Wickham Hall, Part 2 Read online

  ‘Did you?’ I glanced at her.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but it didn’t work out.’

  She straightened up, pushed a loose strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand and shrugged.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘I was offered a job as a tour guide but I had to turn it down.’

  I could feel my pulse beginning to race. ‘Why, Mum?’

  ‘Because they couldn’t offer me enough hours. They close over the winter, don’t they? And I needed a regular income. Plus, they wanted someone to work at weekends and I couldn’t because I had you to look after. So that was that.’ She sighed and marched over to the water tank to top up her watering can.

  I exhaled. For a moment there I thought I was about to hear some major piece of news.

  ‘You’d have thought they’d have designed a better irrigation system for this garden, seeing as there’s a great big pond in the middle of it,’ she grumbled, changing the subject.

  ‘We’ve nearly finished now,’ I said. ‘I’m so glad you were here to help, though. I hope I haven’t held you up?’

  ‘No, love. I’d just watched Lady Fortescue unveil a gift from her husband before spotting you,’ said Mum, stretching towards the bamboo plants at the back of the border.

  ‘Oh knickers, I wanted to see that,’ I tutted.

  I nipped over to my clipboard and struck through item three on my itinerary. Lord Fortescue had commissioned a local furniture maker to make a love seat for his wife, carved from an oak tree that had been felled on the estate. Eventually it would be placed in her favourite spot in the gardens, but for now, it was mounted on a plinth at the festival for visitors to see.

  ‘Such a romantic gesture,’ said Mum dreamily. ‘I’m quite envious of Her Ladyship, I must admit; imagine having one man in love with you, forsaking all others, till death do you part . . . Amazing.’

  I swallowed. It probably wasn’t the right time to bring this up, but when would be the right time . . .?

  ‘Is that how you felt about my father?’

  Mum instantly snapped out of her reverie and dropped the watering can. ‘Gosh, Holly, that question came out of the blue. It was such a long time ago, I . . .’ She fanned a hand across her face.

  I had the photograph with me in an envelope ready to give back to Steve if I saw him. I pulled it from my clipboard and opened the envelope. My heart pounded as I handed her the print.

  ‘Is this him, Mum? Is this my father?’

  Mum’s eyes grew round as I pointed to the girl I’d identified as her. Her face crumpled and she pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Where did you get this? Who took the picture?’

  ‘Is it him?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Please, Mum,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I want to know the whole story.’

  She ran her tongue round her lips and nodded, not dragging her eyes from the picture for a second. ‘OK. I’ll tell you. But not here.’

  ‘Tonight then, at home?’

  She dropped her sunglasses down over her eyes. ‘Yes, love, tonight.’

  My stomach fizzed as I pulled her into a hug; in a few more hours, I’d know the truth. Finally.

  ‘Oh, Holly,’ she whispered, ‘I miss having someone special in my life and I worry I’ve left it too late.’

  My gorgeous mum; I could have cried for her.

  ‘I don’t think you realize how lovely you are,’ I said, pressing a kiss into her hair.

  ‘Ignore me, I’m a silly old fool and I’m spoiling your day.’ She sniffed and rooted around in her handbag for a tissue.

  ‘Mum, you’re only forty-seven and I’d love you to meet someone.’

  ‘I’m hardly much of a catch, am I, darling?’ she said, dabbing her eyes. She handed me a clean tissue. ‘That mud should be dry now.’

  I peered at her out of the corner of my eye as I brushed my dress down. We were beginning to get to the root of her hoarding, I was sure of it. Perhaps then she’d feel more confident about herself. Maybe our big talk tonight would help, too.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I looked across to the entrance of the pearl garden to see a boy in baggy jeans with a camera around his neck.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Do you mind if I come in to the garden and take some close-ups of the oyster shell?’

  ‘Sure, help yourself.’ I smiled.

  He beckoned to two others – students by the look of them – and the three of them began taking pictures. Of course . . .

  ‘Are you students at Hathaway College?’ I asked.

  But before they could respond another deeper voice answered for them. ‘They are indeed. Hello again, Holly.’

  I turned to find myself face to face with Steve. He was even more tanned than when I’d seen him a few weeks ago and his eyes crinkled merrily as he shook my hand.

  ‘Steve, how lovely to see you!’ I said and then lowered my voice, turning my back on Mum. ‘I haven’t had a chance to ask my mum yet about those back issues of the newspaper we talked about and she’s a bit sensitive so . . .’

  ‘That is your Mum?’ exclaimed Steve, his eyes out on stalks. ‘Wow, she’s . . . very . . . young.’

  I heard a snigger from the group of students and pretended not to notice Steve’s face colour a bit more.

  ‘Mum?’ I turned back to her.

  ‘This is my mum, Lucy,’ I took a deep breath, ‘and this is Steve. He’s the photographer who covered the festival for the Wickham and Hoxley News for years. He’s interested in seeing your collection of old issues.’

  ‘My newspapers!’ Mum raised her eyebrows.

  ‘That’s right, Lucy,’ said Steve, pumping her hand. ‘If your archives are as extensive as Holly intimated, I think you could be sitting on a very valuable resource.’

  ‘Oh goodness, I’d better get going,’ I squeaked, suddenly conscious of the time. Suzanna Merryweather would be arriving soon and I wanted to be there to meet her taxi. I left Mum and Steve having an animated discussion about the fire that had destroyed the old newspaper building and they didn’t even notice me go.

  I looked over my shoulder as I turned the corner: Mum had pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and seemed to be hanging on Steve’s every word.

  Hurray, I thought, allowing myself a small smile, maybe a bit of encouragement from Steve is just the push she needs.

  Chapter 9

  When I reached the festival entrance, I found Jim patrolling the area between the ticket booths. He didn’t appear to be carrying out any official role but was happily producing lollipops from his pocket for children and pointing visitors in the direction of the toilets.

  Edith Nibbs in the gift shop had confided in me recently that Lord Fortescue kept her and Jim on purely because no one could imagine Wickham Hall without them (which incidentally made me admire all three of them a little bit more). So ‘head of security’ was a nominal title: all the major events such as this one had external contractors looking after the big stuff, but Jim still liked to make himself useful.

  ‘Hello, Jim! Quite a queue now,’ I said, taking in the crowd of people waiting to enter. It stretched along the makeshift wooden path and down towards the car park.

  ‘It’s the weather, love,’ he said, lifting up his baseball cap to wipe his forehead. ‘Brings ’em out in droves. We could be in for record visitor numbers, I reckon.’

  ‘I hope so, but I’m guessing you’re waiting for one particular visitor.’

  He held his hands up and chuckled. ‘Guilty as charged.’

  I smiled, feeling my body relax in his company as usual. Jim was one of my favourite people at Wickham Hall and I often found myself seeking his advice. He knew so much about the place: where the secret doors were in the hall – the ones that weren’t revealed to the public – what time the café was likely to have spare cake going begging, and last week he’d shown me a clearing in the woods where a lit
ter of fox cubs liked to come and play, which was one of the most enchanting things I’d ever witnessed. I’d found out that Jim had bought three signed copies of Suzanna Merryweather’s book: one for himself and two as Christmas presents. ‘Who wouldn’t want to find Suzanna in your Christmas stocking?’ he’d chortled.

  ‘You don’t mind if I hang around for her autograph, do you?’ he asked sheepishly, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. ‘I’ve come prepared.’

  ‘Of course not!’ I grinned, looping my arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s walk down to the road; she’ll be here soon.’

  We pushed our way through the crowd while he recalled the time he’d seen Dolly Parton at the airport in 1977. He hadn’t had any paper for her to sign except for his boarding pass, so she autographed it but he had to surrender it to the cabin crew on the aeroplane and had kicked himself ever since. Suddenly we heard a commotion ahead of us and a little dog appeared through a sea of legs at our feet.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Jim tutted. ‘A lost dog. We always get one or two who escape their lead.’

  The little dog, a white and brown Jack Russell, jumped up at Jim and wagged its tail.

  I bent down to stroke it and read the engraved bone in its leather collar. ‘He’s called Lucky. Any sign of the owners?’

  Jim and I scanned the people around us, but no one came forward.

  ‘Jim, can you take him to the festival office for me?’ I pleaded. ‘Sheila can put an announcement out over the PA system. And get him some water. I daren’t go in case I miss—’

  We both stared as a black cab pulled up as close to the festival entrance as it could get.

  ‘That’s Suzanna Merryweather,’ I said.

  Jim’s face lifted and then fell and he swallowed. ‘Of course, I’ll take the dog,’ he said stoically. ‘You go and meet Suzanna; I’ll sort this out.’

  My heart twanged for him; I couldn’t possibly deprive him of his chance to meet his idol. Especially not after that Dolly Parton story.

  I scooped up the dog under one arm, still clutching my clipboard under the other.

  ‘Come on, we’ll both go and meet Suzanna. Lucky can come too. Then we’ll all go to the office together. That way you still get your autograph.’

  ‘Right you are!’ Jim punched the air.

  We scurried back up the path with Lucky and made it to the taxi just as Suzanna Merryweather alighted from the rear door.

  ‘Hello, Suzanna!’ I beamed, juggling my assorted cargo as I attempted to shake her hand. ‘Welcome to Wickham Hall.’

  She was dressed simply in a white cotton sundress; her face seemed free from make-up and her blonde hair was scooped up in a ponytail. Big inquisitive eyes peered out from under a heavy fringe. She broke into a huge smile when she saw the dog.

  ‘Oh, look at you, mister!’ she cooed, instantly taking him off me. ‘Is he yours?’

  I introduced myself and Jim and Lucky and the curious crowd parted to let us through while Jim recounted the tale of Lucky’s escape from his owner.

  ‘Well, I think this might just be our first photo opportunity of the day, Jim. Lucky and I, with Jim the dog rescuer. What do you think, Holly?’ Suzanna beamed.

  I was thrilled for Jim. He was pink-eared, besotted and overcome with happiness, and I left them in the festival office being looked after by Sheila just as Lucky’s owners turned up to collect him.

  There was a bandstand ahead, which was currently unoccupied, so I headed for it. Sunlight still filtered through the ivy-covered roof but at least there was partial shade. I perched on the edge for a moment and massaged my temple. I had been exposed to the sun for almost four hours now, my neck felt sore and I had a sneaking suspicion that I was on the verge of a headache.

  I checked my itinerary and cringed inwardly; goodness, I was supposed to have spent the last hour with the official festival photographer but I hadn’t seen her since the ribbon-cutting ceremony. I was sure she’d be fine; I had sent her a list of the pictures we needed, but even so, I felt bad for abandoning her. Never mind, I decided, getting to my feet, I’d arrange to meet her at the indoor arena later for the start of the charity auction where she could take pictures of Lord Fortescue with the gavel in his hand. If all else failed, I would see her then.

  Right now I needed a drink. If I didn’t have water soon, my tongue would be hanging out like Lucky’s, not to mention the fact that I was feeling a bit light-headed. I set off in search of some water and was almost at the refreshment stall when there was a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Holly!’

  I whirled round to see Jenny dressed in a purple polka-dot dress, her hair flowing loosely.

  ‘I’ve never seen those before!’ I grinned, pointing at her bare legs.

  ‘I’m front of house at the outdoor restaurant,’ she explained. ‘No need for chef whites today.’

  ‘But no pockets for hidden treats,’ I said, pulling a sad face.

  ‘No.’ She folded her arms. ‘I’m not in the mood for treats, anyway. Do you know we’ve only got eight bookings for lunch?’

  Eek, that was low.

  ‘I didn’t know that, no.’ I sighed.

  ‘Can you do something about it, do you think?’

  ‘Um . . .’ I thought briefly about Ben making me promise not to tackle every problem by myself, but then I remembered what Pippa had said at my interview: the Fortescues were the public faces of Wickham Hall and today Ben was doing his job. It was up to me to do mine.

  ‘I’ll go back to the festival office and print out some flyers to hand out at the ticket booths,’ I offered. ‘That should spread the word.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Jenny,’ I smiled, making an effort to be upbeat, ‘it’s only eleven thirty; there’s plenty of time yet and don’t forget that Lord Fortescue is coming with two guests.’

  Jenny shrugged, unimpressed. ‘All right, eleven. Still not enough.’

  ‘And as soon as passing trade sees those lucky eleven diners, they’ll be snapping your hand off for a table.’

  She cocked her head. ‘But there isn’t any passing trade,’ she said sarcastically, ‘because you made the restaurant secluded and exclusive. Remember?’

  I swallowed. To be fair that was Ben’s idea but I didn’t want to drop him in it. I opened my mouth, hoping that something soothing would emerge but instead my radio crackled into life.

  ‘Sheila to Holly. Over.’

  Excuse me, I mouthed to Jenny. ‘Go ahead, Sheila.’

  I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I loved having a radio. So much.

  ‘Please can you locate Jenny and tell her that Lord Fortescue has to cancel lunch. Repeat cancel his lunch. She’s not answering her radio.’

  Jenny threw her hands up. ‘Oh, well, that’s just fantastic, that’s just the icing on the cake. I might as well go home now and turn my quail egg amuse-bouches into egg and ham sandwiches.’

  I grimaced. ‘Will do, Sheila.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve done his favourite,’ Jenny hissed, ‘as a surprise. Sea bass and fennel.’

  She grabbed the radio from me and brought it to her lips. ‘Sheila, tell him sea bass and fennel. Over?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ came Sheila’s crackly reply.

  Jenny thrust the radio back at me and scowled. I was fumbling around for words to placate her when Mum appeared in my peripheral vision walking alongside Steve. Steve!

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ I waved.

  The two of them sauntered over.

  ‘You like sea bass and fennel, don’t you?’ I said, winking desperately.

  ‘Er, yes?’ She looked sideways at Steve.

  I flicked a glance at Steve. ‘Are you two planning on having lunch together?’

  Steve raised his eyebrows questioningly at Mum, who smiled coyly and nodded.

  ‘Excellent, book them in, Jenny. My treat. Thanks, Mum.’

  I waved them away, possibly a little abruptly, but my nerves were getting frayed. ‘There, that’s two more. Will that d
o?’

  I swayed and clutched my head, almost falling into the path of one of the quad bikes that were driving round the festival emptying dustbins and collecting litter.

  ‘Steady on, matey.’ Jenny grabbed my shoulders. ‘Time for you to take a break, Miss Swift, and escape from this heat for a bit. And I’m sorry I’m a bit snarly, it’s the anniversary of my dad’s death today. Not that that’s an excuse; I’m just having a bad day.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jenny. No need to apologize.’ I gave her a hug and to my horror her eyes started to fill with tears. ‘Come on.’

  I pulled her by the arm to the nearest bench and we sat down.

  ‘I miss him, Holly. So much.’ She shook her head and wiped at the tears. ‘We did everything together. Mum used to say that she sometimes felt left out, we were so close. Dad and I never worked here together – he retired before I started in the kitchens – but I like to think it’s something we shared. And he loved the festival, never missed a single day of it. He always brought me here when I was little. He’d have loved seeing me in my own outdoor restaurant. He’d have been so proud.’

  I took her hand and patted it.

  ‘Of course he would. You’re lucky to have such happy memories of him. I didn’t know my dad at all. Never met him once.’

  Jenny blinked at me. ‘That’s sad, Holly; I’m sorry.’

  ‘Funnily enough, the one thing I do know about him is that he was here thirty years ago. At the festival. I guess we have this place in common, so my dad and I share it, too.’

  We smiled at each other and Jenny squeezed my hand. ‘I’m sure he’d have been proud of you too.’

  She stood then and walked back to the restaurant; I slipped the photograph out of its envelope and stared at it for a few seconds. I truly hoped so.

  For the next hour I was kept on my toes: running off some simple leaflets advertising Jenny’s outdoor restaurant and delivering them to the ticket booths, taking the lovely Suzanna to meet our very own Nikki Logan for a garden tour, dealing with disappointed Green Fingers fans who hadn’t got tickets to the indoor arena to hear Suzanna’s first talk, reuniting three misplaced handbags, two missing children and a teddy bear with their owners and managing to sit down for a grand total of three minutes and two swigs of water.