Rumours (12 page)

She pulled away and looked up at him beseechingly. ‘Do you want to come in my mouth? Or my cunt?'

He pulled her to her feet and pressed his tongue into her mouth where it met hers. He grabbed at her skirt and delved his hands up her thighs, foraging through her knickers and into the slippery promise behind. And then he thought, she absolutely reeks of garlic. And then he thought, I don't have any condoms. And then he thought, oh God, I'm losing my hard-on.

‘In your mouth,' he whispered as they folded down onto the rug, clawed away the remaining clothing and settled head to toe, tonguing and sucking at each other until they were sated.

Don't stay the night. Not this time.

‘I'm exhausted,' Siobhan said. And she headed off to Xander's bedroom before he could suggest otherwise.

He looked around the sitting room. Strewn clothes. A severely rucked rug. A discarded glass on the floor with a crack now visible. A woman's shoes – one here, one there. His shirt, in a scrunch and flung onto the kitchen like a wiping-round rag. What had seemed such a good idea had left him with an odd taste in his mouth – akin to feeling nauseous but unable to pinpoint the offending food. Pulling his boxers back up from his ankles, he went to sit in his leather tub chair, taking the phone from his jeans pocket. Two texts. Both from Caroline.

So … you dark horse. Dish the dirt – who is she?

She'd sent another, about ten minutes ago.

Want to come to dinner Fri? With your lady friend?

How to reply? His closest friends – who'd always supported him, who wanted only the best for him and who'd been there for him when his relationship with Laura came to grief. Xander knew, quite categorically, that he didn't want them to be part of this – this
thing
– with Siobhan. And that in itself made this thing with Siobhan not quite right.

Stella arrived back at Longbridge Hall at two minutes before eleven o'clock and sat in her car listening to the radio for the pips on the hour. She imagined that, for people like the Fortescues, it was considered as impudent to turn up early as it was decreed discourteous to turn up late. She rang the bell and gave a lively knock at precisely eleven o'clock.

‘You're back?' Mrs Biggins said, as if Stella might not be of sound mind.

‘I'm expected,' said Stella, taking off her coat and giving it to Mrs Biggins.

‘One moment,' Mrs Biggins said and Stella thought she could detect a glint of approval.

When Lydia appeared, Stella felt grateful for Paul Smith and high heels because she both looked and felt taller and more imposing than she had the day before and it was obvious that Lady Lydia had noticed. The woman bristled slightly, tipped her chin upwards as if competing for height. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘As you asked – eleven o'clock prompt.' And then Stella saw a flicker of confusion scuttle across Lydia's face and settle as dull discomfort behind her eyes. She softened her tone. ‘To see the grounds?' Stella prompted in her more usual voice, ‘And art?'

Lydia gathered herself. ‘I'll take you.'

However, the art wasn't Beckinsford or any other painter remotely connected with Reynolds, nor was it portraits or landscapes or equine backsides. The Art Lydia took Stella to see was short for Arthur, a wizened old man little younger than Lady Lydia. He lived in an apartment in a wing of the stable courtyard which was some way from the main house and cordoned from view by the mighty wall of the kitchen garden. Made from the same rosy-hued bricks as the main house, the buildings ran three sides of a square, with a central archway crowned by a clock tower. The clock face itself was greening, the hands fixed at ten past three as if it had been dredged up from the pond where it had lain for some time and fish had feasted upon a great many of the numbers. The wing to the right had been converted into two dwellings. To the left, above what must have been the coach bays, appeared to be another apartment – Stella noted curtains at the windows but the glass was so dusty she was sure it was derelict.

Lydia rapped on the door. ‘He's as deaf as a post,' she said, with the same exasperation she extended to Mrs Biggins. ‘Art,' she said when he appeared, ‘please be a dear and take Miss Elmfield around.'

‘It's Miss Hutton,' said Stella.

‘He doesn't need to know, he won't be interested and he won't remember,' Lydia said bitingly whilst smiling benevolently to Art, whose eyes shone like small beads of jet. He disappeared back into his home. ‘And you do
not
mention why you are here.'

Stella was taken aback.

‘You can be an historian, or a writer – something like that. But
not
an estate agent. Make it up.' And she walked away, banging down her stick every stride as if expecting to find part of her land hollow.

‘Hullo!' Stella said loudly. ‘Lovely day!'

‘It is,' said Art in a soft voice which suggested she really needn't raise hers. ‘Where would you like to see first?'

‘Everywhere,' said Stella.

‘Where in Everywhere?' Art asked measuredly. ‘Longbridge sits in over five hundred acres.'

‘Seriously!' Stella had assumed the grounds extended to a posh garden and perhaps a paddock or two.

‘Four hundred arable, the rest pasture – used to be for cattle, just for ponies now – also woodland and the grounds around the house. Formal gardens, pool, kitchen garden, orchard, tennis. Which way to Everywhere do you want to go?'

She liked him instantly. She really liked him; the pared-down way he spoke, his shapeless clothing, old boots, unflattering cap and dark little eyes set into a craggy, haphazardly shaven face. She reckoned Art was either spoken at, or ignored, these days. And perhaps in those days too, if the current Lady's manner was in any way a family trait.

Silently, Stella cursed Paul Smith and her high heels, not least because Art's stride was surprisingly assertive and fast. He described the lay of the land, took her on a whistle-stop tour of the livery yard, which was modern and spruce, and an area of old barns the least dilapidated of which were now rented out as workshops. She felt herself being peered at – two young geeky-looking guys in one barn, from another a cabinetmaker whose face was the colour of mahogany. The third had an array of tree stumps outside – whether this was a tree surgeon or a sculptor Stella was unsure. All these people will have to find new premises, she thought to herself. And she thought how odd it would be to rent somewhere purpose built, modern, after being treated to barns like these. And Art would need to find somewhere to live too. And he's been here decades. But she said nothing and just enthused, instead, about all he showed her.

The formal gardens, which ran in a curvaceous swoop around the house, were shielded from the drive by magnificent rhododendrons. They were set out as manicured swathes of lawn plotted and pieced by rolling herbaceous borders and grand specimen trees. There was a pond, which was really too large to be called such but a lake would sound too ostentatious, also a swimming pool which could have been bigger and, Stella noted, cleaner. Garden seats, small stone obelisks and spheres and statuary were positioned here and there, providing either focal points or surprises. All the while, the house itself appeared pompously to survey all that lay around it. The kitchen garden, however, was its own private world, shielded from the house by a long stone building whose purpose Art explained to Stella.

‘Boiler was here,' he said. ‘They should never've tinkered with the heating of the house now. It worked fine when it was the old way – the boiler and the boys. Now Lady's got a cold house only with them electronical heaters what don't work and cost a king's ransom to run.' He took her inside the long barrack-like building, now empty of its original purpose, housing instead garden tools and a proliferation of terracotta pots, most of which appeared to be too chipped to be of any use. ‘Boiler'd take up all that section there,' he indicated. ‘Boys'd be here, around the clock, keeping it going. Bunks were over there. Hollow walls, see, taking the heat to the house. Couldn't let the boiler go out. Ever.'

‘Boys?'

‘Couldn't let it go out, the boiler, that'd never do. Most important job, really, of all the workers. Invisible though. And hot. So hot. Noisy like you wouldn't believe.'

‘Were you a boy? A boiler boy?' She didn't know why she'd asked, what relevance it had – but Art spoke with such wistful authority she wanted to know.

‘I was. My family's been Longbridge people all through. Only me now. My boy gone off to Manchester. Insurance. His choice, makes sense. Sad, though.' They stood in the building a while longer, Art remembering, Stella imagining. ‘Show you the kitchen garden now.'

Pale shingle paths ran energetically amongst the raised beds busy with new growth; the walls festooned with canes and lattices. Everything in tidy, neat little rows, labelled with miniature signposts. Every now and then, a floral profusion purely aesthetic. Art went through the long, seasonal list of everything ever grown at Longbridge. These days, the selection was slimmer, increasing only during the summer months and then primarily to assist the coffers of the village fete. Beyond the kitchen garden, accessed through a door set into the far wall, another garden. And, Stella was stunned to discover, another house.

‘They call it Garden House,' said Art. ‘It's a dower house – where the widow takes up if she's outlived the Lord. Lady Lydia's ma was here, for many years.'

‘Who's in it now?'

‘Rented properly now – I mean, now there's no family member wanting it. Folk come and stay a year or so while they're looking for somewhere to buy. Had Japanese in here last year – very quiet. Never saw them. Current lot are all right. Churchgoers, so that's something. Keep themselves private – that's the key. That's what Lady Lydia requires, see.'

‘Is it big? Inside?'

‘Three bed. I been in once or twice, when the old Countess was near her time. Went to say goodbye.'

He looked misty eyed.

‘Was she lovely?' Stella ventured. ‘Lady Lydia's mother?'

Art smiled and turned to Stella. ‘They're sharp, the Barbary ladyfolk. But good at heart. It's a quality, really. Called feminitism these days, I believe.'

Stella gave him a sage nod. Then a structure caught her eye.

‘What's that?'

‘Apple store.'

It was a windowless building too large, too grand to be a shed, constructed almost entirely from very slim, dense thatch. ‘I've never seen anything like this.'

‘Don't reckon to there being many left, these days,' said Art, opening the door and allowing the light in so that Stella could see the slatted wooden shelving, running floor to ceiling all the way around.

‘It's beautiful!' said Stella. It really was. And so peaceful. Not dusty or spooky as another windowless building might be, but a soft and serene interior instead.

‘It was an ammunitions store in the War,' Art told her. ‘Smelled bad – funny like – for many years after.'

‘Were the army stationed here at Longbridge?'

‘Yes – in the west fields. Poor buggers. Begged for eggs. For anything, really.'

‘Was the house billeted?'

‘Yes – hotchpotch of families lived alongside the Fortescues. From all over. Lady Lydia's mother and grandmother – they were mortified at first. But everyone rubbed along just fine. What you'd liken to a commune these days – all these women and a scamper of little 'uns. The feminitists.'

‘Were you here? In the War?'

‘Yes, me and my ma – same house. Always the same for us. I was old enough to join up – I'd'a liked to but I'm half blind.' And Art turned to Stella and though he stared at her intently, she found it impossible to tell which was his good eye. He laughed to himself. ‘Seen enough?'

‘Not really!' she enthused. It was fascinating, more intriguing than the main house, all of this.

He looked alarmed. ‘Nothing else to show you – you seen Everywhere now.'

‘I meant, I could stay for hours. There's so much to see, so much that's special.'

‘Have a walk yourself – won't get lost. Impossible. Just line up the clock tower with your right shoulder and walk forwards – you'll be back at the door in the kitchen garden wall. Have your back to the tower, walk diagonally – you'll be back at the lily pond before long. If you get stuck, find the clock tower and you'll find me.'

‘Thank you so much.' Stella extended her hand to shake but Art looked as embarrassed as if she'd tried to give him a tip. He turned and walked off. ‘Art,' she called after him, ‘Art?' On purpose, she didn't say it loudly, just her regular speaking voice. He turned, cocked his head. ‘Why does she say you're deaf when you're not?'

‘She doesn't know I'm not.'

‘She doesn't know?'

‘I find it – helpful – for her to think me so.' And he winked, thereby alerting Stella to which eye was his good one.

‘Does she know you're half blind?'

‘No. Mustn't know – she'd'a never let me drive the Roller, let alone the fancy ride-on mowers.' He shrugged, tipped his cap and went on his way.

Stella returned to the apple store once Art was gone from sight and stood in the dimly lit interior, thinking about apples and gunpowder and how, for such a long time, Longbridge Hall had been a fully functioning, self-sufficient vibrant world-in-little; somehow sheltered by, yet also providing for, a small village in Hertfordshire.

* * *

Xander was halfway through a second lap around what he termed the Killer Loop which circumnavigated Long Dansbury and skirted Little Dunwick in seven and a half arduous hilly miles. He didn't usually take much notice of specifics when he was running, especially not if he was going against the clock; instead he'd tick off a mental checklist of landmarks. Today, though, from the hill high above Longbridge Hall, a glint coming off a mirror-like slab caught his eye. It was the sunroof of a Mini, parked in the driveway. Deludedly, for a moment he thought it might be Verity – but the last car she'd had was a clapped-out, orange VW Beetle whose bodywork had no shine left and as far as he knew, she'd had no cause to change it since. As he ran on, he glanced again at the vehicle and, as he dropped downhill a little, the company's branding emblazoned along the side came into view.