning his attention back to his film. And seeing that he was happily occupied, I stoked the fire then I sat down in the deep armchair next to the hearth. Putting the manuscript on my knee, I began to read.
Flora
Esthwaite Hall, The Lake District
April 1909
9