Finding Home (5 page)

‘No milk, two sugars,' I repeat lamely.

Claire returns to her desk and I bring Mr Bowen-Knowles his mug of coffee. Luckily he's on the phone when I go into his office, and other than his frown lingering a good eight inches below my chin, I escape unscathed. As I close the door, Jonathan's be-pinstriped, be-hair-gelled personage emerges from the spare office. The Blundells trail after him, looking positively downtrodden.

‘Goodbye,' I say as they walk past me. ‘I hope you find the perfect home.'

‘Oh, we will.' Mary Blundell smiles at me. I smile back, hoping that I see them again. There's a twinkle in her eye and I get the distinct idea that she's not actually cowed by Jonathan's power-of-posh. Nor should she be – after all, they're the ones with the budget of three million (three million!) pounds.

As the Blundells are leaving, the older woman who I saw earlier, Patricia, arrives. As soon as she opens her mouth to greet the others, I peg her as the Cheltenham Ladies College ringer: Camilla Parker Bowles suit, hot-curlered hair, horsey laugh, calls people ‘Dahling'. Everyone but me, that is. When I introduce myself, she gives me a pained wince and turns to Jonathan to talk cricket.

*

The hours tick by on Cinderella's glass slipper. I realise that in academia, I was never really conscious of time passing – or in this case, not passing. Claire leaves for her viewing, and returns looking down in the mouth, like it was all a waste of time. No other clients come through the door, and except for the odd moment of everyone perking up whenever someone hovers on the pavement outside, the atmosphere is one of varying degrees of boredom.

‘Can I help out with anything?' I ask each of them in turn. I'm answered with shaken heads all around. I shuffle through the brochures again. There are so many books I could be reading; young people I could be teaching. Sitting here, I feel like one of the many nameless women that history has forgotten – without any sort of meaningful status or occupation. The only consolation is that, looking around at the others, I can imagine that they might be feeling the same way.

The office phone rings and suddenly everyone sits up at attention. Patricia answers it and we all hang on her every word: ‘Yes… that's right… yes we do… you've come to exactly the right place.'

She puts her hand over the phone: ‘New instruction!' she whispers excitedly.

Everyone exchanges excited glances. Jonathan actually leaps to his feet.

We all watch her face as she listens to the voice at the other end. Her smile begins ever so slowly to melt. ‘Please hold for a moment,' she says.

‘It's a probate,' she announces grimly. ‘They're popping their clogs right and left around here. But I did the Harris estate – it's someone else's turn.'

‘Not me, I'm afraid.' Jonathan plunks back down with his elbows spread behind his head. ‘I'm shooting off now to do that Weston-super-Mare valuation. No time to talk to a long-winded solicitor. You do it, Claire – it's good practice for being a mouthpiece.'

‘I'd love to,' Claire replies, ‘but the childminder just texted.' She gives an unapologetic little shrug. ‘I've get to go get Atul a bit earlier today.'

A silence ensues. Patricia taps her fingers on the desk, her equine face more closely resembling a stubborn mule.

‘I'll do it,' I say in a small voice, wondering what I've just agreed to do; vainly hoping that someone will fill me in.

‘Line two,' Patricia says. ‘Mr Kendall.'

I fumble with the phone headset, and get my pen and paper ready. I'm conscious that everyone is watching me. Judging… One button on the phone is lit. Taking a breath, I press it.

‘
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
, Amy Wood speaking. How may I help you?'

…And the solicitor on the other end speaks quickly and with purpose.

…And I furiously scribble down notes: Mr Kendall represents the estate of an old woman who has just died. The house needs to be sold. But it's not just any house. My heart begins to thrum with excitement.

‘…Rosemont Hall, a Palladian-style Georgian manor house with 120 acres.'

‘…historical gem that's been in the family for 200 years.'

‘…partially derelict and needs total modernisation…'

‘If your valuation is adequate, we'll give you the exclusive listing…'

‘Miss Wood?'

…And I've been writing so quickly that I barely realise that Mr Kendall is addressing me. ‘So, can you send someone round for the valuation?'

‘Absolutely,' I say. ‘How about tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow's Saturday. Can you come round on Monday, 3 o'clock?'

‘Monday, 3 o'clock.' My hand is trembling with excitement as I write down the time and the address for my first viewing. ‘Great. I'll definitely see you then.'

When I arrive at the bungalow that evening, my mind is overflowing with possibilities. I keep replaying all of the events of the day, especially every word of the phone call I took about Rosemont Hall. I have a strange feeling – a premonition almost – that for me, everything is about to change. It's almost like a house from the books I love has jumped off the page and landed in my lap. Surely it's fate that I took the call – one that no one else could be bothered with. Now I just have to convince Mr Bowen-Knowles to put me in charge of the viewings.

Mum and Dad are already eating dinner when I come inside – chicken casserole. I sit down at the table, suddenly ravenous. ‘Guess what!' I say. ‘I got the job.'

‘Well done, Princess.' Dad devours a Brussel sprout, takes a gulp of wine, and gives me a proud smile.

Mum looks up. ‘That blouse is practically see-through. Your bra is showing. What happened to your jacket?'

‘It's a long story.' I pull the edges of my blouse together. Not that it helps.

Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘And what exactly is the job?'

‘It's at an estate agent's,' I say. ‘They're called
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
.'

‘An estate agent's!' Dad's forkful of peas seems to go down the wrong way. ‘I thought it was a solicitor's or something.' He looks at Mum.

‘No wonder Mrs Harvey never said.' Mum pours gravy over her potatoes.

I put down my fork, alarmed. ‘But I thought… I mean – you said I should try for it.'

‘Well, you sounded desperate.'

‘I wouldn't say that. And anyway, there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. Is there? Just think of Kirsty and Phil, or Sarah Beeny – or Kevin on
Grand Designs
. I know you watch all those shows. Everyone does.'

‘Well maybe once or twice.' Dad scratches his mop of greying hair. ‘Becca, what was the name of that estate agent who sold us our house?'

‘Frank Knightly or something like that. He told us the boiler was new and then “bang” – within six months it needed a total replacement.'

‘Two thousand quid!' Dad chimes in, as if I'm personally responsible.

‘And then there's the school extension practically in the back garden,' Mum shakes her head. ‘Literally – not a mention. And now the kids are so close they can virtually see into our loo.' She gives me the tsk reserved for her most indolent students.

‘I guess everyone has their horror stories.' I clench my teeth. ‘But at least it's a job. And I'll mostly be doing… uhh… admin and office-manager stuff. And some viewings at the weekend. Country retreats – for rich Londoners.'

Dad pushes away his plate like he's suddenly lost his appetite. ‘Londoners are pricing local people out of the market. I'm not sure we should be supporting that―'

I throw up my hands. ‘Look, I'm sorry my new job does not involve developing a cure for cancer or helping underprivileged children, or teaching teenagers about the plight of wronged literary heroines through the centuries. I'm sorry that I can't get a teaching job, and that even Tesco and McDonald's might not have me. Never mind that in actual fact, I spent the morning practically delivering a baby on an office floor. Then later on I took a call about selling an amazing Georgian house – a “historical gem” with “bags of potential”. I was starting to feel good about things.'

There's a moment of awkward silence around the table. ‘Don't worry, honey,' Dad says. ‘We're very proud of you.'

I turn away so he can't see the tear leaking from the corner of my eye. I'm grateful that he's bothered to lie, and sorry that he has to.

‘Worse things happen at sea,' Mum says.

I nod silently.

Mum peers over at my plate. ‘You haven't eaten a thing. If you don't like the casserole, there are some sausages left over from last night.'

‘Thanks Mum, but I'm not hungry.' I push away the plate of casserole and stand up. ‘And just so you know – I actually hate sausages.'

Leaving them to look at each other in shock, I make my exit from the kitchen.

Alone in my bedroom, I remove my world-weary blouse, lie down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. My parents may be unimpressed with my new job, but I can't let that defeat me. Even if there are a few bad apples in the barrel, it doesn't mean that every estate agent is like that. And anyway, I can be different from the rest. Thinking about it objectively, there are lots of positives to my new job. I'll get to meet new people, learn new skills, and maybe – once I'm no longer ‘only admin' – find someone their perfect home. That's an exciting prospect, surely.

I let out an inevitable sigh as thoughts of Simon creep out of the shadows beyond the circle of lamplight. His features are beginning to blur in my mind, but I can still picture every detail of the darling little flat in the terrace with the blue plaques. Did Simon and ‘Ashley' buy the flat together? Are they there together now, limbs coiled in an ornately scrolled brass bed with a cover that she quilted herself? I change my clothes and concentrate on pushing all thoughts of it from my mind. For me, that future wasn't meant to be. Which means that somewhere out there is a new way that I'll have to forge myself. I've taken the first step – if I can work for a few months at the estate agency, at least I'll be able to pay the minimum on my student loans until a teaching job comes along. And once I ‘earn my spurs' doing admin and viewings, maybe I'll even earn some commission. When at last I've saved enough for my own flat, I know that Mum will help me scour charity shops for old china and furniture to ‘upcycle', and Dad will be able to help out if it needs redecoration. I'll have wall-to-wall bookshelves and a comfy sofa, and maybe a little fireplace if I'm really lucky… And working at an estate agency, maybe I'll even get an inside track on anything in budget that comes on to the market. When the next ‘right' home for me comes along, I'll need to be ready.

I get up and walk over to the bookshelf. On the top shelf there's a framed photo of me sitting on Dad's old ride-on lawnmower at the cottage where I grew up. The cottage was in the middle of nowhere – miles away from school or any girls my age. It smelled of Mum's home-made bread on a Saturday morning, linseed oil on the wooden panelling, and Dad's cigars. It smelled of home, because that's what it was. It may not have been flesh and blood, but it had a living, beating heart. One that resonated with mine.

Once, I asked Dad why they sold the cottage after he'd spent so much time doing it up with his own two hands. ‘I did love that place,' Dad had admitted. ‘But to be honest, when we knew you'd be leaving to go to uni, there didn't seem any point to staying there. It wouldn't have been the same without you.'

The living and beating heart of the house.

I take a well-thumbed copy of
Jane Eyre
off the shelf. It's been my favourite book ever since I was a girl. At night, curled up in my little bed under the beams, Jane was like the best friend I didn't have. The book was much more than words on a page – reading it made me feel like I'd breathed her every breath, lived her every moment. And some of her moments – as she falls in love with Rochester – were, in hindsight, the closest I've ever come to finding that one true love that every girl dreams about.

I turn on my reading light and get into my bed. The book falls open to one of my favourite passages – where Jane meets Mr Rochester on the moor:

I read a little more, then close the book, and turn off the light. ‘Rosemont Hall,' I whisper into the darkness.
Rosemont Hall
.

Letter 2 (Transcription) (unsigned)

Rosemont Hall

May 8
^th
1952

Dearest A

My exams have finished and I arrived home last night. When can I see you? Will you meet me tomorrow night in our old place? I have so much to tell you.

I'm sorry to say that my father is much changed for the worse. When I came into the house, he was wandering through the halls, staring at the blank spaces on the walls; mumbling to the absent ghosts. At first, I thought he hadn't seen me. But then, he spoke. ‘I've put things in motion,' he said. ‘It's time you made something of yourself.' I recognised that cold gleam in his eye. Whatever he's planning, I want no part in it.

I also know that if I am ever to ‘make something of myself', I need you by my side. It's time that we talked of our future, my love. My dream is for our children to chase each other through the corridors of this old house, to slide down the banisters, and play hide-and-seek in the secret rooms behind the panelling! And even if the roof leaks, and the plaster cracks, and the paint peels, we will be happy here. Together we will fill this sad place with laughter once again.