One Night Only. Sue Welfare
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the fenland. Situated a few minutes’ walk from the church, Helen’s house was a Gothic gem, with a fairytale turret at one corner and huge rooms with vaulted ceilings and broad oak floors. At this time of the day the sun came flooding in through the mullioned windows, casting everything in a warm glow.
Up on the first floor, the open-plan double-aspect sitting room looked out over the gardens on one side and over the dark red pantiled rooftops of the houses in the streets below on the other, and beyond the town the glittering snake of the river Ouse, which wound its way across the flat lands of the fen. Beyond that as far as the eye could see were acres and acres of farmed fenland, flat as a billiard table, rich and fertile, lush green or black or gold, depending on the season, stretching out to Ely in the southwest and Long Sutton in the north-west.
It had been the view and the unique appearance of the house that had attracted Helen to it in the first place; it looked for all the world like a fairytale castle up on its hill close by the church. On a clear day it really did seem as if you could see forever. Compared to the tiny terraced house she had grown up in, the view alone at High House lifted Helen’s spirits, the sense of space and freedom under the vast fenland sky finally letting her breathe.
‘So did you always live round here?’ asked Natalia, pen poised.
‘No, I was born and grew up in Billingsfield. It was a factory town. It couldn’t have been more different to Norfolk and this place. Number thirty-six Victoria Street; I’m sure I’ve probably got some photos somewhere. I remember as a little girl looking out of the front-room window of this tiny terraced house and having a horrible sense that I could easily be in the wrong one. Opposite me across the street was a house that was identical to mine, in a row of houses all identical to mine. All the doors were painted the same flat brown, all the windows had the same thick nets in the windows. Even thinking about it now after all these years it makes me shiver; it felt as if you couldn’t breathe.’
Natalia nodded and made another note.
Helen didn’t have that feeling living here. High House was unique, a one-off, with no twin staring back at it, no neighbours peering in, making judgements on her family, from windows that faced each other across a strip of tarmac. No one teased or tormented her here. There was no lying in bed at night hearing the frenzied scuttling and scurrying and raised angry voices from the family whose bedroom adjoined hers. No, up here in High House there was only Helen and the people she invited in, which today included Natalia, who was busy peering out of the window, probably trying to work out what all the fuss was about.
‘Over there on a clear day you can see Ely Cathedral,’ said Helen, pointing into the distance.
Alongside her Natalia stifled a yawn. ‘I’m not much of a one for views,’ she said.
‘So,’ said Helen, now that it was obvious her audience had moved on. ‘What else would you like to know?’
Natalia settled herself back on the sofa. ‘I’m not sure how much you know about the show but in the first segment we talk about you and what you do or did. There’s usually some film clips, some interviews with friends and colleagues, that sort of thing – and then we explore where you came from and we look around the places where you grew up and talk to people who knew you. And then we explore your roots.’
‘Which means what exactly?’ asked Helen.
The girl looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure I’m with you?’
‘Well, which roots?’
‘Presumably you’ve seen the show. Your parents and any interesting ancestors we throw up when we do your family tree. We’ve got this great guy, Alan – well, when I say great; he’s a bit of an acquired taste – he doesn’t like real live people very much. He likes to stay in the office and he wears cotton gloves and a mask a lot of the time, and he’s got this whole thing about pens – but he’s brilliant when it comes to research. Anyway, you see that’s the thing with Roots; we don’t just tie ourselves to the historical, that’s the beauty of the format, we just follow our noses on the good stories. So, like with Terry Haslam – you know, the civil rights bloke? Well his dad, Jack, used to be a strongman in the circus, so we took a look at how Terry had grown up, and that whole nomadic circus culture. It was funny because most people talk about running away to join the circus, but in Terry’s case he ran away to join the Church. Terry’s heritage was amazing – his dad’s family came from Transylvania and his mum came from somewhere in Somerset.
‘Anyway, it was really weird; we took the crew out to this funny little village to film. I mean it was truly spooky. I’ve never been anywhere like that before – and the locals were just so peculiar, they kept pointing and laughing – and anyway Jeremy, the sound guy, bought us all these strings of garlic.’ Natalia paused to take a sip of water. ‘Transylvania was a complete doddle by comparison.’
‘I’m not sure that there is anything that interesting in my family,’ said Helen.
Natalia waved the words away. ‘Oh don’t worry. Everyone I work with always says that but we usually poke around till we find something, and to be perfectly honest, if Ruth’s signed you up to do the show, then there’s something we can get our teeth into or she wouldn’t be doing it.’
The remark caught Helen off guard. She stared at Natalia. ‘I’m sorry?’ she began. ‘What are we talking about here?’
The girl reddened. ‘Sorry, but I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know, Helen. We all know that there is an elephant in the room when it comes to your past. I don’t want to be tactless about it – but it’s not exactly rocket science, is it? We’ll start off with your parents –’Helen waited.
‘Your mum? The whole motherhood, abandoned children thing, I mean I’m assuming you’d have realised what we’d be going for here – a sort of cherchez la femme angle. Looking at the kind of woman who leaves her child behind and the reasons why. Why? What did you think we were going to do?’
Helen couldn’t think of anything to say, but it was fine because Natalia was firing up her laptop and had all the answers on hand. ‘You see what I’m saying here, Helen? There’s no point us dragging up some unknown Elizabethan sailor from God knows where, when we’ve got a story like that to unpick, really, is there? It’s just too good not to use –’
‘I’m sure you think I’m being naïve here, but I thought Ruth said that it would be mostly historical?’
‘Well, sometimes it is, but mostly –’ Natalia hesitated, ‘To be honest mostly it isn’t. The last series everything was pretty much about this generation and maybe the last one. You know, like their mums and dads – people like all that sort of stuff. And of course your mum vanished too, so realistically that is just too good a story not to go after.’
‘She didn’t vanish,’ said Helen, dry-mouthed. ‘It wasn’t like some sort of conjuring trick. Are you telling me that is going to be the main focus of the programme?’
‘We’ve got other angles too, obviously. I don’t have to tell you your own secrets, do I?’ She smiled. Helen stared at her; what did that mean?
‘So are you saying you’ve found my mother?’
Totally wrong-footed Natalia stared at her, trying to compose herself. ‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’
At which moment Bon came up from the gym, dressed in sweat pants and an indigo blue tee shirt. His tee shirt was soaked with sweat across the chest, underarms and back.
‘Hi,’ he said with a grin, wiping his hands on the white towel draped across his broad shoulders. He looked like a character from a wholesome-life advert. ‘I see your guest arrived then,’ he said to Helen, as he strode over and extended a hand towards Natalia. ‘I’m Bon Fisher. Great to meet you. You must be Natalia, from Roots, is that right?’
Natalia’s mouth had dropped open. ‘Bon?’ she managed, and for a few seconds Helen caught a glimpse of what it was others saw in him. His face, though classically handsome,