The Time of Their Lives

by Maeve Haran

  But Laurence had nothing to say.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’ She picked up the photograph and kissed it. ‘We’ll be all right if we get the cottage.’

  Ella realized that she was talking to her dead husband and that if she wanted to actually get that cottage, she’d better damn well get moving.

  She had been in luck when she’d been to see the bank about a possible bridging loan. Although a retired woman with no income might be risky, the bank manager lived on the other side of the square and knew what a gem Ella’s current home was, probably the best house in an increasingly desirable location. He also knew how rarely the houses came on the market. If these buyers fell through, others would take their place instantly. In fact, he counselled Ella, she could probably play buyers against each other and push up the price. But Ella didn’t want to do that. She’d loved this house as if it were a person and she didn’t want to feel guilty about how she’d behaved in selling it.

  She’d got her finance.

  The auction for the cottage was to be held in a church hall in the new part of Moulsford, near the flyover up to the motorway, far more directly under the Heathrow runway than Ella’s house. In fact, the noise from passing planes was so great that everyone standing outside the hall waiting for it to open had to shout to be heard as they gossiped and joshed.

  Ella glanced around the crowd, her interest sharpening. They were a mixed bunch: some nice older couples, the kind you saw at antique fairs, to whom house-buying was a hobby to be indulged in only cautiously when the right property came along; sober-suited businessmen; rough-edged builders still cleaning the paint from their nails; a sprinkling of cashmere-wearing developers from Eastern Europe, glued to their smartphones; a chic young woman who looked as if she might have a rich husband; and the rest fairly nondescript. She was the only woman her age, Ella noted. Good. With luck they would mistake her for a little old lady.

  As soon as the doors opened they belted towards the registration desk to get their numbers, then headed for the few seats at the front where the auctioneer could get a good view of them.

  Ella had done all her homework. She had studied the legal pack; commissioned a survey, which might be money down the drain, but which the estate agent had strongly advised; and she had almost acquired a lawyer, as the agent had also advised, before she had remembered that she was a lawyer. She might have specialized in employment, but it couldn’t be that hard to bone up on conveyancing.

  ‘I see Tim McAuley’s here,’ the man next to her whispered to his neighbour.

  ‘Bloody shark,’ endorsed Neighbour number two. ‘He already owns half West London. There ought to be a quota or something.’

  Ella glanced across the hall in the direction in which they were looking. A florid man in a grey chalk-striped suit caught her glance and tipped his catalogue in acknowledgement of her interest. Trying not to flush, Ella looked away.

  Already she could feel her heartbeat quickening and the auctioneer hadn’t even arrived. What if she didn’t get it? Could she pull out of her own sale? It was one thing to sell her beloved family home, knowing she’d found an alternative she could love as much, quite another to leave it without knowing where she’d go.

  Ella took a deep breath trying to remember all the advice she’d been given: have 10 per cent of the purchase price available in cash to put down as a deposit on the day; decide on a maximum price; don’t get carried away; don’t bid too soon; on the other hand, since it all happens fast, get ready to bid at the right moment. No wonder people said house-buying at auctions was daunting.

  ‘Excuse me, could I squeeze in there?’ A youngish man with a pleasant manner, casually dressed in chinos and a white shirt with a sweater slung over his shoulders, eased himself into Ella’s row. A mother to the last, Ella caught herself checking him out for a wedding band in case be might be the type for her daughter Cory. Yes, he had one. Oh well.

  And then the auction began in earnest.

  Number 3 Grand Union Cottages was Lot 41, so Ella knew she was in for a wait. She decided to study other people’s bidding technique. The florid man seemed to bid, in a loud, forceful voice, for almost everything. Clearly he was the spiv he had been branded. One of the nice older couples got the flat they were chasing and beamed. A rather hesitant man tried to make himself seen by the auctioneer and was overlooked.

  ‘Probably sewn up already,’ murmured the neighbour who had pointed out Tim McAuley.

  What really struck Ella was how fast the hammer went down. She would have to place her bid quickly and assertively. There was one instance, though, when a sale was more drawn out. A dodgy-looking character in a sheepskin coat kept the auction going by throwing in last-minute bids. ‘He wants that crap property like I want a heart attack,’ mumbled Neighbour number one.

  When the property sold at a much higher price than expected, Ella realized they were right. The seller had obviously employed the dodgy sheepskin man to artificially bid up the price. She hoped to God it didn’t happen with her cottage.

  By the time it came to Lot 41 Ella’s palms were sweating.

  The bidding started slowly: £100k . . . 120 . . . 130 . . . up to 200. Of course Tim McAuley was bidding. Damn. £220k . . . 240 . . . 260 . . . 270 . . . 300 – Ella held up her number and shouted ‘Yes!’

  ‘Three hundred?’ enquired the auctioneer. ‘Am I bid three hundred thousand pounds?’

  ‘Three hundred and ten!’ replied someone in Ella’s row. She glanced along. It was the pleasant-looking man. Bugger.

  ‘Am I bid three hundred and twenty?’ asked the auctioneer.

  ‘Three hundred and forty!’ shouted her neighbour. He didn’t seem so nice now.

  ‘Three hundred and fifty?’ demanded the auctioneer. The florid-featured McAuley raised his number.

  Ella’s fighting spirit began to emerge.

  ‘Three hundred and sixty?’

  The pleasant man next to her raised an eyebrow. It seemed to be enough.

  ‘Three hundred and seventy?’

  Another nod from Mr Red Face.

  ‘Three hundred and eighty? Am I bid three hundred and eighty?’

  By now the florid McAuley had dropped out and it was just Ella and her chino-clad opponent.

  ‘Three hundred and ninety?’ was the next request. Ella waved her number.

  Now everyone was watching. It suddenly struck her that maybe he was buying it for his family home. Was she being unfair to outbid him? All the accusations from her daughters about nabbing the cheap property flooded into her head.

  ‘Four hundred? Am I bid four hundred?’ Ella’s pleasant-looking opponent lifted his number.

  ‘Four hundred thousand,’ repeated the auctioneer. ‘I’m bid four hundred thousand pounds by Mr McAuley for Number three Grand Union Cottages, in my view the property of the night. Any more takers?’

  Ella did a double take between the florid-featured gent and the man she had mentally marked down as a potential husband for Cory. He was Tim McAuley, the property shark who owned half of West London.

  ‘Four hundred and ten? Who will bid me four hundred and ten?’

  Ella nodded again.

  Somewhere at the back another punter clapped.

  Tim McAuley directed a steely glance in her direction. ‘Four hundred and twenty thousand!’ he announced.

  Ella was doing furious calculations in her head. If McAuley was a smart property developer he would need to get the cottage for a low enough price to modernize it, stick in the beige carpets universally adored by developers, probably a new kitchen and bathroom, as well as paint it throughout. He couldn’t afford to go much higher and make a margin if the agent was right about the valuation.

  He might do it out of sheer obstinacy though.

  ‘Four hundred and thirty thousand?’ The auctioneer was all attention. Ella waved, beginning to feel dizzy.

  ‘Four hundred and forty?’ demanded the auctioneer, beginning to visibly enjoy himself now. ‘A prime river
side property! I wouldn’t mind living there myself!’

  McAuley nodded again, damn him!

  ‘Four fifty? Am I bid four fifty now, ladies and gents?’ People were craning round to watch now, like a poker game in Las Vegas.

  ‘Four sixty!’ countered McAuley.

  Ella knew she had to stop soon. She should have stopped already.

  ‘Four seventy?’ It was Ella again. She could feel the electricity in the air. This was what she’d been warned about. She would go to five and that was it.

  ‘Four eighty? Four eighty now. Am I bid four eighty?’

  McAuley nodded.

  ‘Four hundred and ninety? Will the lady bid four hundred and ninety?’

  Ella raised her number, her arm shaking.

  ‘Five hundred?’

  The atmosphere was as silent and chilly as the wastes of the Arctic tundra.

  ‘Mr McAuley?’ enquired the auctioneer.

  McAuley smiled at Ella. ‘Five hundred thousand.’

  Ella shook her head. She couldn’t go any further. The hammer went down on the sale to Tim McAuley of McAuley Properties.

  Ella had lost.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ella reached down for her bag. She was going to keep her head up no matter what. She certainly wasn’t going to cry. Silly to think a newcomer like her could negotiate an auction.

  ‘Here, missis,’ hissed Neighbour number two. ‘McAuley knows that was dumb. No way he’ll get it back. Wait till he’s calmed down and make him an offer.’

  Ella hung around until the crowd had cleared. Tim McAuley was chatting to the florid man. Finally the conversation broke up.

  ‘Mr McAuley . . .’

  He turned round, surprised.

  ‘Ella Thompson. I’m selling my house on Moulsford Green . . .’

  ‘Moulsford Green? One of the eighteenth-century ones near the river?’

  ‘That’s right. Number twenty-seven.’

  ‘The one in the middle next to the brass lamp post.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Ella raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  He shrugged. ‘It was the house I fantasized about living in when I got married. So it’s going up for sale?’ He seemed to think for a moment.

  Oh God, thought Ella, he’s going to make me an offer and I’ve already accepted one from that nice couple.

  To her enormous relief, he didn’t. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘When I sell it I want to move to Number three Grand Union Cottages – in fact, I’d rather set my heart on it. Now personally I don’t mind living in a place where the plumbing’s a bit old-fashioned. I even quite like unfitted kitchens. But I doubt anyone you sell on to is going to feel the same. It strikes me you’ll have to spend at least a hundred thousand on it, and the agent tells me he very much doubts you’ll get it back.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Tim McAuley grinned suddenly. ‘And you’d like to do me the favour of taking it off me?’

  ‘Exactly. Five hundred is my maximum, though. I’ve sorted out a loan with the bank until my house sells.’

  ‘You’re very confident it will.’

  ‘The third lot of viewers to see it made me an offer. It has that effect on people.’

  ‘Yes. I remember. A tall, friendly chap showed me around during a fair on the green. He knew an awful lot about the people who built the houses and where they brought their cargoes in down at the river.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ella bit her lip to hold back the sudden rush of memory, ‘that was my husband Laurence. He was killed in a train crash soon afterwards.’

  Tim McAuley looked stunned. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well, I went on living there partly because I loved it and partly for Laurence’s sake, because of what it meant to him. My daughters were forever on at me to downsize.’

  ‘And give them the cash? I meet a lot of kids like that in my profession.’

  Ella wasn’t at all sure she liked this man. It might have annoyed her that Julia and Neil hoped for a windfall, but he seemed to be implying something genuinely nasty.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure your daughters weren’t like that. About your offer, I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s a lovely house you’re selling. I’d think about it for myself if I weren’t just getting divorced.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’ll certainly miss it.’

  And this time she didn’t even think about pairing him off with Cory.

  The atmosphere in the kitchen was sullen and uncomfortable, as if a battle had been lost and both sides were counting their dead. There was a lot of banging of saucepans and abrupt swerving to avoid bodily contact. Douglas hid behind the Daily Telegraph while Gaby and Claudia avoided each other’s eye.

  Don, who loathed ‘an atmosphere’ and who had spent his childhood interposing himself between warring parents, was about to attempt another apology when the garden door burst open.

  To everyone’s astonishment it was Olivia. And not the Olivia her daughter had last encountered, staring desolately at her own image in the mirror. This Olivia had clean and neatly brushed hair and wore a rather smart print frock with toning suede court shoes.

  ‘Chop, chop, everybody,’ Olivia announced in ringing memsahib tones. ‘You all need to get dressed. I have booked us in for croquet in the garden at Igden Manor.’

  Claudia leaned on the kitchen unit, too stunned by her mother’s sudden transformation to speak.

  ‘Come on now, Claudia dear,’ Olivia chivvied. ‘No need to look like the village idiot. I didn’t sign up for it with a voucher, so don’t get your bloomers in a twist. I’m just popping home to get changed into sensible shoes and to sort out your father. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to get organized before then. I’ll see you all there at one.’

  Without leaving them an opportunity to raise an argument Olivia disappeared like a puff of smoke.

  Claudia looked after her, dazedly. ‘I think Mum must have definitely started taking her pills, don’t you?’

  A fragile truce seemed to have descended, thanks to Olivia.

  At 12.30 Don offered to drive the twenty minutes to Igden Manor. Claudia tried to make bright conversation while Gaby sat in the back ignoring her and Douglas glanced from one to the other unhappily as if he were observing a particularly tense game of ping pong.

  No one mentioned the wedding.

  Claudia wondered whether to at least ask when his parents would be arriving but judged it better to say absolutely nothing.

  By the time they got to Igden Manor, Len and Olivia were already on the lawn sorting out mallets and balls. It was a beautiful day and the croquet lawn, between lush flowerbeds nodding with hollyhocks and delphiniums, was laid out before them like a bolt of green velvet.

  ‘Are you playing, Gran?’ Gaby asked.

  ‘No, dear, Grandad’s hip’s not up to scratch yet. We’ll sit on the terrace and watch the fun.’

  Fun, it struck Claudia, was not the likely outcome.

  ‘Right,’ Olivia continued, ‘two teams – Gaby and Douglas versus Claudia and Don. And I’m expecting plenty of inter-generational needle.’

  ‘She’ll get that all right,’ murmured Don. ‘I hope your mother knows what she’s doing. If you ask me this is set for disaster.’

  ‘All right, who knows the rules?’

  ‘I used to play in my friend’s back garden,’ announced Gaby, ‘but we never used any rules.’

  ‘I know the rules,’ announced Douglas. ‘I played croquet a bit at college.’

  ‘Hey, posh boy, you kept that quiet,’ Gaby commented.

  ‘Maybe I am a bit of a dark horse.’ The silky mix of threat and promise in his tone brought a glint to Gaby’s eye. Perhaps there was more to their prospective son-in-law than Claudia had suspected.

  ‘OK, everyone, let’s get on with it,’ Olivia insisted. ‘You’d better tell everyone how to do it, Douglas.’

  Douglas launched into a colourful but brilliantly cle
ar exposition of the rules of croquet which Claudia had always found impossible to fathom.

  ‘Good man, that’s it, get them going,’ counselled Len from his seat on the terrace. ‘I’ll toss a coin to see who starts. Heads or tails?’

  ‘Heads,’ shouted Gaby eager to be in control.

  ‘Tails it is.’

  They all picked a mallet and lined up to start.

  Gaby stood over her ball and began to swing like a golf player.

  ‘Better if you stand like this.’ Douglas moved his feet apart and thrust the mallet straight on from between his legs. ‘A lot more accurate.’

  Claudia and Don took his advice. Gaby stuck mutinously to her original stance.

  Wisely, Douglas said nothing and they began the game.

  At the first hoop they were all clumsy and self-conscious but soon the competitive spirit took over. At one point Don’s ball disappeared into the herbaceous border. Claudia helped him look for it.

  ‘Don,’ she grabbed his hand as they hunted in the hedge together, ‘I’m really sorry about the Daniel Forrest business. Nothing actually happened. Anyway, I’m giving up the choir.’

  He looked her in the eye. ‘It’s not about the choir, is it? It’s about us. Both of us. I shouldn’t have contacted Marianne.’

  Claudia spotted the ball nestling among the Alchemilla mollis. ‘There you go.’ She handed it to him. ‘This is hardly the place to talk about it, is it? In a flowerbed?’

  ‘I don’t know. T. S. Eliot’s always on about the rose garden.’

  Claudia smiled. ‘That sounded like the old you.’

  ‘Hey,’ came a shout from her father, ‘what are you two up to? Haven’t you found the ball yet?’

  ‘Found it!’

  The next half-hour passed in a flash. Don turned out to be rather good, unlike Claudia, who kept confusing it with Crazy Golf, and as the desire to win intensified, Gaby quietly abandoned her Arnold Palmer swing and copied her fiancé.

  But the real star was Douglas.

  ‘You know,’ Olivia commented under her breath to her husband, ‘I rather like that young man. I think he’ll know how to handle Gaby.’

  At the end Olivia stood up, clapping. ‘Well done, Gaby and Douglas. It’s a good omen for your marriage that you’re able to compromise. Now, who’s ready for tea, and don’t worry, Claudia, it isn’t even a two-for-one, so relax!’