‘Oh, shut up, you. What time are we leaving in the morning? Does Mother know you’ve got someone else coming? She’ll hit the roof, you know. We’ve got bloody BB and Auntie Sylvia...’
Allard dragged her out by the scruff of her neck. Edward could hear them bickering and Harriet’s boisterous laughs and squeals as Allard threatened to leave her behind.
The threesome left for King’s Cross the following morning, brother and sister still apparently at loggerheads. At the station, Harriet disappeared, to Allard’s fury, but soon came bouncing back with a large sandwich. She wore what looked like a pair of Allard’s old trousers, tied up with string, and her grubby school shirt. Her overcoat belonged, Edward presumed, to someone considerably larger. The sleeves flapped and the hem dangled around her ankles. Allard was no better dressed, wearing the same clothes as he had the previous day, but more crumpled. They each carried battered, dog-eared suitcases, and they marched around the station demanding to know from porters which platform the York train went from.
At last they were settled in a first-class compartment, and Allard sorted out who owed what for the tickets. Edward began to think he should have taken up one of his other invitations as he ended up forking out fifteen shillings. He was running low on funds, and sat, tight-lipped, gazing out of the window. The journey was not without delays — lines up, faulty signals — and Allard began to get restless, pacing up and down the corridor.
Edward had a moment’s peace when Harriet departed to the Ladies’. He wondered what Mrs Simpson looked like, and smiled, thinking it could be useful if she suffered from the Lady Primrose syndrome.
‘Next stop, get the cases,’ said Allard. ‘Christ, where is she now? Well, we’ll get off and leave her on the train, serves her right.’
Edward looked at the sign on the station platform — Thirsk. So this was Yorkshire. Not that he had much time to take in the scenery as Allard steamed along the platform with Harriet bounding in front of him. A black, highly polished Bentley was waiting outside the station and a chauffeur, cap in hand, sprang to attention. He took their cases, stacking them in the open boot.
‘Gosh, you look good, Fred, tres smart... Come on, Edward, get in.’
In fact, on closer inspection, Fred was rather frayed around the edges. His uniform was ill fitting and his florid complexion went well with his broad northern accent. ‘My, yer growin’ oop, Miss H, we’ll have yer out an’ int’ saddle in no time. Yon boy’s grown oop an’ all, got a coat that’s better’nt’ polish ont’ motor... Reet, we all settled? Then let’s be getting on.’
Fred put on his chauffeur’s hat, which was so large that he was in danger of being blinded by the peak. That was not the only danger, however; Fred’s driving was a wonder to behold. The grinding of gears, the revving and the hopalong jerks gave them all a bumpy ride. Allard sighed. ‘I say, Fred old chap, the motor does have two more gears, you know.’
Harriet, sitting next to Edward, chortled, ‘He’s never going to make it up the hill — it’s three in one, he’ll never do it.’
They could see the village of Helmsley, snuggled in a dip, with its cobbled village square. They passed over a bridge, through the village and out into open countryside. They drove for an hour and a half before turning in at the gates of Haverley Hall. There was a small lodge to one side, and Fred gave a loud toot on the horn as the car jolted up the drive.
Haverley Hall had seen better days, but it was obvious it had been magnificent at one time. The Georgian Hall was vast, white stucco fronted and surrounded by rather dilapidated stables and outhouses. The gardens were overgrown and the orchard ran wild, but the overall impression was that the Hall was held in suspension — very much in need of repair, but still standing proud.
As the Bentley drew up with another crash of gears, a bulldog hurtled out of the open front door. Harriet clambered out and ran towards the enormously fat dog. ‘Buster, Buster... Hello, my darling... Come and say hello.’
Allard opened the boot to take out the cases and the huge animal wobbled around them, snuffling and barking. He had no tail and his bottom wagged from side to side.
‘I wouldn’t go too near him, Edward. He’s not vicious, but his farts are deadly.’
A woman emerged from the Hall as Allard spoke. ‘I heard that, Allard. It appears Cambridge has done nothing for your command of the English language.’
Mrs Simpson was an imposing, hawk-faced woman with iron-grey hair and steely blue eyes, far from the Lady Primrose type. She wore a tweed skirt and heavy brogues, and was very tall with a harsh, loud, upper-crust voice. She stared at Edward and then turned, nonplussed, to Allard.
‘Edward, this is my mother. He’s staying with us for the vac, Ma. Pop inside, is he?’
Mrs Simpson fixed her steely gaze on Edward and told him crisply that he was most welcome, then she turned on her heel and followed Allard into the Hall.
Harriet yanked at her case, telling Fred not to bother taking them inside, but to get her horse saddled up. She grinned at Edward and told him to follow her. The interior of the Hall was vast, with a predictably rundown feel to it. Everywhere the eye fell, there were antiques and paintings, while a profusion of wellington boots and riding boots littered the floor. Edward stood abandoned, not knowing where Harriet had disappeared to, and couldn’t help overhearing Mrs Simpson’s voice somewhere behind him.
‘You might at least have warned us. There is a war on, you know, and we’re bursting at the seams as it is. Daddy won’t be pleased.’
The wide sweeping staircase had numerous portrait paintings. None very special or very old, however one was rather amusing of a judge in wig and robes. Someone, no doubt Harriet, had drawn a black fly on the end of his nose. As far as Edward could see there were endless rooms. A chandelier with hundreds of crystal drops, a few having dropped off completely, was suspended from the centre of the remote ceiling far above him. As Edward looked up, Harriet’s head appeared from the landing above. ‘Come on up. Do you want to know which room Mother’s given you? Ma... Ma, which room is Edward in? Ma?’
Mrs Simpson came into the hall. ‘Harriet, please don’t shout, how many times do I have to tell you? Now — Edward, isn’t it? Get Harriet to show you to the room on the top floor, then it will be time for dinner. Usually we’re very casual... Oh, there you are, darling. This is a young friend of Allard’s who’s staying for the hols.’
Judge Simpson walked into the hall, carrying a shotgun. He tossed his cap towards the hat stand, missing it by several feet. He was stout and muscular, but a few inches shorter than his wife. He had grey hair and a stern, strong face. Edward felt as if he was being scrutinized from head to toe.
‘Well, welcome aboard... Any hope of a cup of tea?’ The Judge strode into a room on the other side of the hall and closed the door behind him. Allard could be heard somewhere, speaking on the telephone, and still Edward stood, not knowing where he should go, feeling very much the uninvited guest.
‘Ma... there’s no sheets on my bed.’ Harriet’s voice echoed down the stairwell, and Mrs Simpson sighed, then forced a smile.
‘You’d better go up, Edward. I’ll see to that wretched child later. I have to get the other rooms ready.’
Beginning to get angry, Edward picked up his case. He thought to himself that he was being shoved in the bloody nursery again. But far from being a nursery, Edward’s room was enormous. The four-poster was canopied and draped in dark-navy velvet. The room smelt of mildew, but it was, or had once been, very ornate.
Harriet appeared, her arms full of sheets and blankets. ‘Come on, I’ll help you make up your bed. Sorry about this, but you’ll get used to it.’