a magician who could conjure up who he wanted, and make disappear who he didn’t want. She decided she wouldn’t write to him again.
She left her room and went to the abbey gardens; the hotel faced one of the old gatehouses. Bury St Edmunds was lively that Saturday; the market was on, the car parks were full, in the abbey gardens were people enjoying themselves in the manner Tessa found so repugnant. But now she was preoccupied.
The abbey, the burial place of St Edmund, had once been huge, the largest ecclesiastical building in Britain. Its size today would compare to a shopping complex, but there was virtually nothing left of it, eroded since the Reformation by weather, and also by townsfolk who used the place as a quarry; there were many houses in Bury built out of the abbey. Only a few portions of wall and excavated foundations remained. The lumps of stone, to Tessa, were baffling, a piece here, another bit at the far end of the gardens. A sign said ‘The Dormitory’ – did monks really sleep there? She couldn’t imagine it – where? There wasn’t anywhere. She stood in the nave by the high altar. Over her head should have been a vaulted roof but instead there was the Suffolk sky with hanging clouds moving slowly. It would have all vanished, thought Tessa, if someone hadn’t preserved it. It was time for her to start working.
From Bury St Edmunds she drove east and north, for St John’s was close to the Norfolk border. She had hitched up and down this road dozens of times but now the road was wider and faster, bypassing all the villages – the windmill at Stanton; Botesdale and Rickinghall Superior, so close to each other they were quite entangled; Walsham-le-Willows. She was watching the road signs. Harlesdon, with its wide, open street and Georgian houses. Ten miles to go. The road ran alongside the Waveney. Here she felt she must know every tree. Wortwell. It’s a job, I’m on a job. Piccadilly Corner. Wasn’t that where? … Six places, three sketches of each … Flixton, the old aerodrome, it’s been ploughed up. Well, the pub’s been tarted … Earsham … I waited for a lift there for three hours once. Then just before Bungay she turned off the main road with the lorries and holiday cars going to Lowestoft, into the lanes, into the area called the Saints, where there’s a local saying that once you get into them you can’t get out, and it seems true, for the roads meander irrationally and the signposts, if you can find them, are confusing. Left, St Margaret’s, right St Margaret’s. But Tessa was not lost. Here the countryside was open and the sky fell right down to the ground uninterrupted. The road swept round in a huge arc avoiding no apparent obstacle. This was the Saints. Left was St Margaret’s, St Michael’s, St James, St George, St Lawrence, the other St Margaret’s; and right was St John’s.
*
St John’s was barely a hamlet, four cottages and a farm close to the church. Once over the bridge there was no more of it, a truly uneventful place. But across the fields was a group of tall trees which the eye was drawn to as the trees in this area were usually solitary; and as the road turned again the Hall could be seen. Tessa saw it now and felt again the impact, for although the Hall was neither huge nor grand it was imposing.
Three of them in a car, cruising round Fulham on a hot day.
‘What shall we dooo?’
‘Come on, Don, you’re full of ideas.’
‘… We could go somewhere.’
‘Yeah, what a turn on.’
And then Don said, ‘I’ve got a super idea’ and Tessa and Dee-Dee fell about laughing. ‘No, honestly, a really good idea … I’ve got a sort of cousin …’
‘Wow.’
‘He lives in the countryside, in an amazing place … stop laughing … right, you don’t believe me, I’ll take you there.’
‘Don, Don, we believe you … mind that lorry! … Don, Don? Where are we going?’
‘Suffolk.’
Three of them in a car all the way to Suffolk, and Tessa and Dee-Dee sang ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ and kept saying ‘are we nearly there yet?’ but as they got further and further from London the joke wore off. They drove for hours beyond Baldock, Royston and Newmarket, for this was when Suffolk was the sleepiest place on earth and nobody ever went there.
They turned the last bend and there was the Hall across the fields. There were more hedges then but it still stood out boldly. The sun shone on its church windows.
Dee-Dee scrambled next to Tessa to get a better look. ‘Oh, oh, is this it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he live here by himself? Oh, Don, I’m not smart enough.’
‘He won’t mind.’
The drive was a mud track full of potholes. There was a collection of crumbling barns. The place seemed derelict. They drove into the courtyard, where weeds grew between brick paving under a huge chestnut tree. Three of them, in crumpled London clothes. Dee-Dee pulled her mini skirt straight, but Tessa just stared.
‘What do you think?’ said Don. There were weeds growing on the roof.
‘It’s wild,’ said Tessa; ‘it’s like a dream …’
Tessa, in her cream Morris Traveller, turned into the courtyard. It was neatly gravelled, but the chestnut tree was as massive as ever. Its branches skimmed the roof of restored barns. In front of the house was an area of lawn.
She glanced at her brief. The owners were a Mr and Mrs B. Hallivand. Tessa had always used the side door by the kitchen but she supposed a Mr and Mrs B. Hallivand might not. The main door was in the porch, very like a church porch, two-storied with a tiny room above. Gargoyles gaped. The knocker was twisted brass, heavy. No answer. She knocked again and the noise echoed through the house. She tried the side door, no answer. Shit. She studied the brief. ‘Copy of letter sent to Mr and Mrs’ etc. ‘Thank you for your co-operation in the production of The Historic Houses of Suffolk’ (in red letters). ‘This book will be a unique document examining the most beautiful and,’ etc.
‘Schedule of work. The artist, Ms Tessa Foolks’ (spelt wrongly) ‘will arrive at your home on Saturday 24th August at one-thirty promptly.’ Typical Pumpkin. It was now one-twenty-five. Tessa waited and smoked a French cigarette, which was something she did in times of extreme stress. St John’s was locked and silent.
Shit. Stupid rich bums, I should have phoned! She much preferred working at a house not privately owned; at least she could cold-shoulder inquisitors. ‘Yes, thank you, it is very good and I’ve got one more hour to finish it.’ You couldn’t say that to an owner. They always hovered about making sure you included their favourite meconopsis, or got the patina exactly right on the hautboy. She waited and smoked another cigarette.
Damn you, she said, partly to the house, partly to the Hallivands and also partly to her invading memories, but she was holding them back, concentrating hard; this house, the present, this job. Except at that moment there was no job.
She stared at the house. The stonework had been recently cleaned and was buff-gold, the chimney stacks were straight, there were flower beds alongside the walls. Marguerites, artemesia, not bad choices, well weeded, probably had a gardener. To the left was a brick wall surrounding the orchard. The old apple trees leaning and twisted, they were still there, a
