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7
Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
Before I can panic and change my mind, the gates click open with a short buzz. With my heart pounding like a pneumatic drill, I push my weight against them and stop just inside, like Alice in Wonderland fallen through the rabbit hole. I can’t seem to get used to it. Who would have known that at the end of a country lane lay vast green rolling grounds leading to a Tudor mansion, no less, with its steeply vaulted roofs, its many gables and the mullioned windows? How can my parents have kept all this information from me all of my life? And my God, what else do I not know?
Trying to breathe steadily, I make my way up the path to the ancient front doors. Before I can knock, one panel opens and a beautiful elderly woman with the kindest face I’ve ever seen appears. She’s petite, in a blue dress with a neat bun and a pink rosebud of a smile. Instant relief floods through me.
‘Emily! Come in, come in,’ she chirps.
I smile and gingerly step into a bright, rich foyer, instantly dazzled by the copiousness and quality of the interiors. I’m no interior designer, but as far as I can see, a large part of the original features have been kept in pristine condition for many a century. Antique gold, silver and turquoise shades abound among the draperies, upholstery and carpeting.
‘Your home is very beautiful, Mrs Heatherton,’ is the safest thing I can think of saying. And yet, I botch that one, too.
She turns in surprise. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I’m not your grandmother. I’m the maid. Nettie. We spoke on the phone?’
‘Oh!’ I cry, embarrassed, taking her outstretched hand. ‘I’m so sorry, I just assumed—’
‘No worries, no worries,’ she sing-songs. ‘Come, come. Let’s get you in and sorted. Are you hungry?’
Now normally I would be. But once again, the panic has set in.
‘No,’ I whisper, sick to my stomach at the prospect of having to break the ice again with the real Mrs Heatherton-Smythe. ‘Is… my grandmother in?’
‘Lady Heatherton?’ she says.
LadyHeatherton? So she has got a noble title, after all. Is this real? Audrey is definitely going to have kittens, then.
‘Ah, now that. I’m afraid that Lady Heatherton isn’t in at the moment,’ she titters, embarrassed.
Not in? But… but… I was expected. It suddenly occurs to me that although my newfound relative is a noblewoman and the MIL-to-be isn’t, they might have something in common, after all.
‘She’s gone to a book reading in Truro.’
A book reading? She preferred to go to a book reading, knowing I’d be here today? She’d rather read a book than meet her own granddaughter?
‘I see,’ I say feebly, feeling the heat creep up my cheeks and my heart sinking. My face says it all.
Nettie takes my arm and leads me into a luxurious drawing room with a huge neoclassical hearth. The walls are lined with books of every size and age. I spot several first editions of famous classics such asEmmaby Jane Austen andVanity Fairby William Thackeray. Well, it’s obvious how much her books are important to her. So apparently we have at least one thing in common.
‘Sit. Make yourself comfortable. You must be shattered.’
I haven’t got the heart to tell this lovely woman that I haven’t just arrived and catapulted myself over to see my long-lost grandmother. So I say nothing and let her do her hosting as I try not to take it too personally. Lady Heatherton must be one of those eccentric people who value many things before blood. Which is the last thing I need to hear. I’ve come all this way because she asked to meet me. And now I find she couldn’t be bothered to cancel a book reading for her own blood.
I sit back, wondering about my next step. Why hasn’t my own, albeit estranged, grandmother bothered to meet me? This doesn’t bode well in the least. If I’m counting on Nettie to be of any help, it seems she knows her place all too well and is determined to keep it.
And she is a lovely friendly soul, chattering about the run of the house, Lady Heatherton’s corgis, which she loves more than anything in the world (no doubt about that), and what a high standing she has not only in Starry Cove, but also in the entire county of Cornwall owing to her interest in culture and the arts.
We chat, or rather she chats and I supply the occasional question. My heart just isn’t in it. Why can’t my grandmother not bother to be here?
‘… Emily? Don’t be offended about your grandmother not being here to meet you. She was speaking at this literary benefit and couldn’t stand to disappoint them at the last moment.’
Of course not. Why would she go out of her way to reschedule for someone she doesn’t know from Eve?
‘Would you like me to let you know when your grandmother returns so you could come and see us again?’
I want to tell her where my grandmother can put it. She’s worse than Audrey, if possible. I get to my feet, feeling as if I were a thousand years old.
‘Yes, Nettie, that would be lovely, thank you very much. And thank you for the refreshments and your lovely company.’
