A moment later, Claire joins me. She takes one look at me, and puts a finger to her lips. ‘The walls have ears,’ she whispers. ‘Not to mention gaping gobs. But some night after work, maybe we can go to the pub. I’ll fill you in on the gory details.’
‘Okay.’ My anger ebbs. ‘Let’s do it.’
It’s as if we’ve silently made a pact over our cups of lukewarm, bitter coffee. I return to my desk and log onto the computer, pleased that I actually have a few emails (a system-generated welcome message and some spam). I still have no work, but that seems, at most, a technicality. Instead, I google Rosemont Hall. I know it’s not exactly trolling the archives of the British Library, but still, it feels good to be doing some ‘research’.
The first entry I find is on a website about ‘England’s Heritage at Risk’. According to the site, hundreds of country houses fell to ruin after the war and were demolished prior to the 1970s. Of the ones that are left, thousands are at risk of becoming derelict or are already in ruins. One of them is Rosemont Hall. There’s a brief article that I read through carefully.
The house was originally built in 1765, and is considered one of the finest examples of Georgian Palladian-style architecture in the South West. The original owner made his money in the slave trade. He lost the house in a game of whist to a small-time gambler called William Windham. Windham became a Lord, and commissioned his own family crest – a dog and unicorn – symbolising fidelity and virtue.
The house was passed down in the Windham family for generations. In the twentieth century, the most illustrious owner was Sir George Windham, a war hero who made a name for himself as an art dealer and collector. The house fell into disrepair after World War II, and Sir George was forced to sell off his art collection to pay for repairs. The East Wing of the house burned down in the early 1950s and Sir George died soon afterwards. The house was passed to his son, Henry Windham. The family fortunes diminished, the East Wing was never rebuilt, and the house slid into further decline.
The more I read, the more the images of the house and its past begin to take shape in my mind. Slave traders, gamblers, war heroes – straight from the pages of a romantic novel. And the unmentioned women who were no doubt there too – somehow they all found a home at Rosemont Hall. What lives and loves has it witnessed, what secrets have its walls overheard? The final line of the article gives me goosebumps: ‘Now in a perilous state, this important house has an uncertain future.’
I sit back in my chair and consider things with new clarity. Last week, my getting this job was all about earning money to afford my own flat. But now, suddenly, an important and imperilled piece of history is about to be placed in my care. How well I do my job will influence its fate – maybe even its continued existence. If I can convince Mr Bowen-Knowles to put me in charge.
I jot down the key details about the house so that I can trot them out later for Mr Kendall, the solicitor. I lose myself in the work, concentrating so hard that I completely fail to notice the long shadow of Mr Bowen-Knowles frowning over my desk.
‘It’s almost half two,’ he announces. ‘You coming?’
‘What? Now?’ I quickly close my notebook. ‘I mean, yes, I’m ready.’ Everyone in the office watches as I find the address details. Mr Bowen-Knowles checks his watch with an irritated sigh, then heads out the door. I grab my coat and handbag and mouth a quick goodbye to Claire. She wishes me luck, then turns away to chat with the rest of them now that the boss (and/or the new girl) is leaving.
In the car park, Mr Bowen-Knowles points to a gunmetal-grey BMW. I hesitate. ‘Maybe I can follow behind you,’ I suggest. ‘The house is on my way home, actually.’
‘Where’s your car?’ he asks coldly. I point to the slightly battered Vauxhall Corsa that I picked up at Car Giant before I left London.
Mr Bowen-Knowles snorts. ‘I don’t want that thing within two miles of any of our clients, do you understand? Get in.’ He pings open the automatic locks. I get in the passenger side with my head hung low. I picture him making another mental tick against me: wrong accent, wrong car, wrong – everything. But I will persevere.
I sit in silence as my boss punches the address into his satnav. We pull out of the car park with Talk Sport blaring on the radio. I try to think of something intelligent to say about whatever the current caller – ‘Jim from Newcastle’ – is banging on about: a referee’s decision not to give Newcastle a penalty against Arsenal…
Arsenal. Simon’s team. As we drive on in awkward silence, a cloud of sadness engulfs me.
He switches off the radio. ‘Check under the seat, will you?’ he says. ‘I’ve got a printout of local prices in here somewhere.’
‘Okay, sure.’ I dig under the seat and pull out a stack of papers. I flip through them, hoping that in the half-hour or so before we arrive at our destination, he’ll explain to me all the tricks of the trade.
Tricks of the trade.
Silly me.
I discard a few old property brochures and a printed Google map. Underneath the map, in all its glory, is yesterday’s Sun folded open to the page 3 girl. I stare at the assets of Amanda, age 18 from Huddersfield (enjoys diving, candlelit dinners, and netball) who is gracing the page, and see out of the corner of my eye that Mr Bowen-Knowles is looking right at me. He meant for me to find it!
He grins wolfishly and switches the radio back on. ‘Never mind – maybe it’s in the boot. And by the way, when we get to the house, just stand there and look pretty – I’ll do the talking.’
- 6 -
‘You have reached your destination,’ the electronic voice drones. I forget all about my infuriating boss as we turn off the main road and head through a pair of ancient stone pillars each with a weathered urn on top. Twisted wrought-iron gates sag under their own weight, half-hidden by twining blackberry thorns and nettles.
A sense of anticipation expands inside my chest as we make our way up the curving drive, flanked by a thick woodland of beech, silver birch, and the odd giant rhododendron. Flame-coloured leaves swirl in the air and settle onto the road. Eventually, the trees thin out to rolling fields dotted with sheep.
The car tops a little hill and suddenly, it’s there before us – Rosemont Hall. It stands four stories tall, with a main section and two symmetrical wings on either side. The centre section is made of red brick and cream stone, and graced by Palladian-style pilasters. At the pinnacle of the roof, a huge round window stares out at the parkland and the surrounding countryside like an ever-vigilant eye.
And the moment I see it, I experience a powerful sensation almost like déjà vu. My pulse amplifies in my chest.
‘What a dump,’ my boss says. He points to the right side of the house. ‘Looks like it’s about to collapse.’
I bite my tongue and look where he’s pointing. The wing on the right is a total ruin. Huge burned timbers cut across the sky and there are weeds growing along the top of the remnants of the wall. The bricks are smoke-stained around the empty window frames, and streaks of damp darken the wall like tears. It looks so sad, and yet also, hopelessly romantic; standing silent and stalwart against the ravages of time, neglect, and the English climate.
The drive curves around a circular forecourt, and a sweeping set of stone stairs leads up to the front door. We park next to a decrepit stone fountain in which algae-covered nymphs frolic in a trickle of water. I jump out of the car, craning my neck to take in the full height of the house. Above me, the stone lintels and window cornices are cracked and decayed, and mortar is crumbling between the stone quoins and bricks. I snap a few quick photographs on my mobile. Visions creep into my mind about how it must have looked in its heyday: armies of servants in prim black and white lining up to greet the master on his return home from a hunt; ladies sweeping out of a carriage in their dresses of silk, taffeta and velvet purchased on a shopping trip to Mayfair; the gravel drive neatly raked; the hedges trimmed in fantastical shapes in the formal gardens, the fountain clear and bubbling, the imposing front door b
lack and glossy with fresh paint.
A drop of water falls on my nose, and the vision evaporates. Water is trickling down from a carved stone pediment above the door. I can just make out the family crest – a dog and a unicorn – fidelity and virtue. It’s so cracked and weathered that I fear it might topple down on us.
I may be new to the job, but even I can tell that Rosemont Hall is in peril.
The weak yellow sun goes behind a cloud, leaving the face of the house in shadow. Another car – a blue BMW – is coming up the drive. As it parks next to its grey twin, Mr Bowen-Knowles stands at the ready with a small spiral notebook in hand.
‘Must be Mr Kendall,’ I state the obvious.
‘Remember what I said.’ His grin is disturbing like he’s having a flashback to the newspaper under the seat. But I can’t worry about that now. I’m completely focused on the house and the task at hand. The newcomer gets out of the car. He’s mid-fifties, with greying hair and a kindly, almost grandfatherly face. He looks smart in a grey suit, blue tie, and grey woollen overcoat.
‘Mr Kendall, I presume?’ Mr Bowen-Knowles instantly smarms all over him. ‘I’m Alistair Bowen-Knowles – please call me Alistair.’ He holds out his hand sheepishly, like they should be greeting each other with a Bullingdon Club secret handshake instead of meeting like complete strangers. ‘Such an amazing place. Such history! It’ll be such a pleasure to work with you on this err… project.’ He twists his right cufflink.
‘Yes… uhh… Mr Alistair, pleased to meet you. I’m Ian Kendall.’ He looks awkwardly at me as they shake hands.
‘Hello,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘I’m Amy Wood. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ He shakes my hand firmly and gestures towards the house. ‘Shall we go inside?’
We follow him up the steps to the front door. Mr Kendall takes out an ancient bundle of keys that looks like they might unlock the Bastille. It takes several tries before one turns in the corroded lock.
We step inside into a vestibule that opens onto an enormous main hall. I’m vaguely aware of my boss making the appropriate noises of appreciation – whereas I’m genuinely awestruck. The double-height hall is gracefully oval-shaped, with a chequerboard floor of grey and white marble. Faux Ionic columns and empty statuary niches adorn the cool white marble walls. The ceiling is decorative plaster with a painting in the middle depicting various in flagrante Greek gods and goddesses.
At the back of the hall, a staircase sweeps upwards and divides, creating two symmetrical galleries that overlook the main hall. Huge latticed windows trap the sunlight.
But just like on the outside, neglect and decay have taken residence everywhere. Spots of damp mottle the ceiling; wide cracks gape in the walls and floor. The cavernous room is freezing, and silently devoid of life. Its heart has stopped, or at least, needs a major kick-start.
‘The house has been in the Windham family for six generations,’ Mr Kendall explains as we walk through a suite of rooms off the hall. ‘The last of the Windhams – Henry and his wife Arabella – were married for almost forty years. Henry died over a decade ago. Arabella passed on two weeks ago.’
‘That explains it then,’ Mr Bowen-Knowles smirks, gesturing at the mounds of clutter, lattice of cobwebs and threadbare furniture. ‘We see it a lot. A lifetime’s worth of stuff that no one wants and no one knows what to do with.’
‘It’s like a time warp,’ I say, rapt with fascination. The rooms we go through are faded but elegant: the green salon, the library, the yellow dining room. ‘The Windhams must have been very happy here.’
Mr Kendall smiles faintly. ‘Perhaps. Though, they never did have any children. The heirs – Mr Jack and Ms Flora – are distant relatives. They’re American.’
‘It must have been amazing for them to inherit a spectacular English country house,’ I say.
Mr Kendall shakes his head. ‘Neither of them has ever visited the house. And they aren’t planning to. They’re very keen to sell as quickly as possible.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ my boss chimes in.
I shake my head, astounded. Why wouldn’t the heirs even want to see the house that they’d inherited? To be handed Rosemont Hall on a silver platter would be a dream come true for someone like me – and a lot of other people, I’m sure.
We continue on our tour. The flotsam and jetsam of decades of married life is visible everywhere: dusty books and old magazines, vases filled with dead flowers, worn sofas, and time-darkened photographs. I feel a pang of nostalgia for the life I thought I had with Simon, and sad that I no longer have anyone to amass this kind of history with. But more than that, I’m angry – on behalf of the deceased owners whose heirs won’t even come and see the house where they lived.
There are also a few gems scattered among the clutter: some lovely antique tables; a collection of Sevres china and glassware in an ornate floor-to-ceiling cabinet; gilded mirrors in all shapes and sizes. But something seems to be missing and I can’t put my finger on it.
‘Do the heirs want anything,’ my boss asks, or ‘would you like us to just get a removal van to clean out all this junk.’
The word echoes around the room. Mr Kendall raises his eyebrows.
‘The Windham’s belongings will need to stay here for now,’ he says. ‘There’s an elderly housekeeper – Mrs Maryanne Bradford – who was devoted to the house and nursed Mrs Windham through her last illness. In the last year before Mrs Windham died, she was staying in one of the rooms on the third floor. Some of the things here may be hers.’
‘Fine,’ Mr Bowen-Knowles says. ‘A developer won’t care if there’s a little clutter.’
‘What’s going to happen to her?’ I say.
Both men look at me.
‘Mrs Bradford. Where will she go when the house is sold?’
‘She’ll need to move out, of course,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘There’s no reason for her to stay.’
‘Oh. What a shame.’ I feel pang of sadness for the old woman. I read somewhere that having to move house is a major cause of stress and premature death in the elderly.
‘Her sister has a cottage in the village,’ Mr Kendall assures me. ‘She won’t have any trouble relocating.’
My boss’s forehead cracks into a frown. He moves in front of me like a rook threatening a pawn. ‘Let’s see the rest of the house, shall we?’
Mr Kendall leads the way up the grand staircase. I feel like Scarlett O’Hara as I trail my hand over the cool marble banister. At the top landing where the staircase divides, I stop. In the centre of the wall is an exquisite, life-sized oil painting of a young woman of about seventeen or eighteen. The background is a blend of murky blacks and greys, and her form emerges like an apparition. Her dark blonde hair is elaborately swept up and tied with ribbons, a few curls cascading around her neck. The bodice of her dress is pale-pink silk with a hint of lace at the neckline. The fabric sweeps out from her waist in shadowy folds, catching the light, and fading back into the blackness. But the most striking thing is the woman herself. Her eyes are bold and arresting, painted the delicate blue colour of forget-me-nots. Her features are soft, with high cheekbones and a delicately shaped nose. Her bow-shaped mouth is drawn up in a half-smile, like she has a secret.
‘What a lovely woman,’ I say, as Mr Kendall pauses next to me. ‘Who is she, do you know?’
‘No.’ Mr Kendall pauses briefly. ‘Though I’ve often wondered.’
I stare closer at the painting. It’s set in a heavily gilded frame that protrudes from the wall a good six inches. There’s a brass plaque at the bottom with the date etched in black: 1899. But there’s no name, and doesn’t appear to be a signature by the artist.
Mr Bowen-Knowles taps his foot impatiently and I have to move on. I follow Mr Kendall through a series of interconnecting rooms – bedrooms, bathrooms, dressing rooms, sitting rooms – on the first and second floors. The rooms all smell of damp, there are bits of flaked-off paint and plaster on the floor,
and some of the windows are literally rotting out of their frames. The walls are covered with mildew-spotted wallpaper in garish colours and patterns – and then I realise the thing that’s missing throughout the house. Other than the portrait of the young woman in the pink dress, there is practically no artwork anywhere. There are no smoke-darkened portraits of fated ancestors, views of Venice or caricatures of favourite horses or hunting dogs. The only pictures are a few twee landscape prints in a style fit to grace the front window of a charity shop.
The next floor up consists of a long corridor of small rooms – the servants’ quarters. The corridor ends abruptly at a white wooden door. I walk towards it, sniffing the air. Instead of the musty damp of the rest of the house, I smell baking.
‘That’s Mrs Bradford’s room,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘There’s a little kitchenette in there.’
I move closer. Cinnamon, ginger… she must be making biscuits, or maybe scones. My stomach gives an almighty rumble. It seems so sad that an old lady who was a loyal employee and who bakes nice things will have to be turfed out. And if we get the instruction to sell the house, then part of my job will be to make sure it happens.
‘Whatever she’s baking smells delicious.’ I say.
Mr Kendall stops me going any nearer to the door with a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s not disturb her,’ he says.
‘Oh, of course not.’
We climb yet another staircase that leads to the top of the house, and a huge attic with an oak-beamed ceiling. The space is partially filled with boxes and old furniture, but just below the huge round window, there’s an area that was obviously once used as an artist’s studio. Two easels are set up near a rack of canvases covered with cobwebs. There’s a wooden box of well-used paint tubes, a dried palate of oils, and a wine glass with a dusty residue in the bottom. I can almost smell the ghostly vapours of turpentine; feel the presence of an unknown artist who might return at any second to resume his work.
Finding Home Page 5
