by Sylvia Waugh
Pilbeam looked up from the book she was reading. She glanced at the brochure, a luxurious booklet with the name of the house written in a lozenge cut into the glossy front cover. The Manse. No street number. Just a name.
“What do you think of it, Granny?” she said.
Tulip barely raised her eyes from her knitting.
“No use to us,” she said. “No use at all.”
“Why not?” said Appleby. “I know it’s not quite as big as Brocklehurst Grove, but it is detached and well-placed. And it has a granny flat.”
That was the sticking point. Tulip put down her knitting and gave Appleby one of her fiercest looks.
“If you think, for one moment, that you are going to shunt your grandfather and me off into a little granny flat tagged onto the side of the house, you are greatly mistaken. I am the mistress of the house. I always have been and I always will be. Sir Magnus is the head of the household. We are managing quite well here for the present, much better than I ever expected. We will not be rushed into just anything.”
“The granny flat wouldn’t be for you, grandmother,” said Appleby, seeming surprised that anyone should have thought of such a thing. “It must be obvious who the granny flat would be for. ‘Granny flat’ is just estate agents’ jargon. It doesn’t mean that the person living in it has to be a granny!”
Vinetta was immediately alert.
“No, Appleby,” she said. “Don’t even think of it! There is no way I would allow you to have a separate entrance that you could come and go from without my knowing, not even if you share with Pilbeam.”
“Don’t you trust me?” said Appleby, bristling.
“No, I don’t!” said her mother. “I love you and I respect all of your many talents, but I don’t trust you. How could I?”
It was not necessary for Vinetta to say any more. Appleby had the sense to draw back from an argument she was bound to lose. Besides, Vinetta had got it wrong.
“You’ve got it wrong as usual,” said Appleby in her most haughty voice. “I don’t want the granny flat. I want the bedroom that looks out over the valley, the one they say has ‘a breathtaking panoramic view’. There’s one obvious tenant for the granny flat and I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it yourself.”
“Well, who?” said Vinetta, growing impatient.
“Miss Quigley, of course, who else?”
Miss Quigley glanced up quickly and then felt embarrassed when she realised that everyone in the room was looking her way.
“Me?” she said weakly.
“Yes,” said Appleby. “You.”
That set them all to reading the particulars of this house they had previously rejected.
“You would like it,” said Vinetta, passing the brochure to Hortensia. “I’m sure you would.”
Hortensia took this in slowly. She looked down at the picture on the front of the brochure, the big house with the little house tucked up cosily beside it.
“I would not be far away,” she said, “. . . but I would have my very own front door.”
She thought further.
“I could even have a doorbell . . .
“Any of you could come and ring it and be my visitors . . .”
Wimpey was entranced by this idea.
“I’ve never visited anyone before,” she said. “I could bring you some flowers from the garden.”
Miss Quigley smiled down at her.
“I could give you pretend tea in a willow-patterned cup,” she said, “. . . and pink-iced biscuits.”
One thought led to another. To have visitors would be fun; to have a private life, such as she had never really had before, would be joyful beyond words.
Her thoughts roamed on. She would be able to paint again. The little kitchen could be a studio, a sink for cleaning brushes, a bench to hold an easel . . .
Tulip took the brochure from her hands and began to peruse it more thoroughly.
The main house had three large rooms on the ground floor and four on the floor above. In the roof space was an attic with a dormer window. A single storey extension at the back was described as a conservatory.
“The conservatory is a good size,” she said. “I could use that as an office, I suppose.”
The ‘conservatory’ was a rectangular garden room stretching the full width of the house. The view from it would be of a back garden bounded by a wall or a hedge, beyond which was the graveyard of the church on the top of the hill, a church so high that its spire could be seen by sailors miles out at sea.
“It looks to be a quiet neighbourhood,” said Tulip, studying carefully the outdoor shots of the building.
Consulting the A-Z map book which they always had handy when househunting, Appleby noted the cemetery and suppressed a giggle.
“Quiet as the grave,” she said, all innocently.
Tulip scowled at her and added, “At least we would not be overlooked.”
She turned her attention to the description of the rest of the house.
“If I have the conservatory, that will leave a good room downstairs for a bedroom,” she said, turning to Joshua and deliberately ignoring her granddaughter, “Soobie’s, I think. Two living-rooms, we couldn’t manage with less. Look how cramped we are here! Front bedroom for Granpa and me, the other one for her ladyship, I suppose, or we’d never hear the end of it. She’ll share with Pilbeam. Back bedroom for you and Vinetta. The other one would be for Wimpey.”
“What about me?” said Poopie. “You’ve missed me out.”
“You could have the attic,” said Tulip. “It’s big enough. What’s more, it has a proper window and they say it is already in use as a bedroom.”
Joshua looked at the photographs and studied the details.
“That attic’ll double as a playroom,” he said to Poopie. You’ll have plenty of space for a train set up there.”
Only Vinetta was concerned with the practicalities.
“Can we afford a house like that?” she asked Tulip.
“It will swallow most of our capital,” said Tulip, “but anything smaller would be totally inadequate.”
“How will we go about buying it?” said Vinetta, turning her attention to a different set of problems. “It’s not as simple as popping down the Market for a bobbin of thread.”
“No,” said Tulip. “Simple it is not. But I have taken care of every stage in the transaction. I have the instructions all written down for Mr Dobb.”
When Magnus was told about it, he scanned the brochure thoroughly, lay back on his pillows, and said, “Hmmph.”
“And it’s a listed building,” said Tulip. “That means nobody will be able to pull it down – not for a motorway nor anything.”
“Hmmph,” said Magnus again.
Then, after a suitable time lapse, he added, “That alcove in the master bedroom could take quite a few shelves. Joshua can fix them up.”
CHAPTER 34
Trusting Mr Dobb
NEXT MORNING, TULIP put on her coat with the fur collar and her hat with the spotted veil and went out to the telephone box. It was the beginning of October. The day was bright but chilly. So the muffled-up lady in the old-fashioned clothes did not look unduly overdressed. It was a Tuesday afternoon and North Shore Road was, in any case, nearly deserted. In the shop below the flat, Daisy was carefully unpacking a collection of alabaster statuettes.
From the living room window, the children watched their grandmother cross the road, every single one of them filled with admiration. Champions come in all shapes and sizes!
“Stay behind the curtains,” Vinetta warned them. Number 39 North Shore Road had no nets at the window. Hiding was less easy than it had been at their old home.
“Mr Dobb,” said Tulip, when the operator connected them, “you will remember that I asked you to undertake some additional work on our behalf?”
“Yes,” said Mr Dobb cautiously. “I do remember. You did not specify exactly what it would involve. We do have our limitations, but I hope we can be of service. What
is it you would like me to do for you?”
Tulip explained, in detail. Make the offer, instruct the surveyor, draw up the contract, complete the sale. And do all of this without involving his client directly in any way.
“Most of our business can be done by post. But any documents you might think too important to trust to the postal service can be sent special delivery and will be returned in the same way,” said Tulip. “It suits me to conduct the whole business without personal contact. Eccentric perhaps, but I am perfectly willing to pay for my eccentricity.”
What Tulip knew, absolutely, was that Mr Dobb would never suspect his long-term client of anything else. Good payers are allowed to be eccentric. If she had said to him, “I can’t do all of these transactions myself because I am a rag doll” – what would he have done? What would he have done? Laughed at the joke, and treasured the memory!
“I will let you have my full instructions in writing,” said Tulip, “and I look forward to hearing from you. Just one more thing – on no account are you to give anyone my present address. It is not my home. It is, if you like, a half-way house, a very temporary abode. I am not in the least enjoying it and I shall be very happy when I can leave. So do not fix this address on to me like a label.”
Mr Dobb smiled indulgently down the phone.
“Your secret is safe with me, Lady Mennym. Not even my colleagues in this office will be permitted to share it.”
That was just the first step on the way. Once the house was bought, someone else would be instructed to decorate and furnish it. And Mr Dobb would be the go-between.
“I shall give you full and very precise details of our requirements, and our spending limits. However odd this may all sound, Mr Dobb, you must remember that I always know what I am doing. This whole enterprise depends upon my giving exact instructions and your carrying them out to the letter. Past experience has taught me that I could search the whole world over and find no one more capable, more honest or more reliable than your good self!”
Mr Dobb glowed at her praise, and thought it no more than he deserved. Some of the duties she was placing upon him were outside his usual sphere of activity, but he knew the right people. He was confident of being able to get everything done.
“I will charge for my own work at an hourly rate,” he said, “but in the matter of appointing people to decorate and furnish the property, my charge will not amount to much. A few phone calls should be sufficient, requesting estimates, which I will naturally pass on to you for your approval.”
He paused before adding, “I’m quite looking forward to it. It will make a change from wills and probate.”
Tulip’s letter would be several pages long. And it would be the first of many. There would be lists and invoices and all sorts of safeguards. But the most important safeguard was Mr Dobb himself. Lady Mennym really did trust him completely.
She was wrong about thinking this service not unprecedented. No one ever had asked Mr Dobb to be such a general factotum before, but he was a man, not a little law machine, a lovely man who had old-fashioned ideals embracing loyalty, courtesy and friendship.
“And after it is all done and dusted,” said Tulip to her family when she returned from the phone box, “we’ll certainly not be rich any more. Though I have every hope that that will not be a permanent condition. What has been done before can be done again – eventually.”
She was already knitting beautiful garments in preparation for the time when they could be sold to Harrods and even to Bloomingdales. She kept them in the bottom drawer of the chest in her bedroom knowing that Daisy would never look there. That was something they had come to understand. It had taken some of the pressure off the space beneath the wardrobe! To hide anything, all they had to do was put it out of sight.
CHAPTER 35
The House on the Hill
THE HOUSE WAS on the other side of the River Dean, in the neighbouring town of Rimstead. It looked out over the winding river from such a height and distance that on sunny mornings it was even possible to see the sea, a shimmer of silver bordering the horizon. In the space between, the townships of Rimstead and Castledean were spread out like a map.
By night, the map disappeared. The area immediately in front of the house was in darkness, street lamps muffled by trees. In the far distance, beyond the towns in the river valley, the outlines of hills merged with the black sky. But in the centre of this picture a myriad of lights stippled the hidden landscape, shining like jewels on velvet.
That is what Soobie saw as he sat on the low stone wall of the house the Mennyms were about to buy. He had jogged across the river and up the hill, a seven mile run, and now he was taking a rest before running all the way back to North Shore Road.
To visit the house so late at night was quixotic, a mission without a purpose. He could see very little. The place was in total darkness and above the wall where he was sitting grew a very high, tangled hedge. To his left, the road in front of him plunged down into the valley. To his right, it wound on, up the hill, curving out of sight.
On the gatepost, hewn into the stone, he read the name of the house, a name half-obliterated by time. The Manse. The home, in days gone by, of the minister, soon to be the home of the Mennyms.
Soobie looked up at the ‘For Sale’ board that stood just inside the garden gate and felt momentarily nervous in case anyone else should see it and buy the house from under their noses. This house was right for the Mennyms. Without even seeing it properly, he knew how right it was.
He set off for Castledean. On the way down he didn’t pass a single soul. One or two nocturnal cars went by. That was all. Then, as he came near to the Dean Bridge, he was surprised to see a figure coming towards him, a hooded figure with a familiar gait.
“Dad!” said Soobie as they drew near enough for him to be sure. “What are you doing here?”
“Just going for a walk,” said Joshua. “Thought I might walk up the hill and see the house.”
“I’ve just come from there,” said Soobie. “It’s too far for you to go tonight, Dad. Why not just turn round and walk home with me?”
They walked across the bridge in silence, each puzzling over the same problem.
“Has Granny thought how we are all going to get there?” said Soobie at length. “I mean – you and I could manage – but it won’t be easy for the others.”
“I know,” said Joshua. “But your grandmother must have thought it all out. After all, she has thought of everything else.”
“But what if she hasn’t?” asked Soobie. “What if that’s the one thing that’s slipped her mind?”
When they reached the door of Number 39, Joshua let them in with the key, but Vinetta and Tulip were still up, waiting for them to return.
“Where have you been till this time?” said Vinetta, glancing up at the clock.
“Across to Rimstead,” said Soobie. “I saw the house that we are going to buy. Though I could see precious little of it in the dark.”
“But what did it look like?” said Vinetta. “You must have seen something no matter how dark it was. There would be street lamps.”
“The streetlighting is poor there,” said Soobie. “It’s not the town centre, you know. I saw just enough to know that the garden was overgrown and on a fairly steep slope with little paved steps leading up to the door.”
“Do you like it?” said Tulip.
Soobie could have made some sort of non-committal answer, but he knew that he liked it, and he saw no reason to hold back.
“I liked it,” he said. “I liked the view of the lights all over the town, shining in the darkness. I liked the feel of the place. It felt safe.”
“There is just one thing,” said Joshua slowly. “It is quite a long way from here. I didn’t get that far, but Soobie tells me it’s at least seven miles – most of it uphill.”
Vinetta looked worried. Tulip was annoyed. It had slipped her mind. How it could have done, she did not know. And like Appleby, she fought shy of a
dmitting her mistake.
“When the time comes,” she said huffily, “we shall all manage to get there. That is not something we need think of just now. The surveyor’s report arrived in the post yesterday. I haven’t had time to read it properly yet, though it seems quite satisfactory.”
“I think we should all go to bed now,” said Vinetta. “Just look at the time – two o’clock in the morning!”
When Tulip went into the room upstairs, Magnus was already fast asleep, spreadeagled all over the bed, purple foot trailing the floor. His wife shook his arm and said in a voice that was quiet, but urgent, “Wake up, Magnus, wake up.”
Magnus came awake angrily and said, “I was not snoring. I never snore.”
It was true, of course. He never did snore; rag dolls don’t. It was simply part of an old pretend.
“That’s not what I want to talk to you about,” said Tulip, still in a voice not much above a whisper. “Be quiet. We don’t want the others to hear. It would only worry them.”
Magnus was fully awake now.
“Well?” he said grouchily. “This had better be good. You have interrupted a very serious train of thought.”
“It will only be a matter of time before the house in Rimstead is ours,” Tulip began, ignoring his tetchiness. “All of the wheels are in motion.”
“Good,” said Magnus. “And so?”
“There is a problem to which I have not given due attention,” said Tulip in a peevish voice, “and neither has anybody else. I don’t know why it is that I have to think of everything.”
“And what might this problem be?” said Magnus. It crossed his mind that they could be running out of money. But no . . .
“The house is more than seven miles away,” said Tulip. “Up a very steep hill.”
“Well, so what?” said Magnus. Tulip looked annoyed. She was going to have to spell it out to him, and he must surely know ‘what’!
“We’ll never make it,” she said, slumping down into the easy chair. “We’ll never get there.”
“Of course we will, woman,” said Magnus. “What do you think taxis are for?”