Read Online A Rather Remarkable Homecoming by C. A. Belmond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. A. Belmond
Ads: Link
staggering. I hear that he lives in only one small suite of rooms, and rents out the rest of the manor house to movie companies, big corporate events, and weddings whenever he can. And, the main floor of the manor is open to the public once a week.”
Harriet pointed to the section of the earl’s property that abutted Grandmother Beryl’s area. “The Mosley brothers want to buy a serious chunk of the earl’s land, too, for their development. They want to combine all this”—Harriet made a grand sweep of her arms to indicate Grandma’s house, the town’s land and the earl’s meadows as far as the eye could see—“to make one big real-estate package. They won’t buy it in bits. They want it all, and everything at once. And I must tell you that we fear the earl is very close to signing on the dotted line.”
“Ohh,” I said, finally understanding what was at stake. I glanced apprehensively at the surveyors, who were still marching around with that annoying proprietary air.
“Would you like to see the backyard?” Harriet asked, moving us away from the land at the front of the house and back toward the yard in the rear. “The garden is really still quite lovely.”
The area behind Grandmother Beryl’s house had a wide lawn and garden, bordered at the far end by a much higher, more decorative stone wall. I instantly recognized this lovely spot where we once all gathered in the afternoon to have iced tea and play badminton and croquet. But now the patio was carpeted with fallen leaves and branches, and the iron chairs and table were rusted.
“Grandfather Nigel would have a fit if he saw this,” I whispered to Jeremy, who nodded.
The lawn was no longer the neat, fastidiously clipped yard of my memory, and the grass had grown so tall that Jeremy had to gallantly hack a path across it with one of the fallen branches. Ahead, a short flight of stone steps led to a lower, terraced area where Grandfather Nigel had kept his flowers.
“Look!” I cried. “Grandpa Nigel’s garden.”
For, despite all the neglect and time gone by, and all the storms and animals and insects that had overtaken some of it, a tangle of honeysuckle had survived, and I could make out masses of climbing roses and shrub roses. The azalea and forsythia was already flowering, and there were promising buds on the hollyhock and hydrangea. Hazel, hawthorn, bluebells and elder were still growing sturdily here.
“There’s Grandfather Nigel’s gardening shed!” I said nostalgically, pointing to the little hut at the right.
“Actually,” Harriet said, “that was originally a kippering shed. To cure or smoke fish.”
Now, as we walked to the very edge of the garden and peered over the wall, we could see the little private sandy cove below, and the great grey-green-blue sea that came crashing in, depositing foamy curls of water that swirled around the rocks and skittered across the patch of sand, looking like white lace. Gulls were swooping overhead in the open sky, which was bright with streaks of blue and milky white clouds that muted the yellow sun. I inhaled deeply and tasted the invigorating salty sea breeze that rippled my hair teasingly, like a friend.
“See that house over there?” Harriet said, pointing to a white Edwardian structure sitting high atop a distant hill to our right. “That belongs to our resident theatre expert, Trevor Branwhistle. He’s a wonderful actor who worked for years at BBC radio. What a voice that man has! Anyway, he’s the man for you to see about the history of your grandmother’s house. He says that, way back in the late 1500s, Beryl’s house had some interesting tenants—a group of performers known as ‘The Earl’s Players’,” Harriet said with a twinkle in her eye.
My bloodhound instincts were instantly aroused. “Harriet,” I said, “is that the reason that you think we might turn up something historically significant enough to save this place?”
Harriet’s eyes widened hopefully
Harriet pointed to the section of the earl’s property that abutted Grandmother Beryl’s area. “The Mosley brothers want to buy a serious chunk of the earl’s land, too, for their development. They want to combine all this”—Harriet made a grand sweep of her arms to indicate Grandma’s house, the town’s land and the earl’s meadows as far as the eye could see—“to make one big real-estate package. They won’t buy it in bits. They want it all, and everything at once. And I must tell you that we fear the earl is very close to signing on the dotted line.”
“Ohh,” I said, finally understanding what was at stake. I glanced apprehensively at the surveyors, who were still marching around with that annoying proprietary air.
“Would you like to see the backyard?” Harriet asked, moving us away from the land at the front of the house and back toward the yard in the rear. “The garden is really still quite lovely.”
The area behind Grandmother Beryl’s house had a wide lawn and garden, bordered at the far end by a much higher, more decorative stone wall. I instantly recognized this lovely spot where we once all gathered in the afternoon to have iced tea and play badminton and croquet. But now the patio was carpeted with fallen leaves and branches, and the iron chairs and table were rusted.
“Grandfather Nigel would have a fit if he saw this,” I whispered to Jeremy, who nodded.
The lawn was no longer the neat, fastidiously clipped yard of my memory, and the grass had grown so tall that Jeremy had to gallantly hack a path across it with one of the fallen branches. Ahead, a short flight of stone steps led to a lower, terraced area where Grandfather Nigel had kept his flowers.
“Look!” I cried. “Grandpa Nigel’s garden.”
For, despite all the neglect and time gone by, and all the storms and animals and insects that had overtaken some of it, a tangle of honeysuckle had survived, and I could make out masses of climbing roses and shrub roses. The azalea and forsythia was already flowering, and there were promising buds on the hollyhock and hydrangea. Hazel, hawthorn, bluebells and elder were still growing sturdily here.
“There’s Grandfather Nigel’s gardening shed!” I said nostalgically, pointing to the little hut at the right.
“Actually,” Harriet said, “that was originally a kippering shed. To cure or smoke fish.”
Now, as we walked to the very edge of the garden and peered over the wall, we could see the little private sandy cove below, and the great grey-green-blue sea that came crashing in, depositing foamy curls of water that swirled around the rocks and skittered across the patch of sand, looking like white lace. Gulls were swooping overhead in the open sky, which was bright with streaks of blue and milky white clouds that muted the yellow sun. I inhaled deeply and tasted the invigorating salty sea breeze that rippled my hair teasingly, like a friend.
“See that house over there?” Harriet said, pointing to a white Edwardian structure sitting high atop a distant hill to our right. “That belongs to our resident theatre expert, Trevor Branwhistle. He’s a wonderful actor who worked for years at BBC radio. What a voice that man has! Anyway, he’s the man for you to see about the history of your grandmother’s house. He says that, way back in the late 1500s, Beryl’s house had some interesting tenants—a group of performers known as ‘The Earl’s Players’,” Harriet said with a twinkle in her eye.
My bloodhound instincts were instantly aroused. “Harriet,” I said, “is that the reason that you think we might turn up something historically significant enough to save this place?”
Harriet’s eyes widened hopefully
Similar Books
