Kate Forster - The Perfect Retreat

‘We’re back!’ called Merritt from the foyer, and Poppy echoed him. ‘We’re back!’ her little voice rang out.

‘How was that?’ asked Kitty as she took their muddy boots off.

‘Awesome,’ said Poppy, using her favourite word of the week.

‘Depressing,’ mumbled Merritt. He followed the little party into the kitchen where Kitty had set up a morning tea of pikelets and milk and a pot of strong tea for Merritt.

‘Really?’ asked Kitty as she sorted out the children.

‘Oh Kits. It’s in such bad shape. I don’t even know if it’s worth saving. Perhaps we should just let the National Trust have it,’ he said, slumping in his chair.

Kitty sat opposite him not knowing what to say.

‘The gardens are overgrown – hideously overgrown in fact. The fences are falling down, some of the trees are in bad shape, will need to be looked at as soon as possible. And that’s just outside,’ he said sadly.

Kitty frowned. This was not her area of expertise. In fact, she thought, she didn’t even have an area of expertise.

‘I am going to write a big list this week of everything, inside and out. I could use a hand when you have a moment,’ he said.

Kitty thought about the children and all she had to do for them and was about to speak up when she saw Merritt’s forlorn face and decided against it. ‘Of course,’ she said, although she wondered what help she could be.

‘We have the money Dad left us but that’s about it,’ he said, thinking aloud.

‘We could turn it into a hotel?’ suggested Kitty, having seen it done on TV before.

‘What the hell do we know about that, Kit? It would be worse than Fawlty Towers I think,’ he said.

Kitty laughed. ‘Yes well, I suppose you’re right.’

‘I wish there was buried treasure somewhere. Dad always said that his great-great-great-grandmother had said there was something of worth in the house, but I have no idea what he meant. He spent his life searching for it, but who knows what she was talking about?’ he said.

Poppy looked at Merritt, her eyes wide. ‘Treasure? I’ll find it!’ she said.

Kitty smiled at her indulgently. ‘Well if you do then you can have some of it,’ she said to the small girl, whose cheeks were flushed from the country air.

Merritt stuffed two pikelets into his mouth at once. ‘I wonder what the hell she meant,’ he pondered.

‘I have no idea. There aren’t even any paintings left of George’s,’ said Kitty as she refilled her chipped mug, referring to their ancestor who had built the house. His paintings, once worthless, were now well regarded by the art community. Their father had watched with painful fascination every time a new painting went up for sale at one of the major auction houses.

‘Should be our money,’ he used to say to the children when he saw the rising prices of George Middlemist’s works in the marketplace.

Family legend was that once George and his wife Clementina had separated, she sold all his works to keep herself and her children in the lifestyle they were accustomed to. Divorce was not an option in Victorian England, Edward’s father had told Merritt and Kitty, and once George had had the affair with his life model Clementina threw him out of Middlemist, where she stayed until she died of old age.

Clementina had been an artist too, but not of the same calibre as George, and the only paintings left in the house were hers. They weren’t likely to get the same price as George’s art and so the family had them stacked away in the eaves, in what was once George’s studio.

Merritt stood up and bowed to Kitty and Lucian. ‘Well, Lady Poppy and Lord Lucian, it was my pleasure to escort you today. Please feel free to see me at any time and let me know if I can be of assistance. No matter is too small or too big; I am at your service.’

Poppy giggled and Lucian looked straight ahead. Merritt walked over to the phone on the bench and took the pen and pad that lay next to it.

‘I’m off to see what work lies ahead of me,’ he said, and he walked out the door. Lucian got out of his seat and watched as Merritt walked away.

‘He’ll come back,’ said Kitty to Lucian, who was peering through the dirty glass. He turned to Kitty and then looked back out of the window again. That’s odd, she thought, he never notices anyone.

Kitty forgot about Lucian quickly as Jinty’s wails came crackling through the kitchen on the baby monitor. ‘Your sister’s awake. How about I get her up and we see what she’s up to?’ said Kitty cheerfully, and she took the two other children upstairs to see their sister.

Merritt walked around the Lady’s Garden, as it was known, taking notes and thinking about Willow’s children. He hadn’t spent much time with children at all, but Lucian reminded him of a client’s child he had seen in Florida. He was the eight-year-old son of a wealthy polo player from South America. They were a lovely family, he remembered, enthusiastic about Merritt’s ideas, and they included their child in everything. Merritt had stayed nearby the house for six weeks to ensure the proper placement of their large collection of rare trees, and he had spoken at length with the wife about her son. He tried to remember what she had said her child’s condition was. She had asked Merritt to design a sensory garden for him and he had had much delight in working with the boy, getting him to choose plants and flowers that would stimulate him.

A few times a week a special teacher would come and work with him and mostly they worked outside on the green lawn, playing games and rolling on sports equipment, even crawling together. Merritt had watched with interest and he even saw small improvements by the time he left. Merritt reminded himself to email the woman to ask for more information so he could give it to Kitty for Willow.

Inside the house Kitty was fighting with Poppy, who was insisting on using her crayons on the wooden oak panels in the hallway. ‘No,’ said Kitty. ‘These are not for drawing on.’

‘Well I want to draw. I want my art things and you didn’t bring them,’ moaned Poppy accusingly.

‘Well I’m sure we have some paper somewhere,’ said Kitty, licking her thumb and trying to get the green crayon off the wall.

‘I want real art things,’ said Poppy, making a face that Kitty knew from experience would turn into a giant wail.

Kitty thought of the eaves, where all of Clementina’s paintings were housed. Perhaps there were things up there. She remembered her mother and her father had dabbled in art, and they had also encouraged Merritt and Kitty to paint, hoping that their ancestor’s genes would come through – but to no avail. Eventually it had all been packed away. Kitty wondered if it was all still stored up there in the eaves.

‘Alright, come on then,’ she said impatiently, and picking up Jinty and gently pushing Lucian ahead of her she led the way for Poppy to follow her up to the eaves. The stairs got smaller as they climbed and it became darker, the air mustier. Jinty started to cry and squirm in Kitty’s arms. ‘Hang on, nearly there,’ she said, and they came to a small wooden door. Kitty hadn’t been up here in years, and she pushed open the door wondering what she would find.

The room was dank and smelt of stale air and oil paints. Kitty held Jinty as she drew back one of the blinds and sunlight flooded the room. All of Clementina’s paintings leant against the far wall and there were many easels and canvases with half-finished paintings. A red chaise longue in tattered velvet was the only piece of real furniture in the room apart from a small table with a tarnished bowl sitting on top of it. There were shelves of books and art supplies and a small sink in the corner of the room.