Finding Home Read online

  The next message is from Mr Kendall asking me to ring him as soon as possible. I stall – make some coffee, run out and grab a muffin, eat it slowly at my desk. While I’m at it, I google Jack Faraday.

  There are a lot of hits. Jack Faraday is officially a rich and successful computer geek. I find a picture of him in the San Francisco Chronicle giving a $100,000 cheque to a cancer charity. There’s another article on the sale of his company with figures involving more noughts than I can count on one hand. I was right all along: Jack Faraday has the money to keep Rosemont Hall and save it.

  But he isn’t going to.

  As I close down the website, my phone rings. I recognise Mr Kendall’s number.

  I grab the phone. ‘Hi Mr Kendall,’ I say. ‘I was just about to ring you.’

  ‘Hello Amy.’ He sounds cordial as usual, if a little chilly. He tells me that since we’re no longer instructed on the sale of Rosemont Hall, I don’t need to deal with Hexagon; he’ll take care of Nigel Netelbaum himself. All he needs from me is the keys back as soon as possible.

  ‘Sure,’ I choke, ‘I can drop the keys by your office.’

  ‘All right then, if—’

  I cut him off. ‘You know, Mr Kendall, I tried to convince Mr Jack that he should keep the house – it’s part of his family heritage and all that. I think he could afford to fix it up, if he wanted to.’ I give a weak laugh. ‘But I couldn’t persuade him.’

  Mr Kendall sighs – he obviously thinks I’ve got way too big for my knickers. ‘Not everyone is like you, Amy. Why should Mr Jack and Ms Flora – two people who have their own lives in America – want to keep a house that they’ve never visited before – maybe never even knew existed.’ He begins to sound perturbed. ‘You may not know it, but they’re running out of time before they will have to pay the estate debts and the first instalment of a whopping inheritance tax bill.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Besides, not every family history is a happy one. The Windhams may have owned a grand house, but in the end, it’s just a house. What about the people who lived there – aren’t they more important? And believe me―’ he pauses as something beeps in the background.

  ‘Yes…’ I coax. ‘Please… I’d really like to know more. So I can understand.’

  ‘Sorry Amy, I’ve got another call that I need to take. You know – don’t worry about dropping off the keys. I’ll send someone round later today.’

  ‘No really, it’s―’

  The phone clicks off.

  My chest feels like a black hole, but for the rest of the morning it’s filled with other matters. Ronan Keene phones, and (miracle of miracles) puts in an offer on the Bristol flat. I ring the vendor myself and come back with a counter-offer, engage in some toing and froing on the price, and finally an agreement is reached. My co-workers are hanging on with bated breath while I close the deal. By the time I get started on the paperwork, once again my name is heading to the top of the sales chart on the door of the disabled loo.

  That should make me happy. I am happy. So why don’t I feel it?

  I check my mobile, hoping Jack might have rung again. He hasn’t. I debate ringing him. I don’t. After all, what’s the point? Jack Faraday will go back to America. Rosemont Hall will be sold. I’ll still be here at Tetherington Bowen Knowles.

  Unless I do something about it.

  Luckily, I know just the thing. It’s as if the universe has sensed my wayward path and is now catapulting me in the right direction. I’ve been playing estate agent and old-house advocate for long enough. It’s time for me to go back to my true vocation – teaching literature. If nothing else, it’s much less painful than real life.

  I spend an hour dusting off my CV and writing a cover email to the headmaster of the school for girls in Edinburgh. I wax lyrical about how I’ve always been inspired by setting as a ‘character’ in fiction, and how I’m looking forward to exploring with my students works that evoke the wilds of Scotland – Rob Roy, Ivanhoe, the poetry of Robert Burns. By the time I’ve written my piece, I’ve almost managed to convince myself. Almost. My throat is tight as I press send.

  At lunchtime, Claire asks if I want to grab a sandwich. I don’t much feel like it, but I’m desperate for someone to talk sense into me. As we stand in line at Pret, I tell her the latest on Rosemont Hall (leaving out certain relevant details about my dinner with its reluctant heir).

  As expected, she’s less than sympathetic to my plight. ‘God, Amy, you’ve really got to get a grip,’ is what she says.

  ‘Yes – I want to. But how?’

  ‘Well, you can start by facing the facts. If the house is sold, then it’s sold,’ Claire says. ‘It may be a shame, but no one’s died… I mean, other than the last owner. But you need to move on. The heirs have every right to sell it if they don’t want it.’

  ‘I know, it’s just…’

  ‘It’s just what?’ She cocks her head, frowning. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. Is it the old lady who’s been turfed out? Or something else?’

  I realise that someday, Claire is going to make one hell of a barrister. ‘Well, there is one other thing that might be worth mentioning…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The heir: Jack Faraday.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘We had dinner. And a long talk.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘I think I might be falling for him.’

  Claire’s mouth becomes a lip-lined ‘O’. ‘Please say you’re joking.’

  ‘Well I certainly don’t want to! I despise him: he could save the house if he wanted to. We could save it.’ I tell her about what Jack Faraday said. About walking through the house and having the history seep into his bones. I tell her that he feels a connection just like I do.

  ‘But he’s not going to save it, Claire. None of it makes any difference.’

  ‘That’s his prerogative, I guess. But for the record, did he say why not?’

  ‘He said that people in the past had been hurt.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Then ask him! Come on Amy – this isn’t the nineteenth century. You have to stop thinking like Jane Eyre and start thinking like Ruth Watson – you know, the woman with the big beads who used to be on Country House Rescue?’ She tsks. ‘You’re a beautiful, professional woman with a great sense of dedication. Make a business plan for saving the house and present it to him. And if he still says no, then you can always get down on your knees and beg.’

  A plan – a business plan? Why didn’t I think of that before?

  ‘Get the facts down on paper,’ Claire says. ‘Crunch some numbers. Show him how the house can make a profit on its own – if it can. Convince him that he’s better off keeping it than selling. If he’s a techie, then he ought to appreciate things like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say brightly. ‘Numbers. That’s what I need. But how do I get them?’

  Claire rolls her eyes. ‘Haven’t you learned anything from our delightful boss? Make them up. All you need to do is get something down on paper. A spreadsheet. Something that will get him thinking.’

  ‘I’ve never written a business plan before, but I can give it a try.’

  ‘I’ll cover for you at the office – tell them you’re taking one of my viewings. Go to the library – find a book. There must be loads.’

  ‘Thanks Claire. I owe you big time.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’ We smile at each other and eat our sandwiches.

  Claire is a genius. After lunch we go our separate ways – she back to the office and I to the tourist information office. I pick up some leaflets on historic homes in the area that are open to the public – like Longleat House. They have a zoo and a safari park, loads of activities for kids, eateries, gift shops – it looks like the place is definitely paying its way.

  Maybe Jack and I could go and visit the places together and I could convince him of the possibilities. I picture us in a little open-to
p car, driving through country lanes, my hair tied up in a scarf, him wearing his red jacket and sunglasses. We’d visit Longleat in the morning and Sudeley Castle in the afternoon, stopping for lunch at a rambling little country pub where we’d sit outside in the garden and Jack would sample the local bitter. And at night when the sun went down, neither of us would want the day to end. We’d have supper together in the restaurant of his hotel and talk about our day, and all of the plans we could make for the future of Rosemont Hall. And gradually, we’d make more plans of our own – little trips we could take, other places to see… and one thing would lead to another, and—

  ‘Hey, watch it,’ someone yells.

  I look up and realise that I’m in the middle of a crossing, about to get run down by a ‘Hop on, Hop Off’ open-top city tour bus. A group of Japanese schoolgirls snap me with their iPhones. At least if I’m flattened, there will be plenty of witnesses.

  My fantasy in tatters, I walk down the road to the public library. The librarian points the way to the relevant section. I grab a book called Business Plans for Complete Idiots and a free table. I tackle chapter one: Brainstorming. I take out my notebook and begin jotting down a few ideas.

  I come up with a fairly long list of things that could be developed at Rosemont Hall to turn a profit. At the very least, it could have a tea room with locally sourced organic produce, a children’s adventure playground, garden walks and treasure hunts, paintball boot camps, and the real money-spinners: weddings, corporate away-days, film shoots.

  It’s a good start. The next section of the book covers budgeting expenses and forecasting revenue. My eyes glaze over at the examples they give of double-entry accounting systems, ledgers, and profit-and-loss statements. Writing a credible business plan is going to take a lot more research and know-how than I can gather in one afternoon, and I’m already up against it timewise with Hexagon waiting in the wings. My ‘can-do’ mood begins to deflate rapidly. I shove the notebook back in my handbag and wander through the library until I find the local history section. Being surrounded by history books makes me feel instantly better. One of the shelves has a whole section on local places of architectural interest. I find an old hardback book on Little Botheringford, the village nearest to Rosemont Hall. The publication date is 1950 – before the fire, I note. The book contains a three-page section on the house.

  The print is miniscule and I have to squint to read it. A lot of the information about the architecture I already know from the internet. But I’m intrigued by three black and white photos included with the blurb. The first one is a photo of two men in a mountain pass. The caption reads: ‘Sir George Windham and Francisco Walredo, Spain 1937’. I stare at the photo. I’ve no idea who Walredo might be, and the text doesn’t say. I jot down the name to look it up later. In the photo, Sir George is smiling, but his eyes are dark and murky as pools of ink. What had Mrs Bradford said? The eyes of a demon. The back of my neck prickles with goosebumps.

  The second photo I’ve seen before – it’s of the inside of the great hall at Rosemont Hall, circa 1939, the walls covered with paintings. The caption describes the famous Rosemont Hall art collection. ‘Most of the artwork was sold off after the end of World War II to pay for repairs to the house’, it reads. ‘However, a few key collection pieces, including “Orientale” by Rembrandt, were retained by the family.

  The final photo on the facing page is dark, and the painting it shows is dim and shadowy, except for a few shimmering rays of light that reveal the figure of a man dressed in a Chinese-style robe. It’s a picture of the Rembrandt! Even in miniature, the details of the painting – the folds of the fabric, the brocade on the jacket, the fall of light on the planes of the man’s face – are vivid and otherworldly. It must have been a stunning sight to see that painting hanging in a place of pride at Rosemont Hall. It’s no wonder that Sir George wanted to keep the painting even after all the rest of the art was sold off. It must have been his pride and joy. But in holding onto it, he unwittingly contributed to its destruction.

  I close the book and put it back on the shelf. The Rembrandt was lost in the fire, and the house is about to suffer its own sorry fate unless I can conjure up a miracle. And maybe even then.

  My mobile vibrates in my bag. I take it out and check the screen. It’s nearly three o’clock and I have four missed calls from the office.

  I leave the library and rush back to work. Everyone looks up when I enter like I’m some kind of prodigal daughter.

  ‘A Mr Kendall came here looking for you, Amy,’ Claire says. ‘He wanted to pick up some keys but we couldn’t find them.’

  In fact, I did completely forget that Mr Kendall was coming by for the keys to Rosemont Hall. Keys which are currently safe and sound at the bottom of my handbag.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I give Claire a wry smile. ‘I forgot. I’ll drop the keys off at his office later.’

  ‘He says someone will be at the house tonight. He asked if you can drop them there on your way home.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Someone. My heart thumps hard in my chest.

  - 29 -

  In the early evening, I drive to Rosemont Hall. My palms are sweaty on the wheel as I turn off the road and drive between the sagging iron gates. While my previous visit far exceeded any expectations, tonight, I’m expecting no miracles.

  The sky is streaked with pink and gold, and the outline of the house looks lonely and forbidding. Two vehicles are parked in front: Mr Kendall’s Beamer and a gargantuan black Range Rover. No Vauxhall Corsa – no Jack Faraday. As much as I want to want to forget him, I unwittingly taste the sharp bile of disappointment.

  I park next to the Range Rover, pull my pink scarf tightly around my neck, and walk to the front door. As I’m about to knock, it opens. Mr Kendall is standing there (apparently he doesn’t need my set of keys that badly), and behind him, a shortish man in a pin-striped suit. Something about him looks familiar, and everything else – from his ginger-hair (looking suspiciously like a comb-over), to his golf club print tie and rhinestone-chip cufflinks – makes my hackles rise. A single word comes to mind…

  Hexagon.

  ‘Hello Ms Wood,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘Thanks for stopping by. We were lucky to catch Mr Jack before he left for the airport – he let us in.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Jack is gone. I’m suddenly awash with anger – at myself. Why didn’t I return his calls? Why did I let him go?

  Mr Kendall turns to the ginger-haired man. ‘I don’t believe you two have met,’ he says. ‘This is Amy Wood, the estate agent.’

  The man’s fleshy face lifts into a smile. ‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘Nigel Netelbaum, CEO of Hexagon plc.’

  ‘Hello.’ I croak. I realise why he looks familiar. I’ve seen him in a photo in David Waters’s flat. The two of them were standing together holding up a golf trophy. I force myself to shake his hand.

  ‘We’re just finishing up,’ he says. ‘Helluva place, isn’t it? Must have really been something once upon a time.’

  ‘It’s still really something,’ I say wistfully. ‘For a little while yet, it still is.’

  ‘Yeah, O-Kay.’ He raises an eyebrow like he’s humouring me, then turns back to Mr Kendall and asks him something about the paperwork. His accent is American like Jack and Flora’s – the conspiracy theorist in me begins to wonder if it’s all some kind of nefarious transatlantic plot. The two men talk and I stand there feeling like an outdated piece of furniture cluttering up space. I should hand over the keys and leave – there’s no reason for me to be here. But I keep a tight grip on the key ring.

  ‘Right then…’ Mr Kendall is saying, ‘…that all sounds good. We’ll send over the draft contracts early next week.’

  The two men shake hands. Mr Netelbaum gives me a little wave and a ‘cheerio’ as he goes down the steps and climbs into the Range Rover. The vehicle roars to life and he reverses in a three-point turn. I watch the vehicle until it disappears into the gloom.


  ‘So that’s it, then?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Mr Kendall lets out a long sigh. ‘He’s just doing his job, Amy. We all are.’

  I shrug like I’m not bothered. ‘Sorry I wasn’t in the office earlier,’ I say. ‘I guess subconsciously I don’t want to hand these over.’ I place the heavy ring of keys in his hand. They’re no use to me now.

  ‘Thank you.’ He tucks the keys into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Jack forgot to leave me his keys. He and Ms Flora are on their way back to America. You just missed them. I doubt either of them will be back.’

  I don’t trust myself to reply.

  ‘Would you like a last look around?’ Mr Kendall offers. ‘Since you love the place so much?’

  He stands aside so I can enter. For the first time, I have no desire to go inside. The house seems cold and dead: an empty shell where my heart once lived. And I can’t even pretend that it’s all down to meeting Mr Netelbaum and seeing him seal the deal.

  Jack is gone.

  Mr Kendall raises an eyebrow expectantly. ‘Unless you need to be somewhere—’

  ‘No.’ With a sigh, I walk past him into the main hall. I’ll see the house one last time, then try to start the process of forgetting. ‘I’ve no other plans.’

  He flicks the light switch and the chandelier illuminates (minus about half its bulbs that blew out during the power surge). I circle slowly, taking a last look at the grand staircase, the marble floor, the cool stone walls, the exquisitely decorated ceiling. Despite everything that has – or hasn’t – happened, I want to remember every detail.

  The power is still off, but other than that, everything from my evening with Jack has been cleared away, as if it never was. Even the heaters are gone. Last night, I didn’t notice that in the other rooms off the great hall, most of the furniture and bric-a-brac had been removed. Now, more than ever, a once-loved home feels cavernous and forbidding. I peak into the library. Even the books have been cleared off the shelves. All that’s left is dust and mice droppings.