We creep down the half-lit corridor; Leo is silent now and I feel like a burglar.
The door on my right is ajar and I peer in. It’s a kitchen of sorts but I think it might be part of the museum. The room is enormous and work surfaces run all the way round apart from under the window where a gleaming white porcelain sink straddles two scrubbed wooden draining boards, and in the middle of the far wall where an impressive old range squats, immovable and ancient.
I gesture for Leo to follow me in. Whether it’s part of the museum or not, there’s a big kitchen table in the middle and we can sit there to eat our cereal.
The work surfaces are all white enamel, scratched with age and the elbow grease that years of cooks must have used to clean it. The edges are blue where they curl over onto the wooden cupboards below. It must be the best part of a hundred years old – I’ve never seen anything like it. I knock lightly on the surface to check it’s really made of metal. It is.
Pots and pans hang on the wall and from the clothes airer on the ceiling: there are jelly moulds and vast copper tureens, shined and buffed ready to feed a hundred hungry dinner guests. Huge spoons and ladles hang from a row of hooks by the cooker like something from a fairy tale. These are the very tools you’d use to cook Hansel and Gretel.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, Araminta, good morning. I didn’t expect to see you this early.’
She looks at the cereal box I’ve just taken from Leo; the very worst of pink marshmallow and tooth rot, and I swear her lip curls. ‘So I see.’
‘I’m making the breakfast.’ Leo beams at her with his disarming smile. ‘This is birthday cereal.’
‘He usually has to have a healthy breakfast unless it’s his birthday.’ I’m talking too fast because Araminta makes me nervous. It’s like I’m back at school, being reprimanded by the headmistress.
‘It looks very . . .’ She swallows. ‘. . . tasty.’
‘Have you got a bowl, Mrs Minta? Would you like some? There is nearly a whole boxful.’ Leo offers her the box and I want the kitchen to open up and swallow me.
‘I’ve had my breakfast, thank you, Leo.’
I attempt to lighten the mood. ‘This kitchen is amazing. How old is it?’
‘It was all completely refurbished in 1918,’ says Araminta. ‘When Colonel Hugo married.’
‘So it’s part of the museum?’ It starts to make sense. I run my fingers along the work surface. The whole thing is in incredible condition. The nicks of knife cuts and the odd missing flake of enamel are testament to the work that must have gone on in here back in its heyday.
‘Not at all, it’s the kitchen. The public have no access.’ She gives me a look which shows that she thinks ‘public’ ought to include me. ‘All Colonel and Lady Lyons-Morris’s meals were made in here right up until they passed away.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, though I didn’t know Richard’s grandparents and have no idea how Araminta may have felt about them.
‘The range was replaced in the 1950s.’ Araminta says it as casually as if she were telling me that the wallpaper was done last week. That still makes it seventy years old.
‘Does it work?’ I ask.
‘Perfectly.’ She walks across the room and opens the door of the tall fridge. ‘The fridge didn’t arrive until the 1970s. They used the larder and the garden ice house until then.’
Araminta clearly knows a lot about the place. She’s also definitely in charge.
‘Can I have more?’ Leo has finished his first bowl of cereal. He’s managed to keep the milk in the bowl and any extra bits that have fallen on the table have been scooped up and into his mouth.
‘Half a one,’ I say. ‘Is this the kitchen Leo and I will use?’
‘Yes,’ says Araminta, and I’m sure she and I are both aware that she doesn’t bother to add, ‘Make yourself at home.’
I wonder how on earth I’m ever going to work the cooker but, for now, I’m not going to show any fear. ‘Smashing. Is there some cupboard space for our things?’
‘I’ve cleared this one for you.’ She bends down and opens one small cupboard on the side of a wooden dresser. It will just about fit four tins of beans and a packet of pasta.
I nod. ‘And our plates? Cups and stuff ?’
‘Everything you will need is here.’ ‘Here’ is a dresser full of exquisite china. Every plate faces forward with a little bowl, saucer and teacup arrangement in front of it. The pattern is pale green and intricate. ‘This service was made for your husband’s great grandfather.’
‘It’s lovely.’ I feel like laughing at the absurdity of it. ‘It’s lovely but it’s not really suitable for us to use.’ By ‘us’, I mean Leo.
‘Every generation of Lyons-Morris has used it since then.’ Araminta bows her head at the gravity of it. The gravity I imagine when I think of Leo and her precious plates is a different sort.
Araminta has been arranging dainty pieces of cheese and ham on one of the china side plates. She takes it out into the corridor and opens the back door. I can hear her calling a cat or something.
‘You feed your cat cheese?’ I try to make light conversation, talk about something that might make her happy.
Even before she answers, I know. I think of the shiny red fur, the healthy plump softness with the life knocked out of it.
‘I feed a little fox.’
I scramble to change the subject before Leo loses interest in the cereal. I feel physically sick. ‘Do you have far to come to the museum?’ I ask her, praying that the answer will be yes.
‘I live here,’ Araminta says and smiles without moving her cheeks. ‘My apartment is down the hall from yours. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a museum to open.’
We have navigated away from the fox, from the accident, from what – effectively – is a lie.
Leo, clearly sensing that I’m distracted, pours himself another bowl of cereal.
Chapter Four
From: Simon Henderson
To: Cate Morris
Subject: More things in heaven and earth, Horatio
Mail: Well done. It must have been so hard packing up your old life and arriving in such a very strange land. There’s so much to love about Hatters but I admit it’s an unusual place. I first went there when I was about 18, when I first met Rich, and I fell head over heels in love with it. It’s probably responsible for the fact that I spend most of my life underwater sucking microscopic bugs into high-tech pooters. There are some crazy things in the collection.
Secondly, I’m glad you’ve arrived – even if you’re not (yet). Hatters was very much a part of Rich – as hard as he kicked against it – very much a part of who he was. I miss him a lot this evening, thinking about you guys, so I’m having a beer, watching the sunset, and wishing we were all at Hatters together. No one knew the secrets of that place like Rich, although you did have to winkle the information out of him with a stick. I learnt a lot about Rich by being there – I think you will too.
Kisses to Leo, hugs to you, you’ll be grand.
Sx
I only see Simon’s email because my phone is in my hand as I scroll through correspondence looking for the solicitor’s direct line. Her PA fudges for a while but I don’t give in. I can hear the steel in my voice that warns I’ll call all day if necessary.