And the oak, where you hung her swing – every branch, every twig, Michael, was strung with more of those lollies; there was ribbon festooned everywhere, and gaudy sugared baubles of red and green and blue and pink, until the tree was a multicoloured mass of candy-striped rainbow treats, all shimmering and refracting in the dewy sunshine. It was beautiful – completely mad and...
And completely you.
Her face lit up, Michael, when she saw all those lollipops from Wonderland.
Our little Lolly smiled and smiled; she took my hand and we raced outside... Her Daddy was written in every single tiny detail, back with us, and she just beamed at me, in my arms – no tears, just... wonder.
In that moment, I knew; we’re going to be okay. Topsy-turvy, back-to-front, upside-down, shattered in pieces and glued back together... Somehow, we’re going to be okay.
Because really it’s all Wonderland, isn’t it, Michael?
*
Morris Woods genuinely didn’t hear the phone ring that morning, nor did he see the excited tea party taking place in the Winsor’s adjoining yard, as the young widow and her young daughter danced and laughed through the colourful picture-book scene of their garden.
Instead, he was snoring quietly, contentedly, in a deckchair on the back porch. The rising beams of the sun glinted off a mass of translucent wrappers, skittering around the chair legs, while a tell-tale trail of baby-blue silk ribbon dangled languidly from one hand.
Around him, flowers began to unfurl against the green backdrop of Lily’s rose-bushes; their crimson petals stretching like smiles amidst the gales of rusty, happy laughter drifting over the fence from next-door.
The Stone Fox
Robert Penrose was out of ideas.
That thought came to him as the taxi rumbled up the flagstone path to the daunting manor house front.
Set back in the Cheshire countryside the Hartstone estate was a modest Tudor manor house, made up of tiered floors with blacked out liquorice windows and peacocks colouring its gardens. Robert had seen its black and white patterned front before, but only in the brochure. It had been ranked highly in Writer’s Annual’s top 100 inspirational places, and was regarded as one of the most impressive privately owned estates in Cheshire.
Robert had taken all of this into account when he had booked his place at the writer’s retreat. Held twice a year, and mainly filled with elderly novelists with similarly old and tired ideas, the retreat’s aim was to gather writers with a struggling muse to share ideas and bask in the historic atmosphere of the house.
Robert thought it was a terrible idea.
His agent had been insistent, threatening him with all manner of consequences if he hadn’t ventured further in his ideas for future titles. Of course, Robert wasn’t convinced the ideas were going to come. Half formed genius plagued his mind and then disappeared; leaving the once bestselling author lost and useless, like a pen without ink. He didn’t hate the idea of the retreat, but he had no confidence in it, or in himself.
The cab pulled up at the house front, where a red faced woman in her sixties came bustling out to greet him. Her grey hair was knotted into a haphazard bun, with strays sticking out at mad angles, quite a contrast to the spotless summer dress she wore; yellow with floral pattern, overlaid by a frilly white apron.
Robert emerged from the car, giving her a rather nervous look. At forty, Robert was going to stick out like a sore thumb as the youngest - and that was saying a lot.
‘Welcome to Hartstone House,’ the slightly erratic woman proclaimed, presenting herself to Robert with bright, friendly eyes and a welcoming smile. ‘Are you here for the retreat?’
‘I’m here for ideas,’ Robert smiled, shifting his backpack higher up his shoulder.
‘We should have plenty of those here,’ the woman replied, gesturing back to the house. ‘I’m Agatha Reed. I run the house while the owners are away. Make yourself at home, we’ll register you and get you to your room, shall we?’
They went inside, chatting quietly; Robert introduced himself, and explained to Agatha that he really wouldn’t normally attend something like this, and made bitter jokes about how he was out of ideas anyway, and it was all rather pointless. Agatha laughed, presenting him with the register, which Robert signed in a scrawl.
The interior of the house was rustic, with no attempt at modernisation. Robert had always liked that about stately homes: the obsession with keeping things ancient, time locked in their era. It was a love letter to the past, and Hartstone House was no different.
Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling like strings in a piano, spidery arms holding it at bay, and wall sconces cast orbs of orange over patterned walls.
There were doors leading off from left to right, beckoning guests to new wonders of old, charming Robert with their low hanging frames and aging, pocked wood. The entrance hall itself was laid out like a day room of sorts, with sofas and sunken pillows, long necked lamps watching over all; it gave off a warm, welcoming atmosphere, opening its elderly arms to visitors.
Robert decided that this wouldn’t be a bad place to spend his weekend, despite his wishes to be anywhere else.
*
After Robert had dropped his backpack off in his room – high ceilinged, with a four poster bed and views of the grounds, stretching left to right – he headed back downstairs, armed with notebook and pen.
The ideas would come to him, whether they liked it or not.
Robert crossed over the balcony bordering the entrance hall, noting the fine oak banisters and the panelled, Rubick’s cube walls. He was particularly interested to find there was a locked door along the way, perhaps added after the original build of the house. He made a note to quiz Agatha on it later.
Like any stately home, paintings lined the walls, ancient faces watching from ornate frames. Robert didn’t follow art particularly well – he failed to understand symbolism or note the impressive brush strokes - and yet he could appreciate a beautiful piece of work when presented to him. Hartstone House displayed walls and walls of original artwork that widened Robert’s eyes and slowed his step.
As of yet, he hadn’t spotted any of the other patrons of the writing retreat, and that struck Robert as odd. For a few frightening moments, back in his room, he had wondered if he had been the only shmuck to sign up.
It was by coincidence that the first person he spotted was a woman, admiring one of the paintings with a degree of fascination that Robert would never have been able to employ. Straight blonde hair reached below her shoulders and round glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, illuminating blue eyes alive with intellect. She was focused on a notebook, scribbling away with a concentrated frown. Robert sidled up to her, too glad to see another human being that wasn’t the erratic Agatha, and cleared his throat.
‘Are you a slave to your imagination too?’
The woman blinked, evidently surfacing from a deep train of thought, and glanced at Robert.
‘Actually,’ she replied slowly, nodding her head towards the painting. ‘I need to be here.’
Robert turned his attention to the painting – no different to the pieces that adorned every other hall, and tilted his head. The portrait of a woman stared back at him, with the tell-tale simple and pretty features of a Tudor lady. Wisps of brown hair escaped her headdress, pinning up the rest of her locks but failing to capture those at the front. Her hands were crossed on her lap, delicate fingers pointing to what looked to be a fox, carved from stone, tucked beneath the opposing arm. Despite the age of the painting, it’s stark emerald eyes shone, giving what would normally have been a common portrait an unusual edge. Robert noticed that the woman in the painting differed to others he had seen in similar paintings – she was modest, and yet slightly rough around the edges, not a prim, perfect representation like so many portraits from the era. He found himself liking her. It was the first time Robert had actually connected with a painting.
‘Studying paintings,
then?’ He asked idly, his gaze almost constantly sliding back to the bright eyes of the stone fox. The woman beside him tucked her pen behind her ear.
‘Not especially. I’m actually here to write a book on the house, and its family history,’ she nodded towards the portrait. ‘It all begins with the stone fox.’
Robert raised his eyebrows, interest piqued; he held a hand out to his new acquaintance.
‘You’ll have to tell me about it - and yes, I am using you as a form of procrastination. Robert Penrose.’
The woman smiled in good humour and took his hand in return, giving it a brief, but warm shake.
‘Abigail Hayes.’
Robert inclined his head.
‘Nice to meet another writer. Though I can’t say it makes me feel any better, knowing you already have something to write about.’
‘Hartstone House is fascinating,’ Abigail replied, gesturing back to the painting. ‘Particularly because of this, and the stone fox. It’s the missing family emblem, has been since the persecution of priests under Henry the Eighth.’
‘Worth a lot then,’ Robert commented, leaning in and squinting at the portrait. Abigail nodded, but gestured away dismissively.
‘Very, but worth a lot more in sentimental value, rather than intrinsic.’
Robert understood that, but he also understood that two emeralds would pay his rent for a long while, and in the world of writing, where nobody is quite sure when the next pay cheque is due, that was a godsend. He opened his mouth to inappropriately say so, when there was the sound of an old fashioned bell downstairs. Robert twisted to peer over the banister of the balcony; Agatha was below, waving a brass bell that belonged in a school playground, not a writer’s retreat.
‘The first workshop is about to start in the drawing room,’ she announced with a red faced smile. ‘If everybody would come along, there’ll be tea and cake!’
Robert decided it was rude to deny that, and Abigail agreed. Together, they headed to the drawing room, side by side, a friendly bond formed.
*
‘Procrastination is your enemy,’ said the overenthusiastic workshop leader: a man in his sixties wearing a cravat and a v-neck sweatshirt. He gestured with his hands an awful lot, and each patronising nugget of advice he came out with pushed Robert into heaving a groan of disapproval. Abigail’s eyes flickered to him once or twice, evidently a little concerned that there was something seriously the matter. Robert didn’t understand why she had come along; if she wasn’t a washed up hack without ideas, why had she followed?
He supposed she was laughing at him. Which he didn’t blame her for; he was laughing at himself, too.
‘Robert, how do you deal with procrastination?’ The leader asked, leaning forwards and resting his head in hand, offering a quizzical look that Robert refused to believe was genuine.
‘I come to writing workshops.’ He replied dryly, and he was sure he heard Abigail stifle a squeak of laughter beside him.
To continue with his nonchalance, Robert took a mouthful of his scone, and the workshop leader hastily moved on.
‘We’ll take a short break, come back in ten minutes everyone, when we’ll be discussing writing prompts!’
Another groan escaped Robert’s throat and he got to his feet, joined by Abigail. She nudged his arm with her elbow, and nodded towards the kitchens. Robert understood immediately and nodded, leading the way out of the workshop and towards tea.
*
Ten minutes later, the newly acquainted Robert and Abigail were not back in their seats, but in the entrance hall, talking over steaming mugs of freshly brewed tea. Robert noticed the wedding ring glinting on Abigail’s hand, and she noticed his. They talked about their home lives, briefly: Abigail detailing how she and her husband were trying for a baby while the book was under way and he worked to keep them ticking over. Robert thought that admirable, and felt rather silly when he explained that he and his own wife, Hayley, had decided kids weren’t the way to go for them. Robert was closed in, almost selfishly obsessed with his writing, while Hayley was a high-flyer – barely home, always away on business.
There was a contrast between their lifestyles, but if anything, Robert felt he liked Abigail more for it.
It appeared the feeling was mutual as they both turned their attentions up to the opposing balcony floor, and further, to the distant portrait of the woman and her stone fox.
Abigail flashed Robert a grin, evidently noticing his wide eyes and the slight, curious tilt of his head.
‘Got an idea for a story?’
Robert snorted.
‘No. I’m out of ideas. I just like the painting.’ He sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘You said it went missing – the stone fox. Reckon it could have been stolen?’
‘It’s possible.’ Abigail drank down the rest of her tea, and set it down on a four hundred and odd year old table. ‘The early Hartstones were devout Catholics so there wouldn’t have been any foul play within the family, or their servants. If somebody stole it, they must have been an outsider.’ She shrugged, almost sadly, her eyes dancing back and forth, as if in memory. ‘I’d give anything to see it. The fox. But it could be anywhere in the world.’
Robert finished his tea, gesturing for Abigail to follow him up the stairs. His mug joined hers, and together they headed back up to the portrait.
‘You said the fox was worth sentimental value,’ he muttered, grasping upon earlier conversation, clinging to it, both as a form of procrastination and because there was something deliciously mysterious about the house, about its history. ‘Who’s the lady in the picture?’
‘Catherine Hartstone,’ Abigail replied in a heartbeat, and Robert felt impressed that she knew so much, that she could pluck it from her subconscious within seconds. ‘Wife to Richard, mother to Anne and Phillip,’ she idly touched the pencil behind her ear, obviously moved by the story. ‘Such a waste.’
A chill ran down Robert’s spine involuntarily, and he tried to cover it by scratching the back of his head. His eyes flickered from Abigail, to Catherine, to the fox, and then, to the one hand, that was curled up, with the index finger pointing above and to the right. Robert’s eyes drifted, a frown creasing his brow as he looked down the hall.
‘What’s she pointing to?’
‘Oh,’ Abigail tilted her head in bemusement. ‘I don’t think it’s anything. Often, in paintings like these, there’s a lot of symbolism. Hand gestures can mean-’
Suddenly, and with a startling clarity, Robert was reminded of the door. He looked down the hall towards its shape.
‘What if she’s pointing over there?’ He didn’t wait for Abigail’s response – she was blustering in confusion anyway. Instead, he crossed to the banister and grabbed it, leaning over to see the passing Agatha, muttering in exasperation as she removed the invading tea cups from the four hundred year old oak table.
‘Mrs Reed!’ He called, figuring that a little more polite, considering where he was shouting from. Agatha span around in confusion and looked up at Robert, before giving him a confused wave. ‘The door by the painting of Catherine,’ he continued, still making a ridiculous racket. Behind him, Abigail was hissing at him to ‘be quiet’, but Robert ignored her. ‘Where does it go to?’
Agatha hesitated for a moment, evidently gathering her bearings, and then her answer to the question.
‘It’s the old priest hole, love!’ She returned, her voice slightly strained from the shouting. ‘We open it for the public on summer weekends!’
Robert was no longer listening. He span around, regarding Abigail with a wonder and excitement that almost instantly rubbed off on her. In a fit of giddiness, she took the notebook from under her arm, the pen from behind her ear, and began to hastily scribble.
‘Of course, of course. The painting has been hanging here since the family were murdered, it fits in too well…’
‘Murdered?’ Robert, mid step between Abigail and the priest hole entrance, halted in surprise. Abigai
l looked up, pushing her glasses up her nose with her index finger. Her eyes searched his face.
‘Found dead,’ she replied, voice suddenly hoarse. ‘Killed mid mass, during the persecution of priests.’
Robert’s face fell dolefully. It had been thoughtless to become so excited about a form of treasure, considering the circumstances it had disappeared in. There was something awful, outrageously gruesome about the house now, and the over-imaginative, authorial mind Robert possessed insisted that tonight would be a sleepless one.
Abigail seemed to notice his sudden pale-faced change in demeanour but thankfully didn’t drag him up on it. She brushed by, notebook under arm once more and pen behind ear, before halting in front of the door. She drew a bunch of keys from her pocket, which jangled and danced, and with ease, she selected one, and shoved it in the lock.
‘I’ve never needed to use this,’ she murmured as Robert joined her, ‘never thought I’d need to.’
‘So how special do you have to be to get a big bunch of keys to every door around here?’ Robert teased, though he was genuinely vexed. Perhaps, because of the subject of Abigail’s book, the Hartstones had allowed her complete access to the house.
‘Pretty special,’ Abigail smirked in response, and the door eased open.
Like an episode of Scooby Doo, both parties poked their heads inside. It was clear why the extra door had been added, now. With priest holes being created inside the cavernous walls of Tudor architecture, an easier way for tourists to get a view was with the modern addition. Robert was fascinated. He peered up the slim passage ahead, blocked at the far end by a small wooden ladder – all original wood from the era – leading up to the tiniest hatch he had ever seen. It’d be a tight fit for a grown Tudor man. There was the smell of age old dust, and the gloom of history, but it was exciting, especially now that there was incentive to be here.