Chapter One

‘NOW, YOU WILL be all right, won’t you, darling?’ said Hetty’s mother. It was more of a command than a question.

‘Well, if I’m not,’ Hetty muttered, stowing her mother’s overnight case in the boot of the Clio, ‘it’ll be your fault.’

‘What’s that?’ Her mother emerged from putting something on the back seat.

‘Nothing.’ Hetty forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I know you will.’ Mrs Longden spoke as if there had never been any doubt. ‘You should be all right for money for a while. Samuel seems to have plenty. But let me know if you run short. And I’ll sort out a car for you soon, then you can visit Samuel and not be so isolated.’ She glanced at the narrow country lane that ran through what had once been the park belonging to the big house. It was edged with beautiful huge trees, but there wasn’t another property in sight. ‘Not that you’ll be isolated, exactly . . .’

They both knew she was lying.

‘I said I’ll be fine,’ repeated Hetty. ‘And if you don’t go now, you’ll get the rush-hour traffic going into Guildford.’

Hetty wasn’t particularly happy about being abandoned in a crumbling, possibly haunted, pile in the middle of nowhere, but as this was to be her fate, she wished her mother would leave her alone to get on with it.

‘The village shop sells everything and you can use Samuel’s account. He said you were to. And it’s only about ten minutes’ walk.’ As her mother never walked anywhere Hetty knew this estimate might not be accurate. ‘And they’re such nice people.’

By ‘nice’ Hetty’s mother meant well-spoken and middle class. She had ascertained, while buying a pint of milk and a box of cornflakes, that the owners were refugees from the rat race, escaping from the City just before Black Wednesday, and had swapped urban amenities for rural bliss.

‘I know. You told me. I’ll pop along there when you’ve gone,’ said Hetty. ‘I’ll need some cat food.’

Her mother frowned. ‘Mmm. Samuel should’ve mentioned the cat. Still, it looked pretty ancient. I don’t suppose it’ll go on for much longer.’ She opened the car door. ‘Now, I really must get off.’

After much kissing, finding of keys and slamming of doors, Hetty watched her mother drive away. She sighed deeply and then realized she’d forgotten to remind her mother to get the telephone reconnected. Damn! Fighting a sense of abandonment she made her way back into the house.

The manor had been in the Courtbridge family since the Wars of the Roses, passing down from father to son until the First World War killed off three male heirs and the line was forced to divert to the furthest, spindliest twigs of the family tree. This branch were far less prolific. Hetty’s mother’s Uncle Samuel, awaiting a serious, possibly life-threatening, operation, had been only distantly related to the previous incumbent. And his heir was not only distant genealogically, but also geographically, last heard of in some part of the world that used to be the Soviet Union.

Hetty’s mother was the only member of the family who knew who had married whom and how many times each cousin was removed. She had a strong sense of duty and when her uncle – (‘Not really an uncle, darling, more a third cousin, but the generations all went wrong.’) – became ill, it was Hetty’s mother he contacted. He wanted her to get in touch with his quasi-nephew and ask him to come and look after the house. On no account must it be left empty for more than a few days.

But after many days with her ear glued to phone and fax machine and receiving only ear-splitting shrieks for her pains, even Mrs Longden’s determination expired. She put down the phone for the last time and turned to Hetty.

‘I don’t suppose he’d have come anyway. He never turns up for family occasions or we would have met him. He’s probably far too busy making money to do his duty.’ It was then her gaze narrowed. ‘You’re not doing very much at the moment, darling. I don’t suppose you’d care to house-sit for a while? It’s a beautiful old house, in a lovely part of the world. Do you remember when you were a bridesmaid? The house made a great impression on you.’

‘Mother, I was five years old . . .’

It was thus that Hetty’s misfortune, in the shape of a devastating love affair, became the ill wind that blew somebody some good.

‘If you can’t be happy you may as well be useful,’ her mother had said, when Hetty had demurred. After three weeks of trying to ‘bring Hetty out of herself’ she had despaired of ever hearing her daughter laugh again.

Hetty, on the blunt end of these efforts, felt that if she had to smile brightly to any more of her mother’s buddies while they did Meals on Wheels or manned the WI stall together, she really would have reason to end it all. And, having fled the independence of her London flat along with her job and her involvement with Alistair, she was finding it hard to go back to living at home. She welcomed this opportunity to be miserable in private, if not the attendant anxieties. She agreed to look after the house until either her mother tracked down the heir, or her mother’s Uncle Samuel was fit enough to return.

It certainly needed someone, she thought as she went back into the kitchen, distracted from her misery by the awfulness of her surroundings.

The kitchen was chock full of original features, chocker full of rubbish, and absolutely minus anything remotely resembling a mod con.

Multifarious cupboards surrounded the walls, keeping work surfaces to the minimum. Some of the cupboards were chipped Formica, others might have been pine underneath the layers of paint – one, badly battered, was mahogany. They were all thick with dust, and too full of china for the doors to stay shut unless wedged.

A large kitchen table, the only flat surface apart from the ridged draining-board, was completely covered with things. Stone salt jars, rusty bread bins, several copper milk cans, sweet jars, an ancient glass butter churn, left there, not to add character to the room, but because no one had ever bothered to move it, flower-embossed biscuit tins, antique storage jars and an old-fashioned typewriter – possibly an early prototype – all jostled uncomfortably with a rack of bistro cutlery and a tower of very new-looking stacking plastic boxes. The Portobello Road meets a Tupperware party. Even in her state of misery, Hetty couldn’t help smiling at the bizarre juxtaposition.

Among the tat, Hetty realized, might be some gems, collectibles that would fetch hundreds in the right London shop. In there, without any doubt at all, were myriads of weevils, flour mites, silverfish and woodlice. As this was where she was expected to make her solitary snacks, she’d fairly soon have to sort some of it out. It was just as well she was less fastidious than her mother, who had so blithely sentenced her to living in a cross between an overstocked junk shop and a sanctuary for invertebrates.

Still, she was here now, she’d just have to cope. Hetty turned her gaze from the table and regarded the cooking arrangements.

Where once a range had reigned over the kitchen and numerous attendant skivvies there now stood an obscure make of stove. It shivered in the fireplace of a much larger beast, but, unlike its noble ancestor, it was oil burning and had been left on a low flame to stop the pipes freezing. Hetty and her mother had managed, after a lot of experiment, to turn it up to full power. It was while they were fiddling with taps and levers that they opened fully the door of the lowest oven and an aged cat staggered out. After finishing the milk that Hetty instantly gave it, it went back whence it came, and apparently stayed there all night.

Now Hetty glanced round the kitchen to see if the cat had re-emerged. She wanted to give it her leftover cereal. It was still curled up in the oven.

Deprived even of this bit of company, Hetty gathered the couple of plates and cereal bowls she and her mother had used and put them in the crazed porcelain sink. There was something very depressing about washing up for two when now you were only one, and would be for the foreseeable future.

And the state of the kitchen did not help her spirits, although there was nothing wrong with it that a thorough clean and Smallbone of Devizes couldn’t put right. Too small for a baronial hall, it could have been a wonderfully ample family kitchen, provided your family was at least the size of the Von Trapps, she thought.

Still, no point in feeling sorry for oneself. Not knowing quite why, Hetty took a breath and let the first few notes of ‘Little Girl Blue’ emerge into the dusty air.

Unlike her voice, which was husky from lack of use, the acoustics in the kitchen were good. The high ceiling, dusky with ingrained dirt, fly droppings and cobwebs, gave the small sound a pleasing echo.

It had been such a long time since she’d done any singing. Before leaving home for London, it had been her hobby. She and a friend would sing together, jazz for preference, but almost anything except grand opera. They led the local carol singers, and did sing-alongs for old people’s homes and anyone else who asked. They both thoroughly enjoyed it.

But Alistair had made it plain, very early on in their relationship, that he was an opera buff. Amateurs (and Hetty definitely came under this category) set his teeth on edge. Since then, she only sang in the car, and definitely only when alone. And since her car’s sad demise and her own devastation, she had had no opportunity or desire to sing.

Wishing she’d chosen a slightly less melancholy number, but still humming, Hetty moved to the window to see if the dirt was mostly inside or out. Her damp tissue came away black but made no impression on the dirt. It was both sides, and ivy rampaging up the outside walls had encroached well over the glass. What she needed was a jolly, local window-cleaner who would cut the ivy as well as polish the glass. But, as such characters were as fictional as Father Christmas, she’d have to look out a good bucket, a rag and a ladder.

Her song over, she peered into the oven. ‘Come on, Puss,’ she called. ‘Come and see your Aunty Hetty. Let me know you’re still alive.’ A stiffened little corpse in the place of a cat would send her back down into the depths of depression.

The cat obligingly stretched out a tentative paw. But, although the warming oven was now almost hot, it declined to venture into the kitchen. Hetty could see its point. The stove had been going full blast all night but you could only sense the difference in temperature between the kitchen and the great outdoors if you got caught in a gust of wind. And as it was February there were plenty of those.

‘Oh, come out, do.’ She stretched her hand towards it. ‘Come out and tell me who’s been feeding you.’

The cat mewed, almost silently, deigned to come towards Hetty’s hand and, before Hetty realized its intention, had clawed its way up her jean-covered legs until it reached her shoulder. It purred, very loudly, into her ear. Hetty, somewhat overwhelmed, was grateful that the cold had made her put on every stitch she had brought with her, and noticed that the cat had extremely bad breath.

‘I don’t suppose that the village shop sells breath freshener for cats, even if it is as wonderful as Mum says,’ she said to it. ‘But I’d better find it anyway.’

The cat stayed on her shoulder while she found her bag and sorted herself out. It was a warm, comforting, if somewhat weighty, presence. Hetty hummed in harmony with its purr. It was hardly singing, but this tentative stretching of her vocal wings lifted her spirits.

Hetty unhooked the cat and shrugged on her father’s Barbour, purloined without his knowledge, then set off down the tree-lined road towards the small collection of cottages, shop, church, what had once been a school, and pub which made up the pretty end of the village. The council houses, garages, and a bit of light industry were kept out of sight of the conservation area.

At the end of the lane, Hetty paused and looked back at the house. It had been dark when she and her mother had arrived the previous evening, and this was the first chance she’d had to take a good look at it since she had last been there, nearly twenty years ago.

Three unequal gables of grey-gold stone thrust upwards towards the sky. From one protruded three tiers of bay windows topped with a little balcony of castellations beneath the pointed roof. This, she guessed, was the newest part, when the wool trade filled the area with wealth as well as sheep and the family must have felt flush and ostentatious. She imagined the begowned lady of the house in the sixteenth century – rather like her own mother – demanding that her lord have a bay put in so she would have somewhere sunny to do her needlework.

The middle gable was wider and shallower, the original core of the house, which contained the great hall and the kitchen. They had been there since the Dark Ages, and judging by the kitchen hadn’t altered much since. The end gable was smaller and had a bay window, designed to catch the sun in what was once the morning room, since demoted to the sitting room. Slates, the same grey-gold as the walls, could be seen under the swathes of ivy that clambered to and round the chimneys, which clustered in groups of three. When had they last been swept? she wondered.

It was not a house for purists. Too many unauthorized changes had been undertaken for its history to be evident. It was no Perfect Example of any period. But for those who liked a mystery, the puzzle of what came when and where, it was a delight. When Hetty had last seen it, it had been a warm summer’s day. There had been a large marquee in the garden, and some relation was getting married. Hetty, dressed in a Laura Ashley version of Bo Peep, had run through the house with her partner-in-glazed-cotton, thinking how huge it was, and how mysterious. Oddly, it hadn’t got any smaller or less mysterious with the passage of time.

The village, when she got to it, a good twenty minutes later, showed signs of a battle for its survival. The school, placed diagonally across the green from the pub, had recently become a private residence, a fact made plain by the raised beds on the tarmac playground, and the embossed-iron name-plate with THE OLD SCHOOL painted on it.

The church, where she had been a bridesmaid so long ago, was still functioning, as was the pub. But as more and more local people moved to where the work was, their houses bought up by weekenders who didn’t go to church much anyway, life as it had been lived for centuries was under threat. Samuel had bewailed the decline of rural existence when they had visited him.

‘Soon every house will have two cars and no children,’ he had complained. ‘No one spends their money locally any more. I just hope those young things in the shop make a go of it.’

‘Those young things’ had certainly tried hard, but their window was papered with notices that seemed to confirm Samuel’s fears. The WI had combined with the next village, the vicar had duties in other parishes, and the bus service had been reduced to two days a week. No wonder everyone had two cars and no children, thought Hetty, then bravely opened the door to the shop.

Even when she was not suffering from a compound fracture of the heart Hetty was fairly shy. But the thought of entering a small grocer’s wouldn’t usually make her uncomfortable. However, Hetty’s mother, on the principle that a trouble shared is a trouble halved, reckoned that the more people you shared it with the better, and was unlikely to have held back in the village shop. Everyone, from the ‘nice’ proprietors to the passing salesman stopping for a Sport and a packet of fags, would have been given, in carrying tones, a detailed account of how Hetty’s wicked, lecherous boss had shamelessly seduced her, breaking her heart and ruining her career at a single stroke. Knowing this, with her morale already at a subterranean level, made popping out for a few tins of cat food an act of some courage.

But Hetty reasoned that she was so miserable already, not even this public humiliation could make her feel worse. And there was the chance, very slight of course, that her mother might have kept her mouth shut. It would be a shame to let the cat starve to death unnecessarily.

In spite of these bracing thoughts, she still felt as though she were entering the dentist’s waiting room as she opened the door and the old-fashioned bell announced her presence with painful lack of discretion. However, there were no fanfares, and Hetty was able to slip into the shop almost unnoticed.

It was divided into two halves. One half was a supermarket, which sold life’s staples – sliced bread, tinned soup, corned beef and packets of biscuits. The other half was an up-market delicatessen. This was fighting back with a vengeance – if this shop went out of business, it would go with sun-dried tomatoes and porcini flying.

Home-cured hams rested on china plinths, handmade sausages stuffed with truffles and dried cranberries sat fatly next to dishes of kalamata olives and local sheep’s-milk cheese. Olive oil in wine bottles, arborio rice in linen sacks, and organic chocolate bursting with cocoa-solids were all appetizingly arranged in willow baskets. There was a stack of tissue-wrapped loaves, dark brown and dense with goodness, next to a pile of enriched Italian ciabattas, genuine French flutes and a basket of croissants.

The proprietors obviously strove to satisfy all tastes, those of the local population whose children liked their baked beans orange, thank you very much, and the more esoteric requirements of visiting foodies.

The man behind the counter was large and handsome and wore a boater and a blue striped apron. He smiled broadly at Hetty as she came in, but didn’t immediately demand to know how she had let that man do those dreadful things to her. This was a good sign. Either he was blessed with a certain amount of tact, or her mother hadn’t confided all her daughter’s secrets.

She said good-morning, picked up a basket – wicker instead of the more usual wire – and perused the shelves, trying to summon an interest in something her mother would consider nourishing. Hetty had no desire to nourish herself, she just wanted comfort food – hot, sweet and fattening. She took hold of a can of mushroom soup as a gesture to vegetables and then discovered the tins of ravioli.

She was just wondering if the cat had a preferred brand of cat food when a pretty woman in a white overall and long shopkeeper’s apron came over and put her hand in Hetty’s.

‘Hi, I’m Angela Brewster. You must be Hetty Longden? Come to look after the manor?’ Hetty shook the hand and nodded. ‘Your mother said you were there. We’re so relieved that someone’s there to keep an eye on the place. It’s been empty far too long already. Besides, my son’s fed up with feeding the cat.’

Hetty smiled. ‘Oh, was it him? It’s very kind. My mother and I didn’t know there was a cat until we opened the door of the stove and out it came.’

‘Typical cat, knows how to look after itself.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me its name, and what sort of cat food it likes?’

‘He’s called Clovis and he likes the very cheapest kind.’ Angela picked up a tin. ‘Unfortunately.’

The shop bell jangled again and a thin, athletic woman with a lot of thick grey hair and a ruddy complexion came in. ‘Oh, here’s Mrs Hempstead, I’ll introduce you,’ muttered Angela. ‘She’s one of the guides.’

‘Guides?’ Hetty lowered her voice to match Angela’s. ‘Girl Guides?’

Angela shook her head, confused. ‘No, no. For when the house opens. To the public.’

Comprehension dawned. Hetty remembered her mother mentioning that the house was open to the public in the summer. ‘Oh, yes. I don’t expect I’ll still be here by then.’

Angela looked surprised. ‘Won’t you? I thought Easter was early this year? Still, you mustn’t mind Mrs Hempstead,’ she went on. ‘She’s a wonderful woman, but she can be a bit domineering and does rather feel she owns the place. She’s a keen local historian and has lived here for ever. She’ll bully you to death if . . . Mrs Hempstead! How handy that you’ve popped in. You can meet Hetty Longden. She’s come down to look after the house.’

Hetty allowed herself to be led up to the woman, still wondering why Angela had mentioned Easter in that unnerving way.

Mrs Hempstead grasped Hetty’s hand, testing her handshake for signs of weakness of character. ‘Goodness me, you’re young!’

‘I’m twenty-four,’ said Hetty.

Mrs Hempstead tutted. ‘And what do you know about looking after a great house?’

‘Nothing.’

Mrs Hempstead exhaled. ‘Still, you’re bound to be better than that Awful Nephew. At least you won’t change the place into a Funfair.’ The emphasis she gave the word indicated she really meant ‘Den of Iniquity’.

‘Er, no,’ said Hetty. ‘I’m only here while my mother’s uncle is ill.’

Mrs Hempstead shook her head as if predicting the end of the world. ‘He’s an old man who’s led a dissolute life. Might pop his clogs any minute.’ Before Hetty could react, Mrs Hempstead turned her attention to the bacon slicer. ‘Could you do me half a pound of smoked streaky, cut very thin?’ She turned back to Hetty. ‘I’ll do everything to help, of course. But you won’t find it easy, not at your age.’

Hetty, who recently had hardly been able to muster the initiative necessary to brush her hair, found her courage rising to the challenge. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I expect I’ll manage . . .’

Mrs Hempstead pursed her lips. ‘Managing isn’t quite enough. And Easter’s early this year.’

Hetty escaped while Mrs Hempstead inspected a goat’s cheese over the top of her glasses. She found herself by the cat food and filled her basket with quite an impressive array of tins before happening on the freezer. The thought of being bullied by Mrs Hempstead gave her long-missing spirit a metaphorical kick. Perhaps, she reflected, as Angela checked out her shopping, I’m getting bored with being a victim.

She was just leaving the shop when a muddy white sports car drew up and parked somewhat askew. Out of it climbed a blonde woman in leather trousers and a dashing hat. Hetty’s small revival of spirit sank back to where it had come from. No one would reject a woman like that, she thought sadly, sharply reminded of how her own rejection had been for a woman equally glamorous, with very long legs. Hetty’s legs were not particularly short, but they did not make her tall. And although her hair went fairer in the sun, it was a boring brown colour at this time of year. It also needed cutting, but beyond keeping herself and her teeth clean Hetty had done nothing to enhance her appearance since Alistair’s betrayal.

To get her mind off this depressing topic she planned what she would say to her mother on the subject of just when the house was supposed to open to the public when either the phone was put back on or she located a phone box. But she knew it wasn’t her mother’s fault. Uncle Samuel, for all his gentlemanly ways and generosity of spirit, could be conveniently vague at times.

When she had first come across him, when she was a bridesmaid, and Courtbridge House was en fête for some distant cousin’s wedding, Hetty remembered him describing her as ‘a taking little thing’. She had been horrified, thinking he must have seen her take a strawberry from the mountain of them piled on the buffet. It was only years later that she realized he’d paid her a compliment.

She’d met him a couple of times since, once at another wedding, and again at a funeral. She liked him enormously, prejudiced no doubt by his good opinion of her.

Hetty and her mother had visited him in hospital before their descent on the house, a couple of days before he was due to be operated on for a faulty prostate gland. His lawyer had been present and he had drawn up the documents giving Hetty limited power of attorney.

‘You must be able to write cheques, my dear,’ Uncle Samuel had said, when she had shrunk from the thought of such responsibility. ‘Or you won’t manage at all. You’ll need to open my post, too. I’ve a feeling there may be a few bills. The telephone people have been pestering me lately.’

‘You can only sign cheques up to two thousand pounds,’ the lawyer said firmly, his deadpan expression telling her not to get carried away. He handed Hetty his pen. ‘There’s a fairly healthy balance at the moment, but we’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Hetty must spend whatever she needs,’ said Uncle Samuel. ‘It’s very kind of her to help out. I don’t want to keep her on short rations.’

‘Well,’ the lawyer relented. ‘Any reasonable expenses will be allowed.’

‘And I don’t suppose the phone bill will be that much, will it?’ Hetty’s mother had said.

Samuel’s eyes suddenly took on an ancient, rheumy look that Hetty suspected was deliberate. ‘There may be Other Expenses,’ he said. ‘Hetty, if I might have a word . . .’

At that moment a nurse, who up till then had been fairly tolerant of all these people taking up space in her ward, rustled up in her plastic apron. ‘I’m afraid I really must ask you all to leave. I’ve other patients to see to.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Hetty’s mother. ‘Bye-bye, Samuel. Hetty’ll be in to see you the moment she’s got transport.’

Hetty’s eyes met Samuel’s and she saw that they were no longer vague, but demanding. He had something of great importance to say to her. But, instead of holding her back and saying it, he just gave her a rueful smile and submitted to the nurse’s cajoling commands.