death and the babe with her. But I already knew the very moment of her passing: it was as if all my mother’s arts flew to mee on the moment of her quitting this earth and my eyes were opened to a terrible pre-knowledge of destiny that moved like dark shadows around mee, step for step.
From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580
Slightly shaken, I restarted the engine and crawled up the lane between grassy banks and sad, autumnal brown hedges, feeling that this first encounter did not bode well. I only hoped he wasn’t tying knots anywhere close by…
And then it occurred to me that since he looked a bit son-of-the-soil, he could even be one of my inherited three gardeners, though maybe not. Greeting his future employer like that was hardly the way to achieving lasting job security.
A wide, gated and padlocked opening on the left declared itself to be Winter’s End visitors’ car park, well and truly shut for the winter. Opposite was a matched pair of sandstone lodges linked by an arched chamber set with a weathered shield, carved with a crest that looked exactly like a whippet with a black pudding in its mouth. An immaculate half-moon of turf in front of each had been bordered with box hedging torturously clipped to form the words ‘WINTER’S’ on one side, and ‘END’ on the other—a strangely municipal and time-consuming labour of love that contrasted strangely with the once-splendid iron gates. For goodness’ sake! Had they never heard of wire wool and Cure-rust?
The gates were open, but, in their present state, looked more like the jaws of a trap than a welcome. I turned cautiously between them onto a drive that ran through a dark tunnel of trees, slowing to wait for my eyes to adjust after the bright autumnal sunshine.
This was a lucky move, as it turned out, because a large grey horse was advancing to meet me—if you can call it an advance when it was going backwards rather fast. I stamped on the brakes for the second time in five minutes, and the creature briefly slammed its fat rump into the front of my van before whirling round, snorting down two red, foam-flecked nostrils, its eyes wildly rolling. The rider, almost unseated, was clinging on like a monkey.
Two thoughts about the matter crossed my punch-drunk mind from opposite directions and collided in the middle. One was that the woman seemed to have no control over her mount whatsoever; and the second (rather regretfully), was that I would never look so good in riding clothes: too big, too curvy, too bouncy.
Imagine Helen of Troy in tight cream breeches and a velvet hat.
She spared me a fleeting glance from curiously light brown eyes and called, ‘Sorry about that!’ very casually, considering there was probably a horse’s-bottom-shaped dent in the front of the VW. Then, with some inelegant flapping of the reins, she urged her mount off down the road at a clattering trot.
‘Idiotic creatures, horses,’ said a voice in my ear, and I jumped again. ‘Saw me dressed in white and ran off—though it’s a holy colour, I always wear it to go to church and I’m off to do the flowers later. But she was a Christopher before she married, and none of them ride well. I suppose she thought Jack was here—though you never know, because she’s never been what you might call fussy where men are concerned.’
I might have tried to explore this interesting statement further had I not had other things on my mind, for I would have known my great-aunt Hebe instantly anywhere: tall, bony, aquiline of nose like a slightly fuzzy Edith Sitwell, with her shock of fine hair, now white rather than red-gold, partially secured into a high knot with a chiffon scrunchie.
If I hadn’t recognised her I would probably have been running after the horse, due to the polar-bear-crossed-with-Miss-Havisham style of her apparel. A floating, ivory-coloured, crystal-and sequin-dotted chiffon dress, layered for warmth with a yellowing fake-fur coat and fluffy scarves, and worn over white wellington boots of the sort only usually seen in hospitals and clinics, made for a striking ensemble.
There was a lump in my throat. ‘Hello, Aunt Hebe,’ I said, slightly unsteadily.
She regarded me severely, then leaned in through the still-open window and kissed me, though the silver pentacle and golden cross that hung around her neck on separate chains swung forward and bashed me on the nose first. Evidently Aunt Hebe still liked to hedge her bets, a family tradition.
‘You’re late! We expected you over an hour ago, so I thought I would walk down and see if there was any sign of you. I’d better get in.’ She opened the passenger door and, clambering up with some difficulty, arranged her skirts. The familiar scent of crushed rose petals came in with her, and I felt eight again…
‘Off you go,’ she said briskly, and I realised I’d been staring at her, waiting for some sign that my return held real meaning for her. Maybe I hadn’t quite expected bunting, banners and a fatted calf, but a little more than a peck on the cheek and a ticking off—but then, there had never been much in the way of maternal softness about Aunt Hebe.
Obediently I moved off again up the dark driveway—and then nearly went off the road as something beat a sudden tattoo on the roof. It was definitely one surprise too many in a very eventful day.
‘Nuts,’ said Aunt Hebe, unfazed.
‘Right…’ I said uncertainly, my heart still racing away at twice the normal speed. ‘There certainly are!’
She gave me a sharp, sideways look and I managed to get a grip on myself. ‘I didn’t know I was expected any particular time, Aunt Hebe. In fact, I nearly stopped to get something for lunch in the village. I’ve been thinking about Pimblett’s hot pies all the way down here—didn’t Mum sometimes buy me one on the way home from school?’
‘I dare say, but lunch is being prepared for you up at the manor,’ she said reprovingly, ‘and I believe it is hotpot pies. Everyone is waiting to meet you first, though.’
‘Everyone?’ I echoed, then added, perhaps too eagerly, ‘Is Jack here already?’
She gave me another sidelong glance. ‘Jack sent his apologies, but business matters prevent him from welcoming you home until the weekend. He’s probably putting it off, for he’ll find it difficult, seeing someone else in his place—but there, what’s done is done, and the obvious solution is in his own hands.’
I supposed she knew all about his offer to buy Winter’s End and there was no question about where Aunt Hebe’s loyalties lay.
‘You’ve turned out not too badly, considering,’ she added, turning her beaky head to study me.
‘Thanks.’
‘Though you appear to have no dress sense. Jeans are so unflattering on women of a certain age.’
‘I don’t know, they hold me in where I need holding in, like a twenty-first-century corset. Exactly who did you say was waiting to meet me?’
‘Everyone,’ she repeated as we came out of the darkness under the trees. ‘Everyone that matters, anyway.’
And there was the house sitting in a puddle of autumn sunshine, the light dully glittering off the mullioned windows, a shabbily organic hotchpotch of black and white Tudor and local red sandstone, with the finger of an ancient tower poking triumphantly upwards above the rest.
It looked as if it had grown there, like some exotic fungus—but a ripe fungus on the point of decaying back into the earth it had sprung from. Before the porch a distant double row of miscellaneous figures waited, like the guard of
