Everything to Gain. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      A few seconds later, driving away down the winding road, I suddenly spotted the broken wooden sign, old and weatherworn and fallen over in the long grass. When I pointed it out to Andrew, he brought the car to a standstill instantly. I opened the door, leaped out and sprinted across to the grass verge to look at it.

      Even before I reached the dilapidated sign, I knew, deep within myself, that it would say that the house was for sale. And I was right.

      During the next few hours we had managed to find our way back to Sharon, hunted out the real-estate broker’s office, talked to her at length, then returned to the old white house on the hill. She had led the way out of town, we had followed her, and we had been almost too excited to speak to each other, hardly daring to hope that the house would be right for us.

      ‘It doesn’t have a name,’ Kathy Sands, the real-estate broker had remarked, as she had fitted the key in the lock and opened the front door. ‘It’s always been known as the Vane place. Well, for about seventy years anyway.’

      All of us trooped inside.

      Jamie and Lissa were carefully shepherded by Jenny; I carried Trixy, our little Bichon Frise, listening to Kathy’s commentary as we followed her along the gallery-like entrance, which, Andrew pointed out, was somewhat Elizabethan in style. ‘Reminds me of Tudor interior architecture,’ he had explained, glancing around admiringly as he spoke. ‘In fact, it’s rather like the gallery at Parham,’ he added. ‘You remember Parham, don’t you, Mal? That lovely old Tudor house in Sussex.’

      I had nodded in response, smiling at him, sharing the remembrance of the wonderful two weeks’ holiday we had had in England the year before. It had been like a second honeymoon for us. After a week with Diana in Yorkshire we had left the twins with her and gone off alone together for a few days.

      Kathy Sands was a local woman born and bred, a fund of information about everything, including the previous owners – and over the last couple of centuries at that. According to her, only three families had owned the house from the time it had been built in 1790 to the present. These were the Dodds, the Hobsons and the Vanes. Old Mrs Vane, who was formerly a Hobson, had been born in the house and had continued to live there after her marriage to Samuel Vane. Eighty-eight, widowed, and growing rather frail, she had finally had to give up her independence, had gone to live with her daughter in Sharon. And so she had put the house, which had been her home for an entire lifetime, on the market two years earlier.

      ‘Why hasn’t it been sold? Is there something wrong with it?’ I had asked worriedly, giving the broker one of those penetrating looks which I had learned so perfectly from my mother years before.

      ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with it,’ Kathy Sands had replied. ‘Nothing at all. It’s just a bit off the beaten track, too far from Manhattan for most people who are looking for a weekend place. And it is rather big.’

      It did not take Andrew and me long to understand why the real-estate broker had said the house was big: it was huge. And yet despite its size, it had a compactness about it, and it was not as sprawling and spread out as it appeared to be from the outside. Although it did have more rooms than we really needed, it was a neat and tidy house, to my way of thinking, and there was a natural flow to the layout. Downstairs the rooms opened off the long gallery, upstairs from a central landing. Because its core was very old, it had a genuine quaintness to it, with floors that dipped, ceilings that sloped, beams that were lopsided. Some of the windows had panes made of antique blown glass dating back to the previous century, and there were ten fireplaces, eight of which were in working order, Kathy had told us that afternoon.

      All in all, the house was something of a find and Andrew and I had known it. Never mind that it was farther from New York than we had ever planned to have a weekend home. Somehow we would manage the drive, we had reassured each other that afternoon. Andrew and I had fallen in love with the place and we wanted it, and by the end of the summer it was ours, as was a rather large mortgage.

      We spent the rest of 1986 sprucing up our new possession, camping out in it as we did, and loving every moment. For the remainder of that summer and autumn our children became true country sprites, practically living outdoors, and Trixy revelled in chasing squirrels, rabbits and birds. As for Andrew and I, we felt a great release escaping the tensions of the city and he the many pressures of his high-powered job.

      Finally, in the spring of 1987, we were able to move in properly, and then we set out taming the grounds and planting the various gardens around the house. This was some task in itself, and as challenging as getting the house in order. Andrew and I enjoyed working with Anna, the gardener we had found, and Andrew discovered he had green fingers, something he had never known. Everything seemed to sprout under his hands.

      It did not take either of us long to understand how much we looked forward to leaving the city, and as the weeks and months passed we became more and more enamoured of this breathtaking corner of Connecticut.

      Now, as I walked through the sunroom and into the long gallery, I paused for a moment, stood admiring the gentle serenity of our home.

      Sunlight was spilling into the hall from the various rooms, and in the liquid rafts of brilliant light thousands of dust motes rose up, trembling in the warm July air. Suddenly, a butterfly, delicately wrought, jewel-tinted, floated past me to hover over a bowl of cut flowers on the table in the middle of the gallery.

      I caught my breath, wishing I had a paintbrush and canvas at hand, so that I could capture the innocent beauty of this scene. But they were in my studio, and by the time I went to get them and returned, the butterfly surely would have flown away, I was quite certain of that. So I just continued to stand there, looking.

      As I basked in the peacefulness of the early morning, thinking what a lucky woman I was to have all that I had, there was no possible way for me to know that my life was going to change – and so profoundly, so irrevocably it would never be the same again.

      Nor did I know then that it was this house which would save me from the destructiveness within myself. It would become my haven, my refuge from the world. And in the end it would save my life.

      But because I knew none of this, I walked blithely on down the gallery and went into the kitchen, happy at the prospect of the holiday weekend ahead, lighthearted and full of optimism about my life and the future.

      Automatically, I turned on the radio, stood drinking a cup of coffee I had made earlier, while toasting a slice of bread and listening to the morning news. As I did, I studied a long list of chores I had made the night before, and mentally planned my day. Then, once I had eaten the toast, I ran upstairs to take a shower and get dressed.

Three

      I have red hair, green eyes and approximately two thousand freckles. I don’t think I’m all that pretty, but Andrew does not agree with me. He is forever telling me that I’m beautiful. But, of course, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, so I’ve been told, and anyway Andrew is prejudiced, I have to admit that.

      All I know is that I wish I didn’t have these irritating freckles. If only my skin were lily white and clear I could live with my vivid colouring. My unruly mop of auburn curls has earned me various nicknames over the years, the most popular being Ginger, Carrot Top and Red, none of which have I ever cherished. Quite the opposite, in fact.

      Since I have always been somewhat disdainful of my mother’s preoccupation with self, I have schooled myself not to be vain. But I suspect that secretly I am, and just as much СКАЧАТЬ