Читать книгу A Year at Meadowbrook Manor - Faith Bleasdale - Страница 6

‘Wow, Meadowbrook,’ Harriet Singer breathed, as she smoothed her black Prada jacket and stepped out of the car onto the driveway of Meadowbrook Manor, her childhood home. She watched the driver take her cases out of the boot and she paid him, tipping him heavily. He’d met her at Heathrow and driven her all the way to Somerset. Thankfully, he had sensed her mood and hadn’t tried to make polite conversation, so she’d been able to spend the journey with her own tortured thoughts.

As he drove off, she turned her attention back to the house. Even at thirty-seven years old, the sight of it made her feel like a little girl again. The late May sun served as a spotlight for the house – an imposing Georgian manor which looked like a giant doll’s house. She breathed in the sweet air as she stared at it; impressive, grand, full of memories of her childhood. She hadn’t been here in years but Meadowbrook still felt like a family member. Silently, she greeted it and told it she had missed it. She was almost surprised to find just how much she had.

Her father had passed away a week ago. It was a shock to her and to her three siblings, but as she recently discovered, not so much to him. He had heart problems, and for some reason had chosen not to share this information with his children. Harriet was the oldest of the Singers living in New York, working for a big investment bank, so coming home had taken a few days to organise. Dumbfounded, she had booked a flight, delegated any outstanding work and, still unsure of how she was feeling, boarded a plane. Just in time for his funeral.

Confusion wrapped itself around her like a shawl. She had been away for so long, her life had changed, she was more city slicker nowadays, not a country girl anymore. But seeing Meadowbrook made her think of that child she used to be and she wondered, how on earth it had come to this? Why had she stayed away for so long? And why had only a death, the death of her only remaining parent, brought her back?

She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter around her. She was cold, despite the fact the weather was mild, she felt her bones chill with what she could only identify as fear.

As she prepared to greet her family again, she tried to calm herself. Her three siblings were almost like strangers to her. It had been five years since she had seen them – at her youngest sister, Pippa’s wedding – and they only kept in touch by email sporadically. Her father was her only link, she Skyped him weekly from her New York apartment, and they chatted for ages. God, it hit her, that would never happen again. But the worst thing was that the Singer siblings, once so close, were now fractured; she didn’t know them anymore, not like when they were children. Not only that but they didn’t know her anymore either.

She shuddered again as she made her way to the imposing black front door. Meadowbrook was waiting for her, and now Harriet was going to set foot inside for the first time in five years, to quickly shower, change and then attend her father’s funeral.

Harriet found herself once again standing in front of the house. They had returned from the local church where Andrew Singer’s – her father’s – funeral had been attended by most of the village of Parker’s Hollow. It had been organised by the elder of her brothers, Gus, and Gwen, the family’s housekeeper, to her father’s precise wishes. Had he organised the sunny day too? she wondered with a wry smile. Although thinking about it, he probably would have wanted rain, hail, thunder; for the sky to be as upset as the mourners were.

Andrew Singer was a successful businessman, he’d built a tax consultancy from nothing and sold it for a ridiculous amount – floating it on the stock exchange and making millions. He was a man who always knew what he wanted. He had also been a single parent for most of their lives; their mother had been killed in a car accident when Harriet was only nine, so he had brought up his four children alone, with the help of Gwen, a series of nannies and, for most of the Singer siblings, boarding school. His exacting standards, his success, his ambition was something each of his children had been indoctrinated with to some extent. But he was also a loving father, refusing to marry again because he loved their mother too much, and he was always there for his children, even when they were adults, right until now when they had to bury him.

Her father had specified a big service – the church was standing room only – where his children all shared memories of him and the congregation sang his favourite hymns. It was followed by a burial where he was laid to rest next to their mother. Naturally, instructions had been left for an elaborate headstone to be erected in due course. Her parents would dominate the graveyard, just as her father wanted; the lord and lady of Meadowbrook Manor. Not that he was a lord of course, but a self-made man, who had come from nothing to own one of the most beautiful houses in the Mendips. And not only that, but he was devoted to Meadowbrook and Parker’s Hollow, so it was somehow extreme but fitting.

Harriet was sure that he would have enjoyed the service, although he would possibly be disappointed that no one had tried to throw themselves onto his coffin as it was lowered into the ground. Harriet smiled, which soon turned into a grimace; burying her father next to her mother had been a stark, savage reminder that the Singer siblings were now orphans. And she would miss her father dreadfully, just as soon as she was able to accept that he was gone.

Although she had been there, seen the coffin, watched it going into the ground, it still didn’t feel real. Although usually logic-driven, she felt as if the surrounding air was filled with disbelief, clinging to her. Yes, her father was gone, but when would it feel so?

Watching the others in church and at the graveside, she felt she came up short. Yes she looked the part, the grieving oldest daughter, black designer dress, Louboutin heels, Armani jacket, but although she was carrying a Chanel clutch full of tissues, she had needed none of them. Others – friends, neighbours, the postman – had shed tears, she – his daughter – had not. Her eyes remained resolutely dry and she resented them for it. Thankfully her oversized sunglasses hid the fact. It was as if her heart felt everything but that didn’t translate to her eyes.

She felt herself stumble slightly in her heels and instinctively she reached out and grabbed the nearest arm; her brother Gus’s. Surprise flickered in his eyes, before she regained her balance and they walked across the drive to the front door. She glanced behind her to see her other brother, Freddie, and her youngest sister, Pippa, just inches behind them. The front door loomed in front of her, and for a moment she felt something akin to panic.

‘Right,’ she turned to Gus, Freddie and Pippa, ‘shall we go in?’

Harriet was the oldest; Gus – Angus – was thirty-five, Freddie was thirty-two and Pippa was the baby, about to turn thirty. Being the older sibling was a role she had taken seriously, especially after her mother died. But in adulthood, she had neglected that role; instead throwing herself into her career in London and then New York, opening up a distance between them that contained more than just miles. She told herself her siblings didn’t need her as much, and vice versa, although now, being with them, she felt guilt prodding her like a hot poker.

Harriet turned the large brass handle and pushed the door open. Of course it wasn’t locked, the house was expecting them. Meadowbrook had always been a house that seemed to own the family rather than vice versa. Her father’s dream home, it had been the only house Harriet had lived in before she left for university. But for ten years she had been living and working in New York and they had become estranged, along with the rest of her family.

When her father bought Meadowbrook it was as a wedding present for him and their mother, Victoria. Before they stepped inside it had been renovated. Money being no object, he had poured it into the house, using interior designers, the best materials; it had always been an amazing house both inside and out. Her father had updated rooms throughout their childhood as well, and Meadowbrook was such a part of him, Harriet could barely think of the house and her father as not being together. She was unsure how she would feel staying here without him. Wrong didn’t begin to cover it.

As she heard her heels echo on the chequered tiled floor, gazing as she always had as a child at the huge chandelier that commanded the impressive entrance hall, she turned and looked at her brothers and sister.

‘So, we made it. Now, shall we fortify with a drink before the hordes arrive?’ Harriet tried a smile but she feared it would be more like a scowl. She also hated how formal she sounded to her own ears. She was with her family yet it felt as if she was with strangers.

‘Good idea,’ Freddie said, breaking away and heading for their father’s study. Or what was his study, Harriet thought, wondering if she would get used to thinking of him in the past tense anytime soon.

‘Um, OK, Mark’s driving some of the villagers who didn’t have a car.’ Pippa’s eyes clouded; as the baby of the family she was probably feeling their father’s loss more keenly than the others. Pippa had always worn her heart on her sleeve, not like her older sister. For Harriet, emotions were something she tried to avoid like cheap shoes. Harriet knew she should give her a hug, but she could only manage a slightly weak pat on the arm.

‘Where’s Fleur?’ Harriet asked, having only just noticed her twelve-year-old niece’s absence.

‘Her mother felt it better to take her home. She felt going to the funeral was enough.’ Gus’s eyes strayed to his shiny black shoes. ‘She was so upset …’ His voice broke.

She knew she should offer some comfort, but she was at a loss where to start with each of them.

Freddie headed to their father’s old-fashioned drinks trolley as soon as they entered the study. It was definitely her father’s room. His personality stamped on every inch, from the huge imposing mahogany desk that had dominated the room forever – Harriet vaguely remembered when she couldn’t even see over the top – to the large wooden backed chair that she used to love spinning in until she was dizzy. The art on the wall, all landscapes – her father believed paintings should be only of landscapes, people or fruit – were achingly familiar. As were the antiques that he had carefully chosen, an old floor-to-ceiling map, a ship, a globe. Strange objects that had captivated her as a child; her father rarely travelled and he hated the sea. She glanced across at Gus, who was transfixed by the wall, and she wondered if he was thinking the same. Perhaps reliving their childhood, even just in their heads, would help them find their relationship with each other again.

‘Right, well, I think we should drink the very good stuff,’ Freddie announced in his usual dramatic way, selecting a bottle of expensive whisky.

‘I suppose I better go and see if Gwen is OK,’ Harriet said. The housekeeper kept a low profile, Harriet had barely seen her after the service.

‘Can you get ice as well, please, Harry?’ Freddie thrust an ice bucket at her.

‘I’ll get the ice, Harry can chat to Gwen,’ Gus said, sensibly, taking the bucket from her.

They walked across the large hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. The aroma of food hit them as soon as they entered. People, strangers, wearing black and white uniforms whirled around the large kitchen, unwrapping food, plating it up, polishing glasses.

‘Harriet.’ Gwen emerged from behind the crowd. ‘Are you OK, love?’ The closest thing Harriet had had to a mother figure growing up, she let Gwen hug her and Harriet was surprised by the warmth of the embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been hugged like that.

Gwen had been the family housekeeper for years. She’d arrived at Meadowbrook as a young single mother, shortly after their own mother had been killed, and she had never left. She was part of the family; her father’s companion in a way, although nothing romantic had ever happened between them. Just as her father maintained their mother was the only woman he would ever love, Gwen was the same about her son Connor’s father, Thomas, who had been taken far too young by cancer.

‘I was checking you were all right, actually.’ Harriet even at nine had liked to think she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. That was the character of her childhood, the oldest of four motherless children, she took her responsibilities seriously and along the way she had somehow forgotten to let anyone take care of her.

‘And I’m on ice duty. Freddie wants to drink all Father’s expensive whisky before the guests arrive,’ Gus laughed dryly, as he shuffled from foot to foot. He was wearing a smart black suit but Harriet couldn’t help but see him as the distraught nine-year-old who begged her not to go to boarding school. To her he would always be that boy. It had broken her heart to leave them when she was eleven, but her father insisted. Boarding school would be the making of her, he said, and wouldn’t listen to her pleas to let her stay at home with her siblings. Gus had followed two years later – a different school. Her father held old-fashioned ideas about education and was unmovable on the topic.

‘Here, I’ll get the ice.’ Connor, Gwen’s son, appeared, took the ice bucket and went to fill it. Although she had spoken to Connor at the church, seeing him, properly seeing him, now gave her a jolt. She immediately felt jittery and uncomfortable in his presence. Again, they used to be so close, he was her best friend growing up, but she hadn’t seen him for so long that familiarity had definitely faded. It was as if standing in front of her was a man she knew so well, but also a stranger. One that she wanted to reach out to but who made her feel unsure of herself.

‘Thanks, Connor,’ Gus said, taking the filled ice bucket from him.

‘Connor!’ Harriet breezed, collecting herself, a smile plastered to her face. ‘It’s been so long,’ she said, hoping her voice wasn’t as squeaky as she suspected.

‘Harry, you look exactly the same as you did ten years ago,’ he teased, wrapping his eyes around her. She disentangled herself from him as rapidly as she could without being offensive.

‘You git, I’ve aged horribly,’ she giggled. Goodness, that was the first time she had giggled in a long time. Connor had always had that effect on her. He was two years older than her, and she had adored him as a child, followed him around like a shadow. Well, the less said about that …

‘It’s really lovely to see you, Harry,’ he enthused.

‘So, you came back to Meadowbrook?’ Harriet said. She felt shy, awkward. Like the time she first got braces and refused to smile, lest Connor see them. That hadn’t turned out well of course.

‘You are the only one of the Singers I haven’t seen, and I’ve been back for three years, Harry.’ He shook his head reproachfully. ‘Living in one of the cottages, but anyway, I’ll fill you in later.’

Harriet opened and closed her mouth, goldfish-like, at Gus, who shrugged, and with his newly filled ice bucket headed out. And as she turned to follow him, she felt such a gulf between her life and her life. How had this happened? All her siblings had been part of Meadowbrook and only she had not. How and why had she let that happen?

‘Connor, Gwen, come join us,’ Harriet said, recovering, determined to resume control, of herself mainly.

‘Yes, it’ll be nice to toast your father, just the family,’ Gwen said, her voice catching as if on a rusty nail. Harriet felt her grief. It was all around her. In her siblings, in Gwen and Connor. She knew it was there, but even though she hurt inside, she was angry that she couldn’t see it in herself.

‘Goodness, how long does it take to get ice,’ Freddie cried, grabbing the ice bucket from Gus, as they returned to the study, and organising drinks for everyone. Finally, everyone had a very large, expensive whisky in their hands.

‘I propose a toast, to the old man,’ Freddie said, with a grin. They all drank.

‘And to his children,’ Gwen added. ‘He’d be very proud of you all today.’

Would he though? Harriet was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be proud of her in the slightest.