Finding Home Page 9

  Mr Bowen-Knowles clears his throat. ‘It seems that the Blundells were impressed with that flat Jonathan found for them.’

  ‘Jonathan…?’ Anger bubbles up inside me.

  ‘They’ve offered the asking price and it’s been accepted.’

  Instead of the joy such a proclamation should merit, a noxious cloud descends over the room. ‘Fantastic!’ a part of me knows I should say. ‘I told you so,’ is what comes out of my mouth instead.

  Mr Bowen-Knowles walks over to Jonathan’s desk and gives him a high five. My stomach roils and I think I might be sick. My boss then turns to me, his lips curving downwards into their default position. ‘So,’ my boss says, ‘while this one goes to Jonathan, the good news is that you can stay on permanently – if you want to.’

  Claire gives me a surreptitious thumbs-up. I mumble a ‘thank you.’ I should be happy that I’ve now got a permanent job.

  Here.

  I stifle the urge to punch Jonathan in the fake-tanned nose, sit down at my desk, and spend the rest of the afternoon phoning the people on Mr Bowen-Knowles’s list. No one in the office looks at me or talks to me, nor I to them.

  There’s only one thing I can do – keep at it. Surely, success is the best revenge. And when out of the fifty-three people I phone, four are interested in receiving the details on Rosemont Hall, I feel it’s destined that, somehow, I’ll get my name to the top of the sales chart on the door of the disabled loo. I can do this – and eventually I will.

  After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  - Part Two -

  ‘And of this place,’ thought she, ‘I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,’—recollecting herself—‘that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me...’

  This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret.

  ~ Jane Austen – Pride and Prejudice

  - IV -

  Letter 4 (Transcription)

  Rosemont Hall

  June 5th 1952

  A

  Seeing you again after so many months was like a glimpse of the sun after a never-ending winter. I will speak to my father about us as soon as I find the right moment. I want to make sure that I do this properly and he realises how serious my intentions are.

  Yesterday, Father surprised me – he says he is planning a ball for my coming-of-age – would you believe it? At first I laughed at the very idea. But reflecting on it, it is a nice gesture and I think one designed to bridge the gap between us. It will be a fitting start to my new life back at Rosemont Hall. I so much want to do him, and you, proud.

  In fact, the preparations have already begun. This morning he stood in the great hall and oversaw every delivery – flowers in crystal vases, wine glasses and champagne flutes, musicians’ instrument cases, crates of taper candles, mountains of food and drink. And in his face I caught a glimpse of the father I remember: strong and proud and a patron of the arts. Seeing him like that, I too caught the sense of excitement. It has been so many years since the chandeliers glowed, and the floors smelled of wax and polish. So many years since there was a sense of life about the old place. He’s even hired an artist to paint my portrait.

  I’ll tell you more when I see you. Can you meet me tonight in our usual place?

  All my love,

  H

  - 10 -

  Late morning the next day, I scrape a layer of frost off the car windscreen and drive to Rosemont Hall to meet the quantity surveyor. As I drive up the long, winding approach to the house, once again I’m transported to another era. I’m Jane Eyre glimpsing the stark silhouette of Thornfield, as she contemplates what her new life there as a governess will hold; Elizabeth Bennet touring Pemberley, wondering if she’d been just a tad hasty in rejecting Mr Darcy’s tentative advances. In the fragile rays of sunshine, the whole scene has a slightly dreamlike quality – of being familiar and real, but just out of reach. The graceful silhouette of the house is a thing of beauty – a true work of art.

  I park the car and get out. Everything is incredibly quiet except for the mournful cooing of a pigeon. It takes me a while to find which key unlocks the door, but finally, the deadbolt grinds open. Inside, the house is even more vast and stunning than I remember – it’s like walking through an empty jewel box. It’s also absolutely freezing.

  I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and up over my chin. The great hall smells of ‘old house’: thick layers of varnish, dust settled over antique furniture, the sour odour of mice and rising damp. But despite the decay, I feel incredibly lucky to be here. Not many people get to see a house like this, except maybe on television or on a tour. To be here in person is to experience the awe of the proportions, to appreciate the artistry and detail that went into every carved moulding and mantelpiece, the handiwork that makes up every inlaid floor and plastered ceiling.

  What would it take, I wonder, to bring the house back to life? To restart its heart and get it breathing again. As I continue walking, the answer seems obvious: people. It would take people. I picture children roller-skating on the marble floors and sliding down the banisters; a man making coffee in the kitchen; a woman baking scones. Gardening on a summer day; a book group meeting in the library; Santa leaving toys under a tinsel-trimmed Christmas tree. Births and weddings, deaths and holidays. Arguments, good-night kisses, homework, DIY, bad jokes, lazy afternoons on the terrace. People going about their lives. People who resonate with the house. People like me.

  If the house were mine (and even I’m not such a romantic as to delude myself that that could ever happen), I’d be a hands-on type of owner – the kind who’s not afraid to go up a ladder to strip wallpaper or repaint a cracked window frame, bleed a radiator, or oil the hinge on a door. (Which is a good thing, I expect, since paying people to do those things costs money.)

  I go into one of the rooms off the hall: the library. Every surface is cluttered with papers, mildewed books, and trinkets. Hopefully Mrs Bradford was a better companion to Mrs Windham than she is a housekeeper.

  My shoes make footprints in the dust as I walk over to the window. The frame is rotting but the latch is intact. Carefully, I push it open and a rush of cold air stings my face. At the back of the house is a weedy terrace flanked with stone urns. Beyond, overgrown lawns sweep down to a yew avenue, a tangled jungle of a rose garden and eventually the Grecian folly by the lake. The frost on the grass shimmers in the morning light. I fall in love with Rosemont Hall all over again.

  As I wander through the rooms on the ground floor, I straighten a pile of yellowing papers here, wipe the dust off a fireplace mantle there. My mind wanders off trying to imagine the place as it once was: a lady sitting in front of the fireplace embroidering; a girl practising a Chopin étude on the pianoforte; a man in riding clothes writing letters at the desk by the window; servants tiptoeing in and out with tea trays, ostrich-feather dusters and the daily post on a silver tray. I can almost hear the whisper of silk and crinolines through the doorway; smell the linseed oil and rosewater perfume. The walls seem to close in around me, as if leaning closer to whisper in my ears.

  Eventually, I climb the grand staircase and stand before the painting of the elusive young woman in the pink dress. I lean back against the balustrade and look at her: the bold eyes, the secret smile, the shadowy folds of her dress that seem to appear out of the darkness; so real that I can almost reach out and touch the soft fabric; feel the sheen of silk beneath my fingertips. Was hers a great love story, or a romantic tragedy? The house knows, surely. I close my eyes and listen for a second, but everything is silent except for the noise of a distant drip. I remind myself sternly that it’s my job to sell Rosemont Hall, not to uncover its history.

  A chime echoes melodiously through the hall. Realising that I’ve lost track of time, I run down the stairs to the mai
n door. The hinges creak when I open it. Standing outside is a young, sandy-haired man with green eyes and freckles. He looks surprised for a moment at seeing me, and then his face sprouts a grin. ‘Hi, I’m David Waters,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘The quantity surveyor. You must be the Lady of the Manor.’

  He winks, and my cheeks flush.

  ‘I wish,’ I say, as we shake hands. ‘I’m Amy Wood, the estate agent.’

  ‘And here I was expecting the Honourable Mr Bowen-Knowles.’ He puts on a fake posh accent. ‘A nice surprise, I must say.’

  It’s a surprise that he’s flirting so openly with me, and I can’t help but feel a little bit flattered – and rusty. I usher him inside. As he looks around the entrance hall, appearing suitably impressed, I give him the once-over. Medium height and build, wearing khaki trousers, work boots, and a tan shearling coat with a crisp pink shirt underneath. He’s carrying a notebook with one of those credit-card thin calculators clipped to the front of it. I’m grateful that he’s not uptight and stuffy, which was what I’d been expecting. When he’s finished looking around the main hall, I get the impression that he’s checking me out. I’m suddenly conscious that my black pencil skirt is a little tight across the hips.

  ‘So, Mr Waters,’ I say, ‘I’ll show you around if you like.’

  ‘Call me David,’ he says predictably. He takes out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket, puts them on, and flips his notebook open to a new page of yellow graph paper.

  As we embark upon my version of the ‘grand tour’, I pretend that this is a viewing, and that he’s a prospective buyer. He plays along, but each time he writes something in his notebook he frowns. He seems like a plastic surgeon – only interested in defects: many of which I hadn’t even noticed until he points them out. There’s wallpaper that takes down half a damp plaster wall when he pulls on it; deep cracks in the parquet floor when he moves aside a threadbare old rug; spots of damp and wet rot everywhere; woodworm in the window frames; a wasp’s nest in one of the fireplaces. And that’s just the ground floor!

  In the main bedroom, he moves aside a rickety chair and points to a cracked area of the painted panelling that marks the outline of a door.

  Intrigued, I walk over to it. ‘Is it a secret room?’ I say.

  ‘Maybe.’ He winks at me and pulls on a brass ring stuck into the wall. He takes a quick look inside and slams the door shut again. ‘Closet.’ He fans the air in front of his nose. ‘Pheew, something died in there, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Oh.’ I move on, slightly disappointed.

  We go to the next floor up and reach the corridor where Mrs Bradford has her room. This time there’s no smell of baking, and when I knock on the door, no one answers. ‘I don’t have a key,’ I say to David, half expecting that like the Blundells, he’ll offer to pick the lock.

  He shrugs. ‘Whatever.’ We move on.

  Down in the cellar we find a warren of damp, cold rooms: the unmodernised kitchen, pantries and larders with crumbling wooden shelves, and the enormous boiler. David Waters regales me with doom and gloom about probable burst pipes and water leakages. When we find the electric box, he holds me back with his free arm – ‘It could be a deathtrap, don’t go too close’. My enthusiasm ebbs. David Waters scribbles fast and furiously on his yellow graph paper.

  ‘What is it that you’re writing down?’ I ask, as we head back to the main hall.

  ‘I’m noting down the structural issues,’ he says. ‘Then we can look at some options: Mr Bowen-Knowles thought a conversion to flats might be possible.’

  ‘Just that? What about the basic costs to reinstate it as a family home?’

  He laughs like I’ve made a good joke.

  ‘What?’ Hands on hips, I stare him down.

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely, do you?’ he says. ‘Given that we’re so close to Bath, it might have some value as a development. If not…’ he shrugs, ‘I don’t need a calculator to tell you that the restoration costs will be a lot more than it’s worth as a family home – even if you managed to find some rich nutter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Visions of ‘Golf Heritage’ dance in my head.

  ‘Plus, I understand that the planners are keen on developing recreational facilities and low-cost housing around here. With a hundred and twenty acres, someone like Hexagon could make a lot of money.’

  ‘You know about Hexagon?’ For me, that name is becoming synonymous with the incarnation of evil in the universe.

  ‘It’s part of my job to keep on top of things.’

  ‘And is it part of your job to note down that turning this place into Disneyland for rich golfers would be a crime? This place is an important piece of history. It should be restored.’

  Without realising it, I’ve walked towards him, and am now standing closer than a polite distance. He doesn’t step away, and gives me a disarming grin.

  ‘That’s not strictly in the job description.’ He touches my arm. My skin tingles at the contact. ‘But I’ll tell you what,’ he says. ‘You come out with me for a drink tonight, and I’ll add your comment as a footnote. Plus, I’ll split out the cost of getting the place up to scratch as a single family dwelling – no extra charge.’

  ‘What?’ I take a step back.

  ‘Or… another time if that suits you better.’

  ‘No… uhh… tonight is… fine. It’s fine.’

  ‘Great.’ His eyes linger on my face. I feel my cheeks begin to glow, and not just with the cold.

  ‘I’m going to go have a look at the East Wing now,’ he says. ‘Since it may not be safe, do you want to wait here?’

  ‘Okay… sure.’ Although I want to see what, if anything, is left of the East Wing, I’m too kerfuffled to see it with David Waters. I go with him through the elegant door at the side of the main hall. It leads to a short corridor with a heavy black door at the end. ‘I’ll meet you in the main hall when you’re finished,’ I say.

  ‘No problem.’

  I return to the main hall and pace the floor. Staring up at the ceiling painting of a Rubenesque goddess of dawn being crowned by nymphs, I take stock. It’s been just over two months since I moved out of the rented flat that I shared with Simon. I realise that I’m no longer thinking of the life I lost every moment of the day and in fact, part of me has begun to wonder why I was so deluded into thinking that my relationship with Simon was the be-all and end-all. And now, all of a sudden, other possibilities creep into my mind. I’ve already got a new job and a new project – this house – to occupy my imagination. Obviously we’ve just met, but I can’t help but wonder – could there be someone out there – someone like David Waters – to begin filling the void that’s still left?

  While I wait for him to finish his work, I go back into the library to begin sorting through some of the old books and papers – trying to separate them into piles of rubbish/saleable items/personal effects that the American heirs might want. All of those property shows on TV advise that it’s important to reduce the amount of clutter before the viewings begin.

  In one corner of the room, there’s a huge mahogany desk that’s absolutely overflowing with papers. The piles of books and papers are so high that they’re blocking half of the window, making the room seem dark. Tackling that seems a good place to start. The first thing I see is a stack of telephone bills – the top one dated three years earlier. Arabella Windham must have been a hoarder who saved every bill and scrap of paper.

  I move aside the stack of bills and another pile of newspaper clippings – obituaries, recipes, crossword puzzles – to clear some space. Underneath, I find a large, flat book in faded red leather. I open it and discover that it’s an old ledger of household accounts. I flip through it briefly. Most of the pages are full of mind-numbing entries for light bulbs, floor wax, petrol, clothing and sundries – silver polish, and the like. In addition to being a hoarder, Arabella – or whoever kept it – must have been quite the penny-pincher.

  But when I flip to the older en
tries towards the end of the book, I find something more interesting. There’s a page labelled ‘artwork’ written in a different, bold, looping hand. It lists entries, going back to the 1920s, of paintings purchased. I read through the list of artists: Gainsborough, John Singer Sargent, Van Dyck, Matisse, Rembrandt. How amazing it must have been to see the paintings hanging proudly on the walls of Rosemont Hall! Stapled to the last page of the ledger is an itemised auction receipt from Sotheby’s for a fine art sale in London in 1951.

  Name Artist Frame Condition Estimate Sale Price

  Matin Rose Matisse Orig Good 3-5,000 4,500

  Garden Tea at Petworth, 1899 John Singer Sargent New Fair 2-3,000 3,300

  Off the Solent JMW Turner Orig Damage to rt corner 4-5,000 5,200

  San Pierre aux Roches Poussin Orig Good 6-7,000 5,900

  L’Orientale Rembrandt Orig Good 9-10,000 Withdrawn

  To me, the prices look ridiculously cheap. But of course, I’m thinking in today’s money. And I suppose that after the war there was little appetite for buying art. How sad, though, that Sir George decided to withdraw his Rembrandt from the sale, only to have it destroyed in the fire.

  I close the ledger and move it to one side. As I do, I accidentally knock a pile of Telegraph gardening sections off the other side of the desk. They fall onto the floor with a thunk. The cloud of dust and mould that rises up sends me into a sneezing fit.

  I take a tissue out of my pocket and put it over my nose until the dust settles. When I bend down to pick up what I knocked off, I practically cut my hand on a piece of glass underneath. I move the papers aside and find that the culprit is a broken picture frame. It must have been lying face down at the bottom of the stack.

  The sides of the frame come apart when I pick it up – I hope I haven’t broken something expensive. The photo inside is a black and white image of a young couple getting married. From the bride’s waved hairstyle, fit and flare lace dress, and pillbox hat and veil, I deduce that the photo was probably taken in the early 1950s. I turn it over. Written on the back in faded black ink is: Henry and Arabella, 1952. I look at the two people in the picture. Given the soft focus, the angle, and the fading of the photo with age, it’s difficult to make out their features, but I note that neither of them is smiling.