Page 32 of Last Letter Home
‘Maybe you can imagine how it was. Sarah talks about it in her letters.’
Briony watched him saunter about, amused by his obvious pleasure. He stopped from time to time to inspect a twisted old tree, its branches still wired to the wall, or some metal struts in the brick that marked where a shed or greenhouse must have been. Then he stood, arms folded, as he gazed across the expanse of grass, lost in thought. It was wonderful to see his reaction. An idea set root in her mind.
Aruna hardly noticed the place. She had sat down on the bench to consult her phone, then walked around, gazing at the screen from time to time and frowning. ‘I can’t get a signal,’ she called to Briony.
‘That’s funny. It works in the cottage,’ Briony replied. She endured her friend coming to take a selfie of them both, though, with the chimneys of the hall growing out of their heads as an amusing background.
Drawn by their laughter, Luke drifted towards them. ‘This place is great,’ he told Briony, with a delighted smile.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ Briony said. ‘I—’
‘It would have been the kitchen garden, right?’ Aruna butted in.
‘Yes, in the house’s heyday,’ Luke said. ‘There’s an interest in them again now. Lots are being restored.’
‘For reasons of heritage, I suppose,’ Briony murmured.
‘Yes, but I reckon it’s also our current interest in where food comes from. It’s wonderful to think that a garden like this might have supplied everything from artichokes to the downiest peaches, though things had their season, of course. We’ve become too used to anything being available in supermarkets all the time.’
‘Yes, Easter eggs at New Year and mince pies at Hallowe’en,’ Briony said with a laugh.
‘That’s simply the way commerce works now,’ Luke said with a frown. ‘There always has to be a build-up to the next big festival.’
That was true, Briony thought. She worried about people’s loss of connection to the natural world, to the changing seasons. The reasons for the old religious festivals were being forgotten, how Candlemas in January had filled the deep dark days with light, why a good harvest was an occasion for thankfulness, why the self-denial of Lent had helped a pre-industrial population through the last bit of winter when stocks of food had run right down. ‘We live such artificial lives now,’ she sighed.
‘You should do a programme about it, Aruna,’ Luke said.
‘Maybe, but I’d need an angle,’ Aruna mused. Briony knew how competitive it was to get new radio programmes commissioned. Aruna’s bosses liked edgy, unusual subjects fronted by high-profile presenters; programmes, it went without saying, that were also cheap to make.
‘There’d be plenty about that sort of thing in the radio archives, wouldn’t there?’ His voice trailed off. He was examining the small hard apples on an old tree nearby, lines of dark red already spreading across their pale green peel. ‘I’m no expert,’ he said, ‘but I think these are quite an unusual variety.’ He stepped back and contemplated the tree with his familiar arms-crossed pose. ‘Have you found out much about this place?’ he asked, and when Briony shook her head, ‘What about asking the girl Ru and I spoke to at the Hall earlier?’
‘You met Kemi? She’s lovely, but she seems to know more about selling flats than history. Perhaps I’m doing her down. We can try asking, but I haven’t had much luck so far.’
Kemi was there as usual, but she had been taking a middle-aged couple around the show flat and so they had to wait a few minutes until the pair had finished their questions and left. Then Kemi smiled at the new arrivals somewhat warily. She was nervous of Briony with her difficult questions.
‘Luke and Aruna, friends of mine. Kemi, we were wondering about the old walled garden. Do you have any information on it?’
‘Let me think. There is a little bit in here,’ Kemi said, picking up one of the glossy prospectuses on her desk and flicking through the stiff bright pages. She came to the one she wanted and passed the open brochure to Briony, who read aloud from a paragraph headed Heritage.
‘Westbury Hall was owned by the Kelling family, knights of the shire, for three hundred and fifty years. After the death of Sir Henry Kelling in 1952, the baronetcy died out, but the Hall passed to his second cousin, Unwin Clare, and, on his death in 2014, was sold to Greenacre Holdings who have converted the house into luxury flats that are sympathetic to the original design of this magnificent Grade II listed property. Westbury Hall retains the benefit of large, landscaped gardens, which include the site of the old Walled or Kitchen Garden, a pre-war plan of which is owned by Mrs Clare and may be viewed by arrangement.’
‘Why was the house sold to Greenacre?’ Luke wanted to know.
‘I believe that the Clares couldn’t afford to run it or something,’ Kemi said.
‘Couldn’t pay the inheritance tax, I suppose,’ Luke muttered. ‘It’s a shame that we’re not really in Norfolk long enough to try to see Mrs Clare. Does she live far away?’
‘No, not far.’ For some reason Kemi’s eyes were full of amusement.
‘In the village maybe?’ Briony prompted.
‘She lives here at Westbury Hall,’ Kemi said, laughing. ‘Her apartment is along the corridor.’
‘Here?’ Briony’s jaw dropped in surprise. The former owner had been here all the time?
‘Yes! Would you like me to ask her if it’s convenient to see you now?’
Seventeen
