Finding Home (12 page)

Eventually, I climb the grand staircase and stand before the painting of the elusive young woman in the pink dress. I lean back against the balustrade and look at her: the bold eyes, the secret smile, the shadowy folds of her dress that seem to appear out of the darkness; so real that I can almost reach out and touch the soft fabric; feel the sheen of silk beneath my fingertips. Was hers a great love story, or a romantic tragedy? The house knows, surely. I close my eyes and listen for a second, but everything is silent except for the noise of a distant drip. I remind myself sternly that it's my job to
sell
Rosemont Hall, not to uncover its history.

A chime echoes melodiously through the hall. Realising that I've lost track of time, I run down the stairs to the main door. The hinges creak when I open it. Standing outside is a young, sandy-haired man with green eyes and freckles. He looks surprised for a moment at seeing me, and then his face sprouts a grin. ‘Hi, I'm David Waters,' he says, holding out his hand. ‘The quantity surveyor. You must be the Lady of the Manor.'

He winks, and my cheeks flush.

‘I wish,' I say, as we shake hands. ‘I'm Amy Wood, the estate agent.'

‘And here I was expecting the
Honourable
Mr Bowen-Knowles
.' He puts on a fake posh accent. ‘A nice surprise, I must say.'

It's a surprise that he's flirting so openly with me, and I can't help but feel a little bit flattered – and rusty. I usher him inside. As he looks around the entrance hall, appearing suitably impressed, I give him the once-over. Medium height and build, wearing khaki trousers, work boots, and a tan shearling coat with a crisp pink shirt underneath. He's carrying a notebook with one of those credit-card thin calculators clipped to the front of it. I'm grateful that he's not uptight and stuffy, which was what I'd been expecting. When he's finished looking around the main hall, I get the impression that he's checking
me
out. I'm suddenly conscious that my black pencil skirt is a little tight across the hips.

‘So, Mr Waters,' I say, ‘I'll show you around if you like.'

‘Call me David,' he says predictably. He takes out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket, puts them on, and flips his notebook open to a new page of yellow graph paper.

As we embark upon my version of the ‘grand tour', I pretend that this is a viewing, and that he's a prospective buyer. He plays along, but each time he writes something in his notebook he frowns. He seems like a plastic surgeon – only interested in defects: many of which I hadn't even noticed until he points them out. There's wallpaper that takes down half a damp plaster wall when he pulls on it; deep cracks in the parquet floor when he moves aside a threadbare old rug; spots of damp and wet rot everywhere; woodworm in the window frames; a wasp's nest in one of the fireplaces. And that's just the ground floor!

In the main bedroom, he moves aside a rickety chair and points to a cracked area of the painted panelling that marks the outline of a door.

Intrigued, I walk over to it. ‘Is it a secret room?' I say.

‘Maybe.' He winks at me and pulls on a brass ring stuck into the wall. He takes a quick look inside and slams the door shut again. ‘Closet.' He fans the air in front of his nose. ‘Pheew, something died in there, that's for sure.'

‘Oh.' I move on, slightly disappointed.

We go to the next floor up and reach the corridor where Mrs Bradford has her room. This time there's no smell of baking, and when I knock on the door, no one answers. ‘I don't have a key,' I say to David, half expecting that like the Blundells, he'll offer to pick the lock.

He shrugs. ‘Whatever.' We move on.

Down in the cellar we find a warren of damp, cold rooms: the unmodernised kitchen, pantries and larders with crumbling wooden shelves, and the enormous boiler. David Waters regales me with doom and gloom about probable burst pipes and water leakages. When we find the electric box, he holds me back with his free arm – ‘It could be a deathtrap, don't go too close'. My enthusiasm ebbs. David Waters scribbles fast and furiously on his yellow graph paper.

‘What is it that you're writing down?' I ask, as we head back to the main hall.

‘I'm noting down the structural issues,' he says. ‘Then we can look at some options: Mr Bowen-Knowles thought a conversion to flats might be possible.'

‘Just that? What about the basic costs to reinstate it as a family home?'

He laughs like I've made a good joke.

‘What?' Hands on hips, I stare him down.

‘I don't think that's very likely, do you?' he says. ‘Given that we're so close to Bath, it might have some value as a development. If not…' he shrugs, ‘I don't need a calculator to tell you that the restoration costs will be a lot more than it's worth as a family home – even if you managed to find some rich nutter.'

‘Oh.' Visions of ‘Golf Heritage' dance in my head.

‘Plus, I understand that the planners are keen on developing recreational facilities and low-cost housing around here. With a hundred and twenty acres, someone like Hexagon could make a lot of money.'

‘You know about Hexagon?' For me, that name is becoming synonymous with the incarnation of evil in the universe.

‘It's part of my job to keep on top of things.'

‘And is it part of your job to note down that turning this place into Disneyland for rich golfers would be a crime? This place is an important piece of history. It should be restored.'

Without realising it, I've walked towards him, and am now standing closer than a polite distance. He doesn't step away, and gives me a disarming grin.

‘That's not strictly in the job description.' He touches my arm. My skin tingles at the contact. ‘But I'll tell you what,' he says. ‘You come out with me for a drink tonight, and I'll add your comment as a footnote. Plus, I'll split out the cost of getting the place up to scratch as a single family dwelling – no extra charge.'

‘What?' I take a step back.

‘Or… another time if that suits you better.'

‘No… uhh… tonight is… fine. It's fine.'

‘Great.' His eyes linger on my face. I feel my cheeks begin to glow, and not just with the cold.

‘I'm going to go have a look at the East Wing now,' he says. ‘Since it may not be safe, do you want to wait here?'

‘Okay… sure.' Although I want to see what, if anything, is left of the East Wing, I'm too kerfuffled to see it with David Waters. I go with him through the elegant door at the side of the main hall. It leads to a short corridor with a heavy black door at the end. ‘I'll meet you in the main hall when you're finished,' I say.

‘No problem.'

I return to the main hall and pace the floor. Staring up at the ceiling painting of a Rubenesque goddess of dawn being crowned by nymphs, I take stock. It's been just over two months since I moved out of the rented flat that I shared with Simon. I realise that I'm no longer thinking of the life I lost every moment of the day and in fact, part of me has begun to wonder why I was so deluded into thinking that my relationship with Simon was the be-all and end-all. And now, all of a sudden, other possibilities creep into my mind. I've already got a new job and a new project – this house – to occupy my imagination. Obviously we've just met, but I can't help but wonder – could there be someone out there – someone like David Waters – to begin filling the void that's still left?

While I wait for him to finish his work, I go back into the library to begin sorting through some of the old books and papers – trying to separate them into piles of rubbish/saleable items/personal effects that the American heirs might want. All of those property shows on TV advise that it's important to reduce the amount of clutter before the viewings begin.

In one corner of the room, there's a huge mahogany desk that's absolutely overflowing with papers. The piles of books and papers are so high that they're blocking half of the window, making the room seem dark. Tackling that seems a good place to start. The first thing I see is a stack of telephone bills – the top one dated three years earlier. Arabella Windham must have been a hoarder who saved every bill and scrap of paper.

I move aside the stack of bills and another pile of newspaper clippings – obituaries, recipes, crossword puzzles – to clear some space. Underneath, I find a large, flat book in faded red leather. I open it and discover that it's an old ledger of household accounts. I flip through it briefly. Most of the pages are full of mind-numbing entries for light bulbs, floor wax, petrol, clothing and sundries – silver polish, and the like. In addition to being a hoarder, Arabella – or whoever kept it – must have been quite the penny-pincher.

But when I flip to the older entries towards the end of the book, I find something more interesting. There's a page labelled ‘artwork' written in a different, bold, looping hand. It lists entries, going back to the 1920s, of paintings purchased. I read through the list of artists: Gainsborough, John Singer Sargent, Van Dyck, Matisse, Rembrandt. How amazing it must have been to see the paintings hanging proudly on the walls of Rosemont Hall! Stapled to the last page of the ledger is an itemised auction receipt from Sotheby's for a fine art sale in London in 1951.

To me, the prices look ridiculously cheap. But of course, I'm thinking in today's money. And I suppose that after the war there was little appetite for buying art. How sad, though, that Sir George decided to withdraw his Rembrandt from the sale, only to have it destroyed in the fire.

I close the ledger and move it to one side. As I do, I accidentally knock a pile of
Telegraph
gardening sections off the other side of the desk. They fall onto the floor with a thunk. The cloud of dust and mould that rises up sends me into a sneezing fit.

I take a tissue out of my pocket and put it over my nose until the dust settles. When I bend down to pick up what I knocked off, I practically cut my hand on a piece of glass underneath. I move the papers aside and find that the culprit is a broken picture frame. It must have been lying face down at the bottom of the stack.

The sides of the frame come apart when I pick it up – I hope I haven't broken something expensive. The photo inside is a black and white image of a young couple getting married. From the bride's waved hairstyle, fit and flare lace dress, and pillbox hat and veil, I deduce that the photo was probably taken in the early 1950s. I turn it over. Written on the back in faded black ink is:
Henry and Arabella, 1952.
I look at the two people in the picture. Given the soft focus, the angle, and the fading of the photo with age, it's difficult to make out their features, but I note that neither of them is smiling.

I put the photo down on the desk, and something else catches my eye. Wedged between the desk and the wall is a bundle of folded-up, yellowing papers wrapped in what looks like a faded ribbon – it's coated with so much fuzz, dust, and cobwebs that it's hard to tell. Using a pen, I ease it out from behind the desk. When I'm finally able to grab it, I pick up the bundle and blow on it. Big mistake. I start sneezing and coughing all over again.

The ribbon comes apart in my hands. I unfold the paper on top. It's an old letter, dated 1952 – addressed to ‘A' and signed ‘H'. Arabella and Henry? I skim the text – it's a quaint, heartfelt love letter; saying how much ‘H' is looking forward to seeing ‘A' after being away at university. He also expresses some worries about his father's health, and waxes poetic about how he's looking forward to a life at Rosemont Hall with ‘A'.

I refold the letter. It's all so romantic. I'd love to read more; find out about Henry and Arabella's life here. But do I dare take the letters? They've obviously been behind the desk for many years – I doubt that anyone would miss them – especially since the correspondents are both dead. Surely if I ‘borrow' them, no one would mind.

Behind me, footsteps creak over the parquet floor. In a split second, I make up my mind and shove the letters into my coat pocket. When I turn around, David Waters is standing there making a few notes.

‘Hi.' He rakes a hand through his sandy hair. ‘The good news is the East Wing isn't about to come down on anyone's head anytime soon.'

I smooth down my coat. ‘And the bad news?'

‘It's causing strain on the main house. There are some huge diagonal cracks – sure signs of major subsidence.'

Subsidence
– the dreaded word.

‘Unfortunately, it's going to raise the repair costs considerably. And if it's not repaired, then the whole house might start to slowly pull apart. The bottom line is that you'd need to find buried treasure to make a dent in the costs to fix up this place.'

‘Buried treasure? As in – actual buried treasure?'

‘Either that, or divide it into a whole lot of flats.'