Finding Home

by Lauren Westwood

  I put the photo down on the desk, and something else catches my eye. Wedged between the desk and the wall is a bundle of folded-up, yellowing papers wrapped in what looks like a faded ribbon – it’s coated with so much fuzz, dust, and cobwebs that it’s hard to tell. Using a pen, I ease it out from behind the desk. When I’m finally able to grab it, I pick up the bundle and blow on it. Big mistake. I start sneezing and coughing all over again.

  The ribbon comes apart in my hands. I unfold the paper on top. It’s an old letter, dated 1952 – addressed to ‘A’ and signed ‘H’. Arabella and Henry? I skim the text – it’s a quaint, heartfelt love letter; saying how much ‘H’ is looking forward to seeing ‘A’ after being away at university. He also expresses some worries about his father’s health, and waxes poetic about how he’s looking forward to a life at Rosemont Hall with ‘A’.

  I refold the letter. It’s all so romantic. I’d love to read more; find out about Henry and Arabella’s life here. But do I dare take the letters? They’ve obviously been behind the desk for many years – I doubt that anyone would miss them – especially since the correspondents are both dead. Surely if I ‘borrow’ them, no one would mind.

  Behind me, footsteps creak over the parquet floor. In a split second, I make up my mind and shove the letters into my coat pocket. When I turn around, David Waters is standing there making a few notes.

  ‘Hi.’ He rakes a hand through his sandy hair. ‘The good news is the East Wing isn’t about to come down on anyone’s head anytime soon.’

  I smooth down my coat. ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘It’s causing strain on the main house. There are some huge diagonal cracks – sure signs of major subsidence.’

  Subsidence – the dreaded word.

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s going to raise the repair costs considerably. And if it’s not repaired, then the whole house might start to slowly pull apart. The bottom line is that you’d need to find buried treasure to make a dent in the costs to fix up this place.’

  ‘Buried treasure? As in – actual buried treasure?’

  ‘Either that, or divide it into a whole lot of flats.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘So, Amy,’ he says, ‘I think I’ve got everything I need now – except your phone number.’

  He flips his notebook open to a blank page. Our fingers brush as I take his pencil and write down my phone number. We agree to meet at the White Swan in Clevedon. Then he follows me back to the main hall. At the door, he leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘See you tonight, Amy.’ He grins disarmingly. ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  - 11 -

  I retreat to the staircase landing and stand before the portrait of the lady in the pink dress. I stare at her lovely face; her mysterious smile. For a second I think of the letters I found and that maybe they were hers. But they couldn’t be, as the letters are from the 1950s and she was painted in 1899.

  ‘So, what did you think of David Waters?’ I say aloud to her. ‘Should I have agreed to go on a date with him? I mean, technically, it’s much too soon to think about “meeting someone”.’ My words echo hesitantly in the cavernous space of the hall. Pacing the landing, the life I imagined I would have with Simon flickers through my mind like an old-time film: weekend breaks to country B&Bs, browsing second-hand bookshops, having dinner parties and book groups at our lovely little attic flat in Thornfield Gardens. I sigh. We had so much history together that I thought it would be a solid foundation for the future. But in real life, history only goes so far. The memories don’t even begin to make up for all that wasted time.

  From somewhere below me, there’s a creaking noise, followed by a faint tapping – maybe mice? Hopefully not the sound of something about to collapse. I head down the stairs to investigate.

  The hall is empty and silent. A draught of chill air sweeps the room. I walk towards the corridor—

  An enormous furry beast knocks me to the ground. I scream and raise my hands to my face. Wet and sticky; I scream again – and I’m pinned down and—

  ‘Captain!’ A voice yells.

  The giant pauses in my murder and I find that I’m being licked within an inch of my life by a huge Saint Bernard with glassy blue eyes.

  ‘Down boy!’

  The dog gives a gruff bark and bounds away down the corridor.

  Pulse racing, I scramble onto my knees. An ancient woman appears in the doorway of the East Wing. She’s hunched over and standing unsteadily on swollen ankles; stockings rumpled beneath a floral-patterned dress. Her gnarled hands are brandishing a stick – at me.

  ‘Hello?’ I say timidly.

  ‘And you are...?’ Her blue-grey eyes are sharp and lucid as she peers at me over the top of her half-moon glasses.

  ‘I’m Amy Wood, the estate agent.’ I get to my feet and wipe the dog slobber off my face with my sleeve.

  She stands silent for a moment, assessing me. Finally, she speaks: ‘Maryanne Bradford. Missus.’ The lines in her brow furrow and she shakes her head. ‘Estate agent. Hmmpff. Vultures more like. I know why you’re here. You want to tear this place apart brick by brick.’

  I give her my kindliest smile. ‘That’s not why I’m here, Mrs Bradford,’ I assure her. ‘I’ve never seen such a magnificent house in all my life. I’d like to find a buyer who will restore it to its former glory. My agency specialises in selling unique and historic properties. I’m hoping I can find it a good home – so to speak.’ I laugh nervously. ‘That’s what the Windhams would have wanted… surely?’

  ‘So you knew them did you?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘Then don’t assume you know anything.’ She whistles to the dog. ‘Captain!’ From the darkness of the corridor, the dog bounds back, its red mouth dripping drool like the Hound of the Baskervilles. It growls at me, then sinks to the old woman’s feet and playfully rolls over onto its back. Its eyes stare past me, and I realise that it’s blind.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, a bit taken aback. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.’

  I’d been expecting a nice, grandmotherly, scone-baking old lady, not someone quite so abrupt. But why should she be polite to someone like me? If I was in Mrs Bradford’s orthopaedic platform shoes – devoted to the house and Mrs Windham, nursing her through her last illness – I’d be upset too by what’s happening. It’s natural, I suppose, that she may see me as the enemy.

  Mrs Bradford rubs the dog’s tummy with her cane, her mouth pursed in a thin line, her eyes assessing me.

  ‘It’s a shame, isn’t it, that the heirs haven’t even been over to visit the house?’ I try again to soften her. ‘I mean, if I’d inherited a place like this, I’d want to see it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘The heirs,’ she snaps, clacking her dentures for effect. ‘Jack and Flora are good-for-nothing… peasants.’ She shakes her mop of silver-grey hair. ‘How could they not be – they called in your lot, didn’t they? They’ll never understand – never! It took all these years to put things right, and they’ve proved that they don’t deserve a teaspoon of soil from this place.’

  ‘Um, yes,’ I gulp. ‘Though I guess it’s a big project for someone to take on. I’m told that it’s going to take a lot of money to fix up the house.’

  She hobbles towards me; the dog slinks along at her feet growling. ‘The house is fine as it is,’ she says. ‘Oh, I know all you young people with your property make-over shows and your white walls, beige carpets and what-nots. But that’s hardly what matters, is it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I say. ‘I think it’s the people who matter. Finding someone who will fall in love with the house; someone who will appreciate its history and care about its future. That’s what I want to do.’

  She looks at me like I’m completely barmy. I sigh – everything I say seems to be wrong.

  ‘You sound like you’ve been reading too many novels,’ she says with a frown. ‘But I’ll tell you something for free. No
ne of the people cared about this house when they lived here. Arabella hated the house – she thought it was too big and draughty. And Henry was Henry. Even Sir George…’ She closes her eyes. It’s as if her body is standing before me but her mind is somewhere else entirely. ‘All those promises, and then… poof! Everything was gone. Up in smoke. And never another word or a how d’ya do.’ She snaps her fingers and her eyes pop open.

  ‘You were here in Sir George’s time?’ I quickly do the maths. If she was here in the 1940s or 50s, then she must be well into her eighties now.

  ‘My mother was the housekeeper here. I practically grew up at Rosemont Hall.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ I say. ‘You must know so much about the house and the family. I’d love to learn more. I’ve read a little bit about Sir George Windham. About how he collected art and was a war hero.’ I smile. ‘He sounds very dashing and illustrious. But that’s about all I know.’

  ‘You’ve read about Sir George, you say?’ Her face curdles like there’s a sudden bad smell. ‘And do you think your history books tell the truth?’

  ‘It was the internet actually—’

  ‘You want to know about him. Well, I could tell you a thing or two – not that it’s any of your business.’ She sucks in a breath. ‘Sir George was no hero, that’s for sure. He was a devil.’ She bangs her cane on the floor for emphasis.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, startled. ‘I mean… really?’

  ‘And Henry – he was weak. He never was any match for his father. And Arabella – she was just a pawn in their chess game.’ She turns away, shaking her head like it all disgusts her.

  I open my mouth to respond, but what can I say? My hand goes unconsciously to the letters in my pocket. The private life of Henry and Arabella is none of my business and I shouldn’t have taken them – I’ll put them back. Later.

  Mrs Bradford begins to hobble off. I follow her at a discreet distance – even if I can’t make her like me, I can at least keep her talking. ‘I was wondering, Mrs Bradford,’ I say offhandedly, ‘do you know who the woman is in the portrait – the one on the stairs?’

  ‘Her?’ She wheels around, her sunken eyes flaring. ‘What do you want to know about her for? You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. And that picture is so lovely. The frame says 1899. I was wondering if she’s Sir George’s wife maybe? Or his mother?’

  ‘No!’ She waves her stick upwards in the direction of the painting. ‘Not his wife or his mother. She was nobody. No one at all.’

  She pivots on her cane in the direction of the stairs. I hover behind her – I don’t want to annoy her with my questions, but she clearly knows a lot about the house and the Windham Family, and I’m eager to learn more. How can I convince her to trust me – that I’m on her side?

  Instead of going up to her room, she turns again and begins hobbling back down the corridor to the East Wing, the huge dog plodding beside her. I follow her, anxious to see for myself what still remains after the devastating fire. The corridor is damp and smells of mildew. Mrs Bradford pushes on the door with her cane, and it opens with an unsettling creak. She steps through the door and pauses. Half-turned towards me, she begins to speak again. ‘You’re curious, are you? You want to know about Sir George?’

  I nod encouragingly, keeping my mouth firmly shut. ‘The truth was, Sir George needed money,’ she says. ‘The house was requisitioned in the war, and the soldiers left it a wreck. Sir George sold off his art piece by piece but it wasn’t enough. And let’s be honest – Henry was never the type who was going to make a fortune by working. So Sir George found another way. He planned the whole thing right from the start. And look what happened.’ She hisses through her teeth. ‘He was a demon. Those black eyes – it was like they might pierce through your flesh and devour your soul.’

  ‘Planned what, Mrs Bradford?’ I say. I’m intrigued, and more than a little unsettled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lives were ruined, that’s what.’ She purses her lips like a silent fortress.

  I step through the door and immediately stop, aghast at what’s before me. The remains of the East Wing are a cross between a bomb site and a tip. There’s barely room to walk amid the heaps of charred wood and plaster, broken glass, and the remains of what must have once been tables and chairs that went up in the blaze. Charred rafters dissect the grey sky, and a whole colony of birds has taken up residence in the half-collapsed chimney. Tufts of grass and weeds are growing among the detritus. The rain has long ago washed away the smell of smoke, but not the sense of desolation.

  Mrs Bradford turns to me. ‘I come here sometimes when I want some peace and quiet,’ she says pointedly. ‘And to remember things the way they were.’

  I nod without speaking, which seems to placate her.

  ‘This was once the grand ballroom.’ She gestures with her cane. ‘It had a ceiling of glass that let in the starlight. The walls were white with cornices of plaster flowers, and mirrors that reflected the candles a thousand times over. There was a stage for the musicians over there.’ She points to a corner of the ruin. ‘And the tables of food were set up there.’ She indicates with her head. ‘The night of the fire was Henry’s twenty-first birthday. Everything was perfect – the flowers, the champagne, the music. And the guests…’

  She picks her way through the rubble, losing herself in the past. ‘Arabella was such a pale slip of a girl – a waif in a green dress. All eyes and hollow cheeks. And the way Henry looked at her… like she was some kind of rare china doll...’ She snorts suddenly. ‘I remember how the sky turned such a queer shade of red. Angry, like hell had risen up from the ground and swallowed the moon and stars. All those cars with their headlights and not one of them stopping. And then the rain began to fall; black rain – thick and dirty like coal dust.’ Her eyes glisten with the memory of towering flames. ‘The ash from the fire.’

  I keep silent, engrossed in her story.

  ‘And after the fire, Sir George was like a ghost, they say. Walking through the rubble, day and night. Tapping his stick, tap, tap. Muttering to himself and staring at the empty walls where his precious paintings once hung. Luckily, he had the courtesy to die soon afterwards. It’s the only good thing he ever did.’

  ‘It sounds awful,’ I say with a shudder. ‘How did the fire start?’

  She looks at me warily, her blue eyes hostile. ‘What do your history books say?’

  ‘Well, nothing. I haven’t found any mention of that.’

  She stops abruptly, looking down at the ground. In front of her is a tight ball of twigs and dried grass – a bird’s nest. I look up and see that it must have fallen down from the smoke-blackened beam above.

  She pokes at the nest with her cane. Something glints gold in the sunlight.

  ‘I think it’s a magpie’s nest,’ I say. ‘There’s one under the roof of my dad’s shed.’

  I bend down and pick it up. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘it’s stolen something.’ I give the nest a shake. A small gold rectangle has been woven tightly into the nest. I unpick the tangle of twigs and grass and remove it.

  ‘What is it?’ she says, peering over her glasses.

  I take out a tissue from my pocket and wipe it off. ‘It’s a cigarette lighter,’ I say. ‘There’s an engraving on it. “To H love A, Happy Birthday”.’

  She lets out a strangled cry.

  ‘Here,’ I say, holding it out, ‘do you want it?’

  ‘No!’ She recoils with a hiss. The dog suddenly barks and leaps to her side. ‘Why is that here? Is this some kind of trick?’ Her aged body begins to tremble.

  Startled, I shove the lighter into my pocket.

  ‘No – I guess the magpie stole it. I’m sorry if it’s upset you. Can I make you a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘I want you to leave,’ she says abruptly. ‘You don’t belong here.’

  ‘As I said, I’m the estate agent, so—’

  ‘Go!’

  Sh
e brandishes the stick like a cudgel and herds me towards a gaping hole in the collapsed front wall. I scramble over bricks and rubble, desperately trying to stay on my feet. Captain streaks back and circles me, barking and barring his teeth. Mrs Bradford raises her voice: ‘Go!’

  - 12 -

  I go. The tyres spit gravel as I drive off, covered with dust and dog slobber. I’m as perplexed as Jane Eyre hearing maniacal laughter in the night; as panicked as the second Mrs de Winter when psycho Mrs Danvers finds her holding Rebecca’s nightdress. What did I say? What did I do wrong? The cigarette lighter must have been a gift to Henry from Arabella that got lost many years ago. Why did my finding it upset her so much? I take a deep breath to steady my breathing. As far as Rosemont Hall is concerned, the woman is a living skeleton in the closet.

  As I put some miles between me and the house, I try to put things in perspective. Mrs Bradford seemed genuinely upset that the past denizens of the house – like Sir George and Henry – didn’t appreciate what they had. And now the house will go to two distant heirs who don’t appreciate it either, and have called in ‘my lot’ to get rid of it. Add that to Arabella passing, and the fact that Mrs Bradford has to move house when Rosemont Hall has been a fixture of her life for so long – it’s enough to make anyone a little irrational. If the incident with the lighter is any indicator, she’s not going to take kindly to any more change. If I do see her again, I’ll just have to keep trying to be polite.

  At least the whole kerfuffle has helped take my mind off my upcoming ‘date’ with David Waters – and my second (and third) thoughts about agreeing to go out with him. While the strain from being chased off the premises by Mrs Bradford might be a reason to cancel, unfortunately, I failed to get his mobile number.