Wickham Hall, Part 2 (10 page)

She eyed me doubtfully. ‘Are you sure?'

I smiled reassuringly. ‘It's water, Nikki, not even I can get that wrong.'

‘Cheers, Hols, you're a mate.' She sighed, passing me a heavy watering can.

She showed me how to operate the taps on the water tanks and then produced a four-leaf clover from her pocket. ‘To bring you luck for your first festival,' she said, pressing it into my hand. ‘I found it this morning in the wild flower meadow.'

I thanked her and slipped it under the top sheet of my clipboard and Nikki strode away to get cleaned up.

‘Leave it to me,' I called confidently, swinging the watering can in my right arm and promptly smearing dirt on the side of my new dress. Damn.

As I bent to examine the mark a familiar voice cried out: ‘Don't touch it!'

I whirled round, slopping water over my shoes, to find Mum standing at the side of the garden. She was looking very summery in a brightly coloured maxi dress and flip-flops, her hair pinned up with a variety of combs and clips and held off her face with large sunglasses.

‘Let it dry and it'll brush off,' she said, stepping over the rope barricade that surrounded the show garden. ‘Rub at it now and the stain will be nigh on impossible to shift.'

‘Thanks, Mum,' I said, kissing her cheek. ‘When will I stop relying on you for help, do you think?'

‘Never, hopefully, darling,' she said, stroking my face with the back of her finger. ‘And I'm sure I rely on you more.'

My heart twisted at the note of sadness in her voice.

‘In that case, I don't suppose you fancy a job, do you?' I said, handing her a watering can.

I explained the situation and the two of us began watering the pearl garden companionably.

‘I'm quite envious of you being at Wickham Hall, you know,' Mum confided as we refilled our watering cans for the second time at the tank. ‘I always thought I'd end up here.'

‘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.

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 litter 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.