From Mary - TO CONTINUE THE STORY of HUGH AND CAMELLIA

I'm getting in a right muddle remembering where I am up to so . . .

I'm not . . . at least, not here.

BUT . . . (more dots!) you can continue it somewhere else - in fact, you can romp ahead until you catch up with others who are reading it. Then you'll have to wait a bit until I've written more. But the story goes right up to episode forty-six so it might keep you going for a while.

This is the link for SIXTEEN

And this is the link for anyone who would like to start at the beginning - THE BEGINNING

Then . . . (more dots!) . . . I'll spend more time writing and less time copying and pasting.

Sensible, eh?

FIFTEEN

continued from

While Hugh was gone, Stephen was at liberty to look round the room. The walls were painted oddly orange and the light from a central bulb, under a parchment shade, made everything distant from the AGA seem flat and dull. The windows were high, right up against the ceiling. They hadn't been touched for months, possibly years, for the pole with the brass hook on the end which would be needed for opening and closing them, and which was propped handily in a corner, was coated with cob-webs and the skeletons of spiders.

The room was bigger than any kitchen he'd been in before. The table would have been better sited in the grand dining room of The Hall than in here but there was still plenty of space between it and two arm-chairs (islands in a tide of newspapers) for broken baskets and cardboard boxes.

He had just sat down in one of them and was ruffling through the papers, thinking it might be interesting to read about something which had happened a long time ago, when he heard Hugh shout.

Then again.

His voice was muffled but coming closer. When he'd left the room with the tea, he'd gone through the door which led to the gun room and the yard so Stephen leapt up and headed for that. But the handle was round and brass and slippery and loose. There must be a knack. No. A catch. A catch to lift. It stuck. He rattled and pushed. It shot up - a second nick to his finger! . . . and Hugh burst through a green baize door on the other side of the kitchen.

“Stephen! I’m so sorry. It’s Camellia.” He steadied himself against the back of a chair. Stephen ran to help. Took his elbow. Waited.

Hugh drew a breath but couldn't say more.

“Show me,” Stephen said gently, his own heart thumping. Hugh didn't look well. What if Hugh and Camellia expired on him? Both of them. "Where's Camellia, Hugh?" Hugh just carried on staring. “Show me,” Stephen said again, raising Hugh's elbow a little.

Hugh turned and went back through the baize door. There was hardly any light on the other side. Just the smell of mould and manure. Stephen took Hugh's arm again, not to offer support but to know where they were going. Then they came out from under a huge staircase into a burst of semi-sunshine. A great long, high, wide, entrance hall, with tall windows and oil paintings, and a standpipe, and donkeys pulling hay down from wire baskets on the wall.

"There." Hugh nodded towards the open drawing room door.

Stephen let him rest, leaning against the wall, and went in.

Late afternoon light was filtering through dust into the most extraordinary room he had ever seen and Camellia was there, as if stranded, slumped like a drowned mermaid on a slimy rock that had once been a chair. A standard lamp lay smashed on the floor beside it and a shovel, half filled with muck, lay abandoned at her feet. She was pale. Very pale. And cold, with her hands resting limp on the arms of her rock, her head sideways against its mouldering back. Now Stephen knew what ‘digging up the carpet’ meant. There was a heap of the stuff in the fireplace.

“It could be lovely,” she whispered - and fainted again.

Stephen was worried he too might faint for want of anything worth breathing so he went to one of the windows and tried to push up the sash. It wouldn't budge. Something snorted behind him. He paused. Listened. Wondered. Didn't like to turn and look. Then there was tapping. A series of little taps on the granite floor where the carpet had been scraped away. He drew his arm across a dirty pane. He could see the barn in the courtyard now. It helped to know where he was. Thus strengthened, he turned.

Several sheep were standing in the room and more were arriving, clattering out from behind what had once been a sofa - to look at him. Sam appeared at the doorway. A duck shuffled past Stephen's ankle and hopped onto a chair opposite Camellia and settled on what once had been a cushion.

Hugh said something.

That was it. They must get her head down.

It wasn't easy. Hugh was feeling weak and worried. Stephen was feeling sick and scared.

“She wanted to make it nice for our daughter,” mumbled Hugh. Suddenly, he was angry. “I told her she'd be too tired.”

His voice didn't come out loud. He was anguished and tired and worried and cross and wondering if it would be more comfortable to despair.

Camellia groaned.

“Doesn't he go on!” she said. Then she smiled. It was a weak smile - but a definite one.

Stephen found himself grinning back.

“We though you might like some tea,” he said.

__________

To continue - Sixteen

For the post before this - Fourteen

FOURTEEN

continued from

While Hugh was gone, Stephen was at liberty to look round the room. The walls were painted oddly orange and the light from a central bulb, under a parchment shade, made everything distant from the AGA seem flat and dull. The windows were high, right up against the ceiling. They hadn't been touched for months, possibly years, for the pole with the brass hook on the end which would be needed for opening and closing them, and which was propped handily in a corner, was coated with cob-webs and the skeletons of spiders.

The room was bigger than any kitchen he'd been in before. The table would have been better sited in the grand dining room of The Hall than in here but there was still plenty of space between it and two arm-chairs (islands in a tide of newspapers) for broken baskets and cardboard boxes.

He had just sat down in one of them and was ruffling through the papers, thinking it might be interesting to read about something which had happened a long time ago, when he heard Hugh shout.

Then again.

His voice was muffled but coming closer. When he'd left the room with the tea, he'd gone through the door which led to the gun room and the yard so Stephen leapt up and headed for that. But the handle was round and brass and slippery and loose. There must be a knack. No. A catch. A catch to lift. It stuck. He rattled and pushed. It shot up - a second nick to his finger! . . . and Hugh burst through a green baize door on the other side of the kitchen.

“Stephen! I’m so sorry. It’s Camellia.” He steadied himself against the back of a chair. Stephen ran to help. Took his elbow. Waited.

Hugh drew a breath but couldn't say more.

“Show me,” Stephen said gently, his own heart thumping. Hugh didn't look well. What if Hugh and Camellia expired on him? Both of them. "Where's Camellia, Hugh?" Hugh just carried on staring. “Show me,” Stephen said again, raising Hugh's elbow a little.

Hugh turned and went back through the baize door. There was hardly any light on the other side. Just the smell of mould and manure. Stephen took Hugh's arm again, not to offer support but to know where they were going. Then they came out from under a huge staircase into a burst of semi-sunshine. A great long, high, wide, entrance hall, with tall windows and oil paintings, and a standpipe, and donkeys pulling hay down from wire baskets on the wall.

"There." Hugh nodded towards the open drawing room door.

Stephen let him rest, leaning against the wall, and went in.

Late afternoon light was filtering through dust into the most extraordinary room he had ever seen and Camellia was there, as if stranded, slumped like a drowned mermaid on a slimy rock that had once been a chair. A standard lamp lay smashed on the floor beside it and a shovel, half filled with muck, lay abandoned at her feet. She was pale. Very pale. And cold, with her hands resting limp on the arms of her rock, her head sideways against its mouldering back. Now Stephen knew what ‘digging up the carpet’ meant. There was a heap of the stuff in the fireplace.

“It could be lovely,” she whispered - and fainted again.

Stephen was worried he too might faint for want of anything worth breathing so he went to one of the windows and tried to push up the sash. It wouldn't budge. Something snorted behind him. He paused. Listened. Wondered. Didn't like to turn and look. Then there was tapping. A series of little taps on the granite floor where the carpet had been scraped away. He drew his arm across a dirty pane. He could see the barn in the courtyard now. It helped to know where he was. Thus strengthened, he turned.

Several sheep were standing in the room and more were arriving, clattering out from behind what had once been a sofa - to look at him. Sam appeared at the doorway. A duck shuffled past Stephen's ankle and hopped onto a chair opposite Camellia and settled on what once had been a cushion.

Hugh said something.

That was it. They must get her head down.

It wasn't easy. Hugh was feeling weak and worried. Stephen was feeling sick and scared.

“She wanted to make it nice for our daughter,” mumbled Hugh. Suddenly, he was angry. “I told her she'd be too tired.”

His voice didn't come out loud. He was anguished and tired and worried and cross and wondering if it would be more comfortable to despair.

Camellia groaned.

“Doesn't he go on!” she said. Then she smiled. It was a weak smile - but a definite one.

Stephen found himself grinning back.

“We though you might like some tea,” he said.

__________

For the post before this - Fourteen

FOURTEEN

continued from

Stephen's hesitation lasted only for a moment but Hugh had noticed and cursed himself. Cat-smell meant 'home' to him. Camellia, he admitted, had been right. No-one else could bear it. And there was this horrible contradiction. The only people he wanted to invite back to Thorncombe were people he liked - and they were the very people he least wanted to offend.

But Stephen was stepping forward.

“Do you like cats?” Hugh asked.

“Love them,” said Stephen, triumphing over nausea. “Perhaps not this many at once . . . . . But I am, indeed, very fond of cats.”

(He wasn’t.)

Out of politeness, he wondered if he should stroke one but couldn't see any he was prepared to go near, let alone touch. Mostly, they were emaciated, their coats dull and their spines showing ridgey under their fur. Some had oozing eyes. Some were old and barely able to move and these watched and glared, warning that they'd fight if he came too close. Some were young though, with a bit of liveliness left. Of these a couple were taking it in turns to chase a pipe-cleaner across the floor and three more were playing catch-tail round saucepans.

Hugh swept an almost flat, doormat style cat off a chair.

“Sit down,” he said. He was apprehensive. “The tea’s ready. I made it before I showed Sam round. I thought you might be cold when you arrived.”

He fetched tea-cups and saucers and a tea-pot neatly wrapped in a stained, hand-knitted cosy from the back of the AGA, where they had been keeping warm, brought them over to the table and set them next to an enamelled milk jug.

It was, no doubt, very kind of Hugh to have tea waiting, very welcoming, thought Stephen, sipping the luke-warm, sludgy brown liquid. It was so bitter it worked backwards, taking moisture out of his mouth instead of adding to it. He tried not to wince and wished Hugh hadn’t been so well prepared.

Hugh poured milk for himself, took a gulp and slammed the cup onto its saucer.

"You can't drink this!" It was awful. "I thought this was what Camellia would do! She left me to it." He stopped and looked so deflated and dejected, Stephen decided to take over.

"Don't worry," he said, taking both their cups to the scullery and tipping the tea into the sink. "It was kind of you to be ready like this. I appreciate it."

Then he lifted one of the covers on the AGA, tested the weight of the kettle and set it to boil again. "Where do you keep the tea?"

Hugh smiled weakly; grateful. Whatever was Camellia thinking? To abandon him like this? Well, he knew. She wanted Rosemary for Christmas. But the sheep had slugs in their wool and there was no-where to put the cattle and there was far too much to do in the drawing room and Rosemary had never liked cats but in the spring there would be lots of lambs for the children to see and he might have bought another donkey by then. Perhaps a dog.

He pointed sadly to a cupboard in the dresser. Stephen reached for a caddy - then took his hand back quick. A finger was bleeding. He looked round at Hugh but Hugh was thinking; hadn't noticed. So he peered into the gloom, grabbed a spitting cat away from her nesting kittens and dropped her gently to the floor where she went and crouched under the table and swished her tail. Stephen left the door open so she could go back when she wanted and made the tea.

They'd just started drinking it, and Hugh had gathered himself enough to be offering a fur laden scone, when Stephen thought he heard a distant, sharp cry. Hugh didn't seem to notice. Stephen listened more, and tried to answer Hugh's questions about Clapham and America without looking too distracted while, at the same time, concentrating on the sound. For a few moments - nothing, then . . . there it was again . . . distantly but definitely, a cry - in the house.

"Do you think Camellia would like us to take her some tea?"

Hugh stared at him a moment.

Stephen heard something crash.

For a moment, Hugh said nothing, startled because he had been interrupted. Then he smiled, glad of the excuse to go and see if she could be persuaded to join them.

“Good idea,” he said. “I’ll take her mine.”

* * *

To continue - Fifteen

For the post before this - Thirteen

THIRTEEN

continued from

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Surprised to find himself nervous, Stephen pulled the car over to one side, turned off the engine and got out to breathe the stillness of rain-freshened air. It was even better than he'd expected so he reached into the back for his coat, shut the door quietly, and set off down the hill on foot as a sense of homecoming settled about him. The Thorncombes were strangers but - England was pulling him back, switching on the memories of toast and crumpets; memories of raking up great piles of leaves as a child, rolling in them, flattening them, raking them up for bonfires, barrowing them to the compost heap and coming back for more; days when he'd revelled in getting muddy because, even then, he'd known that, for the rest of his life, his adult time, he'd want to be specially neat and clean.

.

The drive was now running between a broken fence on the left and a holey hedge. Branches and tractor tyres had been piled loosely across gaps and pinned in place with rusty metal stakes. Old doors had been wired between gate posts and a Jersey cow and her calf stared over a thicket of barbed wire. A bull in another field skulked almost knee deep in mud, its legs and belly caked with clay and the hair at the end of its tail clogged into a heavy lump. Oily water filled the imprints of its hooves round the trough and what was left of the grass had been pounded, flattened, stretched and bruised into nothingness. Stephen frowned. He knew nothing about cattle and the weather was mild still but . . . Were there no winter quarters?

.

Another half mile - and the road dipped again, winding into a small cutting. Sparkles of water trickled between huge ferns on the rock faces and splashed from ledge to ledge. Dripping through heavy mosses it was making its way into a paved gully. At the bottom of the incline, the now fast flowing stream spluttered down a grating in a narrow yard but the main thrust of the drive twisted round the front of a stone barn and ended in a moderately sized courtyard where Hugh and a small brown donkey were emerging from the front door of The Hall.

.

“Welcome!"Hugh hurried enthusiastically down the last couple of steps, stretching his earth-caked hand towards Stephen for him to shake . "Meet Sam,” he said, with a flourish. But Sam had already peeled off and was looking in a cardboard box beside the open gate to the kitchen garden. “I bought him earlier this week." Hugh shut the gate before Sam moved on to nose among the brussel sprout stumps and empty fruit cages. "He's for my grand-daughters. They're coming to visit but our other donkeys are too old for riding now. I'm only hoping they won’t quarrel over this one.”

.

Sam went back to the house.

.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” said Hugh, seeing Stephen look puzzled. “He’ll be alright. He's still finding his way around but he's quiet and calm - just exploring. I hope you don’t mind tea in the kitchen? It’s warm there. We hardly ever use the other rooms.”“Not at all,” said Stephen, thinking it would be perfect. Cosiness, warmth and, with any luck, toasted scones and home-made jam.“I’m afraid Camellia won’t be joining us,” said Hugh, leading the way. She’s got this bee in her bonnet about digging up the drawing room carpet. I tried to persuade her it doesn't have to be done today but, once she’s got herself organised for something, she doesn't like to change tack.”

.

“Oh, I’m sorry if this has turned out to be inconvenient,” said Stephen, wondering what Hugh meant about the carpet. “Are you sure . . . . . ?”

.

“Yes, yes, of course I’m sure, I don’t want to be mucking around with mouldy old carpets on a Sunday afternoon. I think we should have a break from work sometimes, don’t you?”

.

“Indeed,” Stephen said - and he followed Hugh into a smaller yard where the smell of honey fungus drifted from a wood stack and where a door to a tool shed was hanging off its frame and where a row of castellated pig sties were stores for bits and bobs of rubble and broken brooms.“I have no idea,” said Hugh, noticing Stephen was trying not to smile, “why anyone would think it necessary to put battlements on pig sties! And the paint (he meant the paint on the guttering which was brightly green) " - well, that was a mistake."

.

Stephen grinned. “Arrow slits too!”

.

He was surprising himself. He should have been discomfited by the disorder. Usually he would have been but, this afternoon, he simply couldn't feel out of place. Hugh was so friendly and the idea of warmth was so tempting that he accompanied Hugh through the back porch and into the house without expecting anything but pleasantness. It did smell a bit. Sort of acrid. But there was a gun room on the right. That was probably it. He glanced in, expecting to see a half de-composed pheasant on the table, or the skeleton of a hare hanging from a hook. But no. The room was almost empty. Dusty and sparse but no dead animals.

.

“Come on in and make yourself at home,” said Hugh cheerfully, striding ahead and pushing open the door to the kitchen.

.

For a moment, Stephen stood there, not daring to move further. The smell had intensified. It filled his lungs. He knew it was already sticking in his hair, probably seeping through his clothes and right into his blood. His sight blurred. He thought he would be sick. He thought he might faint. He'd gone pale. He knew that - because his skin had gone cold and clammy. It tingled. But he gathered himself. Stood straight. Tried not to breath much. Forced his reluctant feet off the ground. And stepped forwards.

* * *

To continue - Fourteen

For the post before this - Twelve.

TWELVE

continued from

In the 1960s, when suddenly there were a lot of cars - the lanes were full of them; chugging around with fathers at the wheel, wives in the front seat, travel-sick children in the back; thousands of happy families exploring in a trail of exhaust, with bonnets rattling and big-ends at risk. There were sandwiches wrapped in grease-proof paper in almost every boot (along with a thermos flask of tea and a little brown medicine bottle for milk and a screw of paper for sugar). There were picnics in almost every farm gate and breakdowns in every lay-by. There were enthusiastic hootings at every bend in the road and unwieldy reversings whenever the way grew narrow. Trails of cars followed tractors; and trails of cigarette butts lay in the wake of cars. But by the time Stephen came to Thorncombe this tide had been swept onto by-passes and the lanes had grown quiet.

Indeed, they were even emptier than they'd been in Mediaeval times because sheep, pigs, cows and geese no were no longer expected to walk to market but were driven there in double-decker lorries. The farmyard one minute. The abattoir the next. Hedges had thickened across drove roads, and fields which were once the workplace for many were now ploughed (later harvested) by one man (or maybe two). There were no stonegatherers, birdscarers or reapers and no wives bringing lunch in covered baskets. Chemicals killed weeds and gleaning was theft. There were no horses, no carts, no wagons, few robbers and hardly any beggars and the world seemed empty to Stephen as he drove to visit Hugh and Camellia that afternoon. It was him, his car - and the countryside.

And there was Thorncombe Hall in the green bowl of a valley. It was large, grand and grey, with battlements on some of the roofs. Most of the gardens were hidden by the dip and there were woods which got in the way of a proper view - but he caught glints of water; a river beyond the house? Trout?

Not bad. Space, privacy, freedom and comfort. Not bad.

He looked up through the black tracery of ash branches and oak which would form a green tunnel in the summer. And he looked sideways at the lattice of beech roots where rain had washed earth from the banks. On the high levels, he'd passed thorn trees, bent and twisted like witches, but everything was softer down here. Even in winter, it was faintly green.

He checked an open map on the passenger seat. Turn right.

Thorncombe estate.

Huge stone columns stood empty on each side of the drive. He held his breath as he passed between them. Before long, they'd probably fall and smash against the massive wrought iron gates which were already lying flat in the nettles. And the way ahead, which once had been smooth and gold with gravel, was now little more than a rutty track with ridges and bumps, and potholes and wide spreads of seeping mud. He glanced in the mirror. The lane was already out of sight, hidden by the overgrowth of bushes. But, in the distance, on the other side of the valley, beyond the house, he could already see the estate road rising to a T-junction where Edgington Forest ran along the ridge. And, in the side of the forest, he could see the wide gash in the trees which marked the entrance to the Army Training Camp

But in between . . .

* * *

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for the post before this - Eleven

ELEVEN

continued from

"Oh, Hugh! How could you?" Camellia complained through a mouthful of scrambled egg on toast. She was really cross. "You know it never works. They look uncomfortable, drink only half their tea and leave the first moment they can - and some don't stay even long enough for pretend politeness. I thought we agreed you wouldn't invite any more holiday makers; and he looks such a nice young man!"

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?" said Hugh, concentrating on his plate so he didn't have to look at her. "I wouldn't have invited him if he seemed unpleasant."

Camellia sighed. "And I wanted to start on the drawing room floor this afternoon!"

"I know," he said wearily. "But it's the wrong time. We're always tired after church."

Which was right. Since Camellia's seventieth birthday, they had begun to find the two mile walk rather a trial.. They only took the Land Rover to the village if there was something heavy to carry - like a calf or sacks of kindling, or if they'd be coming back with shopping.

At least they didn't have the church right on their doorstep like some big houses. That would have been unbearable. Hugh always imagined he could hear people thinking about his sheep when they were supposed to be praying and if the sheep were only a couple of hundred yards away it would be even more oppressive. Silence never seemed quiet to him and he knew Camellia found being in the village difficult too. She didn't like to be looked at. Not in the way the people in the congregation looked at her anyway. Sometimes, he thought she would suggest they shouldn't go but, however hard it was, he wouldn't have liked that. It was one of the few links remaining between them and the rest of the world, even if it was uncomfortable. Besides, they had always gone.

"Well," said Camellia huffily. "I'm going to start on the floor. You can entertain."

Hugh examined his knuckles. They were huge. They hadn't been like that when he was a boy, he thought. He was trying to distract himself. He didn't want to admit his eyes were stinging.

Camellia gathered up the plates and didn't look at him either. It wasn't often that they quarrelled.

__________

To continue - Twelve

For the post before this - Ten

TEN

Continued from.

"Hugh Thorncombe," he said, striding up beside Stephen so he could shake his hand and stand companionably near him while they looked out at the rain. "I hope you're not in a hurry." The Vicar turned to the next in line, Mr Smith, and asked how his leg was.

“Not really,” Stephen replied, glad of the chance to meet the binder twine squire. He didn't mind country drizzle but the rain was getting worse, turning into a downpour. If he waited, maybe it would stop as soon as it had started. Unlikely in November - but it might.

Mrs James pushed past. She'd forgotten to give in her hymn book and was forcing herself against the flow of the crowd to take it back into the Church. Stephen stepped out of the porch to let her through and Hugh felt a surge of panic. What if he lost him? What if the man kept walking? He followed, opened his umbrella and pinned Stephen under the shelter of its rim.

“Miserable weather,” he said, “Especially for visitors!”

"Yes,” said Stephen, peering anxiously into the whiteness of the disappearing churchyard and thinking how unpleasant the walk back to Mrs Jenkins would be. He'd be drenched. Would she let him have a bath? he wondered. Hugh tried to angle the umbrella so he could draw Stephen towards the porch again.

"Not as good as this morning”

“No,” said Stephen.

“It’s a real downpour,” Hugh observed, pressing shut his jacket. You won’t be able to do much for the rest of the day in this. I don’t know what you had in mind for this afternoon but, whatever it was, why don’t you come to tea instead?”

Stephen started.

Hugh noticed.

“We always like to meet new people.”

.

It was true. Hardly anyone came to eat cat-haired scones for a second time so first time visitors were all they ever had for company, apart from each other. He wondered where Camellia was. Discussing the flower arrangements? Offering to polish the brass? “It’s rather remote here," he said. "We don't have many guests. And I’m sure my wife will be pleased to meet you too," he added encouragingly. "Did you say you lived in Clapham?”

“Not really,” said Stephen, noting how little Hugh minded admitting to having listened to his conversation with the vicar. “Well, not recently anyway. I was just telling the Vicar, I'm touring the countryside. I've missed it while living in America. I've friends in Clapham though," he added. "And a flat - except I've rented it out."

Hugh wasn't sure this fitted so he avoided the Clapham discrepancy.

“Even the rain?” asked Hugh.

“Even the rain,” Stephen agreed.

They stood together, watching it fall.

“Three o’clock?” asked Hugh. “Then we’ll have time to show you round, if you like.”

Stephen was touched.

“Thank you,” he said, putting out his hand to shake Hugh’s and leave. “I’d like that. It’s very kind of you .”

“Do you have a wife?” Hugh asked. But it came out too quickly and he could see that Stephen had noted this and was non-plussed. But he had to know. “Or children?” he asked hopefully.

They seemed such odd questions, and Hugh was so intense in the way he asked, it crossed Stephen's mind to decline the invitation after all.

“Because my wife will want to know how many people I’ve invited," Hugh hurried on. "And, if you’ve children with you, you might like to tell them we’ve got donkeys. Sometimes children are reluctant to go to tea with complete strangers. They always expect to be bored. Donkeys help.”

Stephen relaxed and smiled, thinking he understood. But he wondered, none the less, why Hugh looked so desperately disappointed when he said “No, it’ll be just me.”

__________

To Continue - Eleven

For the Post Before This - Nine

NINE

continued from

CHAPTER TWO

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As the congregation filed out of Church, Hugh took note of Stephen properly for the first time. Of course, he had been vaguely aware of him throughout the service, in the way one always notices strangers, but now he was suddenly struck with the idea that this might be Rosemary's husband, sent on a reconnaissance trip in advance of their visit.

It had begun to drizzle and the first people out had got no further than the porch because they'd stopped there to contemplate the weather. Nobody else could move forward. Those caught in the body of the Church huffed and puffed, umbrellas at the ready for unfurling - but mostly they settled for a chat and looked around for something to moan about while they waited. Hugh was trapped behind Mrs Crow who was complaining about her cat’s latest batch of kittens. Mrs Partridge was complaining about reduced postal deliveries. Mr Dint had lost his glasses and Mr Hobbs and Mr Martin were discussing seed catalogues. Hugh peered through the crowd and strained his ears.

'Robert' was already at the door, being said goodbye to by the Vicar.

He heard the man say ‘America’ and ‘bank’. And the Vicar said ‘London’. Mrs Cosborough started up about Christmas not being far away and Hugh heard Stephen say ‘Clapham’.

That clinched it. It was Robert!

If Hugh hadn’t been the kind of man who always sits in the front pew, he would never have got to Stephen in time - but as it was, he simply had to march forward casting loud 'Good Morning's about him and the crowd moved aside. “Good Morning.” “Good Morning.” He held each person's eye long enough for them to realise what was wanted, then stepped into the gap they made for him. Within seconds, he was at the front of the queue.

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To continue - TEN

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For the post before this - (EIGHT)

EIGHT

Continued from - SEVEN

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On a table near the door, someone had laid out little stacks of books; Book of Common Prayer, a booklet with the latest words for a Parish Communion, and a psalter with an A4 sheet of church notices folded in half and tucked between the pages. He took his little pile, put his collection money on a big brass plate and moved on into the central aisle, wondering where he should sit.

There was bound to be a squire - and he and his family would sit in the front row. He knew where the Church Wardens would sit because their staffs were held up in spring clips on the ends of their pews. Most congregations, he reckoned, had a collection of old ladies who always sat at the back because . . . . . well, he didn’t know why, they just did, so he didn’t sit there either. He slipped into a seat about a third of the way down (on the right hand side, so he wouldn’t crick his neck during the sermon) and looked about him.

The church was Saxon in style, with walls fortress thick and the windows high. The sound of the ringing bell was faint and distant now he was inside but the grate and click of its rope mesmerised him and drew him so deeply into the stillness of the place that the clunk of the iron latch and the heavy squeak of door hinges a few minutes later startled him almost into turning and glaring at whoever it was who had destroyed the silence.

A loud voice.

“Morning John!”

The rhythm of the bell faltered slightly and a muffled voice called back ‘Good Morning’ from behind the heavy curtain in front of the entrance to the tower.

Some more footsteps around the doorway, lighter ones, and the door shut with a soft thud.

A few whispers while the newcomers chose their books, then the confident steps of a man who ‘belonged’ coming up the aisle, the sharper tapping of his wife’s heels following and the crackle and rustle of waxed jackets (which turned out to be surprisingly dirty when their wearers came into view).

It was an elderly man and his wife.

Without hesitation, they headed for the front row and settled themselves in. A-ha! - the people from the ‘Big House’ had arrived.

For the next couple of minutes, Stephen was distracted by the way they were organising their books along the shelf in front of them; each one clearly being placed in its ‘usual’ position, and their constant turning to nod greetings at acquaintances filing slowly into rows behind. Not that their greetings seemed especially well received, for the smiles returned were stiff and the replies that went with them barely polite.

He wondered why.

Then, when the man took off his jacket so he could kneel more comfortably to say his prayers of preparation, Stephen noticed his trousers were held up, not with a belt but with a frayed length of nylon blue binder twine. Binder twine!?

The couple spent a few minutes in prayer, then with a lot of scuffling and a few more whispers, they rose from their knees, the woman to sit, the man to walk forward to the oversized Bible which had already been placed on the brass eagle-lectern facing the congregation. He found the Old Testament lesson, read it through once and marked it with a long green tasselled bookmark. Then raising himself slightly onto his toes, he leant over the Book and looked down onto his wife with such a dazzlingly gentle and loving smile that Stephen was completely taken aback.

Another clatter of the latch, another scuffle of feet, and the woman in the front pew turned again to see who had come in. This time, Stephen took more notice.

Her hair was as white as white hair can ever be and her eyes were the bluest of possible blues. Her face was weather beaten, her white skin sun-darkened and grooved with paler little channels where she had wrinkled it against the wind. She seemed awfully tired. Stephen guessed she was about seventy.

And she was beautiful.

__________

To continue - Nine

For the Post Before This - Seven

SEVEN

Continued from - SIX

It took Stephen about three quarters of an hour to walk to Thorncombe. The weather was deliciously Novemberish and, although it was too early in the day for bonfires, the damp, grey air seemed to breath yesterday’s wood smoke, and the rotting leaves along the banks of ditches were oozing a pleasant mustiness; the smell of England.

Just as he entered the main part of the village one high, unbeautiful bell began to ring (not very rhythmically at first). In another quarter of an hour the service would start. He was glad about the timing. He liked to catch the atmosphere of a place before anything much happened. He liked to sit down and look around and watch the way people came in, the way they prayed, observe the small muttered greetings, the furtive glances 'the regulars’ gave strangers. Him. He smiled and hoped, very fervently, that no-body would rush up to welcome him or shake his hand so he felt out of place. It did happen sometimes, even in these out of the way villages and, when it did, it disturbed him. He had come to be in the presence of God, not to be grabbed. So he paused a moment and thought. Then went up the three steps cut into the bank at the side of the road, opened the wooden gate and, walking more slowly now, up the curved incline towards the church.

It was a funny feeling this. Everything seemed so familiar: the churchyard raised high above the level of the road, the lopsided gravestones, the chirrup of the odd sparrow, the way the grass was encroaching along the uneven edge of the half gravelled path; then the deadening of sound as he went into the porch, so only his feet were loud as he stepped from the earth path onto stone flags. Then the rough grating of iron as he lifted the catch on the heavy door - this was the best welcome he could have had and its loud screeching (because no-one ever oiled its hinges) collected up the memory of all such church doors when he pushed them open, and it rolled them into one eternal sensation of always arriving, and going in, and belonging. This same scene, the same smells, the same quiet expectancy, it was the same here as in almost every parish in rural England. He smiled, and leaning against the latch, stepped down into the gloom of the church. Smells: smells of old hymnbooks, dusty hassocks, the peppery sweetness of dried out chrysanthemum leaves in cobwebby vases, wood polish . . . . . Home!

_____

To continue - EIGHT

For the episode before this - SIX

SIX

Continued from - Five

Stephen rattled down the bed-and-breakfast stairs, plucked a parish magazine from a pile on a table by the front door - and followed the scent of frying bacon into the breakfast room.

It was Sunday - and he was three days into a meander round the English countryside - a sort of re-acclimatisation tour after his return from America.

It was Stoke-Upton, a hamlet ten miles short of King's Hampton and he'd come across it the evening before just when darkness was falling and he was beginning to panic. (He'd prefer not to be lost in the lanes till morning!)

And he'd struck lucky. The cottage was peaceful and old. The sheets were heavy and cool. The blankets warm. The eiderdown heavy and the curtains thin. The cups flowery. The tea strong. The biscuits plain. The air chill. (As was the water in the hand-basin.) The floors uneven. And the welcome was as welcoming as a welcome is when the landscape is otherwise empty of paying guests.

Mrs Jenkins brought toast in a rack and asked if he was planning to go to Church, it being Sunday, and him reading the parish magazine.

“Because, if you do, you’ll have to go to Thorncombe. We’ve got ‘amalgamated’. Would you like eggs with your bacon?”

"Eggs and fried bread. How far is Thorncombe?"

"Holy Communion at ten," she said. "Albert went at eight. Not far. About half an hour's walk. Lunch at one?"

He hadn't planned on lunch.

“Beef," she said, encouragingly. "Local. Yorkshire pudding . . . roast potatoes . . . ." She was wondering what might tempt him best. Broccoli from the garden and our own peas from the freezer. Blackberries. Custard?" she added hopefully. "And tonight . . . will you be staying tonight?"

Yesterday evening, he'd seen big hills with rocky, thorny tops. Pastures and woodland on the lower slopes. He’d driven through narrow lanes lined with ancient trees and thick hedges. There were streams in the ditches and a river in the valley. On his bedside table was a list of local attractions. Post Office. Bus stop - market days only. And a map to show where the library van parked once a month. There was a list of local produce on the back and a box advert for an art gallery in King's Hampton. He knew it - and smiled.

England.

The England he'd missed.

Why not?

"One night."

(Mrs Jenkins smiled too!)

__________

For the next episode - SEVEN

For the post before this - Five

FIVE

After the almost overwhelming emotion set off by the arrival of Rosemary’s letter, Hugh and Camellia surprised themselves by settling quickly into the routine of the day. Each hugged to each their excitement and it wasn’t mentioned again until supper.
“I think late Spring would be best,” remarked Hugh squinting to see Camellia beyond the flickering lights of their silver candelabra. Then, in order to conceal his feelings, he peered instead at his poached fish, flaking it to check for bones. “When the lambs are born and their mothers shorn; the ewes look tidier then.”
Camellia was startled. She’d decided next Saturday would be a good time for Rosemary’s first visit - and here was Hugh proposing they wait for months and months. She’d been making plans for Christmas too. They’d take a great, tall tree from the estate, set it up in the drawing room and cover it with decorations (children always like glitter, taste be damned!). She’d been imagining huge logs in the fireplace (there were loads of fallen branches around the fields) - and piles of parcels for Cressida and Cordelia. (So many Christmases and birthdays to catch up on!). It would, she’d decided, be a story book event; like the old days. She’d ask the vicar to send the choir and they’d sing carols and eat mince pies. How everyone would love it! And they’d talk to the sheep and feed the donkeys and walk through the fields and learn the names of the cows.
“D’you think we should buy a new carpet?” asked Hugh.
Camellia’s mind had wandered so clearly towards Christmas she couldn’t think what carpet he was talking about. Nor could she imagine why any carpet might have any bearing on Rosemary’s visit.
“It’s a bit slimy nowadays.”
Camellia sighed. What had she been thinking? The sheep lived in the drawing room. Forget the choir. It would have to be a Christmas like all the others they’d had in recent years. They’d cluster round the aga for warmth and eat in the kitchen as usual. (They could still have a tree and buy lots of presents for the children.) Did she want to go back in time? No. For the most part, she liked things as they were.
"Hugh," she said. "As much as I want to see her, I don't want a carpet for the sheep. They don't need one."
He looked up from his fish.
"Not for - "
But Camellia was in tank mode, pushing forward without interruption.
"We made our life as we want it." She tried to catch his eye and infuse him with a happy sense of conspiracy - tempt him to smile. But he was wary. "Now." She laid her hands on the table and hoped she sounded business-like. "Rosemary isn't like us." She waved brusquely to show he mustn't speak. "She worries about cleanliness. She likes to live a narrow line; be like the neighbours."
Neighbours? They had no neighbours.
"She worries what they might think."
"And we don't."
It was a flat statement. She looked at him sharply. She knew he was lonely.
"Not in the way Rosemary does, we don't. No . . . so . . . " She was still watching. "Suppose we change everything, everything we like but she doesn't - shift the animals, make everything cleaner than it need be, tidy away my knitting."
Had Rosemary not like knitting? He couldn't remember. Probably she didn't. As far as he could remember, she didn't like much.
"Hugh?"
He was listening. But he couldn't look as if he were listening.
"Suppose we do all that but it isn't enough for her . . . she arrives . . . sees . . . turns . . . " she was still watching "and goes."
He jumped.
"What are we left with?"
He didn't know. Broken hearts? Life never after?
"A carpet. A new carpet! That's all, Hugh. We could throw everything away and be left with nothing but a carpet." She leaned forwards, peering to see him beyond the candles, their lights stinging her eyes.
“Hugh,” she said firmly. “The sheep live in the drawing room and they don’t need a new carpet. Nor do we."
Hugh’s face twisted. They must, absolutely must, put all their strength, all their effort, all their fortune if necessary, into making Rosemary feel welcome. If it meant throwing everything else away, evicting the sheep, building a field shelter for the donkeys - well, he'd do it! - So long as she stayed. He'd even begun to wonder if her husband might be interested in farming.
“I want them here for Christmas Hugh,” said Camellia, her jaw tense and her eyes stinging.

Hugh sliced a potato.
Silence. Only broken by the strange scrape of silver forks on pottery plates.
Then,
“If we leave the sheep in the drawing room,” muttered Hugh. "She’ll walk in, she’ll walk out, just as you say, and that will be the last we see of her. Possibly for ever, Camellia. For ever.”
“She knows how we live,” said Camellia, tart and bitter.
(She didn't like to be bitter.)
“She'll say we’ve got worse,” said Hugh, quietly.
“Worse!”
(Tart, bitter and shrill!)
“In her terms,” he said, more gently now. “We're worse. Much worse. Imagine how she’ll see things, Camellia. We’ve got to see through her eyes.”

Camellia stilled and stared.

Then.

“Ok,” she said, with a little clap of her hands. “We’ll do it.” She saw him brighten. His shoulders unhunch. She snuffed the candles. She could see him properly now. “And by ‘do it’, I only mean we’ll do what we have to. Just that. The minimum. But NOW. That's when. Not in the spring. The sheep can go on holiday, we'll clear the drawing room and clean the table in here and she can come on Saturday."

It wasn't what he'd wanted and he didn't know how they'd do it, not by Saturday. It gave them only six days in which to effect a massive transformation. Six days and a morning if they didn't invite Rosemary to lunch. Not good - but agreed. Almost.

"A week next Saturday."

"Done!" said Camellia - and she felt something ripple inside her. It was pleasure creeping back in. And with it came a spark of contradictory hope. Perhaps the sheep could stay away till January? Then they might have that tree . . . and that choir . . . and that massive fire - and mince pies - after all?

After that . . . . But she hadn't a clue about after.

__________

For the next post - SIX

For the post before this - Four

FOUR

While Hugh and Camellia were relishing their one letter, Rosemary and Robert were ploughing through a week’s worth. The postman had been off sick and there'd been no-one to replace him for several days so it had taken until 10:30 the night before, just as they were going to bed, before he’d finished delivering the backlog.

"We may as well make the most of having letters at breakfast,” said Robert, shuffling through the pile. "Very civilised." Nearly all of it was junk mail, but, eventually, he hit gold. "Ah! Here’s a good one! Very welcome.”

Rosemary looked up from buttering her toast and peered round his arm so she could see the handwriting.

“Stephen!”

Indeed a pleasure. It was from their oldest and best friend and his letters were always fun, long, witty, tightly written and full of anecdotes - perfect for reading aloud.

He liked America. He worked there. He'd lived there four years and if he hadn't liked it, he'd have come home.

He liked computers. He'd persuaded his bank to send him away to work on them. If he hadn't liked computers, he‘d have stayed in Clapham.

But his conservative core was embarrassed. He insisted that progress should be resisted. He despised technology. (He said.) He drank coffee for breakfast even though it was against nature to do so and he only agreed to it out of civility. (He said.) He was filled with respect for his colleagues - but complained when they didn't wear ties. He complained about the over-familiarity of people he met at dinner parties - but he went to them.

He sent to England for tea. He cut thin sandwiches and invited friends to share them in the afternoon. Everyone laughed at him. Everyone liked him. Everyone knew he was clever. Hardly anyone knew him - only Robert and Rosemary. To them, he told everything.

“He’s coming back!” said Robert.

________

For the Next Episode - FIVE

THREE

Breakfast, a week later.

Camellia was complaining that the quality of journalistic photography was no-where near as good as it used to be and Hugh was saying nothing.

That was when Camellia looked round the edge of her newspaper and realised something awful was happening.

She had been expecting him to suggest they go to London for a few days, visit proper galleries and see proper pictures. It's what he always did. They’d discuss which ones - and then not go. That's how it went.

But Hugh was looking very odd and seemed incapable of saying anything. He was holding a letter and his hand was shaking but apart from that he was sitting stiller than she’d ever seen him. His face was white; paper white. Then his colour deepened. Sweat broke from his forehead and his lips parted and closed, parted and closed - without sound. Was this what a heart attack looked like?

She wanted to go to him. She began to stand. But time seemed to have gone sticky and, although she was sure she was moving as quickly as she could, her limbs would hardly budge from the chair and she felt as if air itself was pushing her back.

Hugh’s nostrils flared. She saw him suck large, silent, unsteady, slow-motion breaths. Her ears stopped working. Her body was swimming. Would he die before she reached him?

Then, he wrenched his attention from the half crumpled letter and, gathering his remaining strength, fixed her eyes with his and willed her to sit.

She did. And was flooded with relief so fierce it was as if her blood had been sucked away in a second and replaced the next moment with aniseed. She could feel it flushing her face and trembling her fingers.

Hugh smoothed the letter.

.

No dieing yet.

.

"Rosemary."

Camellia concentrated her face into a frown. She didn't want her eyes to widen too far. They might bounce out and fall into her cereal bowl.

The last they’d seen of Rosemary was when she graduated.

A cow had calved. Unfortunate timing. If they’d stopped to change out of their mud-spattered overalls, they'd have missed it.

So they'd crept into the back of the hall at the last minute and sat there proudly; pleased with their daughter; pleased with themselves that they were there.

Rosemary was not pleased.

“You stink!” she’d screamed. (They did.)

Fifteen years later - a letter!

It took a few moments before Camellia realised Hugh was reading aloud. Time seemed to be tidying itself but sound lagged still.

Faintly, she heard the word ‘husband’.

“Husband?”.

Delight ignited.

“They’re coming to see us?” . It was a whisper.

Hugh tried to say ‘yes’ .

“Have they . . . .?”.

“Yes,” said Hugh, suddenly explosive and noisy. A grin broke out and his eyes sparkled. Camellia felt her insides jump. And then - a distraction. A great lurch of love for Hugh; it happened from time to time.

. . . the sea-blueness of his eyes . . . their first summer . . . whiteness on waves . . . gulls and children shrieking, indistinguishable.

“Two,” he said joyfully. “Both girls. Cressida and Cornelia."

For a moment, they gazed at each other, wide eyed from their distant ends of the table. Then they bent over their plates and giggled.

“What?!” asked Camellia, suddenly able to speak - though the sound was odd and staccato.

(At least I can speak again, she thought.)

"It could have been worse," said Hugh. "Lady Macbeth."

Camellia felt her hands relax. She was returning to life.

“And Camellia isn’t ordinary as a name, is it?" Hugh continued. What if she'd chosen flowers to remind them of you? Um . . . Buttercup and Marsh Mallow?”

"Foxglove and Bindweed!”

“Dandelion and Burdock!”

They were hysterical with delight. Their dream was true. Rosemary was alive.

And they had grandchildren to boot.

Camellia raised the teapot.

Hugh looked at his watch.

“I think,” he said happily, “I can put off mending that gate for another few minutes.”

_____

To Start at the Beginning - One
For the episode before this - Two

TWO

.

Eleven o’clock. Same time. Coffee time. Clapham.

Rosemary, Hugh and Camellia’s, daughter was sitting in her kitchen, staring resolutely into her wide, white cup.

“I want nothing more to do with them, Robert."

She pushed the biscuits towards her husband, not meeting his eye.

“But they’re your parents.”

Through the window, between gaps in the houses, he could see plane trees in the park, black and bare of leaves. Their branches were spiky and delicate against the grey, grainy sky.

“My parents.”.

“And my parents ‘in-law’. They're old. We should offer them care.”

“They have each other.”

She was snapping.

“But Rosemary.”

He was pleading.

“What about our children?”

Rosemary stared at him.

“What about them?”

“They need grandparents. Everyone needs grandparents.”

“Of course they don’t need grandparents.” She laughed. “Lots of people don’t have grandparents.”

He didn’t like her to laugh. It mattered.

Perhaps I should let him see, she thought. When he sees the mess in the drawing room, he'll change his mind. When the donkeys in the hall bite him . . .

. . . how old were they now? . . .

. . . when his expensive shoes had been ruined by fifteen years of urine and accumulated dung he too would want an escape.

"Of course children need grandparents! Doesn’t everyone?"

Rosemary tried not to look as she felt.

Robert kept his eyes on the view. The lawn below the chestnut tree had turned to mush. The flower borders were empty of everything except for a cluster of London-weary evergreens.

“Just let the children have grandparents Rosemary.”

She reached for the coffee pot. It was empty and she slammed it so sharply back down onto the table that its little feet drove dents into the wood. She licked her finger and rubbed at the marks, then, shoving the pot aside, settled for staring at them so she didn’t have to look anywhere else - but, every so often, her finger reached back, as if of its own accord, to have another go at smoothing them away.

“Listen, Rosemary,” said Robert, trying not to sound desperate. “This is something we must do. The children shouldn’t be separated from their grandparents and their grandparents shouldn’t be separated either from them or from any help we can give them in their old age.”

Robert was pompous when distressed.

She suddenly knew he'd planned this conversation. He must have. He was wearing a suit.

Bother, she thought, he's serious.

When her grandparents had lived at Thorncombe, there'd been a huge apple-wood fire in winter (there weren’t sheep in the drawing room then!). And the scent of it had floated up and out of the chimney. It had drifted across the roofs of the big house. It had dropped sleepily into the parkland. The shelves in her room had been filled with story books (not warble fly tracts). When it was time for bed, her grandmother read from them until her until her eyes closed.

Cows and sheep lived in the fields, not the house. There were two cats, just two - healthy and tame - not the countless, nameless, sickly ones her parents let crawl in and out of the cooking pots.

Everything her parents touched turned to mud. They'd turned Thorncombe to mud. But they existed. Whereas . . . Robert . . . his parents gone before he knew them. And his grandparents . . . never met them.

Her heart lurched. She’d always known she’d give in one day - well - that day might as well be this one; at least she’d have got it over with.

“Ok," she said. “We’ll go. We’ll go to Thorncombe.”

She didn't want to see him pleased. Not about this. So she filled the kettle.

“You can change now,” she said. "It is Saturday."

But still, she didn't look at him. "I'll make fresh coffee," she said.

Then, at last, she turned, and smiled. “And while you’re doing it, you can work out where we can buy wellington boots in Clapham.”

__________

To Start at the Beginning

For Three

ONE

Mary Sharpe is taking a break from writing 'HUGH AND CAMELLIA' over the summer - but the 'story so far' will be re-printed here over the next few weeks, ready for her to resume in the autumn.

Hugh walked heavily up the five steps into his house, filled a bucket with water from a standpipe under his most valuable painting, went into the drawing room, swung his shoulders back as far as they would go and, as forcefully as he could, threw cold water across the ancient carpet.

Sheep droppings bobbed along on the flood and slewshed with a rush against the pile of damp straw he’d raked into the hearth earlier that morning.

Across the room, beyond the sofas and chairs, a small flock of sheep clustered beneath a standard lamp. Hugh eased himself straight and nodded a greeting but they trotted over to the windows and watched him anxiously from the corners of their eyes.

Calmly, trying to look reassuring, he went for more water; more and more water - until the last of the debris was flushed into the hearth. Then he forked the whole dripping mess into a wheelbarrow, bumped it out down the steps, across the yard and into the kitchen garden - ran it up a plank and tipped it onto a heap of mouldering straw and manure. After that, he leant the barrow against a wall and stretched.

It was a cold November day - but he was happy. His back hurt, his arms ached and he was weary; desperately weary. But he was used to that - and happy.

Everything, in fact was as usual. The fields were waterlogged and most of the tracks impassable. The few animals he hadn’t brought indoors were muddy and listless and nearly as tired as he was and even the air inside the house was damp and cold. But it was winter - and the kitchen was warm.

Coffee.

The kettle was simmering and Camellia’s scones were warm on the Aga. There was bread on the table, newly baked, and his favourite cat was sitting contentedly next to it.

A scene from thirty winters.

Homely.

Normal.

Familiar.

But when he reached to take a mug from the dresser, his fingers gave way. The mug dropped, a plate shattered and the cat scrambled over the bread and went to settle more comfortably in an armchair on the other side of the room.

Camellia, startled by the noise, came in from the scullery.

“Just a mug and a plate,” said Hugh, flexing his fingers. “I expect it’s the cold.” He held them for her to see; red and swollen. “They gave way.”

Camellia wiped her hands on her apron and kissed him. Then she shoved the pieces of plate to the back of the dresser.

“We’re getting old,” she said, pouring the coffee. “We need a day off.”

“A week!” said Hugh rubbing the dirt from his hands. “A month. A year!"

Then he sat at the table.

Camellia smiled.

“More than a day and you’d pine!”

She brought scones but his spine jerked and pains flickered down his arm when he reached for one.

A holiday?

Too many animals.

Too much work.

“Maybe one day,” he said, judging his moment and grabbing at a scone between spasms.

But he hardly meant it.


________

To continue - Two