He lowered his hood. He had grey eyes behind slim trendy glasses and thick dark eyebrows. His short hair was almost black and a bit tufty. Serious-looking but not scary.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Is that your dog? Will it be all right in the car?’ I hated awkward silences and had a tendency to fill them with mindless small talk. Of course the dog would be all right, it wasn’t as if it was scorching hot or anything.
‘Yes and yes.’
‘I never really know what dogs are saying,’ I persisted.
He raised an eyebrow, quite understandably.
‘Well you know, body language-wise.’
I was rambling. He clearly didn’t do small talk and I clearly didn’t do coherent conversation. I turned to unlock the front door. The key stuck in the lock. I set my bag and umbrella down and twisted with both hands. My cheeks were pink and I could feel a prickle of heat under my armpits.
‘Actually, I find dogs easier to understand than people,’ he said, watching me struggle again.
‘Oh, right.’
What was that syndrome that Doc Martin off the telly had, calls a spade a spade? Asperger’s? How did I manage to choose a man who prefers dogs to humans for my second professional opinion?
I gave the door a hard shove and it opened. A pile of junk mail had wedged itself under the door. I picked up the letters and surreptitiously laid a hand on my face. As I thought. I was steaming hot and therefore probably purple with exertion.
‘Shall I take my shoes off?’ he asked, following me into the hall.
I waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, glancing too late at his chunky-soled boots, which looked like they’d spent the day off-roading in a muddy bog.
I cringed as he left a trail of muddy footprints on the biscuit-coloured living room carpet, but it seemed churlish to change my mind and make him take them off.
Nick took off his coat and hung it neatly over the back of a chair. He wasn’t big and bulky, it had been all jacket. He was quite tall still, obviously, but slim. Methodically, he removed a clipboard and a pencil from his rucksack and turned his phone onto silent.
I bet he had been a straight ‘A’ student, never giving his parents a moment’s grief. He smiled properly for the first time, transforming his face. I smiled back, noticing how his hair was sticking up on top where his hood had been.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I asked automatically, before remembering where I was.
Please say no.
‘Yes, please.’
We both slurped away through straws at our cartons of Ribena, perched on the high-backed armchairs, teetering on the precipice of another awkward silence. I pulled my sketchpad out of my bag for wont of something to do, putting it on the coffee table between us.
Now we were here, I felt shy. This was a man who obviously saw himself as a champion of architectural heritage, driven to preserve our old buildings, their foibles and features for future generations. And I’d brought him to view a dreary 1930s bungalow with about as much character as a Big Brother contestant.
Sorry, Great Aunt Jane.
‘So,’ we both said at the same time, and then shared a polite laugh. I gestured for him to speak first.
‘You must be looking at a replacement scheme?’
‘Um?’ I shook my head, not sure what he meant. Windows maybe, or carpets?
He took another sip from his straw and stretched a leg forward to deposit his carton on the table, leaving another brown smear on the carpet.
‘Demolishing this old place and building a new one,’ he explained.
I watched in horror as his Ribena siphoned itself out of the carton and all over the cover of my sketchpad. I was only just starting to process his last statement when he lurched forward, cursing his clumsiness, and ripped the cover off the pad.
We both looked at the sketch he’d revealed in the coverless pad. It was entitled ‘Bungalow Extension’.
I gasped and grabbed it off him. That wasn’t for public viewing! I was mortified. So was he, judging by his expression.
‘I apologise. I assumed. With you mentioning Grand Designs…’ His words petered out. He laid the wet paper on the hearth, straightened the straw to stop it dribbling, rubbed a hand over his face and tweaked the tuft of hair on the top of his head.
Ridiculous, I know, but I was insulted. He’d more or less agreed with that awful estate agent. I’d expected better.
‘No, it’s fine, really. Ignore the drawing. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. If anything. I’m open to suggestions.’
You are an intelligent woman who knows her own mind, I told myself. Not strictly true, but I did recognise a good idea when I saw one. I simply had to hope this architect had some.
‘The reason I said that,’ said Nick, writing the date neatly in the top corner of the page on his clipboard, ‘is that it’s sometimes cheaper and easier to knock down and start from scratch, than to attempt to shoehorn lots of new requirements into an existing bungalow.’
‘I thought you were all for renovation and preservation,’ I ventured.
‘Only with buildings worth preserving.’
My mouth gaped. How rude! I contemplated squirting him with the rest of his flippin’ Ribena. I knew my first impression of the bungalow hadn’t been exactly glowing, but even so.
He caught the look on my face. ‘What I mean is,’ he stammered, ‘these properties built in the 1930s–’
‘Were built quickly, poor quality, no damp-proofing. Yes, yes, I know all that.’
I so regretted phoning him. Professional opinion, pah! They were all the same. Charlatans out to make a quick buck.
Nick swallowed and stared at me. The seconds ticked by.
‘What would you like me to do?’ he asked eventually.
I folded my arms and sat back in my chair, shrugging softly.
Tell me what to do. Tell me whether I should walk away from this whole business and tell the solicitor that I can’t accept Great Aunt Jane’s condition. Persuade me to leave my knowledge of my father as it is: a picture painted by my mother of an unfaithful, irresponsible man.
‘As you’ve asked for the services of an architect, I’m going to assume that you don’t want to live in the property as it is. Correct?’
This was more like it; perhaps he was about to start making some proper suggestions. I nodded.
‘I took the liberty of walking round the back while I was waiting for you.’
Here we go again, reminding me how late I was.
‘And the good news is that the bungalow has never been altered since it was first built.’
‘Hence it not being worth preserving, I suppose,’ I added, childishly.
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant,’ said Nick, pushing his glasses up with his index finger. ‘That simply adds to the potential.’
This was miles better! A bungalow with potential! One nil to me, Colin Hanley.
‘You think it has potential, then?’ I jumped on his most positive words so far, like a starving woman on a slice of buttery toast.
‘Definitely.’ Nick nodded rapidly, looking a touch relieved. ‘You’ve got all sorts of options. From extensions to replacement schemes.’
Options, I had options! I gripped my pad tightly. No way was he going to see my sketches again.
‘An alternative to an extension would be to replace it with a new dwelling.’
My cheeks twitched. Who says dwelling? No one says ‘Come round and see my new dwelling’, do they?
‘Depending on your budget, you could have a new house designed and built on this plot, which you either live in or sell. Or another idea would be to apply for permission to build a new house and sell the bungalow with the planning permission in place. It would be worth a lot more money then.’
It was the longest speech I’d heard from him. I caught a glimpse of the enthusiasm I had heard in his voice on the radio. His eyes were shining and he looked all fired up. He obviously lo
ved his job. I thought back to my meeting at Fringe Benefits, wishing I could say the same about mine.
‘Wow! I’d never thought of any of that.’ I grinned at him. ‘I can’t afford to build a house, but I like your thinking.’
I knew it had been a good idea to call him.
‘We’re in a village here, not the middle of the city. Do you think planning permission would be granted to do whatever it is you’re suggesting?’
Nick pinched his lips together and bunched his eyebrows up.
‘Planners are difficult to predict and a lot depends on the reaction of the neighbours, but the house doesn’t really add much in the way of architectural interest.’
I bristled a bit at that but decided to let him off. After all, he did have a valid point.
‘We can make a strong case for the advantages of replacing the bungalow with a modern cottage,’ he added.
‘That sounds lovely,’ I sighed. A modern cottage. I felt bubbles of anticipation fizz up inside me like a freshly-opened bottle of Cava. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? My own little house designed to my tastes, for my life. Somewhere to call home.
I sat up straight and coughed. No use in getting carried away. I needed to be practical about these things and, anyway, I wasn’t sure whether the bungalow would be mine yet.
‘I could do a feasibility study for you, if you like?’
I nodded. ‘Sounds great.’ Whatever that is.
‘Do you mind if I take a couple of photographs?’ asked Nick, drawing an impressive camera out of his bag.
‘Um, no, I suppose not.’ Oh knickers! I probably look a right state.
I couldn’t even remember whether I’d wiped that blood off my lip. I was desperate to go and check my face in a mirror, but didn’t want to appear vain.
Nick fiddled with the lens cap and checked the settings. While he was distracted, I smoothed my hair down, straightened my coat and tried to remember the tips in Heat Magazine. I was supposed to turn away from him, and then look back over my shoulder, tilting my chin up. And if he asked me to stand, I needed to put one leg in front of the other to make me look slimmer.
I sat up tall and plastered on a big smile.
Nick stood up and blinked at me. ‘Not of you. I meant pictures of the plot, the garden and the lane. For reference.’
I blushed furiously. ‘Right, yes, of course. Thank goodness for that! Very professional camera!’
‘It’s a hobby of mine.’
‘Really? What do you take pictures of?’
‘Dogs mainly.’
‘Right.’ We looked at each other during another moment of silence. And it had been going so well.
‘I’ll show you out into the garden,’ I said.
‘I’m done.’ Nick’s words fifteen minutes later through the kitchen window made me jump. I’d discovered a load of old paperwork in a kitchen drawer. Someone was going to have to go through all that and I was guessing it was supposed to be me.
I went outside to say goodbye. His dog was with him, on a lead. It was a beagle, I could see now.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ said Nick, ‘he needed to stretch his legs before we go home.’
‘Hello.’ I held my hand out to stroke the dog. It sniffed my hand and jumped up my legs for a more personal sniff. I yelped with embarrassment and Nick tugged the dog away.
‘Norman! Sorry, he’s not very good around women,’ said Nick, with a ghost of a smile. He bent down and patted the dog’s neck.
He’d been telling the truth when he said he understood dogs better than people. He was far more relaxed with Norman than with me.
I waved them off. Nick had told me the feasibility report wouldn’t be ready for another three weeks at least. That was fine with me. The more excuses I had for procrastination, the better.
eleven
A month later and I had become an expert in the art of sticking my fingers in my ears and singing ‘Lalalala’ whenever Great Aunt Jane’s will came up in conversation, whether that conversation was with Jess and Emma or alone in my head.
However, I knew I couldn’t avoid the issue for ever. When Mr Whelan, the solicitor, called me, I was at work.
My lunch hour was nearly over and I was at my desk getting to grips with a barbecue chicken wrap. It was heavily calorie-laden, but for once I didn’t care. I was recovering from an embarrassing underwear ordeal in Primark. A kind lady had tapped me on the shoulder when I was in the till queue to tell me my skirt was tucked in my knickers. Primark was miles from The Herald and I hadn’t been to the loo since eleven this morning. I must have been flashing my Tesco black cotton pants to all and sundry for nearly three hours.
Proof, if it were required, of just how distracted I was at the moment.
‘Miss Stone? Mr Whelan, your great aunt’s solicitor. I’m calling to take further instruction in the matter of the will.’
Bam. Straight down to business. Just like that.
I dropped the chicken wrap back into its bag, gulped down my mouthful and flailed around in my mind for some words.
‘Please. Call me Sophie.’
‘If you insist.’
Righty-o, I’ll call you Mr Whelan then.
‘How long have I got to make up my mind?’
There was a pause. He was probably wondering what on earth I’d been doing for the last eight weeks. I could ask myself the same question.
‘There’s no immediate rush, I suppose,’ came the reply, followed by a chuckle. ‘Although I was planning on retiring at sixty-five.’
I joined in half-heartedly with the joke, but as I could never tell men’s ages, I didn’t fully commit. He could be forty-six or sixty-four. Plus he had a beard which made it even more difficult to guess.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said. ‘My friends say I shouldn’t touch the will with a bargepole and I haven’t dared tell my mum. She wouldn’t let me have anything to do with it.’
I cringed at the sound of my own words. I sounded twelve not thirty-two.
Donna stalked past, glaring at me. I clamped my phone between my shoulder and ear and pretended to type.
‘Do you always do as you’re told?’ He sounded amused, as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.
‘No, no of course not.’
Yes. Now I thought about it, I don’t think I’ve disobeyed anyone for years.
‘My granddad used to have a saying, “If in doubt, do nowt.” Wise words I’d say, at least for the moment,’ the solicitor suggested. ‘But at some point you’ll have to make your mind up. This is about your future. Nobody else can make the decision for you.’
Hmm, I considered the saying. What about a person who was permanently in doubt? Were they consigned to do nowt for the rest of their lives? I had a feeling that me and Granddad would have got along just fine.
‘By the way, I’ve finalised Mrs Kennedy’s finances. After fees and so on, there will be approximately twenty-five thousand pounds in her account. That would come to you as well as the bungalow.’
The phone slid out from under my ear and clattered onto the keyboard. Twenty-five grand! I’d assumed it would be more like five!
‘Are you there, Miss Stone?’
My mouth had gone dry and I slurped some water out of a bottle. I would have a house, money to do it up and if I added my own little nest egg to it… All of a sudden I had options. The architect’s solemn face appeared in my head. That was what he had said!
‘What would happen if I don’t accept my great aunt’s condition?’ My voice was little more than a croak.
‘Then the estate reverts to next of kin. Your father.’
On the bus on the way home from work, I took out a pen and paper and wrote: ‘Accepting the will’. Underneath I drew a table with two columns: For and Against. Mr Whelan was right, this decision wasn’t going to go away and it was about time I faced it full on.
Under For I wrote, ‘If I inherit Great Aunt Jane’s estate, my father can’t have it.’ Immediately adding under Agains
t, ‘I will have to meet my father.’
Next point. I would have my own home, enough money to feel secure and the means to change my life.
I chewed the end of my pen and let that sink in. No more scrimping and saving, imagine that! I’d been building up my nest egg for so long that it had become a way of life. I would be able to relax about money. I might even buy myself a car. I would definitely stop wearing Tesco knickers.
I frowned. With property and money came responsibility. I’d managed to dodge that for thirty-two years. If my life was a journey, so far I’d stayed firmly in the passenger seat. I added ‘responsibilities’ to the Against column.
Now for a biggie: Mum. I wrote her name down in both columns. On the one hand, I’d have money to go and visit her more often and we could spend more time together. However, I wasn’t sure she would ever forgive me if I agreed to meet my father. She might even disown me. Then I’d have no one. All the money in the world wouldn’t make up for that.
Finally, my friends. Nothing had been said, but deep down, we were all ready to move out of that flat. I would have gone as far as to say, we should move out. It was grotty, small and in desperate need of a new kitchen and bathroom. We had moved in when Emma graduated, a cheap flat to tide us over until we were all earning enough to buy somewhere together.
If I was able to persuade them to move in with me, the bungalow in Woodby would solve all our problems. Unfortunately, so far, they hadn’t shown much enthusiasm for it.
I sighed as I examined both sides of my table. Every positive was also a negative. Would it be really irresponsible to toss a coin?
I arrived back at the flat in time to witness a Piper family feud. Emma had apparently asked Jess for a lift and she’d refused. That was it. Sometimes I was really grateful not to have any siblings. The argument was dredging up all the injustices, imagined or otherwise, from their vault of shared memories.
‘It was your choice to give up learning to drive. You must face the consequences and not rely on the goodwill of others.’ Jess was on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. She maintained a serene smile but she knew all the right buttons to press to make Emma react.
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