by Freya North
As with the best ideas, it confronted Stella unexpectedly and apropos of nothing, really. She was having lunch at her desk, picking out the cucumber from the sandwich and slipping ready-salted crisps in its place. Outside, a shopper had tied their dog to a lamp post and it was barking. It was having a good old yap. Bark.
Bark.
Bleached Bark Buff.
With a mouthful of sandwich, Stella’s jaw dropped.
‘Stella?’
‘Stella?’
Geoff and Belinda were concerned. She appeared paralysed, a gob full of tuna mayo. She looked like a broken concrete mixer. Suddenly, she sprang from her seat, grabbed her car keys and bolted from the office, leaving the rest of her sandwich, her phone, her bag. Her desk looked as if Mrs Invisible was busy at work there.
In a daze, Stella drove much too fast to Long Dansbury. Didn’t slow down to acknowledge Tramfield Lane on the left. Turned right two streets after the school and headed down Beane End Lane to the houses whose gardens gambolled down to the river. She parked, but left the engine on. Ran to the front door of Ford House, rang the bell and hammered her fists against the wood.
‘Stella! Jesus, pet – what’s up?’
‘You’re coming with me,’ Stella said, pulling Caroline’s arm. ‘Where’s Sonny?’
‘I’ve just dropped him off at school – he’s doing afternoons only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, full days on the others.’ Caroline suddenly panicked. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes, yes of course. Come on. It’s you I need. Now!’
‘I’ll – er – get my keys?’ Caroline disappeared into the house to find her keys, gone from view only a moment or two but Stella was already ringing the bell again as if Caroline might have forgotten she was there.
‘What is it?’ Caroline asked, having to jog to keep up with Stella who was already at her car. ‘What’s going on?’ She jumped into the passenger seat, having no time to fix the seat belt before Stella stamped her foot down and sent the car shooting off. ‘Stella! Where are we going?’
Stella looked at her. ‘Longbridge.’
‘Longbridge?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was both calm and buoyant, similarly she looked wild about the eye and yet determined. She glanced at Caroline just before she turned right on to the high street before turning left into the driveway of Longbridge. When she stopped the car near to the house, she turned to face her. ‘You said you have too much time on your hands – that you need another project.’
‘Yes?’ said Caroline. ‘And?’
‘Come on!’ Stella laughed. ‘Come with me!’
Nothing much surprised Lydia these days so when she opened the door to see Stella standing there, breathless and unkempt, and next to her, Xander’s willowy blonde friend from Up North Somewhere, she simply said, come on in. Mrs Biggins! Tea for three, please. In the library, thank you. Today, thank you!
Lydia and Caroline sat, Stella jigged around the room. Then she stopped in front of Lydia, as if she was about to break into song.
‘I’m going to sell your house!’ she giggled, with an unintentional snort at the end which made Lydia baulk.
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Lydia flatly, ‘because I’ve sold the land.’
For Caroline, it was like being in a verbal dual.
‘What!’ said Stella.
‘I beg your pardon!’ said Lydia.
‘You’ve sold the land?’
‘Yes,’ said Lydia, ‘this morning. I’ve sold it to Mr Rethington.’
‘Mr Rethington? Your neighbour and nemesis?’
‘Nonsense! You know me – I’m rude about everyone. Rethington has farmed my land for donkey’s years,’ said Lydia. ‘He’s always wanted to buy it, to double his own acreage. But I’ve always been too stubborn to let him have it. Well – now it’s his.’
Trying to digest the fact was like trying to swallow the lump of sandwich which had stuck in her throat most of the journey from Hertford to Long Dansbury.
‘But Clarence?’ Stella spluttered.
‘He’s part of the cornfield. He’s being bought too!’ And Lydia laughed like a drain. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she turned to Stella. ‘Now – what were you saying about selling the house?’ She glanced at the Northern Woman. ‘And you,’ she said, ‘what business is this of yours?’
‘I have no idea, pet,’ Caroline said and Lydia was so taken with the woman’s bluntness she quite overlooked the impudence of such informality.
‘But I do,’ said Stella, ‘I have a cracking idea – but there’s no time to lose.’
On 14 October, Stella made the call. She asked her uncle to leave his office and as she shut the door, she pushed her back against it and stood still for a moment, eyes closed, in supplication to any God of any creed who might look kindly upon her and all those about for whom she cared so very much. Slowly she walked to her uncle’s desk. Sat in the chair and swivelled once to each side. She took a deep breath, lifted his desk phone and dialled. If it went through to answerphone, she’d leave no message. She’d simply try again. And again. Until it was answered.
She took it as a very good omen that it was answered on the second ring.
‘Hullo, Mr Tompkins – it’s Stella Hutton here. How are you?’
‘Stells!’
‘How are you, how is Mrs Tompkins?’
‘We’re bloomin’ great, darlin’. How are you?’
‘I am very well. Mr Tompkins – are you still looking?’
‘Looking? I’m good-looking!’
‘Ha! I mean – for a house. A beautiful house – an heirloom? A status symbol?’
‘Why?’
‘I have something for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘But you can’t see it until next Thursday.’
‘We’re going to Dubai next Friday.’
‘Good – then you’ll come with me to see it next Thursday.’
‘Tell me more?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t?’
‘No.’
‘Well, where is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that either.’
‘Lummy.’
‘No one else knows, Mr Tompkins – only you.’
‘If you won’t tell me what it is and where it is, how will we find it?’
‘You’ll come to me – here at Elmfield Estates – at nine thirty prompt next Thursday. With Mrs Tompkins. It is essential she comes too.’
A week later, Xander tried to wrestle Stella into staying in bed for just another five minutes.
‘I can’t.’
‘I know,’ he said, nuzzling her neck, ‘it’s a school day.’
‘It’s D-Day,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Xander said. He too had thought of little else. Gossip had flitted around Long Dansbury like the eddies of autumn leaves. What’s with all the vans going up to Longbridge? I’ve heard it’s falling down. I was told Her Ladyship’s making it into apartments. Perhaps Rethington has something to do with it. But all those vans – every day – in at dawn, out at dusk. What’s in those vans? What’s going on up there? No one’s seen Lady Lydia for days. Perhaps she’s not up there at all. I heard it’s become a film set. Tom Cruise. No, not him – the other one, George Loony. Apparently, Mercy Benton was seen going up there the other day. Mercy!
Xander watched Stella dress, a little swoop in his groin as she encased her bottom in nice white M&S knickers. ‘I’ll take Will to school for you, if you like? Give yourself enough time to psyche yourself up.’
‘I feel wired already,’ said Stella. She patted her stomach. ‘I feel like I developed an ulcer overnight.’
‘Babe,’ he said. ‘You’ll let me know, won’t you? Soon as – anything?’
She nodded. ‘Will do. Will!’ she called. ‘Are you dressed?’
‘Nearly!’ came the reply.
‘Nearly,’ Xander laughed. ‘That means jimjams and crazy hair.’ He looked at Stella. She looked neat. She looked ever so nervous. ‘Come here.�
��
She sat on the bed. Gently, Xander released her hair from the pony-tail. ‘There,’ he said. ‘You be Rapunzel today – just let your hair down a little and rescue Longbridge.’
Stella regarded him. He looked very grave. She laughed.
‘You silly arse,’ she said, kissing him and hollering for Will as she left the room to go downstairs and make breakfast for the three of them.
At 9.30, the Tompkins’ Bentley rolled up outside Elmfield Estates.
‘Bye,’ Stella said distractedly to her colleagues and she hurried from the office.
‘Morning!’ Mr Tompkins still looked as though he’d just stepped off a Mediterranean golf course.
‘Morning!’ Mrs Tompkins had gone blonde. She looked as though she’d stepped off the set of Dynasty. She looked rather fabulous. She was wearing half an alpaca inside out, it seemed, but it suited her. Especially with the high-heeled shoe-boots and violet lipstick.
‘Morning!’ Stella called. ‘Please park around the back – we’re taking my car.’
Mr Tompkins began to splutter but a dig in the ribs from his wife soon stopped that.
Off Stella drove, Mrs Tompkins next to her, Mr Tompkins in the back with his knees unnecessarily close to his chin. Ignore him, Mrs Tompkins had whispered to Stella. He’s a terrible snob – he don’t like being a passenger in the front, never mind in the back – and he don’t believe women can drive.
Stella resolutely refused to give any details of the property they were to view, apart from saying it had a few outbuildings and stood in thirty acres. When they reached Long Dansbury, the Tompkins’ silence spoke volumes but she drove on blithely. When Stella turned the car up the driveway to Longbridge, Mrs Tompkins didn’t prevent her husband spluttering out his indignation.
‘What you playing at, Stells?’
‘Just wait and see.’
‘But—’
‘No, Mr Tompkins. Don’t say anything. I think of you – and your wife – as amongst the most sensible and open-minded people I’ve ever met. Please. Just wait and see. Keep your eyes and ears open.’
Nonplussed, they followed Stella up the stone steps – at the top of which she paused, looked to her right hoping to catch sight of Lord Freddie for a fortifying wink or something, but he was staring out over the lawns fixated by a quarrel of fat pigeons. Mrs Biggins opened the door. Into the hallway they went. So far – so the same. Mrs Tompkins looked around her. So did Mr Tompkins. Stella could see, from the briefest glance, that they really did love the old place. They were shown into the drawing room, the autumnal light bathing the interior with kisses of caramel hues. Lady Lydia rose from her chair, elegant, composed. Her hair in an immaculate chignon, dressed demurely in navy slacks, a cream silk shirt under a cashmere cardigan a tone deeper, over which two strings of pearls clicketted expensively as she walked over to greet them.
‘How lovely to see you both,’ said Lydia. But she didn’t offer them a seat. And there was no tea or delicious baked goods from Mrs Biggins. Lydia turned to Stella. ‘Shall we?’
Stella nodded. ‘Please, Lady Lydia – after you.’
So Lydia led the little party out of the drawing room and up to the first floor.
‘I don’t believe you saw the master bedroom?’ Lydia said as if, silly her! she’d quite forgotten to show it to the Tompkins on their previous visits! She opened the door and let the Tompkins go in first. Soon enough, she and Stella had to push them in further because they’d all but stopped dead, relegating Lydia and Stella to the corridor.
‘Blimey,’ Mr Tompkins eventually managed. But Mrs Tompkins remained speechless. Stella winked at Lydia who surprised her by slipping her arm around her waist and giving her a little squeeze.
Gone was the chintz and the chill. There was no sign of the faded carpet in sickly raspberry. Instead, the floor was dark oak, in extravagantly wide boards. Inlaid in the middle, a section of carpet of the finest, thickest cream wool. Roman blinds in silk the colour of mercury were folded up high in the window bays, both of which were flanked by softly pleated curtains in heavy silk columns the colour of gunmetal which ended in a blowsy swirl over the floor. The bed was super kingsize, a mahogany bateau lit, made up with crisp linen and a selection of cushions running the tonal gamut from black, through all the greys, to white. Elsewhere, the chairs, the chaise longue, were elegant in their design and upholstery. As if the natural light wasn’t enough, a contemporary take on a classical chandelier descended from the magnificent plaster ceiling rose, as if the room had been designed around it centuries ago.
Mrs Tompkins looked at Stella.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Stella, stepping back. ‘Lydia’s your Lady.’
Gravely, Lydia nodded at the doorway at the end of the room. With great trepidation, the Tompkins approached. They had a hunch that the awfulness of avocado which had so disappointed them on their previous visits, would be gone. But they had no idea what they’d find instead. They opened the door and gasped. The room seemed so much bigger! The floor tiled in huge travertine slabs, a free-standing bath, traditional yet modern in the middle of the room. His and hers sinks, hewn out of travertine behind which the entire wall was one mirror, curiously and brilliantly lit from behind. A wall of glass demarcating the wet-room area. A vast chrome ladder of a heated towel rail heaped with thick white towels. On the back of the door, two robes, black, and embroidered in gold on the pocket of each, a curlicue T in thick gold embroidery.
‘I –’ Mr Tompkins was stroking his pate as if he’d very probably hit his head and was currently concussed.
‘It’s –’ Mrs Tompkins was caressing the robe as if in a dream from which she dreaded waking.
‘Look, let’s go downstairs and have a nice cup of tea,’ said Lydia and they followed her down to the kitchen. Only, she didn’t go through that door. She carried along that section of house and pushed open another door – the Tompkins couldn’t remember what had been there and Stella wasn’t going to tell them it had been that vast, dank, dumping ground that, just a month ago, had stored a clatter of bikes, a parade of prams and generations of Fortescue junk. If they had recalled it as such, then today’s transformation would seem all the more miraculous.
They were standing in a divine kitchen – again, traditional and yet elegantly modern. Curved units in American walnut topped with creamy white Corian. An oval island in the same. A vast Aga uniting contemporary elements with timeless charm. The walls in a beautiful colour – a sort of bleached, bark buff. Floor in warm Cotswold stone.
‘What did you do?’ Mrs Tompkins whispered.
‘And how did you do it?’ Mr Tompkins asked.
Mrs Tompkins walked over to one of the two sinks – the one in the island. She made to turn the tap on. No water came out and the whole thing wobbled. She turned to Stella, confused.
Stella gulped. ‘It’s not plumbed in yet,’ she explained. ‘Nothing is,’ she added with a nervous smile.
‘But it could be,’ said Lydia. In fact, everything was a facade – and yet, far from being fake, it was a hint, a taster, a helpful leg-up to these sweet-natured folk who wanted to climb right to the top of the property ladder, who had the wherewithal but not the know-how.
‘My friend, Caroline Rowland – you’ll be wanting her number,’ said Stella, regaining her composure. ‘She’s been working flat out on this, for the past month.’
‘I need to sit down,’ Mr Tompkins said.
‘Crunching figures is so much easier when one’s seated, don’t you think?’ said Lydia, to which Mr Tompkins simply nodded. ‘Now – time’s moved on, since we saw you last,’ Lydia said, quite sternly while the Tompkins sat to attention and hung on her every word. ‘And I’m afraid the acreage is vastly diminished. There’s no longer any farmland at Longbridge Hall – though, of course, it still provides the uninterrupted views. There’s just the Hall now – and the thirty acres of parkland it sits in. The dower house too, and the stables courtyard – with the first apartment remaining in the t
enancy of Mr Arthur Jonston for his lifetime. Not that you’d want to kick him out – what he doesn’t know about the grounds isn’t worth knowing. It’s testimony to his experience and longevity here that the gardens are as lovely as they are.
‘The livery yard – it’s empty. But it used to bring in enough income to wash its face and it’s too far away for you to hear, see or smell. The workshops – they’re empty too. But I have to say, I quite liked having people in the buildings.’
The Tompkins were taking mental notes, as if all of this would be told to them just the once. Lydia cleared her throat.
‘And the cottages on Tramfield Lane are no longer part of the sale,’ she said. Stella whipped around from gazing out the window where she’d been having a private chat with Lord Freddie. She caught Lydia’s eye. They hadn’t talked about this. Lydia was just slightly flushed, as if perhaps the idea had only just come to her, taking root immediately and was not open for further discussion.
Mr Tompkins looked from Lydia to his wife. ‘Well, your Lady Lady Fortescue,’ he stumbled. Looked at his wife. ‘We have a lot to think about.’
Lydia chortled. ‘Nonsense,’ she laughed. ‘No, you don’t – not at ten million you don’t!’ She shook her head and laughed again. ‘Silly man!’ She tapped Mr Tompkins on the wrist. ‘Silly man!’ she repeated.
‘You silly old sod,’ Mrs Tompkins said to her husband, ‘course we’ll ’ave it.’
* * *
Stella came over to join them.
‘There are two things,’ she said, ‘about the sale.’
Lydia winked at her. The Tompkins were all ears.
‘Firstly,’ said Stella, ‘the apple store stays.’ They shrugged and nodded and it hadn’t crossed their minds not to keep it. Stella took a deep breath. ‘Secondly – Mr and Mrs Tompkins – if you are to sell your current house, the condition is that you place it in the hands of Geoffrey Mumford, my lovely colleague at Elmfield Estates.’