Last Tango in Carcassonne

No.18, Warwickshire.

Serena sat alone in her drawing room sipping thoughtfully from the mug of steaming hot tea. 'Only dull women have tidy houses' the logo on the front read. Her mother had given it to her as a birthday present. Glancing round her chic French apartment she silently appraised its contents. Her plush English feather-filled Knole sofa covered in a vintage William Morris fabric complimented the French antique pieces rather well. A fire crackled comfortingly in the grate of her black marbled fireplace. The elaborate gold-embossed mirror over the mantelpiece afforded her a direct and not entirely pleasing reflection of herself.
'I am fifty-five' Serena thought, 'and late middle age is upon me.' Putting down her mug she worried for the umpteenth time if she would ever be considered 'dull and tidy.'
Her life danced and flirted alongside the flames of the fire and taunted her from a distance she could not reach.'I am fast approaching my twilight years' she reflected, and the voice of her mother, although some forty years previously, echoed in her ears.
Serena could picture Evelyn now, in a close fitting dark blue lace dress accessorised by sheer navy-blue stockings and indecently high heels. 'Life goes by frighteningly fast darling. Suddenly before you know it, you'll be the age I am' she had informed her. Her manner was bright, breezy and confident. Serena recalled using the very same words to her own daughter Scarlett. Her daughter had stared at her incredulously.
'Don't be so morbid mother. I'll never be as old as you anyway.' Raucous, although not unkind, laughter had followed. Serena too had naively imagined it would never be possible to be thought of as elderly, nor had she envisaged hereditary traits revealing themselves as the years passed by. Even the same subdued paint colours of her drawing room echoed those favoured by Evelyn.
Silently, and without realising it she had morphed into her mother, the woman whose stylish attire and innate sense of elegance had irritated the hell out of her when she was younger. How Serena had resented her ability to turn heads when she entered a room.
Looking back, she remembered her childhood home exactly as it had appeared to her and her twin brother when they were first taken to view it. Days prior to moving in, both were apprehensive about living in such a strange house, Flowers towered above them with weeds tumbling down the wobbly low stone walls. The entrance had seemed rather secretive and mysterious. An elderly but clearly refined lady had opened the handsome front door at the top of wide stone steps which featured a metal boot scraper that had fascinated the excited children.
The inside of the house enchanted her immediately. Dark wooden floor-boards gave off the unmistakable odour of beeswax whilst faded thin rugs clung onto their diminishing glory in the centre of every room. A fireplace with handsome dark oak panelling and glass-fronted cupboards either side elicited a low murmur of appreciation from them all as they entered the drawing room. A jumbled collection of delicate pink and pale blue figurines sat prettily behind the glass. In the grate, a meagre fire lay flickering and piles of dogeared books lay scattered on every small table, threatening to break their delicately arched legs. The house was imposing and felt uncomfortably cold. It took Serena a while to realise there were no bright white radiators on the walls unlike their present home.
They all trooped silently into the kitchen where there was an ancient metal range. Huge flat hot plates held a jumble of tired looking saucepans all jostling hopelessly for space. Underneath the range another fire burnt steadily giving Serena the impression she was visiting an exhibition in a museum. Above the door a line of sturdy bells cleared marked with each room sat solemnly silent.
'I'm afraid only the master bedroom and the dining room still have working bells to call for service.' The clipped tones of the elderly lady hung on the air as she surveyed the family before her who would soon call her lifelong home theirs. Reverently, following her up the sweeping staircase their footsteps echoed despite the thin runner held precariously in place by the brass stair rods. A sizeable landing halfway up contained a glorious stained-glass window from which you could enjoy the view whilst comfortably seated on a quaint window seat.
'I would sit here as a child' the lady said, 'and watch the steam trains go by, counting the cows and sheep dotted on the hills beyond. It's all rather different now' she added wistfully. Serena turned and followed her gaze. She could indeed see the railway track but instead of the romantic and gently view of contented animals, there loomed the ugly new council offices. Beyond that was the spire of the church and solid looking red brick houses surrounded by thick coniferous hedging marking out their territory. The lady, Serena later learnt, was called Miss Smith, an ordinary name for the obviously not-very-ordinary lady before her. Wordlessly she led them into the various bedrooms that led off the main landing. Another nugget of information that Serena gleaned was the fact that Miss Smith was a spinster, The very word sounded terrifying. Spinsters were ladies who never married, her mother explained. Serena wondered who looked after them when they became elderly and infirm. Who would love and cherish them? Surely to be married was the path to contentment and security?
Yet Miss Smith had produced a book which became a publishing phenomenon. Serena would eventually attribute this partly to the freedom of not being responsible for anyone else. Later Evelyn took great pride in informing visitors that it was the very spot which had led to the penning of Country Diaries. She would add the last snippet of information with a flourish lest any of them failed to appreciate the literary legacy of the house. Miss Smith's lovely illustrations of Warwickshire's country lanes and wildlife made an innocuous and acceptable gift for ladies of a certain age. Serena admired the talent and diligence of this Edwardian lady who had found the stamina to bicycle round the country, pursuing and recording her genteel passion.
Another part of the house, fascinating to the twins, was reached by a second narrow staircase. Originally the servant's quarters with a mean, small fireplace it nevertheless gave an uninterrupted view of the parkland behind. It resembled a poet's garret and indeed Serena later sat there and wrote her very first poem entitled 'Heaven's Pearly Gates'. Slowly and painfully she had tapped on her mother's old typewriter, the ribbon worn and thin from use but never replaced. She had hung onto the original copy for sentimental reasons. In the intervening years she had constantly berated herself for not making the time to write more, as she loved to do. But she hadn't, because life had moved swiftly on, just as her mother had forewarned her it would.

Last Tango in Carcassonne available on Amazon