Rumours. Freya North

a modern oracle, a latter-day soothsayer.

      In her day, she’d been the only member of staff at Longbridge to resolutely refuse to wear uniform without having to say a word. Certainly, she didn’t dress like the Norland Nanny who predated her there and if the Fortescues had requested a uniform, she probably didn’t hear them. (Lydia was privately quite sure that the clothes Audrey wore now were the same as then – and secretly, she marvelled at the longevity of such fabric.)

      Xander kissed his mother. She cupped his face in her hands and smiled at him.

      ‘Let me look at you.’ She’d seen him the week before. ‘How’s my boy?’

      ‘He’s fine.’

      ‘Soup?’

      He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It came naturally to Xander to say a sentence at a time and wait for her to respond; that way nothing was wasted and everything was heard.

      ‘If you must leave the door unlocked, please don’t leave your valuables in the hallway.’

      ‘It’s leek and potato.’

      He didn’t respond.

      ‘I’ll try to do that, Xander – for you, rather than to fox any neighbourhood villain.’

      Good. ‘Leek and potato sounds good.’

      ‘How’s work?’

      ‘Not bad. How’s Dad?’

      ‘Very good.’

      ‘This is delicious.’

      ‘You can come again!’

      ‘Thanks, Mum.’

      ‘You saw Lydia recently?’

      ‘Yes – and Caroline overheard some village gossip about Longbridge going up for sale.’

      ‘Longbridge?’ Audrey laughed. ‘How absurd.’

      ‘I thought it would tickle you.’ Xander laughed with her. ‘But you know what Nora’s like – if there’s no real gossip, she’ll invent some.’

      ‘I’m visiting Lydia later this week – I’ll ask her. Mind you, a rumour without a leg to stand on still gets around somehow.’

      ‘I can imagine her response,’ said Xander. It was not unknown for Lydia to hiss the word ‘peasants’.

      ‘I thought I’d take a stew. I don’t like the thought of Mrs Biggins lifting heavy pots – despite the size of her we have to remember she’s nearly as ancient as Lydia and not nearly as strong as her mass would suggest.’

      ‘You’ll say it’s leftovers.’

      ‘Yes – and Lydia will laugh and be very rude to me but she’ll eat it all up and never let me know if she liked it.’ She looked at her son thoughtfully. ‘Will you take some soup home with you?’

      ‘It’s delicious – but I’m out most evenings this week.’

      She looked at him again. ‘Oh, yes?’

      ‘Clients.’

      ‘Clients – oh, yes?’

      ‘No one you know,’ he said and they laughed at his pat answer.

      ‘One day you’ll surprise me,’ Audrey said. ‘One day you’ll come over and say, Mum! Meet Amanda!’

      ‘Who the hell is Amanda?’

      ‘Amanda is simply generic, Xander. You know what I mean.’

      ‘Mother – will you please just leave it?’ He was serious. Why was everyone so concerned with marrying him off? ‘I should have married Verity Fortescue when she proposed to me when I was seven years old.’

      ‘I had a letter from her last week. Which reminds me – did I post my reply?’ Audrey tailed off to rummage through a pile of paper on the dresser and found the postcard she’d written Verity. ‘Blast.’

      ‘I’ll post it – and yes, I’ll put a stamp on it for you!’ Xander said wearily, but in jest. He noted the postcard depicted an illustration from an old Enid Blyton book. He skimmed over his mother’s blowsy handwriting, not dissimilar from Verity’s.

      ‘When did I last see Verity?’ Xander said quietly.

      ‘She didn’t come at Christmas.’

      ‘She doesn’t “do” Christmas any more,’ Xander said.

      He and Audrey shared a wistful moment, quietly recalling those long halcyon days of his childhood when he and Verity were together from sun up to sun down. Playing and laughing and climbing and swimming and imagining a time when they’d be grown-ups and Longbridge would be theirs and they’d paint everywhere purple and green and pink and blue and there’d be lollipop trees in the garden and the hens would lay chocolate eggs and there’d be cows in the meadows who’d give them strawberry milkshakes.

      Xander dreamt of Verity that night. They were in the clock tower above the stable courtyard at Longbridge only it wasn’t Longbridge, not that it mattered. In the dream, he was young again – he could see himself with his ridiculous pudding-bowl haircut and his knock knees and some dreadful knitted sleeveless pullover his gran had made for him. He could taste the musty air that squeezed through the gaps in the tower as skeins dancing with dust. The silken waft of Verity’s strawberry-blonde hair as refined as his tank top was coarse. Their laughter peeling out like the long-gone bell in the tower. The day speeding away and yet time, up there, standing still. But it was grown-up Xander inside young Xander’s head, watching Verity. Smiling and laughing along with her but watching her closely, careful to make her feel equal and relaxed and normal, while all the time guarding her as if, at any moment, she might fall, or she might fly away or, worse, just fade from view and simply disappear. Verity – ethereal and beautiful and so very vivid – saying, Xander! Xander! Come this way! She was going for a door he’d never seen before. Come with me, Xander! But she disappeared beyond it before he could say, Verity – no, don’t! Please stay.

       Chapter Eight

      If one didn’t know of Longbridge Hall then one might well assume the gates off the high street heralded a country park. Certainly, Stella was surprised that in all her visits to Mercy Benton’s cottage in Long Dansbury, she’d never given more than a passing glance at them. On the Tuesday morning, at 11.00, she drove through the gates, noting how one was slightly crooked and both needed painting black again. Halfway up the drive, she said, oh God, where on earth is the house – I was here at 11.00, I’ve been going for miles and now I’m going to be late. However, even in the April shower that had suddenly descended, when the house came into view it was a breathtaking sight. Stella followed the driveway around it, until it ended in a flourish: a vast turning circle the size of a roundabout, with a small maze of box hedging at the centre. Stella checked her reflection and smoothed her hair and wondered if she should use the main front doors or what looked like a tradesmen’s entrance off to one side. She also wondered whether she should curtsey. Clearing her throat, she made her way past the two stone lions at the base of the steps leading up to the front door. She gave the bell pole a pull and then did so again, with more force, and heard it clanging inside the house.

      ‘Open the door, woman! Open the door!’

      Stella panicked that the voice was shouting at her but even though she heaved her shoulder against them, the front doors were definitely shut.

      Did she dare ring that bell again?

      Luckily, a plump woman, wearing what her mother would call a pinny, opened one of the doors a fraction. She said nothing.

      ‘Hullo,’ said Stella.

      ‘Hullo.’

      ‘I’m expected.’

      ‘Who