triangles of glass which they clasped. This then had been the glass she had seen from her bedroom window; this the glass which had caught the rising sun. She crept closer, staring in. Where had he got the flowers? She could see the wild remains of an old vine, clinging to the glass; giant nettles, fat hen, avens. A few poppies splashed the only colour through the green; the staging was littered with broken clay pots and rotten splintered seed trays.
At the back door of the house he proffered the basket of blooms. ‘The last of the chrysanths, tell her ladyship.’
‘Her ladyship wants to see you.’ In a flurry of white aprons and uncomfortable self-importance the cook beckoned him in.
He nodded, stamping mud from his boots, pulling his cap from his head. For special occasions she often asked him in, planned the flowers with him, consulted his expertise. She loved flowers, did her ladyship. With a smile he stepped onto the shining oak boards and made his way towards the morning room.
Amanda glanced through the door and then stepped inside the greenhouse. With a frightened squawk a bird flew up from the floor and beat for a moment against the glass before finding a gap and soaring out into the sunlight. She ran a finger over a work bench. The soil was dust under her hand. A rusty tobacco tin rattled as though it were full of nails. Another was full of empty, desiccated seeds. Keeping a wary eye out for the old man she wandered further in, savouring the warmth, the smell of dry earth, the buzz of a bee trapped beneath the glass. Outside the sun moved higher in the sky. The shadows shortened. The dew evaporated. The day grew hotter.
A strange sweet smell assailed her nostrils. Unpleasant. She sniffed with sudden distaste. It was the smell of decay. Near her hand, as she picked idly over the rubbish on the bench she found a packet of cigarettes, half empty, the cigarettes inside as dry as the dust. She frowned. They must have lain there abandoned for years. Her fingers hovered over them, hesitated and moved away. Inexplicably she felt a shiver tiptoe across her shoulders.
‘I’m afraid there can be no hothouse flowers this year, Bates.’ She was sitting with her back to the desk, her pen poised, the ink already dry on the nib, turning to him for only a second in her busy day. ‘We shall not be firing the boilers.’
‘Your ladyship?’ He could think of nothing to say.
‘That will be all, Bates.’
‘But the orchids, your ladyship. The frost –’
‘I’m sorry, Bates. There will be no more orchids.’ None of his business why; hide her fear and sorrow and rage from the servants at all cost. She could see it all in his face: first the bewilderment; then the realisation; then the sick disbelief. ‘That will be all Bates.’ She could say nothing else. Beneath the high frill of her silk blouse and the long strings of creamy pearls she too felt sick. In the drawer of the desk only a few inches from her hand the pile of gambling debts burned like a fire. Reginald was in the garden now. Sulking. She could see him if she moved her head slightly. ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ That was all he had said. ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’
She closed her eyes and took a deep slow breath.
‘You may go now, Bates,’ she said.
Suddenly she could smell tobacco. Amanda looked round, afraid, expecting to see him there, but she was still alone. The greenhouse grew warmer. She put her hand up to the neck of her blouse uncomfortably and turned back towards the door. A fork and spade were leaning against one another, dug into the earth. Around their handles a trail of bindweed had woven them together.
‘She told you then.’ Cook felt a twinge of pity for the white-faced old man. He stared at her blankly. ‘She let two of the maids go this morning,’ she went on as if it would be a comfort.
He shook his head blindly. ‘The orchids. They’ll die.’
She shrugged. ‘They’re only flowers.’
He had pale blue eyes, irises as clear as the sky. Unfocused now, they swam with tears. Shocked, she stepped back.
The frosts are coming. I can smell ’em.’ The old man’s voice cracked.
She shook her head. ‘It’s the horses. Mr Williams heard them quarrelling last night. He owes thousands. This wouldn’t have happened if his old lordship were still alive.’ She shook her head and turned away. No point in telling him the rest, poor old man. It wasn’t just the orchids which were going. Half the servants; her ladyship’s jewellery; the silver; maybe even the house itself.
Leaving the greenhouse Amanda followed an overgrown track round towards the old kitchen garden. The walls which sheltered the neat beds had nurtured a tropical jungle there. She wandered over the paths and finding a bush of raspberries long grown wild picked some, sucking their sweet juice from her fingers as she remembered she had had no breakfast.
‘No!’ The shout behind her was full of pain.
She spun round, staring wildly towards the bushes. The birds had stopped singing. She could no longer hear the tennis balls. Nervously she retraced her steps towards the gnarled pine tree which towered over the glasshouse and dodged behind it, looking round. There was no sound of footsteps, no further cry. Her heart was hammering under her ribs and suddenly she was not enjoying herself any more.
She glanced over her shoulder. From here she could not see the chain-link fence at all. All round her the overgrown shrubs and tall grasses pressed in in a thick wall. She took a deep breath. Backing away from the tree she glanced to her right. A pane of glass in the greenhouse had caught the sun, blinding her. Beyond it lay the stretch of grass which had once been a lawn and beyond that the fence and home.
To her left a shrubbery – leggy, thin-leafed rhododendrons, holly, smoke trees – scrambled over one another towards the light, above them a huge acacia.
Cautiously she made her way back towards the greenhouse. Behind her she could hear a pigeon. The soft coo swelled into the silence and then died again as she saw the old man hobbling towards her. She stood transfixed with embarrassment. There was nowhere to go; nowhere to hide in time. She bit her lip and stood waiting, expecting a tirade of abuse for her trespass.
He walked straight past her. His eyes, the clear pale blue of forget-me-nots, did not move to left or right. With them steadfastly fixed on the greenhouse he hobbled within two feet of her and on down the path. Behind him the air was cold.
There would be a frost that night. The evening was clear. The smoky bonfire spread the scent of burning leaves throughout the garden; the plume of blue rose straight up into the still air as he raked them higher and higher onto the pile. He glanced over his shoulder towards the glasshouse seeing the blooms basking in the warmth through the sparkling panes: creamy petals, tinged with pink – velvet, pampered, exquisite blooms fit for the show tent. There was no breath of wind. A huge moon hung like a wraith in the blue sky, lifting over the trees. By dusk it would be at the zenith and the first ice crystals would start to crisp the grass.
He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, raking harder. Behind the windows of the house mother and son were once more at war. Their voices filled every room now. He had taken her pearls, her diamonds, the silver flatware and sold it for a song. More than that. He had taken her pride.
Below stairs the Williamses waited,
