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Authors: Natasha Solomons
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church, but the horse, needing no direction from Art, turned to the left and ambled along an avenue of waving lime trees. The leaves sprouted new green, bright and soft, and the trees towered above me, their branches a mass of clasping hands and limbs.
I did not see the house itself until we were nearly upon it. Poking above the trees on the lime walk were the chimneystacks and a brass weathervane in the shape of a ship, tacking and jibing in the wind; it appeared to be sailing across a sea of green leaves. Then a flash of light, and the windows on the north gable glinted through the trees. I stood up in my seat, eager for a better view and there, as we emerged from the avenue, was Tyneford House. I will never forget that first sight. It was a handsome manor, at once elegant and easy; the stone a different colour from the cottages – a warm yellow which glowed in the sunshine. A gothic porch stood at the side of the house, a family shield carved into its sandstone façade, a pair of stone roses in each corner, and around the westerly windows grew an ancient wisteria with a profusion of heavy blossom, shaking in the wind. It was not merely the beauty of the building itself that struck me on that afternoon or on the many since, but the loveliness of its position; there are few places in England where nature has done more. Beech woods edged the gardens and the house stood on rising ground, the bank of hills behind. A smart terrace ran along the length of the house, with a few stone steps leading to a velvet-striped lawn, sloping down towards the sea. Every window at the front gazed out upon the water which glittered, calm and beguiling. I breathed in that strange scent again: thyme, freshly turned earth, sweat and salt.
Art guided the cart to brick stables in a large yard at the back of the house, and set about unfastening Mr Bobbin and hosing him down. I climbed down and stood awkwardly in the cobbled yard, listening to the crash of the sea.
‘In there,’ said Art, pointing to a wooden door at the back of the house. ‘Git now. I’ll bring yer stuff in a bit.’
I frowned, realising that Art spoke to me in exactly the same tone he used to address the wayward cows. Only later did I discover that this was in fact a gesture of great trust and affection; there were very few two-legged creatures that Art esteemed. A pair of young stable lads appeared from one of the loose boxes and one started to brush down Mr Bobbin, while the other hauled a large bucket of water. One of the boys stared at me, mouth agape, and slopped the water all over Art’s boots.
‘Ninnywalling clod ’oppin’ turd . . .’ Art started to yell, and I decided to vacate the yard, before any of his wrath was directed at me.
The back door led into a dark passageway smelling of damp and mouse – a sickly stench, rather like urine. The walls were whitewashed but the slit windows cast almost no light. Voices came from behind a closed door at the end of the passageway, along with wisps of steam. I tapped on it with my knuckles, unsure whether I actually wished anyone to answer. While at home I was cautious on entering Hildegard’s domain, there was always the unspoken restraint – my mother was her employer. The kitchen door flew open, and I was knocked back against the wall.
‘Oh, what you standin’ there fur?’ said a stout girl in a white apron and a matching cap.
‘May Stickland. Stop idling, get them potatoes an’ come back inside.’
‘Aye. There’s a girl lurkin’ in the passageway,’ said May.
‘Well, bring her in then.’
I followed her into the kitchen – what seemed then a large modern room, with gleaming expanses of tiled counters and a huge wooden table in the centre covered in flour and littered with pastry cutters. Racks of utensils hung from hooks above a vast cast-iron cooking range, and armies of wooden spoons huddled in jars beside twin butler sinks. The windows were set high into the wall so that I could not see
I did not see the house itself until we were nearly upon it. Poking above the trees on the lime walk were the chimneystacks and a brass weathervane in the shape of a ship, tacking and jibing in the wind; it appeared to be sailing across a sea of green leaves. Then a flash of light, and the windows on the north gable glinted through the trees. I stood up in my seat, eager for a better view and there, as we emerged from the avenue, was Tyneford House. I will never forget that first sight. It was a handsome manor, at once elegant and easy; the stone a different colour from the cottages – a warm yellow which glowed in the sunshine. A gothic porch stood at the side of the house, a family shield carved into its sandstone façade, a pair of stone roses in each corner, and around the westerly windows grew an ancient wisteria with a profusion of heavy blossom, shaking in the wind. It was not merely the beauty of the building itself that struck me on that afternoon or on the many since, but the loveliness of its position; there are few places in England where nature has done more. Beech woods edged the gardens and the house stood on rising ground, the bank of hills behind. A smart terrace ran along the length of the house, with a few stone steps leading to a velvet-striped lawn, sloping down towards the sea. Every window at the front gazed out upon the water which glittered, calm and beguiling. I breathed in that strange scent again: thyme, freshly turned earth, sweat and salt.
Art guided the cart to brick stables in a large yard at the back of the house, and set about unfastening Mr Bobbin and hosing him down. I climbed down and stood awkwardly in the cobbled yard, listening to the crash of the sea.
‘In there,’ said Art, pointing to a wooden door at the back of the house. ‘Git now. I’ll bring yer stuff in a bit.’
I frowned, realising that Art spoke to me in exactly the same tone he used to address the wayward cows. Only later did I discover that this was in fact a gesture of great trust and affection; there were very few two-legged creatures that Art esteemed. A pair of young stable lads appeared from one of the loose boxes and one started to brush down Mr Bobbin, while the other hauled a large bucket of water. One of the boys stared at me, mouth agape, and slopped the water all over Art’s boots.
‘Ninnywalling clod ’oppin’ turd . . .’ Art started to yell, and I decided to vacate the yard, before any of his wrath was directed at me.
The back door led into a dark passageway smelling of damp and mouse – a sickly stench, rather like urine. The walls were whitewashed but the slit windows cast almost no light. Voices came from behind a closed door at the end of the passageway, along with wisps of steam. I tapped on it with my knuckles, unsure whether I actually wished anyone to answer. While at home I was cautious on entering Hildegard’s domain, there was always the unspoken restraint – my mother was her employer. The kitchen door flew open, and I was knocked back against the wall.
‘Oh, what you standin’ there fur?’ said a stout girl in a white apron and a matching cap.
‘May Stickland. Stop idling, get them potatoes an’ come back inside.’
‘Aye. There’s a girl lurkin’ in the passageway,’ said May.
‘Well, bring her in then.’
I followed her into the kitchen – what seemed then a large modern room, with gleaming expanses of tiled counters and a huge wooden table in the centre covered in flour and littered with pastry cutters. Racks of utensils hung from hooks above a vast cast-iron cooking range, and armies of wooden spoons huddled in jars beside twin butler sinks. The windows were set high into the wall so that I could not see
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