Rumours

by Freya North

  ‘Well, hullo,’ said Xander, wanting to comment on Lydia turning up unannounced and uninvited, but knowing that doing so wittily would meet with short shrift, and remarking upon it in any other way would seem petty and rude. ‘Will you come in? Have a cuppa?’

  ‘I was just passing,’ said Lydia, though they both knew how unlikely that was.

  Xander made tea, wondering if non-brand digestive biscuits would be an affront to Lydia. ‘Biscuit?’ he asked. She was standing in the middle of the sitting area, one hand gently on the oak pillar, and she appeared to be taking in the surroundings as if seen for the first time.

  ‘You have done a lovely job in here,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you paid for it,’ said Xander.

  ‘Yes, but you did it,’ said Lydia. ‘You’ve made it very – homely.’

  He wasn’t sure what to say. She looked tired, a little disorientated. ‘Biscuit?’ he offered again. ‘They’re only digestives, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Lydia, remembering the uneaten scone, the scatter of sultanas strewn on the kitchen table back at the house. Lunch seemed too long ago to remember quite what she’d eaten.

  Xander wasn’t sure where to seat her. He didn’t have a table, per se. Just a long breakfast bar dividing the kitchen area from the sitting area and backless stools which were high and inelegant. The Sunday papers were on the coffee table but these he moved into a pile and gestured to the leather tub chair for Lydia to sit. He poured from a teapot and had decanted milk into a small jug, well remembering Lydia’s abhorrence of milk served any other way.

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Lydia wryly, ‘leafless tea – or is that a magic pot?’

  ‘It’s tea bags,’ Xander admitted, sheepishly. ‘Sorry. But you’re very honoured to be having a cup and saucer,’ he said, pouring his tea into a mug. ‘It’s the only one I have.’

  Lydia took a sip. It was actually very good. ‘They’re a marvellous invention, tea bags,’ she said. ‘And this is a very decent brew.’ She took a biscuit; looked at Xander sitting on his sofa, noticed he was in his socks and that they said Tuesday. ‘It’s Sunday,’ she said, raising her eyebrow archly whilst looking down her nose at his feet.

  ‘The right Sunday is holey,’ he said.

  She looked at him, momentarily perplexed.

  ‘And the left Sunday is lost.’

  She pursed her lips, as if to smile at such corniness was unthinkable, but the sparkle in her eyes said otherwise. They sipped in affable silence broken only by the soft munch of digestive biscuits. ‘And Xander,’ she said, as if they’d been conversing soundlessly, ‘how are you?’

  ‘I’m very well – busy at work. Running. The usual,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Why is there no woman here?’ she asked, looking around her as if the heating wasn’t on and it was cold and there was a window open somewhere.

  ‘How do you know there isn’t a floozy whom I bundled into a cupboard when I saw it was you at the door?’ he said.

  ‘Because I know you,’ she said. ‘And we’ve been through this before.’

  ‘Is this a pep talk or are you just being nosey?’

  Both Lydia and Xander were aware how he could time his impudence so perfectly, speaking to Lydia in a way that no one else dared to but that was OK in the instant.

  ‘Mrs Biggins said there was a rumour you had a young lady,’ Lydia said blithely, ‘over in Standon.’

  God. Siobhan. How had such non-news travelled? He hadn’t actually thought about her at all. Seemed so long ago. Slightly unsavoury, to be honest.

  ‘Over and out,’ Xander said, refilling their cups.

  ‘You need to make yourself available,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m sure your mother says the same. If you’re always out running, the young ladies won’t be bothered to catch up, let alone wait.’

  ‘I’m proud to be a cheetah.’

  Lydia looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Very droll,’ she said, witheringly.

  ‘Life’s good,’ said Xander. ‘How are you? Longbridge?’

  And, fleetingly, both Xander and Lydia thought of Stella.

  ‘I’m holding a meeting,’ she told him, ‘to speak to those whom the sale of Longbridge will affect. It’s on Wednesday evening. At seven o’clock sharp.’

  Xander looked into his mug. Took a thoughtful sip. ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘It was my idea,’ said Lydia brightly. She placed her teacup on the saucer which she placed carefully on her lap. She looked over to Xander who was dunking a digestive. He looked a little downcast. ‘Miss Hutton thinks it’s a jolly good idea too,’ she told him.

  Xander’s eyes darted up at her and she caught them like an expert fielder unfazed by a curve ball.

  ‘Well, Miss Hutton would, wouldn’t she,’ he said.

  They held each other’s gaze a moment longer until they were released by the sound of a sodden clod of digestive biscuit dropping into his tea.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stella’s mum came to babysit on Wednesday because, though Will had pleaded to come with her, Stella had said it was a school night and anyway the meeting would be boring and there wouldn’t be biscuits. Will gave her strict instructions to bring home any if there were, and to tell an elaborate white lie if the pilfered napkin was mentioned. Sandie told her daughter to drive carefully, not to rush back and not to worry about anything at all. It might end with a good old shindig, her mother said. You might have fun. Stella doubted very much whether the tone would lighten beyond sombre, let alone loosen enough for cross-class socializing and merrymaking in the drawing room. She’d be leaving as soon as the meeting was over; she didn’t want to be lynched by the mob and she certainly didn’t want to cross paths with Xander. That he would be there was a given, but surely the gravity of the evening would deflect his memory from recalling the last time he’d seen her – and the presence of so many others would enable her to acknowledge him politely and fleetingly. She’d just nod cordially. And if he became the spokesman for the Voices of Dissent, then she’d simply address the rabble as a whole.

  Stella had arrived early, as asked. The meeting wasn’t in the drawing room, it was to be in the dining room and suddenly the whole thing seemed imposingly formal. Glasses of water had been poured and plates of the lightest, crescent-shaped biscuits made with ground almonds and dusted with Mrs Biggins’ ubiquitous icing sugar, were placed on plates with doilies up and down the long table. Lydia was to sit at the head of the table, in a capacious dark mahogany dining chair, with maroon leather attached by a run of small brass studs to the seat and back. The other chairs around the table were the same – but without arms. Next to Lydia’s place, a simple folding chair for Stella, like a pianist’s page-turner. Fundamental, but to be inconspicuous. If every seat was taken, that would be twenty-one including her.

  ‘Are you happy with what you need to say and how you’re going to say it?’ Stella asked Lydia, who regarded her witheringly. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to say or do?’ Stella continued, unabashed.

  ‘You will sit alongside me – as my representative. And if I look to you, then speak. If not, please don’t.’

  It was hard not to feel insulted, belittled. But Stella nodded and excused herself. She didn’t need the loo, just a private moment to steel herself, to look herself straight in the eye and say, it’s just her manner, the old battleaxe – you know by now what she’s like.

  She’d been in there a while, heard the bell at the front door clang a few times; Mrs Biggins saying ‘Lovely’ at regular intervals, a quiet thrum of voices. On the closed toilet seat, Stella sat and thought, I am really quite out of my depth. Her uncle had told her not to comment on anything beyond the remit of her being there on behalf of Elmfield Estates. She was to say, ‘Lady Lydia will consult her solicitor,’ or ‘This is a matter for further discussion,’ or ‘Thank you for bringing this to our attention.’ If she was unsure of how to answer, she was to say, ‘We will look into it and report back.’ She nodded at herself
in the mirror, drew herself tall from the back of her head as her few Alexander Technique sessions had taught her. Quietly, she practised the various responses. We will look into it and report back. That’s the one she anticipated quoting the most.

  ‘We’ll look into it and report back.’

  She nodded sagely at herself. Then she frowned.

  ‘No! I’ll look into it and report back.’ She tried that again. ‘I’ll look into it and report back.’

  She went over the phrases, putting them firmly into the first person, and practised them, softly, with different inflections.

  ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention,’ she said, winking at herself in the mirror as she unlocked the door, jiggled the tricksy handle. ‘I’ll look into it and report back,’ she said. And she opened the door to find Xander, arms crossed, standing right outside.

  Flabbergasted and mortified; telltale redness crept up from her chest to her neck.

  ‘You’re not drunk again, are you?’ Xander said.

  Stella didn’t know how long he’d been standing outside, but obviously the old wooden door was not as thick as she thought and he’d heard a lot. ‘Or is that a matter for further discussion?’ Speechless, she could only stare at him. But in doing so, she noticed he wasn’t being hostile; in fact, he was smiling.

  Hostile, Stella thought, would have been a whole lot less humiliating and easier to deal with.

  ‘I didn’t need the loo – that’s why you heard no flush.’ Her response sounded beyond ridiculous and only compounded his comment that she might be pissed. ‘Of course I’m not drunk,’ she said huffily. Then she stopped. Actually, she had no right to be affronted by the accusation – and Xander, truthfully, was in line for an apology. Neither of them had moved. She was looking down, darting her eyes from her shoes to his, wondering what to say next that would shift the power back and not sound too contrite. She looked up and he cocked his head, waiting. What was she meant to say? Just say something quickly – make it a statement that warrants no response! She straightened a little and crossed her arms too.

  ‘I’m, er, just wanted to – you know – for you to know, for me to say, I’m extremely sorry about the other week.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Not just sorry,’ she qualified, ‘grateful. Embarrassed.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, as if the penny had only just dropped, ‘that.’ He made it seem as if he’d meant ‘Sorry’ as in ‘Pardon me’.

  She gave him her best pained smile but her sentiment was genuine. ‘I’m mortified,’ she said. ‘But want to say thank you for – helping.’

  ‘Any time,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t make a habit of it,’ she rushed. ‘I was just nervous and I stupidly mixed my drinks.’ She shuddered at the vague memories now taunting her. ‘Anyway – sorry. And thanks.’

  Xander shrugged. ‘No problem.’

  But they stood where they were.

  ‘OK,’ said Stella.

  ‘OK,’ said Xander.

  And there they continued to stand.

  ‘You have a nice home,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you – you do too,’ she replied.

  ‘Mine’s rented,’ he said, with a barb.

  ‘So’s mine,’ she batted back.

  Another pause.

  ‘It’s just I need the loo,’ he said, at length.

  ‘Oh!’ said Stella, moving aside. ‘Of course! Sorry.’

  He closed the door, saying ‘Bye’ slightly awkwardly as he did so.

  Stella knocked her head gently against the opposite wall.

  ‘Everything all right?’ said Lydia, suddenly appearing from goodness knows where.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella, noting Mrs Biggins disappearing as if she’d been there all the while. ‘Alexander Technique,’ she added. ‘Sort of.’ And she gave the wall another knock with her head, as if she was giving a display, while Lydia regarded her with her eyebrows fixed high.

  It seemed to Stella quite irretrievable that Lydia obviously now considered her quite the most peculiar young woman she’d ever come across. But, to Stella’s relief, Lydia chose not to comment. Her eyebrows had said it all anyway.

  ‘Come along, Miss Hutton,’ she sighed, walking ahead, ‘people have taken their seats.’

  Watched sternly by the Fortescue ancestors presiding over the meeting from their lofty position on the walls behind gilded frames, as if in private boxes at the theatre, the current people of Longbridge asked questions one by one that really all amounted to the same thing: what would happen to either their jobs or homes – or, in the case of Art and a couple of others, their jobs and homes – and how much notice would they be given.

  There was no raising of voices, no frayed tempers, no simmering discontent. Instead, there was a resigned air and the mood was sad but sensible and biddable. Stella found she needed to say little. Lydia handled herself superbly, calling people by their Christian names and speaking to them with direct eye contact and a softness to her voice. In fact, sometimes her voice cracked a little – and this display of her own emotion was both canny and appreciated.

  Sitting by Lydia’s side, listening carefully, pleased to have been able to put so many new faces to names she already knew, Stella made notes on her pad about who belonged where and what their concerns were. She was intrigued by Clarence – old yet huge, a gentle but obvious presence like the bass drum in an orchestra. Sitting beside him, Miss Gilbey looked like a harvest mouse in a dress. She wanted to know what would happen to all the soft furnishings at Longbridge and at 1 Lime Grove Cottages. Would they be included in the sale? She was wearing white gloves and a hat with a silk flower on the band. Xander sat at the opposite end of the table, next to Mrs Biggins, and Stella found many reasons not to look down there.

  He spoke just the once, repeating what he’d asked Lydia privately already. ‘Is there no solution other than to sell?’

  ‘The fact of the matter is, I have to sell Longbridge because I cannot afford to live here,’ said Lydia to the group. Many looked astonished. ‘It’s a sign of the times,’ she said. And she looked down and across to Stella’s lap, on which her clipboard of notes rested. ‘It’s sad for us all.’ There was a heavy silence.

  Dave and Dan informed her that they’d already started looking – and if they found somewhere, would she hold them to the three-month notice period.

  ‘My cat is very old and confused,’ said Mr Tringle. Lydia nodded and others smiled benevolently; how Mr Tringle would cope with the upheaval of moving was much more of a worry than the senility of his cat.

  ‘Do you want us out – now?’ asked the wiry cabinet maker who rented one of the workshops. ‘Can we not hold on – at least see if the new owner wants us? If they don’t, then we go?’ Stella looked at her lap. It was horribly sad. People felt the sale defined them. That they might be seen as unwanted chattels. That their presence could somehow adversely affect the desirability of Longbridge.

  ‘You could put our rent up?’ It was Miss Gilbey herself who suddenly piped up.

  ‘We’re attractive as tenants, surely?’ said Doreen Hutchins. ‘The majority of us are – mature. We’re responsible. These are homes that we have cared for. The new owner might like that – less for them to worry about.’

  ‘But if Lydia puts our rent up, but still sells, maybe they’ll hike it even higher,’ said Len, worrying.

  Lydia cleared her voice. ‘So much is unknown, but I simply want to keep you informed even at this very early stage. And I promise you will be kept abreast of all developments.’ She paused. ‘I am sorry. I wish you well. I will help you as much as I can. But Longbridge is to be sold. I have made my mind up.

  ‘Right!’ she said, to break it, to gather back her steeliness as if it had been a shawl which had slipped. ‘If that’s all?’

  ‘I have a question,’ said Clarence, his voice a low roll, like morning mist tumbling quietly over fields.

  ‘Yes, Clarence?’

  ‘Never mind us,’ he said, ‘but y
ou. What about you? Where will you go?’

  Stella felt a chill zip through her.

  She hadn’t once asked Lydia this.

  It actually hadn’t occurred to her to do so.

  How unprofessional. Worse – how insensitive.

  There was an awkward silence and Stella glanced to Lydia who was dumbstruck.

  Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Stella wanted to interject.

  I’ll look into this first thing tomorrow.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Clarence,’ she heard Lydia say. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Lydia paused. ‘Downsizing, I think they call it.’

  A chuckle spread like the relief of a cool breeze in enervating heat.

  ‘I’ll be absolutely fine,’ Lydia repeated.

  Stella looked around the table. Everyone was looking at Lydia. Everyone’s eyes said, are you sure?

  Actually, not everyone. Everyone but one person. Xander. He wasn’t looking at Lydia. He was looking directly at Stella. And Lydia herself of course. When Stella managed to look away from Xander, she found Lydia was looking straight down the table at him.

  People didn’t loiter. For those whose connection with the estate was longstanding, it felt like an ill wind; as if Longbridge was suddenly crumbling around them and they needed to get home, to shore up their places to weather the storm they now knew was approaching. For those who rented barn space for businesses, there was no time to waste; they needed to be Googling for commercial rentals in the area, registering on websites. Art, who already knew of Lydia’s proposal, just wanted to get home. Miss Gilbey’s neighbours, the Georges, were keen to be going as they had a babysitter and wanted to maximize their time with an unrushed meal at the Black Ox. Mrs Biggins wanted them all gone so she could clear up. And Lydia had a headache and didn’t want it to show.