One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [5]
That had been the Monday, and the sudden illumination had silenced my friend spectacularly. On the Friday, however, as we rattled off the M40 and onto the main road into Thame, she returned doggedly to her theme.
‘Will he come and stay, d’you think? Ivan?’ Her face was pure innocence, but her mouth twitched provocatively. She made a show of studying the road.
I pretended to give this due consideration, determined not to rise. ‘Why not?’ I said airily. ‘He might.’
She sniggered into the dashboard. ‘God, I can just see Laura’s face. And your mother’s.’
Even my sang-froid wobbled a bit at this, but I held my nerve.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said lightly. ‘They want me hitched. They’ll be delighted I’ve got a boyfriend at all. Probably be all over me.’
‘Until they meet him,’ she grinned, shooting me a look. Her eyes widened at my stony face. ‘Don’t give me that look, Hattie. You know very well I’m deeply jealous and would give my eyeteeth to have an Ivan, but I can’t help feeling a little bit of schadenfreude at your family’s reaction. Oh my God – your brother!’ She turned a hundred and eighty degrees and took a hand off the wheel. Clutched her mouth. ‘Isn’t he a vicar?’
‘MAGGIE!’ I screamed, grabbing the dashboard as, in a blare of horns, the whole cab was illuminated by flashing lights behind.
‘Bastard,’ she muttered, as yet another outraged lorry driver hurtled past, fist shaking, mouth a dark hole. I could tell she was shaken, though.
‘Surely we’re nearly there?’ she snapped, distracted from her train of thought, gripping the shuddering wheel. ‘I thought you said they were just off this main road, but no one ever mentioned it?’ She scanned the surrounding scenery. ‘Said everyone sat sipping Pimm’s on the lawn, seemingly oblivious to the thunderous roar of traffic?’
‘They do. In fact Hugh’s planning a waterfall in the river to drown it out. Oh – here, quick, hang a left.’
‘A water feature!’ said Maggie gleefully, hitting the brakes and spinning the wheel at the last minute. ‘They’ll be putting decking on the terrace next. Down here? My, but this is grand. Is this really their drive?’
It was. We’d shot through a pair of white gateposts flashing in the hedgerow and down a slip of tarmac, which plunged like an arrow, straight through an avenue of pollarded limes. The trees appeared to be holding hands facing us, their topiary branches pruned to cling. Wide grassy verges were mown neatly at their feet. Beyond, behind the post-and-rail fence, green fields spread flatly into the distance, and creamy cattle grazed.
‘Almost French,’ said Maggie, surprised. ‘I mean the avenue. The whole setting, in fact. They’ve even got the Charolais cows.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, pleased she’d noticed. I kept quiet, letting her take it all in.
‘Keep going?’ She’d slowed down for a little humpback bridge at the bottom.
‘Yes, over the river. You see it runs in front of the house, which is unusual, isn’t it? Normally in England the lawn runs down to the river at the back.’
‘Does it now. Funnily enough I’m not terribly au fait with the layout of the grand country houses of England. Most of my friends live in Croydon. Where’s the house then?’
‘You don’t see it until – oh, take the left fork.’ She obediently swung the wheel as I pointed. As the drive divided sharply, the house loomed up before us.
‘Oh!’ She stared.
‘What?’ I demanded, keen to know, but not to prompt.
‘It could be a château.’
Out of a clearing in a bank of trees along the flat valley floor, the Abbey rose up, its stone façade the colour of Dijon mustard. It was long and flat centrally, but had towers at either end, their conical slate roofs tapering sharply. Laura, when she’d first seen it, had wondered if, like Rapunzel, she’d be expected to let loose her blonde hair from one of those high windows as she sat spinning in an attic room. Dozens of windows flashed at us now in the evening sunlight, perhaps in welcome, perhaps not.
‘Exactly. Albeit a rather titchy château. But