Wedding Tiers

‘Come in, Aunt Dorrie, we’re just having a little drink to celebrate our engagement,’ Tim said warmly. ‘I was wondering where you had got to. Didn’t you get the note I put through your door earlier?’

‘The cat tried to eat it. I wondered what the soggy bits of paper on the mat were.’

‘Well, you’re here now, that’s the main thing. You know Josie Gray and Ben Richards, don’t you?’

‘Of course I bloody do—they live a stone’s throw away! And anyway, I’m an Acorn.’

An…Acorn?’ queried Tim, cautiously.

‘It’s sort of a barter group Josie set up, darling,’ Libby explained. ‘They use imaginary acorns for currency.’

‘Oh, right!’ he said, though he didn’t look particularly enlightened.

Anyway, I’d have to be flaming blind, deaf and dumb not to recognise every living soul in a village this size, after living here all these years, wouldn’t I? And there’s nothing wrong with any of my faculties.’ Dorrie was obviously in belligerent mode.

‘Of course not, Aunt Dorrie,’ Tim said.

And if I don’t recognise someone, then Mrs Talkalot at the post office soon fills me in, whether I want to hear it or not.’

Mrs Talkalot is the name the postmistress, Florrie James, is commonly known by in Neatslake, and she even good-naturedly refers to herself by it. She only ever stops talking to draw breath and doesn’t so much converse with her customers as let loose a permanent stream-of-consciousness gabble. Her husband wears a permanently dazed expression and keeps his hearing aid turned off most of the time.

Dorrie jerked her head at me. ‘Old Harry Hutton’s her uncle and she’s a friend of the Grace sisters. Go there for bridge sometimes. Violet’s useless, but Pansy and Lily aren’t bad.’

Tim began to open a bottle of champagne that they had ready in an ice bucket. ‘Josie and Ben brought us some of their elder-flower champagne, Aunt Dorrie, and this isn’t going to be half as nice—we should have saved you some.’

‘I don’t want either of them. I don’t like anything sparkling; the bubbles go right up my nose.’ She seated herself in an upright armchair covered in tapestry birds and roses. ‘I’ll have a nice glass of sherry.’

‘Ben and Josie tell me they make a lot of wine and beer themselves. They grow most of their own fruit and vegetables too, and keep hens,’ Tim said, and Dorrie and I exchanged slightly guilty glances, thinking about all the apples and pears we’d had from the old Blessings orchard.

‘I’d love to do that,’ he continued. ‘Maybe I could even keep ducks too, since we have the lily pond. Or what’s left of the lily pond. It’s very overgrown.’

‘I couldn’t keep everything up practically single-handed,’ Dorrie said gruffly. ‘Moorcroft’s past doing anything now except mow the grass very slowly, and by the time he’s finished he has to start again. Needs pensioning off.’

‘No indeed, Aunt Dorrie, you’ve worked wonders,’ Tim said quickly. ‘Without you, it would be a wilderness.’

‘It’s not far off now, though I’ve kept a firm hand with the roses.’

‘And you don’t need more poultry, Tim, you’ve got peacocks,’ Libby pointed out.

‘Yes, but they’re only ornamental, darling. You can’t eat them.’

‘I think people used to,’ I chipped in, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought there was a lot of meat on one.’ I wouldn’t have minded giving it a go—I hated the mournful scream they made. I always had.

‘They’re stupid creatures,’ Dorrie said. ‘We had two females once, but they wouldn’t roost in the trees out of reach of the foxes. Rare instance of the female being stupider than the male, ha-ha.’

Dorrie was a bit of a feminist at heart, but then, after her fiancé was killed in the last war she had parachuted into France to help the Resistance movement as a wireless operator, so she was entirely fearless and self-reliant, and knew she could do anything a mere man could do, only a lot better.

‘Ducks should be all right, though,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘They can nest on the little island in the middle of the lily pond. And if you want to grow your own produce, we could make a vegetable patch at the end of the old orchard, if you like, and put in soft fruit bushes too.’

‘And we could trade things,’ Ben suggested, forgetting that we already did, unknown to Tim and Libby ‘We have a huge plum tree in Harry’s garden but no apples or pears; there isn’t room.’

‘But we get loads of quinces because they grow all along both sides of the fence between the two gardens,’ I put in hastily.

‘I like a bit of quince jelly with my salad meats,’ Dorrie said.

‘Is it nice?’ asked Libby.

‘Yes, I’ll give you a jar, Libs. I’ve made loads of it this year, and I’m still making quince wine.’

Dorrie said hopefully, ‘Some of the woodwork’s rotten on the big greenhouse, Tim, but if you had it repaired, we could grow tender fruit in there. The old vine still produces grapes, but I’m always afraid the roof is going to collapse in on me when I go to pick them. And I have to beat Moorcroft to it, because he loves them. But it’s more than time he retired anyway, he says so himself when his lumbago is bad.’

‘It would save money,’ agreed Tim, ‘and I suspect I’ll do more at weekends than he manages full time.’

We ate the Battenburg cake right down to the last crumb, and then Dorrie expressed an interest in seeing how Libby and I were doing with the great clean-up. We left Tim and Ben planning out the new vegetable garden.

Dorrie enlivened our tour of the house with her freely expressed opinions of Tim’s stepmother and the way she’d spitefully let Blessings decay, but our cleaning efforts and Libby’s organisational skills impressed her.

‘You’re a born housewife, my dear—just what Blessings needs. And a strong character too, which is just what Tim needs.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ Libby said gratefully, turning slightly pink at this accolade. ‘I’m going to do my best to make him happy.’

Like me, Libby has never had any great career ambitions: she hoped for love, security and safety, which she found through marriage. I suppose gardening and cooking are my passions, and I’m sorry if that sounds old-fashioned and sad, but there it is. And at least I do seem somehow to have made a successful and lucrative business out of the baking! In any case, it was always clear that Ben would be a brilliant artist, and I truly don’t think having more than one genius in the house would work terribly well.

Libby was pointing out the evidence of fresh woodworm damage. ‘We have to move back into the modern wing tomorrow while the treatment is done. Luckily it’s only a minor outbreak and it turned out it was still under guarantee. When we can get back in, we need to finish brushing down the walls and ceilings and put the furniture in the middle of the rooms under dust-sheets, ready for a man to come and repaint the walls with a special, authentic whitewash—forgotten what they said it was.’

‘Limewash?’ I suggested.

‘Maybe…whatever.’

‘You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, my dear,’ Dorrie said. ‘Like a breath of fresh air to Blessings, you are!’

‘I’m doing my best, though of course most of it will take a long time to put right—and a lot more money than I thought at first, especially to have the roof properly repaired instead of just patched. We’ve started running the central heating in this part now too, which is going to be very expensive even though it is an ancient system that doesn’t get terribly hot.’

‘That’s probably just as well,’ I said, ‘because too much heat suddenly turned on wouldn’t be good for the place.’

‘No, but it needs to warm through and dry out before we move back into the main bedchamber from the modern wing, which Tim is determined to do as soon as possible.’

‘The new wing was mainly added for a modern kitchen and utility room, plus an extra bathroom and a couple of spare bedrooms upstairs,’ Dorrie said. ‘But until Tim’s father died, the family always lived in the old part, and that’s how it should be. Once you start lighting fires in the Great Chamber, it will carry the heat right through the rest of the house, you’ll see.’

‘That huge fireplace will take quite a lot of logs to fill,’ I said.

‘A few of the old trees in the grounds need to come down, or have already fallen down. They could be sawn up and stacked in one of the outbuildings,’ suggested Dorrie.

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Libby agreed. ‘Waste not, want not—though we’d probably have to get someone to saw them up, because I don’t think I’d trust Tim with a chain saw. He’s much too absent-minded.’

‘It would still be cheaper than buying wood, even so,’ Dorrie said. ‘Are you going to carry on doing all your own cleaning, or get someone in?’

‘Actually, since this is where I’m going to be spending most of my time, I think Gina, who looks after me in Pisa and is something of a Cazzini family retainer, could be persuaded to move here. Tim’s stepmother had the chauffeur’s flat over the garage renovated for that Portuguese couple she employed and I’m sure Gina would love to have her own little place.’