hadn't come to any harm beyond delicate digestions and a generally fleshless appearance. And what was bad enough for them was certainly bad enough for their descendants. Given what she was expected to eat, it was no wonder Tally was so tall and thin. Looking like a beanpole was certainly the nearest she was likely to come to fresh greens.
And what went for Mrs Ormondroyd certainly went for Mr Peters the gardener, Jane was reminded, as the car bounced over the potholes in the drive. Like his colleague in the kitchen, Mr Peters was a retainer whose prime function, as far as Jane could work out, was to be retained irrespective of what his skills were. Or weren't. A generous critic might assume that Mr Peters' criterion of excellence was what would look good in the park in five hundred years' time as there was no evidence that he was interested in the contemporary landscape at all. His idea of a formal garden was distinctly lax.
Tally's hair-raising descriptions of the state of Mullions had prepared Jane for the worst. So, as the first view of the house slid along her windscreen, she was surprised and relieved to see it still seemed to be standing, more or less in its entirety. Across the shimmering oxbow lake, the pile of mellow stone glowed yellow as butter in the soft sunshine. The leaded glass in the eponymous mullioned windows glittered like slices of diamond, and over the crumbling stable block, the weathercock that pointed the same way no matter what direction the wind came from shone in what was almost a spirited fashion.
As she drove past the rose garden, heavy with overblown, un-deadheaded blooms, Jane looked hard for the
sweat lodge Tally had mentioned, and the mysterious mercurial harp. But there was no sign of either. She turned into the stableyard, which backed on to the kitchen wing. This, for the last hundred years at least, had been the main entrance to Mullions, ever since the massive front door had come off its hinges while being opened to admit Queen Victoria — who, on that occasion, had apparently been amused.
Mrs Ormondroyd came out to greet her, dressed, as always, in a checked nylon overall of violent turquoise blue, her massive calves covered with tights the colour of strong tea. Her large-nosed face with its uneven eyes and spreading ears was, as usual, the deep-creased picture of disapproval and suspicion.
'You're just in time for lunch,' she grumbled.
'Great,' said Jane bravely. 'I was hoping I would be.'
'Well, you might change your mind when you see what it is.' Mrs Ormondroyd scowled, leading the way back into the kitchen. Jane followed, bewildered at this unexpected flash of self-knowledge on Mrs Ormondroyd's part. Had she finally accepted there were limits to her cooking skills?
Inside, the welcome was warmer.
'Jane!' shrieked Tally, clattering over the stone flags like an excited five-year-old. Jane found herself enveloped in a dusty, mothball-scented hug. 'It's so nice to see you,' Tally gasped. 'You look wonderful. Much thinner.'
'Do I?' Tally always said the right thing, but this really was the rightest thing of all. Hoping she meant it, Jane stole a swift look down at herself. Her stomach was a bit flatter, largely thanks to the steep drop in her wine consumption. Opening a bottle just for herself, alone in the flat, made Jane feel like an alcoholic. However, she
89
permitted herself the occasional gin and tonic because she needed the lime slices to counteract the risk of scurvy from her unvaried diet of pasta and pesto.
'You look so smart,' Tally said, holding her at arm's length.
It's only my jeans,' said Jane. Her white shirt wasn't even new. Yet it was newer by a generation than anything Tally had on. Her sharp, bony elbows protruded from a tiny, shrunken pullover. A pair of half-mast trousers ended halfway up her skinny calves. 'Amazing trousers,' Jane said with perfect truth, unable to tear her eyes away from the dark, wide-pinstriped creation that, like the dress Tally
And what went for Mrs Ormondroyd certainly went for Mr Peters the gardener, Jane was reminded, as the car bounced over the potholes in the drive. Like his colleague in the kitchen, Mr Peters was a retainer whose prime function, as far as Jane could work out, was to be retained irrespective of what his skills were. Or weren't. A generous critic might assume that Mr Peters' criterion of excellence was what would look good in the park in five hundred years' time as there was no evidence that he was interested in the contemporary landscape at all. His idea of a formal garden was distinctly lax.
Tally's hair-raising descriptions of the state of Mullions had prepared Jane for the worst. So, as the first view of the house slid along her windscreen, she was surprised and relieved to see it still seemed to be standing, more or less in its entirety. Across the shimmering oxbow lake, the pile of mellow stone glowed yellow as butter in the soft sunshine. The leaded glass in the eponymous mullioned windows glittered like slices of diamond, and over the crumbling stable block, the weathercock that pointed the same way no matter what direction the wind came from shone in what was almost a spirited fashion.
As she drove past the rose garden, heavy with overblown, un-deadheaded blooms, Jane looked hard for the
sweat lodge Tally had mentioned, and the mysterious mercurial harp. But there was no sign of either. She turned into the stableyard, which backed on to the kitchen wing. This, for the last hundred years at least, had been the main entrance to Mullions, ever since the massive front door had come off its hinges while being opened to admit Queen Victoria — who, on that occasion, had apparently been amused.
Mrs Ormondroyd came out to greet her, dressed, as always, in a checked nylon overall of violent turquoise blue, her massive calves covered with tights the colour of strong tea. Her large-nosed face with its uneven eyes and spreading ears was, as usual, the deep-creased picture of disapproval and suspicion.
'You're just in time for lunch,' she grumbled.
'Great,' said Jane bravely. 'I was hoping I would be.'
'Well, you might change your mind when you see what it is.' Mrs Ormondroyd scowled, leading the way back into the kitchen. Jane followed, bewildered at this unexpected flash of self-knowledge on Mrs Ormondroyd's part. Had she finally accepted there were limits to her cooking skills?
Inside, the welcome was warmer.
'Jane!' shrieked Tally, clattering over the stone flags like an excited five-year-old. Jane found herself enveloped in a dusty, mothball-scented hug. 'It's so nice to see you,' Tally gasped. 'You look wonderful. Much thinner.'
'Do I?' Tally always said the right thing, but this really was the rightest thing of all. Hoping she meant it, Jane stole a swift look down at herself. Her stomach was a bit flatter, largely thanks to the steep drop in her wine consumption. Opening a bottle just for herself, alone in the flat, made Jane feel like an alcoholic. However, she
89
permitted herself the occasional gin and tonic because she needed the lime slices to counteract the risk of scurvy from her unvaried diet of pasta and pesto.
'You look so smart,' Tally said, holding her at arm's length.
It's only my jeans,' said Jane. Her white shirt wasn't even new. Yet it was newer by a generation than anything Tally had on. Her sharp, bony elbows protruded from a tiny, shrunken pullover. A pair of half-mast trousers ended halfway up her skinny calves. 'Amazing trousers,' Jane said with perfect truth, unable to tear her eyes away from the dark, wide-pinstriped creation that, like the dress Tally
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