‘May I assist you, Miss?’ he asked, as the two of us walked into the hallway.
‘No, no, thank you. I’m just going to the library.’
‘Did I hear you saying you were going to listen to the radio, Miss?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no radio in the library, Miss.’ He paused. ‘I can walk to the village later for a newspaper if that would suffice?’
‘No, no,’ I sighed. ‘I’ll be fine. I might even read a book, who knows?’
Rule 5: Control is very important. Be careful of those who hold the lead too tight, they might just strangle you.
THE LADY WHO DOES
‘Everyone must have a lady who does.’ One of Mother’s many mantras. She has a mantra for every aspect of life that requires hard work. For instance, ‘You should dine out at least three times a week.’ The rest, of course, is always amply provided for by ready meals. Mother’s freezer is colour-coded based on Farrow and Ball’s colour chart — ranging from grey through to beige and a kind of green-based slurry for ‘healthy’ days.
As far as the house is concerned, for as long as I can remember, Mother has had a revolving door of cleaners and various housekeepers, regularly fired for incompetence. No one ever lasts more than a couple of months. It’s as if she doesn’t want anyone getting to know us or our house too well. We once had a whole gang who came tooled up with Henrys, heavy-duty Marigolds and thick butcher’s aprons giving the impression to the neighbourhood that we were either being fumigated or a murder had occurred in our home, neither of which was pleasing to Mother given that Dad had just passed away.
Mrs Angel, however, was a real housekeeper. Or at least, she certainly gave the impression of being utterly in control of every aspect of Ambergris Towers. Her soft hair was lined neatly across her head in silvery coils. There was a hint of powder, but for conformity rather than beauty. Her sturdy brown leather brogues and thick support tights told of a woman accustomed to standing. She had the unshakeable strength and poise of a monarch — hands clasped before her, body unswayed, mind in perfect harmony. There was no reaction to our presence other than a slow blink and a well-practised, ‘Good morning, ladies.’ It was as if a state dignitary had arrived — the Lady of the Manor. I suddenly had the urge to curtsey until Mother gently kicked me in the shin.
The housekeeper conducted the tour immaculately. But still, it was excruciating in its detail. No one listened to any of it, except for the gory bits where generations ago there had been civil war, murders and vile deaths in the beds we now occupied. The children she spoke of seemed to live unnaturally short and painstakingly dull lives — although this could have been more a feature of Mrs Angel’s delivery which was unfailingly monotone. She seemed to glide through as if nothing could shake her. Dead master in his bed? Not a problem, she would just close the curtains as if closing her eyelids to the morning sun. A rattlesnake in the lavatory? Easily despatched with the household cane that, of course, disguised his Lordship’s rapier.
‘Bloody cold, though,’ Mirabelle moaned.
Mrs Angel fixed her with a stare. ‘Although the rooms might seem chilly to a member of the middle classes used to central heating and cheap prints, Madam, I’m sure you’ll be completely familiar with the effect of overheating a house containing valuable oil paintings.’
Mirabelle stared open mouthed. If she had a tail, she would have wedged it firmly between her legs and crawled away. In fact, I can’t guarantee that Mirabelle doesn’t have one somewhere in those ill-fitting slacks. I watched her grip Mother’s arm in that overfamiliar way she has that somehow steps over the boundary of friendship into a darker impression that she might in some way be controlling her.
The tour culminated in the gardens (not garden) designed around a Capability Brown concept, with more follies than a wayward politician. This landscape had the superficial appearance of an elegant stately garden and yet it was all somewhat faded. A sallow air seemed to weave around it. Not far beyond the main house, the topiary was a little unkempt, the grass too long and unweeded. Diseased trees had been left to fall or hollow out, creating new colonies of fungi among the febrile rot. Nature was clawing at the edges of this vanishing kingdom. Where conformity had once ruled, messy life was breaking free. Soon the land would take this back and swallow all their worldly goods. Perhaps that’s how it should be. All things must pass and return to the soil.
Less looked weak by the end of our journey and excused herself for her usual meditation/sleep/bath/self-absorption/joint. The sky aged and took on a new wilted, colourless quality. Each of us felt a cool shiver of wind cross our skin.
‘Let’s go in and have luncheon,’ Mother said.
‘And then we can start discussing the book.’ Bridget trotted primly through the doors with her dog on the leash, both their noses held high.
Mrs Angel closed her eyes and nodded. She was as solemn as the pewter sky. She’d have made an excellent mourner — one of those paid ones or perhaps an extra in a film. Mourner Number One.
It was after luncheon, which didn’t seem any different to lunch, that the first soft swirl of snow began. The feathery flakes landed in a silent warning not to come outside again.
We settled into the slightly less uncomfortable sofas in the sitting room. There’d been a feeble discussion of the book that quickly dissolved into various intrigues involving neighbours and soap opera characters, which dovetailed so neatly it was hard to tell who was real and who was fictional. But as the afternoon drew on, we gathered quietly round the fire and clutched our teacups with a new wariness.
This was no longer a pastiche of the winter country estate. The fierce fire was a necessity, not an adornment. The heavy velvet curtains murmured at the edges as the wind built.
Mrs Angel entered, holding her hands firmly together in front of her. ‘You will be dining at eight.’ She had a remarkably elegant way of issuing a question as though it was a command.
Mother was having none of it. ‘That will be satisfactory,’ she stated firmly. Before Mrs Angel could glide away, Mother took another loud breath. ‘Will there be a menu for our perusal?’
I don’t think I’d ever heard Mother use the word perusal before. Clearly she felt it added gravitas to the situation. Mother only ever feels the need to add gravitas when she thinks she’s on the back foot. Dad used to laugh at her adopted grandeur. It infuriated her as only he could.
When Mother feels the need to over-vocabularize with a complete stranger, you know it’s going to be tense. That’s the thing with people unused to staff — they are suspicious of them. No one, except for Mother, could have been suspicious of Mrs Angel, but with her streak of petty snobbery, Mother felt that an old woman who was paid to clean should not be the captain of the ship. Generations of aristocracy emerged unscathed from handing over the real reins to Nanny, followed by housekeepers and butlers galore, but women like Mother would never bow to the Lady Who Does. Mother has just never learned to let go of the reins. My therapist says she’s never learned to relinquish control. He says this from experience. He’s Mother’s therapist as well. He does a cheaper rate for two. It does make me wonder what he passes on about me to Mother. I often feed him useless information just to mess with Mother’s head. Which seems only fair as I know she does the same with me and pays him extra when she wants him to persuade me something is a good idea.