When she got over to the main house just before nine, she found Claudette and Marlon on the kitchen floor, engaged in what looked like a wrestling match. What in fact was happening, Faye soon discovered, was that Marlon had returned from his early morning walk absolutely soaked and Claudette was doing her best to rub him dry with a towel, before letting him loose in the rest of the house. The kitchen smelt of a mixture of wet dog, toast, and coffee – an interesting, if unappetising, combination - but Marlon looked unapologetic.
He hurried across to greet Faye as she came in, wiping the rain from her hair and rubbing her laptop and notebook against her shorts to dry them as she did so. Although it was less than twenty yards from the stables to the kitchen, she was rather regretting not having thought to grab an umbrella before venturing out. Clearly, when it rained round here, it really rained. As she gently dissuaded the dog from jumping all over her and brushed the raindrops off her shoulders, she looked across to where Claudette was just getting to her feet again, wiping her hands on what was now a decidedly muddy-looking towel.
‘Good morning, Claudette, been for a walk?’
‘A swim, more like. I got drenched just walking up from the village so I thought I might as well take Marlon out for a quick walk. I’ve been trying to dry him off before he shakes himself in here.’ Claudette went across to the sink, dumped the towel in a bucket, and set about washing her hands. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘I slept like a log,’ Faye answered honestly. ‘I went out like a light.’ She grinned. ‘I can see why George Clooney liked it.’
‘Mr Clooney! What a nice man he was. It’s such a shame he hasn’t been back. We haven’t had guests here at the chateau for a good while now. We used to have all manner of celebrities, but that’s pretty much finished nowadays.’
‘Is Miss Beech up? I’m supposed to meet her at nine.’
Claudette glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘I would think so. I expect she’s in her study. Do you know where that is?’ Faye shook her head. ‘It’s the door right opposite the door to the dining room. You can’t miss it.’
‘Shall I take Marlon with me?’ The lower part of Faye’s legs were wet now, where the damp dog had rubbed himself against her. She saw Claudette’s eyes register the fact.
‘No, he can stay here with me until he’s dried off. Marlon, go and lie down.’ She pointed towards a dog bed to one side of the big range cooker and Faye was impressed to see him obediently trot over and slump down as instructed. ‘Good dog. You go on through, Faye. I’ll bring you both some tea in a little while.’
‘Thank you so much, Claudette.’ This would have been a good moment for Faye to tell Claudette she shouldn’t bring her too many of her wonderful biscuits, but her attempt at self-denial faltered and she said nothing. She was realistic enough to acknowledge that her resolve wouldn’t have lasted anyway when she smelt the next freshly baked batch.
She slipped through the door, closing it behind her, and walked along the corridor to the study. The door was open and a fine old grandfather clock was striking nine as she tapped on the door.
‘Come in, Faye, come in.’ Miss Beech had installed herself on a lovely old leather sofa and there was a big cardboard box on the floor in front of her. She was dressed in a long skirt and a voluminous but gorgeous linen blouse that somehow just emphasized how tiny and frail she really was. She wasn’t wearing make-up this morning and it showed. ‘I hope you slept well.’
‘Really well, thank you, Miss Beech. What about you?’
‘I was fine until the rain started. That woke me up and then I spent a long time trying to get back to sleep. I did a lot of thinking, though, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I really don’t want this to be a “kiss and tell” sort of book. We’ve all got skeletons in our cupboards if you look closely enough. I’d hate to think that my story might cause rancour in a community that’s been so good to me. Yes, I’ve met my fair share of bastards, but I’ve met a whole lot more good, decent folk. Last night you talked about “warts and all”, but I’d prefer it to be a celebration of my life and all the wonderful friends I’ve had the good fortune to make, instead of one of those rather nasty books that sets out to destroy other people’s reputations. Are you happy with that as a brief?’
‘Very happy, yes. And that way we won’t have any legal complications if it ever gets into print. That was going to be one of the first things I wanted to talk to you about. I loved Eddie’s anecdotes last night and it’s going to be great to include that sort of thing, but I’ll ensure that we pick the nice ones, rather than anything cruel or controversial. That way we should keep the lawyers off our backs.’ Faye glanced down. ‘So, is this the famous box?’
Miss Beech nodded and reached down, scrabbling at the cardboard as she tried unsuccessfully to bend forward enough to delve inside. Faye immediately saw the problem and picked the surprisingly heavy box up and set it down on the sofa between them. Miss Beech made an immediate dive for a cluster of battered diaries, held together with string, and handed the package across to Faye.
‘Here, Faye, your fingers are going to be better than mine at untying knots. Oh, dear, you’re going to get all dusty.’
‘These are old clothes. I’ll be fine.’ Faye made short work of undoing the string and arranged the diaries in chronological order on the coffee table in front of them. They covered most of the years from 1950 to 1980. She looked across at Miss Beech. ‘Where would you like to start? The beginning?’
‘No, let’s start in 1956. That was the year I got my first part in a film.’ Miss Beech hesitated. ‘My first speaking part, that is. Just think, in 1956, I was only twenty-two.’ She looked across at Faye. ‘That’s even younger than you are now, my dear.’
‘Erm, Miss Beech, that’s another thing I was wondering. Are you happy for me to mention your true age? I know some ladies like to subtract a few years.’
Miss Beech smiled. ‘No, publish and be damned, Faye. Tell them the truth. I was born on 17th March 1934 on the outskirts of Plymouth, and I don’t care who knows it.’
‘So you’re from Devon?’
Miss Beech nodded. ‘That’s right, a West Country girl.’ She looked up. ‘Where were you born, Faye?’
‘Salisbury. That’s almost West Country, isn’t it?’
‘And your father, what did … does he do?’
‘He’s an architect.’ She smiled at Miss Beech. ‘Quite a good architect, actually.’
‘And you didn’t fancy following him into architecture?’
Faye shook her head. ‘I’ve always had this thing about language and the written word. And that’s why I’m here.’ She leant over and picked up the diary with 1956 engraved on the cover in faded gold paint that was peeling off the brown leather. Wiping the dusty little book against the leg of her shorts, she handed it across to Miss Beech. ‘Let’s see how many memories this unlocks.’
Together, they spent a fascinating morning, interrupted only by a volley of barking as a distant bell rang and the postman came and went, and regular visits from Claudette, bearing food and drink. By lunchtime they had barely got through the first of the diaries and a handful of photos, and Faye still hadn’t seen any of the pages of notes Miss Beech claimed to have made, but she had already accumulated