Hothouse Flower (3 page)

When she was fourteen, Grandfather Bill had died. Julia remembered the feeling of loss vividly. He and the hothouses had been the one certainty in her young and already difficult life – a wise, kind influence with a listening ear – perhaps more of a father to her than her own had been. At eighteen, she had won a scholarship to the Royal College of Music in London. Grandmother Elsie had moved to live in Southwold with her sister for company, and Julia had visited Wharton Park no more.

Now here she was, at thirty-one, returning to it. As Alicia chattered about her four children and their various activities, Julia relived the anticipation she had felt every time she’d driven in her parents’ car down this road; staring out of the rear window, waiting for the Gate Lodge, which marked the entrance to Wharton Park, to appear as they reached the familiar bend in the road.

‘There’s the turning!’ Julia said as Alicia almost overshot it.

‘Gosh, yes, you’re right. It’s such a long time since I’ve been here, I’d forgotten.’

As they turned into the drive, Alicia glanced at her sister. She could see a glimmer of expectation in Julia’s eyes.

‘You always loved it here, didn’t you?’ she said softly.

‘Yes, didn’t you?’

‘To be honest, I was bored when we came to stay. I couldn’t wait to get back to town to see all my friends.’

‘You always were more of a city girl,’ offered Julia.

‘Yes, and look at me now: thirty-four, with a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, a brood of children, three cats, two dogs and an Aga. What the hell happened to the bright lights?’ Alicia smiled ironically.

‘You fell in love and had a family.’

‘And it was
you
who got the bright lights,’ Alicia added, without malice.

‘Yes, once …’ Julia’s voice tailed off as they turned into the drive. ‘There’s the house. It looks exactly the same.’

Alicia glanced at the building in front of her. ‘Actually, I think it looks rather better. I must have forgotten just how beautiful it is.’

‘I’ve never forgotten,’ murmured Julia.

They followed the line of cars slowly down the drive, both lost in their own thoughts. Wharton Park had been built in classic Georgian style for the nephew of the first prime minister of Great Britain, although he had died before the house was completed. Built almost entirely in Aislaby stone, the house had mellowed into a soft yellow over its three-hundred-year existence.

Its seven bays and double staircases, which rose in front of the basement to the
piano nobile
, forming a raised terrace overlooking the park at the back, added an air of French glamour. With a domed tower on each corner, its vast portico supported by four giant Ionic columns, a crumbling statue of Britannia perched jauntily atop the apex, it had a majestic but rather eccentric air.

Wharton Park was not large enough to be termed a stately home. It did not have the perfect architecture to compliment it either, having had a couple of odd additions from later generations of Crawfords, which had compromised its purity. But for that very reason, neither did it have the daunting starkness associated with other great houses of the period.

‘This is where we used to turn left,’ indicated Julia, remembering the track she had taken around the lake to reach her grandparents’ cottage on the edge of the estate.

‘After we’ve been to the sale, would you like to go to their old cottage and take a look at it?’ asked Alicia.

Julia shrugged. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

Yellow-coated stewards were marshalling the cars into parking spaces.

‘Word must have got round,’ commented Alicia as she swung the car into the space indicated and brought it to a halt. She turned to her sister and put her hand on her knee. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.

Julia felt dazed, suffused with so many memories. As she stepped out of the car and walked towards the house, even the smells were familiar: wet grass, freshly cut, and the faintest hint of a scent that she now knew to be jasmine in the borders that lined the front lawn. They followed the crowd of people slowly up the steps and inside the main entrance of the house.

2

I am eleven again. I’m standing in an enormous room that I know is really an entrance hall, but looks to me like a cathedral. The ceiling is high above me and as I study it I see it is painted with clouds and fat little angels with no clothes on. This fascinates me and I’m staring so hard at them I don’t notice that there’s someone standing on the stairs watching me.

‘Can I help you, young lady?’

I’m so startled that I nearly drop the precious pot that’s in my hands, and is the reason I’m here in the first place. My grandfather has sent me especially to deliver it to Lady Crawford. I’m not happy because I’m scared of her. When I’ve seen her from afar, she looks old and thin and cross. But Grandfather Bill has insisted.

‘She’s very sad, Julia. The orchid might cheer her up. Now run along, there’s a good girl.’

The person on the stairs is definitely not Lady Crawford. It’s a young man, maybe four or five years older than I am, with lots of curly, chestnut hair worn, I think, far too long for a boy. He’s very tall, but painfully thin; his arms look like sticks, hanging out of his rolled-up shirt sleeves.

‘Yes, I’m looking for Lady Crawford. I brought this for her from the hothouses,’ I manage to stammer.

He saunters down the rest of the steps and comes to stand opposite me, his hands outstretched.

‘I’ll take it to her, if you’d like.’

‘My grandfather said I was to give it straight to her,’ I answer nervously.

‘Unfortunately, she’s having a rest just now. She’s not terribly well, you know.’

‘I didn’t know,’ I reply. I want to ask who he is, but I don’t dare. He must be reading my mind, for he says:

‘Lady Crawford is my relation, so I think you can trust me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, here.’ I proffer the orchid, secretly relieved I don’t have to deliver it myself. ‘Can you tell Lady Crawford that my grandfather says this is a new …’ I struggle to remember the word, ‘… hybrid, and just flowered?’

‘Yes, I will.’

I stand there, not quite sure what to do next. So does he.

Finally he says, ‘So, what’s your name?’

‘Julia Forrester. I’m Mr Stafford’s granddaughter.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Of course you are. Well, I’m Christopher Crawford. Kit, to my friends.’

He extends the hand that isn’t holding the plant and I shake it.

‘Good to meet you, Julia. I hear that you play the piano rather well.’

I blush. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say.

‘No need to be modest,’ he chides me. ‘I heard Cook and your grandmother talking about you this morning. Follow me.’

He’s still holding my hand from shaking it, and suddenly he pulls me with it, across the hall, and through a series of vast rooms filled with the kind of formal furniture that makes the house feel as if it is a life-sized doll’s house. I can’t help wondering where they sit and watch television in the evenings. Finally, we enter a room that is bathed in golden light, coming through the three floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the terrace leading on to the gardens. There are large sofas arranged around a huge marble fireplace, and in the far corner, in front of one of the windows, is a grand piano. Kit Crawford leads me to it, pulls out the stool and pushes me down.

‘Come on then. Let’s hear you play something.’

He pulls up the lid and a shower of dust motes fly into the air, sparkling in the afternoon sun.

‘Are … are you sure I’m allowed?’ I ask.

‘Aunt Crawford sleeps at the other end of the house. She’s not likely to hear. Come on!’ He looks at me expectantly.

Tentatively, I place my hand above the keys. They are unlike any my fingers have ever touched. I don’t know it then, but they are finished in the finest ivory and I’m playing at a 150-year-old Bechstein piano. I strike a note lightly and yet the echo of it resonates through the strings, amplifying the sound.

He’s standing waiting by me, arms crossed. I realise I have no choice. I begin to play ‘Clair de Lune’, a piece I’ve only recently learnt. It’s my current favourite and I’ve spent hours practising it. As the notes appear under my fingers, I forget about Kit. I’m carried away by the beautiful sound this wonderful instrument makes. I go, as I always do, to another place far, far away from here. The sun shines across my fingers, it warms my face with its glow. I play perhaps better than I ever have, and am surprised when my fingers touch the last keys and the piece is ended.

I hear the sound of clapping somewhere in the background and I bring myself back to this enormous room and to Kit, who is standing with a look of awe on his face.

‘Wow!’ he says. ‘That was brilliant!’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re so young. Your fingers are so small, how can they move across the keys so quickly?’

‘I don’t know, they just … do.’

‘You know, Aunt Crawford’s husband, Harry, Lord Crawford, was apparently an accomplished pianist?’

‘Oh no, I … I didn’t.’

‘Well he was. This was his piano. He died when I was a baby so I never heard him play. Can you play something else?’

This time he looks genuinely enthusiastic.

‘I … I really think I should be going.’

‘Just one more, please?’

‘All right,’ I say.

And I begin to play ‘Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini’. Once again, I am lost in the music and I’m halfway through when I suddenly hear a voice, shouting.

‘STOP!! Stop that now!’

I do as I’m asked and look across to the entrance of the drawing room. A tall, thin, grey-haired woman is standing there. The look on her face is one of fury. My heart begins to beat very fast.

Kit goes over to her. ‘Sorry, Aunt Crawford, it was me that asked Julia to play. You were asleep so I couldn’t ask your permission. Did we wake you?’

A pair of cold eyes stare back at him. ‘No. You did not wake me. But, Kit, that is hardly the point. Surely you know I forbid anyone to play that piano?’

‘I’m truly sorry, Aunt Crawford. I didn’t realise. But Julia is so wonderful. She’s only eleven years old, yet she plays like a concert pianist already.’

‘Enough!’ snaps his aunt.

Kit hangs his head and beckons me to follow him.

‘Sorry again,’ he says, as I skulk out behind him.

As I pass Lady Crawford, she stops me. ‘Are you Stafford’s granddaughter?’ she asks, her cold, blue, gimlet eyes boring into me.

‘Yes, Lady Crawford.’

I see her eyes soften very slightly and it looks almost as if she might cry. She nods and appears to be struggling to speak. ‘I … was sorry to hear about your mother.’

Kit interrupts, sensing the tension. ‘Julia brought you an orchid. It’s a new one from her grandfather’s hothouse, isn’t it, Julia?’ he encourages.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying hard not to cry. ‘I hope you like it.’

She nods. ‘I’m sure I will. Tell your grandfather I said thank you.’

*

Alicia was waiting patiently in the queue for a sales catalogue.

‘Did you ever come into this house when you were a child?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Julia, ‘once.’

Alicia indicated the ceiling. ‘Rather tacky, those cherubim, aren’t they?’

‘I’ve always rather liked them,’ Julia answered.

‘Funny old house this,’ Alicia continued, taking the proffered catalogue and following the crowd through the hall, along the corridor and into a large, oak-panelled room where all the sales items were on display. She handed the catalogue to Julia. ‘Sad it’s being sold, really. It’s been the Crawford family seat for over three hundred years,’ she mused. ‘End of an era and all that. Shall we take a wander?’ Alicia took Julia’s elbow and steered her towards an elegant but cracked Grecian urn – from the telltale moss lines around the inside edge, obviously used as a planter for summer flowers. ‘What about this for Dad?’

Julia shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s up to you.’

Sensing Julia’s fading interest, and her own irritation, Alicia said: ‘Well, why don’t we separate, and that way we can cover what’s available faster? You start this side, I’ll start that, and we’ll meet in ten minutes by the door.’

Julia nodded, and watched as Alicia made her way over to the other side of the room. Unused to crowds recently, she felt uncomfortably claustrophobic. She made her way through towards the emptier end of the room. In a corner was a trestle table, with a woman standing behind it. Julia approached it, because she had nowhere else to go.