Page 7 of Old Girls Behaving Badly

‘But you know about the wedding?’

‘It may be a big house, Mrs Knight, but it’s a very small village.’

‘Do you know much about the owner, Leonard Price?’ I said.

Dorothy had told me he was the uncle of the bride and that was why the wedding was to be held at his home. Lavinia had said that Leonard was an old family friend and former business partner to Dorothy’s late husband and that was how the bride and groom had met. I had switched off a bit at the time, to be honest, but now I realised I was to be among this family for the week and perhaps I should have paid more attention.

‘He’s rich and arrogant according to my wife’s sister, Violet, who cleaned there for a short time a few years back. I’ll bet no more arrogant than any other rich man, though. The house is something else, very grand, but Vi said she wasn’t sorry to lose her job, as she was always terrified of breaking one of his precious art pieces. I’ve never been in there myself.

‘He’s done a little for the village: new planting for the green, a project with a local children’s charity for a fun run around his estate, that sort of stuff. He’s not married and hasn’t got any kids of his own, though. There’s not many that know him well.’

He sounded eccentric, like a nice, kindly old man, but then as uncle to the bride, he couldn’t be that old, I thought. I relaxed a bit then. A week at a country estate in Norfolk for the wedding of Dorothy’s grandson didn’t seem like much of a challenge. A house full of art – I won’t pretend that didn’t interest me. Dorothy Reed herself, who seemed like a person I could get along with. Of course I was to be paid for my services too, which was a huge motivator in this set-up. I settled back in my seat and tried to tell myself not to expect too much, but the truth was, with my life in a state of limbo, I was actually expecting quite a lot.

The red-brick mansion was bathed in a warm apricot glow from the rays of the late-afternoon sun. The white cornerstones of the building shone and the gilt face of the clock on the bell tower glowed. Perfectly clipped yew hedges flanked the wide driveway and the lawns appeared to have been cut with a precision laser.

The taxi driver pulled up at the front and I shook myself awake.

Walstone Hall was a jewel in the crown of all the Norfolk country estates, Lavinia had told me, and my first instinct was to agree. The driver left me and my suitcase at the main entrance and I took a settling breath before I rang the bell.

It was Lavinia herself who greeted me – the woman who had made me so welcome in Dorothy’s home. She was a tall, willowy woman in her fifties with hair the colour of golden sand. She was wearing white trousers and a striped Breton top, and looked perfectly at home on the doorstep of this house that wasn’t hers. I imagined she would look stunning in an evening gown, and my thoughts went to my own clothes and what I might have to wear if I was to dine with the family and perhaps expected to attend the wedding. That hadn’t really been made clear at our first meeting. In fact, nothing had really been made clear.

Lavinia invited me in and gave my huge suitcase a brief glance, her eyebrows heading towards her hairline, before she quickly rearranged her expression.

‘It is so lovely to see you again, Gina. Dorothy is delighted that you could join her this week. She’s been a bit up and down since my father-in-law died last year, and my husband, Miles, and I have been worried about her, but this wedding party seems to have perked her up a bit. It’s just what we all need, fun and games with some good food, music and of course the wedding itself.’

‘I’m very happy to be here,’ I said, beginning to take in the entrance hall. ‘Goodness!’

The room was dominated by a beautifully carved wooden staircase that split into two, before continuing up another short flight to a galleried landing. A stained-glass window threw a kaleidoscope of colours across the stone floor at my feet from its twelve individual panes, but I didn’t spend too much time deciphering its depictions. My eyes were drawn immediately to the paintings that adorned the wall either side.

‘Goodness,’ I said again.

‘Yes, I know,’ Lavinia said, closing the door behind me. ‘It is unexpected, isn’t it.’

The space really warranted Gainsborough or Constable, Van Dyck or Holbein. Instead, it had huge canvases slashed through with bright colours of paint; angry and livid, but somehow striking in their own way. On a table in an alcove was an unusual-looking antique carriage clock and then, next to it, a strange, ugly ceramic urn sitting on a wooden pedestal. There was an oddly placed, gilt-framed mirror that was hanging so low on the wall I wondered if it was for a small child, or for someone to view their own knees. Further round towards a doorway stood the most magnificent grandfather clock, which on cue, chimed the hour. My eyes darted around at the decor and I couldn’t find an immediate link. It was like an expensive jumble sale, I thought, perhaps a little unkindly.

‘Leonard is a collector of, well, whatever he fancies. Not exactly John Lewis, is it,’ Lavinia said. ‘Why don’t I show you to your room and then you can see Dorothy? Leonard isn’t here this afternoon; he’ll be back later, for dinner. He likes to make an entrance.’ She said that with what could have been a wry smile, but with a hard edge to it. ‘I should have asked, do you have any allergies or dietary requirements? I can tell the cook.’

‘No, none at all,’ I said, following Lavinia up the stairs, my suitcase bumping behind me. I stopped on the landing to look at a small fan-shaped vase on the windowsill. It looked discarded, not placed in the centre or a perfect third of the way along as I would have done, but seemingly plonked down in haste. I picked it up and looked closely at the soft peach colours of the stylised tree painted on the front. ‘This is Coral Firs, circa 1934,’ I said, and Lavinia stopped and turned back to me. ‘It’s Clarice Cliff. This design is quite rare.’

‘Oh, something Leonard picked up somewhere I expect. This whole place is like an Aladdin’s cave. I forgot, you’re an expert, aren’t you?’

‘A passing interest now,’ I said, gently placing the vase back, but in the centre of the windowsill this time. Then I reminded myself I wasn’t here to catalogue the contents of the house; that was from another life. I would need to keep my thoughts to myself.

We carried on along the long landing past the many mullioned windows with enticing views over the parterre gardens and on to the lake, and I noticed a peacock strutting across the lawn, his tail in full fan like the vase. Lavinia came to a stop outside a bedroom door.

‘This is you,’ she said opening it onto a bright and pretty room with chintzy curtains and matching bedspread, antique mahogany furniture and, thankfully, a door onto a small and promised private bathroom.

‘Lovely,’ I said, ‘very conformable.’

I abandoned my suitcase by the side of the bed and walked over to one of the windows to look out. I could see a lake and the edge of what looked like a parterre garden. The other window offered a perfect view over to the spire of the resident church just visible between the leaves of the oak that sat in the grounds.

‘That’s where the wedding will be on Saturday, not too far to walk. The weather looks good during the day. There’s talk of a storm in the evening, but I don’t see it myself. The reception will be in the orangery, anyway, so we’ll be perfectly fine in there. Toby, my son, and his bride, Caroline, want to set up a floral arbour with a red carpet at the front of the house for photos. Bit over the top, to my mind, but then…’ Lavinia spread her arms wide. ‘In for a penny and all that. I’ll let you get settled in and then perhaps we can have a drink with Dorothy before dinner.’

‘Thank you so much, Lavinia. You’ve made me feel very welcome. Oh, what should I wear and may I ask? What precisely does Dorothy need me to do for her? She wasn’t exactly explicit when we met.’

‘She’ll let know you what she needs, but I imagine some help with dressing, perhaps some make-up and hair? I think her toileting requirements she can attend to herself. She does usually live alone.’

Hair and make-up was not something I did well, even for myself. I was firmly in the moisturiser and a lick of lipstick camp with mascara only coming out for special occasions, whenever they were. My hair, once a dark shade of auburn, was now several shades lighter with a smattering of white and it hung in waves and did best, left well alone. That word popped up in my mind again – beige. I shook it off.