The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly

by Alice Ross

  ‘I gathered that from the sign,’ huffed Luke, reclaiming his hand from hers, before removing his sunglasses and rubbing them with the edge of his black T-shirt. ‘Now can we please go back to the car and find this pub. I’m parched.’

  Lily, though, had been in no rush to leave. Bending down, she’d brushed away the stray ivy from the wooden nameplate stubbornly clinging to the fence by a solitary rusty screw. ‘Hollyhocks,’ she’d all but whispered. ‘Hollyhocks Cottage on Lovelace Lane.’ She’d straightened and swung around to face Luke. ‘How perfect would it be living here?’

  Repositioning his aviators on his nose Luke had given a derisive snort. ‘Get real, Lils. In case you hadn’t noticed, the place is practically falling down.’

  Lily hadn’t replied. Having creaked open the gate – a trickier manoeuvre than anticipated given it hung on one hinge - she was already halfway down the weed-ridden path.

  ‘Er, I think you’ll find you’re trespassing,’ Luke had hollered after her, his righteous tone indicating he had no intention of committing the same offence.

  Lily hadn’t cared. She’d been far too entranced by the cottage. It looked exactly like the houses she’d drawn as a child – a perfect square with a window either side of the door. But while the front of the house had blown her away, the back swirled her around and flung her into the stratosphere with an unnerving force. For such a tiny dwelling, the garden was enormous – about one-third of an acre, she’d guess - stretching down to a dry stone wall at the bottom, and newly-ploughed fields beyond. Mature fruit trees stood sentry in one corner, dripping with over-ripe apples, plums and pears. Nestling snugly next to them were what she assumed must once have been raised vegetable beds. But it was the profusion of hollyhocks – towering spires of every imaginable colour – rising from every available space - that had completely taken her breath away. And to complete the idyllic scene, a butterfly had then swooped down and landed on the moss-covered water butt next to her. An avid believer in fate, and already convinced Hollyhocks Cottage was to play a significant role in her life, an overwhelming feeling of conviction had ricocheted through Lily, swiftly followed by the same fizzing excitement she experienced whenever Luke wandered around in his sexy red boxers. Tugging her mobile from her bag, she’d googled the estate agent’s website. Completely clueless about house prices in Northumberland, and having seen how adorable Lovelace Lane was, she imagined the value being firmly lodged in the “Silly” category. But it hadn’t been. Releasing the breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding as she’d scrolled down the list of properties, she’d almost jumped for joy when she’d spotted the price. Her brain launching into a quick round of mental arithmetic, she worked out that, thanks to her recent promotion at the clinic where she worked as a podiatrist, and Luke’s generous Marketing Director salary, they could afford it. Just about. If they secured a mortgage the size of the northern hemisphere; begged, stole and borrowed; hi-jacked several banks; and lived off bread and water for the next five years. Seriously, though, it wasn’t half as bad as she’d imagined. And, with some creative accounting, and one or two cut-backs, was infinitely do-able.

  ‘We absolutely have to buy it, Luke,’ she’d insisted, marching back round to the front of the house with all the resolve of a woman on a mission.

  Hovering next to the gate, Luke had blown out a despairing sigh and raked a hand through his short dark hair. A couple of perfectly positioned spikes teetered slightly before springing back into place, testament to the huge amount of product applied thereto. ‘For God’s sake, Lily, will you get a grip. You don’t even know how much it is.’

  ‘I do. I’ve just looked it up. We can afford it. Just.’

  Two dark brows had shot up above Luke’s Ray Bans. ‘It’s not just the cost of the house, though, is it?’ he’d swiftly pointed out. ‘There’s all the work to factor in. And given it practically needs knocking down and rebuilding, you’re probably looking at at least another hundred thousand. Plus, there’s no way we could afford it without selling the flat first, and no way we could live in the house while the work was going on. I think, therefore, you can write it off as a complete non-starter.’

  With that crashing statement, he’d whisked around and begun retracing the route to the car.

  One hand clinging to the dodgy gatepost, Lily had remained staring at the house, chewing her bottom lip. Luke was right of course. The place did need a wad of cash chucking at it. And there was absolutely no way they could live in it while it was being renovated. She’d heaved a defeated sigh and was about to turn around and follow him, when a butterfly, looking suspiciously like the one which had landed next to her earlier, fluttered onto the gatepost. At exactly the same time, a bolt of inspiration shot through her. This cottage was one in a million. If she didn’t pull out every possible stop to try and secure it, she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

  Running after Luke, she’d caught him up and grabbed his arm. ‘I’m sure we can manage the finances. And we could buy a caravan to live in while the work’s being done. People on the telly do it all the time. It would only be for a few months. And it would be totally worth it.’ So choked with emotion had she been, that she couldn’t stop a tear streaming down her cheek. ‘Please, Luke. Can we at least try and buy it?’

  At her pleading tone, Luke’s features had softened. ‘Look,’ he’d said, wrapping his arms around her. ‘I know you love it. And I can see what you mean about how great it could look. It’s oozing potential. But thinking about it practically, it just wouldn’t work. There’s bound to be a heap of developers after it. And even if we could afford the mortgage, there’s no way we’d ever sell the flat in time.’

  ‘I know,’ Lily had muttered into his chest. ‘You’re probably right. But I don’t think I could live with myself if we didn’t at least try.’

  He’d nuzzled into her dark curls. ‘Okay. But don’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t come off.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Lily had replied, crossing her fingers behind his back.

  And she hadn’t been disappointed. Because it had come off. In rather a spooky, meant-to-be fashion …

  The Big House On Lovelace Lane

  (Lovelace Lane Book 2)

  Decisions, Ruth Dutton concluded, were like the skirts she used to run up on the sewing machine: she spent an absolute age making one, then worried the entire time afterwards about whether it suited her.

  When her daughter, Fiona, had suggested Ruth leave her little bungalow in Dorset and move to Northumberland to live with her and her family in The Big House on Lovelace Lane, Ruth had, naturally, given the matter a great deal of consideration. Using her faithful method of For and Againsts – which had rarely let her down in all her seventy-three years - she’d pulled together one of her lists:

  Fors

  Fantastic seeing so much of her grandchildren

  Security of having family on hand

  Againsts

  Potential loss of independence

  Leaving behind friends

  Dealing with Fiona every day

  All the above (excepting – for obvious reasons - the third point on the Againsts list), Ruth had discussed with her daughter, who, in her usual forthright, inimitable way, had assured her that:

  a) there would be no loss of independence – Ruth would have a self-contained annexe in their huge Victorian house and could come and go as she pleased. And

  b) there was so much going on in the area, she would easily make new friends. And if she didn’t, Fiona would find her some.

  Ruth hadn’t been entirely convinced. But then, with confirmation of plans to build a huge new housing estate over the road from her quiet cul-de-sac in Dorset, and all her lovely, longstanding neighbours muttering about selling up, she’d awarded the proposition yet more thought, concluding that it might actually work out rather well. After all, she loved Northumberland, she loved her three grandchildren, she loved Fiona’s house, and she loved Fiona.

  But just because
you loved someone, didn’t mean you always liked them; Ruth’s relationship with her daughter being a prime example. In the thirty years since Fiona had departed the family home – striding off to Cambridge to study law with the youthful zeal of one about to stamp her mark on the world - Ruth hadn’t forgotten just what a formidable force her only child could be. A trait which seemed to have increased with age. And so it was, on evenings such as this, at the polished mahogany table in The Big House’s exquisite yellow dining room, that Ruth found herself once again questioning her decision to move north - whilst simultaneously doing her best not to flake out with boredom into her strawberry pavlova.

  ‘My late wife, Brenda, used to love strawberries,’ announced the man named Bernie, who, thanks to yet another of Fiona’s carefully drafted seating plans – occupied the chair next to Ruth’s.

  ‘Really.’ Ruth did her utmost to inject an element of interest into her tone, while battling the urge to scoop up the bowl of strawberries from the centre of the table and tip it over Bernie’s liver-spotted head. One more mention of “my late wife Brenda”, and she had a horrible feeling her powers of resistance might completely fail her.

  Dismissing every one of Ruth’s – many – protestations that she was perfectly happy on her own, Bernie formed the latest in a line of potential “companions” the persistent Fiona had lined up for her. First had been a retired civil servant, who Ruth had initially considered passable, until he’d picked his nose over the sorbet. Next had been an ex-headmaster, who’d severely reprimanded her for putting her elbows on the table; followed by a birdwatcher, who’d bored her rigid with details of his sighting of a rare-spotted something or other. Or had it been a flecked something or other? A couple of weeks ago she’d found herself sitting next to an accountant who “liked to keep his hand in”. As said hands had been covered in an unnerving amount of grey hair, Ruth hadn’t liked to pursue that comment. And this evening was the turn of poor Bernie – who used to work for the council, and who clearly wasn’t anywhere near being over “Brenda”, despite the woman having apparently departed this mortal coil over a decade ago.

  ‘Brenda used to whip up a lovely mousse,’ he informed her.

  Ruth shot a longing glance at the strawberries. But she couldn’t. Firstly, because Fiona would never forgive her for causing a scene in front of the other four guests – all members of the tennis club. And secondly, because she’d ruin the new cream carpet.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she muttered instead, swiping her napkin from her lap. ‘Just need to powder my nose.’

  Bernie beamed at her. ‘Of course. I’ll let you into Brenda’s secret ingredient when you come back.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Ruth, effecting a polite smile as she wriggled out of her seat.

  Outside in the hall, the smile slid from her face as she puffed out a long breath of relief and checked her watch.

  Oh God. It was only nine o’clock. Which meant she had at least another hour in Bernie’s less than riveting company. She seriously doubted she could resist the pull of the strawberries for that long. Maybe she should feign a headache, or a slipped disc, or a sudden attack of laryngitis, or-

  ‘How’s it going, Gran?’

  At the sight of her youngest granddaughter, Ginny, Ruth’s spirits soared. She knew it wasn’t the done thing to have favourites among your grandchildren, and she loved the twins - Olivia and Lucas - dearly, but they were grown up now, almost adults. They’d be eighteen in a couple of weeks and off to university in the autumn. Leaving behind little Ginny, for whom Ruth had always harboured a particularly squidgy soft spot. While the older siblings had inherited their mother’s stunning blonde looks – which Ruth wouldn’t mind taking some credit for – she had, after all, done a bit of modelling for M&S when she’d worked part-time in the store in her student days – Ginny, with her mousy curls, gap-toothed smile and diminutive frame seemed something of a misfit in this Scandinavian-looking family. And the child couldn’t even accredit her looks to her father. Fiona’s husband, Lawrence, although what Ruth would describe as “a bit up himself”, with his jet-black hair and chiselled cheekbones, maintained the striking family image.

  Ruth grimaced. ‘To be honest, sweetheart, it’s ever so slightly tedious.’

  Ginny laughed, displaying her charming tooth gap. ‘I told Mum not to set you up again but she says you’ve been on your own far too long.’

  Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘I know. And the fact that I’ve coped perfectly well on my own since her father died eight years ago, appears to have completely passed her by. Why she’s suddenly got it into her head that I need a man, I have no idea.’

  ‘You know Mum. Once she sets her mind to something, that’s it.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Although I can’t say I’m disappointed she’s assigned us to listing the contents of the attic. You all set for tomorrow?’

  Ginny nodded excitedly. ‘Can’t wait. Do you think we might find something valuable? Like a painting that’s worth squillions?’

  ‘You never know. There’s masses of stuff up there. My bet is on spiders and mouse droppings though.’

  Ginny screwed up her face. ‘Ugh. Gross.’

  ‘I’ll be here around ten. And if I’m not, it’s because I’ve been admitted to hospital with a severe case of tedium.’

  Ginny laughed. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Believe me, it can,’ said Ruth, before scurrying off to the loo to kill five more minutes.

  ‘I was just saying, Mum,’ said Fiona, as Ruth re-entered the dining room, having fluffed up her blonde bob, taken several fortifying breaths, and pasted on a smile.

  By her daughter’s determined expression, Ruth knew instinctively that whatever Fiona had been “just saying”, she wasn’t going to like it.

  ‘How interested you are in steam engines.’

  Ruth balked. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you remember how much you enjoyed our visit to the Railway Museum in York?’

  Ruth cast back her mind, dredging up a blurred memory of late husband, Derek, dragging her and Fiona around a load of shiny trains several decades ago.

  ‘So Bernie has kindly offered to take you to a display of engines in Alnwick.’

  Ruth’s eyes grew wide as she shot a pleading look at her daughter.

  ‘There’ll be old motorbikes there too. And tractors,’ boasted Bernie.

  ‘Completely fascinating,’ added Fiona, ignoring Ruth’s silent SOS.

  Realising her chances of being rescued hovered somewhere between zero and minus one, Ruth hastily scrabbled together a response. ‘Well, it all sounds very interesting. And it’s exceedingly kind of you to offer, Bernie, but-’

  ‘I could pick you up. It would be no trouble,’ he insisted, clearly on a roll.

  Unfortunately for Ruth, it wasn’t off a virtual cliff.

  ‘Perfect!’ exclaimed Fiona, with a rather superfluous – in Ruth’s opinion – clap of her hands. ‘I can tell Mum’s looking forward to it already.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ muttered Ruth, silently admitting defeat. There was, she knew, no point in demurring, Fiona’s steely expression signalling the blockage of all possible escape routes.

  Blood simmering at the unwelcome set-up, Ruth mumbled something about feeling tired half an hour later and, ignoring Fiona’s disapproving glower, excused herself from the table. She’d briefly considered staying behind and furnishing her daughter with yet another piece of her mind once the guests had left, but she didn’t have the energy. Having engaged in numerous heated discussions on the subject during the four months she’d been at The Big House, she knew she’d be wasting her time. As Ginny had correctly pointed out, once Fiona had her mind set on something, she was as immovable as Stonehenge. Meaning Ruth would have to come up with another way to extricate herself from the “date”. Such as contacting Bernie herself with some pretext. Fiona wouldn’t like it, but Ruth was past caring.

  Making her way along the little path that led round the back
of the main house, through the garden, to her annexe, Ruth sucked in a deep breath, savouring the intermingling scent of honeysuckle, jasmine and evening primrose. She was, she realised, extremely lucky living here: Northumberland was stunning, Lovelace Lane delightful, and The Big House a spectacular example of Victorian architecture, its period features tastefully juxtaposing with contemporary embellishments - like Ruth’s annexe. Originally the servants’ quarters, the space had been adapted into a light, cosy, two-bedroomed apartment, which suited her perfectly.

  Indeed, almost everything about Ruth’s move north had worked out perfectly. Despite her fierce independence, she found it reassuring having her family about her and she adored seeing so much of her grandchildren. Just as she’d feared, though, the one fly in the ointment was Fiona. If only she would cease being so bossy and organising everyone. But there was as much chance of that happening as Ruth winning the Grand National on a three-legged camel.

  Ruth had to admit, however, that Fiona’s forceful, no-nonsense personality had served her daughter well over the years. She now dabbled in legal consultancy but before embarking on motherhood had been in great demand as a barrister, winning just about every case she’d represented. Ruth suspected this might have been because the opposition, upon noting her offspring’s unwavering expression across the courtroom, had merely waved a sea of white handkerchiefs and slunk off in defeat without bothering with the trial. Quite where all this vigour originated from, Ruth really couldn’t fathom. She was a mild-mannered soul, and so, too, had been her late husband – Fiona’s father – Derek. In fact Derek had been so timid that when he’d purchased an electric drill from a national DIY store, and it had stopped working after less than a week, he’d suffered three sleepless nights and bought a bottle of herbal calming pills, before plucking up the courage to return it. Ruth had never been quite that bad, but Fiona reigned supreme over a class of her own. From the day she’d barrelled into the world, her strong, independent spirit had been evident for all to see. So much so, that Ruth could still remember receiving a call from the flustered headmistress of her daughter’s school, informing her that the seven-year-old Fiona had stood on a bench in the dining hall at lunchtime and given an impromptu lecture to her astounded audience, on the miserable lives of battery hens. So detailed and informed had the speech been, that half the room – including three of the serving staff and the cook, had been reduced to tears, and all eggs had been promptly boycotted pending research on their origins. Ruth had been completely oblivious to her daughter’s apparently in-depth knowledge on this subject, and when she’d enquired why Fiona had felt the need for such action, the child had simply replied “people need to know these things” – a statement which neither Ruth, nor the headmistress, could disagree with. All this forthrightness, though, plus a mind as sharp as a bacon-slicer, had, even at that tender age, made Fiona something of an intimidating character. Consequently, she’d never been the most popular kid on the block, but that had never bothered her. She’d kept a handful of close, equally bright and ambitious friends through school and university, and had had no time for hangers-on. She’d never suffered fools gladly, and held no qualms about telling them so. She was the epitome of cool, detached, controlled.