The Dream House (39 page)
Authors: Rachel Hore
The entry for 23 July, when Gerald was laid to rest in the churchyard of St Mary’s, Seddington, beside his beloved wife Evangeline, revealed Agnes to be at the lowest point Kate had known.
And so I am alone, utterly alone. Raven has not even come to his father’s funeral. It was a truly sad occasion, the rector clearly bowed down by the loss of a good friend. So many people were not there who should have been. Only Mr Armstrong travelled down from London on the last of his petrol ration, Father’s other business contacts have only sent their condolences. Lister was there, naturally, and Mrs Duncan, all that are left of our small household now Ruby has gone to nurse. And, amongst local people, Diana and her mother, of course, and our neighbours at Fortescue Hall. Lady Fortescue looks so haggard and old what with the news of Paul being missing and their home being requisitioned for troops.
Kate turned the pages. Much of the rest of the diary was about ordinary routines, going through Gerald’s possessions, sorting out the farm estates, details of Agnes’s reading, of visits to Diana in a nearby parish where the curate who had won her was now vicar and she was bringing up four noisy children of her own, together with two evacuees. Gerald’s illness had precluded the accommodation of children from the city at Seddington House. Then came a surprising entry.
This morning, a letter from Vanessa. The first I have had from her, for she didn’t even write on Father’s death. It’s about Harry. She thought I would want to know. He has died in an air-raid. The whole building was destroyed and set ablaze. I can’t quite take it in
. The entry ended abruptly, though a few days later, she confided:
Harry’s death is the death of all hope. Although my head told me that it was all over, we would never be together, underneath, my heart must have been singing a different song. But now it is, all, truly over
.
With the deaths of her father and her estranged lover following in such quick succession, Agnes was plunged into a deep depression. She wrote in her diary only rarely, and in stilted sentences that described how some days she used to walk endlessly around the lanes and fields, as if by physical effort she could fight off the demons, whilst on others she wrapped herself up in a quilt in her favourite attic and stared at the ceiling or slept. She had few companions in these months. Diana came when she was able to make the rare trip to Halesworth. Gerald’s loyal business friend, Mr Armstrong, was an occasional visitor – an invaluable help with the complexities of Seddington business, which Gerald’s lawyer was still winding up. On one of her walks she described walking through Wenhaston, a village some five miles away, and meeting their old housemaid, Ethel, with two of her children.
She said she and Alf had moved there when Alf’s mother had become ill in the summer of 1928. They had lived in Alf’s childhood home until the mother died and the house had become theirs. Alf, thankfully slightly too old to be called up, was gardener at a local hospital now, where the lawns had been carved up to grow vegetables. The children, a girl and a boy of about ten and eight, have Alf’s unruly brown hair and Ethel’s fine hazel eyes. The boy told me they have a sister at home, of nearly fourteen. I said we needed a maid at Seddington House so if the girl wanted a job when she left school, there was a place open. But Ethel seemed offended at that idea, which surprised me. Perhaps she has better ambitions for her children. Maybe there will be more opportunities for ordinary families in this strange upside-down world when the war is over.
By the beginning of 1945, Agnes seemed to be recovering from her mental turmoil. As the tide of war strengthened in the Allies’ favour she began to plan her life. She was resolved to stay at Seddington House and her mind was once again on her collections. It would be a while before the devastated art market recovered, and so much had been lost to air raids, confiscation and looting, but she wanted to get involved.
In the meantime the mystery of the suitor Marion had mentioned, became plain. After his long and faithful friendship with both Agnes and her father, William Armstrong proposed marriage.
Of course, I had to say no. He is a good man and has been alone for so long, since his wife died. But I just can’t think of him in that way; he doesn’t inspire any passion in me at all. Not after Harry. Harry has spoiled everything. And I’m so used to my own company now. It would be exciting to have a lover, yes, but I feel too crotchety and selfish now to be a wife. Diana thinks it’s a matter of meeting the right person. She says she’s surprised William hasn’t said something before and that there are many kinds of marriage – somebody quiet and steady might be just what I need. She knows about Harry, but she doesn’t know the full story. She doesn’t know why Selcott left so suddenly. Everyone has been waiting for William to say something to me for years, I know, but I thought they were wrong. He was never slushy and romantic with me, his manners have always been perfect, so I just thought his visits were in friendship to my father. Poor William. I have begged him still to come to see me, that we must be friends, but I don’t know whether he will. It’s all a waste.
Kate reached the last page and closed the diary. So Agnes’s suitor had been a dry old widower. And after that? Who knew. Perhaps Agnes had found patches of passion and happiness. She had certainly found success in her chosen life’s work. But her heart had been shattered by Harry and by whatever had happened to part them. And there had been a child, a child born so secretly that even Diana didn’t appear to know about it.
Kate picked up Agnes’s letter once more. The answers to questions lay in the diaries, Agnes said, yet those Kate had found hadn’t revealed the core of the secret. There had to be another volume somewhere.
But where?
Kate was tired now. She wondered whether she would dream again tonight, dream of the house and the events she’d just read about. She remembered the first time she had dreamed of Seddington House. She had imagined it was something to do with the locket before she saw the picture of the house in her mother’s album. What tricks our minds can play. Anyway, the locket had disappeared. She was sure she had put it in a box in the shed but several searches there had proved fruitless.
She went to her jewel box and riffled through the costume jewellery for the umpteenth time – the pearl necklace was hidden from burglars in a drawer under the bed. Yet again she looked behind the chest of drawers, checked the floorboards for holes but found no clue. She was still puzzling about it when she heard a car draw up outside.
She got up and opened the front door, waiting in her socks on the threshold, her hand on Bobby’s collar, as Simon paid off the taxi driver and wheeled his suitcase down the path.
He dropped his heavy flight bag on the hall floor and kissed her. He tasted unfamiliar – of fast food and whisky – and this, coupled with his face, pale and excited with great shadows under the eyes – gave him the air of a stranger, a refugee.
He pulled off his jacket and tie and ripped open his top button, then rummaged in his flight bag.
‘Bubbly,’ he said, flourishing a bottle. ‘Let’s put it in the freezer for a bit.’ He clattered about in the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich. Kate sat at the table and watched him. Finally, he sat down opposite her and poured them each some champagne.
‘Congratulations,’ said Kate and took a sip. It was only cool.
‘Christ, I’ve worked my socks off for this promotion,’ said Simon, gulping down his drink as though it were lemonade, then pouring himself some more. ‘But it’s been worth it.’
There was something manic about his expression. Kate shivered.
‘I’m really pleased for you, darling,’ she said, and forced her face into a smile.
‘Are you? Are you really?’ He flung himself back in the chair and stared at her.
‘What do you mean? Of course I am. I know how hard you’ve worked and how much you’ve wanted this.’
Simon seemed mollifed. ‘It’s the first time I feel I’ve really succeeded at something. Something I’ve worked hard at. Even Dad would be pleased with me now.’
‘He would, darling,’ said Kate, allowing him his moment of glory. Simon was studying her. His eyes glittered navy, his hair was ruffled and greasy from travelling. It struck her that he must have had a lot to drink over the evening.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said harshly. ‘You’re thinking Dad’s opinion shouldn’t matter. That the old boy’s dead. But it does matter.’
‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘I still want my parents to be proud of me. It’s silly, isn’t it, once we get to our age. But I’m really proud of you, too.’ She reached her hand across the table and squeezed his fingers. He didn’t respond.
‘I expect you’re thinking I shouldn’t spend so much time at work though.’
‘You know I think that. But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you. Just that there
are
other things to succeed at in life as well. Things that are even more important. Surely you see that.’ Her eyes drifted across to the fridge and the picture of the dream family.
‘You and the kids,’ he mumbled, watching her. ‘Yes, I know that. But that’s different. That doesn’t give me the same feeling of achievement. The excitement of the office, conflict, getting the deals done, the politics – it feels like living on the edge, urgent, important.’
‘But we’re important, too,’ Kate said wearily.
‘Of course you are. It’s you and the kids I’m doing all this for.’
‘Simon, no it’s not. It’s for you. Don’t get me wrong, I know work is important – for me as well as for you. But not so it takes over your life in the way it’s taking over yours.’
‘It’s only taking over my life because of the travelling. There won’t be so many trips abroad for a while. And if I could cut out the travelling down here . . .’
‘Now we are just going to start going round in circles again.’
‘We’ve got to settle this one. And this house – how much d’you think it’s worth then?’
‘Simon, you must come and see Seddington House tomorrow. And then maybe you’ll see what I mean, why I want us to live there.’
‘Sure. If you like.’
Exhausted, they stared at one another like swimmers through murky water.
The next morning, Simon looked haggard. He was brisk with the children who, of course, wanted all his attention after his week’s absence, and it was a relief when they could drop them off at a birthday party at the swimming pool.
Then Kate took Simon to see Seddington House. This time, although Marie Summers had given her a key, Conrad was there to let them in. Simon wandered around the rooms, glancing critically at everything, as if he were a prospective buyer who had only deigned to come and look at the insistence of an over-assiduous estate agent.
‘It’s the most extraordinary clutter, isn’t it?’ he said, touching a huge, squat mahogany cabinet inlaid with lapis lazuli, which occupied a space under the windows in the dining room. ‘Who on earth would want it all? I can see that the pictures . . .’ he gestured at a set of delicate watercolours of Suffolk scenes glowing in a dark corner of the room ‘. . . might be of interest, but do people really want this sort of stuff?’ His gesture encompassed the great hulks of furniture, the miscellany of curios, the piles of books that crowded the room.
‘The auctioneers seem to think so,’ said Kate, annoyed at the way he was dismissing her precious inheritance. ‘We’ll know for certain soon.’ There had been a letter in the morning post. Raj had fixed up for Ursula Hollis and her team to arrive on Tuesday week to spend several days valuing the contents of Seddington House.
They went outside.
‘It’s a lovely pile, there’s no mistake,’ Simon said grudgingly, as they strolled around the rose-blown gardens. The lawns were mown but the flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds and many of the shrubs required cutting back. ‘It’s too big for us, though. And it needs a lot of work, Kate. Plus it doesn’t solve my travel problems, does it? We’d be better off selling it lock, stock and barrel, paying off the taxman and buying somewhere sumptuous in London on the proceeds.’ He stood silent for a moment, clearly doing calculations. Then he said, ‘I’ve no idea about the contents, but surely we’d walk away with pretty much three-quarters of a million on the house sale alone. Let’s say that, after tax, you clear five hundred thou and add it to the two hundred we have in the bank. Factor in the contents and we’d be paying cash for a big London house somewhere central.’
‘But that’s just it,’ said Kate stubbornly. ‘I don’t want to live somewhere central, or indeed anywhere in London. I want to live here, in Seddington House.’
‘Kate, think about it, please. We’re going to have to come to some agreement . . .’ Just then the phone in his pocket bleeped and he took it out. He looked at the display. ‘Sorry, gotta take this,’ he said, and walked off through the Italian garden, the mobile clamped to his ear.
Kate watched him go. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but occasionally he laughed, and she wondered what could be funny about high finance.
She walked over to the little door in the wall through which she had once broken into the new world of this magical house. She stood, trying to recapture the wonder of that evening, back in April, but her mind was too crowded with anxieties now. What if she and Simon could not agree on their future? Was there a compromise? To live much nearer London but out in the country – Hertfordshire or Hampshire. She supposed so . . . except she didn’t want to. She wanted to live here. Anyway, their relationship was too uneasy at the moment to make any firm plans about something as committed as another new life somewhere else.
The argument drifted on until after the weekend. Simon had taken a couple of days off, but he seemed at a loss when it came to finding things to do. He spent hours on the computer, annoying Joyce who couldn’t use the phone, kept taking Bobby off for long walks and didn’t seem at all interested in Kate’s suggestions of visits to Aldeburgh or Norwich.