parkland dotted with noble trees, Paradise Grange reared up, a sprawling bulk of grey stone topped by turrets and battlements. On the perfect lawns still-frozen patches merged with great sheets of snowdrops and on the roof a flag flying the famous yellow-and-purple Catchitune colours was fretted by the bitter wind. Although it was still early afternoon, carriage lamps blazed on either side of the great oak front door. There was no answer when Ferdie rang the bell which played the Hallelujah Chorus. But as he pushed open the door he bumped into Marigold Lockton, deliriously excited that he might be a returning Larry and followed by an overweight, furiously barking, spaniel.
There's no way I'm going to get Larry Lockton back for that, thought Lysander. Marigold looked absolutely dreadful, rather like a Beryl Cook lady masquerading as Mrs Thatcher. She was twenty pounds overweight, with red eyes and red veins criss-crossing her unhealthily white cheeks. An Alice band on her mousy permed hair emphasized a corrugated forehead. A V-necked polyester dress in overcooked-sprouts-green showed off a neck and arms as opaque and pudgy as the white chocolates with which she constantly stuffed herself. She had clearly also been stuck into the vodka for several hours.
Her first carefully elocuted words to Ferdie were that he could forget about the house he was finding her in Tregunter Road. 'Even if Larry's plannin' to put Paradise Grange on themarket, Ay'm not movin'. The kiddies love their 'ome; whay should they lose it and whay should Ay after all the work Ay've put into redecoratin' it?' She pointed to the oak panelling in the hall which had been painted a rather startling flamingo pink.
'Larry wanted the kiddies brought up in the country.' Her voice rattled like a sliver of bone in the Hoover as she led them into a vast drawing room. 'So he stuck me down 'ere, mayles away from the shops. Now he's packed them off to boardin' school to get a posh accent and some smart friends, and he's given may daily help and Mr and Mrs Brimscombe, our couple what live at the bottom of the drayve, a month's notice to force me out.
'Poor Mr B's tended this garden for nearly forty years. Look at the poor old chap.' Marigold pointed out of the window at an ancient gardener morosely clipping a yew hedge. 'Ay can't lay him off, it'd break his 'eart. Even more than mine's broke.'
'Marigold,' interrupted Ferdie, 'this is Lysander Hawkley."
'Pleased to meet you,' said Marigold unenthusiastically, then pulling herself together, 'I suppose you want a noggin.'
'Please,' said Ferdie, then, seeing Lysander's appalled face, whispered, 'Hang about, I promise you it's worth it.'
'She's gross,' hissed Lysander. 'I'd need serious beer goggles to get within a hundred yards.'
'Lovely view,' enthused Ferdie loudly, squeezing between a large harp and a wind-up gramophone to look out of the huge window stretching the length of the room, 'You can see Valhalla and Angel's Reach from here, and Rachel's cottage behind those Wellingtonias.'
'I don't care,' grumbled Lysander, 'I want to go home.' Despite several bright Persian rugs tossed over a pink wall-to-wall carpet, a matching pink dog basket, a superabundance of silk cushions on their points like a Kirov line-up and enough tartan chairs and sofas to do the Highland fling, the room was as cosy as the furniture department of an Oxford Street store. There were too many dark cumbersome pieces, too many chandeliers, too much gilt on the mirrors and too few logs bravely burning in the vast stone cave of a fireplace.
On the walls, equally disparate, were several gold discs won by Catchitune, a lugubrious Stubbs spaniel, a Hogarth etching of a musical evening, a framed manuscript of the first page of a Beethoven Sonata, and a Picasso of grapes and a violin. The grand piano was weighed down with various recording awards and photographs of
There's no way I'm going to get Larry Lockton back for that, thought Lysander. Marigold looked absolutely dreadful, rather like a Beryl Cook lady masquerading as Mrs Thatcher. She was twenty pounds overweight, with red eyes and red veins criss-crossing her unhealthily white cheeks. An Alice band on her mousy permed hair emphasized a corrugated forehead. A V-necked polyester dress in overcooked-sprouts-green showed off a neck and arms as opaque and pudgy as the white chocolates with which she constantly stuffed herself. She had clearly also been stuck into the vodka for several hours.
Her first carefully elocuted words to Ferdie were that he could forget about the house he was finding her in Tregunter Road. 'Even if Larry's plannin' to put Paradise Grange on themarket, Ay'm not movin'. The kiddies love their 'ome; whay should they lose it and whay should Ay after all the work Ay've put into redecoratin' it?' She pointed to the oak panelling in the hall which had been painted a rather startling flamingo pink.
'Larry wanted the kiddies brought up in the country.' Her voice rattled like a sliver of bone in the Hoover as she led them into a vast drawing room. 'So he stuck me down 'ere, mayles away from the shops. Now he's packed them off to boardin' school to get a posh accent and some smart friends, and he's given may daily help and Mr and Mrs Brimscombe, our couple what live at the bottom of the drayve, a month's notice to force me out.
'Poor Mr B's tended this garden for nearly forty years. Look at the poor old chap.' Marigold pointed out of the window at an ancient gardener morosely clipping a yew hedge. 'Ay can't lay him off, it'd break his 'eart. Even more than mine's broke.'
'Marigold,' interrupted Ferdie, 'this is Lysander Hawkley."
'Pleased to meet you,' said Marigold unenthusiastically, then pulling herself together, 'I suppose you want a noggin.'
'Please,' said Ferdie, then, seeing Lysander's appalled face, whispered, 'Hang about, I promise you it's worth it.'
'She's gross,' hissed Lysander. 'I'd need serious beer goggles to get within a hundred yards.'
'Lovely view,' enthused Ferdie loudly, squeezing between a large harp and a wind-up gramophone to look out of the huge window stretching the length of the room, 'You can see Valhalla and Angel's Reach from here, and Rachel's cottage behind those Wellingtonias.'
'I don't care,' grumbled Lysander, 'I want to go home.' Despite several bright Persian rugs tossed over a pink wall-to-wall carpet, a matching pink dog basket, a superabundance of silk cushions on their points like a Kirov line-up and enough tartan chairs and sofas to do the Highland fling, the room was as cosy as the furniture department of an Oxford Street store. There were too many dark cumbersome pieces, too many chandeliers, too much gilt on the mirrors and too few logs bravely burning in the vast stone cave of a fireplace.
On the walls, equally disparate, were several gold discs won by Catchitune, a lugubrious Stubbs spaniel, a Hogarth etching of a musical evening, a framed manuscript of the first page of a Beethoven Sonata, and a Picasso of grapes and a violin. The grand piano was weighed down with various recording awards and photographs of
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