Babycakes (31 page)

“Today, ladies and gentlemen, we shall be visiting Easley House, the focal point of the village of Easley-on-Hill. Easley House is an outstanding example of an English Jacobethan manor house.” He chuckled mechanically in the manner of every bad tour guide on earth. “That’s right. You heard me correctly.
Jacobethan.
That’s a cross, don’t you see, between Jacobean and Elizabethan. The house was built between fifteen eighty-seven and sixteen thirty-five by the Ashendens of Easley-on-Hill, a Gloucestershire gentry family which had owned properly in the county since before the Conquest.”

Wilfred made a not-so-subtle yawning gesture.

Michael smiled at him. “It was your idea,” he whispered.

“She’s your friend,” said the kid.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” answered Michael, gazing out the window at a meadow full of sheep. “I’m not counting on anything.”

The bus slowed down as it entered Easley-on-Hill, a picture-perfect village built entirely of crumbling umber limestone. They bounced along a sunken lane for a minute or two, then crossed another sheep-dotted meadow until the manor house came into view.

Wilfred’s voice assumed a near-reverential softness. “Look at
that,
mate.”

“I’m looking.” Michael murmured. “Jesus.”

Easley House shone with the same burnished glow as the village, a looming conglomerate of gables and chimneys and tall mullioned windows winking in the sunshine. It was bigger than he had pictured, much bigger.

“She’s running drugs,” said Wilfred.

The guide pulled into a parking lot the called it a car park) several hundred yards from the house. Michael and Wilfred shuffled out with the other passengers, reassembling in a passive clump like raw recruits awaiting orders. The guide, in fact, made a passable drill sergeant, with his blustery delivery and time-worn anecdotes and his disconcerting Roquefort cheese smile.

“We shall proceed from this point on foot. Easley House is the private residence of Lord Edward Roughton, son of Clarence Pirwin, fourteenth earl of Alma, so I trust we shall all remember that and conduct ourselves accordingly at all times.”

Wilfred made a farting noise.

“Now,” continued the guide, oblivious of Wilfred’s punctuation, “the first building you will notice on our left is the tennis pavilion, a thatched structure erected in the nineteen twenties. The building across the road there is the tithe barn of the village, built in the late fourteenth century by the abbots of Easley to store the produce tithed to them by their parishioners. The slit windows in the gables were put there to admit fresh air and … what else?” He looked around, flashing more Roquefort cheese, and waited for an answer; none came. “No guesses? Well … that’s a private entrance for the owls. They needed them, don’t you see, to control the vermin.”

Four or five of the other passengers made sounds of recognition. “See, Walter,” piped one of the Americans, tugging on her husband’s arm, “see the little slits for the owls?” Her spouse nodded dully. “I see it, Phyllis. I have eves. I see the slits.”

Michael and Wilfred brought up the rear as the group was led through an ornate gatehouse built of the ubiquitous golden limestone. A small church lay to their left, encrusted with moss and whittled away at the edges by five hundred Gloucestershire winters. Its tombstones bore an uncanny resemblance to the guide’s teeth.

“Now,” he was saying, “we are passing the brewhouse, which was last used before the Great War when a brewing woman would come each autumn on a bicycle to brew the year’s barley crop. We shall enter the house through the archway just ahead, passing first through the old kitchen …”

“In other words,” whispered Wilfred, “the servants’ entrance.”

“Just behave yourself,” said Michael.

A rusted lawn roller was parked by the door. Next to it lay a hinged, V-shaped sign, apparently still in seasonal storage. Its flaking letters said:
EASLEY HOUSE—OPEN FOR TEA
. Michael visualized the arthritic old butler who would drag it down to the public road when summer began.

“You will note,” intoned the guide, as they entered the house and filed through a narrow passage, “these unusual-looking steel bars along the walls. This corridor was used as a larder some years back, and joints of meat were hung along these bars.”

“See?” said Phyllis.

“I see,” muttered Walter.

They were led into an empty paneled space which the guide identified as the dining room. The label seemed honorary at best; it obviously hadn’t been used for years. Then came the butler’s pantry and the lamp room, “where paraffin lamps were cleaned prior to the electrification of the house in nineteen thirteen.”

“This next room is the audit room,” the guide continued. “Lord Roughton is justifiably proud of the fact that he has not sold off the cottages of the estate. He has made every effort to preserve the visual charm of the entire village. His lordship collects the quarterly rents in person, using a special rent table—that’s it in the center there—and that table was made especially for Easley House in seventeen eighty. His lordship informs us that this practice not only saves postage but facilitates complaints about leaking roofs and the like.”

By the time they reached the great hall, Michael had been lulled into lethargy by the steady drone of the guide. He was hardly prepared for the dimensions he encountered, the heavenward leap of the high mullioned windows facing the chapel, the echo of their footsteps on the rough plank floor.

He was certainly not prepared for Mona.

Watching from a balcony.

Standing there, cool and blond, looking down on them.

Catching his eye.

Frowning.

Disappearing.

He touched the small of Wilfred’s back. “I saw her.”

“Where?”

“Up there.” He led the kid with his eyes, “That little balcony at the end of the room.”

With uncanny timing, the guide directed their attention to the same spot. “Above us, ladies and gentlemen, is all that’s left of the original minstrels’ gallery—the place where musicians would gather to perform for the gentry gathered in the great hall. The gallery was converted to a bedroom in the late eighteen forties, at which time the oak posts supporting the gallery were sheathed with the present stucco Doric columns.”

“Are you sure?” whispered Wilfred.

“Uh-huh ”

“What now, then?”

“Nothing. We can’t. Not yet.”

The kid glanced impishly around the room.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” murmured Michael, “but
don’t. ”

“Over there,” the guide rattled on, “next to the bay window, you will see a very rare Chippendale exercising chair. Bouncing on that rather odd contraption was believed to be beneficial to one’s health.” He grinned stupidly at the one named Walter. “How about you, sir? Would you care to try it?”

“No, thanks,” was the sullen reply.

“Oh, Walter, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” His wife gave him a little shove.

“Phyllis …”

The guide coaxed his victim with a big hammy hand. “C’mon, sir. There’s a good sport. Let’s have a hand for the gentleman, shall we, everybody?”

Even Michael became engrossed in the man’s humiliation, joining in the applause as the hapless Waller sat down in the suspended chair and began to bounce. The laughter that followed was all the diversion Wilfred had needed. When Michael turned around again, the kid was gone.

His absence wasn’t noticed as the group was led up a short flight of stairs into the drawing room. Nor was he missed as they explored the library and the sitting room. “The sitting room,” the guide explained, “is sometimes known as the
boudoir.
Does anyone know what
boudoir
means in French?”

No one did.

“Well,
boudoir
is the French word for ‘to sulk,’ so this room was the place where the ladies of Easley House came to sulk about the wretched behavior of their husbands.” He chuckled manfully. “I expect many of you ladies know a thing or two about that, eh?”

A chorus of giggles. Michael glanced anxiously down the corridor, but Wilfred was nowhere to be seen. He was ready to murder the kid.

The group was herded into an open space behind the house, where the guide pointed out the stables, a formal topiary garden, and a pyramidal folly capping the hill above the estate. “Please feel free to wander a bit,” he told them, “but do not go back into the house. We shall reassemble in the car park in thirty minutes. I trust you will all be prompt. Thank you very much.”

Michael loitered in the topiary garden, keeping a close eye on the house. He began devising emergency plans to minimize the embarrassment in the event that Wilfred never showed up. The least troublesome scheme was set into motion in the parking lot, live minutes before departure time.

“I won’t need a ride back to Moreton-in-Marsh,” he told the guide. “I’ll be staying in Easley-on-Hill tonight.”

“What about your chum?”

Shit. He had noticed.
“Oh … he walked into the village about twenty minutes ago. He wasn’t feeling well … thought he’d catch a nap at the inn.”

“I see. Then you’ll be riding with us as far as the village?”

“Well … it’s just across the meadow. I’m sure I’d enjoy the …”

“Just the same, sir …”

“Right. Great. That would be fine. Sure. Thanks.”

So he look the bus back to the village.

“There,” he said, pointing at the first believable-looking inn. “That’s the one. That’s where we’re staying. Just let me out at the corner.”

The driver grunted and brought the bus to a stop.

Michael could feel their eyes on him as he climbed down from the bus and marched purposefully into the pub adjoining the inn. Once inside, he embraced the absurdity of his plight and bellied up to the bar for a cider.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling much better, he left the pub and looked both ways down the road. The bus had gone. The only vehicle in sight was a green Toyota parked next to the inn. It was late afternoon now, and a cider-colored haze had settled on the distant meadows. A row of plane trees cast long purple shadows at the edge of the village. He felt quiet and peaceful and alone for the first time all day.

He set off toward the manor house, whistling with the Michael Jackson song wafting from the pub.
She says I am the one, but the kid is not my son …

The lane lost its mossy walls and climbed into the meadow. He stopped for a moment and said idiotic things to a sheep, enjoying himself thoroughly. His view of the house was obscured by a clump of oaks, so he pressed on until the woods had given way to meadow again.

The windows of Easley were ablaze with the sunset, and the ancient limestone blushed magnificently. He had always loved that color, that pinkish orange which seemed to change with every shift of the light. Once upon a time, he and Jon had painted a bedroom that shade.

There was clearly no way to sneak up on the house. His approach could be observed from dozens of windows, not to mention the crenellated parapet which ran the length of the building. He would confront the place as any legitimate guest would, striding confidently.

You bet. And tell them what?
Pardon me. I seem to have misplaced a small, gay aborigine.

Them? Who was in charge there? There had been some signs of life in the house—current magazines, postcards in mirrors—but much of the place had seemed uninhabited. Was Lord Roughton alone except for Mona? Did he even live there?

And what if—just what if—that wasn’t Mona?

He decided to declare his legitimacy by presenting himself at the front door. He realized the absurdity of that when he tried to lift the knocker, a rusted iron ring almost the size of a horse collar. The door had been nailed shut; no one had used it for years.

He retraced his steps and passed under the archway linking the manor house to the brewhouse. He approached the kitchen door and rapped on it. In a matter of seconds, he heard someone stirring inside.

The woman with the Princess Di haircut opened the door and glowered at him.

“You’re an asshole,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

Ethelmertz

W
HEN MARY ANN RETURNED FROM HER AEROBICS
class at St. Peter & Paul’s, she found Simon stretched out in the sunshine of the courtyard. “Well,” she said, “I see you’ve discovered Barbary Beach.”

“Oh … hello.” He raised himself on his elbows, squinting into the sun. “Is that what it’s called?”

She nodded. “Michael named it that.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t get too much now. You look a little pink already.” He pressed the flesh on his forearm. “Well … it’s proof, at least.”