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By Root 526 0

set in gardens fragrant with falling leaves and dying roses. From every parapet Rossi leaned and searched the landscape for some sign of Mr Paganotti’s existence. Once he had been promised he would be taken to the mansion – he had come to work in his best suit – but something had occurred to postpone his visit. He had waited in the outer office for Mr Paganotti to appear, until the secretary had come out shrugging her arms in her modish coat, and told him that Mr Paganotti had already gone. He did not allow himself to think that Mr Paganotti had forgotten – that was not possible. It was simply that he had so many responsibilities, so many cares – he had been summoned away with no time to explain. He had rehearsed how he would behave the following day when Mr Paganotti sought him out and apologised. He would raise his hand like a drawbridge and tell him no explanation was needed. Between men of business, excuses were unnecessary. He waited a long time at his desk, his hand flat against his breast, but even on the Friday when he went to receive his wages Mr Paganotti said nothing.

Freda was irritated when Vittorio corrected every item of information she gave him about the history of the castle. She understood, but she hated him for it. He was like her in temperament, conscious that he was mortal and determined to have the last word. She fell silent and was genuinely upset that the State Apartments were closed.

‘It’s obvious,’ said Brenda. ‘If the flag’s flying, she’s here.’

A group of Americans, pork-pie hats jammed securely on their cropped heads, pulled out identical cameras from leather containers, and focussed as one man on the statue of King Charles on his horse.

‘She’s in London,’ said Freda.

‘No here,’ Vittorio said firmly, striding ahead of her like some monk of ancient times, the hood of his duffel coat about his head.

‘If she wasn’t here,’ said Brenda persistently, ‘we could look round her rooms and things. That’s why it’s closed.’

‘Shut up,’ Freda said. She didn’t see it made any difference whether the Queen was in or out. Nobody actually saw her rooms. It stood to reason that State Apartments were separate. It wasn’t as if they were going to catch her doing a bit of dusting.

The Gallery was closed too and the Dolls’ House. ‘Every bloody thing is closed,’ she thought. ‘I might as well give up.’ The antiquity of her surroundings began to have a depressing effect upon her. What did it matter if Henry VIII had fallen in love all those times and lusted and eaten enormous meals? He was dead now and mouldered. She was further annoyed that she had to let Vittorio pay 15p for her to go into the Chapel. It was degrading, and it made it more difficult to ask him to pay for her ciggies. She stared gloomily at the carved gargoyles above the doorway, the swan and the hart and the dragon, and followed him inside.

The goggling tourists, the orange bars of the electric fires placed in strategic corners, robbed the place of solemnity. Above their heads, circled with motes of dust, stone angels spread their wings and folded pious hands.

‘I want to go home,’ said Freda, echoing Brenda several hours earlier.

‘Isn’t it smashing,’ Brenda replied, fearful that Rossi had overheard. She sought Freda’s hand and held it, trying to comfort her.

‘That’s Italian, isn’t it, Rossi?’ asked Freda. She pointed at an inscription on the wall. ‘What’s it say?’

He studied it carefully. ‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘it is the Latin.’

Ave lumen oculorum

Liberator languidorum

Dentium angustia

‘Hail bright eyes,’ said Brenda unexpectedly. ‘Sleepy liberator … bent anguish.’

‘What’s that mean?’ asked Freda.

‘It is the sufferers from toothache,’ explained Vittorio; and Brenda felt it was an omen. Here, far from the farm and the absent Stanley, someone was caring for her teeth. Is it really, she wondered, trooping round the Chapel, holding Freda’s hand in her own? Just thinking about it brought her down a flight of steps with a twinge of pain at the back of her jaw. She winced and stared intently at the warm pink stone ahead of her. They