“Depends what you got arrested for.”
“I… I threw an egg at our MP,” I admit, reluctantly. “Not very anarchic.”
“Not very,” he says, flashing me a grin. “But it’s a start.”
“That was wicked,” Eddie tells me, appearing at my side, breathless. I put my arm around his shoulders and squeeze him before he can escape.
Beth is cooking something for lunch that’s filling the ground floor with garlic-scented steam. The windows cloud with it and rain cloaks the outside world so that the house feels like an island. Eddie’s gone off into the woods with Harry, and strains of Sibelius’s fifth come creeping up the stairs with the steam. Beth’s favorite. I take it as a good sign that she has looked it out in Meredith’s music collection, and is preparing food that she might even eat. I wonder what Dinny and Honey are doing. In such rain, on such a depressing day. No rooms to wander through, no rows and rows of books or music, no television. Their lifestyle is a matter of pure speculation for me. If it were me, I suppose I’d be in the village pub. For a second I consider seeking them out there, but my stomach gives a lurch of protest and I remember the hangover I’m nursing. Instead I head for the attic stairs.
I do remember Sergeant Hoxteth’s uncle. We would see him in the village sometimes, when we went for sweets or ice cream from the shop. He had a ready smile. And he came to the house, on more than one occasion. Either because Meredith had called him, or because the Dinsdales had. They have the right to camp there, just as Dinny said. There’s a legal deed or warrant or whatever, from the time of my great-grandfather, before he married Caroline. He and Private Dinsdale were in the army together, in Africa I think. The full story has been lost down the years, but when they came back Dinsdale wanted a place to park up, and Sir Henry Calcott gave it to him. And to all members of his family, in perpetuity. They have a copy of it, and our family lawyer holds a copy. It really got Meredith’s goat.
We’d see Sergeant Hoxteth standing in the hallway, waiting uncomfortably for Meredith to appear with her Gorgon glare. The time she made one of the farmers park a massive baler across the top of the track to keep the travelers out. The time she learnt that not all those at the camp were Dinsdales and wanted the hangers-on evicted. The time she saw someone drawing water from one of the estate troughs and wanted to press charges. The time food kept vanishing from the larder, and small articles from around the house, and Meredith insisted that it was the Dinsdales until it turned out that the housekeeper had an elderly mother to support. The time one of the travellers’ dogs got into the garden and she put the wind up it with a twelve-bore shotgun. People in the village thought that they were under attack. They will spread diseases to my animals, was Meredith’s clipped explanation.
We used to come up here to the attic sometimes, to root around in the junk. It always looked like there should be something exciting to discover, but it didn’t take long for us to tire of the packing crates, broken lamps, offcuts of carpet. The hot-water tank, gurgling and hissing like a sleeping dragon. On such a wet day it is dark up here, the far reaches of the space hung in shadow. The tiny dormer windows are few and far between and they are crusted up with water marks and algae. It is so quiet I can hear the soft breathing sounds of the house, the rain making a musical chuckle as it filters through the choked guttering. Unconsciously, I tiptoe.
The leather of the old red trunk is so dry and brittle that it feels sandy when I touch it, comes away as grit between my fingers. I strain my eyes to see inside, dragging it around to face the nearest window. It leaves the ghost of itself in the dust on the floor and I wonder when it was last moved. Inside are wads of papers; boxes; a small, dilapidated valise of some kind; a few mystery objects wrapped in yellowed newspaper pages; a leather writing case. It doesn’t look much, if this is all of Caroline’s personal things. Not much for a hundred years of life. But then, old houses like this come ready-made, I suppose. The lives within come and go, but most of the contents stay the same.
I search avidly through the papers. Invitations to various functions; a government leaflet about what to do in an air raid; Caroline’s telegram from the queen on the occasion of her one hundredth birthday; some prescriptions written out in a doctor’s hand so typically wild that I can’t make out the words. I unwrap a few of the paper parcels. There’s a gold face-powder compact and matching lipstick; an exquisite tortoiseshell fan, so fragile I hardly dare touch it; a silver dressing table set, inlaid with mother of pearl, the brushes silky soft, the mirror cracked across its face; a curious bone ring, satin smooth, with a silver bell hanging from it that tinkles, startling me in the stillness. I wonder what sets these objects apart, what made them wholly Caroline’s, what stopped Meredith selling them off like she did with so many of the other precious things. After a while, I notice it. They are all engraved, marked as hers. CC, drawn with a flourish into the metal. I turn the bone ring over in my fingers, looking for the same mark. The script, when I find it on the rim of the tarnished silver bell, is small and almost worn away, and it makes me pause. To a Fine Son, it reads.
I re-wrap these treasures and put them back in the trunk. I am not sure what will become of them. Technically, they belong to Beth and me now, but they don’t really, of course. Any more than they belonged to Meredith, which was why she stowed them away up here. The valise, which has a wide, hinged-opening top, is empty. It once had a pink silk lining, now just in tatters. I take out the writing case instead, which is so full that the laces struggle to tie around the bulge of it. Inside are her letters, many of them still in their envelopes. Compact, white envelopes, much smaller than are commonly used these days. I flick through, realize that most of them have been addressed in the same hand-a small, slanting script in black ink. Just slightly too cramped to be called elegant. I open one carefully and skip straight to the end. Most of these letters are from Meredith and have a Surrey postmark.
My heart gives a strange little twist. I turn back to the first page of the one I am holding, and read.
April 28th 1931.
Dear Mother,
I hope this letter finds you well, and less troubled by your rheumatism than of late? You will be pleased to hear that I am settling in well here, and am gradually becoming accustomed to running my own household-even though I do of course miss you, and Storton. Charles is rather relaxed about the arrangements-his only stipulation is that breakfast be served at eight and dinner at nine! An easy man to please, and I have had the freedom to find my own way of doing things. The house is so much smaller than Storton, you would doubtless be amused by how many and varied the instructions have been that I’ve needed to give the staff in order to bring things along! I fear they have grown rather too used to having a gentleman alone in the house, and one unlikely to pay much mind to the rotation of linen, the freshening of flowers or the airing of guest bedrooms.
It does seem rather unusual to be alone in the house all day whilst Charles is at his offices. There is a singular quiet in the afternoons here-I often look to my left to remark upon something to you, only to find the room empty! I suppose I ought to make the most of the peace and quiet before it is carried away by the patter of little feet… I find myself entirely pulled between two emotions: the thrill of anticipating the birth of your first grandchild, and utter dread of the same event! I remind myself daily that women have been giving birth successfully for a great many years, and that I am certain there can be nothing another woman might do that I might not. Were you afraid, when you were first expecting? I do hope you will come and visit, Mother-I should dearly love to have your advice. The house is smaller than you are used to, as I have said, but it is nevertheless quite comfortable. I have fitted out the largest guest bedroom with new drapes and bed linen-the existing ones were quite worn out-so it is every bit ready for your arrival. The garden is a riot of daffodils, which I know you like, and the countryside hereabouts is really very charming for a gentle walk. Write and let me know if you will come, and when you might like to. In anticipation of our happy event, Charles has sworn me off driving the motorcar, but I can arrange for our man Hepworth to collect you from the station at any time-it is a short drive, not at all arduous. Do come.