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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
ENDPAGE
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
GINNY CLAYTON packed the last carton of groceries carefully into the back of the elderly estate car and slammed the rear door shut, with a smiling word of thanks for Mr Murgatroyd who had helped her carry the boxes out of the shop. The sometimes reluctant engine started at the second attempt and the car moved away slowly, bumping over the cobbles before easing on to the road and disappearing out of the market square.
Mr Murgatroyd, dourly returning Ginny’s exuberant farewell wave, heaved a sigh before returning to the shop. His wife, busily pricing a new consignment of tinned fruit, looked up, and encountering his brooding look gave a sympathetic nod.
‘It just doesn’t seem right—a young lass like that, with all that responsibility.’ Mr Murgatroyd poked a cereal packet back into line on a shelf with quite unnecessary vigour.
‘There’s not many her age would take it on,’ Mrs Murgatroyd observed temperately. ‘The old aunt would have been put in a home, and foster-parents found for that young limb of a brother. She could have had a life of her own then.’
‘Instead of dogsbodying for that Mrs Lanyon,’ Mr Murgatroyd said fiercely. ‘That’s all she’ll be, Ida. A dogsbody.’ He seemed to relish the word in a gloomy way.
The Murgatroyds were both silent for a few moments, considering Ginny’s employer, Vivien Lanyon, the widow of the last of a long line of a once wealthy and powerful local family. The Lanyons had lost their power and most of their wealth long before Geoffrey Lanyon had been killed skiing in the Swiss Alps, and although no one in the locality was able to say precisely why such a deterioration in the family fortunes had come about, nevertheless everyone agreed that it was not because the Lanyons had ever been guilty of overpaying their staff, or treating their tenants too generously.
They were not nor ever had been a popular family, and although the local people admired the way Vivien Lanyon was hanging on at the Manor, and even making a go of her riding stables, they still agreed that she was a real chip off the old block and no mistake, more like a Lanyon born than a stranger who happened to have married into the family—and no one was under any illusion that this was intended as a compliment to the lady.
‘And that sister,’ Mr Murgatroyd continued. ‘What’s she doing about it all, I’d like to know?’
‘She’s an actress,’ Mrs Murgatroyd said, as if that explained everything. ‘I saw her on an advert on the telly last night. For hair spray.’ She affixed the last price label with an air of relief. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it’s none of our business, when all’s said and done, and there’s a load of soft drinks want bringing in.’
Mr Murgatroyd nodded, and set off for the rear of the shop in search of the soft drinks, but his mind even then was still not completely on his mission. He sighed again. ‘It just doesn’t seem right,’ he muttered.
Ginny, driving home along quiet lanes, would have been surprised to learn that she was the object of anyone’s sympathy. For the past few months she had been unable to believe her own good fortune.
Yet ‘dogsbody’ would have had a familiar ring. It was the very word that their family solicitor Mr Robson had used when he had told her about the job at Monk’s Dower.
‘You’ll be little more than a glorified caretaker, Ginny,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing in telling you about the position—only it does include accommodation, and I know this has been proving a problem for you.’
That, Ginny thought, was putting it mildly. The worry of trying to find a home for herself, plus an elderly lady, a small boy and a disreputable dog, had been keeping her awake at night, and deepening the shadows under her large hazel eyes.
It was incredible and frightening how life could change almost in the twinkling of an eye, so that the security she had always taken for granted was revealed as the fragile and tenuous thing it had always been in reality.
Security had been life in the tall Victorian house in the quiet country town where she had been born, with her parents and younger brother Tim, and with Aunt Mary, who had occupied the top floor of the house ever since her retirement from a career in teaching at a girls’ boarding school in the south-west of England.
It had been a quiet comfortable existence, and Ginny had found her progression from school to a secretarial course a peaceful one. She had never shared her older sister Barbara’s hankering for the bright lights, but then, as she would have been the first to admit, neither did she share Barbara’s dazzling good looks.
No one had really been surprised when Barbara opted for drama school in London, nor that when her course was finished she had stepped straight into a small part in a long-running hit in the West End.
Mr and Mrs Clayton had been delighted for her, and if they were disappointed that their glamorous eldest child so rarely found the time to come home to see them, they never admitted it. They seemed prepared to accept that Barbara now inhabited a different world, and took pleasure in her success, and the paragraphs that she now merited in the local paper.
But there had never been any question of Ginny following in her sister’s footsteps. Not that she had ever had ambitions in that direction, but if she had then a glance in her mirror would have quickly established a more realistic point of view. Her brown hair hung straight and as shining as rainwater to her shoulders, and though her eyes were large and heavily fringed with dark lashes, they were not otherwise remarkable, and nor were her other features. But, as she had often cheerfully remarked, one raving beauty in the family was quite enough, and she accepted without rancour the nickname ‘Mouse’ which her relatives bestowed on her.
She enjoyed her secretarial course. She was enjoying, with reservations, her first job in an accountant’s office. Even within the limitations of her environment, her life seemed to stretch away in front of her, full of possibilities as yet unexplored.
And then, one night of black ice, everything changed for ever. A coachload of football supporters veered across a dual carriageway and crashed into the Mini bringing Mr and Mrs Clayton home from the house of some friends. Mrs Clayton was killed instantly, but Ginny’s father lingered for a few days in intensive care.
Ginny coped because she had to, undergoing the ordeals of funerals and inquests. But there was a greater ordeal to come, one that no one had suspected. Mr Clayton’s small business had been heavily in debt, and he had borrowed from finance companies, not always wisely, using insurances and even his home as security. To her horror, Ginny learned that when all the creditors were paid, there would be hardly anything left in the way of money, and that they would no longer have a home.
In a way she was glad that her mother would never know just how flimsy the outward fabric of her life had been. Her father had never brought his business worries home with him, and for Mrs Clayton life had always been comfortable, with no shortage of little treats and luxuries.
But there was no escaping the fact that she, Ginny, was now responsible for finding accommodation for them all, and for earning sufficient money to pay the rent and support them.
Nor could she avoid the unpleasant truth that Barbara was not prepared to help in any way.
Her sister had made that more than clear during the brief time she had spent at home to attend the funeral.
‘I think you’re completely mad,’ Barbara had declared, stubbing out her cigarette in the saucer of her coffee cup. The sisters were in the kitchen having a bedtime drink the night before Barbara was due to return to London. ‘No one expects you to take on the responsibility for them all—a girl of eighteen. It’s ridiculous!’
‘But if I don’t, who will?’ Ginny asked mildly enough. Her head ached miserably and she felt drained of emotion. The last thing she wanted was an argument.
‘Well, I won’t for one,’ Barbara said bluntly. ‘There’s no room at the flat and I have my own life to lead—my career to think of, thank you very much. And so should you.’
‘I haven’t really got a career, just a job that I don’t much care about.’ Ginny carried the coffee cups over to the sink and began to rinse them under the tap. She looked round at the neat, bright kitchen with its tiles and new kitchen units which Mrs Clayton had been so proud of, and a sharp little pain twisted inside her like the turn of a knife. ‘But it’s been experience, and I can look for something that pays rather better now.’
Barbara’s lips twisted. ‘You’ll need something that pays like a bomb for what you have in mind. For heaven’s sake, Ginny, see sense. You’re biting off altogether more than you can chew. No secretary’s salary in this neck of the woods is going to pay the rent for the size of place you’d need—always supposing you found somewhere, and that won’t be easy. Where landlords are concerned, children and dogs are an anathema, take my word for it.’
Ginny turned off the hot tap with intense concentration. ‘Which do you suggest that I have put down—Tim or Muffin?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, don’t be a fool,’ Barbara snapped. ‘But you’ve got to be realistic. Just because Dad fancied himself as an amateur philanthropist, it doesn’t mean that you have to follow in his footsteps.’
‘You mean Aunt Mary.’ Ginny reached for the tea towel. ‘Doesn’t it matter to you that she’s losing her home as well?’
Barbara shrugged. ‘Of course,’ she said without any conviction. ‘But she can’t rely on you to provide her with another one. She must see that. After all, she has her pension, and there are plenty of places catering for elderly women in her position.’
‘Nursing homes, I suppose, and seedy private hotels.’ Ginny dried a cup and hung it from the appropriate hook. ‘Would you really condemn her to that, Barbie? She was Dad’s favourite aunt.’
‘But not mine,’ Barbara said coolly. ‘I don’t know how Mother put up with her all these years.’
There was a difficult silence, then Barbara picked up the thread again.
‘And as for Tim—well, has it occurred to you that the Social Services might take a hand?’
‘Yes, it has,’ Ginny said coldly. ‘It’s also occurred to Tim, and he’s worried sick about it. Some of the children at school have been telling him that he’ll be taken into care—you know what insensitive little beasts they can be.’
Barbara reached for another cigarette. ‘Would it be such an unthinkable thing?’
‘Barbie!’ Ginny was aghast. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I’m trying to be realistic,’ Barbara said sourly. ‘Face facts, Ginny. How can someone of your age be mother and father to an eleven-year-old boy? It’s just not on.’
‘It has to be,’ Ginny said. ‘I’ve given Tim my word that we won’t be split up.’
‘If you don’t find another job and somewhere to live, the choice may not be yours,’ Barbara had pointed out coolly and unanswerably.
It was a fact that was haunting Ginny now that the first shock and grief of losing her parents was beginning to wear off. In a way, she was glad that the harsh practicalities of life were beginning to assume such importance, and make such demands on her time and energy, because they stopped her indulging in bouts of useless emotionalism and self-pity. The very fact that Tim and Aunt Mary depended on her so heavily had lent her a strength and purpose she had never been aware of, but it had not blinded her to the realities of the situation.
She had wondered at first whether Barbara would be able to help financially, if in no other way, but she had soon been disabused of that notion. Her sister was about to go into rehearsal in yet another light comedy which would be taken out on tour before its West End opening, and no one could prophesy what its fate would be in the uncertain world of show business. It might provide Barbara with a steady income for many months to come, or, as she pointed out with unshakeable logic, it might fold almost at once, leaving her to join the dole queue. Whatever happened, she was in no position to commit any of her income.
Ginny was not altogether surprised. She had always been aware that there was a single-minded, almost ruthless streak in Barbara which set her apart from the rest of the family. Certainly their father had never possessed it, Ginny thought with a sigh, otherwise his affairs might not have been in the bleak state they were at the time of the accident.
At the same time, she knew that Barbara’s view of her situation was a realistic one, and this was brought home to her in the weeks which followed. There were other jobs, but none that paid the sort of salary on which she could support a ready-made family, and finding another home was quite a different matter.
None of the flats and small houses she saw were large enough to accommodate them all, and those that were she could not afford. And, as Barbara had prophesied, few prospective landlords were prepared to consider a tenant with a child in tow anyway, and after the first few rebuffs, Ginny did not even dare mention the existence of Muffin, the mongrel dog, past puppyhood it was true, but certainly not past such anti-social habits as burying bones under sofa cushions and scratching paint off doors to facilitate his exits and entrances.
She had been very near to despair and worn out with the effort of concealing it from Tim and Aunt Mary when Mr Robson had phoned to ask her to call and see him at his office. Ginny had supposed it was to do with some detail about the sale of the house, which was proceeding with almost frightening speed.
When he had mentioned the job at Monk’s Dower, she had hardly been able to believe her ears, even though he had warned her candidly that it would be no sinecure.
Vivien Lanyon, it transpired, was the client of a friend of his in the neighbouring market town. Monk’s Dower had been in the Lanyon family almost as long as they had occupied the Manor House. Local history said that the name recalled the bitter period following the Dissolution of the Monasteries, when the Lanyon of his day had allowed some monks expelled from a nearby abbey to build themselves a shelter on a corner of his land. Here, it was said, they had settled, cultivating their plot of ground, and looking after the sick of the nearby parishes as they had always done. Eventually they died, one by one, and the house they had built reverted to the Lanyons who had used it as a dower house ever since.
‘I gather Mrs Lanyon plans to let the house on a long lease.’ Mr Robson stared down at the gold fountain pen he was holding. ‘It’s a large, rambling place—it’s been added to in all kinds of ways over the years, and her plan is to let it with—er—resident domestic help included, as it were. The servants’ quarters have been converted, I understand, into quite a pleasant self-contained flat, but the wages she is offering are far from generous. So far she has experienced considerable difficulty in finding anyone suitable to take on the job because of the poor money. The attraction as far as you are concerned, Ginevra, would be the accommodation. I am not personally acquainted with Mrs Lanyon, but I cannot say whether I could recommend her as an employer from what I have heard.’ He paused.
‘What exactly would I have to do?’ asked Ginny.
‘Make sure the house is kept clean and aired, and ready for occupation as and when the tenant required. But I would guess that covers a multitude of other sins as well.’ Mr Robson gave her a kindly but rather rueful smile. ‘Mrs Lanyon has the reputation, frankly, of demanding her pound of flesh and more. You might well find that you were little better than a dogsbody for her.’
‘Does she object to dogs?’ Ginny asked swiftly, not really taking in the implication of his words, because her heart was beating with sudden excitement. Compared with her present problems, coping with a difficult and perhaps demanding employer seemed a much easier option.
‘I hardly think so. She keeps a number of them herself, I believe, and shows them too. You could represent your dog in the capacity of a guard dog, perhaps. I understand her tenant is likely to be away a good deal.’
Ginny had a mental image of Muffin—he of the flopping ears and eagerly proffered paw.
‘I’m sure he’d make a very good guard dog,’ she said mendaciously. ‘Mr Robson, I could kiss you!’
He sighed. ‘Don’t be too grateful, my dear, until you find out more about it, but if you’re interested, I can arrange an interview.’
It only took half an hour in Vivien Lanyon’s formidable presence to warn Ginny that all Mr Robson’s forebodings were probably quite justified. She was tall, blonde and attractive in a hard way, and she made it clear at the outset that Ginny was far from being what she had in mind as a caretaker.
‘You’re far too young,’ had been her first, incredulous reaction and Ginny had had to bring all her persuasive powers to bear to ensure herself a fair hearing.
‘I wanted a couple really.’ Mrs Lanyon had flung herself down pettishly on one of the silk-covered sofas in her drawing room. ‘The man to do the outside work and look after the garden, of course, but people don’t want to work these days, it seems, and quite frankly I’m getting desperate, so I suppose I could give you a trial.’ She looked Ginny up and down and sighed. ‘The hours will be long, I give you fair warning, and rather uncertain, but the reduced rent you’d be paying reflects this, I think. The house itself has been taken for a preliminary year by a Mr Hendrick, and you’d be answerable to him rather than me. He’s abroad a good deal, and you’d have to see to it that the house was always ready for him at all times—fuel stocks replenished, staple foods and milk ordered—that sort of thing. I’d expect you to keep the house clean and tidy too, but the heavy work is being done by Mrs Petty from the village. As for the garden’—she hesitated, tapping a varnished nail against her teeth—‘I suppose I’ll have to let you have Simmons one day a week.’
‘Perhaps Mr Hendrick will take an interest in the garden,’ Ginny ventured.
Mrs Lanyon gave a short laugh. ‘I hardly think so. He isn’t the type to bother about such mundane affairs, but he likes the house and that’s all that matters.’ She gave Ginny a long, hard look. ‘It’s very quiet out here. The village is very small, and it’s a long way to the nearest town. What will you do with yourself—a girl of your age?’
Ginny was tempted to reply that she felt her time would be fully occupied with the programme Mrs Lanyon had outlined, but she curbed her tongue.
‘I have my family to look after,’ she returned with a dignity which sat oddly on her youthful shoulders. ‘I shan’t be bored.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that.’ Vivien Lanyon took a cigarette from the box on the table in front of her and lit it. ‘You realise you’ll be sharing a house with a single man. I wouldn’t want you to get—ideas.’ Face and voice were equally unsmiling as she said it, and Ginny felt a swift surge of temper rising within her which again she had to control. Instinct told her that Vivien Lanyon would not countenance an employee who answered back, and she needed this job and what it promised.
‘I can safely say that my only idea is to do the job well and provide a home from my brother and my aunt,’ she said quietly.
Vivien Lanyon shrugged slightly. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. At least with your responsibilities, you should be dependable. You won’t be likely to flit away as soon as the novelty wears off. Very well then, Miss Clayton—Ginevra.’ She glanced down at the letter of introduction which Ginny had brought. ‘What an extraordinary name!’
‘I believe it’s a form of Guinevere,’ Ginny said rather bleakly. ‘My mother used to love all the Arthurian legends.’
‘Really?’ Mrs Lanyon looked and sounded blank. ‘How fascinating. Now, when do you think you could start? Mr Hendrick’s tenancy begins next week, although he won’t be taking up occupation immediately.’
‘I’m working out my notice now,’ Ginny told her. ‘I could start on Monday, using the weekend to move in—if that was all right?’
‘Quite satisfactory.’ Now that everything was settled, Vivien Lanyon’s voice was almost indifferent. ‘Call in at the office as you go out and Kathy my head girl will show you round the house. You have transport, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ Ginny thanked heaven inwardly for the driving lessons which had been her father’s seventeenth birthday present to her. She had passed the test at her first attempt and had been used to driving both the Mini, which had been A write-off after the accident, and the rather battered estate car which her father had used for work, and which she was determined to hang on to at all costs.
The term ‘girl’ was something of a misnomer when applied to Kathy, Ginny discovered, when she was confronted by a large middle-aged woman who regarded her with something akin to pity on her weatherbeaten face.
‘How do you do.’ She extended a hand which could have encompassed both Ginny’s slender ones. ‘My word, she saw you coming and no mistake! How’s a slip of a girl like you going to see to a great barn of a place like that?’
Ginny bit her lip. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work.’
‘You don’t need to be, working for her.’ Kathy got up from the desk where she was working with account books and ledgers. ‘I suppose you want to see round the place—see the worst, eh?’ She took a bunch of keys from a board by the door. ‘Mind you,’ she went on, leading the way through the stable yard round to the front of the house where Ginny had left the car, ‘it’s a wonder to me that her ladyship has taken you on at all—but I suppose she can’t afford to be choosy at the money she’s offering.’
‘Thank you.’ Ginny did not know whether to be amused or insulted at the older woman’s forthright remarks. ‘I assure you that I’m perfectly capable.’
Kathy shrugged. ‘Makes no matter to me, dearie, whether you are or not. As for her, you could be Mrs Beeton the second, and she still wouldn’t take you on. She likes her female staff to be battered old warhorses like me, not clear-skinned young girls—especially when there’s a man around.’
Ginny was startled. ‘You mean Mr Hendrick?’
Kathy gave an exaggerated sigh as she settled herself into the passenger seat. ‘None other. He’s all man, believe me. Madam there couldn’t wait for him to sign the lease.’