Finding Home (11 page)

‘I got an email from Kendall earlier,' he says. ‘Apparently his client – Mr Jack? – has his knickers in a twist over this whole thing. He's been in direct contact with Hexagon already.'

‘What?' My stomach drops.

‘He sounds like one of those American tightwads who's trying to screw us out of our commission. But we're not going to let that happen. Are we?'

‘No sir.' I feel like I ought to salute.

He hands me the paper he was reading when I came in. ‘This is a list of all the people in the last year who've been looking for a country property – two to five million quid.'

I flip through the list. Over two hundred names!

‘Ring round to all of them, see if they're still looking, and send out the details to them. It'll be a complete waste of time, but we need to look like we've got our skates on.'

‘What about Mrs Bradford?' I ask under my breath.

‘Who?'

‘The elderly housekeeper who lives there.'

His glare sends a chill through the office. ‘What about her?'

‘Should I speak to her about moving out?'

‘That's Kendall's job,' he snarls. ‘We have to assume we're selling with vacant possession.'

‘Oh, of course.' I feel a stab of sadness for the old woman whose life in her little room at Rosemont Hall is now nothing more than ‘vacant possession'.

He turns away and stares at his computer screen.

‘What about the price?' I say. Surely, that's something even he would agree is a valid question.

He fiddles with his right cufflink. ‘Excess of two million plus renovation costs,' he says. ‘Which reminds me, I phoned the quantity surveyor – he's going round tomorrow morning. He'll estimate the costs needed to get it up to scratch for development – probably gutting the interior.'

I grimace. My boss gives a little smirk. ‘He'll be there around eleven. Someone needs to let him in— you. You've got the keys, right?'

‘Yes.'

His eyes stray for a second down to my (high) neckline, and he frowns again. ‘That's all.' He waves his hand like he's dismissing a servant.

I stand up and straighten the creases from my skirt. ‘What about the Blundells?' I ask.

‘Oh that.' He swats away my question like a pesky fly. ‘Don't let them fool you. That will almost certainly come to nothing.'

‘But—'

His phone rings. I turn to leave and walk slowly to the door.

‘Oh hello Mr Blundell,' he says. I wheel around. Mr Bowen-Knowles covers the receiver with his hand. ‘That's
all
,' he says. ‘Shut the door.'

Resistance is futile. I leave his office.

*

Mr Bowen-Knowles stays closeted away all morning. Jonathan refuses to look at me, and I'm relieved when he finally leaves for a viewing. Meanwhile, I begin the task of cold-calling the list of potential buyers for Rosemont Hall. I phone the first three and leave messages. The next two I reach and begin my spiel, only to find that they've both been sacked from their hedge-fund jobs. The next three have already bought their dream country piles. The one after that – an American – listens to my entire pitch, and then informs me that his country ‘fought a revolution to get rid of the Georges', but to let him know ‘if you've got any nice English Tudors on the books'.

As I cross each name off the list, I begin to realise that it's a thankless task. To see what I'm up against, I open the internet and type ‘Hexagon' into the search engine. The first few results are all emerald-green lawns, modern glass clubhouses, smiling weekend golfers. There's a corporate site that's more of the same, as well as annual reports, shareholders' information, and a picture of a balding man receiving some kind of award for sustainable development. But as I scroll down, I find a few articles that aren't quite so rosy. Hexagon bullying local OAP conservationists; Hexagon ‘accidentally' knocking down a wing of an old house, leaving it a ruin. There's also an article on a sad old house called the Parsonage in Herefordshire. Apparently, Hexagon purchased the site for a water park and promised the council that it would shore up the house. But seven years later, the water park is up and running next door, and there's no sign of any work being done on the house. There's a photo of its once-proud stone walls bowing behind a chain-link construction fence, the roof slateless and sagging. Mr Kendall had obviously done his research when he said that Hexagon doesn't have the best record for conservation. I can't let Rosemont Hall become a pawn in their chess game – it's imperative that I succeed. I close down the websites and pick up the phone again. A dozen more calls and still nothing.

At lunchtime, I invite Claire to go for a sandwich, but she has errands to run. Feeling discouraged, I buy a BLT at Marks & Spencer, and sit down on a bench near the Roman Baths. Tourists are flocking in and out of the Pump Rooms and a group of schoolchildren in bobble hats are singing carols. In front of Bath Abbey, the Bavarian Christmas market is in full-swing. When I'm done with my sandwich, I wander among the little chalets strung with icicle-shaped lights that are selling local products, jewellery and knitwear. I reluctantly avoid the hot glühwein, and instead buy a bag of chocolate-dipped gingerbread for Mum. I end up eating it as I walk. Everything is busy and festive, but all I can think about is how quickly time is passing. Three months – Mr Kendall said that I had three months to sell Rosemont Hall. So how dare this Mr Jack get involved already?

I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck to stave off the cold, and consider this faraway scourge on the future of Rosemont Hall. I bet he has a nice life. I picture him: middle-aged with a beer belly, wearing a baseball cap over his balding head as he mows the lawn at his house in a dusty American subdivision – huge houses on tiny plots of lands, all identical to each other. Mr Jack will drive some kind of fancy ‘mid-life-crisis' car – maybe a Porsche – no, a vintage Mustang. In candy apple red. Roaring off to work each morning while his wife piles the kids into a huge SUV to drop them off at school on the way to yoga class. And at the weekends – of course! – golf at the local country club.

And meanwhile, back in Blighty, a house that he's never seen will continue to crumble; a hollow shell where once there was laughter, warmth and life. The memories it holds will crack and fade like old paint, and one of the finest examples of Georgian Palladian architecture in the South West will end up as little more than a paragraph on a website about England's lost country houses.

Unless I can do something about it.

I throw the empty biscuit package in a bin and head back to the office. I must, as Mum would say, ‘keep calm and carry on'.

When I return, everyone is back, and Mr Bowen-Knowles is chatting to Patricia. Five pairs of eyes bore into me as I enter, and a silence descends.

‘What is it?' My cheeks flush in the dry office air.

Mr Bowen-Knowles clears his throat. ‘It seems that the Blundells were impressed with that flat Jonathan found for them.'

‘Jonathan…?' Anger bubbles up inside me.

‘They've offered the asking price and it's been accepted.'

Instead of the joy such a proclamation should merit, a noxious cloud descends over the room. ‘Fantastic!' a part of me knows I should say. ‘I told you so,' is what comes out of my mouth instead.

Mr Bowen-Knowles walks over to Jonathan's desk and gives him a high five. My stomach roils and I think I might be sick. My boss then turns to me, his lips curving downwards into their default position. ‘So,' my boss says, ‘while this one goes to Jonathan, the good news is that you can stay on permanently – if you want to.'

Claire gives me a surreptitious thumbs-up. I mumble a ‘thank you.' I should be happy that I've now got a permanent job.

Here.

I stifle the urge to punch Jonathan in the fake-tanned nose, sit down at my desk, and spend the rest of the afternoon phoning the people on Mr Bowen-Knowles's list. No one in the office looks at me or talks to me, nor I to them.

There's only one thing I can do – keep at it. Surely, success is the best revenge. And when out of the fifty-three people I phone, four are interested in receiving the details on Rosemont Hall, I feel it's destined that, somehow, I'll get my name to the top of the sales chart on the door of the disabled loo. I
can
do this – and eventually I
will
.

After all, Rome wasn't built in a day.

Letter 4 (Transcription)

Rosemont Hall

June 5
^th
1952

A

Seeing you again after so many months was like a glimpse of the sun after a never-ending winter. I will speak to my father about us as soon as I find the right moment. I want to make sure that I do this properly and he realises how serious my intentions are.

Yesterday, Father surprised me – he says he is planning a ball for my coming-of-age – would you believe it? At first I laughed at the very idea. But reflecting on it, it is a nice gesture and I think one designed to bridge the gap between us. It will be a fitting start to my new life back at Rosemont Hall. I so much want to do him, and you, proud.

In fact, the preparations have already begun. This morning he stood in the great hall and oversaw every delivery – flowers in crystal vases, wine glasses and champagne flutes, musicians' instrument cases, crates of taper candles, mountains of food and drink. And in his face I caught a glimpse of the father I remember: strong and proud and a patron of the arts. Seeing him like that, I too caught the sense of excitement. It has been so many years since the chandeliers glowed, and the floors smelled of wax and polish. So many years since there was a sense of life about the old place. He's even hired an artist to paint my portrait.

I'll tell you more when I see you. Can you meet me tonight in our usual place?

All my love,

H

Late morning the next day, I scrape a layer of frost off the car windscreen and drive to Rosemont Hall to meet the quantity surveyor. As I drive up the long, winding approach to the house, once again I'm transported to another era. I'm Jane Eyre glimpsing the stark silhouette of Thornfield, as she contemplates what her new life there as a governess will hold; Elizabeth Bennet touring Pemberley, wondering if she'd been just a tad hasty in rejecting Mr Darcy's tentative advances. In the fragile rays of sunshine, the whole scene has a slightly dreamlike quality – of being familiar and real, but just out of reach. The graceful silhouette of the house is a thing of beauty – a true work of art.

I park the car and get out. Everything is incredibly quiet except for the mournful cooing of a pigeon. It takes me a while to find which key unlocks the door, but finally, the deadbolt grinds open. Inside, the house is even more vast and stunning than I remember – it's like walking through an empty jewel box. It's also absolutely freezing.

I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and up over my chin. The great hall smells of ‘old house': thick layers of varnish, dust settled over antique furniture, the sour odour of mice and rising damp. But despite the decay, I feel incredibly lucky to be here. Not many people get to see a house like this, except maybe on television or on a tour. To be here in person is to experience the awe of the proportions, to appreciate the artistry and detail that went into every carved moulding and mantelpiece, the handiwork that makes up every inlaid floor and plastered ceiling.

What would it take, I wonder, to bring the house back to life? To restart its heart and get it breathing again. As I continue walking, the answer seems obvious: people. It would take people. I picture children roller-skating on the marble floors and sliding down the banisters; a man making coffee in the kitchen; a woman baking scones. Gardening on a summer day; a book group meeting in the library; Santa leaving toys under a tinsel-trimmed Christmas tree. Births and weddings, deaths and holidays. Arguments, good-night kisses, homework, DIY, bad jokes, lazy afternoons on the terrace. People going about their lives. People who resonate with the house. People like me.

If the house were mine (and even
I'm
not such a romantic as to delude myself that that could ever happen), I'd be a hands-on type of owner – the kind who's not afraid to go up a ladder to strip wallpaper or repaint a cracked window frame, bleed a radiator, or oil the hinge on a door. (Which is a good thing, I expect, since paying people to do those things costs money.)

I go into one of the rooms off the hall: the library. Every surface is cluttered with papers, mildewed books, and trinkets. Hopefully Mrs Bradford was a better companion to Mrs Windham than she is a housekeeper.

My shoes make footprints in the dust as I walk over to the window. The frame is rotting but the latch is intact. Carefully, I push it open and a rush of cold air stings my face. At the back of the house is a weedy terrace flanked with stone urns. Beyond, overgrown lawns sweep down to a yew avenue, a tangled jungle of a rose garden and eventually the Grecian folly by the lake. The frost on the grass shimmers in the morning light. I fall in love with Rosemont Hall all over again.

As I wander through the rooms on the ground floor, I straighten a pile of yellowing papers here, wipe the dust off a fireplace mantle there. My mind wanders off trying to imagine the place as it once was: a lady sitting in front of the fireplace embroidering; a girl practising a Chopin étude on the pianoforte; a man in riding clothes writing letters at the desk by the window; servants tiptoeing in and out with tea trays, ostrich-feather dusters and the daily post on a silver tray. I can almost hear the whisper of silk and crinolines through the doorway; smell the linseed oil and rosewater perfume. The walls seem to close in around me, as if leaning closer to whisper in my ears.