This Year's For Me and You, page 7
Patrick has come in at the end of this speech and is smiling. ‘There’s a man with a plan,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be great. I can see it.’
‘Me too.’ Vik throws a log on the fire. ‘This is the life,’ he says. ‘And it’s so great to have you guys all here to see it. Cheers! Here’s to a great New Year’s.’
We all drink to that, and Vik turns to smile at me. ‘I’m glad you came,’ he says under his breath, squeezing my arm.
‘Thanks, Vik. Me too,’ I say, and I’m surprised to find it’s the truth. This first New Year’s without Hannah is going to be hard, but I’m here. I’m trying. And for all my reservations about whether Vik’s going to go mad rattling around here for another six months, it does seem a great place for a party.
7
The next morning when I wake up, I can almost see my breath in the air and I send up thanks for my foresight that made me pack full thermal underwear, and my hot-water bottle, which is still lukewarm even though it’s 8 a.m. Out of the leaded window, I see lawns and hedges wreathed with frost and clinging mist, and in the distance a red sun just over the horizon. This is one sunrise I can catch. I pull my jeans and jumper on over my thermals and go out to take a look.
Downstairs, nobody seems to be stirring; unsurprising, as we got to bed quite late. I slip out of the front door, leaving it on the latch, and go outside. The grass is crisp with frost, and there’s no sound except my feet crunching on the gravel, the occasional bird and, much further, the faint roar of distant traffic. The gardens look a bit bleak: just a pockmarked lawn surrounded by overgrown hedges and some dishevelled flower beds. But the rising sun is lovely, lighting up a line of leafless trees to the left of the house. To the right I can see the fringes of Vik’s lake or pond – though I steer well clear of that to avoid the swan.
I turn back to survey the house, which is looking undoubtedly lovely with its oak beams and whitewash, its diamond-paned windows catching the sun’s rosy rays. Would Hannah have been happy here? Yes, I think she would have. She would have made the house her project and filled it with people every weekend; she would have made friends locally, maybe had chickens. She and Vik probably would have started a family too, though I know she wasn’t in a hurry. I hope whoever buys it can bring it back to life; it’s the kind of house that should be bursting at the seams with a busy household and all its associated activity.
Back inside, I put my head round the door of the sitting room, which is a mess of sticky wine glasses and empty bottles. The daylight is much less kind to the place, with its awful flock wallpaper and lighter patches where pictures presumably used to hang. The threadbare carpets and the dated furniture mingle oddly with Vik and Hannah’s modern belongings from London. I stare at the grey velvet sofa again, remembering her buying it on eBay and all the drama surrounding the delivery of it up their three flights of stairs. And here it is now, squatting in this house. How did this sofa outlast her?
I scoop up the dirty glasses and bottles and carry them through to the kitchen, which is at the back of the house, a rambling low-beamed place with an Aga cooker. It looks as though it should have a massive scrubbed pine table in the middle with a cat dozing on it; instead, Vik’s there sitting at his white tulip table with his MacBook Air open in front of him. He’s drinking coffee and looking at something on the screen.
‘Morning! You’re up early, lovely. Did you sleep well?’
I smile and nod, thinking how thoughtful he is. ‘Like a log. It’s so peaceful here.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He looks pleased that I’ve noticed this. ‘I’ve just made some coffee. Help yourself … and there’s bread in the bread bin. Sorry, I’m actually just in the last stages of an auction here.’
‘Oh yeah? What are you bidding on?’ I ask, expecting it’s some kind of gadget. Vik loves anything tech-related; Hannah and I used to joke that if they ever had a baby, Vik would be hunting for the manual and checking for upgrades from the very first night.
Vik doesn’t reply, pecking frantically at his keyboard; I leave him to get on with it and toast some bread and pour myself some coffee. It’s normal Lavazza coffee in a cafetière, thank God. As well as being into gadgets, Vik is quite the guy for the latest wellness and foodie trends. A few years ago it was bulletproof coffee (black coffee with protein powder and coconut oil – revolting), then cold brew, which was even worse, and then turmeric lattes to ‘boost his immune system’.
‘Dammit! Just missed out,’ he says. ‘What a beauty – look.’
He shows me; it’s an antique French mahogany armoire, elaborately carved.
‘I didn’t know you were into antiques, Vik,’ I say, buttering my toast.
‘I’m getting into it,’ he says. ‘I mean, it’s hard not to, surrounded by all this. And all our furniture looks wrong here – look at this, for instance.’
He points at the tulip table, and I have to agree; it was perfect in their little galley kitchen in Hackney but it looks really strange in here. I don’t know how we’re all going to fit around it tonight; we’ll have to eat in shifts.
‘Let me show you around properly,’ he says, once I’ve finished my toast. ‘You can bring your coffee. Wait, first, have you seen the servants’ bells? They don’t work, but it’s very Downton Abbey.’
He shows me the board with a dozen bells, with the names of all the rooms on them in neat gilt lettering. I have to admit it’s really charming.
‘Are you tempted to get them rewired?’ I ask, thinking that’s the kind of thing that prospective buyers would love.
‘And give you lazybones the chance to summon me for your every whim? I don’t think so.’
We walk around the house with its warren of passages; I feel lost at every turn. I notice the same state of disrepair everywhere and more hideous wallpaper, but also some lovely details I had overlooked – like all the original wood beams and how many of the windows have their original thick and bubbled glass. Vik shows me the formal dining room downstairs, which seems in slightly better nick, with a proper long table. It has a massive fireplace and wood panelling that he says is eighteenth century.
‘And this,’ he says, pointing to a photograph over the sideboard, ‘is the man himself – my grandfather, Ashok. With the 8th Army, 4th Indian Division. That was taken in Italy – he was one of the soldiers who liberated Italy from the Nazis. He fought at the Battle of Monte Cassino.’
I look silently at the picture of the face, young and gawky under his turban. I don’t see the resemblance to Vik really, but it’s hard to tell. ‘How old was he there, Vik?’
‘Oh, he was nineteen there – and just twenty-two at Monte Cassino. They were all around that age, you know. But they were legends in the Eighth, the best fighting force in Italy according to some.’ There’s no hiding the pride in his voice, and I don’t blame him for a minute.
‘And remind me: what’s the connection with the house exactly?’
‘So, all we know is that Ashok – my grandfather – saved this man Roger Davies’s life during another battle at San Marino. They stayed in touch and exchanged letters, and years later Davies left a codicil in his will, like a postscript saying that in the event of the family dying out, this place should pass to Ashok or his youngest male descendant. Look, this is Roger Davies.’
He points to a black-and-white photograph on the opposite wall: a solemn-looking young man standing outside – I look closer – this house.
‘Wow, Vikram. That’s incredible. But how did it happen that the Davies family died out? There’s always a relative somewhere, isn’t there?’ Based on stories of wills in my extended family, it seems like long-lost cousins can always be found when a legacy is in question.
‘Yes, but the will specified the degree of relatedness … and if they died without issue, which they all did, then enter Ashok. Or rather me – his youngest descendant.’
‘And did you know about all this prior to hearing from the solicitors?’
‘Not a thing. We knew he had saved someone’s life, but we never knew anything of the friendship or the will until about two years ago, when Simon Davies, who was Roger’s nephew, died and his solicitors got in touch. It took them a while to find us. And then there’s been a whole legal process to go through, as you know. It’s quite a story – it’s been in the local paper and everything.’
‘Did he get a medal, Vik? He should have.’
‘Yes, he did, and a mention in dispatches. The medal itself we’ve never found, though.’
I stare at the photo, thinking of the confluence of history that brought these two men together in Italy for this brief and life-changing encounter that’s sent ripples into the next century. I can see why Vik’s drawn to the place if only for this reason; it’s a hard link to ignore. I just hope it doesn’t turn into a massive financial burden for him. Even though he’s working remotely, and earning rent from his place in London, the cost of the works must be astronomical – surely in the five figures. How is he going to afford it all without going into debt?
‘Didn’t your parents want it, Vik?’
He laughs. ‘Not a bit. They were so stressed out even by the suggestion. Suffolk’s not great for golf, you see. And my mum would miss her book group and her wine club. They’ve got roots, you see. Unlike me.’
‘But you’re not putting down roots here, of course,’ I say. ‘Any idea how long the works will take – or how much it’s going to cost?’
He runs his fingers through his glossy hair and leads me back towards the kitchen. ‘It’s very up in the air,’ he says. ‘It’s all dependent on how long everything takes … and I’ve got to meet the conservation officer and then get various quotes and plans in. Quite complicated. Right! Let’s not wait for the others. I’m going to put on some food! Want some eggs? I’ve got smoked salmon too, and sausages if you want them …’
I decide not to ask him any more questions for now; the financials of the whole thing are really not my business. As I help him set the table, I notice the juicer stuffed in a high cupboard and remember when Vik and Hannah were all about juicing; everything they drank or even ate was blended for a month. This makes me feel slightly worried again. This house, and the project of renovating it, seems to be his current obsession – but it will be a lot more costly than juicing. This house could be worth a fortune if he sells it on, but it could also be an absolute money pit, and a white elephant to boot. I just hope that he can extricate himself soon, and that by next New Year’s he’ll back in London, where he belongs.
8
We’ve just finished eating, when a door bangs open and Patrick comes inside, bringing a gust of freezing air with him. He’s carrying some muddy boots and wearing an old white Aran sweater, and his hair is ruffled from the wind. An Aran sweater! There’s a blast from the past; I haven’t seen one of those in years. There’s something very old-fashioned and wholesome about him – a bit like Chris O’Donnell in the old movie Circle of Friends.
‘Ha, typical. Look who appears as soon as breakfast is ready,’ Vik says.
Patrick says mildly, ‘I did just plant fifty bulbs for you. Irises and daffodils, under your apple trees.’
‘Fifty!’ I say.
‘That barely put a dent in it – we’ve got five hundred to put in,’ Vik says. ‘Wait. I have apple trees?’
‘Yes, they’re hiding under some brambles.’ Patrick tops up his thermos flask from the cafetière. ‘Do you want to take a look?’
‘I should really be a good host and wait for everyone else to appear and give them breakfast,’ says Vik. ‘Actually, whatever. This I’ve got to see.’
We all go outside, me pulling my woollen hat over my ears. Part of me feels like I’ve already seen the garden and I wouldn’t mind a shower, but I don’t want to be a downer when Vik is so excited.
‘Here we go,’ Patrick says, stopping beside some bare trees smothered in brambles. ‘Three apple trees. I’m not sure what kind.’
‘And they’ve been hidden under these,’ Vik marvels. ‘I had no idea.’
‘It’s going to be never-ending with the brambles, I’m afraid,’ says Patrick. ‘But we’ll get rid of these for you. I’ve got some reinforcements to plant – cherries, as I said, and then I also brought some roses to start the summer beds. Suffolk ground roses, and some others.’
‘Check this out, Celeste,’ Vik says, and we all walk round the corner to the two dead flower beds I saw earlier. ‘These are going to be the summer beds – with all kinds of roses, hollyhocks, foxgloves, delphiniums. A massive burst of colour. And then here are the winter beds; that’s going to be dogwood, and camellias and forsythia for winter colour. So in summer you can sit at a bench here, and look at the summer colours – and then in winter, you can sit here and admire the winter beds.’ They both look at me with identical excited faces.
‘That does sound beautiful.’
‘Have you shown her that, Vik?’ Patrick points beyond the beds to a scrubby area behind the hedges, where a ditch extends in either direction.
‘What am I looking at? That’s a ditch.’
‘Not a ditch,’ says Patrick. ‘It’s a moat.’
‘Can you believe it? A moat,’ Vik enthuses. ‘I mean, an actual moat. It’s all overgrown, and the pond itself is silted up. So at some point we’ll have to dredge the pond.’
‘Well, careful now,’ says Patrick, laughing. ‘When you say “we”.’
I’m glad to hear him sounding some note of caution, but Vik is well away. He continues, ‘And then we clear this ditch – put in a couple of little bridges – bit of dredging and, um, sluicing and, hey presto, here’s our moat.’
‘How are you going to clear the ditch?’ I ask, looking at the six-foot drop choked with brambles and with God knows what lurking at the bottom.
‘Diggers,’ Vik says, brightening. ‘We’ll get diggers in.’
‘Who’s going to drive the diggers?’ I ask, and they say, ‘I am,’ in unison. Then they burst out laughing.
‘You’re both crazy,’ I tell them, but I can’t ignore the new lease of life in Vik. Even if it is a lunatic project, I have to admit that it seems to have given him a shot in the arm. He’s so different already from the grey-faced figure who I remember shuffling around his flat in the months after the accident, barely able to get out of bed. I have to hand it to Patrick; this garden has done more for Vik than all my attempts to cheer him up ever could.
‘Anything else?’ I ask, smiling. ‘Are you planning a drawbridge to go with the moat perhaps? A swimming pool?’
Their laughter subsides and they exchange a quick look. ‘Actually there is something I’d like to show you,’ Vikram says. ‘Over this way.’
They lead the way to a sheltered spot, back near the apple trees. Vik seems to take a minute to compose himself, and then he speaks.
‘Here’s where we’re going to make a bee garden. Plantings lots of things that bees will thrive on: lavender, hyssop, asters … lots of purple and blues.’ Hannah’s favourite colours. And bees. He doesn’t need to explain the symbolism; I get it.
‘That sounds nice, Vik,’ I say. I don’t trust myself to say more without choking up.
He nods and puts an arm around me briefly. I squeeze him back, and we’re having a bit of a moment when Patrick adds, ‘And you talked about having something here too – as a memorial. Like a stone bench, or a sundial, with her name or dates engraved.’
‘What?’
They both look at me. I hadn’t intended it to come out like that, but I couldn’t help it. How could he possibly think of leaving something so precious – a memorial to Hannah – in a house that will be sold to strangers? It would be totally inappropriate.
I take a breath and say, ‘Sorry, it’s just … that sounds rather permanent. You don’t want to put buyers off, do you? Unless … are you thinking of something that you could take away with you? When you come back to London?’
They both look at me and I suddenly feel like an absolute idiot, as the penny drops.
‘Sorry, Celeste,’ Vik says. ‘I should have said earlier. Never say never, but for now, yeah, I’m thinking of staying long-term. I’m happy here. Or as happy as I can be anyway.’ He tries to smile, and I try to recover from my shock and do the same.
‘God, Vik, you don’t need to apologize. I’m so glad you’re happy. I just didn’t realize, that’s all. I’m sorry.’ I look back at the site of the future bee garden, wishing Patrick wasn’t here to witness this conversation. I want to ask Vik tactfully about the financials but I feel I can’t do that with Patrick here either. Why didn’t I say anything earlier?
At this point we all hear the sound of wheels on gravel.
‘That must be my supermarket shop,’ says Vik. ‘See you in a sec, OK?’
He hurries off, sounding rather relieved to have escaped this awkward conversation. I feel so embarrassed. And Patrick is making it worse – he’s gazing at me with an expression that I think is meant to be sympathetic but just looks patronizing.
‘You don’t think it’s a good idea?’ he says.
His paternalistic tone makes me react more vehemently than I would have to Vik.
‘Not really. It’s a six-bedroom house in the middle of nowhere – not exactly ideal for a single grieving person. And he’s got no experience of managing a project like this or doing any kind of renovations.’
‘He has just had the whole place rewired,’ says Patrick mildly.
‘OK, but what about all this business with the rendering – and everything else it might turn out to need? And how is he going to afford it all? Don’t tell me he’s getting into debt.’
‘Well, he’s put his place on the market,’ Patrick says.
‘His flat in London? What? When?’
‘He’s been talking about it for a while – didn’t he tell you? He’s told the estate agent and they’ll start viewings in January, I think.’
