it would make a good snap. Shall I let the dog off his lead?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘he could do with a good run.’ And dragging my eyes from the surrounding beauty I watched Bouncer lunge at his freedom – dancing and barking, happy as the day he was born. Lucky beggar …
For a little while we walked in silence, sniffing the pure air and absorbed in the unaccustomed space and stillness. Bouncer had rushed off on some excursion of his own, reappearing now and again to snuffle at our heels and leer at the goats before darting away for fresh reconnaissance. I took out my cigarettes, and was just about to light one for Primrose when she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, that must be it down there. Look. It has to be the Fotherington Folly!’ And grabbing my arm, she gestured excitedly towards the valley below. At first I saw nothing except trees and remnants of a crumbling stone wall. I strained my eyes, perplexed. ‘No, not there,’ she urged, ‘further on, to the right, past those trees. To the right , Francis – you can’t miss it.’
And nor I could. Grey, formless, sprawling and turreted, it was a piece of dissipated architecture of a kind that might have been discarded following an abortive attempt at a Disney film. Had it been less monumentally ugly, it might have been risible. As it was, it was simply a large depressing blot on what originally must have been a lovely landscape … Some folly all right! I thought of Elizabeth and the diary jotting where she had expressed her distaste for the place and her vow never to set foot over its threshold again. Ugly and sinister, she had called it. Well, at least she had been right there; and I experienced a sudden flash of aesthetic kinship. But it was only a flash, for in the next instant the sound of those arch wheedling tones welled up in my mind, and I heard the tinsel laugh, even caught a whiff of the cloying attar of violets wafting around my nostrils. And when Primrose tapped me on the shoulder, I leaped back like a stricken deer.
‘Well, don’t stand there gawping,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s awful,’ I said bleakly.
‘Hmm, pretty grim. Though I suppose having occupying troops in ‘44 wouldn’t have helped much. I wonder who slept in the turrets – Oberstleutnant Schmidt and Hauptmann Braun presumably, or some such. Perhaps we’ll meet their ghosts when we’re digging up the gold.’ She giggled and I gave her a scornful look.
‘That treasure business is a load of hooey; and as for selling the place, Nicholas must be mad if he thinks anyone would want it. Total white elephant – which is just as well. The last thing I want is to have my name brought into things, least of all if there’s profit to be had.’ I stuck my hands in my pockets and scowled down at the monstrous pile.
There was a pause. And then she said, ‘Now look here, Francis, you are being a complete wet blanket. Do not, as Pa would say, spoil the party. One hasn’t travelled all this way to a most lovely region in France just for you to be gloomy and negative. Besides, we have the right to claim this enormous place for free , and even if there’s no buyer it could at least be renovated and enjoyed. Also, with a bit of luck – unlikely, admittedly – we might even literally strike gold. Just think of all the hymn books and hassocks you could buy with that … even run to a new weathercock for the church spire. Where’s your sense of adventure and romance? Take a chance for once!’
I whirled around and confronted her. ‘ Take a chance for once? What in heaven’s name do you mean! What do you think I took that day in Foxford Wood – a cup of tea?’
She stared back, startled. And then lowering her eyes, murmured quietly, ‘No, not tea … and not just a chance. You took something else.’
‘Pre cisely ,’ I echoed, ‘I took something else.’ For a few moments we regarded each other in silence, before shifting our gaze to
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘he could do with a good run.’ And dragging my eyes from the surrounding beauty I watched Bouncer lunge at his freedom – dancing and barking, happy as the day he was born. Lucky beggar …
For a little while we walked in silence, sniffing the pure air and absorbed in the unaccustomed space and stillness. Bouncer had rushed off on some excursion of his own, reappearing now and again to snuffle at our heels and leer at the goats before darting away for fresh reconnaissance. I took out my cigarettes, and was just about to light one for Primrose when she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, that must be it down there. Look. It has to be the Fotherington Folly!’ And grabbing my arm, she gestured excitedly towards the valley below. At first I saw nothing except trees and remnants of a crumbling stone wall. I strained my eyes, perplexed. ‘No, not there,’ she urged, ‘further on, to the right, past those trees. To the right , Francis – you can’t miss it.’
And nor I could. Grey, formless, sprawling and turreted, it was a piece of dissipated architecture of a kind that might have been discarded following an abortive attempt at a Disney film. Had it been less monumentally ugly, it might have been risible. As it was, it was simply a large depressing blot on what originally must have been a lovely landscape … Some folly all right! I thought of Elizabeth and the diary jotting where she had expressed her distaste for the place and her vow never to set foot over its threshold again. Ugly and sinister, she had called it. Well, at least she had been right there; and I experienced a sudden flash of aesthetic kinship. But it was only a flash, for in the next instant the sound of those arch wheedling tones welled up in my mind, and I heard the tinsel laugh, even caught a whiff of the cloying attar of violets wafting around my nostrils. And when Primrose tapped me on the shoulder, I leaped back like a stricken deer.
‘Well, don’t stand there gawping,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s awful,’ I said bleakly.
‘Hmm, pretty grim. Though I suppose having occupying troops in ‘44 wouldn’t have helped much. I wonder who slept in the turrets – Oberstleutnant Schmidt and Hauptmann Braun presumably, or some such. Perhaps we’ll meet their ghosts when we’re digging up the gold.’ She giggled and I gave her a scornful look.
‘That treasure business is a load of hooey; and as for selling the place, Nicholas must be mad if he thinks anyone would want it. Total white elephant – which is just as well. The last thing I want is to have my name brought into things, least of all if there’s profit to be had.’ I stuck my hands in my pockets and scowled down at the monstrous pile.
There was a pause. And then she said, ‘Now look here, Francis, you are being a complete wet blanket. Do not, as Pa would say, spoil the party. One hasn’t travelled all this way to a most lovely region in France just for you to be gloomy and negative. Besides, we have the right to claim this enormous place for free , and even if there’s no buyer it could at least be renovated and enjoyed. Also, with a bit of luck – unlikely, admittedly – we might even literally strike gold. Just think of all the hymn books and hassocks you could buy with that … even run to a new weathercock for the church spire. Where’s your sense of adventure and romance? Take a chance for once!’
I whirled around and confronted her. ‘ Take a chance for once? What in heaven’s name do you mean! What do you think I took that day in Foxford Wood – a cup of tea?’
She stared back, startled. And then lowering her eyes, murmured quietly, ‘No, not tea … and not just a chance. You took something else.’
‘Pre cisely ,’ I echoed, ‘I took something else.’ For a few moments we regarded each other in silence, before shifting our gaze to
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