The Orchid House (3 page)

Wharton Park was not large enough to be termed a stately home. It did not have the perfect architecture to compliment it either, having had a couple of odd additions from later generations of Crawfords, which had compromised its purity. But for that very reason, neither did it have the daunting starkness associated with other great houses of the period.

‘This is where we used to turn left,’ indicated Julia, remembering the track she had taken around the lake to reach her grandparents’ cottage on the edge of the estate.

‘After we’ve been to the sale, would you like to go to their old cottage and take a look at it?’ asked Alicia.

Julia shrugged. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

Yellow-coated stewards were marshalling the cars into parking spaces.

‘Word must have got round,’ commented Alicia as she swung the car into the space indicated and brought it to a halt. She turned to her sister and put her hand on her knee. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.

Julia felt dazed, suffused with so many memories. As she stepped out of the car and walked towards the house, even the smells were familiar: wet grass, freshly cut, and the faintest hint of a scent that she now knew to be jasmine in the borders that lined the front lawn. They followed the crowd of people slowly up the steps and inside the main entrance of the house.

2

I am eleven again. I’m standing in an enormous room that I know is really an entrance hall, but looks to me like a cathedral. The ceiling is high above me and as I study it I see it is painted with clouds and fat little angels with no clothes on. This fascinates me and I’m staring so hard at them I don’t notice that there’s someone standing on the stairs watching me.

‘Can I help you, young lady?’

I’m so startled that I nearly drop the precious pot that’s in my hands, and is the reason I’m here in the first place. My grandfather has sent me especially to deliver it to Lady Crawford. I’m not happy because I’m scared of her. When I’ve seen her from afar, she looks old and thin and cross. But Grandfather Bill has insisted.

‘She’s very sad, Julia. The orchid might cheer her up. Now run along, there’s a good girl.’

The person on the stairs is definitely not Lady Crawford. It’s a young man, maybe four or five years older than I am, with lots of curly, chestnut hair worn, I think, far too long for a boy. He’s very tall, but painfully thin; his arms look like sticks, hanging out of his rolled-up shirt sleeves.

‘Yes, I’m looking for Lady Crawford. I brought this for her from the hothouses,’ I manage to stammer.

He saunters down the rest of the steps and comes to stand opposite me, his hands outstretched.

‘I’ll take it to her, if you’d like.’

‘My grandfather said I was to give it straight to her,’ I answer nervously.

‘Unfortunately, she’s having a rest just now. She’s not terribly well, you know.’

‘I didn’t know,’ I reply. I want to ask who he is, but I don’t dare. He must be reading my mind, for he says:

‘Lady Crawford is my relation, so I think you can trust me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, here.’ I proffer the orchid, secretly relieved I don’t have to deliver it myself. ‘Can you tell Lady Crawford that my grandfather says this is a new …’ I struggle to remember the word, ‘… hybrid, and just flowered?’

‘Yes, I will.’

I stand there, not quite sure what to do next. So does he.

Finally he says, ‘So, what’s your name?’

‘Julia Forrester. I’m Mr Stafford’s granddaughter.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Of course you are. Well, I’m Christopher Crawford. Kit, to my friends.’

He extends the hand that isn’t holding the plant and I shake it.

‘Good to meet you, Julia. I hear that you play the piano rather well.’

I blush. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say.

‘No need to be modest,’ he chides me. ‘I heard Cook and your grandmother talking about you this morning. Follow me.’

He’s still holding my hand from shaking it, and suddenly he pulls me with it, across the hall, and through a series of vast rooms filled with the kind of formal furniture that makes the house feel as if it is a life-sized doll’s house. I can’t help wondering where they sit and watch television in the evenings. Finally, we enter a room that is bathed in golden light, coming through the three floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the terrace leading on to the gardens. There are large sofas arranged around a huge marble fireplace, and in the far corner, in front of one of the windows, is a grand piano. Kit Crawford leads me to it, pulls out the stool and pushes me down.

‘Come on then. Let’s hear you play something.’

He pulls up the lid and a shower of dust motes fly into the air, sparkling in the afternoon sun.

‘Are … are you sure I’m allowed?’ I ask.

‘Aunt Crawford sleeps at the other end of the house. She’s not likely to hear. Come on!’ He looks at me expectantly.

Tentatively, I place my hand above the keys. They are unlike any my fingers have ever touched. I don’t know it then, but they are finished in the finest ivory and I’m playing at a 150-year-old Bechstein piano. I strike a note lightly and yet the echo of it resonates through the strings, amplifying the sound.

He’s standing waiting by me, arms crossed. I realise I have no choice. I begin to play ‘Clair de Lune’, a piece I’ve only recently learnt. It’s my current favourite and I’ve spent hours practising it. As the notes appear under my fingers, I forget about Kit. I’m carried away by the beautiful sound this wonderful instrument makes. I go, as I always do, to another place far, far away from here. The sun shines across my fingers, it warms my face with its glow. I play perhaps better than I ever have, and am surprised when my fingers touch the last keys and the piece is ended.

I hear the sound of clapping somewhere in the background and I bring myself back to this enormous room and to Kit, who is standing with a look of awe on his face.

‘Wow!’ he says. ‘That was brilliant!’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re so young. Your fingers are so small, how can they move across the keys so quickly?’

‘I don’t know, they just … do.’

‘You know, Aunt Crawford’s husband, Harry, Lord Crawford, was apparently an accomplished pianist?’

‘Oh no, I … I didn’t.’

‘Well he was. This was his piano. He died when I was a baby so I never heard him play. Can you play something else?’

This time he looks genuinely enthusiastic.

‘I … I really think I should be going.’

‘Just one more, please?’

‘All right,’ I say.

And I begin to play ‘Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini’. Once again, I am lost in the music and I’m halfway through when I suddenly hear a voice, shouting.

‘STOP!! Stop that now!’

I do as I’m asked and look across to the entrance of the drawing room. A tall, thin, grey-haired woman is standing there. The look on her face is one of fury. My heart begins to beat very fast.

Kit goes over to her. ‘Sorry, Aunt Crawford, it was me that asked Julia to play. You were asleep so I couldn’t ask your permission. Did we wake you?’

A pair of cold eyes stare back at him. ‘No. You did not wake me. But, Kit, that is hardly the point. Surely you know I forbid anyone to play that piano?’

‘I’m truly sorry, Aunt Crawford. I didn’t realise. But Julia is so wonderful. She’s only eleven years old, yet she plays like a concert pianist already.’

‘Enough!’ snaps his aunt.

Kit hangs his head and beckons me to follow him.

‘Sorry again,’ he says, as I skulk out behind him.

As I pass Lady Crawford, she stops me. ‘Are you Stafford’s granddaughter?’ she asks, her cold, blue, gimlet eyes boring into me.

‘Yes, Lady Crawford.’

I see her eyes soften very slightly and it looks almost as if she might cry. She nods and appears to be struggling to speak. ‘I … was sorry to hear about your mother.’

Kit interrupts, sensing the tension. ‘Julia brought you an orchid. It’s a new one from her grandfather’s hothouse, isn’t it, Julia?’ he encourages.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying hard not to cry. ‘I hope you like it.’

She nods. ‘I’m sure I will. Tell your grandfather I said thank you.’

*

Alicia was waiting patiently in the queue for a sales catalogue.

‘Did you ever come into this house when you were a child?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Julia, ‘once.’

Alicia indicated the ceiling. ‘Rather tacky, those cherubim, aren’t they?’

‘I’ve always rather liked them,’ Julia answered.

‘Funny old house this,’ Alicia continued, taking the proffered catalogue and following the crowd through the hall, along the corridor and into a large, oak-panelled room where all the sales items were on display. She handed the catalogue to Julia. ‘Sad it’s being sold, really. It’s been the Crawford family seat for over three hundred years,’ she mused. ‘End of an era and all that. Shall we take a wander?’ Alicia took Julia’s elbow and steered her towards an elegant but cracked Grecian urn – from the telltale moss lines around the inside edge, obviously used as a planter for summer flowers. ‘What about this for Dad?’

Julia shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s up to you.’

Sensing Julia’s fading interest, and her own irritation, Alicia said: ‘Well, why don’t we separate, and that way we can cover what’s available faster? You start this side, I’ll start that, and we’ll meet in ten minutes by the door.’

Julia nodded, and watched as Alicia made her way over to the other side of the room. Unused to crowds recently, she felt uncomfortably claustrophobic. She made her way through towards the emptier end of the room. In a corner was a trestle table, with a woman standing behind it. Julia approached it, because she had nowhere else to go.

‘These items aren’t included in the actual sale,’ said the woman. ‘It’s general bric-a-brac, really. You can buy them now, they’re all individually priced.’

Julia picked up a dog-eared copy of
The Children’s Own Wonder Book
. She opened it and saw the date inside was 1926.

‘
To Hugo, from Grandmother, with love
.’

There was also a 1932 copy of
Wilfred’s Annual
and a copy of
Marigold Garden
by Kate Greenaway.

There was a poignancy about these books; over eighty years of Crawford children reading the stories inside as they grew up in the nursery somewhere above her. Julia decided to buy them for herself, preserve them for the lost children of Wharton Park.

There was a battered cardboard box full of prints to the left of the table. Julia leafed through them listlessly. Most were pen and ink lithographs, depicting the Fire of London, old ships and ugly houses. In amongst them was a worn brown envelope. She removed it from the box.

Inside the envelope was a set of watercolour paintings, each one depicting a different type of orchid.

The cream vellum on which they were painted was spotted with brown marks, and she surmised that the paintings were by an enthusiastic amateur, rather than a professional. Nevertheless, she thought, framed and mounted, they might look rather special. Each one had the Latin name of the orchid pencilled in below the stem.

‘How much are these?’ she asked the woman.

The woman took the envelope from her. ‘I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be a price marked on them.’

‘Well, what if I gave you twenty pounds, five pounds for each of them?’ Julia suggested.

The woman looked at the tatty paintings. She shrugged. ‘I think we should say ten pounds for the lot, don’t you?’

‘Thank you.’ Julia took the money out of her purse, paid, then walked back through the room to rendezvous with Alicia, who was already waiting for her.

Alicia’s eyes alighted on the envelope and the books under Julia’s arm.

‘Find something?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Let me see?’

‘I’ll show you when we get home.’

‘Okay,’ agreed Alicia. ‘I’m going to bid for the urn we saw earlier. It’s Lot Number Six, so hopefully we shouldn’t be here too long. The auction’s starting any minute.’

Julia nodded. ‘I’ll take a walk whilst I’m waiting for you. I need some fresh air.’

‘Right.’ Alicia dug in her handbag for her keys and gave them to Julia. ‘Just in case I’m delayed. Otherwise, I’ll see you by the front door in half an hour. You might have to help me carry my trophy down the steps.’

‘Thanks.’ Julia took the keys. ‘See you later.’

She wandered out of the room, along the corridor and into the entrance hall, which was now deserted. She stood and looked up at the cherubim on the ceiling. She glanced at the door that led towards the drawing room, housing the grand piano on which she had once played. It was standing open on the other side of the hall.

On a whim, she walked towards it, hesitated for a few seconds then stepped through it. The vast room was shrouded in dim January light. The unused furniture was still exactly as she remembered. She walked on through other rooms until eventually she arrived at the door to the drawing room.

There was no sun shining today through the long windows. The room was bitterly cold. She walked past the fireplace and the sofas, an unpleasant smell of mildew emanating from them, and towards the grand piano.

It was only then she noticed the tall figure, standing with his back to her, staring out of the window beyond the piano. Half of him was shrouded by the damask curtain – the outer fabric of which was now so delicate it was reminiscent of innards through paper-thin skin.

She froze where she stood, knowing immediately that she recognised him. He didn’t move; standing, statue-like, in repose. It was obvious he hadn’t heard her.