Something Only We Know (12 page)

Pale, stern faces from the past stared back at us coolly. It was hard to tell whether they laboured under a sense of oppression or not.

We trooped on past the butler’s pantry and the housekeeper’s study. The windows were ill-fitting and draughty, and there was nothing to cover the bare floorboards save a rag rug.

‘Must have been cold,’ said Hel, nodding at the tiny grate. Ned reached out and put his arm round her shoulder, and I thought I saw her flinch. He didn’t seem to notice,
though. After a moment she relaxed and let him draw her close. Perhaps it was just that the touch had been unexpected.

We visited the servants’ dining room and the gun room and the laundry, and then a guide pointed us up the stairs towards the posh part of the house. We quickly realised we were entering
another world. Under our feet, as we climbed the ornately carved stairs, was patterned carpet. At the windows hung thick curtains and the walls were richly papered. This was the territory of
comfort and indulgence, silk and satin, tassels and quilting. I could feel Owen seethe. When we came out into the main hall, he stood in the centre of the marble floor and scoffed at the ranks of
portraits and antique weaponry on display.

‘It’s pretty obscene, isn’t it? You have to admit. I mean, you could house a whole family just in this one room.’

The space was larger than his whole student flat had been. In the far corner, a guide in conversation with another visitor was pointing out something on the ceiling, and we all raised our heads
to look. What we saw was an impressive filigree of white plasterwork piped across a Wedgwood blue background, a border of fleurs-de-lys and a series of criss-cross panels drawing the eye in towards
the centre. There sat a rich and glowing fresco depicting (as far as I could tell) an old man dressed in a sheet and standing in a river. I sidled nearer to the guide so I could eavesdrop; found
out that the old guy was supposed to represent St Christopher bearing the infant Christ across the foaming waters, and that the Earl who’d commissioned the painting in the late 1700s had
ordered the saint’s face to resemble his own. Arrogance on an epic scale.

‘You can see it in their eyes,’ said Owen, glaring at a portrait of a man in a fur-trimmed cape. ‘There’s no self-doubt there, no spark of humility. These people think
they’re born to order the rest of us around.’

‘I suppose at least they commissioned some grand art. Without that wealth, we wouldn’t have architecture like this, would we?’

‘So?’

My gaze swept round the delicate panelling, the Chinese-lacquered furniture, the silk drapery. ‘It’s our cultural history. And it’s good that artists got the chance to practise
their skills and produce beautiful objects, and that those objects were then cared for and preserved so that we can all enjoy them today.’

‘Worth centuries of human suffering and exploitation, Jen?’

‘When you put it like that—’

Helen came gliding up behind us. ‘Owen, my love, why did you come today if you’re just going to be angry about everything?’

He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘It’s just, it’s hard for me to see a place like this without thinking of its political and social impact on the ordinary working man. I came
here because I wanted to learn more about the history of oppression, take the opportunity to gather some facts.’

‘So actually, despite the grumbling, you’re sort of enjoying yourself?’

‘Well, it’s been interesting.’

‘OK, then. “Thank you, Jen, for inviting me on this trip”.’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

‘Good.’ Helen pressed her lips together, then turned and skated her way across the shiny floor tiles to where the arrow signs pointed.

The next room we visited was lemon yellow. It was full of musical instruments – clavichords and fiddles and flutey things – and round the edges were positioned hard, upright chairs
that no one was allowed to sit on. This part of the house, the guide told us, had been severely damaged by subsidence in the 1970s and painstakingly restored. The onyx mantelpiece had cracked, and
new stone had to be sourced from abroad at terrific expense. Top craftsmen had worked round the clock to minimise the damage. The wallpaper above the dado was hand-blocked and cost thousands to
replicate. In fact, upkeep of a building on this scale was unimaginable, a constant nightmare for the owners who nevertheless struggled on, staunch in their duty to preserve the country’s
heritage for future generations. If, in the light of that, we felt we wanted to make a further contribution to maintenance on top of the entrance fee we’d already paid, there was a donations
box by the exit.

I dragged Owen out before he had a chance to respond.

Bersham Hall’s bedrooms, when we got to the upper storey, were plush but uncomfortable-looking, with their commodes, their stunted four-posters, a jug-and-basin set up for washing. One of
the beds had apparently belonged to an earl who’d never married but had kept his sweetheart waiting till she was too old to find anyone else. Which sounded plain mean, but recent evidence had
come to light suggesting he’d caught syphilis as a young army captain, and had felt compelled ever after to remain a bachelor. She’d died a spinster, while he’d expired abroad and
alone in a hotel. All that wealth, all that rank, and he’d had neither friend nor lover at his bedside when he passed.

The children’s nursery I liked much better. Near the front, within mane-stroking distance, there was a rocking horse with a stack of painted wooden blocks by its feet. Under the window was
a row of large, fancy dolls and an impressive toy fort. There were skittles and hoops, moth-eaten teddies, a pair of bladed ice skates. One of the earls had commissioned for his son a pedal-car
replica of his own Bentley, shiny green and leather-upholstered and complete with flying B hood ornament. Even Owen was drawn, I could tell. But the little lad didn’t have long to play here,
the guide explained, because boys were sent away to boarding school at seven. Girls didn’t merit a proper education, full stop. They were landed with a governess who’d deliver only the
basics, just enough to keep them occupied till they grew up and got themselves safely married.

The same guide told us the story of one countess who’d died trying over and over to produce a male heir, and another with mental health problems who they’d treated by locking her up
for six years till one day she broke open a window and jumped to her death. I wanted to whisper to Owen that actually life in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries must have been tough whatever
social class you were.

When the indoor tour was over we were released out into the gardens. It was a warm day and the grasshoppers were chirping.

‘That noise reminds me of the cicadas we get in New Zealand,’ said Chelle. ‘Except they’re a lot louder. Does anyone mind if I take my shoes off? I like to walk around in
bare feet when I can.’

Beer feet
, it came out as. Ned snorted.

‘Beer feet? Is that what you get when you’ve drunk too much? I think I’ve had beer feet myself some nights.’

I couldn’t resist a grin. The number of times I’d wanted to take the piss out of her pronunciation and never dared.

‘Right,’ announced Hel. ‘Time for the best bit; I wanted to save it till last. Over the other side of the gardens here they have this rare breeds enclosure, pigs and cows and
sheep and chickens, but also giant Belgian rabbits that you can pet. Big as cats, we’re talking. Bigger. Imagine that, Jen.’

‘Rabbits?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Ah. I see. And this is, in fact, the real reason we’ve come?’

‘No. Not just that. There’s the whole heritage thing, and the architecture and the landscape which we’ve been enjoying—’

‘Thirty miles we’ve driven, essentially so you can molest some bunnies? What are you like?’

‘Come on, everyone loves a rabbit.’

‘In New Zealand they’re actually a major pest—’ Chelle began.

I choked her off. ‘OK, sis. If that’s what your heart truly desires, we can give you half an hour to prod your outsize rodents. Show us where they are. Lead on.’

We made our way through close-clipped hedges and along neat paths, past mellow brick walls and espalier fruit trees. As we passed under one ornate metal arch, Owen paused and nipped off a rose
with his fingernails. I wondered if he was doing it for spite, a miniature act of rebellion, but then he stepped over to me and pushed the stalk behind my ear, gently.

‘That velvet-red so suits you,’ he said.

His way of saying sorry. I touched the edges of the petals with my fingertips.

‘Hey, yeah, good idea. Let’s all grab a flower,’ said Chelle. ‘Share out the wealth among the peasants. It’s not like there aren’t enough to go
round.’

I watched as she stepped in front of him, cocking her head in expectation that he’d do the same for her. But he didn’t seem to get what she meant and instead walked on past her, and
she was reduced to picking her own rose, thrusting it into her own short hair.

At last we came out into a cobbled, farm-style courtyard with a stone trough at its centre. A chalkboard sign told us that the rabbits were housed in a barn next to the present earl’s
vintage car collection, and you had to wait to be let in, a group at a time.

Helen at once hurried across and put her face to the barn window. ‘Oh, wow, look at them. You won’t believe it. These animals are
huge.
’

I came and peered in beside her. Under the orange strip lights the rabbits were monstrous, muscled and powerful. They looked like pulsating boulders scattered across the straw. I could see their
eyes glinting, the strong claws poking out from their massive feet. A young girl crouched next to one, touching its flank nervously. She didn’t much look as if she wanted to be there.

‘Good God, Hel. I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you think they’re safe?’

‘Of course they’re safe. They’re rabbits.’

‘That one looks a bit evil.’

She glanced at me as if I was mad.

‘You OK if I go and ogle those rich-man cars?’ said Owen from behind me.

‘Me too,’ said Chelle immediately, as I’d known she would.

I shrugged because I didn’t have a choice.

So my boyfriend and his hanger-on took themselves off to the building next door while Ned, Hel and I stood at the entrance to bunny world with a bunch of chattering Brownies. Then, when it was
our turn, we had to wash our hands in sterile gel and hear a lecture on health and safety, which was mainly about not sticking your fingers between their mighty incisors and also watching out for
their powerful hind legs.

At the last minute I bottled it.

‘Actually, you two go ahead. I’ll admire from out here,’ I told them.

I’m not sure Hel even heard me. All she was interested in was getting to her mutant coneys. She pushed forward, elbowing Brownies out of the way.

I was left on my own, leaning against a warm wall in the September sunshine. Over to my left was the vintage car collection; I knew if I wanted I could wander across and annoy Chelle some more.
But it was quite nice to be alone for a few minutes, imagining what it would be like to be the owner of an estate with twenty bedrooms and a lozenge-shaped carp pool. There’s something deeply
restful about being surrounded by beautiful objects. Halfway through the tour I’d noticed, for instance, that if the ceiling moulding included a lion, then that same motif was taken up again
in the design of the carpet; that a curve or flourish here matched a curve or flourish there. Every pattern had its echo, and the attention to detail was stunning. What must it be like to live
amongst such calm, classical forms every day? And I pictured myself transplanted here, sumptuous dinners served up in front of me and afternoon teas on the terrace, slinky evening gowns and
distinguished men in dinner jackets. There would be grand staircases to descend. Heads would turn. String quartets would strike up. As lady of the manor, you’d be above the stress and fret of
having to make your own way in the ordinary working world. No more run-ins with a sarky boss. No more office politics. All that weary business swept aside for a life of privilege, grace and order.
Then I remembered Owen and I thought,
How appalled would he be if he could read my mind right now?

The barn door swung open and Ned appeared. ‘You OK, Jen?’

I jerked out of my daydream. ‘Oh. Yeah. Fine.’

‘Not so struck on the rabbits?’

‘Not wildly. I take it Hel’s having a ball.’

‘See for yourself.’

We stood side by side to squint through the glass. Helen was on the far side of the room, kneeling among the hay bales next to a meaty black specimen and stroking it along the length of its
ears. There was a brown rabbit by her feet and another at her elbow. Her expression was one of rapture.

‘Has she even noticed you’ve left?’ I asked.

‘Nope. I am surplus to requirements.’

‘She does love her mammals. It’s such a shame Mum won’t let her have something. Even a hamster would do it.’

‘Why doesn’t she? Is it the hygiene aspect?’

‘That and the scope for bereavement. But yes, mainly it’s the mess. You know how wound up my mother gets if anyone undoes her housework. The idea of anyone trailing bags of sawdust
or poo-strewn cages through the house would probably bring on some kind of attack. You’re not allowed pets in your place, are you?’

‘No. Otherwise I would. I know how happy it would make her.’

‘I suppose you could always move. I mean, get a place together. You’ve been dating long enough. Then Hel could pack it to the gunnels with as many critters as she wanted.’

Ned sighed. ‘I have broached the subject – several times – but she always warns me off.’

‘She likes the current set-up too much.’

‘Yes, basically. It makes her feel secure. She has her room at yours, and she has me. There’s that space between she needs to preserve. Living
with me
, or any step beyond
that – we’re kind of stuck.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, well. I do know not to take it personally. It’s her way of coping.’

On the other side of the window, my sister bent to whisper into her rabbit’s ear.