A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (10 page)

“When we were kids wasn’t there a folksy restaurant here?” I asked. “I seem to remember this dining room and deck, but it looked much different, like something out of the 1950s, with waxy checkered tablecloths, and food like mutton stew and macaroniand-cheese.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Jeremy agreed. “It was a menu for grown-ups who’d already gotten drunk on scotch and simply wanted big portions of food. But the fish was quite good then.”

Just before dessert, our meal was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a waiter who presented Jeremy with an unopened bottle of champagne, which we had not ordered. With a flourish, the waiter told us that this was a rare vintage from their cellars, “compliments of the Mosley brothers”. The waiter held out a small silver tray to Jeremy with a note on it.

Jeremy took the note, read it, and then said firmly to the waiter, “Thank you. But send the champagne back.”

The waiter actually turned pale. “But—but sir,” he stammered.

Jeremy gave him the fisheye. “Send it back,” he repeated. “With a thanks-but-no-thanks.”

And I could swear that the whole restaurant watched as the waiter, who had flushed beet-red, carried the champagne back to the Mosleys.

“Any idea how much that champers cost?” I whispered to Jeremy.

“In the neighborhood of two thousand pounds,” he said. He shoved the note toward me that had come on the silver tray. It said only,
Perhaps we can do business together
.

I stole a look at the Mosley brothers, whose faces betrayed nothing as one of them spoke to the waiter. However, only moments later, our waiter re-appeared at our table, bearing the gift of two glasses of a more modest cognac. He looked petrified now. But Jeremy diplomatically accepted it this time, and raised his glass to me.

“If I drink it, does it mean I have to work with the Mosleys?” I asked, as the two brothers nodded briefly to us.

“No way,” Jeremy replied. “It only means I don’t have to do pistols at dawn with one of them.”

We sipped our cognac, which was smooth and warming, and a great companion to our coffee and a dessert of mixed berry fruit
tarte
with Devonshire cream.

“Well, apart from the little Mosley drama,” I sighed contentedly, “this was a wonderful dinner.”

As we rose to leave we passed through the bar again, and it still had a sizeable throng of people waiting to eat. A few sated diners lingered on the front porch, chatting in the cool dark night.

“Hope there’s some room in the parking lot behind the hotel now,” Jeremy said as we walked down the front path to the sidewalk. “I want to move the car there—” Then his tone changed completely. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed.

I followed his gaze, and saw that Jeremy’s Dragonetta, which was still parked at the street corner where we’d left it, now had an ugly, strange splotchy shadow over the windshield. As I drew nearer I saw what it was.

“Eggs!” I cried. Someone had thrown a couple of them,
Splat!
right on the glass. The broken yolks, cracked shell fragments and gooey white had formed one drippy, hideous pattern of hostility.

While we stood there stunned, I noticed that the Mosley brothers had come out to the porch, and one of them strolled down the front path to light up a cigarette. As he flashed his lighter, I momentarily saw his pale eyes shining in the dark night, with a look of chilly amusement that I did not like.

Toby Taylor had come out, too, saying goodbye to another group of finely dressed men accompanied by slender ladies wearing gold jewelry that flashed at their throats and hands. But when Toby saw the look on our faces, he quickly realized what we were staring at, and then broke away from his other guests with an expression of genuine sympathy.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Laidley,” he said quietly. “The local vandals sometimes get a bit out of hand on the weekend. Egged on by their elders, no pun intended. Some people can’t stand progress. Don’t worry, I’ll have one of the valets clean it up for you in the morning. But for now, let’s get it off the street. It will be safe in our garage.”

Jeremy wordlessly handed his car key to the valet. I simply wanted to get away from the stares of the other guests, who were probably wondering why we’d been singled out for this abuse. After all, Jeremy’s Dragonetta was a beautiful car, yet there were many other cars parked all around us on the street that were far more expensive and showy.

We went into our hotel next door, where the front parlor was quiet and consoling, with its low lighting from pretty lamps, and invitingly upholstered chairs. I saw that a white-haired elderly couple sat on a sofa, happily doing the crossword puzzle together.

We climbed the wide, old-fashioned staircase, and I absently ran my hand over the smoothly polished banister. Then Jeremy unlocked the door to our room, and tossed the key on top of the chest of drawers. I switched on the lamp nearby and stole a look at him to see if he was still scowling, but he only smiled ruefully at me.

“Who the hell are these so-called vandals everyone blames everything on?” I demanded.

“Local kids with too much time on their hands, I imagine,” he replied.

“I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “It had to be the Mosleys, I just know it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. These villagers do resent newcomers who roar into town with fancy cars,” Jeremy answered ruefully.

“And why name them after the Vandals?” I mused. “Why not the Visigoths?”

“Vandals is easier to say,” Jeremy offered.

“You’re winging it,” I scoffed. After a moment I said, “Why would anyone attack us? We haven’t done anything yet.”

“We’re here,” Jeremy said. “That may be enough.” He smiled at me. “Don’t worry. We’ll soon figure out who our friends and foes are,” he said calmly as he took off his jacket and deposited his wallet on the bed-stand. I could see that tonight’s events had only strengthened Jeremy’s determination to fight back.

Struck by the quiet strength of his attitude, I interrupted his appealingly male routine of undressing by flinging my arms around him, and I planted a particularly loving kiss on his warm lips.

“You’re a good egg,” I said daringly. “That’s why I married you.”

He put his arm around my waist and pulled me closer with mock ferocity, then helped me unbutton my dress while kissing the back of my neck. “You,” he said, “make me feel happy to be alive.”

T
he next morning was a Sunday, and I awoke to the dolorous sound of church bells clanging in the cool morning air. They had a very measured, solid tone, as if they had been tolling for flocks of villagers all down the centuries on mornings just like this one.

Jeremy and I walked over to get our breakfast at the farmers’ market, which was set up in the big parking lot near the harbor. Each vendor had his own small white tent and metal tables heaped with fruits, flowers or vegetables that had just been picked. One farmer had a goat for kids to pet; and a beekeeper displayed a buzzy, busy hive inside a glass bell. The baker’s table, with its fragrant, fresh-baked bread and muffins was especially popular, as was the booth with locally made cheeses and sausages. And the fishermen had their own prominent section with piles of newly caught fish on ice.

Because the day was fine, we spent the rest of the morning watching the fishing boats coming in and out of the harbor. In the afternoon, we hurried back to the Homecoming Inn to pick up the car, so that we’d be on time to meet Trevor Branwhistle. Jeremy gave the valet our room number. The valet, a local Cornish lad of about seventeen, bolted off with alacrity, and a second later Jeremy’s Dragonetta came roaring around the corner at breakneck speed. The kid pulled right up to us, and jumped out with a smile of pure pleasure as he stepped aside for Jeremy.

“Great wheels, dude,” the valet could not help saying with undisguised admiration.

I noted that the windshield sparkled in the sunlight, and the car looked as if it had never been sullied. Jeremy gave the kid a tip, and we drove off.

We headed away from the harbor with its fishing boats bobbing on the sparkling sea and the sound of the waves lashing the sandy, rocky shoreline. Today we were climbing a bit higher inland, where the houses perched near dewy meadows.

“Trevor Branwhistle, here we come,” I said.

 

Now, when you’re out in the country, the English play fast and loose with the word “cottage”. I suppose it’s all relative to the main building and the original reason that the first owner had for scattering other houses on his estate, as if they were little plastic pieces from a Monopoly board game.

So sometimes a “cottage” truly is a cute little abode like the ones that hermits inhabit in fairy tales. On the other hand, an English cottage can be a house that most normal folk would consider rather grand—from awesome castle-like residences that were once an abbey or rectory; to stone “farmhouses” that look more like winery châteaux, to an elegantly built mansion.

Trevor Branwhistle’s “cottage” fell into this more imposing category. It was a white Edwardian structure that sat very proudly in a clearing on the flat top of a high hill, overlooking a meadow with fluffy grey sheep grazing placidly. Several acres separated the property from Grandmother Beryl’s house. Although he had a view of the sea in the back of his property, Trevor’s house was higher up, and did not have direct access to a cove or shoreline as Grandmother’s did.

“Wow, I didn’t know working for the BBC paid so well,” I said, duly impressed.

“No, dear. Houses like this are inherited. I imagine the BBC pension merely helps pay for the expenses. Where’s the front door to this ruddy place?” Jeremy muttered, steering the car around a gravel drive that surrounded the house, and parking beside another car in an area edged with a white fence.

“Over there. See the big door with the balcony above it?” I told him, pointing at the main entrance.

The front door was opened by a plump, middle-aged housekeeper in a grey dress and white apron. She had a pleasant smile as if she were expecting us, and she led us through a cool, dark reception hall, directly into a study that overlooked the meadow.

I liked this room immediately. The wall opposite the entrance had four tall windows and a French door that was opened wide onto a terrace with balustrades. The other three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which housed an extensive collection of tall, leather-bound volumes. Peering closer at the spines, I saw from their gold-lettered titles that many of them were collections of famous plays. Others were actually BBC sound recordings of Trevor doing Shakespeare or being interviewed about the English theatre.

Jeremy was wandering around examining four busts mounted on white pedestals reigning over each corner of the room. “They’re all playwrights,” he noted. “Here’s Shakespeare himself.”

“Isn’t he wonderful?” I whispered, stepping across the square red-and-green wool rug in the center of the room.
“To be or not to be . . .”
I intoned, poised before the marble bust.

“This one’s Ibsen . . . this is Shaw . . .” Jeremy said, staring at the other noble faces. Then he paused, searching for the identity of the last one. I drifted to his side, studying the bust of a man whose hair was worn in long curly ringlets, and whose face had heavy-lidded eyes, an elegant nose, a well-shaped wide moustache, an intelligent brow, and a mouth that indicated a trace of humor.

“Not sure who that is,” Jeremy murmured.

“I am Molière, sir!”

The booming voice seemed to come right out of the statue itself. We both jumped back and stared at the stone face, as if awaiting its next word, which came soon.

It really did seem as if the statue had spoken—in a French accent, no less. This time I whirled around, searching for a human presence. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure on the terrace just stepping out of the shadows, and coming into the study.

Trevor Branwhistle had a lion’s mane of silver-and-black hair with a matching, very pointy beard and moustache, which made him look as if he belonged to the seventeenth century rather than our present one. He wore brown tweed pants, a corduroy olive-green jacket with mustard-yellow patches on the elbows, and an olive-green knitted vest. His face was not so much wrinkled as leathery, and I judged him to be about sixty.

“You are fortunate, young lady,” he said to me with a mocksevere look, in a normal voice which was Oxford-educated. “Monsieur Molière rarely converses with visitors before he’s had a proper introduction.”

“I’m Penny Nichols, and this is my husband, Jeremy Laidley,” I said, delighted to play along with his whimsy. He took my hand and kissed it with the kind of theatrical gesture that only an actor can get away with in such ordinary circumstances.

“You’re a very good ventriloquist,” Jeremy observed.

“An actor must have many tricks up his sleeve,” Trevor said, reaching out to shake hands with Jeremy, but at the last moment he flicked his hand instead, and appeared to pluck out a card from Jeremy’s sleeve. It was the King of Hearts. “However I am less a magician and more a Jack-of-all-Trades,” he added, flicking the same card again, so that it seemed to have now become the Jack of Clubs. With a flourish, he handed it to me as if it were his calling card.

“Would you care for a glass of port?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he went over to a tall table in the corner and poured the ruby-colored port from a decanter into three narrow glasses. He handed the first to me, then another to Jeremy. We all clinked.

“To your grandmother Beryl,” Trevor said in a more respectful, less jocular tone. “She is sorely missed.”

“You knew her, then?” I asked, as eager to hear the answer as I was to continue listening to that deep, resonant voice that was as silky as the port.

Trevor gestured for us to sit upon the green velvet upholstered sofa. “Certainly. After all, she was my neighbor, and a true patron of our local theatre. Beryl had her own special box seats, and she was a devoted fund-raiser,” he said, sipping his port. “More conventional than her sister Penelope, mind you, but a real brick when it came to defending the village. Beryl was content to remain backstage, if you know what I mean; whereas her sister Penelope adored the spotlight and even once trod the boards right here on our stage, performing as a song-and-dance gal.”