Flora's Lot

by Katie Fforde

  Chapter Six

  Not having to be at work until half past nine seemed like a lie-in to Flora - although she would have enjoyed it more if she wasn't worried about William turning up at the cottage while Annabelle was there.

  The previous evening when she'd got home there had been a note from him saying that he'd seen to Imelda and pointing out the salad he had made. He seemed to have used some lettuce and tomatoes that she had in the fridge and a lot of very strange bits of plant which he must have gathered from less orthodox sources. She recognised tips of hawthorn and what might have been some sort of wild sorrel but nothing else. After she'd spent a time-wasting half-hour with Imelda and the kittens, she had eaten it. Either the bits of plant tasted very good, or the vinaigrette, which he'd also made, disguised any unpleasant taste.

  Grateful though she was to come home to a delicious meal, she would rather have actually seen William so she could have warned him about Annabelle. She could hardly leave him a note telling him to keep out of the way - Annabelle was far more likely to find it than he was.

  Still, at least she had a television now. Charles had bought one for her from the sale the previous day. He'd put it in the back of the Land-Rover for her and said, 'I suppose you might as well have this. No one else seemed to want it.’

  She had thanked him in a manner appropriate to such a grudging gift but a tiny part of her wondered if he was actually being quite kind, but didn't want her to know. The porters all seemed to like him well enough, but then they would, wouldn't they? He was good-looking in a conventional sort of way and if they'd known and liked his father, they were bound to feel motherly towards him. And, of course, he wasn't trying to force any of them to leave.

  After she had got the TV to work, she settled down in front of it. But instead of concentrating on six young women from very sheltered homes struggling through the desert carrying Kalashnikovs and backpacks the size of small cars, which appeared to be the latest in reality television, she found herself thinking about the business and Charles.

  Yesterday she had noticed that he had been constantly following on Annabelle's heels. Was he soothing ruffled feathers, or checking she'd done things right? If she'd been Annabelle and Charles had done that, she'd have killed him. Annabelle seemed oblivious. Did she not know? Or not care? It was hard to believe that Annabelle was really as bad at the job as she appeared to be, but going on what the porters said, she was worse, and bossy with it.

  Flora yawned, aware that if she didn't go to bed soon, she'd wake up in the middle of the night on the sofa, cold and stiff. As she sleepily locked doors and windows, brought up more food and water for Imelda, and unplugged the slightly dodgy electric kettle, she decided that Charles and Annabelle were nothing to do with her and went to bed. They had certainly gone way past the 'in love' stage of their relationship.

  So was their relationship purely for practical reasons? It was none of Flora's business of course, she told herself firmly, but she was a compulsive people-watcher and couldn't help but be fascinated by this oddly distant couple set on marrying. Why on earth were they together? If Annabelle wanted control of a business, why didn't she use her money to start one she liked, instead of muddling about with furniture and knickknacks that gave her no pleasure at all? Unless, of course, it wasn't that way round. Maybe she wanted to be financially involved in Stanza and Stanza so that when she persuaded or bullied or convinced Charles to sell the buildings, she would get her cut. Or even just be married to Charles to share his bit.

  Charles was possibly hoping that Annabelle would invest some of her money in the business so he could improve things, do a little marketing, some proper advertising. But that seemed terribly cold. Maybe Flora was barking up the wrong tree completely. The trouble was, their private life could be a sea of endless passion but they were both so buttoned up and conventional the rest of the world would never know. And if they'd known each other from childhood, perhaps they'd never shared the white heat of a new relationship.

  Thinking of new relationships reminded Flora of Henry. She liked Henry; he looked as if he could be fun. The twinkle in his eye was such a relief after Charles's disapproval, and in a town this small she was sure she'd run into him again. She was rather looking forward to it.

  *

  'I might just have to get one of those stickers saying "I Love My Landy",' declared Flora as she and Charles got out of their vehicles at roughly the same time. 'It's such fun being able to see into the gardens. And being so high up makes me feel empowered, sort of. Strong,' she added, in case the word 'empowered' was too frighteningly feminist for him.

  Charles raised an eyebrow, possibly a little surprised at being greeted in this light-hearted way. 'Well, there's no reason why you shouldn't carry on driving it. It's a firm car - they're still waiting for that part for yours, by the way.' He frowned, and carried on. 'As long as you don't mind us using it to collect odd bits of furniture from time to time.'

  ‘I would have thought a big old Volvo would be better for things like that?’

  Charles held the door open for her. 'It would, actually, but Annabelle had her heart set on a Land-Rover.’

  Flora had told herself she was going to see the positive in Annabelle at every opportunity. 'I expect she likes being able to see into the gardens, too.'

  ‘No. She said it made her feel safe.'

  ‘I can understand that. The roads round here must get quite icy in winter.’

  Charles looked down his nose at her - probably by accident, he was so much taller. 'Not really. It's very mild here.’

  Flora really wanted to go to the Ladies' but felt that this conversation should be finished first so she followed him into the office. 'But I thought you said she found it difficult to drive. Where is she, by the way?’

  °Going to your house, later. She does find the Land-Rover awkward to park.'

  ‘Then why are you keeping it? It's quite new.'

  ‘I think we need to have this conversation sometime, but not now,' said Charles. 'Can you pick up a notebook and a reliable pen and we'll be off? I don't want to keep these people waiting. They've travelled a long way to get their uncle's estate settled.’

  It was very frustrating. Flora couldn't exactly accuse him of being secretive, but he simply wasn't telling her anything.

  They were both silent as they set off in his old but roomy Citroen. Flora was wondering why the firm bought a Land-Rover it didn't really need when Charles was driving such an old car. Surely it couldn't just be Annabelle's whim? Eventually Charles said, 'We mostly use tape recorders to do valuations these days, but ours has broken and it'll be good training for you. In the old days they were always written out by hand and typed up later. You had to have two of you doing it.'

  ‘Doesn't Annabelle like doing them?' Annabelle had said as much herself, but Flora wanted to prod a little deeper.

  ‘Not really. We don't do all that much fine furniture these days and she's not really into everyday household effects, which are the bread and butter of our business.' Flora filed away the snippet about the fine furniture and stuck to her questions about Annabelle. 'Tell me to mind my own business - I'm sure you will - but does Annabelle really like working for - in - an auction house?’

  He was silent, as if thinking about his answer.

  ‘If she doesn't,' went on Flora, trying not to show her impatience, 'why does she want to buy the shares so you have the majority shareholding?'

  ‘She likes to be in control,' he said slowly. 'She's very organised.'

  ‘But she wouldn't be in control,' said Flora. 'You would.'

  ‘Annabelle and I are going to be married. It's more or less the same thing.'

  ‘Charles! It's not the same thing! Marriage doesn't bind you at the hip!' She thought of how her mother would react if anyone suggested that getting married gave either partner 'control'. And remembered, rather uncomfortably, Virginia's comments about Annabelle's plans.

  ‘I really don't want to discuss my private life with
you, Flora,' Charles said coolly, at his very stuffiest.

  ‘You brought it up! I just wanted to know why Annabelle wanted to get involved with a business she didn't like. After all, she could run her own business. She doesn't have to be linked to yours.'

  ‘She could but she feels . . .' He paused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, apparently going through a mental thesaurus for the right words.

  Flora gave up trying to hide her frustration with his reserve. 'She feels that it's a failing business and that you'd be better to sell it?' This was probably far too far too fast but she was fed up with gossip and wanted to know the facts, straight from the stuffed-horse's mouth. 'Who told you that?' the horse demanded.

  ‘All the porters know, Charles, and they are not at all happy. I don't know if you were trying to keep it a secret, but you've failed.’

  Charles sighed deeply. 'I suppose it's inevitable that it should get out. The thing is, we may not be able to stay in business even if Annabelle did want to. We haven't made a profit for a couple of years.' Flora bit her lip, knowing what he was going to say. 'If we liquidated our property, we - you included - could make an absolute fortune.’

  Flora thought about the enormous house, only partly used, the huge hall next door where the day before she'd experienced her first auction, and where the local community put on plays and flower shows and held discos, that also housed a nursery and a playgroup. With the amount of executive housing they would provide, the fortune probably amounted to millions.

  ‘I can see why you're tempted,' she said.

  ‘I'm not tempted!' Charles sounded really angry. 'I love the business. But if it doesn't make money, we can't keep it on like a family retainer or an aged pet!'

  ‘If you feel like that about it,' said Flora quietly, 'don't sell.'

  ‘Aren't you tempted by the money yourself?' He glanced across at her, genuinely curious.

  She had had time to think about this already, but she considered the matter again, to check her feelings. 'Not really,' she said after a while. 'I haven't any dreams unfulfilled because of lack of funds. Besides . . .' She paused. What she was about to say sounded so sentimental, but then she said it anyway. 'I'd prefer to see Stanza and Stanza succeed. I haven't been here long, but I see why you love it. I think if you gave me a chance I could come to love it too. So, what we have to do,' she went on quickly, before Charles could possibly comment, 'is to make the business work, make it make money, then Annabelle won't put you under pressure to sell.’

  Charles sighed. 'We could never make as much money as the property would raise.'

  ‘I know, but if it was more profitable, very profitable, possibly, she'd feel happier about it. And as I said before, she doesn't have to work in it if she doesn't want to. You've got me now.’

  He frowned. 'You're just here for the summer. The moment the lanes get muddy and it gets a bit chilly you'll be back off to London before you can say Jack—'

  ‘I never, ever say Jack Robinson,' Flora interrupted. 'It's an absolute rule of mine. Come to think of it, I've never heard anyone else say it, either.’

  He pursed his lips, possibly suppressing a smile -but, thought Flora, more likely suppressing irritation.

  ‘Tell you what,' she said, 'as your far-off cousin and your partner in this firm, I will undertake to get this business on a better footing. Of course I can't promise to put it into profit, but before the lanes get muddy and I'm even tempted by the thought of bright lights and sushi bars, we'll be doing better. I give you my word.'

  ‘That's very kind of you, Flora,' he said quietly, 'but how on earth are you going to do that when you hardly know more about it than you can have picked up on the Antiques Roadshow?'

  ‘I know a lot more about it now,' she said confidently.

  Inc

  ‘I've been at my first sale, don't forget.' She became thoughtful. 'The Antiques Roadshow,' she murmured. 'Hmm.’

  *

  The house where they were to do their valuation was on what had once been a council estate. It was a very tidy, well-ordered estate where many of the houses were now privately owned, but as it wasn't a gated community, full of large, detached properties with professionally mown lawns and indoor swimming pools, Flora thought she knew why Annabelle hadn't wanted to come.

  ‘It's unlikely that there'll be anything of huge value here,' Charles said, 'but it's important to remember that these are the effects of a much-loved relative. You must be tactful. In fact, it would be better if you didn't say much at all.’

  As Charles had no reason to think she'd be anything other than the soul of tact, Flora realised he'd probably suffered from being with a less-than-sensitive Annabelle. 'Of course,' she said. 'And there might very well be a Steiff teddy about to be thrown out.’

  Charles frowned at her. 'Very unlikely.’

  The door was opened by a well-dressed woman in her fifties. 'Oh, hello. Was it difficult to find?'

  ‘No, not at all,' said Charles, smiling at the woman with a mixture of kindness and charm which Flora couldn't have imagined directed at her. He didn't have to be so stuffy, Flora noticed. He could unbend if he wanted to.

  ‘It's my uncle's house,' the woman went on, still holding the door open, but not letting them in. 'It's in a bit of a state, I'm afraid. He didn't like to throw anything away.'

  ‘Don't worry about that, Mrs Jenkins. I'm Charles Stanza and this is my colleague Flora - Stanza.’

  ‘Oh, are you married?' asked Mrs Jenkins.

  ‘Heaven forbid!' said Flora, laughing. 'We're distant cousins. Very distant. I'm just helping Charles out today.'

  ‘Oh, sorry,' said Mrs Jenkins, slightly embarrassed to have jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  Charles and Flora hovered on the doorstep, waiting to be allowed across the threshold.

  ‘I was expecting a Spanish or Italian gentleman,' said Mrs Jenkins, not asking them in, possibly for a reason.

  ‘It's an Italian name but our branch of the family has lived in England for generations.’

  By now Mrs Jenkins had stepped back sufficiently for them to get into the little hallway. Charles and Flora did so, then waited patiently.

  ‘It's the most awful mess, I'm afraid. I've done what I can, but . . .' She put out a hand and opened the door to the living room, deliberately not looking inside. 'I suppose you'd better know the worst.’

  The smell was appalling and at first Flora couldn't tell where it was coming from, it was so dark. Thick curtains covered the windows and there was so much furniture piled up in front of them what little light penetrated the curtains was blocked off. Then she saw the mountain of take-away food cartons littering the floor and a row of half-empty milk bottles.

  ‘We had to stay in a bed and breakfast last night,' said Mrs Jenkins, obviously greatly distressed. 'I was going to try and make a start on it this morning but my husband told me it was better not to, not without proper equipment.'

  ‘Quite right,' said Charles. 'This is a job for professionals.'

  ‘My uncle got a bit eccentric towards the end. He was always a hoarder, and towards the end he wouldn't even throw away rubbish.'

  ‘I can recommend a very good firm who'll deal with all this for you, Mrs Jenkins.' He smiled again. 'But don't worry, I've seen much worse than this.'

  ‘So have I,' said Flora, 'when I lived in student accommodation.' It wasn't true, and she suspected that Charles was lying, too, but it was in a good cause.

  ‘Some rubber gloves might be a good idea,' said Charles.

  ‘I'll pop out and get some,' offered Flora. 'I spotted a shop on the corner. Is there anything you need, Mrs Jenkins? Air freshener? Milk? Chocolate biscuits?’

  Mrs Jenkins laughed. 'Some chocolate digestives might make it seem less awful. I'll fetch my purse—'

  ‘I'll pay for them,' said Flora. 'It's all part of the service. And don't worry about all this, we're here now.' Flora gave Mrs Jenkins an encouraging smile and went.

  Aware that Charles couldn't do
much without her, she was as quick as possible. When she got back, Charles, Mrs Jenkins and a man who was presumably Mr Jenkins were in the kitchen. It was a little less like the town dump than the first room they had seen and Mrs Jenkins had made a pot of tea.

  ‘He never ate in here,' she explained, 'and the hot water's going, so I could wash a few cups and things. But it's so dreadfully sordid. It's like one of those television programmes I can't bear to watch.'

  ‘You would come down here,' said Mr Jenkins. 'I said you'd be better just getting someone in to clear the house.'

  ‘But there might be valuable antiques in among this filth!' This was obviously a well-worn argument. 'We can't afford just to pay someone to take it all away.'

  ‘I'm sure there'll be enough in this room alone to pay for that,' said Charles.

  ‘Really?' A spark of hope brightened Mrs Jenkins's anxious expression.

  ‘I can see there is without even moving,' Charles re- assured her. 'All that enamelware, it's very collectable.’

  ‘I would so hate to have wasted your time.’

  ‘You won't be doing that, I assure you,' said Charles.

  ‘Got your notebook, Flora?'

  ‘Let the poor girl have her tea first.' Mrs Jenkins smiled at Flora and offered her a biscuit, obviously relaxing a little.

  ‘The village is very pretty,' said Flora, blowing crumbs.

  ‘It is,' agreed Mrs Jenkins. 'It would be nice to have a little walk, but I don't suppose there'll be time.'

  ‘There's no reason at all why you can't just leave us to it,' said Charles. 'At least to begin with. Why don't you two go and have a stroll and enjoy summer while we've got it.'

  ‘Good idea,' said Mr Jenkins. 'This place gives me the creeps.’

  When their clients were safely out of the way, Flora looked at Charles.

  ‘I'm sorry,' he said. 'I had no idea it would be as bad as this . . . but on the other hand,' he went on after a pause, 'it's as well to know how bad the job can be.'

  ‘Yes,' agreed Flora, aware that her reaction was a sort of test. One little wrinkle of her nose and she'd be castigated for being squeamish.