Trisha Ashley - Wedding Tiers

As I worked in the garden I noticed that he was getting an awful lot of calls on his mobile, which seemed to make him cross, but then, if he didn’t want to be disturbed he should have switched it off!

Once the woodworm treatment at Blessings was done, and the rooms aired, Libby and I returned to our dusting and cleaning, keeping one room ahead of the specialist painters. I was amazed at Libby’s stamina. I was only helping out for an hour or two in the afternoons because of all my cake-making and other commitments, but she seemed to be working dawn to dusk.

When we took the old curtains down they pretty well fell to pieces, but she had surfed the internet and found a firm who sold medieval-style crewelwork curtains and fabric by the metre, all curly foliage, birds and rabbits—lovely, though very expensive.

Dorrie brought her friend Miss Hebe Winter (who is my friend Sophy’s great-aunt), to look around one day while we were working. The room we were in was a bit gloomy and for a minute we thought we were seeing ghosts, because they walked in wearing Elizabethan dress. Miss Winter, who is tall, grand and aquiline of nose, is a dead ringer for the Virgin Queen, and even Dorrie was transformed by a wide ruff and full skirts, despite having kept her beret on.

It turned out they’d been to a historical re-enactment society meeting in Sticklepond. Lots of the members help out as volunteers at Winter’s End in full costume, when it’s open to the public. They are very big on the Elizabethan over there, especially since the discovery of that Shakespeare document.

Miss Winter had come out of sheer curiosity to see Libby, I think, the plebeian marrying into the Rowland-Knowleses, and, like Dorrie, she found her not at all what she expected.

I left them having tea (it was lucky I’d taken Libby an apple upside-down cake), passing Hebe’s little white Mini car on the drive. How does she get behind the wheel in a farthingale?

Moorcroft, the gardener, was very ready to take a golden handshake and retire, which would be much more economical in the long run than paying him to cut the grass and hide out in the garden shed, making endless cups of tea on a Primus stove.

Tim and Dorrie, full of plans and enthusiasm, began to try to get the grounds into some kind of order and create a fruit and vegetable patch. Tim came over a couple of times to ask my advice—or Ben’s, if he caught him out of the studio, which was pretty rare at the moment.

‘Tim’s passionate about gardening. He’s even more dotty about it than you are,’ Libby said one day, when we were taking a break from cleaning out what had once been the old kitchen, but was now a kind of storeroom. She straightened up with a groan; she’s only about five foot two without her stilettos, so even standing on a stool she’d found, reaching up with the feather duster, was quite a stretch.

‘I think he loves flowers and shrubs more than vegetables, Libs, like Dorrie.’

‘Yes, but now you’ve infected him with the self-sufficiency bug he’s determined to follow suit.’

‘Well, that’s OK, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, as long as he doesn’t expect me to start digging and jamming and making pies…though when Gina’s here I expect she’ll be quite happy to cook what he grows. It will save us money too, which will be a good thing, because I hadn’t realised quite how high the cost of restoring and maintaining a place of this age would be. I know I’m well off, but really, we need to find some way of increasing our income, unless I sell one or both of my other homes. But Tim loves Italy, so apart from our honeymoon being in Pisa, I hope we’re going to spend a lot of time there—and it’s handy having a pied-à-terre in London.’

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’m starting to think that’s what we could do with, though at least Ben hasn’t been so eager to rush back to London this time. He’s very engrossed in his paintings.’

‘Tim hates being a solicitor, so it’s a pity we can’t find some way of making Blessings pay for itself. But it’s a bit too small to open to the public. We live in all of it and we can’t just move into the modern wing three-quarters of the time, can we?’

‘Perhaps you could open a little garden centre in the grounds?’

‘I’m not sure they’re really big enough for that, either, but it’s worth thinking about.’

‘How are the wedding plans coming on?’

Libby pulled a large, folded list out of the pocket of her all-enveloping blue striped cotton apron, which looked like something a Victorian maid might wear. ‘Special licence—check. Church, vicar, church bells, organist and photographer—all sorted. Cake—you’re doing that. Invitations—already done by those strange friends of yours, though I don’t see why the cards and envelopes have to have bits of grass and petals in them.’

‘It’s because they make the paper themselves, using natural sources and inks,’ I explained. ‘All recycled and biodegradable.’

‘And why does it say on the invitations that confetti will be provided at the church door?’ she queried. ‘Guests usually bring their own!’

‘We don’t want paper confetti everywhere. We need to supply a natural alternative, Libby! Perhaps something like millet, which would give the birds a feast afterwards? Yes—a golden shower of millet would be lovely …’

‘I am not emerging from the church to be pelted with handfuls of budgie food,’ Libby said coldly.

‘No?’

‘No!’

‘Oh…then how about dried rose petals?’ I suggested. ‘I’ve heard of those being used.’

‘Now, that’s more like it!’

‘Hebe Winter uses a lot of roses in the products she makes to sell in the Winter’s End shop—perhaps she could supply us with rose petals. Shall I ask?’

‘Yes, do. If you could sort that out for me, it would be a great help,’ Libby agreed. ‘Actually, the Winters are on the guest list, since they’re friends of both Dorrie and Tim. And I’ve invited a second photographer, but not an official one—Noah Sephton. He was some kind of cousin of Joe’s and a great friend. He’ll be staying overnight, but I think I’ll have to put him in the gatehouse. I’ve asked Dolly Mops to come and clean it out and I thought they might as well do the flat over the garage too, though, knowing Gina, she’ll scrub it from floor to ceiling as soon as she gets here, anyway.’

‘It’ll be nice to see Gina again. And I think I’ve heard of Noah Sephton,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Didn’t he take those lovely photographs of you with Pia as an infant, which are in your apartment in Pisa?’

‘Yes, but you should have heard of him anyway, because he’s quite famous for his portraits. He has an annual exhibition of his more oddball, black-and-white photos every year too, and they’re a sell-out. His last one was called Fate’

‘I know all about fate’ , I said, and, as if on cue, one of the two peacocks wailed. It always gave me the cold shivers. ‘Couldn’t you try eating the peacocks?’ I pleaded. ‘I hate the noise they make.’

‘Don’t be silly, they give the place class. Get over it,’ she said absently, looking down at the back of the list where she’d jotted the names of the invited guests. ‘There are quite a few celebs on here as well as Noah, because Tim knows Rob Rafferty, the star of that Cotton Common TV soap and one or two of the other actors, though I don’t think Hello! magazine will be jostling for my wedding photos any time soon.’

‘So you’ve got it all pretty well arranged?’

‘Yes, apart from the reception venue. At this rate, we’ll be handing out directions in the church!’