- Episode 1: The Invitation
Episode 1: The Invitation
by Steve Wells
As told to Steve Wells over a glass of fine vintage Burgundy made from blackberries culled from a small, almost inaccessible island in the fast flowing mill stream which runs to the northwest of the old stable block.
-o-O-o-
Did I ever tell you about my great grandfather Lionel? No! Well, pull up a log and I'll tell you. My grandfather - Lionel Morland was his name - was a gardener by profession. Not one of those modern upstarts who think that all there is to gardening is charging a fortune to pollute the air with diesel fumes while cutting a bit of grass that was too short anyway. No, Lionel was the kind of gardener who wanted to spend time watching the trees grow, which is probably why he was never very well off. Tree-watching as a profession doesn't pay.
Lionel was an all round gardener. You'd probably call him an ecologist these days. Mind you, if you'd called him an ecologist he'd have given you a clip round the ear and tell you to mind your language. "I'm 'avin nowt but Inglish in Queen Viktoria's noble relm!" he had been heard to say on occasion and as far as he was concerned, long words such as "ecologist" and "photography" were not "Inglish".
Now, you should not deduce from this that Lionel was illiterate. Far from it. Most of the time when he was not eating, sleeping or gardening was spent reading. He would read anything so long as it contained mystery, adventure and, preferably, a touch of the downright weird. For preference he liked vampires. Large black vampires living in hill-top castles silhouetted against the moon where it was always night. He was also quite partial to those stories set closer to home where, in the middle of some blasted heath, was an ancient ruin hiding terrible secrets which it would be death to know; old houses with hidden rooms and locked doors behind which the unspeakable had almost freed itself from chains forged when the world began.
In short he was quite normal. Had he lived today he would probably have enjoyed computer games.
His daughter was very different, Tall and slim, Julia Morland was an artist. Not for her the wild realms of gothic horror; at almost seventeen years of age, she was far more interested in painting delicate water colour portraits of wild flowers. She would always insist in painting at least one dead leaf on every flower portrait; "to remind us of mortality" she would say.
Had Lionel played computer games, Julia would have demanded that the sound be switched off. However, since computer games had not been invented, they got on as well as anyone can get on with a teenage daughter.
The events which I want to describe started one cold day in late January when the bills and final demands for payment which seem to dominate everyone's morning postal delivery had overflowed from the limited space behind the clock and had begun to fall off the mantle-piece and into the coal scuttle. During the previous autumn, the Morlands had achieved their own 15 minutes each of fame through an exhibition of Julia's paintings of Lionel's flowers. There were favourable reviews in the Journals of the day. Lionel was invited to advise on the possibilities for that small boggy patch at the end of the kitchen garden at Sandringham, and Julia had sold some pictures to no less than Sir James Efflngham. (He was just about to leave for India and wanted something to remind him of home.)
Eventually, the boggy patch had been drained and Julia's patron had left for warmer climes. In England, in late January, it was cold and damp when a letter arrived which was not a bill. It was not a particularly distinguished looking letter. A plain brown envelope with a square of commercially made paper inside. Lionel had seen much more impressive pieces of paper at the castles and great houses he had visited during the previous autumn, but a letter it was and addressed to him.
The letter was from a Mr Talbot who wondered whether Mr Morland would care to offer his advice, on a commercial basis, for a few months in order to solve a number of rather pressing gardening problems. The letter concluded that, naturally, Miss Morland would also be most welcome to stay at the Abbey.
At the word "Abbey" Lionel's eyes glazed over as he imagined some ancient ruin hidden amid dark trees where mediaeval monks wandered through bricked up doorways on their nightly journeys through the tree-filtered moonlight.
Naturally, he accepted the offer and he and Julia were soon on their way to examine the garden of Lacock Abbey.
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