So here I am biking up the hill on the screenette in front of me, level four and ten minutes set on the timer, at the leisure centre in Bourton-on-the-Water, five minutes down the Fosse Way from Stow, with Ella for company.
About four and a half minutes in, my attention starts to drift away from her, and I notice on the counter by my left hand that I've burned nine calories. Nine calories. That must be a piece of cheddar with the total volume of a pinhead. Still I'm over the first digital hill and onto the flat bit in the digital middle. I once heard someone say that for every ten minutes you jog you add six minutes to your lifespan, so the logic is if you find jogging a pain, by not doing it you're adding a net four minutes to your life that could be spent in bed instead. I wonder if it's the same with gym exercises. It must be, I think, as I move on to the treadmill. This is after all just jogging without the excitement of trees and cars and people going by.
I nod and smile to the bloke on the next machine. He's about my age and he's here every day. Well, I say 'every day'. I mean every day that I'm here – which admittedly isn't often. His face is screwed up. He obviously hates it. Like me.
Ella is by now busy out on dates with a duke or possibly a caddie, though she insists that her heart still belongs to daddy. My heart nearly didn't even belong to me. I don't mean a heart attack or a stroke. But back in the days when I used to drink too much, my heart rate suddenly started to go haywire. Instead of the steady beat of the drummer while Ms Fitzgerald sings the blues, it switched to the chaotic taps of someone learning Morse code. But the message was clear. Cut out the booze and get fit. I managed to do both. With some help. The heart still goes nuts occasionally, but it's getting better, under the care of a medical genius called Dr Jaswinder Gill.
The treadmill screen shows 'Cool down' which means my ten minutes are up, so I move over to the cross trainer, catching sight of myself in the mirror en route. My T-shirt is wet down the front. It's a badge of determination, so I assume a gritty expression for the benefit of my fellow gym rats. But I also catch sight of my middle, pushing that same T-shirt out in a less than athletic bulge. Maggie's right.
I pump my arms back and forth and my legs forth and back with extra effort, as though I can get rid of the spare tyre in the next ten minutes on the cross-trainer. Apart from the many obvious health advantages I gained from quitting the drink, it was also what got me to take up proper cooking. Not just sticking a joint in the oven on a Sunday and loading frozen peas into the microwave any more. And so occurred one of life's sneaky ironies. The calories I saved from all those glasses of wine (and similar) not consumed, I then made up by developing a great love of food. And not just of the stuff I cook myself.
As Ella advises me that the ol' rockin' chair ain't never gonna get her, I step off the machine. The pain faced jogger is still at it. I give him another smile, and he nods back. A few stretching exercises and that's my lot. I take a couple of deep breaths. Feels good. I swig from my water bottle, then with what I fancy is a swagger, raise my hand in a cheery farewell to the gym attendant. Hmm, I think I'll come back tomorrow. Or soon anyway.
So down to business. I phone Anthea to report on the Bella skirmish. She reckons we should get the planners to commit firmly to giving us consent to build before we shell out the cash to buy the place. So we should put in a planning application pronto. Sounds sensible and she agrees to come over to Maggie's house the next afternoon.
That session with Bella has left me feeling uncomfortable. On the one hand, I'd won the argument about whether we can convert the old outbuilding rather than knock it down. After all, without that, we wouldn't be getting off the starting blocks. On the other hand, she looked miffed when she stalked off. Still, what does seem obvious is that since she'd been happy for us to demolish the old building, in fact positively wanted us to tear it down, she's presumably not going to bother about us changing it round a bit.
I put this thought to Anthea when she arrives.
'Ye-es,' she says with a joyless smile, stretching the word out in a way that makes me think it'll be followed by the sort of drawling 'I can see what you mean' which people use when they want to be polite instead of saying, 'You must be joking, sunshine.'
'And,' I continue, 'it's not as if this is going to come down to her personal whim. Presumably, there are regulations and rules and laws that'll decide the planning consent at the end of the day.'
'Ye-e-es.'
And we move on speedily to agree to submit an application for a 3-metre extension at right angles to the length of the building, as well as a roof raised 2 metres higher than the present old asbestos eyesore so that we can put in a mezzanine floor across the back of the main room.
That evening, Maggie and I do Cajun chicken, braised cabbage and sautéed polenta – one of my specialities – the preparation of which has prompted me to raise the need for a kitchen at the new place in which she can open wine or make tea without getting entangled in my fancy wristwork with the wok.
'The new house will stand or fall by the layout of its kitchen,' I say as we sit down to eat.
'Seems a bit strong,' she comments. 'But I know what you mean. We have to have chopping space on either side of the hob. That's the main thing.'
'Agreed. But there's a lot more to it than that. We need a double sink with drainer on the right, then enough room for the food-mixer and toaster in the corner…' I've plonked a sketch on the table and opened it out next to the polenta dish.
'Wow, you've been busy today,' says Maggie.
'… then the oven would just fit here. But really important is the siting of the cutlery drawer…' and on I go for several minutes, almost letting my chicken go cold.
'Do we really need this amount of detail at this stage?' she asks, when the call of the food finally gets too much for me and she can get a word in.
'Sure we do,' I reply after savouring a mouthful. 'This is not going to be a huge kitchen. So we've got to work out exactly where everything will fit. We should probably have done this even before Anthea submitted the plans. But it's OK; I've been reading on the Internet about culinary workflows…'
'Culinary whats?'
'You know, designing the kitchen like a factory production line, so you're not for ever bobbing about from one end to the next. This plan…' I wave it in the air, '… has an optimal culinary workflow…' She still looks blank. 'Get it right,' I insist, 'and marital harmony could be ours for ever.'
'OK, OK, I take the point,' she says, and ponders the plan for a couple of seconds. 'I think the oven could move over a fraction.'
'No, no!' I protest. And for the next half hour we wrestle over everything from the colander shelf size to whether the fridge door should be left or right opening.
By the time I've restacked the plates in the dishwasher where Maggie's inexpertly positioned them and we've put our feet up, we've pretty much agreed on everything but the location of the kettle plug. So a sense of satisfaction settles over the pair of us. And I seize the opportunity.
'Why don't we crack in a bid now?' I say.
'Shouldn't we wait,' replies Maggie, 'till we know whether the plan's a flyer with your Bella?'
Denying any relationship, I add, 'I'm just worried that somebody else will nip in and collar the place before we've got our act together. After all, there's loads of legal stuff that has to happen between having your bid accepted and signing the contract. Plenty of time for us to pull out if we get the thumbs down from the planners.'
Maggie nods thoughtfully and says, 'We'd better go over the finances. Just to be sure.' So that's what we do, for the fourteenth time. We agree to ask Nik to come back to the burgage to double-check our measurements, then both spend a semi-sleepless night, before offering £120,000 at 9 a.m. the next day while the estate agent is still taking his coat off.
He gets us to sit down, puts on the coffee maker, fishes a blue folder out of his drawer, leafs through it, then tells us that Sunny already has a higher figure on the table from another purchaser, and he advises us to put
in our best bid straight away. We go into a huddle and up it to £125,000.
He'll get back to us.
Now that our application for planning consent has been submitted, the moment has arrived when details of what we're up to are made public, and any of our fellow citizens who don't like it will come out of their Jacobean woodwork.
Anthea has warned us to be prepared for rows with touchy neighbours. But she doesn't prepare us for what follows. We receive a handwritten letter on a vellum sheet adorned at its head with the trade address of one of Stow's leading business people, who as it happens has a reputation for touchiness, though he's not a neighbour in the strict sense. The letter is encouraging and complimentary. It says that he is delighted that we've rejected the former plan to build a reproduction cottage and that he supports our proposal to restore the old outbuilding. The author of this treasured missive is regarded by some in Stow as the éminence grise of the retail trade, though others might dispute the title. Nobody in Stow is quite sure about his background. I'm told that if you broach the subject, he cunningly diverts the conversation away from himself. But legend has it that he spent most of his working life in the City of London and ended up as a director of a well-known financial institution. Then a few years ago he arrived in Stow, apparently now retired, quickly got bored and so opened up a shop. It seemed to me a strange thing to do. But according to local rumour, he felt he had a point to prove. That he wasn't just a theoretical economist, only good for dishing out strategic advice at a level where everyone has their head in the clouds. He wanted to show that he was capable of doing the business himself, hacking out the profits on a daily basis down at the coalface.
I always find it difficult to describe exactly what sort of shop he's got. It sells upmarket suitcases, champagne flutes, men's straw hats, the sort of mirrors you put on a garden wall and are supposed to look like windows, and crocheted oriental lampshades on top of gigantic, highly glazed, bottle-shaped stands. That kind of stuff. Maggie says it's a 'lifestyle' shop. I suppose he knows what he's doing.
He's also on every committee, parish, municipal, political and voluntary it's possible to be a member of. So the arrival of this letter with the éminence grise squiggle across the bottom could be our passport to planning consent. I have a feeling that with him on our side, battles with officialdom could be, if not a walkover, at least as smooth as a three-set match. So I call him up, and arrange to meet him that very afternoon to show him our ideas on the ground.
When I arrive on-site, there's Nik doing the measurements double-check we've requested, plus a young guy who I guess must be one of the Grise's minions, waiting for his boss. And the crowd is massing because there are also two others in blazers and ties. Neither is our man. They introduce themselves as the chairman and deputy chairman of the Stow Planning Committee.
I shake their hands like they've just made it back from a moon landing, and gush on about how we're determined that our conversion will be sympathetic – it's a useful word I've picked up from Anthea – to its historic origins.
'I can't see any problem,' they both say almost simultaneously.
The chairman adds, 'You've got to understand, though, that we're only in an advisory capacity.' He glares at the young minion. 'Cirencester often ignores our recommendations. But I think I can fairly say that you can count on the support of the Stow-on-the-Wold council.' I grab their hands in a repeat of the Apollo 11 crew greeting, and while I'm wondering if a couple of man hugs would be de trop, they back off and disappear up the burgage.
I'm just about to crow to Nik when he seizes my elbow and nodding towards the young guy, says, 'This is Gilbert Gradfram-Polly.' Something like that. My journalistic skill with names deserts me on this occasion. 'He's the Cotswold District Council conservation officer.' I was glad he'd heard my speech.
'I understand,' says Glibpert, 'that you intend to demolish the boundary wall on the corner there, in order to make an entry to the driveway.' I nod. 'It's a problem, I'm afraid,' he adds, 'That's an old wall. And this, as you know, is the curtilage of a listed building, so all such historic features must be preserved.'
'But, the Highways Department in Cirencester are insisting…' I'm trying to give it a note of incredulity.
'They're concerned with road safety, not with conservation,' replies Glueprod.
Nik by this time has started to snap branches off the straggling privet that's covering much of the offending piece of wall, and is pulling away tangles of ivy in 3-metre lengths. Growlpod and I watch entranced, as Nik produces a screwdriver from his trenchcoat pocket and scrapes the wall's blackened surface.
'Breeze blocks,' he pronounces. 'It's Cotswold stone on the outside, stuck onto concrete breeze blocks.'
I can see it would be counterproductive to suggest they might be Elizabethan breeze blocks. Doesn't look to me like Grimsniff is a fan of Comedy Roadshow. So I limit myself to, 'I hope we can count on your support for our proposal.'
'I shall be making my recommendations direct to the case officer,' he answers, and exits through the flowering bindweed.
'Good one, Nik,' I say when our visitor's safely out of ear range.
Nik raises his eyebrows and jerks his head towards a point over my shoulder. I turn, to see Mr Grise battling his way through the undergrowth.
His specs bob in greeting. I've only ever seen him before polishing an inlaid poker chip box or adjusting the hour hand of a reproduction carriage clock in the window of his shop. Out of context now, knee-deep in couch grass and leggy rosemary, he looks vulnerable, like a king who's mislaid his horse and wandered off from his courtiers. We make introductions and seem to be on first name terms. He speaks softly, as though I should know what he's thinking without him needing to say it. He's brought a gift.
'It is as you will see,' he whispers, 'an aerial photo, taken thirty years ago, that shows Back Walls, this building…' He motions towards the garages, '… and the burgage.' Aha, he's a man who speaks my language.
'That's very kind of you,' I hear myself say in the same sotto voce tone he uses. And we go on like this, murmuring to each other like a couple of conspirators, for about ten minutes. I tell him about my researches into The Crown Inn and the gasworks. This produces on his distinguished visage what is, without doubt, a sign of approval or even enjoyment. He agrees that the place probably dates back to coaching inn days. We have a bond.
I explain the detail of our building plans. His reaction is hard to detect. But anyway his only counter comment concerns the idea of leaving the stone wall exposed in the living room. 'That would be more appropriate to an agricultural rather than a residential building,' he says. I reply that it'll be a memento of the building's history. He nods this time, thanks me, I thank him, and before I know it, off he's popped back to his emporium. So that's another ace to us. We've got the Grise in the bag. Touchy he may be, but it just shows, if you treat people the right way…
I wait on for Nik while he finishes measuring out the ground.
'How long do you reckon,' I ask, 'to do the whole job?'
'Twenty weeks, minimum. Maybe more, with the demolition, putting up garden walls at the end. Then there are always delays for something or other. Better say six or seven months to be safe.'
Not bad. In fact not a bad day at all. We've got all the ducks in a row ready for a good shot at planning consent. The leader of the great and the good has added The Old Stables to his Christmas card address list. The builder is on his starting blocks. And all that remains is to sign the purchase contract. I can now admit it. Underneath the bravado, I'd been a bit daunted at first by the idea of 'building it ourselves' but you've just got to be systematic about it. That's all.
At 9.15 the next morning, my mobile rings. It's the estate agent. Sunny has agreed a sale with the other buyer, and the property is now off the market. We've lost it.
CHAPTER 6
POPPING OUT FOR
TUB OF OLIVES
AND A MATISSE
Maggie is stoic, declaring,
'Well, perhaps it means there's something even better waiting for us,' then, grabbing her bag and her mobile phone, adds, 'I'm late already opening up the shop. I've got two suppliers coming in today, as well as three women from Bath on a girls' day out. That's always good for sales.' And she rushes off.
I mope.
I make a Red Bush tea and leave it on the desk in the office to go cold, while I slump in the armchair by the back window. I leave messages for Anthea and Nik, standing them down, then can't think what else to do. I spend two hours regretting we didn't bid that bit more. I even do a calculation on an old bit of paper and work out that we could have offered ten grand more than we did. That really bucks me up.
Next, I pass to the stage of wondering whether this setback is telling us we shouldn't be in Stow at all. Perhaps I've got a distorted idea about the wonders of the place.
This reverie is interrupted by my laptop, which has been sleeping next to the cold tea, and now gives a sudden burp. It's delivered an email. From Mike. This is the guy who's known me the best part of a lifetime, and has an uncanny ability to read my moods, even at a distance of 80 miles.
A Horse in the Bathroom Page 4