‘Coming on very nicely, my dear,’ Aunt Rosabel would say, looking at her work. ‘I don’t think you’re ever going to make the National Gallery, but you certainly have a feel for it.’
Rose added, ‘I expect it makes a change from just reading about painters, Kipper?’ at which Claire smiled.
Rose was right. It did make a change, but what was better was taking her work to Aunt Rosabel for her comments – comments which were always ‘quite nice’ or ‘coming along’ or ‘pretty good’. Somehow her clipped little compliments seemed so much more genuine than those of someone saying in a pretend interested voice ‘great’ or ‘brilliant’ or ‘fantastic’ and then just walking off.
At the end of the month, before school was due to start, Alexander took his great-aunt to London at her own request. They were to do business, Rosabel to see her lawyers and bankers, and Alexander to get back ‘on track’, as he called it. They would be away overnight, Aunt Rosabel staying with an old friend who still lived in Mayfair, and Alexander with a colleague while he conducted negotiations with the family lawyers and tried to sort out his business affairs.
Hope found herself suddenly alone, and feeling strangely free, something she took some time to appreciate until she realized that, until they came to settle at Hatcombe, never before in the history of their marriage had she spent so much concentrated time with Alexander.
It wasn’t that she had discovered that she loved him less because of it, but that because he was so demanding in his own way she was exhausted by him, finding that she never had any real time to herself. So when Alexander rang only an hour after he had reached London to say that he had already found he had much more to do than he had anticipated and as a consequence would be spending a few extra days up in town, Hope could not help feeling secretly delighted.
She at once planned a trip into Marlborough for herself and the girls, making an appointment to get her hair done properly for the first time since moving to Hatcombe and intending to buy her daughters some much needed new clothes. But before they could leave for the town, someone called.
He was a tall man, white-haired, and smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a tie of a discreet navy blue. He looked like a businessman but when Hope shook his hand she realized that he was an artisan, for not only was his hand rough to the touch but both his thumbnails were partially blackened, as if the hands had been in the wars many times, and his fingers were no strangers to the odd missed hammer blow.
‘Mr Frances, ma’am. I expect your husband warned you that I was coming?’
‘No, I am afraid he didn’t, but can I help you?’
Standing in her light cotton blouse and blue and white skirt, Hope raised her hand to her eyes and smiled up at the tall man standing in front of Hatcombe’s delicate façade.
‘If Mr Merriott is not home, then perhaps I could speak to Mrs Fairfield?’ he said, nodding towards the house windows as if he was quite sure that Aunt Rosabel was in and waiting for him.
‘I am afraid they have both gone to London.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, that’s a bit awkward, seeing,’ he said, smiling, ‘that we have to start work on the house tomorrow.’
‘Work?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Mr Frances nodded. ‘Mrs Fairfield and Mr Merriott have engaged us through Mr Lambert, the surveyor. We do a great deal of work together on these sorts of houses, in this area. Yes, indeed. But I expect you know all about it?’
It was the cellars which were to be the object of their attention, although as Mr Frances began to talk his way through the problems that lay there Hope got the feeling that this was not the subject at the actual forefront of his mind.
‘You really think that will solve the problem with the flooding, do you?’ Hope asked superfluously, since Mr Frances had already assured her that digging a three foot deep by six foot square sump below the present level of the cellar floor and installing an automatic pumping device would most surely do the trick.
‘It will indeed, Mrs Merriott,’ the tall, shock-haired man replied. ‘It will cost a little extra, of course, because we hadn’t allowed for either the size of the pump or the increased depth we shall now have to go to – but all indications are that from now on these cellars will be dry enough to store anything you like from antique furniture to fine wines.’
‘Excellent,’ Hope said, beginning to make for the stairs. ‘Jolly good, Mr Frances.’
‘There is just one other matter,’ the builder said to her as he followed her up the stone steps. ‘I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it, but we are due to start tomorrow …’
They had reached the top of the cellar stairs and were standing in the hallway, and Hope stopped and looked at Mr Frances enquiringly.
‘We still haven’t been paid for our materials, Mrs Merriott,’ Mr Frances said, rubbing his chin. ‘I know it’s not down to you, ma’am, but the contract quite clearly states …’ He stopped, looking anxious, his soft west country accent making him sound even more worried than he perhaps felt.
‘I don’t understand,’ Hope interrupted. ‘Sorry – but what do you mean?’
‘I understand it’s complicated,’ Mr Frances replied. ‘Your husband said that all the bills for hirings and materials were to be invoiced to Mrs Fairfield, which we have indeed done, but they have remained unpaid. And of course the contract is with the old lady as well, but when we approached her in person she told us that she had given power of attorney to your husband and he was in charge of everything.’
‘So what happened when you billed my husband?’
‘Well – nothing, really. He said papers were being drawn up with the lawyers and that these things took time – as I know they do. But he promised that we’d have the money we’re owed by the end of that week, which was last Friday. And now here we are Thursday and still no cheque. We do have a great many costs on a job like this as I’m sure you understand – only being a small firm.’
‘Of course,’ Hope said, with what she prayed was a reassuring smile. ‘Look, I’ll go and call my husband at once. I know one of the things he and Mrs Fairfield planned to do was to see her lawyers, so I’ll get it sorted out and if necessary write you a cheque myself while the funds are being transferred.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Merriott. I’m really sorry to have to bring this matter up, but we have to pay our suppliers. And you know what a dog eat dog world it is nowadays.’
There was no reply at any of the direct numbers Alexander had left her.
Hope then tried to reach Aunt Rosabel at her lawyers, only to learn that the appointment was not scheduled for another four hours. She left a message for Alexander to ring her before trying one other connection where she thought he might be, also drawing a blank.
Fortunately, before she had time to panic, Alexander called her back and Hope explained what had happened. He laughed, then sighed, and explained that the transfer of money from Aunt Rosabel’s bankers and trustees to Alexander’s account had been delayed.
‘Pay him whatever you have, and tell him I’ll give him the rest on Monday. That should keep him happy over the weekend at least.’
‘Alexander—’ Hope began.
‘I’ll pay you back then as well. In full. Promise, darling, really. Believe me, I will pay you back, everything.’
Hope replaced the phone and stared ahead of her. She had no idea if Alexander would ever pay her back, and, she suddenly realized, it hardly seemed to matter. She put a hand to her head, which was throbbing with the anxiety of it all. All the money she had saved from her teaching job in London had gone, and with this large payment the bequest from her father too would have disappeared. She knew that she should believe Alexander when he said he would pay her back, but the trouble was he never had.
She went back to the hall where Mr Frances was still waiting for her.
‘I’ll just go and fetch my cheque book, Mr Frances. I am sorry to keep you, but I had to just find out what had gone wrong, you know?’ Sh
e made out the cheque and handed it to him.
‘I am ever so sorry to have to call like this, Mrs Merriott, but it’s just that with such a huge undertaking we do have to insist on some sort of down payment,’ the builder said apologetically, and he shifted from one foot to the other. ‘We have to put up the scaffolding tomorrow, see.’
‘Scaffolding?’ Hope turned to look at him as she opened the front door once more and he stepped out into the drive.
‘Underpinning and dry rot, they’re not going to take five minutes, as I am sure you appreciate, Mrs Merriott. I did warn your husband and his aunt, but they said that was perfectly all right, and you would be living in the housekeeper’s cottage while the work was taking place.’
Mr Frances smiled affably and stretched out his hand once more. Hope smiled back and shook the large, rough hand while hoping that her eyes did not register the shock she was feeling. Even she knew that ‘underpinning’ and ‘dry rot’ could cost a fortune to make good. And she had just handed over all her savings, every single penny of them.
‘I can’t quite remember how much your estimate was in all, Mr Frances …?’
‘Well in excess of fifty thousand, I’m afraid, Mrs Merriott, well in excess.’ He climbed into his car and drove off, leaving Hope to stare after him realizing that Alexander had talked her into a Hatcombe that might well turn out to be as costly to their security as his varied investments.
True to his word, Mr Frances and his men started on the house next day, and when Hope had packed up Aunt Rosabel’s clothes into cases and moved the greater part of her personal belongings into the housekeeper’s cottage, while scaffolding went up against the old house, Hope once more tried to ring London, but neither Alexander nor Aunt Rosabel could be found on any number. Either they were ‘in a meeting’ or they had ‘just left’ and so, since there was nothing more she could do, and remembering how much they had banked when they sold West Dean Drive, and thinking that not even Alexander could have spent that much money in the few weeks they had been at Hatcombe, Hope shelved her anxiety and turned her attention to the house.
Three days later as the building works began in earnest she found him standing in the hallway. She glanced at the stranger anxiously, and then outside to his car, and then to what he was wearing. Taking comfort from his expensive clothes and air of easy charm, she forgot to ask him how he came to be where he was.
‘Strewth,’ he said, shaking his closely cropped head. He looked up and around as he spoke. ‘I mean we had problems at the Mill House when we moved in, but not like this. Underpinning, the builder just told me, definitely not something I envy you.’
‘I don’t envy me either,’ Hope replied. ‘I mean when they said underpinning I never realized that it meant leaving the literally sinking ship!’
‘Be careful,’ her visitor said. ‘I mean it. Old houses – once they start to shift you could find yourself floating out to the lake.’
Hope laughed, but the stranger just looked at her and nodded knowingly. ‘No joke, is it?’ He grinned affably, and held out a slim hand. ‘Jack.’
‘Jack?’ Hope asked.
‘Just Jack.’ But as Hope waited patiently for him to give his full name he gave in and added, ‘Tomm. Abbreviated from Tomaso. De Tomaso, as in the motor.’ Hope pulled a face and shook her head to illustrate her ignorance, so her visitor went on to explain. ‘There was a motor called a de Tomaso. Italian job. Nothing to do with my family, unfortunately, but there you go. I dropped the a s o when I started doing my own thing, and not the family’s, which was ice cream not engines.’
‘And yours is?’
‘Was. This and that, really.’ He stared around the hallway. ‘This is a beautiful house. Rumour told me it was really rather exquisite, and—’
‘Rumour was right,’ Hope said.
He had a firm handshake, not a bonesqueezer, the sort Hope hated and could never understand why some men thought it necessary to practise on women, but a strong grip, holding her hand for a second or so after he had finished shaking it, but thankfully without looking deeply into her eyes while he did so which she always found acutely embarrassing. Instead he seemed to have forgotten about her as soon as he looked up at the plasterwork above him.
‘Beautiful plasterwork. There were some Italians employed by Lord Jessup at Ardington Court very near to here, and rumour had it that when the old boy didn’t meet his debts they left and found employment in smaller local houses in order to earn the money for their journey back to Siena. Just think! Eh, Gianni, I ‘ear ‘Atcombe ‘Ouse no plasterwork! So that’s how this kind of detail came into these sorts of houses, or – rumour again – so rumour has it.’
‘Do you – would you like to see round the house, before it all becomes chaos here? They’ve only just begun, you know, and I don’t know about you, but I love seeing round other people’s places. it’s nosy, I know, but it is fun, don’t you think?’
Jack looked down at Hope. She was small, slender and pretty, but she exuded anxiety. Yet that was perhaps part of her charm, her anxiety to please, her wish to make whatever was so wrong with everyone else right. Perhaps because, if he was correct, there was something very wrong in her own life. He wanted to put out a hand and touch her on her arm, and say, It’s OK, kid, don’t let it get to you, but of course he could not. He hardly knew her. They had only just met, so he smiled down at her instead and murmured, ‘Great.’
He followed her up the wide, shallow stairs, and onto a spacious landing which was dominated by an elegant eighteenth-century brass lantern converted from candle holders to electricity but still retaining that old air of light gently diffused on a world that had been both more real and more elegant than their own.
‘All the rooms are beautifully furnished. Aunt Rosabel has exquisite taste, doesn’t she?’
As they moved in and out of the perfect rooms, and Jack admired the simplicity of the architecture combined with the elegance of the furnishings, he again wanted to take Hope by her hands and say, Relax! Since he could not, and since he also did not want to leave her, he found himself asking to see round the attics, wanting to delay the moment of finishing the tour, so that he could go on listening to her voice, which had been both gentle and kind.
‘Well, funnily the attics are rather marvellous,’ Hope admitted, laughing.
And so they proved. More wide shallow stairs led up to a great room which in a larger house would have been called the ‘Long Gallery’ but at Hatcombe was just ‘attics’.
‘It’s got all its original rafters,’ Jack said, as his eyes ran over the roof. ‘Common rafters,’ he went on, ‘butt purlins, struts, collars – all original, says a lot really, just a pity about the subsidence, yes? Expensive business, subsidence.’
Hope looked quickly past Jack as he said this. It was as if she was turning away from a book that she did not want to read, or an ugly painting, a moment that Jack, after twenty years in the music business, could not miss. It was strange, he had often thought, just how observant ‘the business’ had made him. Writing a song was one thing, surviving the business was quite another.
They returned to the hall and there was yet another silence as Jack looked round the elegant reception area and sighed inwardly for the days when such beauty was merely an everyday matter.
Finally he nodded. ‘Right. I got two boys and one girl, which is really why I’m here. it’s my daughter’s birthday Sunday, and we all suddenly thought of you. You see, there aren’t too many kids their age round here at the moment, in fact there’s a dread dearth of them. Now your eldest—’
‘Melinda—’
‘She’s what age? Cyndi, our Cyndi as in Cyndi Lauper, she’s sixteen—’
‘Melinda’s seventeen and a half.’
‘Next?’
‘Next is Rose and she’s sixteen, like Cyndi, and then there’s Claire who is fifteen – and after her a long gap until Letty the baby who’s one point three. All girls, you see.’
Thank God he did not say Bad
luck or Didn’t anyone tell you the special way of making sure it’s a boy or How awful for your husband, a house full of girls, as most people did. Instead he just nodded and smiled, seeming if anything only too pleased that a clutch of girls had moved into the neighbourhood.
‘Right. Our Josh is twenty-one, and then there’s Tobias – dread name. His mother’s idea. I call him Toby – or Tobe usually. Tobe’s eighteen—’
‘Perfect. Now all they have to do is hate each other on sight.’
Jack smiled then explained exactly where he lived, a converted mill about six miles away, down a hard-to-find lane.
‘Best if I come and pick ’em up before the party, perhaps?’ he said.
‘No really, Alexander can bring them—’
‘Is he around?’
‘He’s in town on business, actually.’
‘Weekender?’
Hope shook her head. ‘Family business. Do you weekend?’
‘No way. Full time yokel, me,’ Jack said with a grin. ‘Can’t you see the straws in my hair? So what does your other half do, then? If he doesn’t commute?’
‘This and that. He describes himself as an indie.’
‘Yeah? What tribe?’
Hope laughed and began to walk across to the cottage. ‘He’s an independent business consultant—’
‘I know. Seat of the pants pilot.’ Jack grinned. ‘He who dares wins.’
‘What do you do, Mr Tomm?’
‘Mr Tomm! Jack.’
‘Jack …’
There was a short silence as they walked on and Hope noticed how clean and crisp his shirt was and the way his blue cashmere jumper was knotted stylishly around his broad shoulders and how comfortingly tall he was, and the merciful fact that he did not smell of some overpowering aftershave and had what Melinda would call really neat shoes on, and that he had hands with long fingers and properly trimmed nails.
Jack for his part noted that Hope was more than pretty. She was quite beautiful, in her cotton skirt and crisply ironed blouse, with her freshly washed brown hair caught back by two tortoiseshell combs. Mercifully she had not adopted some awful overdone ‘country look’ and her sandalled feet had very pretty toes, which Jack had often found to his dismay was most unusual in women. He increasingly did not want to leave this petite and charming woman with the sad eyes and the grateful laugh.
Love Song Page 11