The China Garden

Chapter 3

'I thought you were born in London!' Clare exclaimed.

But her mother was turning between two pillars, set in the gold-lichened boundary wall. There was no name carved in the stone, no big triumphal arch suggesting a country mansion and powerful, important people, just iron gates standing open, and tucked away behind the wall, a small lodge cottage, buried in tassels of wisteria.

As they went past Clare caught a glimpse of a face looking at them between pink geraniums. Frances slowed and tooted the car horn, and then drove on without stopping.

'Who was that?'

'Mrs. Anscomb, Mr. Aylward's Housekeeper. Seventy-seven years old last birthday. She's worked here since she was fourteen.'

'She was expecting us. The gates were already open. How did she know when we'd get here?' Clare craned round and saw the woman walk out to close the gates. She was staring after the car. Then, as Clare watched, startled, she clasped her hands over her head and hopped about shaking them like a triumphant footballer.

'Did you see that?' Clare said, amazed. 'What was that all about?  Are you sure they're not a bunch of loonies here?'

'Just pleased to see us.' Frances was grinning.

An avenue of great lime trees lined the drive. With the orange afternoon sun glowing through them it was like driving into a cloudburst of golden light. Clare suddenly felt a tremendous lift of spirits, a surge of energy. For the first time in months she felt a loosening of the strain she had been under as she worked for her exams and tried to decide on her future.

The lime avenue snaked its way through rich parkland, dotted with huge oak trees, gnarled and twisted, spreading umbrellas of leaves over the sheep lying under them.

Clare sat forward. 'I've never seen tree trunks this big. The trees are fantastic.'

'Oaks mostly. And beech, ash, sweet chestnut, all sorts. Old Edward Richard Aylward planted forty thousand trees in the seventeen thirties but the oaks were here before that. All the Aylwards have been great tree planters.'

Clare said idly, without thinking, 'To hide Ravensmere. Why do they want to keep people out? What are they guarding?'

The car swerved. Her mother shot a sideways glance at her. 'What made you say that?'

But Clare had seen a flash of red behind a copse. 'Look, deer. Red deer.'

'There's been a herd here for four hundred years, maybe more. They're very tame.You can go right up to them.'

Clare felt a tingling sense of excitement. There was a magic in this place that she hadn't expected, an atmosphere which it seemed she had once known and could recognize, like a remembered perfume.

'How big is this place exactly?' she asked, when they were still driving after a few minutes. 'It's much larger than I thought.'

There was a fork in the drive with a black iron signpost with gold letters. The right arm said 'House', the other said 'Garden Shop, Stables, Herb and Physick Garden, Refreshments'.

Clare said, 'Refreshments?'

'We have a cafe in the Orangery when the House is open to the public on Thursday afternoons.'

'We?'

Colour stained Frances' cheeks and she didn't answer.

Clare said, 'Why only Thursday afternoons?'

'I told you, the Aylwards like their privacy. I suppose they don't want too many visitors.'

'Why open at all, then?'

'Clare, there are a lot of ancient and...well, strange...things at Ravensmere. Mr. Aylward gets pestered by antiquarian societies, archaeologists, all sorts of people, for special visits. It would look odd if he didn't let them in at all.'

'People might start to ask awkward questions?'

Frances took the left turn with relief.

Clare said, 'The proles go to the left. With all this you'd think he'd be more than just a mister - a 'Sir' at least.'

'He is. Edward Eldon Aylward, Seventeenth Earl of Ravensmere, KCBE, VC, DSC, DFC.'

'An earl! You didn't tell me that! What on earth do I call him?'

'You don't call him anything. You stay strictly away from him. Is that clear, Clare? He's a sick man. He won't want to be bothered with visitors. Anyway, he doesn't use his title. He prefers to be called Mr. Aylward.'

'That's odd. Why doesn't he use his title?'

'You'll come across a lot of odd things here. Better not to ask too many questions.'

They were driving through a brilliant display of azaleas and flowering shrubs. On a slight rise of ground there was a grand building made of golden stone, with a wide archway in the centre.

Frances turned in under the arch and drew up at the second door along. She leaned on the steering wheel and turned to Clare, her mouth twitching with laughter. 'Well, here we are. The stables.'

'You're joking!'

'Built for the Eighth Earl in 1728. They did their horses proud in those days.'

'Better than their villagers.'

'Oh much!'

Clare got out of the car slowly, staring around the cobbled courtyard. It was quiet and empty. Grass grew between the cobbles and it looked as though it had been there for a long time.

'No horses.'

'There aren't any now. Mr. Aylward keeps his cars here.' Her mother's voice sounded tinny and far away.

Clare suddenly felt very odd, light-headed. She knew the place well, as though she had been here before. She held on to the car door tightly. The air seemed to waver around her.

Surely there should be a row of stable doors on this side instead of the neat Georgian-style front doors? And where was the forge where the horses were shod and the carriages mended? And the tack room and the carriage house itself? She saw with relief that the carriage house was still there at the end, although the great doors were closed and she could see only the barouche through the side window...

Barouche? What on earth was a barouche?

'You're looking very pale, Clare. Are you all right?' Frances' voice penetrated. She was looking at her intently and Clare pulled herself together.

'A bit car sick, maybe.'

'You'll feel better when you've had something to eat. Come on, let's get the car unpacked and I'll cook something.'

Frances unlocked the door and carried in a load of groceries.

For a moment Clare lingered, still shaken. She stared around. The row of garage doors opposite was new too.

But there was something else. She realized she was waiting for something to happen.

The yard was deserted, the stone glowing golden in the early evening light. The place should be filled with the sound of horses' hooves on cobbles, comfortable West Country voices calling out and joking. But it was absolutely quiet. Much too quiet.

Into the silence came a whirring sound, followed by a clear sweet chime. Clare looked up at the clock over the stable arch. It had a black face with elaborate golden figures, surrounded by an enamelled blue band showing the sun, moon and stars, and the signs of the zodiac. There were two doors above the clock. As she watched, one door opened and a figure of a white-robed man framed in a sunburst of gold glided out. His beard and hair curled away from his face and turned into golden leaves. He was holding a long staff, which he raised slowly and jerkily in blessing as the chimes of the hour rang out. Five. Five blessings, she thought, that's what I was waiting for, and at the same moment she felt a soft furriness brushing her legs.

A tortoishell cat was circling her, butting its head against her ankles. Clare squatted down, delighted, and stretched out her hand to let the cat smell her fingers.  It looked up at her and began to purr loudly.

Clare laughed, and the cat allowed her to rub its ears.

'Nice puss. Have you come to say hello to us?'

The cat put its paws on her knee and stretched up, looking earnestly into her face as though it had something urgent to tell her.

Clare murmured to it and stroked the small round head with one finger. It stretched again, imperiously patting her cheek, demanding to be picked up, and she straightened, holding the fragile, living body against her own, feeling the vibration of its purring.  Its pads were cool, slightly abrasive on her supporting hand, and Clare felt the familiar rush of tenderness and love she felt for all small creatures.  Especially she loved cats, but her mother was a dog person, and had never allowed her to have animals of her own because there was nobody at home during the day to look after them.

The cat loudly purred its approval of her quick understanding, and Clare rubbed her chin in its silky fur. Once, long ago, before Adrian, she had thought of being a vet or a doctor. Was her mother right - had she chosen the wrong career?

'I wonder what your name is?' she said to the cat.

'Filthy creature. Half-wild,' a voice said behind her. 'They're alive with fleas you know.'

Clare turned quickly. The man was in his fifties, his thick body carried with self-importance. He was wearing an expensive tweed suit, with the trousers tucked into leather riding boots. He had a heavy, smooth face with a small moustache neatly trimmed. His eyes were dark, but with none of the warmth associated with brown eyes. These were dark as slugs, crawling over her body, coldly assessing her, his full lips stretched in imitation of a jolly smile.

An enemy, Clare's brain told her instantly, and a moment later the cat had arched and sprung from her grasp, spitting at the man before it leapt away on to a water butt and up over the carriage house roof.

Clare wished she could do the same thing. Instead she held down her anger and said evenly, 'Cat fleas don't live on humans. Cats are very clean animals. Cleaner than some humans, especially their minds.' She allowed a disparaging glance to slip over him from his boots to his hair as though she suspected a nasty stain on his underwear and was rewarded with a faint line of red showing along his cheek bones.

She turned away, satisfied. 'Excuse me, I have to unpack the car.'

He said, with a kind of menace, 'Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Roger Fletcher, Mr. Aylward's cousin. I'm the Land Agent. I manage the whole Ravensmere estate.'

Clare straightened. A pompous bully. She said, coolly polite, 'How do you do, Mr. Fletcher?' She held out her hand. 'I'm Clare Meredith. My mother...'

He ignored her hand. 'I know who you are. Frances' daughter. I hope you realize that we've made concessions, allowing you to come here.You'll have to look after yourself, you know. Your mother is being paid to look after Mr. Aylward. Not you.'

Clare seethed with dislike. 'My mother is very conscientious and dedicated, Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Aylward's lucky to get her.'

His eyes moved away from her. 'There is really no need for him to have a nurse. He has his man, Mr. Bristow, and his Housekeeper. If I'd been consulted I'd have advised against it. Totally unnecessary expenditure.'

Mean as well, Clare registered with disgust, and wondered who had sent for her mother. She frowned. 'But isn't Mr. Aylward ill and very old? It must be more comfortable for him to have a trained nurse looking after him.'

'Bristow was managing. There was no need for Frances to come back so dramatically.'

He sounded petulant, Clare thought, like a schoolboy who had been outwitted.

'By the way, a word of advice,' he smiled with false affability. 'Mr. Aylward dislikes visitors. He won't want to see you about the House or gardens. Keep to the park and the stable block and you won't be trespassing.'

Clare felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck lift. What was going on here? First there was her mother warning her off, and now this bully. Why were they both so anxious that she shouldn't meet Mr. Aylward?

She stared at him, and he moved uneasily, brushing invisible dust from his trousers, avoiding her penetrating eyes. People often became uneasy when she looked at them for any length of time, but she was sure, suddenly, that he was lying.

'You've arrived much later than I expected,' he said, fussily. 'Where's your mother? I want a word with her.'

On cue her mother came through the door, saying, 'Clare! What on earth are you...' and stopped dead.

Roger Fletcher said smoothly, smiling like a Rottweiler, 'Good evening, Frances. You've managed to get here at last then. A lot of traffic on the road, no doubt.'

'Good afternoon, Mr. Fletcher. There was, of course, but we took our time. We came early to settle in. I don't actually start work until Monday.' She stretched her lips in a polite, false smile. Clare could feel the dislike radiating from her.

'Mr. Fletcher, Frances? Surely there's no need for such formality? We know each other very well.'

'We did. A long time ago. Clare, take in that...'

'Ah yes. Clare. I was just telling her that as a guest here she should avoid disturbing Mr. Aylward. That she must keep to the park and the stables.'

Clare watched them curiously. They were glaring at each other across the car like stiff-legged dogs about to start a fight. She could feel the tension rising between them. There was something more here than mere dislike.

'It would have been better, perhaps, if you hadn't thought fit to bring her here.' Again there was the underlying menace in his voice.

Frances said tightly, 'Clare will be going up to university in a few weeks. Mr. Aylward knows that my daughter is here with me, Roger. In his letter to me, asking me to come, he particularly suggested she should come too.'

This was news to Clare. She glanced at her mother curiously. Had she forgotten her own warning to stay away from Mr. Aylward?

'If he wants to see her, Roger, I can't stop him.'

The smile was gone from Roger Fletcher's face. The slug eyes gleamed with something not far off violence. 'Be careful, Frances. Everything is arranged very comfortably. I won't let you start any of your witch's tricks. I am in charge of the estate, and when Cousin Edward dies, four thousand five hundred acres of land will be sold for...development. It's all agreed. Unfortunately the development needs to be sited just where the House and the gardens now stand. You've come back, Frances, just in time to see the end of your beloved Ravensmere.'

The gloating in his voice was unmistakable. Frances had gone bone white and her hands on the car had curled up like claws.

Clare was shaken too. She was upset that the beautiful, peaceful countryside they had just driven through could simply disappear. She stared at him, and suddenly a tiny point of light in her mind expanded like a lens into a nightmare vision of a dead land. Pits pocked the dead grey grass between the heaps of industrial waste and puddles of water moved dully under sulphurous-green slime. Discoloured leaves fluttered on the few remaining trees like dying, pleading hands.

She heard her mother saying incredulously, 'You're going to spoil all this with a rash of nasty little houses?' and her mind cleared.  She was over-reacting. Of course the development would be houses and flats and people had to live somewhere, didn't they?

'The country needs energy and new industry.  We need to exploit our resources, develop economically, make wealth and profits. Move with the times, Frances. Move with the times.' Roger Fletcher laughed patronizingly.

It was an argument familiar to Clare. Adrian had taught her to use it, but now, faced with the reality behind the ideas, she was full of doubt. Surely there were plenty of more suitable places that really needed to be developed?

She tried to shake her vision away, feeling queasy. You couldn't stop development. Adrian called it dinosaur thinking. But if you exploited the resources in pursuit of profit until there was nothing left wasn't that just stupidity? Wasn't it like killing the goose that laid the golden eggs?

Clare felt a shift in her thinking, turning her ideas upside-down.

'Wealth and profits for you, Roger. You'll be a very rich man,' Frances said. 'Tell me, does Mr. Aylward know that you are going to sell off Ravensmere?'

'I've discussed it with him. He's a broken man, Frances. Bitter, broken and dying. He doesn't care.' Again that shaft of satisfaction in his voice.

'Then there's no more to be said,' Frances voice was dull. 'Excuse us. We have to unload and unpack.'

'I have to be on my way too. I'll see you at the estate office every Friday morning at nine o'clock, for your weekly report on Mr. Aylward. Good evening.'

He turned away to the stable block arch.

'Insufferable pig,' Frances muttered furiously, and called after him, 'Oh Roger?' He turned and she smiled at him brilliantly. 'How is your wife? I heard you had married out of the area. A woman from Manchester.'

To Clare's surprise, a wave of red moved up his neck darkly. 'That's right.' She could see the suppressed rage mottling his face, wiping away the smiling complacency.

'That's right - from Manchester. Not Stoke Raven. And it doesn't matter a damn. It's all finished. All the rubbishy old customs. All the old legends and stories. All finished and destroyed. You destroyed them yourself, dear Frances. You and Vivienne and Brandon between you.'

He strode through the archway and Frances stared after him. She looked suddenly ten years older, and close to tears.

Clare said, slowly, 'He hates you. And he hates Ravensmere.'

'Yes. I never realized. He asked me to marry him once. He used to stay at Ravensmere in the holidays sometimes. But we never liked him. He was obsessed with money. Always trying to worm his way into Mr. Aylward's good books. Telling tales about B...well, just telling tales. He was a greedy boy and now he's a greedy man. He's after the Aylward money I suppose.'

'He's the heir? He gets Ravensmere?'

Frances stared at Clare. Her eyes widened and went slowly blank, and the strange look that made Clare so uneasy spread like a shadow over her pale skin.

'Only the Guardians inherit.'

Clare said loudly, 'What guardians? What are you talking about? He said it was all arranged.'

A second later the stable clock chimed the half-hour, and Frances' eyes cleared, but she looked even paler, almost distraught. 'I've been wrong, Clare. Roger Fletcher mustn't inherit. I didn't understand the extent of the danger. Oh God, it's all going to have to start again.'

At some time during the night, a sound woke Clare from the deep exhausted sleep she had fallen into as soon as her head had touched the pillow - something unexpected, ripping up the night air. She lay for a moment, disorientated in the unfamiliar room, trying to identify the sound. Whatever it was had stopped now. She turned over to go back to sleep and froze. There was somebody out there. Somebody was walking lightly, quietly, on the cobbles of the stable yard. As clearly as she could see him, she knew he was staring up at her window.

Not Roger Fletcher. Not a burglar. She knew that too. She slid out of bed and padded to the window, almost as if she was drawn by some sort of power she did not understand.

He was there, dark and shadowy, very tall, leaning on the stable arch. He was staring directly at her. She could see the faint gleam of his eyes in his starlit face. For an endless moment she stared back, pushing the mass of her long dark hair slowly away from her face, then the stable clock began to chime midnight and he had gone.

She leaned against the wall away from the window, her heart pounding in her throat. He couldn't be real. She must be dreaming that dream again. He was the same dark figure who had been hunting her through her dreams before she decided to come to Ravensmere.

To be continued....                 

Copyright Liz Berry 2002. All rights reserved.

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