Читать книгу Wedding Tiers - Trisha Ashley - Страница 13

By the end of October all was safely gathered in, as the old harvest hymn has it. Or almost all. My elderly neighbour helped me to make a beetroot clamp and then store away the last of the carrot crop in layers of sand, and I’m still pickling and chutney making. I’ve also dug over the pea and bean beds, set out Brussels sprout plants and divided clumps of chives.

Throughout all this, the Artist could be seen in his studio, working on a new series of three-dimensional paintings. He had to be coaxed out from time to time to help with heavy jobs, like chopping logs into firewood and hefting sacks of henfood about; but I expect it did him good.

‘Cakes and Ale’

Now Ben was home, life should have settled back into the cosy, comforting, uneventful round of cooking, dog-walking and gardening, but I found that I still felt vaguely uneasy.

Of course, the even rhythm of our former existence was bound to change once Libby exploded onto the scene like a demonstration of chaos theory in miniature. But actually, that didn’t bother me in the least, for I was used to Libby and very happy that she was going to be living in Neatslake again. No, it was just a feeling that something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was…

Ben, too, seemed even more abstracted than usual and had thrown himself into finishing his latest series of paintings. He tended to work on five or six simultaneously, and I never knew what to call them: paintings, installations, constructions, or just artworks. They all started as flat canvases, but then things began to burst out of them, because two dimensions simply weren’t enough for Ben and couldn’t contain his imagery, which dripped, oozed, sidled sideways or simply exploded into 3-D.

His original inspiration came from our shared love of thrusting, exuberant and earthy nature, full of flowers, rampant foliage and small living creatures. I’d always considered him a brilliant artist and I still did, even though what had been emerging more recently was much darker and (though I hadn’t, of course, said so) rather nasty. I hoped it was just a temporary phase.

As I worked in the garden I noticed that he was getting an awful lot of calls on his mobile, which seemed to make him cross, but then, if he didn’t want to be disturbed he should have switched it off!

Once the woodworm treatment at Blessings was done, and the rooms aired, Libby and I returned to our dusting and cleaning, keeping one room ahead of the specialist painters. I was amazed at Libby’s stamina. I was only helping out for an hour or two in the afternoons because of all my cake-making and other commitments, but she seemed to be working dawn to dusk.

When we took the old curtains down they pretty well fell to pieces, but she had surfed the internet and found a firm who sold medieval-style crewelwork curtains and fabric by the metre, all curly foliage, birds and rabbits—lovely, though very expensive.

Dorrie brought her friend Miss Hebe Winter (who is my friend Sophy’s great-aunt), to look around one day while we were working. The room we were in was a bit gloomy and for a minute we thought we were seeing ghosts, because they walked in wearing Elizabethan dress. Miss Winter, who is tall, grand and aquiline of nose, is a dead ringer for the Virgin Queen, and even Dorrie was transformed by a wide ruff and full skirts, despite having kept her beret on.

It turned out they’d been to a historical re-enactment society meeting in Sticklepond. Lots of the members help out as volunteers at Winter’s End in full costume, when it’s open to the public. They are very big on the Elizabethan over there, especially since the discovery of that Shakespeare document.

Miss Winter had come out of sheer curiosity to see Libby, I think, the plebeian marrying into the Rowland-Knowleses, and, like Dorrie, she found her not at all what she expected.

I left them having tea (it was lucky I’d taken Libby an apple upside-down cake), passing Hebe’s little white Mini car on the drive. How does she get behind the wheel in a farthingale?

Moorcroft, the gardener, was very ready to take a golden handshake and retire, which would be much more economical in the long run than paying him to cut the grass and hide out in the garden shed, making endless cups of tea on a Primus stove.

Tim and Dorrie, full of plans and enthusiasm, began to try to get the grounds into some kind of order and create a fruit and vegetable patch. Tim came over a couple of times to ask my advice—or Ben’s, if he caught him out of the studio, which was pretty rare at the moment.

‘Tim’s passionate about gardening. He’s even more dotty about it than you are,’ Libby said one day, when we were taking a break from cleaning out what had once been the old kitchen, but was now a kind of storeroom. She straightened up with a groan; she’s only about five foot two without her stilettos, so even standing on a stool she’d found, reaching up with the feather duster, was quite a stretch.

‘I think he loves flowers and shrubs more than vegetables, Libs, like Dorrie.’

‘Yes, but now you’ve infected him with the self-sufficiency bug he’s determined to follow suit.’

‘Well, that’s OK, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, as long as he doesn’t expect me to start digging and jamming and making pies…though when Gina’s here I expect she’ll be quite happy to cook what he grows. It will save us money too, which will be a good thing, because I hadn’t realised quite how high the cost of restoring and maintaining a place of this age would be. I know I’m well off, but really, we need to find some way of increasing our income, unless I sell one or both of my other homes. But Tim loves Italy, so apart from our honeymoon being in Pisa, I hope we’re going to spend a lot of time there—and it’s handy having a pied-à-terre in London.’

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’m starting to think that’s what we could do with, though at least Ben hasn’t been so eager to rush back to London this time. He’s very engrossed in his paintings.’

‘Tim hates being a solicitor, so it’s a pity we can’t find some way of making Blessings pay for itself. But it’s a bit too small to open to the public. We live in all of it and we can’t just move into the modern wing three-quarters of the time, can we?’

‘Perhaps you could open a little garden centre in the grounds?’

‘I’m not sure they’re really big enough for that, either, but it’s worth thinking about.’

‘How are the wedding plans coming on?’

Libby pulled a large, folded list out of the pocket of her all-enveloping blue striped cotton apron, which looked like something a Victorian maid might wear. ‘Special licence—check. Church, vicar, church bells, organist and photographer—all sorted. Cake—you’re doing that. Invitations—already done by those strange friends of yours, though I don’t see why the cards and envelopes have to have bits of grass and petals in them.’

‘It’s because they make the paper themselves, using natural sources and inks,’ I explained. ‘All recycled and biodegradable.’

‘And why does it say on the invitations that confetti will be provided at the church door?’ she queried. ‘Guests usually bring their own!’

‘We don’t want paper confetti everywhere. We need to supply a natural alternative, Libby! Perhaps something like millet, which would give the birds a feast afterwards? Yes—a golden shower of millet would be lovely…’

‘I am not emerging from the church to be pelted with handfuls of budgie food,’ Libby said coldly.

‘No?’

‘No!’

‘Oh…then how about dried rose petals?’ I suggested. ‘I’ve heard of those being used.’

‘Now, that’s more like it!’

‘Hebe Winter uses a lot of roses in the products she makes to sell in the Winter’s End shop—perhaps she could supply us with rose petals. Shall I ask?’

‘Yes, do. If you could sort that out for me, it would be a great help,’ Libby agreed. ‘Actually, the Winters are on the guest list, since they’re friends of both Dorrie and Tim. And I’ve invited a second photographer, but not an official one—Noah Sephton. He was some kind of cousin of Joe’s and a great friend. He’ll be staying overnight, but I think I’ll have to put him in the gatehouse. I’ve asked Dolly Mops to come and clean it out and I thought they might as well do the flat over the garage too, though, knowing Gina, she’ll scrub it from floor to ceiling as soon as she gets here, anyway.’

‘It’ll be nice to see Gina again. And I think I’ve heard of Noah Sephton,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Didn’t he take those lovely photographs of you with Pia as an infant, which are in your apartment in Pisa?’

‘Yes, but you should have heard of him anyway, because he’s quite famous for his portraits. He has an annual exhibition of his more oddball, black-and-white photos every year too, and they’re a sell-out. His last one was called Fate’

‘I know all about fate’, I said, and, as if on cue, one of the two peacocks wailed. It always gave me the cold shivers. ‘Couldn’t you try eating the peacocks?’ I pleaded. ‘I hate the noise they make.’

‘Don’t be silly, they give the place class. Get over it,’ she said absently, looking down at the back of the list where she’d jotted the names of the invited guests. ‘There are quite a few celebs on here as well as Noah, because Tim knows Rob Rafferty, the star of that Cotton Common TV soap and one or two of the other actors, though I don’t think Hello! magazine will be jostling for my wedding photos any time soon.’

‘So you’ve got it all pretty well arranged?’

‘Yes, apart from the reception venue. At this rate, we’ll be handing out directions in the church!’

‘Still no luck finding somewhere nearby?’

‘No, they’re all either booked up, can’t handle the numbers, or they don’t do them at this time of year—or something’

‘Oh dear, and it’s hardly marquee weather, is it?’

‘I expect I’ll think of something. I’ll have to. I only hope the guests who are coming from a distance can find somewhere to stay on the night of the wedding!’

‘Any word from Pia yet?’

‘No, still not a dicky-bird since I told her I was marrying again and she put the phone down on me. She’s not answering my emails either.’

‘She hasn’t contacted me for ages,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t usually leave it this long.’

‘She’s sulking, but I’d like to know if she intends turning up for the wedding. It would have been lovely if she’d been happy about my getting married again and agreed to be a bridesmaid, but it doesn’t look likely to happen.’

‘Once she gets over the shock she’ll probably get back in touch again,’ I said optimistically.

‘I’d just settle for the sound of her voice telling me she was all right, at the moment,’ Libby admitted.

‘I’ll try emailing her again when I get home, Libs. Perhaps she’s still speaking to me.’

‘Oh, thanks, Josie—and I must take your measurements before you go, because I still have to dash down to London in search of my wedding dress and shoes, and get a bridesmaid’s dress for you. I should have gone before, but there’s been so much to do.’ My practical, hard-headed friend gave a dreamy sigh. ‘I hate the thought of being apart from Tim, even for one night. Isn’t it strange?’

‘No. And now you know how I feel when Ben goes off to London without me.’

‘It’s not the same. You’ve never been in love with Ben, just loved him with blind, dogged devotion.’

‘Not blind. You can’t live with someone for that many years and not be aware of their failings. But he’s such a brilliant artist, a genius, that I’ve had to be the one to make allowances.’

‘I don’t see why having any kind of talent should entitle you to get away with behaving badly,’ she said, ‘or selfishly. Though, actually, it usually does seem to have that effect. Noah—Noah Sephton, the photographer I was telling you about—goes through girlfriends faster than a hot knife through butter. He says he’s a romantic and believes in true love, but he never puts his money where his mouth is.’

‘Has he never been married?’

‘Joe said he was, briefly, when he was very young, but she died of leukaemia, so I expect it was all a bit Love Story and put him off marrying again.’

‘That’s terribly sad!’ Tears came to my eyes as they usually did when I heard something touching. ‘It’s probably blighted the poor man’s life.’

‘No, I don’t think so. The loveliest girls seem to fall for him and it all looks really promising, but by the time they start to hint that they’re getting serious ideas he’s ready to move on.’

I thought about that. ‘Perhaps it’s because no one is going to measure up to his dead wife? I mean, if they were really young and not married long, the rosy glow wouldn’t have worn off and, looking back, she will always seem perfect, won’t she?’

‘Or perhaps whatever he says about love, he just prefers casual sex with no commitment?’ Libby suggested.

‘That makes him sound horrible—shallow and self-gratifying.’

‘Well, actually he’s not, he’s really warm and nice.’

‘I suppose he’s good-looking?’

She considered. ‘You might not pick him out in a crowd straight away, but once you did, you’d wonder how you missed him. He’s about six foot and slim, not exactly handsome, but he’s got lovely, light grey eyes and long, long black eyelashes…His smile’s sort of quirky and goes up at one side too…and his hair’s almost black and goes curly if it gets damp.’

‘You sound half in love with him yourself!’ I said, dismayed at this apparent lack of loyalty to Tim.

‘Not me! You know I’m a hard-headed, marriage-or-nothing kind of girl!’

‘Maybe, but you moved in with Tim the day after you met him,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, well, that’s different. And he proposed to me before I moved in, don’t forget.’

‘Come on, you were so love struck you would have done it anyway.’

‘Maybe, but so was Tim, so it doesn’t matter.’ She smiled happily. ‘Oh, Josie, it’s such bliss! I only hope Pia does come to the wedding and realises how nice he is, then she’ll soon get over her huff and we can be one happy family.’

I thought this was more than optimistic. ‘You can see her point, Libby. She adored Joe, he was a father to her in every sense. And I think girls often get on better with their fathers than their mothers, until they get older. You were fine until she was thirteen or fourteen, and then she started seeing you as competition.’

‘She was lovely when she was little,’ she agreed. ‘Then—bam!—in kicked the hormones and she turned into a sulky monster in a permanent strop.’

‘She’ll turn back into a human being again any minute now,’ I assured her. ‘And if she surfaces in London, Maria Cazzini will make her come to the wedding.’ Maria, the formidable matriarch of the family, had married the cousin who now ran the family restaurant business. A thought struck me. ‘You have invited your mother and sister, haven’t you?’

‘Tim said I had to,’ Libby said unenthusiastically. ‘I’ve told Daisy she’ll have to keep Ma off the sauce the whole day. I’m trusting her, but I’ll have a hire car on standby to whisk them away if she goes off-piste. I’ve booked them into a Travelodge, where I expect they’re used to getting all types, including drunken mothers of the bride.’

‘But I thought she’d joined AA and gone teetotal?’

‘That’s what she says, but Daisy reckons she’s just got more cunning about where she hides it.’

‘It was very kind of Daisy to move her down there and look after her.’

Libby gave me a scathing look. ‘It was Joe’s idea. He bought them the house and paid the bills. Now I send money every month and that’s another drain on my income, but at least I know Mum is eating properly and living respectably, because Daisy has control over everything.’

It was some years since I’d seen Libby’s mother, but even semi-reformed, she was still likely to add a lively touch to the wedding proceedings, not to mention raking up the past in the minds of those villagers who were still finding it hard to accept that any daughter of Gloria Martin could possibly marry a Rowland-Knowles, so I could quite understand why Libby was reluctant to invite her. But Tim was right—it had to be done!

I emailed Pia and that night she phoned me. It was such a relief to hear her voice, even if she was in a strop.

‘How can Mum get married so soon?’ she demanded. ‘She can’t have loved Dad at all. It’s indecent!’

‘But she did love Joe very much, Pia, really she did. And it’s more than a year now. She and Tim just fell in love at first sight, that’s all.’

‘She’s too old to fall in love,’ she stated disgustedly.

‘Oh, I don’t think you’re ever too old, darling. And Tim is lovely—quiet and kind. You’ll like him, honestly.’

‘She doesn’t care if I’m there or not. She probably doesn’t want me coming along and making three.’

‘There you’re quite wrong. She does worry about you, and Tim is really looking forward to meeting you. He hopes you’ll make your home at Blessings with them.’

‘Blessings?’

‘That’s the name of his house. It’s Elizabethan, and Libby’s currently designing your bedroom in one of the original chambers, so if you don’t want to find yourself in a flowery bower, with the gilded rococo bed with cherubs she is talking about shipping over from Italy, you ought to get down here and tell her so.’

‘Cherubs?’ she said, horrified. Then she collected herself and said tersely, ‘It doesn’t matter: I’m not coming.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Pisa, with Gina. But she says they’re coming here for their honeymoon, so I’ll have to clear out to London then.’

‘Look, do come just for the wedding, Pia,’ I cajoled. ‘Some of the Cazzinis are—your aunt Maria, for one.’

‘Aunt Maria’s coming?’

‘Yes, she’s already sent an enormous Gaggia coffee machine as a present, so I think you can take it that she approves! I’m sure she’ll be disappointed in you if you don’t come—and your mum will be deeply, deeply hurt.’

There was a small silence. ‘I might come up from London with Aunt Maria, just for the wedding,’ she conceded sulkily.

‘I think that would be a very kind and generous thing to do,’ I said encouragingly. ‘And perhaps you could ring your mother and tell her? She’d love to hear from you and—’

‘No!’ she said explosively and slammed down the phone, her volatile and passionate Italian side clearly getting the better of her good manners. But I was sure Maria Cazzini would manage to persuade her at least to turn up on the day and be polite. I hoped so, because otherwise Libby would be devastated and it would ruin her big day.

I rang her straight away and gave her an edited version of what Pia had said, because I knew it would be a huge relief to Libby just to know she was safe and well. Whether Pia turned up for the wedding would all depend on Maria Cazzini’s persuasive skills.

At dinner last night (Spanish omelette followed by a blackberry version of Eton mess), I said to Ben that he seemed to have an awful lot of calls on his mobile lately, and was everything all right?

I could tell something had been on his mind since he’d come back from London, even after he told me about Mary being pregnant, but I thought perhaps it had to do with his parents. He tends not to mention them to me; they’re a thorny subject.

He took a deep drink of elderberry wine and said, Actually, darling, there is something worrying me and I haven’t known how to tell you. In fact, I thought it would just sort of…well, fizzle out on its own.’

That was typical of Ben. He’d let problems slide in the hope they’d either simply go away or I would sort them out for him, by which time they had generally escalated.

I leaned my elbows on the table and said encouragingly, ‘So, what is it?’

‘You’ll probably think this sounds silly, but I’m being…well, stalked.’

‘Stalked?’

‘Pestered—followed—rung up and harassed. By this woman who has been buying my work—you know, the patroness?’

I nodded.

‘Now she seems to want to acquire me too. She must have a mental problem, because in her head she’s convinced that we’re already having some kind of relationship. It’s getting a bit embarrassing.’ He looked at me appealingly ‘I’ve tried distancing myself, but it’s very awkward.’

‘Yes, it must be! The poor thing,’ I added charitably, because I could see how easy it would be to fall for Ben and, if you were inclined to mix reality and fantasy, dream up a whole relationship in your head.

‘The Egremont Gallery must have given her my number, because she keeps phoning me up. I’m just afraid she might call the house too, and she’s so unhinged she sees you as the usurper, darling, so goodness knows what she might say.’

‘Do you know, there have been a lot of calls lately where the phone’s been put down the moment the caller heard my voice,’ I said. ‘Do you think that might have been her?’

‘Possibly.’ He leaned back, looking relieved. ‘I’m really glad I’ve told you about it now, Josie!’

‘Yes, but shouldn’t we tell the police or something? I’ve read of cases where stalkers can get quite nasty—even dangerous.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure she isn’t the violent type. And, after all, she’s not going to turn up here—it’s too far away—and in London I avoid her as much as possible. Let’s wait and see,’ he suggested.

He was probably right. For all we knew she made a habit of imagining herself in love with personable men and would soon lose interest in Ben and be off after someone new. And since after getting that off his chest he reverted back to being the good-natured, easy-going Ben I was used to, I felt much, much happier.

On Halloween I had a whole tray of small toffee apples to offer any young ghoul who turned up on my doorstep—and quite a lot did, attracted to my pumpkin lantern like moths to a flame.

I’d dipped the tops of the apples in dark chocolate and they were really yummy. Ben, who has a sweet tooth, ate three before the first trick-or-treater rang the bell, and there were only just enough to go round.

Since the Country at Heart article I had had an increasing number of enquiries about wedding cakes, though luckily once I made it clear that I only delivered locally, most of them lost interest. But not all. I was having to harden my heart and only take the ones I really wanted to do, because I didn’t want to spend all my time making weird and wonderful wedding cakes!

At the moment, Libby’s Pisa Tower cake was taxing my skills to the limit…