Chapter Fourteen.

Mel was sitting at the kitchen table reflecting that today was an anniversary. She'd been at Oaklands a whole year.

Mrs Downes came in through the door from the underground store outside. 'It's absolutely beastly out there,' she said. 'It's a good job Fred's coming to pick me up. I'd be blown away walking down Brass Knocker Hill.'

'It's just like last year.' Mel glanced at the kitchen window. Rain was battering against it, the wind making the frame rattle. She'd come down to see if Antoine needed any help, but nothing needed to be done. 'Did you know it's a year to the day that I arrived?'

'Well, I never,' Mrs Downes exclaimed, taking off her glasses to dry the rain off them. Without them she looked as kind and gentle as she really was, her face glowing pink from the wind outside. 'It doesn't seem as if you've been here five minutes.'

'Eet seems like five years, to moi,' Antoine said, putting his hands on his hips. 'As we French say, only wine improves with keeping. For me young Mel should never 'ave been allowed through la porte.'

Mel laughed. Antoine teased her all the time, usually in this silly cod-French. She waited until Mrs Dowries had gone out of the kitchen before answering.

'As we Engleesh say weeth such savoire faire, Bollocks!'

'Mon Dieu,' Antoine raised his eyebrows and backed away from her in mock horror. 'I must tell Mrs Downes what you say, she will not be amused.'

'Come on you escargot,' she laughed. 'Find me something worthwhile to do. Otherwise I'll just go up to my room and watch Crossroads and see what they do in real hotels.'

Mel's first year at Oaklands had been so very happy. She was proud to work in such a good hotel. She enjoyed meeting the guests, serving behind the bar, waiting at tables. And she got excellent wages along with generous tips. At night in her lovely room she wallowed in delight at its luxurious perfection and felt absolute security.

There were moments when she sometimes felt constricted by having to watch what she said and how she behaved. She was only twenty-two but had to act and dress in a mature manner. It would be good to have a close friend so she could go out, just occasionally, get roaring drunk and flirt with a few men, and she still found herself thinking about Bee. It was the girlie chats, the sharing of clothes, the helpless giggling she missed. She thought perhaps she always would.

Sometimes, hiding her past was a trial. Too often in the bar she'd overhear some old bore piously discussing something sensational in the newspapers and it was all she could do not to jump in with both feet and tell them not to believe everything they read. She had found that rich and successful people were often the most mean-spirited; their wealth didn't necessarily give them wisdom or tolerance. There were times she ached for more inspiring conversations, for someone as irreverent as Aiden Murphy to walk in and make her laugh. But when these thoughts came to her she squashed them and thought of all the good things at Oaklands.

Last December, Antoine had made her a cake for her twenty-second birthday, the first she'd had since she was seven or eight. On Christmas morning she found a small stuffed stocking hanging on the knob of her door and, when she thanked Magnus, he pretended to know nothing about it, laughingly upbraiding her for not believing in Santa Claus.

His real present down under the tree with the other staff presents, was a bottle of Estee Lauder Youth Dew. But as much as she liked that, the stocking pleased her more. It made her feel like one of his children.

She felt sad for him that none of them came for Christmas. Sophie arrived with her husband, Michael, for the New Year, but Stephen and Nicholas both cried off with other engagements.

There were times too, particularly during the winter, when she thought about love, and wondered if it would ever come her way again. Even if she had been allowed to date any of the men who came into the bar, none of them were her type.

Yet when she read in the papers about Bloody Sunday in Londonderry and the first cases of international terrorism which were to become a regular feature in the news during 1972, she was glad she was here, cut off from the real world.

In March she watched a green haze slowly creep into the valley as spring arrived. Each afternoon she'd put on a coat and explore the grounds, marvelling at the thousands of daffodils. She thought of Bee again as she picked a few, took them up to her room and placed them in the window.

Then spring turned to summer. Great clumps of purple wisteria quivered in the gentle breezes just outside the wide open windows, the roses bloomed and their smell wafted into the house. The cover was taken off the open-air swimming pool, and daily more people turned up for lunch out on the terrace, or to doze on sunbeds like lizards. But even on wet days Oaklands was beautiful. She could have the grounds to herself in the afternoons, wandering through the woods, listening to the peaceful sound of rain on leaves, smelling the good clean earth.

But now it was autumn again the Virginia creeper on the house a fiery red, the trees on either side of the drive turning gold, brown, russet and yellow. She'd had a whole year of happiness here. But what had made it even more special was her growing certainty that Magnus was her real father.

On the day she fell off the stepladder when dressing the Christmas tree, she found they had a similar sense of humour. On Christmas Day when she discovered the stocking hanging on her door, she saw Magnus's tender side. AH through the winter and spring her respect for him had grown as she watched how hard he worked, how fair he was with his staff, how caringly he looked after his guests. But it wasn't until one warm afternoon back in July that liking, respect, awe and admiration all came together and she realised that what she felt for this gruff, headstrong man, was love.

Mel had put on shorts and a tee shirt intending to walk down to the post office in the village, but she knew Magnus had been working out in the woods since ten in the morning without even a drink, so she decided to take him some of Antoine's homemade lemonade and a couple of chicken sandwiches first.

As she picked her way through the dense undergrowth, towards the sound of his chainsaw, she saw him up ahead in a clearing. He was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of faded khaki shorts and stout boots. Despite his age his body was as hard and muscular as a young man's, tanned the colour of old pine. He didn't hear her coming over the noise of the machine and Mel smiled at his youthful energy as he attacked the dense shrubbery, pausing every now and then to drag out the cut branches, tossing them onto a huge pile behind him.

'I thought you might like some refreshments,' she called out when she was close enough. 'That looks like thirsty work.'

He turned in surprise, his face dripping with sweat. 'Bless you, Mel,' he said, putting the saw down and taking a handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his face. 'I've been dying of thirst for well over an hour, but I was loath to go back to the house until I got this finished.'

He sat down on a fallen tree trunk and took the bottle of lemonade eagerly, drinking it so fast some of it trickled down his chin and onto his chest.

'You shouldn't work so hard,' she said reprovingly. 'Surely the groundsmen could do this?'

'Hard manual work has special rewards,' he said, smiling boyishly at her. 'It's far more satisfying than getting stuck into a pile of paperwork.'

His face, chest and arms were covered in small scratches, and his hair was sprinkled with burrs and bits of leaves. But his eyes were very bright. He looked supremely happy.

Mel sat with him as he ate the sandwiches. They talked about the people who'd been in for lunch and some guests who were expected later that evening. But when he'd finished eating she got up to go. 'I'd better leave you in peace.'

'Don't go yet,' he said unexpectedly. 'We never seem to have much time for talking. I've been meaning to ask you if you're happy here, and about your plans for the future.'

Mel sat down again. 'I've been happier here than I've ever been,' she said truthfully. 'I don't make plans for the future, but this is everything I ever wanted.'

'You are an odd girl, Mel.' He smiled and she saw affection in his eyes. 'I thought you'd soon get bored when you found out our guests were all old fuddy-duddies. Don't you sometimes yearn for a few people your own age?'

'Not often.' She laughed lightly, thinking of some of her old hippie friends back in Ibiza. She did miss that comradeship and the fun, but she knew that it was superficial. 'I feel complete here, at peace.'

'I wish my children had your tranquillity,' he sighed deeply. 'It's a strange thing Mel, and probably very disloyal of me, but sometimes I feel closer to you than to them.'

'My mother used to say it was a pity we couldn't choose our parents,' Mel said thoughtfully. 'She didn't think much of hers. I suppose it's the same with children. You might love them, but you don't necessarily like them.'

Magnus laughed softly, as if this struck a chord. 'Ruth used to say "We're stuck with our relations, thank God for friends." I suppose that amounts to the same thing. I never had anything in common with my older brothers. Stephen and Sophie seem very like them sometimes.' He stood up, raking the debris he'd cut back into a heap. Mel began to help him, pulling the bigger logs to one side and heaping them up so they could be taken back to the house for firewood. She didn't want to push him about his children, but if she stayed and worked he might confide in her further.

She had found nothing to like in either Sophie or Stephen on their infrequent visits. Since Nicholas hadn't bothered to visit Oaklands in her whole time there, she assumed she'd probably like him even less.

Sophie seemed seeped in resentment. At only thirty-eight she had embraced middle age eagerly, wearing the most unbecoming shapeless clothes, with her dark hair scraped back in a matronly bun. There was no joy in her: Mel had never heard her laugh, her smiles were tight and polite, and her overheard conversations always seemed to be laboured, as if she found it impossible to like anyone.

Michael, her banker husband, was almost as bad a quiet, docile man who allowed his wife to dominate him completely. He sighed a great deal as if life had been a tremendous disappointment to him.

Stephen, the oldest son, wasn't a great improvement. He had taken over the running of the family estate back in Yorkshire and he was forever carping on to his father about the problems there. His wife, June, was like a grey mouse, with even less personality.

Magnus was silent for some ten minutes, dragging out more cut branches and old bushes onto his pile. But then just as Mel felt their chat was over, he stopped working for a moment and stood hands on hips watching her stacking the logs.

'When I bought Oaklands it was my intention that it would be a family run business,' he said. 1 never tried to brainwash them with the idea but when Stephen went in for estate management and Sophie chose catering, I assumed they too were working towards that end. Nicholas was only a small boy at that stage, so I didn't even think of a role for him. But when Ruth died, so did that dream.'

Mel squatted down on a log. 'It might not have worked out anyway,' she said cautiously.

Magnus chuckled and sat down beside her. 'You can say it. That a hotel run by frosty faced Sophie, with Stephen strutting about full of his own importance would be disastrous.'

'I wouldn't have the audacity to even think it, much less say it,' Mel said indignantly.

'Come on!' he teased. 'I've seen you looking at them both. Your face is an open book sometimes. Even Ruth, doting a mother though she was, used to claim they had less personality than a pencil.'

Mel laughed. 'Ruth sounds so funny and lovely. I wish I'd met her.'

'She would have liked you too,' Magnus smiled. 'She'd have winkled every last thing out of you by now too. When are you going to tell me properly about yourself?'

'There's nothing of interest to tell,' Mel said. She had agonised countless times over whether or not to tell Magnus who she really was. But the more she'd got to know him, the more she saw that it would put him in an impossible situation. He was still grieving for his wife, so she didn't relish reminding him of his past indiscretions. His children only seemed to come here when they wanted something, and she had no wish to be thought of as another fortune hunter. Besides she already had everything she ever wanted, the security of a good job, a home beyond her wildest dreams and the affection of this big man. She wouldn't gain anything more by revealing the truth and she might well lose what she already had.

'I disagree.' He slung one big arm along her shoulders companionably. 'I suspect your story is probably more action packed than my entire life. I'm not being nosey, Mel. I'm just an old man who thinks he's finally found a real friend, and real friends confide in one another.'

It was so still and quiet in the woods. Everything smelled so clean and pure. 'Magnus, if I withhold things from you it's not because I don't trust you, but because I'm ashamed,' she said softly. 'Nearly two years ago I paid very heavily for all my past mistakes when my dearest friend died from a drugs overdose. I turned my back on everything then. I turned over a new leaf and started out again. Please don't ask me to relive it.'

Magnus's grip tightened on her shoulder. 'Okay,' he said gruffly. 'I respect that. I've done things too which I'd rather lock away and forget. But I want you to know I've grown very fond of you, Mel.'

Since that day Mel had often gone out to work in the grounds with Magnus in the afternoons. It seemed as if each day brought new closeness. They discovered they both had a weakness for stodgy school dinner type puddings, escaping in lurid Harold Robbins books and old weepy films. Magnus told her stories of his days at Oxford University, his time in Canada as a young man and his exploits during the war in the RAF. He told her how he'd started his building business after the war, with the first plot of land in Staines. As he spoke of these things she was slowly putting more pieces into the jigsaw puzzle of her mother's past. She hoped that one day something might bring him round to mentioning Bonny, but although he admitted that back in those days he neglected Ruth, he never mentioned meeting anyone else.

Mel eventually got brave enough to confess one day that she'd once worked as a nightclub hostess. She even told him a few of the funnier stories about Bee. She felt as if they were both circling round their own secrets, each day growing a tiny bit closer to the point where their last defences would drop. But now it was autumn again. And Magnus was spending more time in his office. They might occasionally be able to work together outside, but realistically it would be spring before they had many more opportunities to talk.

Mel's reverie was cut off by Mrs Downes coming back into the kitchen buttoning up her mackintosh.

'Two more cancellations for dinner tonight,' she said to Antoine. 'Can't say I blame them. I wouldn't expect a dog to go out in weather like this. You'll have a quiet night, Mel. Magnus is off for his game of chess with the vicar and I doubt anyone will turn up for a drink. Make the most of it and get an early night.'

'Early night, what's that?' Mel giggled. She rarely went to bed before one and was up again at seven. Mrs Downes worried, but she didn't seem to need much sleep anymore.

'It will catch up with you one of these days.' Mrs Downes wiggled a warning finger at her. 'By the time you're my age you'll be as wrinkled as a prune.'

Mrs Downes had been right: it was extremely quiet. Two men came into the bar at half past seven, had a couple of drinks and left. There were only four people eating in the dining room and once they'd been served Sally, the evening waitress, went and sat at the reception desk.

Mel used the time to polish the glass shelves behind the bar and check the stock. The wind was howling outside, rain battering against the windows, evoking memories not only of that awful night when she'd arrived here, but of the year before, when she'd been holed up in that little room in Earls Court, numbed and desolate from Bee's death.

It no longer seemed so important to piece together Bonny's life. As Jack had so wisely said, 'Yesterdays don't matter. It's the tomorrows that count.'

At around nine Mel heard a male voice out in reception. She assumed it was one of the guests talking to Sally, but a few minutes later a young man in a rain-splattered worn leather jacket came into the bar.

Mel knew most of the members now, but she hadn't seen this man before. If she had not heard him talking to Sally she might have asked for proof of membership: he wore jeans and a turtle neck sweater, when the rule for evenings was smart dress. Considering the weather outside, however, it seemed a little pedantic to do anything but smile warmly.

'It's an awful night out there,' she said cheerfully, glad of someone to talk to. 'What can I get you?'

'A whisky to warm me up, please.'

His voice was beautiful, detracting immediately from his shabby clothes: deep and resonant, the kind Bee used to describe as BBC. She saw now he was very handsome too, his streaky blond hair flopping over his forehead, his dark blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes.

'You must be the new girl, Mel?' he asked as she handed him his drink.

'Not so new now, I've been here a year today,' she said.

'Is that cause for celebration or commiseration?' he asked, his eyes glinting mischievously.

'Oh celebration,' she laughed lightly. 'In fact I'll treat you to that whisky to prove it.'

In a whole year at Oaklands, Mel had not met a single man she was attracted to. Most of the younger members were flashy types, who sported gold watches and sovereign rings. Their hair was blow-dried, their suits were hand-tailored and their main reason for drinking here was to do some social climbing. But this man wasn't a bit like that.

She felt he took little interest in his appearance: his hair straggled over the collar of his jacket, and it had that neglected look that suggested when he did choose to have it cut, it was straight round to a conventional barber's for a short back and sides. He was around six foot tall, very slender, with beautifully defined cheek bones, probably in his mid-twenties. He had an aura of good breeding, much like some of the male students who worked the bar during the summer.

She joined him in a drink, taking pains to put the money in the till, even though Magnus didn't mind the staff having an occasional free drink with a customer.

'What do you think of Bath?' he asked. 'I always find it a bit stuffy.'

Mel had fallen in love with Bath at first sight, but she knew what he meant by the stuffiness. 'I love the city itself,' she admitted. 'But I must admit it's a snob's paradise. A bit la-di-dah, as my mother used to say.'

They spent some time exchanging anecdotes about some of the worst people they'd met in Bath. Mel told him how she'd gone into a jewellers to ask the price of a watch she'd seen in the window and nearly fallen through the floor in shock when she was told it was five hundred pounds.

'He said it was a Rolex,' she giggled. 'But that didn't mean a thing to me. When I asked if they had anything under ten pounds, he looked at me as if I had two heads, and said, "I think madam should try H. Samuel." I wanted to ask why anyone would spend that much on a watch, after all they all tell the same time, but I didn't dare. I just slunk out with a red face.'

The man told her he'd worked for a time as a waiter in Bath and described the meanness of some of the old ladies who came in for lunch.

'One old bat insisted on taking a table which I hadn't cleared. I thought it was just because it was by the window. Blow me down if she didn't help herself to the tip left behind, meant for me. Do you know, she filled up her crocodile bag with sugar lumps! She had her soup, then ordered the lamb chops, ate half of them and then said they were cold and she'd only pay for the soup. I found out afterwards she was Lady Something or Other with a stately pile in Bradford-upon-Avon. Apparently she was known for doing that in all the restaurants.'

Over a second drink Mel told him about her time in Ibiza and he described a summer he'd spent working in a bar in the south of France.

It was as if she'd known him for years. They flitted from subject to subject, laughing and commiserating at each other's hard luck stories. If Mel had met him anywhere but at Oaklands she would probably have told him some much more explicit tales. She felt they were on exactly the same wavelength. Somehow she knew he'd been to some of the dark places she had, not because of anything he said, more from his manner and a knowing look in his eyes.

When Antoine buzzed her on the internal phone to ask if she could come down to the kitchen, she saw it was nearly half past ten.

'I won't be long,' she said. 'If you want another drink ask Sally, she's only out on the reception.'

Antoine had cut his finger and was finding it hard to put a dressing on it. It was worse than she expected, bleeding dramatically. She dressed it for him, then cleaned up the blood which he'd dripped everywhere, and put away food in the fridge for him.

She got back to the bar just before eleven. To her surprise the man was gone. Sally had turned off the bar lights, hung the towels over the pumps and locked up.

Mel felt very silly for having expected the man to wait for her. When she thought about it she realised she'd been flirting with him all evening.

The worst of it all was that she really liked him and she'd been absolutely convinced he was just as attracted to her as she was to him. Now she realised he must have been being polite. And yet try as she might she couldn't put his face, his voice or anything about him out of her mind.

Mel was clearing the breakfast tables the next morning when Magnus came striding into the dining room. He looked pleased with himself about something, his face had a rosy glow.

'What did you think of my Nick then?' he asked.

'Nick?' Mel stared stupidly at him.

'Well, by all accounts you spent half the evening chatting to him.' Magnus gave a rich belly laugh. 'He won't like it if I tell him what little impression he made on you.'

Her stomach lurched. 'That was your son?'

'Of course. You didn't realise?'

'No, he never introduced himself,' she said weakly, sitting down suddenly at the table she was clearing. 'I thought he was just a member.'

'I wouldn't give membership to anyone as scruffy as him,' Magnus chortled, but there was a certain pride in his voice. 'You shot off to bed a bit smartish didn't you? I came back to find Nick alone. He said you'd gone down to the kitchen. So I closed up the bar and took Nick upstairs. By the time I came down again to suggest you joined us for a nightcap, you'd already gone to bed.'

'I didn't know you were back. I thought Sally closed the bar,' she said, blushing furiously, remembering how she'd lain awake thinking about the young man.