Saving Willowbrook

by Anna Jacobs

  ‘I’ll pay for it then and we won’t say anything to my cousin unless we have to.’ She knew how short of money Ella was now. Paying would max out Rose’s credit card and mean holding off buying a new exhaust system for a little longer, but she was getting good at wrapping that special tape round the hole in the tail pipe.

  To her relief, Porgy only had a couple of fractures and the cut, which needed four stitches.

  She hesitated, then seized the moment and told the new vet about one of her moneymaking ventures, taking him to see the small poster she’d put up, which was now partly obscured by other notices in the waiting room.

  He grinned at the little sketches of the dog and cat on the notice. ‘Do you get many clients?’

  ‘Some. Enough to help keep the wolf from the door.’

  ‘I must come and look at your paintings one day.’

  She looked at his hopeful expression. She didn’t want to upset him, but she didn’t fancy him in the slightest. ‘I’ll bring some in to show you next time I’m passing. I do wildlife paintings as well. They’re my favourite, really. Thanks.’

  She took the dog back to Willowbrook and helped clear up the worst of the damage. She and Ella hugged wordlessly before she left. They didn’t see as much of one another as they’d like because they were both working every minute they could manage, but they were always there for one another.

  Back at her own cottage Rose worked for a while on her latest commission, a portrait of a fat and wheezy boxer dog, who looked particularly dopey to her in the photos. But you didn’t say no to a cash offer. She’d done enough pet paintings to know she needed to make the poor old fellow prettier than he was, because that was how the owner saw him.

  She’d tried realism the first time she did one of these paintings and smiled at the memory of the elderly corgi, whose owner had thrown a huff and refused to accept the painting until she’d ‘shown the twinkle in Fluffy’s eye’. The final result had been more like a cartoon, but it’d earned Rose some much-needed money.

  She signed paintings like that R. Marr, shortening her surname, keeping her full name, Rose Marwood, for work she was proud of.

  What she was really passionate about was painting the smaller wild animals and plants of her native county, Wiltshire. Passionate! It was an obsession. She’d be the first to admit that. She made only the occasional sale from by-products of that, paintings that didn’t quite meet her rigorous standards but were good enough to hang on walls. She left them on commission in two or three nearby galleries. She didn’t even try to offer her other nature paintings for sale because she was working up a collection which she hoped to see published as an art/nature book. It had been a passion of hers for years and a few months ago had come between her and a guy she’d loved, because she wouldn’t move away from Wiltshire and he had to. The thought of him still hurt and she’d not dated since.

  Last year she’d spent what was to her a fortune on a special metal security box to keep the finished products in. The need for that was non-negotiable, like Ella’s fire extinguishers at Willowbrook, which had cost her cousin a lot of money she could ill afford. Bottom line was: you didn’t leave your most precious things vulnerable to fire and theft.

  Rose smiled at the box and reached out to pat it. Her friends and regular customers at the pub had teased her about buying it. It had a secure lock and was supposed to be water and everything-proof, even capable of withstanding house fires for a certain length of time. It was almost the right size to hold her paintings and she’d added a wad of bubble plastic round the edges to stop the pieces of card moving around. She just hoped she never needed to put the maker’s claims to the test.

  Her timer rang and with a sigh she put away her painting equipment and got ready for her work in the pub, where she spent two or three nights a week behind the bar, and did casual waitressing, cleaning, whatever they needed.

  That evening they offered her a few extra evenings’ work behind the bar, as one of the other staff had had to rush north because of a death in the family. Rose took the work gratefully. Maybe now she’d be able to afford that exhaust system as well as the X-rays.

  As for her personal life, she would concentrate on her painting. She was clearly not the sort to get married.

  It took Ella several days to remove all traces of the burglary, and it took several weeks for the insurance company to cough up the money for repairs and replacements of the things that had been smashed. She bought a new computer but waited to get a TV. She was too busy finishing the chalets to miss it and luckily, her daughter could always find something to play with, acting with her toys mainly, using her vivid imagination to dream up stories.

  Ella was trying to get the chalets ready for occupation before the summer, sewing curtains, table runners and bedspreads in the evenings, doing the landscaping round each chalet in the daytime.

  And since no one except herself knew about the farmhouse’s secrets, she wrote a letter on her new computer to leave at the lawyer’s, in case anything happened to her before she told Amy about the hidden places.

  She also appointed Rose guardian to Amy, knowing Miles wouldn’t want to look after the child. She didn’t even inform him about that, but she made sure the lawyer knew that he’d not asked for access, hadn’t tried to visit his daughter or even ask about her.

  Her lawyer tried several times to persuade her to ask Miles for maintenance but she shook her head stubbornly. He was letting her keep the money he’d invested and that would have to do, whatever Ian said. She didn’t want any more hassles, knew Miles would argue over every penny, or maybe call in her debt.

  Anyway, she wasn’t afraid of hard work. She’d pay him back and keep Willowbrook for Amy – whatever it took.

  Two

  Three years later: April

  Cameron O’Neal turned off the M4 motorway and headed south into Wiltshire with a sigh of relief. Traffic had been heavy all the way from London and he was hoping for a restful weekend once he’d done this small job. He hadn’t wanted to take it on, but Ray Deare was a close friend of his father’s and had helped Cameron when he was younger and eager to make something of himself in the business world. He owed a lot to the older man and this was the first time a favour had been asked in return.

  He intended to get this over with quickly, though, then find somewhere peaceful to stay, so that he could take stock of his life and make constructive plans for the future. He was getting less and less satisfaction from his work as a financial consultant. There had to be more to life than sorting out the problems of rich idiots.

  The place he was heading for, Chawton Bassett, turned out to be so picturesque he didn’t go straight to the address he’d been given, but stopped in the main street to enjoy the village. In the middle of the long, vaguely triangular space stood an ancient market hall perched on stone columns. The village centre was edged by houses built from a variety of materials – narrow old bricks, uneven stones, black and white plasterwork. Most butted on to one another, even though their upper stories didn’t quite match in levels or styles. But that only added to the attraction.

  Local planning regulations wouldn’t allow that sort of nonconformity these days and most modern town centres looked like tidy, boring piles of boxes to him. But this village took his breath away with its quaint beauty.

  As he strolled round, he felt a sense of homecoming that surprised him. Yet he’d never been here before, he was certain of that. He shook his head in bafflement. Strange.

  He paused as he reached a black and white timbered pub prettied up with hanging baskets just coming into bloom. It was advertising rooms. Maybe he’d book one here later. He strolled on.

  The ground floors were mostly given over to shops, but these had discreet signs outside and there were no garish notices in the windows screaming out about unbeatable special offers. Well, there was only one supermarket to be seen. Above the shops three or four storeys saluted the sky and he had a sudden fancy that the houses were begging the elements t
o be kind to their sagging roofs and walls.

  It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful.

  Someone had been doing an excellent job of conservation, though, from the looks of it. Ray’s informant was right: a pretty village set in beautiful countryside had excellent potential – well, it would have if the local council was prepared to be flexible – and the planners at DevRaCom were rather skilful at persuading town councils to look on their proposals favourably. But give Ray his due: his company did keep listed buildings and features intact. In fact, the PR staff used them to showcase how much they cared for the nation’s heritage. As if! What they really cared about was the company’s image – and the bottom line: making money. And they’d made plenty over the years.

  The property Cameron had come to look at for Ray was some way out of the village, so at least a hotel/conference centre development there wouldn’t impinge on this medieval-Georgian gem. Apparently some woman was blocking the whole scheme by refusing to sell the central and most essential piece of land. It had a few tumbledown buildings on it, which weren’t even heritage listed. Ray wanted to know more about her and her farm buildings. Were they genuinely old? Did they have any value per se? Or were they fit for nothing but being demolished?

  It was probably some old lady clinging to her family home, Cameron thought. The poor thing didn’t want to move! She didn’t stand a chance against DevRaCom, though, not if Ray decided he wanted something.

  Cameron didn’t intend to get any more involved in this project than taking a quick look at the farm and reporting back to Ray in person. Typical of Ray to check up privately on what his informant had told him! he thought with a smile. He wouldn’t like to work for DevRaCom full time. Ray kept a tight rein on all those working for him.

  Yawning suddenly and easing his aching shoulders, Cameron wondered if there was a decent hotel round here. The pub was pretty, but it’d probably be noisy later on. He needed a good night’s sleep, had no need to rush anywhere once he’d seen the old house, could do what he fancied.

  When he got back to the car, he found a traffic warden standing next to it.

  ‘Just in time, sir. Could you move on now, please? This is only a thirty-minute spot. There are longer-term car parks behind the shops.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just enjoying the views. It’s a very pretty village.’

  She beamed at him. ‘We like to think so.’

  Ella drove into the village for groceries, mentally working out which tasks she’d manage to fit into what promised to be an even busier day than usual. She made a mental note that Amy was due for one of her regular check-ups quite soon. She’d have to look in the diary and see when exactly it was, some time in June, if she remembered correctly.

  She couldn’t settle to anything till she heard about her application for a loan, but to her disappointment, her mailbox was again empty. How could it possibly take so many weeks for a bank to decide whether to give her a second mortgage? If it was up to the bank manager in the village, it’d have been done already, but apparently head office had to okay this sort of thing nowadays.

  If they didn’t approve it, she’d lose the farm. It was as simple as that – and the mere thought was so gut-wrenching she stopped walking for a moment to brace herself.

  It couldn’t happen. It just – couldn’t.

  In the supermarket she selected the fruit and vegetables with her usual care, eyeing the grapes with brief longing. Too expensive. Especially as there was a two for one offer on apples. She picked up two packs, checking each one carefully for overripe fruit, then went on to hunt out other specials, making every penny count.

  Damn Miles! She didn’t need this extra worry just as the tourist season was getting started. He’d promised her five years before he tried to reclaim his money. If he’d kept his word, she wouldn’t be so anxious.

  She should have known better than to trust him.

  When she went to buy some petrol, Ella faced yet again the problem of Brett Harding. Knowing his tricks of old, she tried to keep her distance from the counter, but he grabbed her hand as she was putting her credit card into the gadget and wouldn’t let go.

  ‘You need to loosen up a bit, girl.’ He gave her a wink and squeezed her hand.

  With a growl of exasperation she jerked it away from him. She’d known Brett since they were children and he hadn’t improved with age. They’d called him ‘the octopus’ at school because of his roving hands and he still merited the nickname. He’d always been stupid and brutish, and his main idea of fun these days was getting blind drunk.

  If it’d been anyone else but a Harding, she’d have made a complaint of sexual harassment against him, but Brett’s father was on the area council, with a special interest in the planning committee, and it wouldn’t be wise to offend him. She wondered sometimes whether he knew what a loser his only son was.

  When Brett had finished taking her payment, he asked, as he’d been doing for the past year, ‘How about coming out with me tonight? We could—’

  ‘Will you please stop pestering me, Brett. I keep telling you I don’t date.’

  ‘’Bout time you started again.’ He winked. ‘Aren’t you missing it?’

  ‘Not at all.’ And even if she was, a man like him wouldn’t tempt her, not in a billion years.

  If only there was another service station on her side of the village! She didn’t want to travel several miles to fill up her car each time. That cost money and she had to be so careful.

  Cameron easily found his way out to the property he was to check. A big sign with beautifully executed flowers in each corner said:

  WILLOWBROOK FARM

  CHALETS TO RENT

  SHORT OR LONG STAYS

  He slowed down to watch a magpie land near the hedgerow and start pecking at something.

  ‘One for sorrow,’ he murmured automatically, feeling irrationally pleased as a second magpie appeared and he could add, ‘Two for joy’. Silly to put any credence on his grandmother’s old sayings, but still, he’d rather have joy than sorrow.

  He turned through the gateway, stopping the car just before the end of the drive to whistle in amazement. He could see at once that Ray’s informant was wrong. This wasn’t a tumbledown place, just a very old house. It was sagging a little, sure, but was still beautiful, like a very old and stately dowager. And it was well cared for. Its paintwork was immaculate and the leaded windowpanes twinkled in the sun. Across the front of the building curled a fringe of bright flowers, and a hanging basket hung on either side of the front door.

  Why the hell wasn’t a house like this heritage listed?

  He let the car roll slowly down the slope at the side of the house to settle in one of the marked parking bays. As he got out, he studied the outbuildings at the rear. The architecture was a mixture of styles, eighteenth century mainly at a guess. But one barn looked far older than the rest. He’d have a closer look later, perhaps get permission to go inside.

  A place like this needed preserving, not demolishing, surely? He hated to think what Ray’s building development team would do with it.

  From here he could see the glint of water at the foot of the slope behind the house. It wasn’t a big lake, about a quarter of a mile long, at a guess, and quite narrow, but it was as pretty as the rest of this place. A line of willows led down to it from the left and its still, dark-green waters were fringed by more willows on the left half of the other side. Fields and woods patterned the slopes round it.

  He could see why Ray wanted to build one of his exclusive tourist developments here. Only . . . the peace would be gone and probably the line of willows with the bulrushes in front of them. It wouldn’t be the same place at all, he was quite sure of that. It wasn’t his business what happened to it, but still, it would be a shame.

  Cameron strolled back up to the front door and used the heavy lion’s head doorknocker. He wielded it a second time, hearing it echoing inside the building. Just as he was raising it for a third and final assault, there was a s
ound from the side of the house, and he turned.

  An elderly golden Labrador padded round the corner and stopped in front of him with a sleepy woof, its head on one side as if it was asking what he was doing here. He bent to let it smell his hand and it sniffed earnestly, then gave a tentative wag.

  Only then did he notice a neat sign in a glass pane next to the door saying Back in an hour. If the owner was away, this might be a good opportunity to explore a little. He walked round to the rear of the house with his new companion. ‘Fine watchdog you are!’ he murmured and it wagged again.

  The rear yard was immaculately neat with two wooden tables and benches to one side of an area edged by flowers and bushes. The owner must have very green fingers.

  He strolled along the outsides of the outbuildings, seeing through the gaps between them the roofs of the six chalets – cheap, tatty places the informant had told Ray. Only they weren’t. They were quite new, neatly painted, each with a small paved area in front of it containing a wooden table and benches looking out on to the lake.

  It suddenly occurred to him that these chalets would be a far better place than a hotel for his own needs. He could imagine sitting outside one in the evening, sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the peace.

  He walked all the way round the outbuildings, marvelling at how solid they were still, built of stone roofed with narrow slabs of the same stone. He found himself stroking the oldest barn, but he didn’t feel it right to go inside, so he went back to the front of the house to wait.

  The dog was there already. Cameron sat on the steps beside it, enjoying the light breeze ruffling his hair and the gentle English sunlight on his skin. When the dog nudged him, he caressed its head and with a sigh it relaxed against his leg. Golden hairs attached themselves to his neat, charcoal grey slacks and he didn’t give a damn.

  I’ll get myself a dog, he thought. Once I’ve found somewhere to settle, I’ll definitely get a dog. He’d had one as a lad, still missed old Rusty.