Christmas at the Dancing Duck

by Daisy James

  Then a sudden thought sliced into her mind. If she had no job, then she had no need to go back to London. If she wasn’t in London, there was nowhere else she would rather be than Cranbury. Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, now she had the chance to return home, there would be no home to return to. She knew there was no possibility of backing out of the sale, even if she offered to throw every ounce of energy she possessed into running the pub. Whilst legally they could still pull out of the sale, they simply didn’t have the money to keep the business going.

  ‘Mrs Cassidy, Miss Harrison? Mr Barton will see you now.’

  The receptionist, a glamorous blonde who clearly modelled her wardrobe on Beyoncé’s, directed them to a door with the legend Richard Edward Barton, LLB (Hons) printed in gold lettering on the frosted glass. Kirstie felt as though she was about to climb into the dentist’s chair – a particular bête noire for her.

  ‘Mr Barton, this is Mrs Cassidy and Miss Harrison – your nine o’clock appointment.’

  ‘Thank you, Hollie.’

  Mr Barton rose from behind his gargantuan desk, his palm outstretched to welcome them into his sanctuary. He indicated the two burgundy leather captain’s chairs.

  ‘Please, do take a seat.’

  Kirstie did as she was directed whilst surreptitiously taking in her surroundings. Barton & Coulson’s senior solicitor must be in his late sixties with a surprise shock of silver hair that looked as though it had been cut with a pair of garden shears. His stomach strained at the buttons of his pinstriped waistcoat and his bulbous nose gave away his predilection for a lunchtime pint or two. Yet his demeanour was friendly if a little dishevelled, like his office. How could he possibly find anything when there were dog-eared and yellowing files and documents heaped on every available surface? Some of which looked like they hadn’t been touched for years.

  ‘I have the contract for the sale of The Dancing Duck public house and brasserie ready for you to sign. Just let me …’

  The solicitor sifted through a stack of buff-coloured files and selected one labelled with Cassidy & Harrison S/O The Dancing Duck, Cranbury, and extracted two documents printed on thick cream paper, bound with green ribbon, the ends of which were joined with two red seals.

  ‘I’d like to take you through the salient terms, if I may. A little dry, you might think, but sadly necessary. If there is anything you wish me to expand on, please do not hesitate to stop me and ask.’

  He perched a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose and began to read out the clauses – verbatim. After listening to the first five or six clauses, Kirstie could feel a heavy torpor steal over her. Her brain phased out the monotonous drone of Mr Barton’s voice and the walls of the dingy room seemed to recede from view. Because of Brad’s curious avoidance of her calls, she had slept only fitfully the previous night as her thoughts whirled, searching for increasingly bizarre explanations for his evasive behaviour.

  ‘… for the change of use granted by Winchester City Council.’

  ‘Sorry?’ spluttered Kirstie. ‘What was that last bit?’

  Olivia’s head whipped round to look at her and then back at Mr Barton. Clearly she had also succumbed to ennui, perhaps pondering what to give Ethan for his tea that evening.

  ‘Which clause do you wish me to repeat, Miss Harrison?’

  ‘The last one. The one where you said something about change of use.’

  ‘Oh, yes, here we are. Clause twenty-three.’

  Mr Barton reread the clause in his gravelly baritone voice and then peered at Kirstie and Olivia over the rim of his spectacles like a benign vulture.

  ‘What exactly does that mean? In English?’

  ‘Well, Miss Harrison. In plain English, it means that your purchaser, Mr Miles Morgan, acknowledges that he has obtained the permission required to change the use of the property from a public house with a licence to sell liquor to retail premises, should he wish to do so.’

  ‘Retail premises? You mean a shop?’ asked Olivia, her jaw gaping.

  ‘Yes, a shop.’ Mr Barton’s eyes flashed from Olivia to Kirstie and then back at the documents in front of him, his nose crinkling in confusion. ‘I had understood you were aware of this?’

  ‘Aware of what?’ asked Kirstie, moving her seat forward and leaning over the piles of discarded papers. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘But … I was advised in correspondence with Mr Morgan’s solicitors that you had full knowledge of his intentions for the future of the property.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Olivia closing her mouth as realization struck. ‘You mean the Old Barn being converted into two cottages.’

  ‘Well, yes, there is residential planning permission granted too for the outbuildings.’

  ‘You said retail.’ Kirstie fixed the solicitor with a stare.

  ‘I did. I was referring to the public house – The Dancing Duck.’ The perplexity that had been written across his expression morphed into concern. ‘You are aware that whilst Mr Morgan intends to keep the Old Barn, he will not retain ownership of the public house.’

  ‘What?’ Kirstie’s heart hammered so hard against her ribcage she had to take a gulp of air to calm down. ‘I’m sorry, this is really confusing. Are you telling us that when Miles buys the Dancing Duck from me and Olivia, he will be selling it on to someone else?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. As I said, I was under the impression that you had full knowledge of this. In fact, his legal representative has assured me that you have discussed the matter personally – in detail. If I had known that was not the case …’

  ‘Kirstie, I don’t understand what’s …’ Olivia’s face had drained of all colour, her cheeks as pale as overworked putty. ‘Please, please can we start again? Mr Barton, would you explain, in the simplest terms possible, what exactly is going on?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I never expected …’ Richard Barton flicked through the correspondence in the file in front of him until he found the letter he was looking for. ‘Yes, yes, here it is. Written confirmation from Hardwick & Drake that the full details will be communicated to the vendors, that’s you, in face-to-face discussions prior to exchange of contracts.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you that nothing has been communicated to me face-to-face,’ declared Olivia, two red spots appearing on her cheeks. ‘So perhaps you could do that for us.’

  ‘Of course. The land upon which the Old Barn stands has been parcelled off and, subject to the usual easements and restrictive covenants, will be retained by Miles Morgan for conversion into two separate dwellings for which planning permission has been obtained. The second, larger parcel of land – upon which the public house and its walled garden stands – is being simultaneously sold to a consortium of investors.’

  ‘And that consortium intends to use the building as what exactly?’

  ‘They have permission to change its use to retail premises.’

  ‘So a shop,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Yes, but I happen to know that the consortium Mr Morgan is selling The Dancing Duck to have purchased other similar public houses in the area that have run into financial difficulty and they have turned them into … erm … well …’

  ‘What? Turned them into what?’

  ‘Please understand that I can’t confirm my suspicions …’

  ‘What?’ demanded Kirstie, her voice an octave higher than usual as the anger mounted in her chest like a venomous snake preparing to pounce.

  ‘Well, a local convenience store.’

  ‘A convenience store?’ Kirstie sprang from her chair, her hands on the desk, and stared at Mr Barton as though this was all his doing. ‘Are you telling us that the Dancing Duck is going to be turned into a supermarket?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  The elderly solicitor’s pale grey eyes held a wealth of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Harrison, as you can appreciate I had been under the mistaken impression that this fact had been communicated to you and Mrs Cassidy prior to your appoin
tment with me by Mr Morgan personally. As I can see that this is clearly not the case, can I suggest that you both take some time to consider the news? Obviously it’s come as a huge shock and I intend to raise the matter with Messrs Hardwick & Drake. However …’ his voice softened ‘… can I also say that once any property is sold, the vendor has no control over what the new owner does with it?’

  ‘But a supermarket. The Dancing Duck replaced by a supermarket,’ Kirstie whispered, before slumping back in her chair feeling as though someone had pricked the concrete-heavy balloon in her chest. Fragments of unformed thoughts ricocheted around her brain as she struggled to assemble the facts into a cogent order. Her loathing for Miles Morgan was uppermost in her mind but she didn’t think it was appropriate to apprise Mr Barton with the details of her relationship with him.

  ‘Are you saying that there’s nothing we can do to prevent this from happening if we go ahead with the sale, Mr Barton?’ asked Olivia recovering from the bombshell quicker than Kirstie.

  ‘Yes. I do understand how you must be feeling. The Dancing Duck has been your home as well as a business and an important part of the village community for many years. But there are many small village pubs that have been subjected to conversion into other businesses or returned to residential use. It’s the ripple effect of the banking crisis as well as other factors such as second home ownership. However, as you have not yet signed the contracts you are not legally obliged to sell the property to Mr Morgan. You can withdraw your agreement to his offer and continue to market the property in the hope that you may find another buyer who will maintain the property as the village hostelry.’

  ‘Then, yes! Yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do!’ exclaimed Kirstie. However, when she glanced across at Olivia expecting her agreement, she saw that she did not share her enthusiasm for this option.

  ‘Livie? What do you think?’

  Olivia fiddled with the strap on her handbag, her head lowered, silent for several pain-filled seconds.

  ‘I’m devastated about this, I really am, Kirst. But to tell the truth, there were no other interested purchasers than Miles. We don’t have any idea how long it will take to find someone who wants to run the pub, especially when they see the accounts of the last two years. Don’t get me wrong – if we had the luxury of time, I totally agree that we should wait to find the right buyer. But we don’t, and as I’m sure Mr Barton knows already, the bank is pressing for repayment of our loan. If we don’t sell to Miles, they will declare me and Harry bankrupt. I can’t do that to him.’

  ‘But I could maybe pay something towards the monthly interest payments until …’ Kirstie stopped. How could she do that when she didn’t even know if she still had a job?

  Olivia was now staring at Kirstie, her lower lashes glistening with tears. ‘Kirstie, believe me, I understand how you feel about The Duck and I don’t want to sound selfish, but I really need the sale to go through. I can’t tell you what a struggle it’s been to manage the pub, especially after the arrival of Ethan. If I didn’t have the promise of Bramble Cottage to move into next week, I’d be looking at my sanity in the rear-view mirror. It’s despicable what Miles has planned, even more despicable that he has – for whatever reason – chosen not to disclose his intentions, especially after … well, you know.’ Olivia’s cheeks flushed as she sent a quick glance to Richard Barton who was watching their conversation with avid interest. ‘I’m sorry, so very sorry.’ Tears rolled down her face and she dabbed them away with a piece of kitchen towel.

  Kirstie heard the whoosh of blood pounding in her ears as her heart cracked. How could she go against what her sister wanted? After all, it was Olivia who had run the pub single-handedly until Josh had arrived to take over as bar manager. No mean feat when she had Ethan to care for. Olivia obviously needed to move on to the next stage of her life and Kirstie couldn’t let her own feelings interfere with her sister’s dreams.

  ‘Oh, Livie, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re right, of course you are. We have to go ahead with the sale. It’s just been such a shock, so hard to get my head around.’

  Never mind what the villagers will say when they find out, she thought, but she couldn’t allow herself think about that now.

  ‘So what do you ladies want to do?’ asked Mr Barton.

  ‘We’ll go ahead,’ said Kirstie, decisively reaching for a pen sticking out from under a discarded newspaper from November. ‘Where do we sign?’

  ‘Next to your initials, there. Let me advise you that the terms of the agreement are not binding until the contracts are exchanged. I will contact you immediately before that happens to ensure you still want to go ahead and advise you of the precise completion date. After exchange you can not pull out of the sale without incurring a substantial penalty.’

  ‘Okay. I understand. Thank you for all your help, Mr Barton.’

  ‘You are welcome, Miss Harrison. Now, I believe we are ready to move on to Mr and Mrs Cassidy’s purchase of Bramble Cottage?’

  ‘Yes. My husband should be in the waiting room.’

  Mr Barton buzzed for his receptionist. ‘Could you show Mr Cassidy in, please?’

  Kirstie stood to vacate her seat. As she walked towards the door, her limbs felt strangely disconnected from her body, as though they didn’t belong to her. A mantle of exhaustion settled around her and she felt as though the world had dumped all its woes on her shoulders.

  ‘You can stay, Kirstie.’

  ‘No, no. I really need to get some air.’

  Olivia stood to hug her. ‘We’ll talk about Mil … all this later. Thanks, Kirstie. I love you.’

  ‘You too.’

  Kirstie stumbled from the room, anxious to evacuate from the solicitor’s office before her fury at the way Miles had treated her bubbled over and Mr Barton felt compelled to call the men in white coats to come and take her away.

  Chapter 29

  Kirstie emerged into the street, dragging the sides of her jacket across her chest as the rain continued to lash everything in its path. Nausea washed around her stomach and she craved a coffee to settle her nerves. She dived under the awning of the café at the end of the street, its windows opaque with condensation. The tinkle of a brass bell welcomed her in and the fragrance of bacon sandwiches caused her stomach to remind her she had skipped breakfast.

  She settled into a seat by the window, staring at the dribbles of water running down the glass. She waited until her heart calmed from maelstrom to walking pace before dissecting their meeting with Richard Barton systematically, examining each fact as it had happened.

  A kaleidoscope of emotions churned through her veins until all she was left with was unadulterated anger at the way Miles had behaved towards her. It was absolutely clear to her that he had targeted his attention towards her in order to maintain his cover as their financial saviour. She cringed when she thought of her willingness to believe everything he had told her at face value, mortified that she had believed he was genuinely interested in her, even hoping it was the beginning of a possible relationship.

  How could she have been so naive? And then, as she thanked the pretty waitress with the ugly black and green tattoo on her forearm, she wondered how Miles had thought he would keep this a secret from them. Surely as a lawyer he would have anticipated that his intentions for the pub would be revealed when they attended their solicitor’s office to sign the contracts?

  It all fell into place. Miles’s lack of inclination to discuss the changes he intended to make to the pub, his disinterest in the village activities the proprietors of the Dancing Duck had always arranged, his insistence that they took everything they wanted with them otherwise it would be taken to the local tip. If he had intended to keep the pub, he would have at least wanted the fixtures and fittings to sell or recycle.

  She recalled their conversation when he had spoken about stripping the building back to the stone walls. Yet still she hadn’t thought to question his motives, seeing instead in her mind’s eye his desire t
o modernize the bar and restaurant into an airy, fresh, updated version.

  Finally, the most painful part of the whole debacle sprang into her mind like an unwelcome visitor. Josh had been right. His instincts had warned him not to trust Miles and he had shared those with Kirstie, warned her to be on her guard. But she had refused to listen to him because she had thought he was jealous of her contact with Miles. How could she have been so wrong?

  She had to apologize to Josh, but first she had to tell him why his suspicions had proved correct and she didn’t have the stomach to do that at the moment. She felt stupid, gullible, naked almost, as she sat in the window waiting for Olivia and Harry to text to say they had concluded their appointment.

  Would Josh forgive her? Would he even want anything to do with her once he knew what was going to happen to the Dancing Duck and the impact that would have on the village? Of course, there would be some residents who would welcome the convenience of a supermarket on their doorstep, but she knew many more would not, especially Rachel. What would happen to her parents’ artisan bakery when cheap sliced white bread and packaged cakes were available twenty yards away? You didn’t need to be a professor of economics to work that out. How could she face them and all the other shop owners? People who had taken her to their hearts after her parents had died, treated her with such kindness and understanding and she had repaid them by taking away their livelihoods.

  The full effect of what had happened that morning sunk in and her whole body was overtaken by a surge of regret and misery and hopelessness. She fished a tissue from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes, mourning the loss of her childhood home once again. She thought of her life in London – probably also at an end. She thought of her blossoming relationship with Josh, which was about to be rewound back to their mutual animosity and sniping, and her shoulders slumped.