Chapter 9

The taxi stopped by the gate. After he had paid off the driver he picked up his case and greatcoat and descended the four steps down to the pathway which led to the large old oak front door. A brass plate with engraved lettering announcing that this was Lark Hill Cottage was screwed into a Purbeck granite block, the material used in building the cottage. It was old; the concrete lintel above the door had the date 1825 cast into it. The cottage had been built for the manager who ran the estate for Sir Wilbur’s ancestors when the estate had been much larger. Taxes and death duties had necessitated selling off some of the land to pay them.

The door was unlocked as he knew it would be as he’d seen Mrs Mac’s old Ford Escort parked when the taxi drew up. Standing in the large living room he shouted ‘Mrs Mac I’m home!’

Mrs Mac came rushing out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a red checked piny that she habitually wore. “Oh Robert!” She cried, flying into his arms and kissing his cheeks with tears starting to run down her face. Eventually she pulled back staring up into his face, “You look so pale and thin! Have they nay been looking after ye in that hospital?”

“Oh yes, but I’ve been cooped up in a room for over five months. Now I’m home I’ll be able to get outside more.”

She frowned not convinced at his explanation, “Well let me make you something to eat, it won’t take a minute.”

“No thank you, all I need is my bed; it’s been a long day.”

“Well if you’re sure, your bed is all made up and I’ll be around tomorrow morning to make your breakfast.”

“OK Mrs Mac” he said kissing her on the cheek.

After slipping on her coat and locating the car keys, she turned at the door and said, “Good night dear, it’s so good to have you home again where you belong.”

After bolting the door and turning down the light diffuser, Robert moved over to the drinks cabinet. The only bottle that was in it was a half empty Jameson. Pouring out a good measure he sat down in the old black winged back leather chair that had been his father’s in front of the huge inglenook fire place. The fire was dying the orange embers casting a ruddy glow into the room. As he sipped his drink he thought of Mrs Mac and Archie her husband. They had been like surrogate parents to him for as far back as he could remember. They had been brought to Aventon when Sir Wilbur’s father sold the estate he held in the Highlands.

Archie had been twenty at the time recently married to Agnes his seventeen-year-old bride. He worked on the estate as a junior gillie and gamekeeper. Sir Wilbur’s father had been impressed by the young Scot’s hard work and his direct but honest manner and offered him the position of gamekeeper at Aventon, the gatehouse cottage went with the job.

When Robert’s parents moved to Aventon and his mother had started work at Odstock Hospital, she started looking around for a daily help and Agnes McKee was hired. Within a very short while the two women became very close friends, and the titles Mrs Barlow and Mrs McKee were dropped in favour of Aggie and Mickey.

Why his mother was called Mickey, she’d been christened Lillian, Robert never did find out. Mrs Mac couldn’t have children. She’d seen specialists at his mother’s urging, but it wasn’t to be. So, in many ways Robert became the child she couldn’t have. He spent as much time as a youngster at the Gatehouse Cottage as he did at home. Archie would take him around the estate exploring the three-mile stretch of the River Avon that ran through the estate. He taught Robert how to fish and shoot and developed his interest in wild life.

Robert finished his drink and was moving towards the staircase when he had a sudden thought. Terry, with the slight accent, she was a Scot he realised.

The following morning after his shower and shave, he went down stairs. The aroma of frying bacon drew him to the kitchen. “Won’t be long,” said Mrs Mac, “sit down at the table.”

After breakfast Mrs Mac started the questions. Robert gave her the pocket version glossing over the injuries he’d had. He had to think what the Queen had worn, but eventually she seemed satisfied with his answers.

“I have to pay my respects at the Manor this morning. Will Archie be at home?”

“No, he’s up by the top copse checking on the partridge chicks. A fox tried to get in two nights ago. I swear he thinks more of those birds than he does me! Are you taking the car?”

“No. I’ll take the bike; I need the exercise” he said.

After pumping up the tyres, he opened the electric garage doors. His mother’s car sat in the middle of the double garage covered in dust sheets so he closed the doors behind him to stop any wind displacing them.

He started cycling up the hill. At the top the road wound round a bend and started to descend back to the valley. Halfway down the slope he came to the entrance of the Manor. Two large granite columns surmounted with a unicorn on each supported the huge wrought iron gates which were open. Robert cycled through and Gatehouse Cottage was on the left of the entrance. He was freewheeling down the gentle slope of the half-mile drive, as he rounded the last bend the Manor came into view. Smaller than the Grange but built in the same mode, it only boasted twelve bedrooms he knew.

According to Sir Wilbur, the Fitzwilliam’s could trace their lineage back to the Conquest. A house in one form or another had stood here for over nine hundred years. They had changed over the years being knocked down and rebuilt, destroyed by fire, or blown up, as was the case, when Oliver Cromwell’s troops demolished it.

Sir Wilbur’s ancestor had started the current building in 1730. He had made a fortune in the slave trade with a fleet of five ships crossing from West Africa, to the Caribbean with slaves and returning with sugar, cotton, molasses and rum to sell on the British market. When his son who took over the business, realised from the rumblings in Parliament that the end of the trade was in sight, he bought a large sugar plantation in Barbados and became part owner of the Rum distillery winning lucrative contracts with the Royal Navy.

Robert knew this aspect of Sir Wilbur’s ancestral history was a sore point with him but nevertheless he still held land and interests in Barbados which had helped to pay off the tax man.

Robert rang the doorbell. The door opened after a short pause and Davis, Sir Wilbur’s Butler stood there with a wide smile breaking out on his face, “Master Robert it’s so good to see you again!”

‘Thank you Davis, is Sir Wilbur at home?’

“He’s in his study.” He said, leading the way. Davis announced him and ushered him in.

Sir Wilbur sat in his armchair by a roaring log fire reading the Times. “Robert my boy!” He said, leaping out of the chair and giving Robert a bear hug while saying over his shoulder, “Davis we’ll take coffee.”

“Yes Sir” said Davis closing the door behind him.

Breaking off the hug he said, “Right, pull up a chair. I want to know everything that’s happened and don’t skip the details.” He commanded.

So, Robert began by going into more detail than he had done with Mrs Mac. He knew that Sir Wilbur had been a serving officer in the Second World War and would spot any glossing over. When he reached the part of Sir Royston’s involvement, Sir Wilbur interrupted “Sir Royston Smith, I do believe he’s a member of my club.” Robert knew Sir Wilbur was a member of a very select club in Pall Mall, he and Robert’s father used it when England was playing at Lords. “So, what happened next?” he asked. By the time he’d finished Robert’s mouth was dry.

Sir Wilbur sat back in his chair thinking for a few moments, “What happens now Robert.”

“Well I’m on three weeks medical leave. At the end of that I will have to take a medical to see if I’m fit for flying duties.”

“Do you want to return to flying?” He asked. “Of course sir.”

“Umm, you know Robert, your parents would have been enormously proud of you as I am! They’re always in my thoughts.” “Mine too sir.” He replied. After a few more minutes talking Robert took his leave promising to come to dinner later in the week.

As Robert mounted the bicycle he couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He knew Sir Wilbur had a son Denis who was on the board of a merchant bank in London and had a place on the Thames at Kingston. But he hardly ever visited his father. His wife couldn’t stand Sir Wilbur and the feeling was mutual. Sir Wilbur had a grandson at Eton, who according to Sir Wilbur was being ruined by the mother.

Back at the cottage he let himself in. Mrs Mac had gone but left a note on the kitchen table saying Archie and she would see him in the Archers that evening. After having a shower and changing he lay on his bed to take a nap. His leg was throbbing from the exertion of cycling. Strange he thought as he lay there but I never mentioned Terry’s involvement to either Mrs Mac or Sir Wilbur.

The Archers was the centre of the village life. A hostelry had stood there for hundreds of years. The large village green in front of it had given it its name. By law the men of the village had to practice archery on a Sunday after service during the middle ages. The crown recognising the deadly effect the British longbow men had had at Crecy and Agincourt.

Later it had become a Post House where horses were changed for the last 15 mile coach ride to Salisbury. With the construction of the new road on the other side of the river at the turn of the century, Aventon became a backwater and the Post House was unused.

Jack and Ruby Norris bought it ten years ago. Jack had served his time as a chef studying under some of the best chefs in England and France. He’d met Ruby at the hotel he was working in at London. She had been a senior receptionist and they fell in love and married. They both shared the same dream, to have their own place and live in the country.

That dream came true when they bought The Archers. It took a lot of work and the first few years were difficult but with Ruby’s managerial skills and Jack’s cooking, people began to take notice. Now on weekends the place was packed with diners coming from Salisbury, Fordingbridge, Ringwood and Bournemouth. The horse stalls had been converted into the restaurant and being a free house, Jack could cater to his customer’s tastes in beer, larger and wine from a wide range of breweries.