Wickham Hall, Part 2 (3 page)

‘We employed a professional photographer from 1990, so I'm OK from then on; I can get the pictures from Sheila, she says she's got them all on CD. It's the first six years I'm struggling with.'

‘What about old Summer Festival programmes? There must have been a few on that shelf you cleared out this morning.' My lips twitched. ‘In amongst the stuff you decided we didn't need.'

Ben shot me a look with a hint of cheeky grin. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but they were all too new. What I really need to do is find some old copies of the
Wickham and Hoxley News
. That was the local newspaper that covered the festival every year until it was bought out by a bigger regional outfit. And when I phoned and asked them about their archives, they said they didn't have any.'

I nodded. ‘I remember. They used to cover all our school events, too. But you want actual pictures, don't you, and not press cuttings?'

Ben pushed back his chair and lifted his feet up onto the desk.

‘If I can track down the newspaper's photographer, he or she will probably have the original negatives.' He raked a hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘But how on earth am I supposed to find copies of an out-of-print newspaper from thirty years ago?

The skin at the back of my neck began to prickle. How indeed?

‘Here you are,' I said, putting a cup of coffee in front of him. I took a deep breath. ‘Now, I'll do you a deal: if you promise to let me get on with some work, in peace, for the next hour I'll see if I can find you some old copies of that newspaper.'

‘Really, Miss Swift?' said Ben, brightening up. ‘In that case, I'll leave you to it. I think I've earned my keep for today anyway.'

He picked up his coffee and left the office and I sat down to finish that pesky press release undisturbed. Oh yes, I knew exactly where to find issues of the
Wickham and Hoxley News
dating back to July 1984: our dining room.

I'd agreed to meet Esme after work for a drink at The Bluebell in Henley. She had news, she'd said, and needed to talk. And after bashing out press releases all afternoon, I was only too happy to accept her invitation. She was already at the bar when I arrived, taking delivery of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses.

We kissed our hellos and carried our drinks outside to the back garden. We found a table in the corner and Esme poured the wine while I slipped my shoes off and wriggled my toes.

‘Here you go; cheers,' said Esme, nudging a full glass towards me. She giggled. ‘Oh Holly, your face yesterday when Benedict Fortescue appeared from the fitting room.'

‘Don't, please,' I said with a shudder. ‘All those things I said . . .'

‘And then he turns out to be your new boss. You were right about him being fit, though. Lucky you.'

I raised my glass to Esme and drank. The wine was ice cold and tangy and hit the spot perfectly.

‘I'm not so sure “lucky” is the right word,' I replied, licking my lips.

As much as I admired Ben's energy and creativity, I hadn't been exaggerating when I'd said we had a lot of work to do for the festival and today we hadn't made much of a dent in it.

‘However, to his credit, he didn't bring up my indiscretions this morning. In fact, if anything, he was quite sweet about Mum.
And
today was the first time I'd greeted him with his trousers on. So that was a definite improvement.'

She raised one eyebrow over the rim of her glass. ‘Oh, I don't know.'

We both giggled.

‘I think you'll be good for each other,' said Esme thoughtfully. ‘Yin and Yang, opposites attract, and all that.'

‘No. Men are off the agenda,' I replied briskly. And even if they weren't, I didn't normally go for the rumpled look. ‘All men except my father.'

‘I meant as colleagues, actually,' she smirked, ‘but go on. Has your mum said something?'

I shook my head. ‘Not yet. But I can't shake the feeling that if I can only get to the bottom of the whole hoarding thing, then she'll feel comfortable telling me the rest of the story. So that's my priority at the moment. And she's really making an effort. I'm proud of her.'

Her eyes glittered. ‘I'm proud of
you
, Holster. The way you handle life's hurdles . . . you're an inspiration to me. I wish I had half your determination.'

I peered at her, wondering what she was talking about. Esme Wilde was one of the most ‘look out world, here I come' people I knew. She dipped her head and stared into her glass and I remembered with a jolt that we were here to talk about her news.

‘That is a lovely thing to say, Es,' I said, covering her hand with mine. ‘But enough about me. Come on?'

My best friend held my gaze for a heartbeat.

‘Mum definitely has the onset of rheumatoid arthritis; she went to see the doctor today, finally.'

I squeezed her hand. ‘I'm sorry, Es.'

She gave me a wan smile. ‘It could be ages before it really takes hold of her and who knows whether she'll get it as bad as Gran, but in the meantime, we have to think what it means for Joop. We're still sitting on a lot of summer stock,
which means money tied up. We need something for Mum to get her teeth into now that she can't sew and I need a fresh challenge too.'

‘You need an action plan. Luckily you have a friend who loves a good plan.' I grinned. ‘So what is it that you love?'

‘Fashion.' she said simply, lifting her curls off her neck and twisting them into a bun. ‘Vintage, retro, couture . . . I'd love to get into something a bit more edgy than the occasional wear we sell but it comes back to cash flow.'

I nodded slowly. ‘You need to expand what you offer at Joop without lots of upfront investment.'

‘Exactly. And preferably something that doesn't involve me turning up posh boys' trousers for the rest of my life.'

We exchanged knowing looks, remembering Ben standing in his boxers in Joop's fitting room.

I drained my glass and pushed it across the table.

‘I'll get my thinking cap on, I promise,' I said, reaching across to kiss her cheek. ‘But right now, I've got a date with 1984.'

The next morning I got to Wickham Hall a few minutes before nine. I paused outside our office, holding my breath to listen for sounds of Ben singing while he flung paint around the room. But all I heard was silence and when I pushed open our office door, neither Ben nor his easel were anywhere to be seen.

The room was stuffy so after I'd dropped my pile of newspapers on Ben's desk, I flung open the windows as far as they could go and looked across the grounds.

And there he was.

Beyond the tapestry of the box-edged parterres, at the very edge of the formal gardens, Ben stood at his easel painting, facing away from the hall, looking out towards the deer park.

Without a second glance at my diary, or my to-do list, or the undoubtedly full inbox of emails, I made us both a cup of tea and fled the dim and overheated hall for the beauty of the gardens.

I carried the mugs carefully through the gardens, inhaling the aromas of vanilla, musk, citrus and clove as I brushed past the plants that clung to every gate and archway.

This was definitely my priority, I told myself, spotting Ben at the top of the worn stone steps; he would want to know straightaway that I'd found six years' worth of July newspapers for him. Besides, I was curious to see what he was painting.

He was dressed in flip-flops, T-shirt and shorts, with a paint-smeared rag hanging from his pocket, and appeared to be standing perfectly still, brush in one hand and palette of paints in the other. I cleared my throat softly as I approached, not wanting to make him jump. ‘Good morning, boss. I've brought you some tea.'

Ben's eyes turned to mine but it was as if he didn't see me at first. Then he shook his head and smiled. ‘Blimey, what time is it?'

‘Nineish.' I handed him a mug and he smiled gratefully.

‘Thanks,' he said between slurps. ‘Ahh. Nectar. I was beginning to wither; I've been out here for hours.'

‘You're welcome.' I stole a sideways glance at the canvas he was working on. ‘May I look?'

Ben nodded and I stepped closer to the easel.

‘Oh my word, Ben.' I stared at the painting. ‘You're actually really good!'

He laughed and pretended to stagger backwards. ‘Finally, you appreciate my talents. Wonders will never cease, Holly Swift.'

The painting was ninety per cent sky: pink at the bottom, streaked with fiery orange lifting to a pale silvery blue near the top. Smudges of treetops framed the base of the picture, with a sparkling flume of spray rising beyond them and evaporating in the sky. The colours were so vivid that I could almost feel the heat of the sun on my face.

‘Consider me very impressed,' I laughed, ‘that sky is amazing.'

‘Do you know,' he said, sliding a paintbrush in amongst his curls, ‘I could paint the sky every day for the rest of my life and never produce the same picture. And the dawn sky, like this one, is my favourite.'

‘You were out here at dawn?' I said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You
are
full of surprises.'

‘Wickham Hall is full of beautiful places to paint.' His lips twitched at my implication. ‘I wanted to capture the top of the fountain today but it's not my favourite spot to paint.'

I suppressed a smile. Whatever Ben liked to tell himself about taking over at Wickham Hall, it clearly meant an awful lot to him.

‘Where is your favourite spot?' I asked, hiding my face behind my mug.

‘See that hill over there?'

He placed his hand on my shoulder and twisted me round so that I was facing to the west of the Wickham Hall parkland. In the far distance was a small hill almost at the boundary of the estate.

I nodded.

‘If you haven't sat on that hill and waited for the sun to makes its glorious appearance on a summer's day then you haven't lived.'

‘So, sunrises are your thing?' I said, conscious of the touch of his hand on my back.

He shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘Milky moonlight across a lake and a sky lit with a thousand stars is just as magical. I wouldn't want to miss either.'

‘That does sound magical.' I thought for a moment. ‘I'm not sure I've ever seen the dawn.'

‘Well, I'm sure that can be arranged.' He smiled, finished the last of his tea and handed me his mug.

‘Like the quad bikes?' I said. ‘Quad bikes at dawn, perhaps?'

‘Oh no,' he shook his head in mock horror, retrieving the brush from behind his ear, ‘dawn is about the stillness and silence and being at one with the world.'

And with those words of pure poetry, he reapplied himself to his painting. I wasn't quite ready to leave the sweet summer air and the view of the gardens yet so I took a seat on the top step in front of the easel. The heat of the day was already building and I lifted my hair from my neck. I liked having my hair in a bob; it was nice and easy to look after, but sometimes, like now, I wished that it was long enough to scoop up into a ponytail.

‘You're very distracting when you do that, you know,' Ben mumbled.

He had his brush in his mouth while he scraped at his canvas with a finger.

‘Sorry.' I got to my feet and picked up our mugs. ‘I'll go back to the office out of your way.'

‘No, no, stay for a moment and lift your hair up again.' He gestured for me to put the mugs down.

‘Why?' I laughed, doing as I was told. ‘I promise I've washed behind my ears.'

I raked my hands through my hair, scraping it so that it all fit into one hand. Ben took the brush from between his teeth and laid it on the edge of the easel.

‘Turn your head,' he murmured. He cupped my chin and gently twisted my face away from him. ‘The curve of your neck, the pale skin under your hair, and such tiny ears . . . Did anyone ever tell you that you have very unusual earlobes?'

The moment felt very intimate all of a sudden and I prayed my face didn't actually look as red as it felt.

‘Not that I can remember.' I swallowed.

‘It makes me want to paint you.' He smiled softly.

‘I'm flattered.' I laughed, releasing my hair. ‘Unless you entitled it
Girl with Weird Earlobes
.'

He stared at me with an expression I couldn't read so I looked down at my feet to break the moment.

He touched a finger to my nose. ‘I think you're starting to burn.'

‘You're right.' I covered my warm cheeks with my hands. ‘Which is my cue to get back to the grindstone. See you later.'

I began to walk back to the hall and then stopped and turned round only to find him watching me. My face inched up the colour chart from rosy to crimson.

‘By the way, I forgot to say. I managed to get hold of the old newspapers you wanted,' I called.

‘Already?' he exclaimed. He dropped his brush instantly and came running after me. ‘Swift by name, and all that. Come on, then, let's see if we can track down this photographer between us.'

‘Can't you do that by yourself?' I tutted, thinking of my to-do list.

‘Yes,' said Ben, nudging me with his elbow. ‘But where's the fun in that?'

I grinned at him, shaking my head in despair. ‘True.'

Ben dived straight into the pile of back issues of the
Wickham and Hoxley News
that I'd brought in and within seconds there were sheets of newspaper spread out over his desk.

‘I can't believe it, you've even got the Festival issue from 1984, the first year Mum and Dad were here,' he said, flicking through them. ‘How did you find them?'

I shrugged, as though having copies of thirty-year-old newspapers was the most normal thing in the world. ‘They were just lying around at home.'

‘They're yours?' Ben frowned.