Chapter 2
The Manor was once a smart Georgian house, set squarely in its own grounds, a few hundred yards back from the sea. It rests in a slight dip, so the sea is partly obscured and can only be seen from the upper floors of the house. A gentle slope on the south west side rises up to a low headland. Looking the other way you can see the Clavell Tower overlooking the bay. The Tower was built in the 19th century as a folly by a previous owner of the Manor, but the land on which the Tower was built was long ago sold off together with the Tower itself. The Manor was bought by Sir Christopher Harding, Ollie’s great great grandfather, in the early part of the 20th century and has stayed in the family up to the death of Ollie’s grandfather in 2015. Cathy his grandmother, now 70 but still in robust health, decided that the time had come to clear the family debts and trade in a liability for some cash and the comfort of a cottage nearer to the village to spend her remaining years in. She sold it to a small hotel group, along with all of the furniture, and paintings, and a collection of silverware and other antique junk, as she called it. She said that she did not care what they did with the place, and she hasn’t been back to find out. They converted it, turning the stables, courtyard and adjoining cottage into additional rooms and building on a restaurant and gym. The style is of a comfortable but smart family house, where you might leave your wellies at the back door when you come in for tea after walking in the hills. Inside is all wooden beams and William Morris.
Cathy’s cottage is too small for Ollie to stay in, so she has booked him into the Manor. “It wouldn’t be fitting for you to stay anywhere else. You can tell me what they have done with it.”
The visit was arranged at the funeral of Ollie’s father and Cathy’s son, Philip, who died a few weeks earlier from lung cancer after a short and distressing illness. The funeral had been held on a wet day at a rather sad dark church in South London, and the guests had returned to the house where Ollie lived with Philip and his mother, Debbie. Cathy had taken Ollie to one side with a glint and a smile and had dropped hints of an inheritance, something of value rescued from the Manor, her only surviving descendant, something that the tax man didn’t need to know about. She had made him promise to come and visit. Now, cold and tired and in need of a shower and a beer, Ollie wonders why he agreed.
There is no proper reception desk at the Manor, just a table in the panelled hall attended by a smart couple, both in their 20s both wearing chinos and blue and white striped shirts, sitting in mismatched wooden chairs next to a laptop. Ollie checks in, the process modern and electronic, contrasting with the large old fashioned key attached to a piece of leather bearing the name of his room which is produced from a drawer. He is taken up the main staircase to one of the old rooms at the front of the house. It is large, with a four poster bed, a polished wooden floor, and a complementary bottle of mineral water next to a small decanter of sherry. At the end of the bed facing into the room is a comfortable red sofa with a low table, and in the corner at an angle a widescreen TV, looking out of place amongst the wood and the chintz. The minibar and tea-making equipment are discretely hidden in a fake chest of drawers. A bathroom has been carved out of the original room, with a large free-standing bath and a reed mat. The view from the large windows looks out over the drive at the front of the building. Ollie remembers coming here as a boy, and marvelling at the size of the rooms, that one house, one family, could have so much space.
Ollie dumps his bag on the bed, and looks around the room. There is a large family portrait by the door which he didn’t notice when he came in. The portrait is above a small table with a telephone and desk pad. He turns on a spotlight over the picture, bringing to life a slightly strange family scene. It is a family group of four people, two adults, a man and a woman, and two teenage girls, painted he guesses in the 1960s or 1970s in a modern, bold style, with clear lines marking the figures and blocks of colour. The figures are almost cartoonish, stylised. The adults stand at the back, the two girls are seated, all wearing evening clothes. They are in a smart room, perhaps a drawing room, but the features of the room are blurred, unfinished, as you look to the edges of the painting. The woman, unmistakably the mother of the girls, is perhaps in her mid 50s wearing a long ivory dress, her hair swept back revealing pearl drop earrings but no other jewellery. She stands slightly to one side looking with grey-blue eyes straight at the painter without a hint of a smile. The man is younger, and more relaxed, with slicked-back hair and a neat moustache. He is standing behind the elder daughter, resting his hand gently on her shoulder. She looks less comfortable, looking out of the picture as if there is something interesting to watch over the shoulder of the painter. She is 18, or perhaps a bit older, and wearing a formal dress and a double string of pearls around her neck. The younger sister, perhaps 15 years old, is in the middle of the picture wearing a pink party dress, beaming straight out at you; and you have a sense that there is something troubling the other members of the family that she is unaware of. Ollie looks at the picture for some minutes. It makes him uncomfortable, but he can’t look away. His eyes are drawn in particular to the older daughter. What is she looking at? What is she concerned about? There is no detail in the expressions, the artist has created the images with a few bold lines characteristic of the style, but the mood is unmistakable.
Ollie frowns, trying to place the group. His grandmother is now in her 70s, so this could be a family group from her childhood. He finds it hard to imagine his grandmother as a teenager, but the resemblance is clear – you can see in the younger girl the woman she would grow into. His details of the family history are a bit vague, he knows that she had an older sister but wasn’t there a brother as well? And her father had died young. Were these her parents, his great grandparents, or had her mother remarried?
He finds himself a beer in the fridge and rings his grandmother to let her know that he has arrived.
“Which room have they put you in? Are you in the old house?”
“Yes, I’m in one of the large rooms at the front, just at the top of the main staircase, overlooking the front entrance.”
“Oh yes, your grandfather’s room. They’ll have done it up I expect.”
“ It’s nice, the whole place is smart but relaxed, not fussy.”
“I know they have spent a lot of money, kept some of the villagers employed. Perhaps I’ll come over and see it myself. They’ll do afternoon tea I’m sure.”
“Did you leave the furniture and the pictures behind? Everything feels as if it is in its place. There are some hunting scenes in the hall which I think I remember. The hall has been turned into a rather informal reception.”
“Yes, they bought the lot. I was pleased to get rid of them, it was mainly just junk. The valuable pieces had already been sold off.” She says this with distaste in her mouth, as if it was someone else who has sold off family heirlooms.
“So there’s a painting in the room that’s rather striking. Two adults, two girls. Is it you when you were young?” There is a pause on the line. “Are you OK? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes. I remember the picture. The two girls are sitting, the adults standing behind.”
“Yes. The father’s hand is on the older girl’s shoulder.”
“I don’t remember that, but I only saw it a couple of times. Mother didn’t like it and it was put away. But he isn’t my father. I am the younger girl, I was about 15 I think. Alice was my older sister. Father had died by then, it was painted to celebrate Mother’s engagement to Harry. It must have been in 1960 or 1961. It was painted by a friend of Harry’s, I can’t remember his name, someone quite well known I think. Anyway, I haven’t got time to chat now I was making you a cake when you called. I’m glad you got down all right. Will you come over in the morning?”
“Whenever you like.” He smiles. “I’m not doing anything else.”
“Come at 10.00. It takes me longer to get up these days. I’ll tell you why I’ve dragged you down here.”
“OK. See you at 10.00.”
Ollie ends the call and unpacks his few things. He doesn’t want to eat at the hotel, and he remembers passing a pub in the village. He puts on his jacket and heads out of the room. He looks again at the picture as he passes it. He flicks off the spotlight, and as he does so he notices a gleam on the face of Alice, the older girl. He walks up to it, it looks as if there is a drop of water on the surface, the face of the girl is damp. Looking more closely he realises that it isn’t on the canvas but in the picture, she is clearly crying. There are a couple of tears running down one cheek that he didn’t notice before and her eyes are redder than he remembers. Perhaps the light has changed? Or the angle? But the tears are clearly there, and there is a sadness in the picture that he didn’t feel before. He shivers and shrugs his shoulders, and turns away. Then he has a thought and takes out his phone, puts the spotlight on again and takes a photograph of the picture, and a couple of the room.