Wedding Tiers (8 page)

‘Limewash?’ I suggested.

‘Maybe…whatever.’

‘You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, my dear,’ Dorrie said. ‘Like a breath of fresh air to Blessings, you are!’

‘I’m doing my best, though of course most of it will take a
long time to put right—and a lot more money than I thought at first, especially to have the roof properly repaired instead of just patched. We’ve started running the central heating in this part now too, which is going to be very expensive even though it is an ancient system that doesn’t get terribly hot.’

‘That’s probably just as well,’ I said, ‘because too much heat suddenly turned on wouldn’t be good for the place.’

‘No, but it needs to warm through and dry out before we move back into the main bedchamber from the modern wing, which Tim is determined to do as soon as possible.’

‘The new wing was mainly added for a modern kitchen and utility room, plus an extra bathroom and a couple of spare bedrooms upstairs,’ Dorrie said. ‘But until Tim’s father died, the family always lived in the old part, and that’s how it should be. Once you start lighting fires in the Great Chamber, it will carry the heat right through the rest of the house, you’ll see.’

‘That huge fireplace will take quite a lot of logs to fill,’ I said.

‘A few of the old trees in the grounds need to come down, or have already fallen down. They could be sawn up and stacked in one of the outbuildings,’ suggested Dorrie.

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Libby agreed. ‘Waste not, want not—though we’d probably have to get someone to saw them up, because I don’t think I’d trust Tim with a chain saw. He’s much too absent-minded.’

‘It would still be cheaper than buying wood, even so,’ Dorrie said. ‘Are you going to carry on doing all your own cleaning, or get someone in?’

‘Actually, since this is where I’m going to be spending most of my time, I think Gina, who looks after me in Pisa and is something of a Cazzini family retainer, could be persuaded to move here. Tim’s stepmother had the chauffeur’s flat over the garage renovated for that Portuguese couple she employed and I’m sure Gina would love to have her own little place.’

‘That sounds very suitable,’ approved Dorrie. ‘The gatehouse
was formerly a dwelling too, you know, though it has not been lived in for some time. In fact, I think Tim’s father’s old nanny was the last resident and she passed away several years ago.’

‘Yes, I had a quick look round it, but I’m putting off cleaning that out until later,’ Libby said. ‘The sanitary arrangements are extremely rudimentary and it’s tiny, but I thought perhaps if it’s done up a bit, it could be let out as a holiday cottage and earn us some money. A romantic getaway for two.’

‘I can see you have it all in hand,’ Dorrie said. ‘Now, perhaps we had better see what those two young men have been discussing. And I am sure you and I,’ she added to me, ‘have much more idea of what is wanted, regarding vegetable plots, than they do!’

Now Ben was home, life should have settled back into the cosy, comforting, uneventful round of cooking, dog-walking and gardening, but I found that I still felt vaguely uneasy.

Of course, the even rhythm of our former existence was bound to change once Libby exploded onto the scene like a demonstration of chaos theory in miniature. But actually, that didn’t bother me in the least, for I was used to Libby and very happy that she was going to be living in Neatslake again. No, it was just a feeling that something wasn’t
right
, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was…

Ben, too, seemed even more abstracted than usual and had
thrown himself into finishing his latest series of paintings. He tended to work on five or six simultaneously, and I never knew what to call them: paintings, installations, constructions, or just artworks. They all
started
as flat canvases, but then things began to burst out of them, because two dimensions simply weren’t enough for Ben and couldn’t contain his imagery, which dripped, oozed, sidled sideways or simply exploded into 3-D.

His original inspiration came from our shared love of thrusting, exuberant and earthy nature, full of flowers, rampant foliage and small living creatures. I’d always considered him a brilliant artist and I still did, even though what had been emerging more recently was much darker and (though I hadn’t, of course, said so) rather nasty. I hoped it was just a temporary phase.

As I worked in the garden I noticed that he was getting an awful lot of calls on his mobile, which seemed to make him cross, but then, if he didn’t want to be disturbed he should have switched it off!

Once the woodworm treatment at Blessings was done, and the rooms aired, Libby and I returned to our dusting and cleaning, keeping one room ahead of the specialist painters. I was amazed at Libby’s stamina. I was only helping out for an hour or two in the afternoons because of all my cake-making and other commitments, but she seemed to be working dawn to dusk.

When we took the old curtains down they pretty well fell to pieces, but she had surfed the internet and found a firm who sold medieval-style crewelwork curtains and fabric by the metre, all curly foliage, birds and rabbits—lovely, though very expensive.

Dorrie brought her friend Miss Hebe Winter (who is my friend Sophy’s great-aunt), to look around one day while we were working. The room we were in was a bit gloomy and for a minute we thought we were seeing ghosts, because they walked in wearing Elizabethan dress. Miss Winter, who is tall, grand and aquiline
of nose, is a dead ringer for the Virgin Queen, and even Dorrie was transformed by a wide ruff and full skirts, despite having kept her beret on.

It turned out they’d been to a historical re-enactment society meeting in Sticklepond. Lots of the members help out as volunteers at Winter’s End in full costume, when it’s open to the public. They are very big on the Elizabethan over there, especially since the discovery of that Shakespeare document.

Miss Winter had come out of sheer curiosity to see Libby, I think, the plebeian marrying into the Rowland-Knowleses, and, like Dorrie, she found her not at all what she expected.

I left them having tea (it was lucky I’d taken Libby an apple upside-down cake), passing Hebe’s little white Mini car on the drive. How does she get behind the wheel in a farthingale?

Moorcroft, the gardener, was very ready to take a golden handshake and retire, which would be much more economical in the long run than paying him to cut the grass and hide out in the garden shed, making endless cups of tea on a Primus stove.

Tim and Dorrie, full of plans and enthusiasm, began to try to get the grounds into some kind of order and create a fruit and vegetable patch. Tim came over a couple of times to ask my advice—or Ben’s, if he caught him out of the studio, which was pretty rare at the moment.

‘Tim’s passionate about gardening. He’s even more dotty about it than you are,’ Libby said one day, when we were taking a break from cleaning out what had once been the old kitchen, but was now a kind of storeroom. She straightened up with a groan; she’s only about five foot two without her stilettos, so even standing on a stool she’d found, reaching up with the feather duster, was quite a stretch.

‘I think he loves flowers and shrubs more than vegetables, Libs, like Dorrie.’

‘Yes, but now you’ve infected him with the self-sufficiency bug he’s determined to follow suit.’

‘Well, that’s OK, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, as long as he doesn’t expect
me
to start digging and jamming and making pies…though when Gina’s here I expect she’ll be quite happy to cook what he grows. It will save us money too, which will be a good thing, because I hadn’t realised quite how high the cost of restoring and maintaining a place of this age would be. I know I’m well off, but really, we need to find some way of increasing our income, unless I sell one or both of my other homes. But Tim loves Italy, so apart from our honeymoon being in Pisa, I hope we’re going to spend a lot of time there—and it’s handy having a
pied-à-terre
in London.’

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’m starting to think that’s what
we
could do with, though at least Ben hasn’t been so eager to rush back to London this time. He’s very engrossed in his paintings.’

‘Tim hates being a solicitor, so it’s a pity we can’t find some way of making Blessings pay for itself. But it’s a bit too small to open to the public. We live in all of it and we can’t just move into the modern wing three-quarters of the time, can we?’

‘Perhaps you could open a little garden centre in the grounds?’

‘I’m not sure they’re really big enough for that, either, but it’s worth thinking about.’

‘How are the wedding plans coming on?’

Libby pulled a large, folded list out of the pocket of her all-enveloping blue striped cotton apron, which looked like something a Victorian maid might wear. ‘Special licence—check. Church, vicar, church bells, organist and photographer—all sorted. Cake—you’re doing that. Invitations—already done by those strange friends of yours, though I don’t see why the cards and envelopes have to have bits of grass and petals in them.’

‘It’s because they make the paper themselves, using natural sources and inks,’ I explained. ‘All recycled and biodegradable.’

‘And why does it say on the invitations that confetti will be provided at the church door?’ she queried. ‘Guests usually bring their own!’

‘We don’t want paper confetti everywhere. We need to supply a natural alternative, Libby! Perhaps something like millet, which would give the birds a feast afterwards? Yes—a golden shower of millet would be
lovely
…’

‘I am not emerging from the church to be pelted with handfuls of budgie food,’ Libby said coldly.

‘No?’

‘No!’

‘Oh…then how about dried rose petals?’ I suggested. ‘I’ve heard of those being used.’

‘Now, that’s more like it!’

‘Hebe Winter uses a lot of roses in the products she makes to sell in the Winter’s End shop—perhaps she could supply us with rose petals. Shall I ask?’

‘Yes, do. If you could sort that out for me, it would be a great help,’ Libby agreed. ‘Actually, the Winters are on the guest list, since they’re friends of both Dorrie and Tim. And I’ve invited a second photographer, but not an official one—Noah Sephton. He was some kind of cousin of Joe’s and a great friend. He’ll be staying overnight, but I think I’ll have to put him in the gatehouse. I’ve asked Dolly Mops to come and clean it out and I thought they might as well do the flat over the garage too, though, knowing Gina, she’ll scrub it from floor to ceiling as soon as she gets here, anyway.’

‘It’ll be nice to see Gina again. And I think I’ve heard of Noah Sephton,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Didn’t he take those lovely photographs of you with Pia as an infant, which are in your apartment in Pisa?’

‘Yes, but you should have heard of him anyway, because he’s
quite famous for his portraits. He has an annual exhibition of his more oddball, black-and-white photos every year too, and they’re a sell-out. His last one was called
Fate’

‘I know all about
fate’
, I said, and, as if on cue, one of the two peacocks wailed. It always gave me the cold shivers. ‘Couldn’t you
try
eating the peacocks?’ I pleaded. ‘I hate the noise they make.’

‘Don’t be silly, they give the place class. Get over it,’ she said absently, looking down at the back of the list where she’d jotted the names of the invited guests. ‘There are quite a few celebs on here as well as Noah, because Tim knows Rob Rafferty, the star of that
Cotton Common
TV soap and one or two of the other actors, though I don’t think
Hello!
magazine will be jostling for my wedding photos any time soon.’

‘So you’ve got it all pretty well arranged?’

‘Yes, apart from the reception venue. At this rate, we’ll be handing out directions in the church!’

‘Still no luck finding somewhere nearby?’

‘No, they’re all either booked up, can’t handle the numbers, or they don’t do them at this time of year—or
something’

‘Oh dear, and it’s hardly marquee weather, is it?’

‘I expect I’ll think of something. I’ll have to. I only hope the guests who are coming from a distance can find somewhere to stay on the night of the wedding!’

‘Any word from Pia yet?’

‘No, still not a dicky-bird since I told her I was marrying again and she put the phone down on me. She’s not answering my emails either.’

‘She hasn’t contacted me for ages,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t usually leave it this long.’

‘She’s sulking, but I’d like to know if she intends turning up for the wedding. It would have been lovely if she’d been happy about my getting married again and agreed to be a bridesmaid, but it doesn’t look likely to happen.’

‘Once she gets over the shock she’ll probably get back in touch again,’ I said optimistically.

‘I’d just settle for the sound of her voice telling me she was all right, at the moment,’ Libby admitted.

‘I’ll try emailing her again when I get home, Libs. Perhaps she’s still speaking to me.’

‘Oh, thanks, Josie—and I
must
take your measurements before you go, because I still have to dash down to London in search of my wedding dress and shoes, and get a bridesmaid’s dress for you. I should have gone before, but there’s been so much to do.’ My practical, hard-headed friend gave a dreamy sigh. ‘I hate the thought of being apart from Tim, even for one night. Isn’t it strange?’

‘No. And now you know how I feel when Ben goes off to London without me.’

‘It’s not the same. You’ve never been
in
love with Ben, just loved him with blind, dogged devotion.’

‘Not
blind.
You can’t live with someone for that many years and not be aware of their failings. But he’s such a brilliant artist, a genius, that I’ve had to be the one to make allowances.’

‘I don’t see why having any kind of talent should entitle you to get away with behaving badly,’ she said, ‘or selfishly. Though, actually, it usually does seem to have that effect. Noah—Noah Sephton, the photographer I was telling you about—goes through girlfriends faster than a hot knife through butter. He
says
he’s a romantic and believes in true love, but he never puts his money where his mouth is.’

‘Has he never been married?’

‘Joe said he was, briefly, when he was very young, but she died of leukaemia, so I expect it was all a bit
Love Story
and put him off marrying again.’

‘That’s terribly sad!’ Tears came to my eyes as they usually did when I heard something touching. ‘It’s probably blighted the poor man’s life.’

‘No, I don’t think so. The loveliest girls seem to fall for him and it all looks really promising, but by the time they start to hint that they’re getting serious ideas he’s ready to move on.’

I thought about that. ‘Perhaps it’s because no one is going to measure up to his dead wife? I mean, if they were really young and not married long, the rosy glow wouldn’t have worn off and, looking back, she will always seem perfect, won’t she?’

‘Or perhaps whatever he says about love, he just prefers casual sex with no commitment?’ Libby suggested.

‘That makes him sound horrible—shallow and self-gratifying.’

‘Well, actually he’s not, he’s really warm and nice.’

‘I suppose he’s good-looking?’

She considered. ‘You might not pick him out in a crowd straight away, but once you did, you’d wonder how you missed him. He’s about six foot and slim, not exactly handsome, but he’s got lovely, light grey eyes and long, long black eyelashes…His smile’s sort of quirky and goes up at one side too…and his hair’s almost black and goes curly if it gets damp.’

‘You sound half in love with him yourself!’ I said, dismayed at this apparent lack of loyalty to Tim.

‘Not me! You know I’m a hard-headed, marriage-or-nothing kind of girl!’

‘Maybe, but you moved in with Tim the day after you met him,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, well, that’s different. And he proposed to me before I moved in, don’t forget.’

‘Come on, you were so love struck you would have done it anyway.’

‘Maybe, but so was Tim, so it doesn’t matter.’ She smiled happily. ‘Oh, Josie, it’s such bliss! I only hope Pia does come to the wedding and realises how nice he is, then she’ll soon get over her huff and we can be one happy family.’