Chloe

Jasper moved not one inch, if anything he lifted his chin a little higher and dropped his eyelids fractionally.

‘Then I suggest, my dearest Peregrine, that you don a divine sky-blue frock and sit demurely at my side! For if I am indeed Mr A, you can be no other than my devoted Mrs A!’

‘Velvet!’ proclaimed a suddenly lucid Chloë having picked herself up from a fit of giggles on the Persian rug.

‘Blue satin!’ sang Peregrine, tears of mirth streaming down his face. He looked at Chloë slyly. ‘Race you!’ he hollered before diving for the door and the stairs beyond.

Because she was at least forty-five years younger than him, Chloë reached Jocelyn’s bedroom first and flung open the cupboard doors with the grandest of gestures that would have done her late godmother proud. Peregrine and Chloë, and a wheezing Jasper just behind, looked in awe at the sparkle and drape of the cupboard’s contents. There were yards of silk, watered, raw and crushed; swathes of satin, duchesse, brocaded and ruched; there was velvet and devore velvet; plain taffeta and moire; there was suede that was butter soft and cashmere that was softer than air. A superior collection of handmade shoes was hidden from view in their soft fabric sacks.

The three of them stood in silent reverence and gazed on. Jocelyn was amongst them once more. Chloë slithered into a dark green velvet dress that was far too long but it didn’t matter. Jasper zipped her up and placed a lattice of jet around her neck while she scooped up her hair and he fixed it with a bejewelled pin.

‘Divine,’ he whispered, ‘so Rossetti! So Burne-Jones!’

‘Do you think I could have it altered to fit? Do you think I should?’

‘I think you should! Jocelyn decreed it in her will, girl. No use just having “anything of velvet” – what good is velvet if it is not to be worn? I’ll do it for you, being the accomplished seamstress that I am. Gracious, Peregrine!’

Peregrine stood before them, resplendent in washed blue silk, one hand on his hips, the other raised affectedly above his head.

‘It fits like a glove!’ he declared, his voice saturated with pride heavily laced with outrage. Though it was decidedly odd seeing a man of grandfathering age wearing her godmother’s dress, Chloë had to concede that it fitted perfectly, suiting him and complementing his demeanour utterly.

‘I like it!’ she enthused after a momentary assessment.

‘I love it!’ boomed Jasper, twirling Peregrine around. ‘Shall we take more mulled wine and then play rummy?’

Jasper insisted on hanging Chloë’s Mr and Mrs Andrews at the opposite end of the room to their Chilean doppelgängers.

‘We could play Spot the Difference,’ he declared, balanced on a Chippendale chair with a hammer between his knees and a picture hook pursed between his lips.

‘Her shoes for starters,’ said Peregrine, still befrocked, his nose inches from the frame, squinting through Jocelyn’s reading glasses. Then he whipped them off and stared at Chloë in alarm.

‘Gracious, Clodders! You haven’t even opened it! Look, Jaspot – it’s pristine. Not even the teeniest peek!’ He removed the envelope marked ‘Wales’ from the frame and handed it to Jasper who held it aloft as if about to light the Olympic flame – or Jocelyn’s chandelier at any rate. He looked at Chloë sternly and his left eyebrow left his forehead.

‘Why ever not, girl?’

Chloë shuffled. Though she felt uncomfortable at being challenged, she felt more uneasy with the envelope suddenly out of reach. Jasper’s eyebrow remained aloft.

‘There just didn’t seem to be a right time, ladies,’ she said. ‘I held it often; I sniffed at it and held it up to the light. Its contents just seem so, I don’t know – portentous.’

Approving Chloë’s vocabulary, Jasper allowed his eyebrow back down to earth.

‘I was,’ furthered Chloë, ‘all on my own. In Islington, after all.’

This secured a bow from Jasper and a long nod from Peregrine who said ‘Islington. Why, of course’ very softly.

‘What say you,’ said Jasper cautiously, proffering Chloë the letter like a ring on a velvet cushion, ‘that we open it now? You’re in Notting Hill after all. With us. And the Andrewsiz. Looked over by You-know-who. Safe hands all.’

Chloë took the envelope and held it to her nose, her eyes on Jasper but seeing far beyond him.

Is it there? Is it Mitsuko? Do you know, I think so.

‘Mitsuko?’ asks Peregrine. Chloë nods. She turns the envelope over and wriggles her little finger into one corner. The rip, though a mere centimetre or so, is deafening. She takes her little finger to the other corner and winces as the tearing of paper screeches out.

‘Bugger,’ she mutters under her breath but unmistakably. ‘Would you? For me?’

Jasper takes the envelope and slits it open with one deft movement. He passes it to Peregrine who slides the contents out with deliberation and grace. He offers them to Chloë but she must come forward to accept.

‘Go on,’ he whispers, ‘for us.’

‘For Jocelyn,’ says Jasper.

‘OK,’ says Chloë.

There are two pages. A letter, and a map of Wales that appears to have been filched from a road atlas. In black ballpoint pen, an arrow shoots inland and south, to a red asterisk marked ‘Here!’ Handing the map to Jasper, Chloë skims through the letter seeing the words without reading them, reading names without knowing where or who – or indeed whether a who or a where.

Peregrine’s chin is tucked over her shoulder. He smells faintly of chocolate gingers and Christmas.

‘Jasp!’ he says once he has read it right through. ‘Three guesses where she’s going!’ Jasper hands the map back to Chloë and closes his eyes with a measured twitch of his aquiline nose.

‘Three guesses,’ says Peregrine again, nudging Chloë with a wink.

‘And if I am correct in just one?’ Jasper asks, eyes still closed, nostrils slightly flared.

‘Oh Gracious Lordy, always a deal to be struck. Nothing’s ever unconditional with the old tart!’ Peregrine is pleasantly exasperated. ‘If you’re right in one, I’ll make it worth your while. There!’

Jasper opens his eyes and smiles – benevolently at Chloë, somewhat lasciviously at Peregrine.

‘Gin Trap. I bet my bottom dollar. It’ll be the Gin Trap.’

FIVE

Chloë Darling,

Well done! No doubt it took simply ages for you to open the envelope. I wonder whether you had help with it in the end? Well, here we are, setting off for Wales – perhaps we’ve already arrived. Is it still winter? It should be, I’ve envisaged it that way.

Wales is a heady contradiction of rustic simplicity and rural grandeur, and ‘little lines of sportive wood run wild’ (Wordsworth’s succinct description for hedgerows, darling). Virginia Trapper will make your stay memorable indeed.

You met Gin a couple of times when you were younger – perhaps you remember? She rarely leaves the farm now so I decreed special dispensation for her to miss my funeral. She did want to come, but I was happier for her not to be there. No doubt she’ll want to know all about it so paint a technicolor picture for me, would you? Don’t stint on detail and add a little flurry of brush strokes here and there, they’ll go down a treat.

For all four countries that you will visit, you will see but a tiny corner of each. They are so vastly different – both from each other as well as within each itself. However, though I say so myself, I have picked rather well and assure you that each place will exude the essence of that country.

I so wish I could be there with you.

Really there.

In life, in the flesh.

Alas.