before. It made it harder for her to say no; and besides, the event sounded so odd, so British, that she thought she might even enjoy it. It was like a secret piece of tourism, revealed only to the few.
âWhat is the house like?â she asked.
âItâs very beautiful,â Jack said. âIt explains everything.â
âEverything?â
âWell, almost everything,â Jack replied, and then appeared to stop himself. âI donât think Iâve ever said that before.â
Krystyna tried to think what it could be like: a country house, a
dacha,
a home; perhaps it would be a place where no one could reach her, a retreat from all that had happened and all that was about to happen; a kind of sanctuary.
And what else would she do? She could not think of any alternative other than remaining in her room and staring, without thinking, at the walls.
âWhat do you say?â Jack asked.
âAll right,â Krystyna replied. âWhy not?â
She began to walk ahead of him, down the hill and back into the city. She would be nervous on the day, she knew, but at that moment she had a feeling of recklessness, of light.
Three
Jackâs parental home was situated on the outskirts of East Fortune in the grounds of a large farm that had first belonged to his great-grandmother. The house was of pale-grey sandstone, the pitched roof was clad with Dutch pantiles, and the six chimneys that protruded from it had been symmetrically arranged to frame the crescent-shaped exterior. Bought at the turn of the twentieth century, the building had dominated family life. Each descendant had been told of the importance of passing the house on in a better condition than when they had inherited it. The gravel front was weeded and raked each day, the walled garden was tended every week, and a man came to clean the sash windows, inside and out, at the beginning of every month.
The building was situated in a low valley, but the outlook was open and wide, with views from the hills behind the house that stretched out to the Firth of Forth and the North Sea. The sight of the coast was both an end and a beginning: the edge of adventure.
Jackâs mother Elizabeth had been born and brought up in the house, marrying Ian Henderson at the age of twenty-five and providing him with three boys: Angus, Jack and Douglas. In return, her husband was expected to earn enough money to keep the place going and sustain the traditions to which Elizabeth had been accustomed: talk to factors and land agents, pay the bills, and provide a steady sense of home for their sons.
It was a house of privilege and expectation. This was not a family that tolerated failure. If tasks were to be undertaken, no matter how trivial, they had to be performed well.
Ian Henderson had already given the family his
Julius Caesar
and his
King Lear.
He had educated them, somewhat against their will, in English history through his unique interpretations of
Richard II, Henry IV
and even
Henry V
(although at the age of sixty-nine this had been something of a stretch). Now he had chosen comedy, and even risked ridicule, by taking on the part of Malvolio in
Twelfth Night.
Angus had been signed up for Orsino, Jack was going to be Feste, and Douglas, Sir Toby Belch.
Their father had phoned each son in turn and asked, âYou will learn your lines, wonât you?â
His three boys had replied, as they did every year, that they would do their best without intending to do anything of the kind.
Angus had been persuaded to arrive early to help erect the set. As the tallest and the broadest of the three brothers he was always called in first to help with any manual labour. His father told him that he had âfarmerâs handsâ.
The set was a series of painted hardboard flats that could be clamped together to make a castle on the back lawn. They had used them a few years previously for the History Plays and now they were brought out every summer.
âWhat is the house like?â she asked.
âItâs very beautiful,â Jack said. âIt explains everything.â
âEverything?â
âWell, almost everything,â Jack replied, and then appeared to stop himself. âI donât think Iâve ever said that before.â
Krystyna tried to think what it could be like: a country house, a
dacha,
a home; perhaps it would be a place where no one could reach her, a retreat from all that had happened and all that was about to happen; a kind of sanctuary.
And what else would she do? She could not think of any alternative other than remaining in her room and staring, without thinking, at the walls.
âWhat do you say?â Jack asked.
âAll right,â Krystyna replied. âWhy not?â
She began to walk ahead of him, down the hill and back into the city. She would be nervous on the day, she knew, but at that moment she had a feeling of recklessness, of light.
Three
Jackâs parental home was situated on the outskirts of East Fortune in the grounds of a large farm that had first belonged to his great-grandmother. The house was of pale-grey sandstone, the pitched roof was clad with Dutch pantiles, and the six chimneys that protruded from it had been symmetrically arranged to frame the crescent-shaped exterior. Bought at the turn of the twentieth century, the building had dominated family life. Each descendant had been told of the importance of passing the house on in a better condition than when they had inherited it. The gravel front was weeded and raked each day, the walled garden was tended every week, and a man came to clean the sash windows, inside and out, at the beginning of every month.
The building was situated in a low valley, but the outlook was open and wide, with views from the hills behind the house that stretched out to the Firth of Forth and the North Sea. The sight of the coast was both an end and a beginning: the edge of adventure.
Jackâs mother Elizabeth had been born and brought up in the house, marrying Ian Henderson at the age of twenty-five and providing him with three boys: Angus, Jack and Douglas. In return, her husband was expected to earn enough money to keep the place going and sustain the traditions to which Elizabeth had been accustomed: talk to factors and land agents, pay the bills, and provide a steady sense of home for their sons.
It was a house of privilege and expectation. This was not a family that tolerated failure. If tasks were to be undertaken, no matter how trivial, they had to be performed well.
Ian Henderson had already given the family his
Julius Caesar
and his
King Lear.
He had educated them, somewhat against their will, in English history through his unique interpretations of
Richard II, Henry IV
and even
Henry V
(although at the age of sixty-nine this had been something of a stretch). Now he had chosen comedy, and even risked ridicule, by taking on the part of Malvolio in
Twelfth Night.
Angus had been signed up for Orsino, Jack was going to be Feste, and Douglas, Sir Toby Belch.
Their father had phoned each son in turn and asked, âYou will learn your lines, wonât you?â
His three boys had replied, as they did every year, that they would do their best without intending to do anything of the kind.
Angus had been persuaded to arrive early to help erect the set. As the tallest and the broadest of the three brothers he was always called in first to help with any manual labour. His father told him that he had âfarmerâs handsâ.
The set was a series of painted hardboard flats that could be clamped together to make a castle on the back lawn. They had used them a few years previously for the History Plays and now they were brought out every summer.
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