histories, Greek poetry, atlases, editions of old dramatists.
All over the house, Thomas sensed the presence of earlier Ashtons – in the air, in the smoke rising from the great carved fireplaces, always watching. He could walk through every room secure in the continuity of generations, with ancestors whose names were known and remembered.
But minor intimations of an imperfect world had still intruded upon his early years. When he was eight, his Aunt Mary came to visit, and walked with him to the statue of Father Time on the south lawn.
“I used to swing round him as a child,” she said fondly, scraping away a little moss from his pedestal. “He looks so much smaller than I remember.”
As she turned to face the house, Thomas was startled to recognize that Aunt Mary used to live here, and that he, too, would one day be a stranger at Ashton like her. His elder brother William would inherit the house, and install his wife and children. He would be only partly welcome, no more than an uncle to the new heirs. For some weeks, he wandered round the house staring at favourite pictures and clocks with a puzzled sense of incipient loss.
There was, too, the eerie warning of the local monasteries, which they visited every summer. Laden with baskets of food and drink, cars would carry them to the picturesque ruins of Rievaulx and Byland, perfect spots for a picnic. He and his brothers would race about on the broken walls, jumping over the stumps of old pillars. Until a stray breeze would make Thomas stop, and look round at the mighty walls reduced to piles of tumbled rock. Here was Rievaulx, once one of the greatest abbeys in the land, where now the grass grew right up to the altar. Where soaring broken arches framed sheep grazing on the far hill.
Thomas could recall sitting quietly with Claudia on an open staircase, and rubbing his hand over the sheer stone steps. The tricks of time were all about them, stones worn smooth by wind and rain, but this was the oblivion of somebody else’s past.
“This stream runs into the river in our park,” his whiskered father once explained to him, as they walked along the smallbeck at Rievaulx. “They named the abbey after the river here – Rie-vaulx, valley of the Rye. It’s a broader river through our land, but it’s the same source.”
Thomas had looked into the rocky shallows of the water, and blithely speculated that all the life and spirit of this ruined abbey had simply drifted downstream a few miles and settled with them instead, in the seemingly imperishable splendour of Ashton Park.
Outside, the cry of children grew suddenly more insistent. Thomas wheeled himself to the window, and realized that it was the break before lunch.
Girls and boys were thronging the lawn in scattered groups, and queuing for the swing. For a while, he watched the random formations of children, just checking that none of them looked excluded.
His wife wandered onto the lawn. He felt faintly guilty about spying on her unobserved, but kept watching. Jock Stewart followed just behind her, and began to swing the lunch bell high and low, drawing the children towards the dining room.
He watched his wife standing on the crest of the lawn steps, as dozens of children raced past her. Until a girl stopped there, Anna Sands, and reached up her hand to Elizabeth. Thomas felt his heart lurch.
But his wife would not accept the gesture. She patted the girl on the shoulder a little awkwardly, and sent her on her way.
Thomas winced, and pushed himself off to lunch. Her pain was his pain. What were they, he asked himself, but a childless couple in a vast house, surrounded by other people’s children?
10
Every morning, a housemaid brought a tray of tea to the Ashtons’ bedroom. Sometimes the maid would open the door to find Elizabeth in triptych, reflected in all three of her dressing table mirrors as she brushed her long hair. And if Elizabeth turned to thank the maid, her reflection would glance round three
All over the house, Thomas sensed the presence of earlier Ashtons – in the air, in the smoke rising from the great carved fireplaces, always watching. He could walk through every room secure in the continuity of generations, with ancestors whose names were known and remembered.
But minor intimations of an imperfect world had still intruded upon his early years. When he was eight, his Aunt Mary came to visit, and walked with him to the statue of Father Time on the south lawn.
“I used to swing round him as a child,” she said fondly, scraping away a little moss from his pedestal. “He looks so much smaller than I remember.”
As she turned to face the house, Thomas was startled to recognize that Aunt Mary used to live here, and that he, too, would one day be a stranger at Ashton like her. His elder brother William would inherit the house, and install his wife and children. He would be only partly welcome, no more than an uncle to the new heirs. For some weeks, he wandered round the house staring at favourite pictures and clocks with a puzzled sense of incipient loss.
There was, too, the eerie warning of the local monasteries, which they visited every summer. Laden with baskets of food and drink, cars would carry them to the picturesque ruins of Rievaulx and Byland, perfect spots for a picnic. He and his brothers would race about on the broken walls, jumping over the stumps of old pillars. Until a stray breeze would make Thomas stop, and look round at the mighty walls reduced to piles of tumbled rock. Here was Rievaulx, once one of the greatest abbeys in the land, where now the grass grew right up to the altar. Where soaring broken arches framed sheep grazing on the far hill.
Thomas could recall sitting quietly with Claudia on an open staircase, and rubbing his hand over the sheer stone steps. The tricks of time were all about them, stones worn smooth by wind and rain, but this was the oblivion of somebody else’s past.
“This stream runs into the river in our park,” his whiskered father once explained to him, as they walked along the smallbeck at Rievaulx. “They named the abbey after the river here – Rie-vaulx, valley of the Rye. It’s a broader river through our land, but it’s the same source.”
Thomas had looked into the rocky shallows of the water, and blithely speculated that all the life and spirit of this ruined abbey had simply drifted downstream a few miles and settled with them instead, in the seemingly imperishable splendour of Ashton Park.
Outside, the cry of children grew suddenly more insistent. Thomas wheeled himself to the window, and realized that it was the break before lunch.
Girls and boys were thronging the lawn in scattered groups, and queuing for the swing. For a while, he watched the random formations of children, just checking that none of them looked excluded.
His wife wandered onto the lawn. He felt faintly guilty about spying on her unobserved, but kept watching. Jock Stewart followed just behind her, and began to swing the lunch bell high and low, drawing the children towards the dining room.
He watched his wife standing on the crest of the lawn steps, as dozens of children raced past her. Until a girl stopped there, Anna Sands, and reached up her hand to Elizabeth. Thomas felt his heart lurch.
But his wife would not accept the gesture. She patted the girl on the shoulder a little awkwardly, and sent her on her way.
Thomas winced, and pushed himself off to lunch. Her pain was his pain. What were they, he asked himself, but a childless couple in a vast house, surrounded by other people’s children?
10
Every morning, a housemaid brought a tray of tea to the Ashtons’ bedroom. Sometimes the maid would open the door to find Elizabeth in triptych, reflected in all three of her dressing table mirrors as she brushed her long hair. And if Elizabeth turned to thank the maid, her reflection would glance round three
Similar Books
