House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  Accounts had never been her strong point, but a naturally enquiring mind had brought her to one basic truth. Wine was being filtered off at source. It was being produced but not reaching the warehouse. At present she couldn’t investigate why that was; not until she addressed this end of the business. These premises had to make a profit purely to ensure their survival. Run-down as it was, Cornwallis House could be very grand if the money were there to refurbish it.

  ‘I’ve worked out a plan,’ said Catherine after another hasty sip of hot tea.

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ said a smiling Townsend, his eyes fixed on her, his arms folded on the tabletop. The glow of admiration shone on his face. He couldn’t believe that this flood of ideas was coming from a slip of a girl.

  She found the way he looked at her quite amusing. She felt like God handing down the Ten Commandments and sensed he would do everything that she asked of him.

  ‘First, we need to get a new set of steps made for the cellar. At present time is being wasted going to and fro through the shop and up and down the internal steps.’

  The man sitting opposite her nodded his head slowly, his eyes filled with a kind of wonder. ‘I’ll hire a carpenter, though you must know, ma’am, that he’ll want paying up front. I’m afraid Mr Arthur Freeman is a bit tardy in paying tradesmen on time.’

  In response Catherine swiftly snapped open her bag. ‘Take this,’ she said handing him a five-pound note. ‘And hire a stonemason to make the steps, not a carpenter. This time we’ll have something that lasts.’

  Townsend’s jaw dropped before a winning smile came to his mouth. ‘I’ll do that, ma’am. Indeed I will!’

  He sounded so exuberant, as though with a wave of her hand she could make everything right.

  Start as you mean to go on.

  She had to be honest with him. ‘I’ve little money at present, Mr Townsend. As I’m sure you are aware, the business is in dire straits. My husband is otherwise engaged elsewhere, so I will take over. You will say nothing of this to my husband or any of his agents. You will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’

  Her look was intense, her voice strong.

  His mouth still gaped when he nodded.

  ‘Now. We will concentrate on making good what we have; things that cost little or nothing to improve. First things first, I want the brown paper stripped from the window of the front office. Do we have any paint?’

  ‘There’s some pots of dark green somewhere.’

  She nodded brusquely. ‘Good. I want the outside of the shopfront painted. If there’s enough left over, I want the inside painted too.

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  She smiled suddenly and looked into his eyes. ‘And stop calling me ma’am. You’re my manager. Mrs Arthur Freeman if you must be formal; or Catherine if we are to become firm friends.’

  Townsend frowned. ‘Isn’t the downstairs office going to lack privacy if we get rid of the brown paper?’

  Catherine sat up straight and beamed at him. ‘I noticed two good rooms on this floor at the back of the building. Those will be the new offices. One general office, and one for you.’ She looked out through the oriole window at the church spires on the other side of the Tramways Centre. ‘I shall have this office. I like to see what’s going on in the world.’

  She went on to explain her plans for what was presently the office. ‘We’re going to have a shop,’ she explained. ‘There’s too much stock lying around in the cellar. We need to move it more quickly and seeing as we have a large shop frontage and good passing trade, a shop it shall be. In fact, I think we’ll attract a lot of new customers. Don’t you?’

  Townsend seemed to expand in size as he poured praise on her scheme. ‘I’ve often said that this place was wasted,’ he said, beaming from ear to ear.

  She could not read his mind, but Townsend appeared mightily impressed. He kept asking himself how she saw things so clearly. It must be in the blood, he thought to himself. ‘And the other rooms?’

  Catherine was scribbling a small design on her pad. ‘There’s a fire escape serving the attic and the second floor. Altogether that makes eight rooms that could easily be converted into office units we could rent out to people like lawyers and accountants. They prefer being in the city centre and rarely require to buy their premises. Do you live in a house, Mr Townsend?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much rent do you pay?’

  ‘Ten shillings per week.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, multiplying that sum by four. She wrote it down and, with a final flourish, added a full stop.

  Townsend suddenly turned thoughtful.

  She leaned closer to him, fixing him with her dark-grey, lustrous eyes. ‘Is there anything that concerns you about my plan?’

  He frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we have shopfitters in to put up shelving and suchlike?’

  Catherine’s thoughts were already loading some of the less attractive furniture from Cornwallis House on to a cart. No doubt the gypsies would transport it from one place to another once she’d crossed their palms with silver.

  ‘Leave that to me,’ she said.

  One of the van drivers gave her a lift back to Cornwallis House. She made sure he dropped her at the top of Bridge Valley Road. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way,’ she said to him. ‘It’s a fine night.’

  Robert caught her as she came through the door. He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Where have you been?’

  She averted her eyes as she took off her hat. ‘I went to look at some new material to make curtains for the drawing room. It was going quite cheap.’

  ‘It would have to be,’ he said gloomily.

  She noticed he smelled of drink.

  ‘Did you go to the warehouse today?’

  ‘Christ, no!’ he exclaimed, glaring at her as though she’d thrown him the worst insult she possibly could.

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked as she headed for the door.

  She turned to face him and couldn’t help smiling. Robert looked so disconcerted, almost afraid. He had reason to be. Going to the warehouse was the best thing she’d ever done. Unlike her husband, she had loved being there. It was as though she could smell the challenge presented to her. In accepting that challenge of running the business, something inside her had changed.

  ‘I’m seeing the children, arranging dinner, then afterwards I may read for a while. What are you doing tonight?’

  He looked at her as though she were mad. ‘I’m off out, of course! To my club,’ he added.

  She surmised that he was lying. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. Something new and far more exciting than him had entered her life.

  Thirty-Seven

  William had watched the slim, lovely young girl entering the tired-looking building that housed Arthur Freeman’s business. Believing all he’d heard about Robert, he’d fully expected to see a nervous, downtrodden child bride. The reality had surprised him. Yes, she was very young, and at first he’d been dumbstruck by her resemblance to her mother.

  He’d doffed his hat at her as she’d passed by. Although seemingly preoccupied, she’d acknowledged him with a small smile. That was when he’d seen her eyes. He remembered Leonora’s eyes as being brown; though time can dim the memory, he told himself. But brown they most definitely had been. Catherine’s were dark grey like his brother’s and like his own.

  It became his habit to stop the car outside the neglected frontage of Arthur Freeman on his way to his office at Shellard Enterprises. The brown paper was removed from the shop frontage; two employees were painting the elegant window frame and shop door. The upper-floor windows were open, letting in the fresh air, and he could have sworn he saw Catherine – and the Arthur Freeman children – cleaning the upper windows and wielding brooms.

  He smiled to himself. Robert Arthur Freeman had made a better match than he could possibly imagine. His smile faded. The rumours sickened him. As for Walter, he’d always respected his
brother’s business acumen, but to more or less sell his own daughter to someone like Robert was going too far.

  He was about to tell his chauffeur to drive on, when he saw her come out of the shop door. She was carrying two enamel mugs, and aimed a bright smile at the two men finishing off repainting the frontage.

  She was wearing a grey woollen two piece over which she had tied a very large and very white apron. The fact that she could be so considerate towards her workforce brought a lump to his throat. Leonora had been a kind person; too kind for this world, he thought with a pang of remorse. Why, oh, why hadn’t he left her alone to enter the silent world she’d craved?

  The answer was easy. He’d fallen in love with her and liked to think, even after all this time, that she’d loved him too.

  He saw that same kindness in Catherine, but was also aware of something else, some inner strength that was very much closer to home.

  On reaching the office, he phoned Ellen on the new system the firm had recently had installed. He told her he’d seen Catherine and asked whether she’d finally managed to tie Walter down.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘He’s been trying to avoid me since I challenged him in Portugal. Not that I got very far. He said it didn’t matter. His liaison with Catherine’s mother ended before we were married.’ She sighed. ‘The thing is, William, I feel much sorrier for that girl than I do for myself. How did he manage to persuade her to marry a man like that?’

  William gulped back what he knew about Robert; the fact that he liked young girls and knew how to charm them into trusting him. ‘I suppose she didn’t have anyone else in the world.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Ellen. She hesitated, as though she were thinking something through.

  William tried to guess what was on her mind. ‘Are you thinking of befriending her?’

  ‘It did cross my mind.’

  ‘I don’t think you should.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, William. She could spit in my face. But I feel I have to try and gain her trust.’

  William didn’t try to dissuade her any further.

  There was a board meeting arranged later that morning where the latest report from their new estates in Spain was being presented. So far they’d avoided going into direct competition with the great firm of Harveys and their Bristol Cream Sherry. Instead they’d concentrated their efforts on quality wines and the setting up of a holding company with a French partnership.

  ‘People’s perception is that French wine is the best. We need to take advantage of that,’ said Walter.

  His proposal was that their current volume of French production would be boosted by the infusion of a Spanish blend.

  ‘Is that ethical?’ asked one of the board.

  Walter had grinned. ‘The French won’t think so, but we’re not in this business to please them. We’re in it to make a profit. The fact is that the grapes in Spain are cheaper to produce than they are in France. A little cross-border participation can only be to our advantage.’

  Shellard and Company, wine merchants, was now widely known as Shellard Enterprises. This name change was to cover their diversification into hotels and property. The subject therefore changed to hotels.

  William only half listened. Shellard Enterprises moved from success to success.

  The main board were dismissed; the brothers and their new financial director talked about where the company went next. Seth Armitage, their father’s old friend, had been put out to pasture just the week before. He’d proved harder to dislodge than Walter had bargained for, but eventually a settlement had been reached. William had seen the old man eye his brother with outright dislike, if not hatred.

  ‘You’ll have to watch your back,’ William had said to his brother.

  Walter had smirked contemptuously. ‘I have a broad back.’

  The boardroom was getting stuffy. William opened a window.

  Walter concentrated his dark-grey eyes on his new financial director. ‘So how goes our progress with regard to our Colston Avenue holdings?’

  With the air of a man with a vastly inflated ego, Peter Reading opened the file in front of him.

  ‘We are still in negotiation for the lease on number seven; numbers eleven and twelve we already own. Purchase of the property between these others is irrelevant as they already belong to a board member.’

  Walter’s killer smile slid over his lips. ‘The property of Robert Arthur Freeman. How much does he owe?’

  William sat silently as Reading answered. ‘Too much. The property is mortgaged to the hilt.’

  The board meeting had been a pretty general affair, but this was different. For this William was highly alert.

  His brother was looking pretty pleased with himself. ‘My, my. Robert certainly knows how to spend a pound – or rather a few thousand. Buy the debt. We might as well be his main creditor as anyone else. Keep it in the family, so to speak.’ This last comment was meant for his brother. William ignored it. ‘These are very old properties. And they’re the ones you plan to knock down and replace with a hotel?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Walter.

  ‘Some people might object on the grounds of historic value.’

  Walter’s look hardened. ‘There’s no room for sentiment in business, William. And that also goes for Robert. I’m no expert, but doesn’t it say in the Bible, reap as ye have sown? I think you’ll agree, Robert has more than sown the seeds of his own destruction.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Buoyant with satisfaction, Catherine surveyed the interior of what had been a scruffy, run-down office. The boxes the wine bottles arrived in had been set on their sides and hammered into rustic but very attractive shelving. Red and white gingham cloths had been set on small tables at regular intervals. On these she’d set wine glasses for sampling plus a price list of current stock. George Maddingly, the wiry little clerk she’d seen running to and fro, had typed each out on his iron-keyed Imperial typewriter.

  ‘It looks a picture, Mrs Arthur Freeman,’ said Mr Townsend, his face reflecting the enthusiasm in his voice.

  Fists resting on her hips, Catherine turned in a full circle. Already she’d seen people glancing in and stopping to take in the fresh paint, the swept floors and the clean glass of the huge window. Looking out of the window across the Tramways Centre to the buildings on the other side, it seemed the whole world was bathed in light.

  The clackety-clack of the typewriter sounded from upstairs where she’d relocated the office. George was typing out more price lists to serve them until the printers delivered. The printers had demanded immediate payment. The cash flow of the Arthur Freeman wine company was getting worse. Another three pounds six shillings and sixpence had gone from her dwindling cash reserve.

  The price lists were to take around to restaurants and hotels; Catherine had decided that passers-by and private households might form the basis of their business, but the commercial trade was worth pursuing.

  ‘You mean you want jam on yer bread as well as butter,’ said an amused Mr Townsend.

  Things had been worrying at first when he’d told her that they didn’t have enough staff to carry out the alterations she’d planned. To his amazement, she’d not only rolled up her own sleeves and picked up a broom, but she’d brought the children in to help out.

  ‘They’ll get the benefit of the money earned, so it won’t hurt them to work for it,’ she’d stated, her pretty face set with determination.

  The two girls had been less than enthusiastic about helping out. The boy had taken to it like a trooper. He’d also taken to following Townsend about once he’d finished one job, asking – no – demanding he be given another.

  Townsend had chuckled. He hadn’t seen the old place so lively, or so attractive, for many a long year.

  He’d fallen in easily with her plans. ‘So when is Mr Robert coming to inspect?’

  She’d immediately fallen silent.

  Townsend interpreted the look on her face. ‘Oh!’


  ‘When was the last time my husband dropped in?’

  Townsend scratched his head. ‘I can’t really say…’

  ‘He never looks at the paperwork Maddingly brings. It’s filed and that’s it. He’s only good at spending money, Mr Townsend, not working for it. I decided to take charge before we’re all out starving on the streets.’

  Townsend didn’t question further. He knew as well as she did that even if Robert did drop in, he wouldn’t care that she’d taken over responsibility.

  In one corner of the window, she’d advertised offices to rent. Within no time an accountant and a newly qualified solicitor had expressed their interest. The latter had in fact already paid a deposit with the promise of paying six months’ rental in advance. As she knew no other solicitor in the city and didn’t wish to use the family lawyer, she allowed Mr James Birkett to draw up his own contract.

  He’d beamed at the prospect. ‘It seems I have my first client,’ he’d said.

  She’d smiled back. ‘And I my very own lawyer.’

  The shop began to do very well, especially when she became sales assistant. The news that a pretty young woman of foreign extraction and great quality was in situ spread like wildfire. Even the managers of upmarket hotels came in to see who was supplying their new wine range. In no time at all they were dropping in for the odd bottle for personal use.

  Her father did not drop in, though she’d half expected him to. She wanted him to see how well she was doing, to acknowledge that she was worthy of being his daughter. Not that an acknowledgement would make any difference to her hatred. She hated him coldly, she hated him hotly; in all ways that she could hate.

  One month after it opened, the doorbell jangled. As was her habit, she looked up and her ready smile froze on her face. It was her father, and yet it wasn’t; the face beneath the black fedora was less hard, the wide mouth less pitiless. Though his eyes were the same colour as her own.