'You swine,' she yelled at him, but got up, rubbed her bottom and burst into laughter. 'I bet you'd have taken that even if my back was broken. I've a good mind to sue you for industrial injuries.'
'I'm so sorry,' Magnus spluttered with laughter. 'I just couldn't help myself.'
'Well, you can go and help yourself to the hoover,' she retorted, ' and put this fairy up there yourself!'
An hour later, the tree dressed, complete with lights, glass balls and the fairy, Magnus lit the log fire in the grate. Mel was clearing away the last of the bits of tinsel and pine needles from the floor. Joan had gone to finish her duties upstairs.
'This room is so lovely,' Mel said in a soft voice. 'Do you ever come in here and just gaze at it?'
Magnus turned. Normally he would have retorted that he didn't have time to gaze at anything, but Mel's face stopped such cynicism short.
Her expression was rapt: her dark eyes full of wonder, yet sad too. Her full lips were quivering as if she was going to cry. She looked beautiful.
'Yes, I do,' he admitted, 'and I see Ruth's hand in everything. Do you know she hand-sewed the curtains? She said they would never look right if they were done by machine.'
The room was Georgian architecture at its best: a high ceiling, beautiful cornices and an Adams fireplace. Windows came down almost to the floor, looking out onto the terrace and the valley beyond. To the side were two more windows and a glazed door leading out into the courtyard. Everything was in soft greens and blues, the heavy sateen print curtains held back with thick silky cords, the pelmets tucked into soft pleats. Three feather-cushioned couches, two pale-blue, one green, a low Chippendale walnut console table behind one, holding a large Chinese lamp in the same colours.
'But there must be a hundred yards of fabric.' Mel touched the curtains reverently. 'She must've been such a patient lady.'
The more Mel had learned about Ruth Osbourne, the sadder she felt that Magnus hadn't been faithful to her. She sounded like a dream wife and mother, so very different to her own. But then she knew from experience that it was often the men with perfect wives who strayed. She could still recall all those men in the Don Juan who'd listed their wives' virtues, but still tried to grope her if she gave them as much as a kiss on the cheek.
'She was.' Magnus stood up, rubbing his knees as they were stiff. 'Patient, kind and very compassionate. I just hope our children inherited more from her than me. Patience certainly isn't my forte.'
'Children aren't always like either of their parents,' Mel said reflectively. In ten weeks she had come to admire and like Magnus more and more. But she still could find no similarity to herself, however hard she looked. 'I'm not like my mother.'
'How did she die?' Magnus asked.
'She committed suicide,' Mel said. Some weeks ago she had made up her mind to avoid telling lies as much as possible. She didn't volunteer information, but if asked a direct question she felt compelled to try to tell the truth.
Magnus was startled by such an abrupt statement. He moved closer to her. 'I'm so sorry Mel. That must've been terrible for you.'
'It was.' She flashed a weak smile at him, touched by his sad expression and his sincere words. 'But I'm over it now. She wasn't the best of mothers – she drank, told lies, and she was selfish. For a time I was full of anger. Nowadays I just try and remember the good things about her.'
'What was she like?' Magnus asked. 'I mean to look at. Do you have a photo?'
'No pictures, I destroyed them,' she replied. That was partially true; she had destroyed most, but not quite all of them. The remaining few were tucked away upstairs where no one but the most determined snoop would find them. She turned to the Christmas tree. 'She was a lot like that fairy up there, blonde, pretty, and just about as hard to pin down.'
Magnus looked up at the fairy. The blonde doll, with its glassy bright blue eyes reminded him of someone too. Someone he would rather forget.
'I'm glad to see her up on the tree again this year,' he said. 'Ruth dressed her too. She wouldn't approve of her languishing in a box in the attic.'
Mel felt a cold shiver run down her spine at his words. It was a reminder of what Jack Easton had said. Bonny was still tugging cords from the grave, even through a fairy doll.
Chapter Fourteen
Mel was sitting at the kitchen table reflecting that today was an anniversary. She'd been at Oaklands a whole year.
Mrs Downes came in through the door from the underground store outside. 'It's absolutely beastly out there,' she said. 'It's a good job Fred's coming to pick me up. I'd be blown away walking down Brass Knocker Hill.'
'It's just like last year.' Mel glanced at the kitchen window. Rain was battering against it, the wind making the frame rattle. She'd come down to see if Antoine needed any help, but nothing needed to be done. 'Did you know it's a year to the day that I arrived?'
'Well, I never,' Mrs Downes exclaimed, taking off her glasses to dry the rain off them. Without them she looked as kind and gentle as she really was, her face glowing pink from the wind outside. 'It doesn't seem as if you've been here five minutes.'
'Eet seems like five years, to moi,' Antoine said, putting his hands on his hips. 'As we French say, only wine improves with keeping. For me young Mel should never 'ave been allowed through la porte.'
Mel laughed. Antoine teased her all the time, usually in this silly cod-French. She waited until Mrs Dowries had gone out of the kitchen before answering.
'As we Engleesh say weeth such savoire faire, Bollocks!'
'Mon Dieu,' Antoine raised his eyebrows and backed away from her in mock horror. 'I must tell Mrs Downes what you say, she will not be amused.'
'Come on you escargot,' she laughed. 'Find me something worthwhile to do. Otherwise I'll just go up to my room and watch
Crossroads
and see what they do in real hotels.'
Mel's first year at Oaklands had been so very happy. She was proud to work in such a good hotel. She enjoyed meeting the guests, serving behind the bar, waiting at tables. And she got excellent wages along with generous tips. At night in her lovely room she wallowed in delight at its luxurious perfection and felt absolute security.
There were moments when she sometimes felt constricted by having to watch what she said and how she behaved. She was only twenty-two but had to act and dress in a mature manner. It would be good to have a close friend so she could go out, just occasionally, get roaring drunk and flirt with a few men, and she still found herself thinking about Bee. It was the girlie chats, the sharing of clothes, the helpless giggling she missed. She thought perhaps she always would.
Sometimes, hiding her past was a trial. Too often in the bar she'd overhear some old bore piously discussing something sensational in the newspapers and it was all she could do not to jump in with both feet and tell them not to believe everything they read. She had found that rich and successful people were often the most mean-spirited; their wealth didn't necessarily give them wisdom or tolerance. There were times she ached for more inspiring conversations, for someone as irreverent as Aiden Murphy to walk in and make her laugh. But when these thoughts came to her she squashed them and thought of all the good things at Oaklands.
Last December, Antoine had made her a cake for her twenty-second birthday, the first she'd had since she was seven or eight. On Christmas morning she found a small stuffed stocking hanging on the knob of her door and, when she thanked Magnus, he pretended to know nothing about it, laughingly upbraiding her for not believing in Santa Claus.
His real present down under the tree with the other staff presents, was a bottle of Estee Lauder Youth Dew. But as much as she liked that, the stocking pleased her more. It made her feel like one of his children.
She felt sad for him that none of them came for Christmas. Sophie arrived with her husband, Michael, for the New Year, but Stephen and Nicholas both cried off with other engagements.
There were times too, particularly during the winter, when she thought about love, and wondered if it would ever come her way again. Even if she had been allowed to date any of the men who came into the bar, none of them were her type.
Yet when she read in the papers about Bloody Sunday in Londonderry and the first cases of international terrorism which were to become a regular feature in the news during 1972, she was glad she was here, cut off from the real world.
In March she watched a green haze slowly creep into the valley as spring arrived. Each afternoon she'd put on a coat and explore the grounds, marvelling at the thousands of daffodils. She thought of Bee again as she picked a few, took them up to her room and placed them in the window.
Then spring turned to summer. Great clumps of purple wisteria quivered in the gentle breezes just outside the wide open windows, the roses bloomed and their smell wafted into the house. The cover was taken off the open-air swimming pool, and daily more people turned up for lunch out on the terrace, or to doze on sunbeds like lizards. But even on wet days Oaklands was beautiful. She could have the grounds to herself in the afternoons, wandering through the woods, listening to the peaceful sound of rain on leaves, smelling the good clean earth.
But now it was autumn again – the Virginia creeper on the house a fiery red, the trees on either side of the drive turning gold, brown, russet and yellow. She'd had a whole year of happiness here. But what had made it even more special was her growing certainty that Magnus was her real father.
On the day she fell off the stepladder when dressing the Christmas tree, she found they had a similar sense of humour. On Christmas Day when she discovered the stocking hanging on her door, she saw Magnus's tender side. AH through the winter and spring her respect for him had grown as she watched how hard he worked, how fair he was with his staff, how caringly he looked after his guests. But it wasn't until one warm afternoon back in July that liking, respect, awe and admiration all came together and she realised that what she felt for this gruff, headstrong man, was love.
Mel had put on shorts and a tee shirt intending to walk down to the post office in the village, but she knew Magnus had been working out in the woods since ten in the morning without even a drink, so she decided to take him some of Antoine's homemade lemonade and a couple of chicken sandwiches first.
As she picked her way through the dense undergrowth, towards the sound of his chainsaw, she saw him up ahead in a clearing. He was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of faded khaki shorts and stout boots. Despite his age his body was as hard and muscular as a young man's, tanned the colour of old pine. He didn't hear her coming over the noise of the machine and Mel smiled at his youthful energy as he attacked the dense shrubbery, pausing every now and then to drag out the cut branches, tossing them onto a huge pile behind him.
'I thought you might like some refreshments,' she called out when she was close enough. 'That looks like thirsty work.'
He turned in surprise, his face dripping with sweat. 'Bless you, Mel,' he said, putting the saw down and taking a handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his face. 'I've been dying of thirst for well over an hour, but I was loath to go back to the house until I got this finished.'
He sat down on a fallen tree trunk and took the bottle of lemonade eagerly, drinking it so fast some of it trickled down his chin and onto his chest.
'You shouldn't work so hard,' she said reprovingly. 'Surely the groundsmen could do this?'
'Hard manual work has special rewards,' he said, smiling boyishly at her. 'It's far more satisfying than getting stuck into a pile of paperwork.'
His face, chest and arms were covered in small scratches, and his hair was sprinkled with burrs and bits of leaves. But his eyes were very bright. He looked supremely happy.
Mel sat with him as he ate the sandwiches. They talked about the people who'd been in for lunch and some guests who were expected later that evening. But when he'd finished eating she got up to go. 'I'd better leave you in peace.'
'Don't go yet,' he said unexpectedly. 'We never seem to have much time for talking. I've been meaning to ask you if you're happy here, and about your plans for the future.'
Mel sat down again. 'I've been happier here than I've ever been,' she said truthfully. 'I don't make plans for the future, but this is everything I ever wanted.'
'You are an odd girl, Mel.' He smiled and she saw affection in his eyes. 'I thought you'd soon get bored when you found out our guests were all old fuddy-duddies. Don't you sometimes yearn for a few people your own age?'
'Not often.' She laughed lightly, thinking of some of her old hippie friends back in Ibiza. She did miss that comradeship and the fun, but she knew that it was superficial. 'I feel complete here, at peace.'
'I wish my children had your tranquillity,' he sighed deeply. 'It's a strange thing Mel, and probably very disloyal of me, but sometimes I feel closer to you than to them.'
'My mother used to say it was a pity we couldn't choose our parents,' Mel said thoughtfully. 'She didn't think much of hers. I suppose it's the same with children. You might love them, but you don't necessarily like them.'
Magnus laughed softly, as if this struck a chord. 'Ruth used to say "We're stuck with our relations, thank God for friends." I suppose that amounts to the same thing. I never had anything in common with my older brothers. Stephen and Sophie seem very like them sometimes.' He stood up, raking the debris he'd cut back into a heap. Mel began to help him, pulling the bigger logs to one side and heaping them up so they could be taken back to the house for firewood. She didn't want to push him about his children, but if she stayed and worked he might confide in her further.
She had found nothing to like in either Sophie or Stephen on their infrequent visits. Since Nicholas hadn't bothered to visit Oaklands in her whole time there, she assumed she'd probably like him even less.