Finding Home (7 page)

‘Mr Kendall, I presume?' Mr Bowen-Knowles instantly smarms all over him. ‘I'm Alistair Bowen-Knowles – please call me Alistair.' He holds out his hand sheepishly, like they should be greeting each other with a Bullingdon Club secret handshake instead of meeting like complete strangers. ‘Such an amazing place. Such history! It'll be such a pleasure to work with you on this err… project.' He twists his right cufflink.

‘Yes… uhh… Mr Alistair, pleased to meet you. I'm Ian Kendall.' He looks awkwardly at me as they shake hands.

‘Hello,' I say, stepping forward. ‘I'm Amy Wood. We spoke on the phone.'

‘Nice to meet you.' He shakes my hand firmly and gestures towards the house. ‘Shall we go inside?'

We follow him up the steps to the front door. Mr Kendall takes out an ancient bundle of keys that looks like they might unlock the Bastille. It takes several tries before one turns in the corroded lock.

We step inside into a vestibule that opens onto an enormous main hall. I'm vaguely aware of my boss making the appropriate noises of appreciation – whereas I'm genuinely awestruck. The double-height hall is gracefully oval-shaped, with a chequerboard floor of grey and white marble. Faux Ionic columns and empty statuary niches adorn the cool white marble walls. The ceiling is decorative plaster with a painting in the middle depicting various
in flagrante
Greek gods and goddesses.

At the back of the hall, a staircase sweeps upwards and divides, creating two symmetrical galleries that overlook the main hall. Huge latticed windows trap the sunlight.

But just like on the outside, neglect and decay have taken residence everywhere. Spots of damp mottle the ceiling; wide cracks gape in the walls and floor. The cavernous room is freezing, and silently devoid of life. Its heart has stopped, or at least, needs a major kick-start.

‘The house has been in the Windham family for six generations,' Mr Kendall explains as we walk through a suite of rooms off the hall. ‘The last of the Windhams – Henry and his wife Arabella – were married for almost forty years. Henry died over a decade ago. Arabella passed on two weeks ago.'

‘That explains it then,' Mr Bowen-Knowles smirks, gesturing at the mounds of clutter, lattice of cobwebs and threadbare furniture. ‘We see it a lot. A lifetime's worth of stuff that no one wants and no one knows what to do with.'

‘It's like a time warp,' I say, rapt with fascination. The rooms we go through are faded but elegant: the green salon, the library, the yellow dining room. ‘The Windhams must have been very happy here.'

Mr Kendall smiles faintly. ‘Perhaps. Though, they never did have any children. The heirs – Mr Jack and Ms Flora – are distant relatives. They're American.'

‘It must have been amazing for them to inherit a spectacular English country house,' I say.

Mr Kendall shakes his head. ‘Neither of them has ever visited the house. And they aren't planning to. They're very keen to sell as quickly as possible.'

‘Then you've come to the right place,' my boss chimes in.

I shake my head, astounded. Why wouldn't the heirs even want to see the house that they'd inherited? To be handed Rosemont Hall on a silver platter would be a dream come true for someone like me – and a lot of other people, I'm sure.

We continue on our tour. The flotsam and jetsam of decades of married life is visible everywhere: dusty books and old magazines, vases filled with dead flowers, worn sofas, and time-darkened photographs. I feel a pang of nostalgia for the life I thought I had with Simon, and sad that I no longer have anyone to amass this kind of history with. But more than that, I'm angry – on behalf of the deceased owners whose heirs won't even come and see the house where they lived.

There are also a few gems scattered among the clutter: some lovely antique tables; a collection of Sevres china and glassware in an ornate floor-to-ceiling cabinet; gilded mirrors in all shapes and sizes. But something seems to be missing and I can't put my finger on it.

‘Do the heirs want anything,' my boss asks, or ‘would you like us to just get a removal van to clean out all this
junk
.'

The word echoes around the room. Mr Kendall raises his eyebrows.

‘The Windham's
belongings
will need to stay here for now,' he says. ‘There's an elderly housekeeper – Mrs Maryanne Bradford – who was devoted to the house and nursed Mrs Windham through her last illness. In the last year before Mrs Windham died, she was staying in one of the rooms on the third floor. Some of the things here may be hers.'

‘Fine,' Mr Bowen-Knowles says. ‘A developer won't care if there's a little clutter.'

‘What's going to happen to her?' I say.

Both men look at me.

‘Mrs Bradford. Where will she go when the house is sold?'

‘She'll need to move out, of course,' Mr Kendall says. ‘There's no reason for her to stay.'

‘Oh. What a shame.' I feel pang of sadness for the old woman. I read somewhere that having to move house is a major cause of stress and premature death in the elderly.

‘Her sister has a cottage in the village,' Mr Kendall assures me. ‘She won't have any trouble relocating.'

My boss's forehead cracks into a frown. He moves in front of me like a rook threatening a pawn. ‘Let's see the rest of the house, shall we?'

Mr Kendall leads the way up the grand staircase. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara as I trail my hand over the cool marble banister. At the top landing where the staircase divides, I stop. In the centre of the wall is an exquisite, life-sized oil painting of a young woman of about seventeen or eighteen. The background is a blend of murky blacks and greys, and her form emerges like an apparition. Her dark blonde hair is elaborately swept up and tied with ribbons, a few curls cascading around her neck. The bodice of her dress is pale-pink silk with a hint of lace at the neckline. The fabric sweeps out from her waist in shadowy folds, catching the light, and fading back into the blackness. But the most striking thing is the woman herself. Her eyes are bold and arresting, painted the delicate blue colour of forget-me-nots. Her features are soft, with high cheekbones and a delicately shaped nose. Her bow-shaped mouth is drawn up in a half-smile, like she has a secret.

‘What a lovely woman,' I say, as Mr Kendall pauses next to me. ‘Who is she, do you know?'

‘No.' Mr Kendall pauses briefly. ‘Though I've often wondered.'

I stare closer at the painting. It's set in a heavily gilded frame that protrudes from the wall a good six inches. There's a brass plaque at the bottom with the date etched in black: 1899. But there's no name, and doesn't appear to be a signature by the artist.

Mr Bowen-Knowles taps his foot impatiently and I have to move on. I follow Mr Kendall through a series of interconnecting rooms – bedrooms, bathrooms, dressing rooms, sitting rooms – on the first and second floors. The rooms all smell of damp, there are bits of flaked-off paint and plaster on the floor, and some of the windows are literally rotting out of their frames. The walls are covered with mildew-spotted wallpaper in garish colours and patterns – and then I realise the thing that's missing throughout the house. Other than the portrait of the young woman in the pink dress, there is practically no artwork anywhere. There are no smoke-darkened portraits of fated ancestors, views of Venice or caricatures of favourite horses or hunting dogs. The only pictures are a few twee landscape prints in a style fit to grace the front window of a charity shop.

The next floor up consists of a long corridor of small rooms – the servants' quarters. The corridor ends abruptly at a white wooden door. I walk towards it, sniffing the air. Instead of the musty damp of the rest of the house, I smell baking.

‘That's Mrs Bradford's room,' Mr Kendall says. ‘There's a little kitchenette in there.'

I move closer. Cinnamon, ginger… she must be making biscuits, or maybe scones. My stomach gives an almighty rumble. It seems so sad that an old lady who was a loyal employee and who bakes nice things will have to be turfed out. And if we get the instruction to sell the house, then part of my job will be to make sure it happens.

‘Whatever she's baking smells delicious.' I say.

Mr Kendall stops me going any nearer to the door with a hand on my arm. ‘Let's not disturb her,' he says.

‘Oh, of course not.'

We climb yet another staircase that leads to the top of the house, and a huge attic with an oak-beamed ceiling. The space is partially filled with boxes and old furniture, but just below the huge round window, there's an area that was obviously once used as an artist's studio. Two easels are set up near a rack of canvases covered with cobwebs. There's a wooden box of well-used paint tubes, a dried palate of oils, and a wine glass with a dusty residue in the bottom. I can almost smell the ghostly vapours of turpentine; feel the presence of an unknown artist who might return at any second to resume his work.

‘I understand that the father – Sir George – was an art collector, was he not?' I run my finger over a stack of old gilded frames, sending up a shimmering shower of dust motes.

‘Yes,' Mr Kendall confirms. ‘That's right.'

‘But there doesn't seem to be much art around – other than the portrait on the stairs.'

Mr Kendall stares out of the oriel window at the acres of parkland below. ‘I don't know much about it, but I believe that after the war most of Sir George Windham's collection was sold off to pay for repairs to the house. A few paintings were kept, including a Rembrandt. But that was destroyed when the East Wing caught fire.'

‘A Rembrandt was destroyed?' I say. ‘That's tragic.'

‘Yes,' Mr Kendall agrees. ‘It is.'

He seems about to say more, but just then, Mr Bowen-Knowles flashes me another look. I press my lips shut. It's not just Mr Kendall that I have to win over, but my boss too.

‘So Ian,' he says in a keen-to-get-down-to-business voice, ‘based on what I see, there's a lot of potential here – for the right developer and…' he clears his throat, ‘at the right price.'

We head back down a secondary servants' staircase.

‘And what, in your professional opinion, would that be?' Mr Kendall asks.

‘Well, since the heirs want a quick sale, they could auction it. They might find a buyer, but it's unlikely to get them “top-dollar”, so to speak.'

‘And what will?'

‘Finding the
right
buyer,' Mr Bowen-Knowles says smugly. ‘Someone with the cash and wherewithal to jump through the planning and listed building hoops to develop it.' He rubs his chin. ‘I'm thinking top-end luxury flats. Swimming pool complex, spa, the works. I saw some outbuildings as we came in – a stables and what-not. Perfect for conversion.'

‘Flats!' I blurt out. ‘But that would be awful.'

Mr Bowen-Knowles glares at me. This time, I ignore him.

‘Surely it should be a family home, with people to love it,' I say. ‘That's what it was intended to be. Or else restore it and open it up to the public. And also, we need to make sure that Mrs Bradford isn't displaced too abruptly.'

‘Amy…' Mr Bowen-Knowles's voice holds a ‘one more word and you're sacked' warning in it.

‘I'm sorry,' I say. ‘It just seems a shame. There's so much history here. Shouldn't it be preserved?'

Mr Kendall gives me a kindly smile. ‘I've been solicitor to the Windham family for years, and yes, you're right, Henry Windham would have wanted the house to be preserved in its original state. But unfortunately, there's no money in the estate for that. And Mrs Bradford will be fine. My job is to sell the house and obtain the highest price possible for Mr Jack and Ms Flora.' He kicks at a cracked stone with the toe of his polished shoe. ‘And flats… well… yes, if you can find someone to do a conversion, it would be a good result.' He looks up at me. ‘The alternative might be even worse.'

‘How?' I challenge.

‘There's a rumour going around that a big American developer called Hexagon is buying up land around here for a golf course and recreation complex. “Golf Heritage” they call it – there's another one near Minehead.'

‘Ah,' Mr Bowen-Knowles says, like he's sorry he didn't think of that.

‘There's lots of local support around her for more recreation facilities,' Mr Kendall adds.

I shake my head, picturing this amazing, special house with checked-trouser-clad golfers clomping through it, a pro-shop just off the main hall. Sprinklers watering the lawn and golf buggies zipping over hill and dale. A huge car park out front; a floodlit driving range at the side. Simon and Ashley coming here for a long weekend of Pimm's on the terrace, canoodles on the eighteenth green, ‘his and her' massages in the spa. ‘Golf Heritage': a historical tragedy.

‘What about the National Trust or English Heritage?' I challenge. ‘Surely, they must have some say in what happens?'

Mr Kendall shrugs. ‘There are lots of derelict old piles around and nowhere near enough money to fix them all. Hexagon can't demolish the place if that's what you're worried about.' He sighs. ‘But I'm afraid that they don't have the best reputation for conservation.'

‘Really, in what way—?'

Mr Bowen-Knowles holds up his hand to cut me off. ‘Has Hexagon made an offer?' he asks.

‘Not officially. They threw out a figure, but frankly, it was nowhere near what the heirs were expecting. I told them as much.'

Mr Bowen-Knowles laughs. ‘It's an old trick,' he says. ‘Force them to auction it and Hexagon will pick it up for a song. Unless,
we
can find you a buyer.'

‘And can you?'

Mr Bowen-Knowles nods. ‘Having come here today,' he says, ‘I'm confident that
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
can achieve the best possible price for the property. In fact, I've got a list of developers who might be interested in viewing it.' He grins smugly. ‘And even if we don't find a buyer, our marketing should at least get Hexagon to up their offer.'