Doubting Abbey (17 page)
Ooh… Why was my stomach tingling?
‘I mean… you’re my cousin—family,’ he said in a firmer voice and sat back down. ‘Although that’s hard to believe at the moment—such a let-down. What ludicrous behaviour.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of fun and I don’t think, with Nick’s jumper on, every viewer will believe it was me,’ I said, eyes tingling. A lump rose in my throat. Despite all my good intentions, I just seemed to be making things worse for the Croxleys. ‘Look, the sun had gone to my head – it was a momentary lapse of judgement…’
‘How self-indulgent,’ he muttered. ‘Fun?’
‘Yes. You do know what that is, right?’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘Or perhaps not. I mean, I’ve been here, what, four days, and hardly seen you smile. Pleasure is not a crime. Nick and I…’
‘Are young and foolish.’
My lips pursed.
‘You’re hardly geriatric,’ I said, ‘yet act as if you belong to the time of dinosaurs.’
A muscle flickered in his cheek.
‘Apologies if I don’t live up to your expectations,’ I said in a measured voice, ‘but I refuse to discard my sense of humour – even to save Applebridge Hall.’
Edward folded his arms. ‘I don’t think you understand the seriousness of our situation. If we don’t win this competition, that’s it – Father and I are homeless. Jean, Mr Thompson, Kathleen; they all lose their jobs. The cemetery where Mother and other relatives are buried…’ His voice cracked. ‘We will probably have to move the bodies, as God knows who will buy this land and what they will do with it. Even worse than that, four hundred years of our ancestors’ sweat and tears will have come to absolutely nothing… History will be lost. Stories of visitors disappear for ever. And all because of a bit of fun?’
‘So it’s all my fault if we lose?’
‘You’ve done little to help so far, what with your inadequate cookery class and childish, impulsive behaviour. Within minutes of arriving you collapsed.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Perhaps you should never have come.’
Impulsive? Oh, dear. Lady C would not be impressed. But then, impulsive was the real me, Gemma, all over. Inwardly, I sighed. What if my sex-up plan backfired? What if the Croxleys became a laughing stock and the likelihood of the public voting for them was now smaller than ever? Calling me self-indulgent, however, was a step too far. I’d given up two weeks of my life to save his bacon.
‘I was thrown to the lions, Monday morning,’ I said in a quiet voice, ‘having never taught cookery to anyone, let alone in front of rolling cameras. On Sunday, I stayed up practically all night, trying to pick up presenting tips from well-known TV chefs on the Internet. I may not have fought against the Spanish Armada, or wined and dined famous playwrights—but in my own way I’m doing my bit. Maybe I should leave if I don’t meet your impossibly high standards of what it means to be a thoroughbred Croxley.’
‘A thoroughbred Croxley?’ He gave a bitter laugh.
‘What is so funny?’
He pursed his lips, as if afraid of what words might tumble out.
‘Fine!’ he said eventually. ‘Leave if you must.’
My stomach squeezed.
‘Applebridge Hall has managed without you all these years.’
‘So you really believe I’m no help at all?’ I said and got to my feet.
‘Go on – abandon ship.’
I was tempted to explain that’s precisely what I’d done in my imagination, by falling off that lawnmower, but my throat hurt too much to make a joke.
‘Abandon ship?’ I stumbled to the door. ‘Point me to the plank, then, Cousin. I’ll happily jump.’
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Tuesday 4th September
9.30p.m.
Apologies for this late posting – it’s been a busy – in fact, exhausting day. This morning I was caught up in an interview with the local press. Then Charlie Chingo questioned me, in the High Drawing Room, about my childhood and education – ‘last resort filler footage’, in his words. It’s a good thing I’ve got a thick skin. After lunch,
Top Shelf Totty
magazine contacted me to request a quite unsuitable photo shoot, featuring my naked silhouette, a long gun and two apples. Naturally, I declined. The Croxleys won’t be joining the celebrity circus. But I’d be open to sensible offers from
Country Life
or the
BBC History Magazine
– on the understanding that the only photos of unclothed figures came from our various pieces of art depicting nudity.
No doubt, blog-readers, you’ve just seen tonight’s show. If nothing else, I hope the, erm, bizarre lawnmower incident gets you talking. I suspect, as
Million Dollar Mansion
progresses, you’ll realize that our family is not much different from that of Joe Bloggs: a mixture of different elements with no obvious properties in common. Yet, one would hope, when it matters, they bond together, strength fused to act as one – despite previous fireworks or unexpected sporadic behaviour.
In fact, truth be told, tonight I’ve behaved in a fiery way myself. Talking of which, the truth is very important to me, friends, even if…sometimes in life…duty prevents one from being totally transparent. Imagine that—having to betray the very principles that are core to your beliefs in order to protect somebody… something else…
But please, excuse the low spirits. Today I’ve experienced feelings that are unfamiliar and it’s knocked me off balance. The new strong sense of caring for someone… The depth of my concern must be due to that DNA bond I spoke of before. Mother Nature must have a way of hard-wiring relatives together, regardless of whether they’ve spent every day of every year together, or not.
Ahem. I’ve indulged my longwinded thoughts enough. Sleep well, friends. Until tomorrow.
‘Let me buy you a drink, love,’ leered a man at the bar.
Not difficult to guess, is it, that I’d changed out of my Abbey disguise? Head all over the place after my argument with Edward, not only did I hurry out of the Parlour – I got changed and practically ran to the Green Acorn, the local pub. The further I got from Applebridge Hall, the more my upset turned to anger.
Okay – it was hard times for Edward, but how much criticism could a girl take? Do your best; that’s what counts most, my dad always says.
‘Pear cider, if you’ve got it, mate,’ I said to the barman and breathed in the lush smell of hops, thrilled that he hadn’t looked at me twice. Without anyone suspecting that I might be Abbey, I could release my inner Gemma. ‘And a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Plus a Kit Kat. Ta.’ Mmm, comfort food that I could just shove in without worrying about which fork or knife to use or whether I’d got crumbs around my mouth.
Cos I needed comforting. Perhaps Edward really wanted me gone. Well, tough. I wasn’t leaving. Whether he liked it or not, the Croxleys needed me and my ‘childish, impulsive behaviour’.
With a yawn, I went to rub my eyes but remembered, just in time, that I’d got my false eyelashes on. Without telling anyone – in other words, Lady C – I’d smuggled a handful of my own ‘Gemma’ clothes into my suitcase. Having left Edward, I’d gone straight to my bedroom and – yes, you’ve guessed it – adrenaline rushed through my veins and a sudden urge to become me again overpowered all rational thinking.
I’d pulled on my shortest skirt and tightest top (ignoring bleeps from my phone – a disapproving Lady C, no doubt.) Then I slapped on a mega generous helping of make-up, dusted on bronzer and squished two chicken fillets into my bra cup. As for my demure blonde locks, I sprayed them with a wash-in-wash-out red hair colour I’d brought with me on a whim, and wore a headband topped by a big black bow.
I gazed around the pub, having admired the cute thatched roof and window boxes on the way inside. It was small, with round mahogany tables and gardeny green walls. On the floor, in the corner, was a dog’s bowl. Laughter and chat almost blocked out the strum of a guitar, played by some guy sitting by a brick fireplace.
‘Cheers!’ I said to the barman and handed over a ten pound note. What a bloomin’ relief not to have to say ‘Thank you so much’. In fact, now I was the real me again, everything – eating, drinking, talking – went at a much quicker pace.
I approached a table occupied by some old fogey and his pint. It was the only seat left. A couple of weeks ago, there’s no way I’d have shared a table with a stranger old enough to be my granddad. But, since I’d been trained by Lady C, something weird had happened. Politeness had made me more…open-minded and aware of other people’s needs. Perhaps he was just a lonely old gent instead of a potentially creepy pervert. I gave a tentative smile and asked if it was okay to sit down, hoping once again that I would be unrecognizable from the posh gal on the local reality show.
‘Certainly, miss,’ he said and stared at me for a long moment while my stomach went into knots. Perhaps I hadn’t put enough bronzer on to disguise my, um, aristocratic disguise… Urgh, this was becoming mega confusing! Folds of skin hung over his eyes and, from those mega wrinkles, I could tell he clearly loved a fag. The old man wore a striped shirt with a cravat and smart navy trousers. ‘I’m afraid I’m staying for a while, though,’ he said eventually. ‘Or are you on your own?’
‘Yeah, it’s only me.’ My stomach relaxed. Looked like he hadn’t rumbled me. I sighed, ‘Ever felt the need just to get out?’
‘Certainly—like when the wife watches soaps back to back,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Although I can’t complain… There’s usually a decent hot chocolate waiting for me on my return.’
I stared into my cider bottle. If only I could stay in this cosy pub for the rest of the next fortnight. No doubt, tomorrow, Edward would give me the silent treatment. Then there was the Scottish cookery class ahead of me… I gave another sigh.
‘I’m Bill,’ said the old man. ‘Bill Cochrane.’
‘Gemma Goodwin,’ I said, having to stop myself from going into Abbey mode and add on: ‘What a pleasure to meet you – hasn’t the weather been delightful today?’
‘Forgive me, Gemma,’ he said, ‘but is everything all right?’
‘Just tired, I guess. I’ve done a mega amount of cooking today.’
‘I don’t recognize you from around here.’
‘No… Um… I’m doing some work at Applebridge Hall – helping out in the kitchens and with housework.’
‘Ah, how is my old friend, Lord Croxley? What with this competition, it’s a while since he’s invited me over for a drink to discuss local farming matters.’
‘You know him?’
Bill sipped his pint. ‘We go back a long way.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘My earliest memories are from the war,’ he said. ‘Lord Croxley was only eight when it ended. I was nine. Mother used to take me up there to play with the evacuees, whilst she helped change beds and cook dinners.’ He shook his head. ‘Those kids would have loved that escapade on tonight’s show with the lawnmower. My wife spilt her cup of coffee. And, as for that disastrous cookery class…’ He guffawed. ‘That Miss Croxley seems like a bit of a loose cannon.’
If only he knew! And today, with those disastrous dishes, she’d truly fired blanks!
‘Have you kept in touch with the evacuees, Bill?’ I sat more upright.
‘No. Damn shame that I haven’t. In fact, the last time Lord Croxley and I had a brew together, he mentioned this boy called Jonny Jackson. We both had vague memories of the three of us getting lost in the maze…’ He sighed. ‘It would be great to meet up – see what he and the others made of their lives after such a tough start. There was this older girl, Linda… I remember she was great with the other kids when they missed their mums. Linda Sloggit. We kept in touch for a few years, like penfriends. I think she became a midwife in Manchester.’
Wow. My eyes widened. An amaaaazin’ idea had pinged into my head. Emotional reunions were telly gold. What if some of the old evacuees came to Applebridge Hall, having not seen each other for over fifty years? That would be awesome! Plus, could just possibly compete with the celebrity party at Marwick Castle this weekend. While Bill chatted to a nearby couple, I tugged open my handbag, rummaged around inside and found a pen.
Crap – no paper. A beer mat would do. I scribbled down the names: Bill Cochrane, Jonny Jackson and Linda Sloggit.
‘Any other memories of the evacuees, Bill?’ I said when he turned back to his pint. ‘It’s, um, fascinating hearing stories from the war.’
He leant back in his chair. ‘Odd time, Gemma, it was. Bloody awful memories, some of them, like one of the lads finding out his dad had been blown up.’
Blimey. Imagine that.
‘Another lad suffered like hell because his father got injured on purpose, to get sent home.’ Bill sipped his beer. ‘And I’ll never forget the looks on the children’s faces when I first turned up with my mum. They were dead brave, trying not to show how much they missed theirs, especially if they had younger siblings who looked to them to stay strong. But then there were good times as well. Gerry Green was an all round good egg and got the kids through it with his jokes. He even made Matron laugh – apart from when he put worms in her bed and swapped the contents of the salt and pepper shakers around.’
I grinned. This Gerry Green sounded just like my brothers.
‘Years later, I saw his name in the paper. He was trying to make a living as a stand-up comedian and had done okay on the holiday-camp circuit… And then there was Dennis Smith and the fire…’
Ah, yes. I remembered the Earl talking about him. I nodded encouragingly.
‘The morning room was burnt out—it used to be behind the library on the ground floor, at the back of the house. It was a bad do. The family lost treasured possessions – some musical instruments, including the piano and well-loved portraits. Fortunately, everything important in the library was saved, apart from a few first editions. When rebuilding, they did away with the morning room altogether. The fire caused enormous damage to the Drake Diner as well. After the war, the Croxleys put all their efforts into restoring that room – to the detriment of other projects, they later decided, like the roof.’
A bell rang. ‘Last orders, folks,’ called the barman.
I stuffed the beer mat in my handbag. Gerry Green, Jonny Jackson… I could Google these names tonight and see if they or their relatives were on Facebook. Once I’d run the idea of a reunion past the Earl and Edward, I had… Eek! Only three days to arrange everything. I’d have to lay it on thick about how important this reunion could be for Applebridge Hall. If nothing else, this whole war thing might distract everyone from me and the lawnmower.
