going to keep my flat in Islington, and I can always travel up when I need to. But I want to take advantage of the break and get this place sorted out.’
‘Chrissie said you have family down here.’
‘Yes, my parents live outside Truro. My brother and I were brought up on the family farm, but neither of us wanted to work on the land – Joe’s a schoolteacher locally – so Dad sold the lease when he retired.’
‘And Uncle Val?’
‘Ah yes, dear old Uncle Val. Look.’ Patrick fetched a framed black and white photograph from a table by the window. ‘I found this in his bedroom after he died. It must have been taken in the early 1960s. He was around thirty-seven or thirty-eight then.’
Mel took the picture and angled it towards the light. It was of a fleshy, youngish man, half-turned to the camera, caught mid-conversation at a party. He had a wing of dark, jaw-length hair and sideburns, and was bringing a glass of wine to his full, smiling lips. The photograph was signed Valentine Winter in a scrawl very similar to Patrick’s own.
‘“Winter” was his stage name. He was my dad’s uncle,’ said Patrick, going to sit down once more. ‘Though there was only ten years between them. He was my great-grandma’s unexpected gift, you see – the much-spoiled late baby.’
‘He certainly doesn’t look like a farmer.’
‘Let’s say he was the black sheep.’ Patrick grinned.
Mel gave a snort of laughter. ‘Nor is Valentine a typical name for a farmer ’s son.’
‘The story goes that he was Great-gran’s last chance at having a daughter. And he was born on the fourteenth of February. The combination was irresistible. It’s hardly surprising he turned out the way he did.’
‘He looks as if he enjoyed life.’
‘Oh, he did when he was young – the original playboy, outrageously flamboyant. The family were scandalised. He started out as a TV actor, and went on to create some very successful comedy series. Made a lot of money out of it. But he developed multiple sclerosis in the late nineteen seventies, gave it all up and moved back to Cornwall. Spent the rest of his life here all by himself. Hardly saw the family or his friends. So sad.’ Patrick dropped another log on the fire, then picked up a poker, crouching down to prod the embers. Mel watched him coax the flames into new life.
‘But he chose to leave the place to you,’, eyebrows raiseder of she pointed out. ‘He must have been fond of you.’
Patrick rose and turned to look at her, the poker still in his hand, the other arm resting on the mantelpiece in a proprietorial manner, as though he belonged.
‘I was always a favourite of his. We understood one another at some level, had the same sense of humour. He could be difficult, bloody-minded, but to me he was always good company. He liked a gossip, and I enjoyed listening to his stories. He didn’t become incapacitated with MS until the last few years. I would drive over whenever I was home and we would look through his scrapbooks and he would talk about the old days. I can show you newscuttings of him with famous people – Barbara Windsor, Joe Orton, even the Beatles. He missed that world, but he hated being ill, losing his looks, growing old. I think he felt ashamed.’
‘Poor man. Irina sounded fond of him. He left her money, she told me.’
‘And to the nurse, yes.’ Patrick sat down once more. ‘They were devoted to him, despite his fussiness. Even when he was dying he could be charming, amusing. I was the only beneficiary in the family – not that there was much money left after the taxman had taken his tranche – just this place really.’
Mel wanted to ask whether the rest of the family minded Patrick inheriting Merryn, but felt this question to be too intrusive.
‘Come on,’ Patrick said, putting down his empty glass. ‘If you’d like me to show you round we’d better do it now, before it gets any darker.’
He led the way out of the drawing room and across
‘Chrissie said you have family down here.’
‘Yes, my parents live outside Truro. My brother and I were brought up on the family farm, but neither of us wanted to work on the land – Joe’s a schoolteacher locally – so Dad sold the lease when he retired.’
‘And Uncle Val?’
‘Ah yes, dear old Uncle Val. Look.’ Patrick fetched a framed black and white photograph from a table by the window. ‘I found this in his bedroom after he died. It must have been taken in the early 1960s. He was around thirty-seven or thirty-eight then.’
Mel took the picture and angled it towards the light. It was of a fleshy, youngish man, half-turned to the camera, caught mid-conversation at a party. He had a wing of dark, jaw-length hair and sideburns, and was bringing a glass of wine to his full, smiling lips. The photograph was signed Valentine Winter in a scrawl very similar to Patrick’s own.
‘“Winter” was his stage name. He was my dad’s uncle,’ said Patrick, going to sit down once more. ‘Though there was only ten years between them. He was my great-grandma’s unexpected gift, you see – the much-spoiled late baby.’
‘He certainly doesn’t look like a farmer.’
‘Let’s say he was the black sheep.’ Patrick grinned.
Mel gave a snort of laughter. ‘Nor is Valentine a typical name for a farmer ’s son.’
‘The story goes that he was Great-gran’s last chance at having a daughter. And he was born on the fourteenth of February. The combination was irresistible. It’s hardly surprising he turned out the way he did.’
‘He looks as if he enjoyed life.’
‘Oh, he did when he was young – the original playboy, outrageously flamboyant. The family were scandalised. He started out as a TV actor, and went on to create some very successful comedy series. Made a lot of money out of it. But he developed multiple sclerosis in the late nineteen seventies, gave it all up and moved back to Cornwall. Spent the rest of his life here all by himself. Hardly saw the family or his friends. So sad.’ Patrick dropped another log on the fire, then picked up a poker, crouching down to prod the embers. Mel watched him coax the flames into new life.
‘But he chose to leave the place to you,’, eyebrows raiseder of she pointed out. ‘He must have been fond of you.’
Patrick rose and turned to look at her, the poker still in his hand, the other arm resting on the mantelpiece in a proprietorial manner, as though he belonged.
‘I was always a favourite of his. We understood one another at some level, had the same sense of humour. He could be difficult, bloody-minded, but to me he was always good company. He liked a gossip, and I enjoyed listening to his stories. He didn’t become incapacitated with MS until the last few years. I would drive over whenever I was home and we would look through his scrapbooks and he would talk about the old days. I can show you newscuttings of him with famous people – Barbara Windsor, Joe Orton, even the Beatles. He missed that world, but he hated being ill, losing his looks, growing old. I think he felt ashamed.’
‘Poor man. Irina sounded fond of him. He left her money, she told me.’
‘And to the nurse, yes.’ Patrick sat down once more. ‘They were devoted to him, despite his fussiness. Even when he was dying he could be charming, amusing. I was the only beneficiary in the family – not that there was much money left after the taxman had taken his tranche – just this place really.’
Mel wanted to ask whether the rest of the family minded Patrick inheriting Merryn, but felt this question to be too intrusive.
‘Come on,’ Patrick said, putting down his empty glass. ‘If you’d like me to show you round we’d better do it now, before it gets any darker.’
He led the way out of the drawing room and across
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