Surprise Me

‘Are you all right, mate?’ Mike descends the stairs.

‘Fine. Fine.’ Slowly, grasping the urn tightly, Robert gets to his feet.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Kendrick?’ I ask, because after all, she got a bit of a bump, too.

‘Of course I’m all right,’ says Mrs Kendrick impatiently. ‘Play it back, Mavis. Let’s see it.’

We all crane over Mavis’s shoulder and watch Mrs Kendrick backing over the tiles, talking in distinct, serene tones, stumbling … and then the total chaos that followed. Oh God, you can’t help but laugh.

‘Next time, try walking forward,’ says Robert pointedly to his aunt as it finishes.

‘Well, at least the urn didn’t break,’ I remind him.

‘Twenty grand.’ Robert is still staring incredulously at the urn. ‘For a pot. Is that insured separately? I mean, shouldn’t it be in a locked case?’

But Mrs Kendrick isn’t listening to any of us. She’s saying, ‘Put it on Twitter, Mavis! And YouTube. Load it up! Now.’ She looks at me and Robert. ‘Everyone must start twittering,’ she says firmly. ‘Sharing. Whatever you call it.’

‘What?’ I say stupidly.

‘Twittering! If we want to go viral, we have to twitter. Now, what shall we call it?’

Viral?

A sudden suspicion is forming in my mind – and as I glance at Robert I see he’s thinking the same way.

‘Aunt Margaret,’ he says in even tones, ‘was that faked?’

‘Of course it was faked,’ says Mrs Kendrick with asperity. ‘Robert, as I said, I’m not a dinosaur. The more people who see this video, the more people will know the name of Willoughby House.’

‘I’ve just asked my grandson’s advice,’ announces Mavis breathlessly, looking up from her phone. ‘He suggests, “That awkward moment when your priceless urn nearly breaks.”’

‘Marvellous.’ Mrs Kendrick nods at Mavis. ‘Type it in, dear.’

‘But you let me dive to the floor! I bumped my head!’ Robert sounds really quite aggrieved.

Mrs Kendrick gives him a frosty smile. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to act.’

‘And what if the urn had broken?’ he demands. ‘That would have been twenty grand. You risked twenty grand for a viral video!’

‘Oh, Robert.’ Mrs Kendrick gives him a supremely pitying look. ‘Have a little sense. It’s not really worth twenty thousand pounds. I bought it from John Lewis.’

Robert looks so apoplectic, I want to laugh, although I’m not sure if it’s because his aunt has got one over on him, or because his head is still sore, or because Mike gives a sudden snort of laughter.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say diplomatically, and head upstairs to the office – and the whole thing has almost, kind of, sort of, cheered me up.

Sure enough, the video is soon up on YouTube, and every time I check, it’s been viewed by another fifty or so people. It’s not exactly a sneezing panda but I do think Mrs Kendrick has the right idea.

But even a viral video can’t keep my spirits up. I get through the day on a kind of autopilot, and by 4 p.m. I’m really in the pits. Clarissa has gone out to see a prospect, and it’s started to rain, and I’m sitting at the computer desk, head slumped in my arms, when I hear Robert’s tread on the stairs. Hastily I sit up and resume the email I started about three hours ago.

‘Oh, hello,’ I say as he appears, in an absent sort of voice, as though I’m in the middle of concentrating. ‘Has “Mike” gone, then?’ I can’t help calling him ‘Mike’ with a sardonic tone, just like Mrs Kendrick did.

‘Yes, “Mike” has gone.’ Robert sounds amused.

‘And have you sold the place for twenty million?’ I add without looking up.

‘Oh, at least.’

‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want you to starve.’ I briskly sign off my email.

‘It’s OK,’ he says, deadpan. ‘The orphans that I trample over on my way to cash my ill-gotten money can knock me up some roast suckling pig while they’re sweeping my capitalist chimneys.’

I can’t help a tiny smile curving my lips. He’s funnier than he lets on, Robert. I finally raise my head and wince at the sight of the bruise which has sprouted on his forehead.

‘You hurt yourself!’ I say.

‘Yes! Thank you,’ he says in mock-aggrieved tones. ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’

‘Has Mrs Kendrick gone, too?’

‘Yes, she’s in a meeting with Elon Musk,’ he says, and I nearly exclaim, ‘Really?’ before I realize he’s joking.

‘Ha,’ I say.

‘On the plus side,’ Robert says, ‘while I was showing Mike around, we found this.’ He lifts up a bottle of wine in his right hand.

‘Oh yes,’ I say, without much interest, ‘that’s the Christmas wine. We give it to the volunteers every year.’

‘Château Lafite,’ repeats Robert, and I realize he’s making a point. ‘Château La-fucking-fite.’

‘Well, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Mrs Kendrick likes the best.’

Robert looks at me, then stares at the wine bottle, then shakes his head incredulously. ‘Every time I think this place can’t get any madder, it does. Well, let’s see if it is the best, shall we? Got any glasses?’

I fetch a couple of cut-crystal glasses from the Trolley, which is where we keep our sherry, nuts and crisps.

‘You’re well kitted out,’ says Robert, watching me. ‘Don’t tell me, Mrs Kendrick …’

‘She likes to have a glass of sherry if we stay late,’ I explain.

‘Of course she does.’ Robert pours out two glasses of the Château Lafite and, even though I’m not a wine buff, I can tell from the smell alone that it’s special.

‘Cheers.’ Robert holds up his glass and I clink it with mine, and I suddenly need a drink so badly, I gulp down about half.

‘Have some snacks,’ I say, decanting some little cheesy biscuits into a cut-glass bowl. Robert sits down on an office chair and we drink silently, hoovering up the cheesy biscuits. After a while, I open another packet and Robert replenishes our glasses. He still looks incongruous up here, with his big shoes and deep voice and way of pushing things aside without even noticing.

‘Careful!’ I say as he leans back, his elbow casually on the computer desk, and knocks over Clarissa’s pile of leather-bound exercise books. ‘Those are the Books.’

‘The Books?’

‘We write summaries of all our meetings,’ I explain. ‘Time, person, subject. They’re actually incredibly useful. They go back years and years.’

Robert picks up the exercise books. He flicks through one of them, reading Clarissa’s careful entries in fountain pen, then puts it back with a sigh.

‘You’re all getting under my skin, you know that? The Dish, the Ladder, the Books, the Wine … It’s like bloody Alice in Wonderland up here.’ He looks around the office with what seems like genuine ruefulness. ‘I don’t want to force this place into the real world. But I have to. We can’t stave off reality forever.’

‘I’m looking into websites,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve done another appeal to supporters. Or we could sell off some pieces, raise some cash that way …’ I break off as Robert shakes his head.