Ebenezer Scrooge and the perfect cup of tea
"Oh there you are Lizzie!" exclaims Uncle Phil, striding into the gardens. Aliz, hurrying behind him, looks incredibly apologetic.
"I had no idea how long we'd been," she says, and swiftly picks up Aggie, who immediately wakes, and wails.
Uncle Phil looks down on Aggie thoughtfully. "Oh dear," he murmurs. "It hasn't just been long for Lizzie." He grins at Aliz. Slowly, Aggie calms down, snuffles into her mother's neck, and, clinging on tightly, blinks slowly at the three faces surrounding her.
"Maybe we should be going," I suggest, an eye still past my Aunt and Uncle to the archway where Will has, momentarily, disappeared.
"Maybe," agrees Aliz, rubbing Aggie's back in soothing circles. "Though she appears all right for the moment. We've probably got time for a quick look round the gardens."
"Oh, yes," says Uncle Phil, and with an arm around his wife, heads off down one of the winding paths.
I look after them as they walk away, deep again in conversation about presidential letters and Whistler's painting, each talking about their own subject at the other. "Dammit," I find myself breathing, before dropping my bag, and watching lip balm, keys, phone, Blackberry, and all manner of crap that has lined my bag for years, rolling amongst the gravel of the path, hiding under shady leaves, gathering a fine dust over everything. "Dammit," I mutter again, and consider leaving all of my possessions there. The thought doesn't last long.
Will drains his mug of tea, brushes off the crumbs of the shortbread that Mrs Reynolds pressed upon him, then stands up.
"You're going to go and see the young lady?"
He pulls a face at Mrs Reynolds. "It would seem only fair," he says.
"Especially since when you saw her, you looked at her as if she was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and you'd just seen what a misery guts you really are," chimes in Georgiana, sitting on the table, swinging her legs. Will pushes her off the table as he walks out, and smiles involuntarily at the words she calls after him, and the gentle remonstration from Mrs Reynolds.
For anyone else these gardens would be beautiful. A stunning view with fragrant roses in the foreground. For me, it's as if I've been sucked backwards down a wormhole, landing on my head, shaking it clear, and finding my childhood in front of me, grown up. The old walnut tree with my tree house, of sorts, twists its way up to the sky. The wooden platform looks a lot smaller than I remember. And a lot more dangerous. No wonder my parents used to wince when I ran off to play. The roses are bigger though, and I don't know why, but I can smell them more now. Maybe subconsciously roses and lavender, salt water and fresh cut grass all make me think of home, but I never could have listed them until now. I swallow a lump in my throat as visions of my parents swim before my eyes. I hadn't thought about them in ages, and suddenly I'm smacked around the head with my entire life. If this is how it feels for your life to flash before your eyes, I'm not sure I'd want it again. It hurts too much. My mind is washed clean with memories, and I walk down the paths, pulling out bits of lavender, crushing them in my fingers, just to make it smell more, make the memories even keener, pain be damned. The bird house I made with Mr R is still up, still wonky, still probably the least efficient bird house in their architectural history, but still there. George's one is there too, better than mine, and more decorated. Painted ladybirds and leaves cover up its structural indiscretions. That, and the wonky letters reading For the birds, from Georgie across the roof. I find myself smiling at it, and then feeling like a fool.
"Isn't it sweet!" says a little old lady, coming up the path. "I saw it earlier."
"It is," I say, a little reluctant to have my memories intruded upon.
She smiles gently, and continues up towards the house, as I walk down by the greenhouses, the smell of sunny tomato vines wafting out. I round the corner by the pond towards the best view of the house, only to hear someone already there, muttering curse words. From behind the ferns round the stone seat, she scrabbles up, hands full, and dumps them on the seat, before climbing back over, sitting next to her pile of possessions, and packing them back into her bag. I step forward from behind the apple tree.
"Lizzie?"
She looks up, her face falls, and she mutters "damn," before looking away, and continuing to pack.
"Do you mind if I sit?"
She waves a hand. "No…well…" She looks up properly, and smiles, a little ruefully. "It's your house."
Will shrugs, but sits by her as she finishes packing up the bag. Then, she turns to him with a look of determination. "Look," she says. "I'm sorry I'm here. We thought you'd be away, and I wouldn't have dreamed of coming had we thought…" She shrugs. "It's such an invasion of privacy."
"No," he says. "Not at all." And she smiles, very slightly.
"I don't know," says Lizzie, speculatively, dumping her now closed bag by her feet. "I remember what you said about this place."
Will frowns a little. "What I said?"
"That this is home, more than anywhere else."
He leans back, hands grasping the back edge of the seat, hair brushing the low hanging apple tree branches, and smiles. "It is," he agrees. "I don't know…it's my guiding star and my anchor, all in one."
She looks at him slowly, but says nothing.
"A bit sappy maybe…but, you know," he continues, "I lived in three different places before I was eighteen. I wasn't exactly a nomad or anything, but none of them were really home. I don't really remember living in Tennessee apart from the swing in the garden, and I was away at boarding school for a lot of the time in New Hampshire, and I was at university when Dad moved us to Washington." He looks up at the house, shining in the afternoon sun, and smiles. "It's the one place that never changes."
Lizzie watches him, carefully. "But it must change a little," she says, slowly. "I mean, curtains and where things are and trees growing and…" She trails off, gesturing vaguely around with her hand. "You know," she says, and smiles.
"Yeah, it does, but my past is still here. It smells so much the same, and even the things I forget or the things that are new…they just seem right." He smiles, genuinely, and glances at Lizzie. "I half expect to meet myself walking around this garden, climbing trees and learning to swim."
"In your sailor suit?" she asks, all innocence but with a lurking smile.
He shoots her a swift glance, then smiles to himself. "No," he says. "That was worn with very bad grace, and only the once."
"I can imagine."
He turns to look at her again. "So," he begins, "are your family all well?"
"Fine," she says. "Jane's working for Zimmerman."
"Yes, I know."
She looks flustered for a second, embarrassed that she brought it up. "Oh…right, sorry."
He smiles a genuine, warm smile. "It's fine."
"OK," she says, and pulls herself together. "Well everyone else is all right. I think Lydia's off in California somewhere right now, no doubt making an idiot of herself."
He smiles again, but says nothing.
"How about your family? Richard and Jules and…" She trails off again, running out of steam.
Will nods. "They're good too. The girls are running around now and starting to talk, and Sam's always brilliant."
"And your sister?"
"Really well." He bites his lip for a second, then out of the blue, "how long are you around for?"
She shrugs. "This was the last thing we had on our itinerary to do. We left a few days at the end of our holiday for things we'd forgot, but really, we've done it all."
"Would you consider coming back tomorrow? I'd love for you to meet my sister."
Lizzie looks surprised. "She's here?"
He nods. "Has been all week. She had flu or something, so came home early and got pampered by Mrs R. I mean," he continues, "you don't have to. You could meet her now, but it would be nice to have time, you know?"
She smiles. "Yeah, I do. I'll have to check with my aunt and uncle."
"Right, of course," he says, nodding. "Well, might you have time for tea now, just in case?"
She smiles slowly at his hopeful expression. "We might," she says, and he nods, pleased.
"There's more?"
"Oh yeah," says Will. "There's another whole library, plus all the stuff I've stolen and hidden in various places."
"Then we'll definitely come again tomorrow," says Phil, gesturing wildly with his cup and saucer, slopping the tea over the rim.
Will grins, actually grins, and catches George's eye.
Lizzie smiles to see it. For a brother and sister so far apart in age and distance, they are remarkably, insanely close. When Mrs Reynolds started pouring the tea for them all, Will swiftly stood up, opened a cupboard, and whipped out two mugs, infinitely larger and less delicate. He had raised his eyebrows at Lizzie, holding one up, but she smiled and shook her head. He smirked, sat back down and replaced two of the fine bone china cups with their larger, thicker counterparts. Upon closer inspection, one was painted with a red W. The other had a yellow G. Now, each mug sits possessively curled in each Darcy siblings hand, as both dunk shortbread in their drinks.
"I never realised that you were so closely tied to the UK," says Phil, trying to surreptitiously mop up the spilled tea.
"Yes," says Will, easily. "We've come and gone from this house several times a year, all my life."
Aliz smiles, handing Lizzie a baby biscuit for Aggie who starts making short work of it. "Do you miss the Wales when you're in America?"
"Oh yes," he says, and grins at Mrs Reynolds. "Especially the tea."
Lizzie frowns, absentmindedly. "You drink tea in the States," she says, then blushes slightly to find Will smiling back at her.
Mrs Reynolds snorts, then looks a little sheepish.
"Mrs R wouldn't call that tea. None of the stuff she's ever bought from Starbucks," says George, curled up as only a dancer can on her kitchen chair. "She'd call it a disgrace to the name of the drink."
"Well it is!" says Mrs Reynolds, defensively. "Hot water, a tea bag, and a paper cup do not a cup of tea make."
Aliz nods. "It should involve a pot, and definitely boiling water. And china."
"See!" says Mrs Reynolds, glaring at the two Darcys, grinning back at her. "Isn't that what I've said all these years?"
Will grins. "It was something like that."
"Yes, but never so concise" puts in George.
She scowls at them for a second. "But wasn't I right?"
"Yes, you were," admits Will, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I drink more coffee over there." He catches Lizzie's eye and grins.
"Of course, the tea isn't the only issue across the pond," says George, turning to her brother. "There is the small joy of your accent."
He groans, as Lizzie says, "I noticed that…you suddenly sound much less…"
"American?"
She grins. "Well, yeah."
Mrs Reynolds stands up and stirs something slowly cooking on the Aga. "You've reverted him a little, love. An hour ago, he had almost shed his entire accent."
"And picked up the lilt of the valleys again," adds George, looking delighted.
"All right that's enough," says Will, with a studied American accent, before elbowing George firmly in the ribs.
"Well this has been lovely," begins Aliz, "but I guess, Phil…?"
Philip stirs himself. "Right, yes. We had better be getting on."
"But we'll see you again tomorrow?"
Phil grins. "Just try and stop us."
Thank you all, so much, yet again.