Finding Home (30 page)

Mr Kendall gives my arm a fatherly pat. We stand there together, leaning against the carved railing. It helps to know that he's feeling sad too about the fate of the house. But I suppose that ultimately, he's right – both of us have a job to do.

A noise from below breaks the silence. Mr Kendall and I look at each other. Keys rattle; the front door opens and closes. Then, the sound of whistling.

Mr Kendall goes back down the stairs just as Mrs Bradford enters the great hall, clunking her stick in time to the music. Behind her, she's dragging a plastic trolley full of grocery bags – like she's setting up camp in the house.

‘Hello, Mrs Bradford,' he says loudly. ‘You're keeping well I trust?'

The last note peters out. Looking past Mr Kendall, she lifts her gnarled hand and points her cane at me. ‘What's
she
doing here?'

‘She's with me.' Mr Kendall intones like he's talking to a child. ‘I'm sure you remember Amy Wood. The estate agent.'

I go down the stairs, keeping a smile drawn on my face. I'm sure we both remember all too well our previous encounter when she and her dog ran me off the property, and then she called the solicitor to complain about me. But I remember my resolve – she's an old woman going through a difficult time, and I'm going to be polite.

‘Hello, Mrs Bradford. It's nice to see you again.'

‘Is it?' she says. Her blue eyes look hollow and haunted.

‘All the cleaning you've been doing is really making a difference. The house is really starting to scrub up well.'

‘Well it's high time,' she says. ‘Now that
she's
finally gone. Out with the old and all that.'

‘Yes, I suppose so.' The thinly veiled reference to Arabella's passing is somewhat disturbing.

‘I hope you're not tiring yourself out, Maryanne,' Mr Kendall says. ‘After all, it's a big house.'

‘Pah,' she says. ‘I've never felt better.'

She starts to drag her trolley towards the kitchen stairs. Mr Kendall and I exchange a look.

‘I think the power is still off,' I say. ‘In case you were planning on doing any cooking.' I point to the trolley.

‘Well you would know, wouldn't you,' she says snippily. ‘Since you're always here snooping around; poking your nose where it doesn't belong.' She looks smugly at my shocked face. ‘Taking a few souvenirs for your trouble?'

‘Really, Mrs Bradford—'

Mr Kendall steps forward and cuts me off. ‘Amy and I are here to do our jobs,' he says gently. ‘And Ms Flora had a removals van around to take away some things. But everything that belongs to you is still here, so don't worry about that—'

I purse my lips guiltily, keeping shtum.

‘Oh, I'm not worried.' With a pointed look at me, Mrs Bradford chuckles, and keeps plodding onwards. At the edge of the great hall, she trips on a cracked tile. Her stick quavers like she's about to go down. I run over and help to steady her.

‘Here, at least let me help you with the trolley,' I say.

I expect her to lash out and tell me where to go. So I'm surprised when she leans on my arm and says: ‘All right.'

She regains her balance and lets go of my arm. ‘Hand me that bag, will you,' she says, pointing at the top one.

I do so. Immediately I see that it's not, in fact, groceries in the trolley, but cleaning supplies. She takes out a can of Mr Sheen and some old rags. She sprays some on a rag, and leaning on her cane, begins going up the steps one by one, dragging the rag over the banister.

The whole thing is ridiculous to watch on one level, and heart-breaking on another. Instantly, I grab another rag out of the bag, spray on some Mr Sheen, and begin polishing the white marble balusters.

‘Uhh… Amy,' Mr Kendall says, ‘I think we should go now.'

‘I'd like to have a word with Mrs Bradford first, if you don't mind.' I set my chin firmly. ‘Alone.'

He raises an eyebrow and checks his watch. ‘I have to be back at the office for half six,' he says. ‘So you've got five minutes.'

‘I'll meet you out by the cars.'

*

I continue to polish as Mr Kendall walks out the front door. The only sound is the thud of Mrs Bradford's cane as she makes her way up the stairs, and the swish of the dust rags.

‘They're going to turn Rosemont Hall into a golf course,' I say. ‘I couldn't find a buyer to save it. So it will go to Hexagon.'

From above me on the stairs, Mrs Bradford tsks. ‘A house is just a house,' she says.

I steel myself, determined to find a chink in her armour. ‘Is it? So you don't mind leaving here for good?' I shrug. ‘I'm glad to hear it – because I was worried you might be upset.'

I can feel her looking at me, but I focus intently on the baluster I'm working on. I'm aware that she's reached the top of the stairs, and has stopped polishing.

‘What does it matter what I want or don't want?' she says. ‘I'm just an old lady who was looking after another old lady.'

‘Good. So you don't mind having to relocate? Silly me…' I give a deliberate little laugh, ‘I was worried that Rosemont Hall might feel like home to you.'

She mutters something under her breath. It sounds like ‘more than you know'. Her knuckles are white as her hand reaches for the banister. She strokes it like the smooth cheek of a baby. And that's when I know that I'm right. Mrs Bradford does care about the house.

‘Anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew what was happening. Once the probate decree comes through, things are bound to happen pretty quickly.'

‘I did everything I could,' she says. ‘But I knew in my heart that it wasn't meant to be.'

I glance at her. Her eyes are clouded over. She's not answering me but talking to herself.

I keep silent.

‘And the worst part was all those years of nothing. Not a letter or a how d'ya do.'

She wheels around suddenly to face the painting. My heart almost stops as she brandishes her stick at the girl in the pink dress.

‘Stupid, that's what she was. Stupid.'

‘Oh,' I say, alarmed. ‘Why was she stupid, Mrs Bradford?'

‘She fell in love with the wrong person.'

‘Oh.' I consider this.

‘And who is she?' I ask.

Mrs Bradford ignores me and turns away from the painting. A moment later, it's as if the demon has passed. She begins polishing the dado rail like nothing is amiss.

‘My daughter thinks it's a good idea that I won't be able to come here anymore.'

I stop polishing and look at her. It's hard to know if she's speaking to me or not. I contemplate the fact that Mrs Bradford has a daughter. She seems like such a lone, stalwart figure that I hadn't even thought of her as having family other than the sister in the village.

‘She thinks it was a bad idea that I ever came back here at all. But then again, what does she know?'

‘Your daughter?' I say. ‘Is she local?'

‘No of course not,' she says sharply. ‘She lives in America. She's Jack and Flora's mother.'

‘Their mother?' I look up in surprise. ‘So you're their grandmother?'

‘So you worked that one out, did you?'

‘Sorry,' I say, ‘I had no idea. Mr Kendall said that the heirs were distant relatives. I didn't know you were related to the Windhams.'

She shakes her head like I'm an idiot child. ‘Of course
I'm
not related to them.'

‘But the house…?'

‘Who else were they going to leave it to? They had no children, and no relatives.'

‘I don't know. But you have to admit – it sounds like something out of a fairy tale – a faithful servant inherits the castle…'

She wrinkles her nose.

‘I mean… not that you're a servant…' I add quickly.

‘It was no fairy tale,' she snaps. ‘It was payback. And
I
didn't inherit it. Unfortunately.'

‘Amy?' Mr Kendall's voice is icy as he calls up to me. ‘We need to go now.'

‘Just one more minute,' I shout back.

‘You heard the man – off with you now,' Mrs Bradford flicks her dustcloth in my direction.

‘I will, but I was just wondering one more thing.' I gesture at the painting of the girl in the pink dress. ‘What are you going to do with
her
?'

‘Nothing.' She leans against the wall heavily like the weight of her years is suddenly pressing upon her.

‘I suppose she belongs where she is,' I say with an uncomfortable little laugh. ‘Stupid or not, she fits that spot so well – the spot where the Rembrandt used to hang. Right?'

Mrs Bradford doesn't answer.

‘Maybe Hexagon will buy her and let her stay.' I brush the heavy frame with my fingers. ‘But if not, I had kind of a silly thought,' I say. ‘If you were thinking of selling it, maybe you'd let me know. I have a little money saved up.' I purse my lips. ‘Not much, and actually, I'm supposed to be using it for a down payment on a flat – or a rental deposit. My boyfriend dumped me, you see, and I'm living with my parents,' I prattle on, a last-ditch effort to shake some information out of her.

‘Anyway, it's such a beautiful painting, and you only live once, don't you? No harm in asking and all that?' I give an awkward little laugh. ‘Though I'm sure it's out of my league. I'm a nobody too, you see. And I've also fallen in love with the wrong person.' I can feel myself blushing. ‘Just like the girl in the picture. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to her.'

Her stick is still as she peers at me over the top of her glasses. She doesn't speak, but I can feel her looking at me.

‘Anyway, I'd better go now.' I begin walking down the stairs hoping that she'll stop me. She doesn't.

Until I reach the bottom step.

‘Why do you care so much?' she says. ‘What is it that you want? The painting, or something else?'

‘I wanted to save the house,' I say, shaking my head. ‘But I failed. The only thing I still might be able to do is preserve its memories. The girl is part of that, surely.' I sigh. ‘I thought that maybe, you, of all people, might understand.'

She sucks a breath in through her teeth. ‘All I know is that Rosemont Hall is my home.'

‘Not any more, Mrs Bradford.' I shake my head. ‘I'm really sorry, but not any more.'

*

The freezing rain mirrors my mood as I close the heavy door to the house behind me. Mr Kendall is sitting in his car, the windows steamed up. He rolls one down and gestures for me to get in the passenger side. I do so.

‘Well, Amy,' he says, ‘it's been great working with you. I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you wanted, but…'

‘…but that's life,' I finish for him.

‘I'll give you a call when the probate decree comes through, and if you can get me your part of the paperwork as soon as possible, I'd appreciate it.'

‘Of course,' I say. I make a move to get out of the car. But I just can't let go.

‘What about Mrs Bradford?' I say.

‘What about her?'

‘Should I come back tomorrow? Check that everything's okay and that she knows what's happening? Check that she really has moved out?'

‘No.'

The single word is final; the judgement is passed. My involvement with Rosemont Hall has ended. I turn to him and we shake hands. Bowing my head, I get out of the car. ‘Goodbye, Amy,' Mr Kendall says, ‘and good luck.'

I open my mouth to speak, but the words are lost on the wind. I get into my own car and follow him down the dark, winding drive. I'm leaving Rosemont Hall…

For the last time.

It's over. There's nothing I can do.

Except, there is one little fingernails-gripping-the-edge-of-a-cliff thing that I can do. I can phone Jack. After all, I've had three missed calls from him after our… meaningless-and-never-to-be-repeated encounter. He'd tried to talk to me before he flew off into the sunset.

I could phone Jack. After all, it's rude not to.

But I'm not going to.

This becomes my new mantra each morning as I enter the office, checking my emails first thing to see if there's any word about the Edinburgh teaching job. Mr Kendall is right: I need to move on. I need to forget all about Jack Faraday and Rosemont Hall, turfed-out old ladies, mysterious paintings, buried secrets, and happy endings. The reality is that I'm a 31-year-old single woman working in the profession that everyone loves to hate. I've shown that I can adapt, even excel in a new environment. I've ‘earned my spurs' and proved myself. But I never intended this to be my ‘forever job'. I need to focus on an alternative future.

By Friday morning, the week is almost over, but I've made very little progress getting Rosemont Hall and Jack Faraday out of my mind. I've tried everything – even attempting to raise the ghost of what I once thought I felt for Simon – in the early days, at least. But all I can muster up is a feeling of annoyance with myself that I couldn't see the wood for the trees. What I feel for Jack is totally different – and totally pointless. There's only one thing for it – I must banish Jack Faraday from my head. At my desk I turn on my computer and answer a few emails and enquiries. Jonathan rolls into the office late, gloating about a big sale he's made of a new-build mansion in Cheddar. I ignore the chat around me and print out some documents related to the sale of the Bristol flat.