The Little House
Philippa Gregory
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
About the Author
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
ON SUNDAY MORNING, on almost every Sunday morning, Ruth and Patrick Cleary drove from their smart Bristol flat to Patricks parents farmhouse outside Bath. They had only been married for four years and Ruth would have preferred to linger in bed, but this Sunday, as almost every Sunday, they had been invited for lunch at one oclock prompt.
Patrick always enjoyed returning to his home. It had once been a dairy farm, but Patricks father had sold off the land, retaining only a little wood and circle of fields around the house: an eighteenth-century manor farm of yellow Bath stone. While never being so vulgar as to lie, the Clearys liked to suggest that their family had lived there forever. Patricks father liked to imply that he came from Somerset yeoman stock and the farm was their ancestral home.
Patricks mother opened the door as they came up the path. She was always there when they arrived, ready to fling open the door in welcome. Once Ruth had teased Patrick, saying that his mother spent her life peeping through the brass letterbox, so that she could throw open the door as her son arrived, wrap him in her arms, and say, Welcome home, darling. Patrick had looked offended, and had not laughed.
Welcome home, darling, his mother said.
Patrick kissed her, and then she turned and kissed Ruths cheek. Hello, dearest, how pale you look. Have you been working too hard?
Ruth was surprised to find that immediately she felt exhausted. No, she said.
Freddie, theyre here! Ruths mother called into the house, and Patricks father appeared in the hall.
Hello, old boy, he said lovingly to Patrick. He dropped an arm briefly on Patricks shoulder and then turned to Ruth and kissed her. Looking lovely, my dear. Patrick saw you on television last night, the piece on the commuters. Jolly good. They used a bit of it on News at Ten. Good show.
Patrick grimaced. It didnt come out how I wanted, he said. I had a new film crew and they all had their own ideas. I might be the reporter, but none of them want to listen to me.
Too many chiefs and not enough Indians, Frederick pronounced.
Ruth looked at him. He often said a sentence, like a little motto, that she had never heard before and that made no sense to her whatsoever. They were a playful family, sometimes quoting family jokes or phrases of Patricks babytalk that had survived for years. No one ever explained the jokes to Ruth; she was supposed to laugh at them and enjoy them, as if they were self-explanatory.
Thats shoptalk, Patricks mother said firmly. Not now. I want my assistant in the kitchen!
It was one of the Sunday rituals that Patrick helped his mother in the kitchen while Ruth and Frederick chatted in the drawing room. Ruth had tried to join the two in the kitchen once or twice and had glimpsed Patricks indispensable help. He was perched on one of the kitchen stools, listening to Elizabeth and picking nuts from a bowl of nibbles she had placed before him. When Ruth had interrupted them, they had looked up like two unfriendly children and fallen silent. It was Elizabeths private time with her son; she did not want Ruth there. Ruth was sent back into the sitting room with the decanter of sherry and instructions to keep Frederick entertained. She learned that she must wait for Patrick to put his head around the door and say, Luncheon is served, ladies and gents. Then Frederick could stop making awkward conversation with her and say, I could eat a horse! Is it horse again?
Elizabeth served roast pork with crackling, apple sauce, roast potatoes, boiled potatoes, peas and carrots. Ruth wanted only a little. In Bristol in the canteen of the radio station where she worked as a journalist, she was always hungry. But there was something about the dining room at the farmhouse that made her throat close up. Patricks father poured red wine and Ruth would drink two or three glasses, but she could not make herself eat.
Patrick ate a good lunch, his plate favoured with the crunchiest potatoes and the best cuts of meat, and always had seconds.
Youll get fat, his father warned him. Look at me, never gained a pound till I retired from the army and had your mothers home cooking every day.
He burns it all up, Elizabeth defended her son. His job is all nerves. He burns it all up with nervous energy.
They both looked at Ruth, and she managed a small uncomfortable smile. She did not know whether to agree that he would get fat, which would imply an unwifely lack of admiration, or agree that he lived on his nerves, which would indicate that she was not protecting him from stress.
Its been a devil of a week, Patrick agreed. But I think I may be getting somewhere at last.
There was a little murmur of interest. Ruth looked surprised. She did not know that Patrick had any news from work. She wondered guiltily if her own work, which was demanding and absorbing, had made her neglect his ambition. I didnt know, she said.
He smiled his wide, handsome smile at her. I thought Id wait to tell you until it was shaping up, he said.
No point in counting chickens, his father agreed. Spill the beans, old boy.
Theres talk of a new unit, to do specialist local film documentaries, Patrick said. Itll be headed by a news producer. The best news producer weve got. He paused, and smiled his professionally modest smile. Looks like Im in line for the job.
Good show.
Wonderful, Patricks mother said.
What would you do? Ruth asked.
Regular hours! Patrick replied with a little chuckle. Thats the main thing! Id still do reports to camera but I wouldnt be on call all the time, and Id not be running around out of hours. Id have more control. Its an opportunity for me.
Is this a bubble-size celebration? Patricks father demanded of Ruth.
She looked at him blankly. She simply had no idea what he meant.
Champagne, darling, Patrick prompted. Do wake up!
I suppose it must be. Ruth stretched her mouth in a smile, trying to be bright and excited. How wonderful!
Patricks father was already on his way to the kitchen. Elizabeth fetched the special champagne glasses from the sideboard.
Hes got a bottle already chilled, she said to Patrick. Ruth understood that this was significant.
Oh ho! Patrick said as his father came back into the room. Chilled already?
His father gave him a roguish wink and expertly opened the bottle. The champagne splashed into the glasses. Ruth said, Only a little please, but no one heard her. She raised her full glass in a toast to Patricks success. It was a very dry wine. Ruth knew that dry champagne was the right taste; only inexperienced, ill-educated people liked sweet champagne. If she continued to make herself drink it, then one day she too would like dry champagne and then she would have an educated palate. It was a question of endurance. Ruth took another sip.
Now I wonder why you were keeping a bottle of champagne on ice? Patrick prompted his father.
I have some grounds for celebration but only if you two are absolutely happy about it. Your mother and I have a little proposition to put to you.
Ruth tried to look intelligent and interested but the taste of the wine was bitter in her mouth. The taste for champagne, they had assured her, was acquired. Ruth wondered if she would ever like it.
Its Manor Cottage, Frederick said. On the market at last. Old Miss Fisher died last week and, as you can imagine, I was onto her lawyer pretty quick. She left her estate to some damnfool charitycats or orphans or something He broke off, suddenly embarrassed, remembering the orphan status of his daughter-in-law. Beg pardon, Ruth. No offence.
Ruth experienced the usual stab of pain at the thought of her lost parents, and smiled her usual bright smile. It doesnt matter, she said. It doesnt matter at all.
Well, anyway, said Frederick, the house will be sold at once. Ive waited for years to get my hands on it. And now, with you getting into more regular hours, its ideal.
And the land? Patrick asked.
The garden, and the field, and that copse that joins our bit of wood. It rounds off our land to perfection.
Pricey? Patrick asked.
Frederick laid his finger along his nose to indicate inside knowledge. Her lawyer is the executor. And the charity wont be putting it up for auction. Theyll want a quick, simple sale. The lawyer will take the first reasonable offer.
Whos the lawyer? Patrick asked.
Frederick grinned this was the punch line. My lawyer, he said. As it happens. By happy coincidence. Simon Sylvester.
Patrick chuckled. We could sell our flat tomorrow.
We should make a handsome profit on it, his father concurred. You could stay here while the cottage is being done up. Couldnt be better.
If Ruth agrees, Elizabeth reminded them.
Both men turned at once to her. I dont quite Ruth said helplessly.
Manor Cottage is on the market at last, Patrick said. Come on, darling, the little house at the end of the drive. The one Ive always had my eye on.
Ruth looked from one bright impatient face to another. You want to buy it?
Yes, darling. Yes. Wake up!
And sell our flat?
They nodded.
Ruth could feel that she was being slow, and worse than that, unwilling.
But how would I get to work? And we like our flat.
It was only ever a temporary base, Frederick said. Just a little nest for you two young lovebirds.
Ruth looked at him, puzzled.
A good investment is only worth having if youre ready to capitalize, he said firmly. When the time is right.
But how would I get to work?
Elizabeth smiled at her. You wont work forever, dearest. You might find that when you have a family-sized house in the country you feel like giving up work altogether. You might have something else to keep you busy!
Ruth turned to Patrick.
We might start a family, he translated.
Frederick gave a shout of laughter. Her face! Dear Ruth! Have you never thought about it? We could be talking Chinese!
Ruth felt her face stiff with stupidity. We hadnt planned she said.
Well, we couldnt really, could we? Patrick confirmed. Not while we were living in town in a poky little flat, and my hours were all over the place, and you were working so hard. But promotion, and Manor Cottage, well, it all comes together, doesnt it?
Ive always lived in town, Ruth said. And my job means everything to me. Im the only woman news producer on the station its a real responsibility, and this week I broke a national story she glanced at Patrick. We scooped you, she reminded him.
He shrugged. Radio is always quicker than telly.
We were going to travel she reminded him. It was an old promise. Ruth was an American child her father a concert pianist from Boston, her mother an Englishwoman. They had died in the quick brutality of a road accident on a winter visit to England when Ruth was only seven years old. Her mothers English family had taken the orphaned girl in, and she had never seen her home again. When Ruth and Patrick had first met, he had found the brief outline of this story almost unbearably moving and had promised Ruth that they would go back to Boston one day, and find her house. Who knew her childhood toys, her books, her parents things might even be in store somewhere, or forgotten in an attic? And part of the chasm of need that Ruth always carried with her might be filled.
We still can, he said quickly.
Well finish this bottle and then well all go down and look at Manor Cottage, Frederick said firmly. Take my word for it, Ruth, youll fall for it. Its a little peach. Bags of potential.
Shes not to be bullied, Elizabeth said firmly. We might think it paradise to have the two of you on our doorstep, but if Ruth doesnt want to live so close to us, she is allowed to say no.
Oh, its not that! Ruth said quickly, fearful of giving offence.
Its just the surprise of it, Patrick answered for her. I should have warned her that youve had your eye on that for years and you always get your own way.