Page 8 of Never Gonna Happen

Once they left the Norwich ring road, the car weaved through several pretty villages before arriving at the gates of Bowford Manor. Emily’s experience of stately homes had been limited up to this point – a school trip to Uppark House when she was eleven or twelve, a family day out to Petworth when she was a bit younger, the abiding memory of which was being stung on the eyelid by a wasp and having to go to A&E looking like she’d been punched in the face. It was only a few months after the cosmic sticker incident, and her father had done the whole furious nose-breathing thing again.

Beyond those, the only posh houses she knew were the ones she’d seen in films or on TV, with hundreds of identical windows in neat rows. Grand, symmetrical places like Chatsworth and Highclere that reared out of the grounds like stone monoliths after a carriage ride down an interminable driveway, past a huge lake or an island with a Grecian temple.

The entrance to Bowford Manor was through ornate black metal gates, then down a winding, tree-lined drive that took them past ploughed fields and grassy paddocks. Emily waited patiently for a massive country pile to appear, but instead was rewarded with something a good deal more interesting. The manor house itself was built from red brick with a hodgepodge of windows and chimneys and towers in different shapes and sizes. It looked like a house from a fairy tale – on one side was a steeply gabled section that resembled an alpine chalet, and on the other side was a round tower shaped like a castle turret, on top of which was a huge weathervane decorated with a golden horse. The whole effect was chaotic and confusing to look at, but also entirely magical. Emily was instantly smitten.

A stern-looking woman waited on the steps outside the front door as Leon brought the car to a halt on the crunchy gravel. She was in her mid-sixties, Emily guessed, wearing a plain navy dress and sensible heels, with short, iron-grey hair that had clearly been cut for ease of maintenance rather than any kind of style. She opened Emily’s car door with a disdainful look that suggested she hadn’t been expecting much, and Emily had managed to confirm her opinion before she’d even opened her mouth. ‘You must be Miss Wilkinson,’ she said with all the warmth of a church crypt in January. ‘I’m Anna, the housekeeper.’

Emily climbed out of the car into the sunshine and shook the woman’s hand, determined to make a good impression. ‘Call me Emily. Lovely to meet you, Anna.’

‘Have a good day, Emily,’ said Leon with a cheery wave through the car window. She smiled at him and watched as he drove off. She’d agreed with Mr Hunter that she’d get the train back later, since she was only going as far as her flat in London, so at least Leon didn’t have to drive her all the way home again.

‘Come on then,’ said Anna impatiently, walking back up the steps towards the huge front door. ‘We’ve got half an hour before you’re due to see Mr Hunter; he’s asked me to give you a tour of the staff quarters.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emily, hoping there was a bathroom and a hot drink in that plan; it was two hours since they’d stopped for a break and she was desperate for a wee and a cuppa. She took a final glance at the outside of the house before heading inside, feeling a strange combination of being out of her comfort zone and oddly at home. She thought about what her dad would say if he was here. Chin up, Moomin. Knock ’em dead.

Chapter Seven

Emily’s tour of Bowford Manor began in a grand entrance hall, which had a wide staircase on either side that swept up to an ornate gallery. It reminded Emily of the stairs on Strictly Come Dancing, as long as you ignored the walls lined with paintings of fields and horses and people in powdered wigs. But before she could imagine herself doing a waltz in a chiffon dress, Anna disappeared into a doorway hidden in the wooden panelling under one of the staircases, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Emily followed down a flight of narrow stairs and found herself in the kitchen. It was a massive open space broken up with columns instead of walls, bigger than her parents’ entire house. At one end was a gleaming steel range and glossy modern kitchen units with a huge granite island, and at the other was a comfortable lounge area with squashy sofas and an open fireplace, over which was mounted a giant TV. In the middle was an old wooden dining table that could easily seat twenty people.

‘Mr Hunter’s chef is called Sam; he comes in at noon each day to make his lunch and dinner,’ said Anna briskly. ‘We keep all the leftovers in the pantry freezer; staff can help themselves or prepare whatever food they like. Sam doesn’t work on weekends unless there’s an event, so it’s not unusual for Mr Hunter to eat down here, particularly on a Sunday evening. He likes to pretend he knows his way around an oven.’ Anna pursed her lips disapprovingly, as though Mr Hunter didn’t belong in his own kitchen.

‘There are no fixed mealtimes for staff,’ she continued, ‘so you’ll be expected to sort yourself out. Nobody’s going to run around after you.’

Emily nodded, wondering what kind of princess Anna thought she was. ‘Fine.’

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ asked Anna.

‘Can I just use the bathroom first?’ asked Emily, realising that a cup of tea was an unrealistic expectation.

‘Yes, of course,’ snapped Anna, like Emily was already a colossal drag on her day. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

The various flights of back stairs were connected by narrow corridors that bypassed all the interesting bits of the house, other than Anna pointing out closed doors that led to the dining room, Mr Hunter’s office and the family bedrooms. ‘There’s an identical set of stairs and corridors on the other side of the entrance hall; they were designed so the servants could access most rooms in the house without being seen.’ Emily raised her eyebrows and Anna gave her a dead-eyed glare. ‘You can use whichever stairs you like, obviously. But the back stairs mean you’re less likely to meet Mr Hunter’s family and get another job added to your list.’

‘What’s the family like?’ Emily asked quickly.

‘A mixed bag,’ muttered Anna, hurrying up the stairs. Emily waited for her to elaborate, but apparently that wasn’t happening any time soon either.

The stairs ended in the attic, in what had presumably once been the servants’ quarters. ‘There used to be a dozen servants’ rooms up here,’ said Anna, reading Emily’s mind. ‘But they’ve been knocked together over the years and now there are only four. Only one is currently in use, by me.’

Emily nodded but said nothing, sensing that Anna had no time for stupid questions.

‘These would be your rooms,’ said Anna, opening a door. ‘They haven’t been used since Mr Hunter’s previous assistant moved into one of the estate cottages, so I’ll have them cleaned and the mattress replaced.’

Emily had half expected a poky cell like servants’ rooms on TV, but it was actually a suite of two low-ceilinged rooms with a row of tiny dormer windows looking out over the higgledy-piggledy roofline. The view beyond was spectacular, with ploughed fields and paddocks of grazing horses. The furniture in the bedroom was all made from a dark, heavy wood, and even though there was no bedding or curtains, it was easy to see how cosy it would feel up here in the dead of winter. A door led to a small lounge with an ancient squashy sofa in faded burgundy, an old-fashioned TV on a small table, and a bookshelf. It felt snug, and Emily couldn’t help but imagine it with plants and blankets and a few family photos on the shelf. Her own little space.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, smiling at Anna. ‘I like it a lot.’

‘Just as well,’ Anna said snarkily. ‘There’s internet up here, but I’ll ask for the TV to be replaced – that one went out with the ark. There’s a mini fridge and a kettle in the cupboard so you don’t have to walk down four flights of stairs for a cup of tea.’ There was a note of bitterness in her voice, like at some point she’d gone to war over this small luxury.

‘The bathroom is on the landing,’ she continued. ‘There are two up here, so for now it would be all yours.’

‘I’m very used to sharing,’ replied Emily, thinking of growing up in a house of five with only one bathroom, then moving into her first shared flat and discovering nothing had changed other than extra leg hair in the bath and much less frequent cleaning.

‘Hmm,’ said Anna, giving her another top-to-toe inspection and apparently not liking what she saw. ‘I’ll take you to see Mr Hunter now.’

Emily nodded, pushing stray bits of hair behind her ears and wishing she could have a cup of tea to calm her nerves. Or a gin.