Secrets at Meadowbrook Manor Read online

  But of course she finally had to accept that they never had and never would. Who knew if they were even still alive? Gemma often wondered what happened to them. Had her dad met someone else and got a new family? Likely. Had her mum recovered from what her nan referred to as her “troubles” and also gone on to find happiness? Probably. Did they ever think about Gemma? Doubtful.

  When Gemma told her the whole story, one of her college friends Jane had suggested that they try to find out what happened to them, using the Internet, but after initial attempts hadn’t yielded any results, Gemma got cold feet. She suddenly realised that having been rejected when she was a child was bad enough. She wasn’t sure if she could cope with being rejected again.

  Over the years, she had also asked her nan if she knew, but her nan was as much at a loss as she was, or so she said, and Gemma had never had any reason to doubt her. She said that her father had panicked, he was young and he felt trapped, so he fled just after she was born. Her mother, Sandie, nan’s daughter, had to be a mum to Gemma, apparently, but she was sad all the time and one day she left too, when Gemma was only four. She hadn’t been in touch since. Her nan was upset about it, she missed her only child, and was happy to talk to Gemma about her, but as far as she knew, she’d never tried to find her, either.

  It was funny, well not funny but strange – when Pippa talked to Gemma about growing up without a mum, Gemma wanted to relate to her. But she held herself back, because she also spoke about her wonderful father, with a love and respect that sparkled in her eyes, and Gemma couldn’t understand that at all.

  She’d been away less than a week, but the bungalow felt cold and unlived-in as she walked through the front door. She flicked on all the hall lights and made her way to the kitchen. She sighed as she looked at it through fresh eyes. There was such a stark contrast with Meadowbrook. She was angry with herself for thinking that; she might not have grown up with the luxury of Meadowbrook, but she was always comfortable and fed, and she never thought of the bungalow as lacking until now. She was a grown-up; she had always been grateful for what she had, and she needed to remember that. This was her home, and she had been lucky to grow up here with love and warmth.

  However, this would be someone else’s home soon and she wouldn’t belong anywhere. Trying to stave off self-pity, she went through the mail, putting the bills in one pile to deal with and junk mail straight in the recycling. There was nothing personal, except an envelope from her last employer with her final payslip – it was higher than she’d expected as she hadn’t taken all her holiday, but it still wasn’t anything near what she was earning at Meadowbrook.

  She made herself a cup of tea, glad she had stopped at the petrol station to get some milk, and studied the kitchen, making mental notes as she waited for the kettle to boil. She decided she would keep the appliances for now, because she wasn’t yet sure how often she would be coming back, but she could pack any personal items she wanted to keep and then the rest would go to charity, or be thrown away. She set to work and for a while, lost in the task at hand, she forgot to think about anything. She blanked all feelings of sadness, of worry, of loneliness out of her mind as she put things in boxes and tried to think about nothing.

  After making progress in the kitchen and living room, she headed upstairs. She stopped briefly by her nan’s bedroom. The door was ajar and the emptiness of it winded her. The bed stripped, the bedside table devoid of its usual glass of water, reading glasses and book. Even the wardrobe and the chest of drawers were empty. Gemma had packed her nan off with as much as was familiar that she could fit into her new room at the home. The rest she had taken to the local charity shop – there was no point in having it hanging around. But it made her feel empty; there was no sign of her nan in her room anymore.

  She hurried to the bathroom, where all that remained was an old bar of soap. Sighing, she made her way to the spare room, which had been her mum’s room when her father left and her mum came back here to live with Gemma. But there were no traces of her now. The walls were an old cream, the curtains red, and the small queen-size bed was devoid of bedding. It had been a dumping ground for ages, and there were piles of boxes and bags that Gemma would have to go through at some point; but she couldn’t face it yet.

  Her room was the last room. The smallest room in the house. At one point, when she was about eleven or twelve and it was clear her mum wasn’t coming back, her nan tentatively suggested she move into the bigger room and Gemma could decorate it as she liked as her birthday present. But Gemma couldn’t bring herself to do so. It was as if she still believed her mum would come home one day, so she had stayed in her small boxroom with the single bed. It was a nice room though – it faced the back garden and was light. She had painted it a pale blue colour, duck egg it was called, and she had a white wardrobe and bedside table that she’d got from IKEA. Before Meadowbrook, Gemma thought it was all she needed, but now, well, now she wasn’t quite so sure.

  She had never been ambitious – she was too afraid to be so. She knew that she needed hours of counselling to unravel her feelings, but she was too scared to take chances. She just wanted to be safe. Her nan made her feel safe, or as safe as she could feel having been abandoned by her parents. This bungalow made her feel safe. Doing her hotel course was the biggest move she had made, but then she’d had to give it up to look after her nan, so she almost felt she was being punished for having tried to change things. And even working in a job she hated was what she thought she needed, deserved. But now her nan was gone, she didn’t have the safety net anymore, which is why she had taken the huge risk of the job at Meadowbrook. And yes, it was wonderful, but it was also more terrifying than she ever imagined.

  She lay on the bed, trying to contain her fears, trying to hear her nan’s voice tell her that she could do this, and the tears that came were welcome, because she needed to feel something, even if it was sadness.

  Gemma slept fitfully in her small bed, mainly because she had got used, in such a short time, to Harriet’s king-size bed, and she woke herself up a number of times by almost falling out. She put the hot water on, made a cup of tea and then when she was confident the water would be hot enough, took a wash in the over-the-bath shower. She felt as if she were betraying her nan somehow by comparing everything to Meadowbrook, but she couldn’t help it.

  The thought hit her: what if this didn’t work out? What if after the month they asked her to leave? Then she would have to get another job, and she knew any job she got wouldn’t pay anything near what the Singers were paying her. She might be able to rent a small bedsit and all luxury of Meadowbrook would be forgotten. Even the comfort and space of the bungalow would be out of reach. The idea was absolutely horrifying.

  She needed to make a success of this – her future, and her nan’s immediate future, depended on it. And that was why she had never taken risks before. They were bloody, bloody terrifying.

  Pushing her fears firmly away, she got dressed and left the house. She drove the twenty minutes to Kenworth House, for her weekly visit, basking for once in a warm car rather than the usual bus and the walk.

  As she made her way up the tree-lined drive to the Victorian building, she marvelled, again, at how you would never know on appearance that this was full of old people. The grounds were well kept, the house itself impressive. A little smaller than Meadowbrook and filled with lost lives, which is how she thought of it. Most of its residents had problems remembering who they were, or who their loved ones were. It was so incredibly sad for everyone concerned. Gemma had researched as much about dementia as she could, and her only conclusion was that it was cruel. Horrible and cruel.

  Gemma waited for the door to be opened, then she chatted with staff who were now familiar, checking that all was OK, or as all right as it ever would be. As she made her way to her nan’s room, she was comforted in the fact that she knew she was well looked after. Although it was expensive, the fact that her nan’s bungalow was in a good location and had bags of potenti
al meant that they’d been offered the asking price, and she would be able to stay here at Kenworth for years if necessary.

  Gemma didn’t want to think about her nan dying, because when she did, she would be all alone.

  She held her bony hand as her nan sat on the high-backed chair, which had been positioned so she could look out of the window. Gemma sat next to her, gazing at the trees and the grounds through the rain-splattered windows. The wild flowers had been arranged on the table in front of them, and they looked far more beautiful than Gemma’s normal offerings, sparking a smile in her nan, which was priceless.

  ‘The job’s interesting,’ Gemma said.

  Filling her nan in on the Meadowbrook saga was cathartic. Speaking aloud, voicing her fears and hopes, seemed to be helping her more than getting tangled in her own thoughts. And although her nan was largely unresponsive – almost completely today – she felt as if she were being listened to. And, at least they were together.

  ‘The family are so kind to me, Nan, but I wished I felt that I deserved it. I know you always told me I did, but well, you are the only person who ever knew me properly, and I always struggled to believe in myself, didn’t I?’ Tears glistened in her eyes and she wanted to keep them in check.

  Suddenly, and without warning, her nan grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She didn’t speak, but the intensity in her eyes did, and Gemma felt safe again. It was brief but it was there.

  Sarah put her head round the door and said it was time for her nan to go to the communal room for the afternoon’s entertainments. Her nan responded to Sarah more than she had Gemma, by giving her a smile and a nod, which cut to the quick, although she knew she wasn’t supposed to take it so personally. Gemma reluctantly stood. She bent down and kissed her nan’s leathery cheek.

  ‘I love you, and I’ll make you proud of me, you’ll see,’ she said, feeling her emotions on the verge of failing her.

  ‘Oh, love, I’m already proud of you.’

  Her nan’s voice took her by surprise. For a minute she wondered if she’d imagined it, as she looked at her nan to see the same unreadable expression on her face.

  Gemma kissed her cheek again, leant down to hug her, breathing in the smell of her perfume – lavender – and enjoying the warmth of her frail body. Then Gemma left the home, walking into the cold air, basking in the warmth of those words as if it were a beautiful summer’s day.

  Chapter 8

  Gemma pulled off the wellington boots she was becoming accustomed to and adjusted the socks that nearly came off with them. She let herself in the back door, having taken a hike up to the lake to clear her head. She’d been here for almost three weeks, and although it was still overwhelming, the place was becoming familiar. As was the family. In very different ways.

  Pippa was still on a mission to make Gemma her best friend. They were spending practically all their evenings together, and Pippa was undoubtedly lovely: warm, open, friendly and interested. She told Gemma all about their upbringing at Meadowbrook, the tragedy of losing their mother when Pippa was barely a toddler, how Harriet had stepped up to the role of matriarch of the family, and how awful it had been when she had to go to boarding school. Gemma had been filled in on the history of the Singers, and it gave her a clearer picture of who she was working with; although she wasn’t sure that Harriet would be pleased at quite how much Pippa was sharing with her.

  At the same time, Gemma still wasn’t as forthcoming in return. She chose carefully what she said to Pippa – it was necessary to hold part of herself back for so many reasons. She was honest, though, as she talked her about her nan’s dementia, about Chris and also, without meaning to, she’d said a bit about her parents leaving her. Pippa liked to ask about Chris, in the way that it bonded them with his similarities to Mark. Gemma couldn’t help but be more open than she had ever intended, and she enjoyed Pippa’s friendship in a way she never had with anyone else.

  Her relationships with the rest of the Singers varied from person to person. Gus was her favourite after Pippa, but then he was the least demanding on her time. As well as the gardens and his paintings, he had Amanda and the two girls to keep him busy, so he left the details of the running of Meadowbrook largely to the others. But Gus was funnier than he appeared, and he was easy to be around. When she thanked him and Amanda for the flowers, they brushed it off as if it were nothing, rather than one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for her.

  Gemma saw him at the animal sanctuary and, of course, in the gardens with Amanda, where they always tried to involve her. Increasingly, Gemma was beginning to appreciate the gardens as a way to make her feel relaxed, so she was trying to get more involved, letting them teach her a little about plants and flowers.

  In the sanctuary, Gus liked to work with the pigs, and he explained how fond he was of them as he introduced her to them. They had five pigs now: Napoleon, Cleopatra, Geoffrey and Bubble and Squeak. They were enormous and Gemma found them quite intimidating; four were from homes where they were supposed to be domestic micropigs who turned out to be fully grown. How could so many people be duped like that? Probably served them right for trying to be fashionable with their pets; although, of course, it was the animals who suffered in the long run.

  Not that the Meadowbrook pigs exactly suffered. They had lots of room, a lovely shelter, plenty to eat – as Gus explained, it was all organic, which meant they probably ate better than she did. They were very content and well looked after, so at least they had happy endings, even if they were anything but micro. The final pig, Gus had told her, was his favourite – although out of earshot of the others; apparently, pigs were sensitive. This was Geoffrey, a pig who was used for breeding and had been retired to Meadowbrook. According to Gus, Geoffrey was the warmest, most loving pig he had ever met. Gemma didn’t get too close; she just took his word for it. But Geoffrey did seem to be enjoying his new retirement home.

  She was getting used to being with the cats, and was happy to feed them, pet them, talk to them and get to know them. Connor had introduced her to each of them, showing how caring he really was, as they patiently went to each one, making sure they spent time petting them all.

  There were fifteen cats at the moment, and an old man called Albert was her favourite. He wasn’t the friendliest – in fact, he hissed at her quite a bit – but he was a big tabby who looked as if he had a permanent scowl. For some reason, Gemma was spending her time trying to win him over. She felt as if he needed a friend, even if he didn’t know it. She also had a ridiculous notion that if she could win him over, she might be able to do the same with Harriet.

  She realised that at Meadowbrook they were all a little potty about the animals – they all had names, personalities and were talked about as if they were people – but she also found that she was quickly doing the same. Albert, her grumpy old man, was now one of her favourite things about the place.

  Harriet was perfectly polite to her, but she definitely hadn’t thawed totally, and still treated her with suspicion. Harriet asked a lot of questions and although Pippa did the same, Gemma always felt Harriet wanted to trip her up. She knew she might be paranoid, but it was just how she felt.

  And Freddie clearly thought she was an idiot. It didn’t help that she turned into a klutz around him, always banging into things, or stammering, unable to get her words out. It wasn’t the image she wanted to project, but she found him so intimidating, in a different way to Harriet. She was getting used to drinking more now, although it still wasn’t enough to impress Freddie. The problem was that she wished she could be more like him, and deep down she knew she also wished that he liked her a bit more.

  The house was eerily quiet as she made her way into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She did so and then went to take it upstairs. She wondered if anyone was home. Meadowbrook felt wrong when it was empty – too big, too quiet – and she could see that the house needed filling with people. She understood more why they thought a boutique hotel would be perfect.

  She h
eard voices coming from the study and although she knew she shouldn’t, she paused. Hoping that whoever was in there wouldn’t suddenly come out, she put her ear to the door.

  She heard Freddie’s voice. ‘Look, Harry, she might come home anytime, so perhaps we shouldn’t be talking about her here.’

  ‘We’re not doing anything wrong,’ Harriet countered. ‘I’m just saying that she’s been here for a few weeks, and I’m not sure what she’s done in that time.’

  Gemma felt her heart sink into her thick woollen socks.

  ‘Well I think she’s done loads,’ Pippa said loyally. ‘She’s getting a real feel for the place, and she’s great with the cats.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, Pip, but she’s meant to be helping us come up with a model for the hotel, and as far as I can see she barely even mentions it,’ Harriet continued.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s fair, Harry. I think she’s getting a feel for the place,’ Gus mumbled. ‘She is interested in the gardens, and as Pippa said, the sanctuary. I think you’re being a little harsh, Harry.’

  ‘And she hasn’t even tried to talk to me about the cocktail bar,’ Freddie huffed.

  ‘But—’ Pippa started.

  ‘No, Pip, I know you think she’s your friend, but she is here to do a job. Right, my proposal is that her month’s trial is up end of next week, so we ask her to present her ideas to us in a professional way. We need something concrete, so if they’ve got substance, if she’s got substance, we’ll know then.’