The first voice, perhaps becoming aware that their conversation might be overheard, dried up. Ned Whittaker cleared his throat, ill at ease for the first time since Carole and Jude had arrived. ‘Morning, girls!’ he called out. ‘We’re through here.’
There was a moment’s silence, then in the sitting-room doorway appeared a tall girl with long, highlighted blonde hair. Only a slight sharpness of her features prevented her from being beautiful. She was probably mid-twenties, slender and gym-toned. A designer polo shirt and jeans showed her figure off to advantage.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘This is Chervil.’ Ned introduced Carole and Jude. The girl gave the latter a knowing look. ‘You’re the one Fennel’s had sessions with?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I was thinking Jude might be able to offer some healing services for the glampers,’ said Sheena.
Her daughter had clearly not heard this idea before. She thought about it, and then said ‘Cool.’
‘I thought it’d make sense if you were to show Carole and Jude round the site,’ said Ned.
Again Chervil thought about the suggestion before saying, ‘Yes, good idea.’
Both Carole and Jude received the strong impression that the girl’s parents were slightly in awe of her, slightly nervous as to how she might react to their ideas. It was only a hint in the atmosphere, an anxiety not to upset her.
Now she knew what was happening, Chervil Whittaker turned the full beam of her blue-eyed charm on to the visitors. ‘I’m ready when you are. It’d be a great pleasure to show you round.’
As they went through the hall, the three of them encountered Fennel Whittaker who was texting a message into her iPhone with some vigour. Though physically very much in the same mould as her sister, Fennel had long black hair and brown eyes. She too wore jeans, with a floppy cardigan over a black T-shirt.
The moment she saw Jude, the girl abandoned her texting and went across, allowing the older woman to enfold her in her arms. Carole felt a familiar pang. She knew she would never have a tiny fraction of the instinctive empathy her neighbour had with people. Jude’s very presence was a kind of therapy.
‘How’re you doing?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you know . . .’ replied Fennel.
‘Hang on in there.’
As the girl nodded wryly, Carole observed the effect this exchange had on her sister. There was a tug of annoyance, even petulance, at the corner of Chervil’s mouth. Her expression reflected the tone of the girls’ earlier overheard conversation.
‘Come on, we’d better be going,’ said Chervil.
As she disengaged herself from Jude, the loose sleeve of Fennel’s cardigan slipped up her arm. Carole saw, on the inside of the wrist, the parallel lines of white scar tissue from old razor cuts.
FIVE
A large field had been given over to the new glamping project. Like everything else on the estate, the site was very high spec. A gate had been set into the surrounding walls, so that visitors would not have to use the imposing lion-guarded main entrance of Butterwyke House. A gravel drive led from the lane outside to a paved car park, from which York stone paths led to the individual camping units. New trees had been planted, so that in time the setting would be well shaded from the summer sun.
The accommodation came in the form of yurts, ‘genuine ones imported from Mongolia,’ Chervil Whittaker assured Carole and Jude. They were quite large, circular structures, squat with a conical roof shaped like a coolie hat. The framework was wooden, and its lattice wall sections and ceiling poles were covered with felt, ‘made from the wool collected from the Mongolian tribesmen’s flocks of sheep.’ The result was a semi-permanent building, ‘warm in winter and cool in summer.’
Chervil Whittaker’s presentation was very slick. Whatever it was she had previously done in the City, the experience had trained her well. Only when she got on the subject of the Buddhist symbolism of the yurt did her knowledge become a little shaky. And she wouldn’t have had a problem with the average potential yurt-renter. But in Jude she had encountered someone who did know quite a lot about Eastern religions.
‘The crown of the yurt,’ Chervil was saying, ‘or toono in Mongolian, takes the form of the Buddhist dharmacakra.’
‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’ asked Carole, who didn’t have much time for any religion but the Church of England (and she didn’t even believe in that one). She certainly thought that Eastern religions were for their ethnic adherents superstition and for any Westerners who subscribed to them sheer pretension.
‘The dharmacakra,’ replied Chervil, ‘is a circular symbol.’
‘Representing what?’ asked Carole.
‘What do you mean?’
‘A symbol can’t just be a symbol, can it? It’s got to be a symbol of something.’
‘Oh.’ But Chervil Whittaker was only momentarily nonplussed. ‘It’s a symbol of the circularity of life . . . sort of, how what comes around goes around.’
‘It’s not quite that, is it?’ said Jude gently.
‘Oh?’
‘Well, Chervil, the dharmacakra is one of the Ashtamagala symbols, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘And it’s one of the eight auspicious symbols of Tibetan Buddhism.’
‘Right.’
‘Really it’s the Wheel of Law, representing dharma, the Buddha’s path to enlightenment. And its symbolism as a wheel depends on the number of spokes it has. Eight spokes represent Ariya magga, the Noble Eightfold Path. Twelve spokes represent Paticcasamuppada, the Twelve Laws of dependent Origination. And twenty-four spokes—’
‘Yeah, well, whatever,’ said Chervil. Then a marketing thought struck her. ‘Hey, Jude, maybe you could write a little piece about this stuff . . .? Then we could print them up and add them to the welcome pack we put in the yurts for our guests. We’re thinking of having on the welcome packs the logo “Deeply Felt”.’
‘Why?’ asked Carole.
‘“Felt”. That’s what the yurts are made of – Felt.’
‘Ah,’ said Carole.
‘But would you be up for writing something about the Buddhist bit, Jude?’
‘Sure. If you think—’
‘We’d pay you, obviously.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’d need paying for something like that.’
‘No, of course we’d pay you,’ said Chervil firmly. The Whittakers had so much money that they liked to dole it out for every service, however minor. Paying for things gave them a sense of security. ‘Yes, I think that’d be good,’ she went on. ‘I think a lot of the people who’re likely to come here will have spiritual needs . . . you know, they’ll want time in the country really chilling out and getting their heads together.’
Carole could not prevent a wince of annoyance crossing her face at the mention of these two alien concepts.
‘You say “people who’re likely to come here”,’ observed Jude. ‘Does that mean the site isn’t open yet?’
‘We open officially next week. Last month we’ve had friends staying, testing everything out, seeing all the facilities work as they should.’
‘And what kind of facilities do you have?’ asked Carole.
Chervil smiled confidently. ‘I’ll show you,’ she said, and led them to the painted door of one of the largest yurts.
The central space was large and, though quite a lot of light came through the circular, spoked smoke vent at the crown of the structure, Chervil switched on the lights. Clearly the back-to-nature experience included electricity.