Finding Home (6 page)

On Monday morning I get up early and drive to Bath. I'm armed for my day at the office with: a packed lunch (chicken sandwich and Mum's home-baked banana bread), my ‘Reader, I married him' mug that I bought at Portobello market, a brand-new No.7 lipstick, and just in case any more babies need birthing, an extra jacket with all the buttons intact. I'm wearing the best specimens of my limited ‘office' wardrobe: a primly cut black skirt, pink twinset with pearl buttons, black patent courts, and my favourite rose-coloured pashmina.

The office is located in a Georgian parade not far from the Pump Rooms. The car park is mostly empty (secretly, I was hoping to be issued a Mini Cooper with a racing stripe like the estate agents drive in London). The back door is locked, and no one answers when I knock. I find a narrow alleyway that leads to the main street, and walk along admiring the lovely golden Bath stone bathed in winter sunlight. I grab a skinny pumpkin spice muffin from Starbucks and go into the office through the front door.

The other three estate agents are already at their desks. Everyone instantly sparks to life, and then fizzles when they see that it's only me. Mr Bowen-Knowles's door is shut, but I can hear his voice through the door. In a way, I'm relieved. I need to tell him about the call I took on Friday afternoon, but I'm hoping to galvanise myself with a coffee first.

Feigning a confidence I don't feel, I go to my desk, plunk down my bag, and greet Claire sitting opposite with a warm ‘Hi, how was your weekend?'

At first she looks puzzled by my friendly manner, but quickly smiles back. ‘It was good,' she says. ‘It was my son's birthday.'

‘Lovely,' I say. ‘How old is he?'

‘Twelve.'

Twelve!
It always amazes me when someone who looks about my age has a twelve-year-old child. I'd never even
thought
about having children until things broke down with Simon, and even then, I can't swear with hand on heart that it was my biggest regret about losing my boyfriend.

Claire looks at me like she's expecting a response.

‘Oh,' is all I can manage. ‘And is there any word about Sally and the baby?' I quickly change tack.

Claire shrugs. ‘Fine as far as I know.'

‘That's good.' I give a little laugh. ‘It was quite an eye-opener for my first day—'

Mr Bowen-Knowles chooses that moment to come out of his office and yell for some coffee. Or that might have been his original reason for bursting onto the main floor, but as soon as he sees me, his face morphs into something reptilian. He gestures curtly for me to go to his office. I stand up, tuck my hair behind my ears, and get ready to march to the gallows. He sits down at his desk and steeples his fingers, and I know I must be in trouble because his close-set eyes never leave my face.

‘I understand you took a phone call on Friday afternoon,' he says.

‘Yes, that's right,' I say brightly. ‘It's a Georgian mansion – sounds like something really special. The solicitor wants a valuation this afternoon. At 3 o'clock. I said I thought that would be okay.'

He scratches his head, fiddles with the clasp on his cufflink, leans forward, and glares at me. ‘Just when were you going to tell someone about this? Or did you think you'd just go there on your own and pull some valuation out of your pert little arse?'

I bite my tongue. Hard. I force myself to stare back at him pleasantly. ‘I was just about to come and tell you. It's like you read my mind.'

He takes out his BlackBerry and looks at the screen.

‘Be ready to go at half two,' he says.

‘You mean…? Yes, of course,' I manage. Before he can change his mind, I excuse myself and close the door of his office behind me.

Back at my desk, I can't stop beaming.

‘What's up?' Claire asks, looking somewhat concerned.

‘It was about that probate call I took on Friday.' I say. ‘Mr Bowen-Knowles is going today to value the property, and he's agreed to let me tag along for the experience.' I give a little laugh. ‘I was worried that he would say no.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patricia and Jonathan exchange knowing looks. Claire raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.

‘What? Did I say something wrong?'

Jonathan smirks behind his hand, looking like a guilty public-school boy who's made a mess of the toilet on Parents' Day. Ignoring him, I focus on Claire. She doesn't seem that tight with the rest of them, but clearly I haven't won her over yet.

‘Are you married, Amy?' she asks.

‘No. Why?'

‘Umm, no reason.'

It's obvious that there
is
a reason, but that no one wants to tell me. So that's how they want to play it, then? Fine. Without another word, I grab my mug and go off to the kitchen. I lean against the sink, my fists clenched. ‘Temporary,' I mouth to myself. ‘This job is just temporary.'

A moment later, Claire joins me. She takes one look at me, and puts a finger to her lips. ‘The walls have ears,' she whispers. ‘Not to mention gaping gobs. But some night after work, maybe we can go to the pub. I'll fill you in on the gory details.'

‘Okay.' My anger ebbs. ‘Let's do it.'

It's as if we've silently made a pact over our cups of lukewarm, bitter coffee. I return to my desk and log onto the computer, pleased that I actually have a few emails (a system-generated welcome message and some spam). I still have no work, but that seems, at most, a technicality. Instead, I google Rosemont Hall. I know it's not exactly trolling the archives of the British Library, but still, it feels good to be doing some ‘research'.

The first entry I find is on a website about ‘England's Heritage at Risk'. According to the site, hundreds of country houses fell to ruin after the war and were demolished prior to the 1970s. Of the ones that are left, thousands are at risk of becoming derelict or are already in ruins. One of them is Rosemont Hall. There's a brief article that I read through carefully.

The house was originally built in 1765, and is considered one of the finest examples of Georgian Palladian-style architecture in the South West. The original owner made his money in the slave trade. He lost the house in a game of whist to a small-time gambler called William Windham. Windham became a Lord, and commissioned his own family crest – a dog and unicorn – symbolising fidelity and virtue.

The house was passed down in the Windham family for generations. In the twentieth century, the most illustrious owner was Sir George Windham, a war hero who made a name for himself as an art dealer and collector. The house fell into disrepair after World War II, and Sir George was forced to sell off his art collection to pay for repairs. The East Wing of the house burned down in the early 1950s and Sir George died soon afterwards. The house was passed to his son, Henry Windham. The family fortunes diminished, the East Wing was never rebuilt, and the house slid into further decline.

The more I read, the more the images of the house and its past begin to take shape in my mind. Slave traders, gamblers, war heroes – straight from the pages of a romantic novel. And the unmentioned women who were no doubt there too – somehow they all found a home at Rosemont Hall. What lives and loves has it witnessed, what secrets have its walls overheard? The final line of the article gives me goosebumps: ‘Now in a perilous state, this important house has an uncertain future.'

I sit back in my chair and consider things with new clarity. Last week, my getting this job was all about earning money to afford my own flat. But now, suddenly, an important and imperilled piece of history is about to be placed in my care. How well I do my job will influence its fate – maybe even its continued existence.
If
I can convince Mr Bowen-Knowles to put me in charge.

I jot down the key details about the house so that I can trot them out later for Mr Kendall, the solicitor. I lose myself in the work, concentrating so hard that I completely fail to notice the long shadow of Mr Bowen-Knowles frowning over my desk.

‘It's almost half two,' he announces. ‘You coming?'

‘What? Now?' I quickly close my notebook. ‘I mean, yes, I'm ready.' Everyone in the office watches as I find the address details. Mr Bowen-Knowles checks his watch with an irritated sigh, then heads out the door. I grab my coat and handbag and mouth a quick goodbye to Claire. She wishes me luck, then turns away to chat with the rest of them now that the boss (and/or the new girl) is leaving.

In the car park, Mr Bowen-Knowles points to a gunmetal-grey BMW. I hesitate. ‘Maybe I can follow behind you,' I suggest. ‘The house is on my way home, actually.'

‘Where's your car?' he asks coldly. I point to the slightly battered Vauxhall Corsa that I picked up at Car Giant before I left London.

Mr Bowen-Knowles snorts. ‘I don't want that thing within two miles of any of our clients, do you understand? Get in.' He pings open the automatic locks. I get in the passenger side with my head hung low. I picture him making another mental tick against me: wrong accent, wrong car, wrong – everything. But I
will
persevere.

I sit in silence as my boss punches the address into his satnav. We pull out of the car park with
Talk Sport
blaring on the radio. I try to think of something intelligent to say about whatever the current caller – ‘Jim from Newcastle' – is banging on about: a referee's decision not to give Newcastle a penalty against Arsenal…

Arsenal.
Simon's team. As we drive on in awkward silence, a cloud of sadness engulfs me.

He switches off the radio. ‘Check under the seat, will you?' he says. ‘I've got a printout of local prices in here somewhere.'

‘Okay, sure.' I dig under the seat and pull out a stack of papers. I flip through them, hoping that in the half-hour or so before we arrive at our destination, he'll explain to me all the tricks of the trade.

Tricks of the trade.

Silly me.

I discard a few old property brochures and a printed Google map. Underneath the map, in all its glory, is yesterday's
Sun
folded open to the page 3 girl. I stare at the assets of Amanda, age 18 from Huddersfield (enjoys diving, candlelit dinners, and netball) who is gracing the page, and see out of the corner of my eye that Mr Bowen-Knowles is looking right at me. He meant for me to find it!

He grins wolfishly and switches the radio back on. ‘Never mind – maybe it's in the boot. And by the way, when we get to the house, just stand there and look pretty – I'll do the talking.'

‘You have reached your destination,' the electronic voice drones. I forget all about my infuriating boss as we turn off the main road and head through a pair of ancient stone pillars each with a weathered urn on top. Twisted wrought-iron gates sag under their own weight, half-hidden by twining blackberry thorns and nettles.

A sense of anticipation expands inside my chest as we make our way up the curving drive, flanked by a thick woodland of beech, silver birch, and the odd giant rhododendron. Flame-coloured leaves swirl in the air and settle onto the road. Eventually, the trees thin out to rolling fields dotted with sheep.

The car tops a little hill and suddenly, it's there before us – Rosemont Hall. It stands four stories tall, with a main section and two symmetrical wings on either side. The centre section is made of red brick and cream stone, and graced by Palladian-style pilasters. At the pinnacle of the roof, a huge round window stares out at the parkland and the surrounding countryside like an ever-vigilant eye.

And the moment I see it, I experience a powerful sensation almost like déjà vu. My pulse amplifies in my chest.

‘What a dump,' my boss says. He points to the right side of the house. ‘Looks like it's about to collapse.'

I bite my tongue and look where he's pointing. The wing on the right is a total ruin. Huge burned timbers cut across the sky and there are weeds growing along the top of the remnants of the wall. The bricks are smoke-stained around the empty window frames, and streaks of damp darken the wall like tears. It looks so sad, and yet also, hopelessly romantic; standing silent and stalwart against the ravages of time, neglect, and the English climate.

The drive curves around a circular forecourt, and a sweeping set of stone stairs leads up to the front door. We park next to a decrepit stone fountain in which algae-covered nymphs frolic in a trickle of water. I jump out of the car, craning my neck to take in the full height of the house. Above me, the stone lintels and window cornices are cracked and decayed, and mortar is crumbling between the stone quoins and bricks. I snap a few quick photographs on my mobile. Visions creep into my mind about how it must have looked in its heyday: armies of servants in prim black and white lining up to greet the master on his return home from a hunt; ladies sweeping out of a carriage in their dresses of silk, taffeta and velvet purchased on a shopping trip to Mayfair; the gravel drive neatly raked; the hedges trimmed in fantastical shapes in the formal gardens, the fountain clear and bubbling, the imposing front door black and glossy with fresh paint.

A drop of water falls on my nose, and the vision evaporates. Water is trickling down from a carved stone pediment above the door. I can just make out the family crest – a dog and a unicorn – fidelity and virtue. It's so cracked and weathered that I fear it might topple down on us.

I may be new to the job, but even I can tell that Rosemont Hall is in peril.

The weak yellow sun goes behind a cloud, leaving the face of the house in shadow. Another car – a blue BMW – is coming up the drive. As it parks next to its grey twin, Mr Bowen-Knowles stands at the ready with a small spiral notebook in hand.

‘Must be Mr Kendall,' I state the obvious.

‘Remember what I said.' His grin is disturbing like he's having a flashback to the newspaper under the seat. But I can't worry about that now. I'm completely focused on the house and the task at hand. The newcomer gets out of the car. He's mid-fifties, with greying hair and a kindly, almost grandfatherly face. He looks smart in a grey suit, blue tie, and grey woollen overcoat.