Diverting her attention momentarily from the road, Tamsin smiled at me. I had seen that smile before; it was full of comfort and reassurance. Not that I needed to be reassured but life with Tamsin was full of surprises and it had become increasingly obvious to me that she felt she always needed to prepare me for the next one.

The last one had come the night before, at the close of our remarkable evening at Creatrice. She had informed me that we were to visit her grandmother at her home in the country to celebrate the old lady’s birthday. Quite a contrast between a Gothic sex club in inner London to the cottage of a grand old dame in the English countryside.

Tamsin had told me very little about her grandmother except that she was called Ariadne and that this was her seventy-fifth birthday. That Ariadne had worked for the British government in the forties and fifties I managed to extract from Tamsin only with difficulty.

“Hmmm, Ariadne Thorne. Was she a secret agent working behind enemy lines?”

“I don’t know,” Tamsin laughed, “Why don’t you wait and ask her yourself?”

“Or a code breaker at Bletchley Park perhaps?”

Tamsin glanced at me dismissively, smiled, and then slowly shook her head. I looked at her hands as they gripped the steering wheel. They were clad in black leather driving gloves, perforated with round holes through which I could see her golden skin. She wore a soft, pale vermillion cashmere blouse, tastefully adorned with a single string of pearls, and a silver and black enamel pin depicting a wasp. Her golden hair was modestly tied back in a pony tail and she wore a pair of single drop pearl earrings. A long, dark tartan skirt completed the picture of refined English elegance – just the look for grandma’s birthday in the country. But Tamsin never just dressed for the occasion, she got into character; she almost became a different person. I guess it was a game of hers and it certainly made life with her interesting not to say exciting. At the centre of it all were her alluring blue eyes – the most beautiful part of this most beautiful woman. In them lay the only hope of glimpsing her inner world.

At 4pm we turned off the freeway and passed through an ivy-covered stone gateway in the hedgerows. We drove up a long gravel driveway bordered by mature elm, beech, walnut and huge oak trees, to the top of a hill. There stood a beautiful, modest sized, two storey cottage – slate roofed, with shuttered lattice windows. Before it, a well tended lawn was bisected by a serpentine pathway of grey slate along the sides of which grew a profusion of gorgeously coloured flowers. There were roses, lilies, iris and sweetly perfumed jasmine. I paused for a few minutes as we walked up the path to take it all in.

Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,
And mount the hill in venerable rows:
There the green infants in their beds are laid;
The garden’s hope and its expected shade.

Tamsin turned and saw that I was admiring the view.

“Quaint isn’t it? Gran’s lived here since she was a girl.”

“Yes, it’s a gorgeous little place – idyllic in fact.”

She smiled at me again and the sun shone fleetingly in her eyes – the finest sapphires would have seemed dull by comparison.

At the door of the cottage we were met by a small, serious looking woman holding a very furry grey cat. As soon as she and Tamsin made eye contact the latter increased her pace slightly then bent down to exchange kisses. She then turned to me and, in a voice containing obvious pride, said,

“Joshua, let me introduce you to my grandmother Ariadne Thorne.”

“A pleasure to meet you Mrs. Thorne.”

“Please call me Ariadne,” she said smiling, in a way that seemed strangely familiar to me.

Her face was endearingly lined with age and marked with wisdom. Generally however, the years seemed to have been kind to Ariadne Thorne. She carried herself with a certain poise and dignity that was at the core of what the English call “good breeding”. But what immediately caught my attention as she looked up at me, were her blue eyes – as sprightly and clear as they must have been when she was her granddaughter’s age. Tamsin stood by her grandmother’s side as I took a step back. Suddenly I realized with some disquiet, that three pairs of piercing blue eyes were looking at me.

“Beautiful cat, is it a Burmese?” I asked, a little awkwardly as the cat’s inscrutable eyes met my own.

“Not exactly, Rosie here is a Bur-man.”

Tamsin tickled the cat’s chin and her affection was obviously reciprocated as it purred contentedly.

“Oh she’s a little treasure, aren’t you Rosie darling.”

Through the door of the cottage was a cozily comfortable sitting room. The room mostly contained small pieces of dark antique furniture while two walls were lined with bookshelves upon which were displayed a variety of leather bound volumes and antiques; mother-of-pearl boxes, Japanese ivories, lacquer-work, fans, daggers and swords. There were at least fifteen examples of swords – some of beautiful artistry and exquisite workmanship. I was impressed.

We were invited to sit down before a compact fire-place and Ariadne asked us if we would like some tea. It was 4pm – time for that most British of daily rituals; afternoon tea. Ariadne left us alone and Tamsin smiled at me encouragingly. She pointed to a large painting that hung above the mantelpiece. I was astonished that I had not noticed it before. It depicted a faintly smiling blonde woman, probably in her late twenties, wearing a dark blue military uniform with medal ribbon bars on the breast. Behind her, against a gloriously cerulean sky, the painter had fashioned a Lancaster bomber. Like a black insect of ill omen, the aircraft contrasted sharply with the beautiful, rosy cheeked picture of health that was the woman. I need not have asked who the woman in the painting was for one look at her translucent blue eyes told me that it was indeed our host. Moreover the resemblance to Tamsin was remarkable.

“There’s your answer Josh, Gran was attached to Bomber Command.”

But before Tamsin could elaborate Ariadne returned, in time to see me looking at the painting.

“I see you’re admiring my portrait Joshua. It’s by Frank Wotton but he might have found a better sitter. It was a dreadfully cold day too I remember.” She glanced up at it then added, “Still, he always did a fine job painting aircraft.”

I struggled to find something to say until Tamsin came to my rescue with,

“Oh Gran, you’re so modest. You were a bigger bombshell than any of the ones in the Lancaster.”

Ariadne laughed at her granddaughter’s over-the- top flattery. It seemed that for all of her obvious dignity, she didn’t take herself too seriously. She sat down and said,

“Tea will be along shortly.”

I glanced again at the painting.

“So you were attached to Bomber Command?”

“Attached, I was virtually married to the place. My husband was already a Group Captain in the RAF before the war. So you could say I married into the job.”

“Was your husband a pilot?”

“No, nothing so glamorous. He had a desk job which he resented. Still, it kept him alive for the duration.”

I smiled and nodded. Tamsin listened to her grandmother with obvious regard. They were the only living members of their family and having only each other had brought them very close. I was pleased and rather touched. I could imagine Tamsin herself living here in just this setting when she reached her seventies.

A slight noise from the inner door heralded the arrival of tea. It was brought in by a dark haired woman of about thirty. She was slim with dark brows and fine southern Mediterranean features. She wore a maid’s uniform but there was nothing subservient about her, she carried herself with considerable confidence. The woman smiled at Ariadne as she quietly set the silver tray down. Tamsin seemed not to notice the maid at all and I made a mental note to ask her about this later.

“Thank you Lilia. You may take the remainder of the afternoon off as we discussed.”

“Thank you m’am.” Lilia spoke with an accent that I could not place. She might have been Maltese or Portuguese. She rose, turned elegantly then exited. I noticed Ariadne watching her departure with an air of approval. She then turned her remarkable blue eyes on me.

“Shall we have tea? Joshua, would you pour please.”

“I’d be delighted to.”

“I’ve got you some butterscotch Tamsin. Callard and Bowsers of course. I know it’s your favourite.”

Tamsin’s eyes lit up at the mention of butterscotch and her mouth must have watered.

“Oh Gran, you spoil me.”

“Not at all my dear child.”

And she said this with a tinge of sadness, hinting perhaps at some hidden history to which I was not privy. I had known Tamsin for a little over a month but still knew little about her. Her flat was minimalist and organized around her work for the antiquities firm of Artemisia Antiqua. Most of this work was done on-line and her flat contained few personal touches. Not so the cottage of Ariadne Thorne where every shelf and every corner seemed replete with history, reminiscence and significance.

Thus we spent a quiet, relaxing afternoon. From the west, the warm, late spring sunshine slowly crept in through the lattice windows bringing with it the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle. From the elegant cream ware china cups there arose a rich aroma of bergamot, lemon and honey. All was pure delight and peaceful contemplation.
An hour passed as we talked of cats, gardening, the latest trends in country cooking, the Roman antiquities of Southern England and the paintings of Edward Burne-Jones. Ariadne showed me an exquisite drawing by this artist of the Pre-Raphaelite school. It depicted a woman sitting forlornly on a beach gazing dejectedly out to sea at a distant ship whose black sail was rapidly vanishing over the horizon.

“This is the Ariadne of legend, abandoned by her lover Theseus for whom she had betrayed her father and helped to defeat the monstrous Minotaur.”

From behind us a voice full of drama and emotion said,

” Where did you go? Wicked Theseus, come back. Turn your ship, one of your crew remains. Those were my words. When my voice became weak I beat my breast and mixed my words with blows. I hung my veil in a tree and waved and hoped that those forgetting would remember.”

She paused for effect and was met by her grandmother’s quiet smile. Then with tragedy and gravitas worthy of a Shakespearean actress she continued,

” Then you were gone beyond my sight and only then did I free my tears. Until that moment my eyes had been dulled by pain. What more could those eyes do than weep for me when your sails had disappeared from my sight?”

“Bravo my dear, excellent. What a pity you didn’t ever cultivate your theatrical talents.”

The old lady had spoken with a hint of irony. She seemed to know her granddaughter well.

“Well done Tamsin, was that Homer?”

Ariadne answered me instead, and not without a gentle touch of reproach.

“Ovid”

“Of course, how silly of me.”

Tamsin smiled and there came a knock at the door. Ariadne excused herself to answer it and her vacant chair was immediately occupied by Rosie. From where I sat I caught a glimpse of long chestnut hair and heard a sweet musical voice offer its greeting. Booted feet tread the cottage floor lightly and I heard Ariadne say that she would join her visitor in a moment. The arrival seemed to have completely eluded Tamsin who was now stroking a sweetly purring Rosie.

“Oh to be a cat!” grinned Tamsin as I looked enquiringly at her and nodded towards the corridor.

“It’s probably just one of Gran’s students. She teaches piano.”

A few minutes later Ariadne returned and regarded us apologetically.

“Dear Tamsin and Joshua, you must now excuse me for a couple of hours. Tamsin will show you up to your room. Dinner will be at seven.”

I took our luggage and the birthday present we had bought up a flight of stairs to an attic room. Like the drawing room, this bedroom was furnished comfortably and had a substantial balcony. Tamsin opened the French windows and we stood looking out at lush, rolling green countryside that stretched as far as the eye could see. “This place must have changed little since the time of Edward the Confessor’, I reflected.

I felt a hand on my shoulder applying gentle pressure.