'Millions?' I echo disbelievingly. Have those crafty EU people changed our currency into lire overnight?
'He stands to make a huge amount of money from it; it's his biggest deal yet. Very risky though.' Monty takes a sip of wine.
'I've had to ask Daniel to close the gates every night,' says Will. 'The press have started corning up to the house to snoop about. They actually quoted Mrs Delaney in the last article!'
'Last time I ever speak to the press,' Mrs Delaney says grimly. I involuntarily wince. I feel quite sorry for them. 'I only told them that I didn't know when Simon would be home.'
'Izzy, when he arrives next week, just don't ask!' says Aunt Flo, obviously bored. 'Tell me more about the ball! Do we get to go? I hear they're having a circus theme!'
We laugh a lot during the evening. Even Mrs Delaney at times, has the corners of her mouth turned up. The wine flows and a cheese board is produced. Will and Monty are on marvellous form.
That night I deliberately leave the curtains open as there are no streetlights to disturb my slumber, climb into my enormous bed and pull the covers right up under my chin. I watch the huge oak trees swaying gently in the distance and listen to the blissful sound of owls hooting. I feel happy again after a very miserable month. I snuggle down and close my eyes, peaceful in the knowledge that I won't be waking up to the grime and dirt of the city but to the greenery of this English Eden. And Simon won't be coming home to spoil it for me just yet either.
C h a p t e r 8
A
t six o'clock the next morning I am woken by the sound of Monty up and about and clearly wanting everyone else to be up and about with him. I'd forgotten his habit of doing this. You might wonder how one man could wake a whole household, especially in a house as large as this one. Well, it's quite simple. For Making Everyone Miserable fans everywhere, here is an easy guide: first of all, slam all doors, regardless of whether you are going through them or not; then turn on every radio and TV in the house and sing along to anything on them in a loud voice. Even rap if necessary, though not always in tune or in time. If you really want to get up people's noses, take your portable radio outside and teach the dogs some new tricks on the strip of grass underneath everyone else's windows.
After about twenty minutes I decide I can stand it no longer and stagger bleary-eyed out of bed. I normally sleep in just a T-shirt – much as I would like to be a beautiful negligee sort of woman I find that by the morning the straps are always wrapped around various limbs and threatening to cut off my circulation. I grab the first thing to hand to cover my nether regions, which happens to be the grey pencil skirt I was wearing yesterday, and wander downstairs in search of some soothing tea.
'Morning Isabel!' greets an immaculate Will, who clearly has been up for hours. I manage to close my mouth mid-yawn and open my eyes a little wider. I hadn't expected to see anyone else up.
'Morning,' I mumble, embarrassed by my apparently eclectic taste in nightwear. My T-shirt bears the slogan Party planners do it all night long' – Gerald had them made for our last Christmas party – which isn't really the impression I want to make with Will.
'I was just making some coffee, would you like some?' He walks off kitchen-wards and I stumble after him. I am immediately pounced upon by dozens of dogs, which nearly brings me down but I manage to grab the kitchen table, pull out a chair and fall into it.
'Why are you up so early?' I ask him.
'We're a bit under-staffed on the estate. Simon's always moaning about the wages so I'm having to put in some extra hours. Do you fancy a tour this evening?'
'Love to!' I exclaim enthusiastically. He turns his back on me while he fills the cafetière and I take this opportunity to rake my fingers through my hair and wipe away the mascara I know will be lodged under my eyes.
He plonks the cafetière on the table along with two mugs. I frown to myself as I notice the flagrant disregard of coasters. Will Mrs Delaney lynch us both or just him?
'Did Dad wake you up?' he asks as he gets the milk from the fridge.
'Nooo, I was already awake.'
'He did, didn't he?'
'Yes.' I can still hear Monty singing tunelessly outside. I pour the coffee. 'Monty says you've been away travelling?'
'Yes, I went after I finished at Cirencester.'
'Cirencester?'
'Agricultural College. I did always want to be a farmer. I'm good with my hands, you see.' He smiles a teasing little smile and raises his eyebrows suggestively.
God, it's six-thirty in the morning and I haven't even looked in a mirror or cleaned my teeth. Is this how they do it in the country? I look at my coffee mug and fiddle with the handle instead.
'Did you go to university, Izzy?' Will asks.
'Em, yes. I went to Nottingham but I didn't go travelling afterwards. I'd already had my fill of it by then, I think.'
'You and Sophie were moved around a lot, weren't you? Listen, I've got to go and feed the deer. Why don't you throw something more suitable on and come with me and then we can carry on chatting? Much as I like your T-shirt, you night need something a bit warmer. We'll easily be back for eight.'
I hesitate for a second and then nod.
I return to the kitchen ten minutes later dressed in combats, deck shoes and a sweatshirt. Will finds me a pair of wellies from the cloakroom, claims a pair of keys from the dresser and out we go into the fresh morning air. As we soak hay and measure cereal, we fill each other in on what we've been up to since we lost touch. I never got on as well with Will as a child but he always was a joker and a charmer. Always the one to come up with frankly dangerous ideas and carry them out. I had no idea he could be such good company too.
Good to his promise, Will drops me back at the house at five past eight and tells me he'll see me at dinner. I walk into the kitchen via the back door, reeking to high heaven.
A shrill voice hails me: 'Hello! You smell a bit.' Not your traditional sort of greeting but probably fair enough in the circumstances.
A small red-haired boy dressed in a cub's uniform is sat at the table, calmly drinking a glass of milk and eating Shreddies. We're not talking autumnal russet red hair here but bright fluorescent orange.
'Hello!' I reply, 'who are you?'
'I'm Harry.'
I was hoping for a little more detail than that but I'll take what I can get. 'I'm Isabel.'
'The party planner,' he finishes confidently. He's obviously been well briefed. 'You've cut yourself.' I look down at my hand, wrapped in Will's white handkerchief (what a gentleman, no torn-off bits of kitchen roll for him). I had cut it while trying to show off my athletic jumping skills by vaulting a fence. It was only a small cut but it simply wouldn't stop bleeding.
'Yes, I cut it on some barbed wire.'
'Do you want me to swab it for you? I have all my badges in first aid.'
'Er, no, really, it's—'
'Dress it?'
'No, it's em—'
'Lance it?'
'God, no!'
'Splint it?'
'No, really it's—'
'Suck it?'
'Suck it?' I repeat.
'Essential for snake bites.'
'Do you deal with a lot of snake bites at Pantiles's cub brigade?' I ask, thinking this might be the time to find out about any snake population the estate might harbour.
'Ever since Geoffrey Stoats sat on an adder on a day trip to Warwick Castle it's been included.'
'Poor Geoffrey.'
'Yes, his bottom really swelled up. Almost to the size of … of …' Harry looks wildly around the room until his eyes seize upon an appropriate object'… well, almost to the size of yours.' He looks at me earnestly, eyes like saucers, confident of his point being well illustrated.
'Really. I'm surprised he didn't die then,' I remark dryly.
'So am I,' says Harry, supping his milk, oblivious of any social gaffes on his part. Goodness, with this fine line in chit-chat I'm surprised there isn't a queue of Brownies outside just waiting to be swept off their feet by this silver-tongued charmer. Mrs Delaney comes into the room.
'I hope Harry hasn't been bothering you,' she says pertly, mouth pursed. She starts to gather brushes and buckets from underneath the kitchen sink.
'No, no. Not at all. He's, er … ?'
'My son. Yes.' Now it's all becoming clear. Harry has obviously inherited his mother's wonderful manner. Let's hope his father has got slightly more going for him than the red hair. Now I come to think of it, I haven't seen any evidence of a father since my arrival. I don't get the chance to ask any more questions, however, as Mrs Delaney makes it abundantly clear that the shutters are down and no one is available for business. She fills a bucket with hot water while Harry finishes his milk. 'School holidays, is it, Harry?' I ask.
He nods happily. 'It's bob-a-job month, starting from next week. I want to beat Godfrey Farlington. He got more than fifty quid last year. Will you give me some jobs to do?'
'Of course, I'm sure I can find something.'
'You're to keep out of Miss Serranti's way, Harry' interjects his mother, who in the meantime has started to scrub the kitchen floor.
'No, it's fine, really. He won't be in my way and please call me Isabel.'
'Isabel then,' she gravely acquiesces.
'So do you both live here at the house?' I ask idly.
'Mum and I have rooms over in the east wing. But we're not usually there, we always eat here with Monty, Flo and Will. And—'
'That's enough, Harry.' Damn, just as it's getting interesting. So, his father isn't around. Unfortunately, I've run out of questions I can legitimately ask. 'I'm just going to get changed,' I say to no one in particular and make to walk to the back stairs. Mrs Delaney gives me a long hard look as I try not to step on the bits of the floor she's already cleaned. I walk on tiptoes and make little jumps which don't actually help at all but at least show I'm trying. 'Oops, sorry … ooh … er … sorry,' I gasp, until it occurs to me about halfway across to ask if I should have used the stairs on the other side of the kitchen.
'You're halfway across now, aren't you,' Mrs Delaney says sarcastically, as I stop and gaze at her uncertainly.
I have to concede the point but I don't like the way she mutters bitterly, 'And in your wellies,' under her breath.
'Yes. Absolutely. Sorry.' I make a dash for the back stairwell, sit on the bottom step and struggle to remove my footwear which seems to have become welded to my feet. I'm tempted to ask if Harry has a badge in removing wellies but they come off suddenly and I escape thankfully. In the safety of my room. I shower quickly and scramble into something a little more work-oriented: a black skirt and red top. I throw on some make-up, which is harder than you think with an injured finger, gather some files together and whizz back to the kitchen.
Downstairs, Aunt Flo and Monty have joined Harry and Mrs Delaney at the breakfast table. Monty has his morning broadsheet held up in front of him. He has obviously flipped straight to the obituaries because he suddenly exclaims, 'Good God, Flo! Josephine Bradshaw is dead!'
'Jo Bradshaw? Dead? Are you sure?'
'I do hope so. They've buried her.'
'Morning!' Aunt Flo greets me. Monty lowers his newspaper. 'Izzy! Good morning to you! Did you sleep well, dear? I hope you were warm enough? Do you need an extra dog?'
I reply that I was positively toasty.
'Well, Jasper here makes a wonderful hot water bottle.'
'I'll bear him in mind.'
'So what are you doing today, Izzy? Working on plans for the ball?'
There's a snort from over by the sink. We all glance over. Mrs Delaney has her back to us and is innocently washing dishes.
I look back. 'Well, Monty and I are meeting with the representatives from the charity today,' I reply.
'How too, too thrilling!' Flo beams. Another small snort from Mrs Delaney. It really is most distracting.
'Izzy, toast or cereal?' proffers Monty. I glance over towards the sink again. Any nose issues with that? I help myself to cereal.
At nine o'clock sharp two representatives from the charity arrive for our meeting. Monty and I are waiting for them in the drawing room, which is beautifully elegant and decorated in the palest primrose yellow and a delicate shade of eggshell blue. As with most of the rooms, a huge fireplace dominates one wall. The room is so large that there are several groups of sofas and tables. At one end massive French doors open out on to the lawns. We were never really allowed in here as children as it is full of highly breakable china and dainty little tables which seem to balance precariously on one leg. Someone has thoughtfully placed a vase of roses from the garden on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.
We both stand up as the representatives from the charity are shown in by Mrs Delaney. I watch anxiously as she leaves the room in case she sees fit to throw in inappropriate comment, a snort or indeed a quick cat-like swipe at the back of their heads. Fortunately, she leaves without incident. The appropriate introductions are made between us – the ladies are called Rose and Mary – and we all sit down. I haven't had a great deal of time to prepare for this meeting but I have managed to scrape some menus together. I also haven't had the opportunity to come up with any ideas for the circus theme but that will be easier once I've found out what our clients actually want.
'You go ahead, Izzy' says Monty. 'You know what to ask.'
'I know this is short notice, Isabel,' gushes Rose before I can even open my mouth, 'but we were hoping that most of our ideas would still be possible.'
'I hope so too,' I say smoothly. Rose and Mary represent a large children's charity that I haven't worked with before and I know that if I can look after them well enough I might be able to pitch for a permanent account.
'Unfortunately our party planner came with the previous venue,' Rose continues. 'We're so thankful that Monty knew of you otherwise I don't know what we would have done. This estate has been a lifesaver all round.'
'So what happened to the last venue, if you don't mind me asking? Why did they cancel?'
'They had a small fire in their kitchens. No one was hurt, thankfully, but they needed to replace some damaged equipment and didn't think they would have everything ready in time for the ball. Considering the numbers involved, they thought it would be best for us to try to find somewhere else.'
'Monty tells me that you have five hundred people coming? Are they confirmed numbers?'
'We've sold just over five hundred tickets, mainly to companies,' says Mary. 'The numbers will probably go up to about five hundred and fifty by the time of the actual event.'
'Have you had any thoughts about food? I've put together some menus for you to have a look at.' I reach for my folder. We spend about twenty minutes going over the menus, including a lively debate instigated by Monty about vegetarians and nut allergists.
'Shall we discuss the circus theme?' I ask eventually. 'Because that might affect some of our other choices.'
'Well, the marquee company we've hired are going to provide a big top!' says Rose excitedly. 'And we did have some jugglers and other entertainers arranged through the other venue; I'll get the names and numbers to you.'
'Thanks. Do you want the marquee arranged in a certain way? Perhaps a sawdust ring in the centre for the performers with the tables arranged around it?'
'That would be marvellous!' breathes Mary. Oh well done, Izzy. Not content with all the work you're already got to do you have to chuck in sawdust rings and the like. You'll be offering yourself up as a performing seal next.
'And you could have a toastmaster dressed like a circus ringmaster, in a top hat and red tails?' Keep digging, Izzy.
'And those shiny black boots?' says Rose with an excited squeak. Monty throws her a worried look.
I'm on a rather unfortunate roll of ideas. 'And how about some usherettes? They could wander through the crowd giving out popcorn and ice cream after the meal. Perhaps even a candy floss machine?'
'I haven't had candy floss for years!'
'I'll need that list of entertainers as soon as possible. You might want to add to it a little: a magician wandering from table to table or maybe a caricaturist? Do you know what age group the guests will be?'
'I'll ask the person in charge of selling the tickets.' Rose makes a note on her pad.
'Do. Now, how about aperitifs?'
'We would like something fun!'
'Absolutely! There are lots of things we could do! How about miniature champagne bottles with straws? Or a cocktail bar? I'll suggest some ideas in the brief.'
'Thank you! It all sounds simply splendid!'
We go on to discuss table decorations, seating plans, crockery and cutlery, drink arrangements, cloakrooms, portable loos and a hundred other things that are essential for such an enormous bash. I certainly have my work cut out and wonder fleetingly whether Dom and I will be able to cope. After we have scheduled another meeting for the following week, Monty sees the excited ladies out. Despite my worries about resources, I simply can't resist the challenge of making every event the best it can possibly be. I finish writing up my notes and wander over to the French doors. A 'big top' marquee, large enough for five hundred people, will be on these very lawns in just over three weeks. The last event of this size took me over a year to plan and I still get a birthday card from the client's mother. I bite my lip worriedly.
'It sounds an awful lot of work, Izzy! Will you manage?' Monty interrupts my worrying.
'Well, I'll have Dominic with me. He's my runner,' I explain.
Monty notes my dismayed expression and leans over and pats my knee. 'Don't worry, Izzy, we'll all pitch in and help! I know we're asking a bit much of you. I would get you some more help but the problem is we kind of need the money the charity are paying us for use of our grounds.'
'Do you?' I ask, slightly alarmed.
'Simon keeps us a bit short on the old housekeeping and Mrs Delaney does need some new equipment for the kitchen – the fridge is practically falling apart! I was hoping Simon would let us use the money for things like that.' He looks terribly uncomfortable. 'You know, I would never tell a stranger something like that, but you've always been so close to this family Izzy. That's why I was so relieved
you
were coming to help us …' His words drift off and he looks distractedly down at his worn but well-polished brogues. I feel a flash of anger at Simon that he could let his dear father become so distressed.
'Don't worry,' I say firmly and my resolve hardens. 'We'll manage. Whatever happens.'
C h a p t e r 9
I
work in the library for the rest of the day, endeavouring to put some meat on the very considerable bones ot the ball. By the time six o'clock arrives, I remember with a rush of pleasure that Will wants to take me for a tour of the grounds and that Aunt Winnie is coming for supper. I shut down my laptop and run to change. In the hall, I pause to stare up at the wall above the fireplace for a minute. Something is really bothering me about it and I can't quite put my finger on it.
It feels strange working in the house that formed such a big part of my childhood; I keep spotting cupboards I used to hide in and rooms we used to play in. What's especially bizarre is that most of the rooms look exactly as they did more than fifteen years ago. My mind will be mulling over seating plans and entertainers and I'll suddenly happen upon a dent in the wall caused by Simon playing cricket aged ten. Or I'll spot a replacement pane of glass in one of the doors and recall how we were convinced that if we ran at the door hard enough we would be transported to a Narnia-esque world. Everything feels a little different and yet looks the same; it's quite disorienting.
Once upstairs, I pad down the hall and slosh about in a bath for a while, writing a mental list of things to do. Then I pull on some linen trousers, a little V-necked top and an embroidered cardigan, I quickly touch up my make-up, spray perfume madly around and make my way downstairs.
I try to peep timidly around the kitchen door to check whether Mrs Delaney is in residence but one of the dogs comes up behind me and barges into the kitchen, announcing our presence. Luckily Mrs D isn't there. She's probably upstairs pushing pins into a small replica doll of me. A delicious aroma fills the air, which I hope is tonight's supper and not destined for the dogs – they seem to eat better than we do.
Harry and Will are seated at the table playing what looks like a very violent game of Jenga. I am reliably informed by Harry that this is Speed Jenga; instead of gingerly testing every brick and gently teasing one out, you have a five-second window to locate your brick and whip it out. Chucking said brick over your shoulder also looks to be an intrinsic part of the game. The dogs are hiding anywhere they can; pressed up against cupboards, behind rows of wellie boots, piled up under the table.
'Ahh, there you are, Izzy!' says Will. 'Just need to finish beating young Harry here and then I'll be with you. You'll probably want some wellies, by the way.'
'No rush,' I say. I go through to the utility room, collect the pair I used when I went to feed the deer and pull them on while Will obviously lets Harry win. He gets up from the table, digs into his jeans pocket and hands over a coin to the delighted Harry.
'A pound towards your bob-a-job fund, as agreed, Harry. You drive a hard bargain.'
Harry beams happily at both of us.
'Ready for the off, Izz?'
We say goodnight to Harry and move towards the back door. 'Your father has invited my Aunt Winnie for supper so we need to get back for about eight,' I remind him.
'No problem,' says Will lightly.
'You didn't have the same driving instructor as Monty then?' We are bouncing sedately along a dirt track.
Will looks over at me and grins. 'No! He's scary, isn't he? Look, over there is the old sawmill. Pantiles used to handle its own wood.'
'What happens now?'
'The Forestry Commission comes and does it for us and we sell them the end product. About half the estate is woodland.'
'What about the other half?'
'We let most of that out to local farmers. The rest we farm ourselves.'
'So, do you enjoy managing Pantiles?'
'I would if it were actually mine to manage.'
'How do you mean?'
'Simon owns it all.'
'
All
of it?' This doesn't seem very fair.
'Yep, everything. The eldest son takes all.' There is a distinct note of bitterness in his voice that I can hardly blame him for. He looks over at me and shrugs. We come to the end of the dirt track, go through a wooden gateway and pop out on to a tarmac road. Will points the other way and says, 'We have about ten cottages up there. Unfortunately, some of the tenants are moving out tomorrow so I won't go any closer in case we get rotten tomatoes chucked at us or something. Simon evicted them last week.'
'Why?'
'Said they weren't paying enough rent. Those families have been living here quite happily for the last seven years, until now.'