Rumours

by Freya North

  ‘I think,’ said Stella, ‘you might prefer buying a plot of land and building a dream house to your own specifications.’

  They looked at her as if she was an oracle and then went, declining the opportunity to look around the grounds.

  Lydia was in when the Hakshimis came to visit. Only it wasn’t them, it was a representative who simply nodded at Lydia just as he nodded when anything was pointed out to him. He nodded at the statue of Lord Fortescue, he nodded at Art who kept on wheelbarrowing regardless. It was hard to reconcile what is commonly thought of as a positive gesture when it was accompanied by such an emotionless face. Even Stella’s deluge of detail and delight for the thatched apple store met with no more than a single up-down motion of the man’s head. Lydia phoned her later that day.

  ‘Soul destroying,’ she said, ‘and an utter waste of time.’

  ‘He’s come back with an offer of eleven million,’ said Stella.

  It was Wednesday night. She’d be taking the Tompkins to Longbridge the next afternoon. Jo had come over for the evening, with tortilla chips, all manner of dips and a dense variety of topics to chat about.

  ‘God,’ she said, ‘this time last week I was in Paris.’

  ‘This time last week, I was right here, on this very seat – but without the Doritos and chat.’

  ‘You need to get out more,’ Jo said, with a laugh tempered by a joking-aside look.

  ‘That’s what my mum says,’ said Stella. And then she thought, actually I wasn’t sitting here this time last week – I was at Longbridge, at the meeting. And then she thought, Xander. And as soon as that thought had alighted, it was accompanied by a zip of adrenalin which surged through her body, its force giving her quite a shock.

  ‘The salsa’s not that hot!’ Jo laughed, noting how flushed Stella suddenly looked; her mouth agape, a Dorito resting over her tongue like a sacramental wafer.

  Stella chewed, swallowing with difficulty. Sipped at the wine.

  ‘Stella?’

  She looked at Jo. ‘I wasn’t here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A week ago – it was the night of the meeting at Longbridge.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jo, munching away. ‘So?’ She regarded Stella, now as pale on the spectrum as previously she’d been scarlet. ‘What’s wrong, babes? Suddenly twigged where the secret passage might be? Just remembered pocketing a silver cake fork? The Ghost of Longbridge haunting you?’

  ‘I.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I,’ said Stella, flabbergasted. ‘I’ve met someone.’

  They sat and stared at each other for a moment, trying to make sense of what Stella had just said – words neither of them expected to hear from Stella’s mouth any time soon, let alone just now. But the words were out there now, unequivocally. It was as if they’d suddenly surfaced in Stella’s head, swum straight out of her mouth and were now right there in front of them, brand new, dripping wet and in need of someone to do something to protect them.

  ‘Who?’ said Jo. ‘Who!’

  ‘Xander,’ said Stella, incredulous.

  ‘Who the hell is Xander?’

  ‘The awful one – the argumentative one. The one who sent me flying the very first time I went to Long Dansbury. The one who threatened me and almost knocked me over in the garden – you know, Jo, the running jogging man. The one who hates estate agents. The one who loathes me.’

  ‘The one who saw you drunk as a skunk after that blind date with Global Riley?’

  Jo looked at Stella. Her face was pale. Her neck looked like corned beef.

  ‘You’re not selling him very well, I have to say,’ said Jo, wracking her brains for someone else – anyone – she could pair Stella with.

  ‘I know,’ said Stella, laughing uncontrollably. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘What is there to like?’

  Stella thought about it. ‘Passion,’ she said, ‘and awkwardness.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’ Jo did not like the sound of the man at all. Perhaps Stella should phone Riley. That bloody house – it was taking up too much of her time.

  ‘He’s passionate about Lydia and Longbridge – he grew up there. But there’s a shyness, an awkwardness to him. When I took him home—’

  ‘You took him home?’

  ‘Gave him a lift,’ Stella qualified. ‘And when I squeezed past him and I looked up and he looked down—’

  ‘When did all this squeezing and gazing go on?’ Where had Jo been, she wondered, while Stella was falling for this man?

  ‘When he took me upstairs to his old place.’

  ‘What?’ Jo was now as lost as Stella had been on her first visit to Longbridge. ‘Can you just backtrack, please, and tell me how so many events, which hadn’t even registered before you ate a spicy Dorito, are suddenly so momentous and portentous?’

  Stella shrugged and grinned and her eyes danced and she had guacamole on her chin. ‘I don’t know!’ she laughed. ‘I have no idea!’

  Jo remembered when Stella had first told her about Charlie, how she spoke in all these carefully structured statements; essential facts and information organized into a compelling portrait, analysed her emotions cogently. Stella had delivered all of it in a rousing soliloquy. Tonight, though, it was just a tumble of disjointed anecdotes and a deluge of unstructured feelings. However, as much as it was bizarre, it was also moving and contagious. Soon enough, Jo knew about the photographs of the various marathons and races, about the lack of curtains in the bedroom. She was told about his slate-navy eyes and the scatter of chest hair. And the mud on his strong legs. Jo heard everything they’d ever said to each other as well as the loaded silence in her car. Oh, and he has this really nice friend – Caroline. She’s cool. And all about his eyes (again) and the lingering gaze from the other end of Lydia’s dining-room table. And his passion (again) and how Stella believed that made him a worthy man (conjecture). And he’s single and he doesn’t do dates (fact, apparently).

  ‘Just like you.’

  ‘Just like me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Jo. ‘That you truly feel these things.’

  Stella looked at her and shrugged. ‘I feel something,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘It just feels good to feel strong, positive emotions, rather than suffocatingly negative ones.’

  ‘No news from Charlie, then?’

  Stella shook her head.

  ‘I’ve a new word for him,’ said Jo. ‘Twunt.’

  Stella giggled. Then she groaned. ‘What shall I do?’ she asked Jo. ‘I know Longbridge now – and the cottages. And the meeting’s been and gone. There’s nothing imminent at which our paths might cross again.’

  ‘You could call him?’

  ‘I don’t have his number.’

  ‘You could knock on his door?’

  Stella considered it. And then, with a thud which pulled her down visibly in her seat, she tried to imagine walking up his path, knocking on his door, saying, hullo, Xander, just wondered whether you might like to have a drink with me. And she knew how she’d never have the courage to do any of that. The thought of it alone was terrifying. And then she thought, I’m deluded and stupid.

  ‘It’s just a crush,’ she said quietly, feeling crushed. ‘I imagined the attraction. It’s probably not there. It’s probably not mutual. Why would it be?’

  Jo thought about that. She thought about how, if that were the case, her friend was safe. But then she thought about Xander and suddenly saw Stella through his eyes – all uppity with her clipboard, or wide-eyed over some old building, or mortified after her monologue in the loo. Stroppy back at his stroppiness. Gazing up as he gazed down. He’d’ve seen those amber flecks in her eyes. And he’d’ve seen how she is with Will. How she handles Lydia. How funny and cuddly she is when she’s drunk. How she stands her ground when she’s cross. And how dreamy she can become in a moment. And Jo thought, if I was Xander and I’d seen even this little of Stella and who she is – I’d want her.

  ‘If I was Xander,’ sa
id Jo, ‘I’d have a crush on you.’

  Stella tipped her head to one side. ‘Would you call me? If you were Xander?’

  ‘Would I have your number?’

  Stella shook her head. ‘But you know where I live.’

  ‘But I think you think I’m an arrogant sod.’

  ‘But I took you home.’

  ‘And I was too shy to ask you in, to ask you out.’

  ‘You’re not shy, you’re stroppy.’

  ‘I was shy that night. I stumbled over my feet in the car park and stumbled over my words before I got to your car. I couldn’t think what to say on the journey – it was so short.’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ Stella stopped. ‘You – Jo. What would you like to see me do?’

  ‘Trust your instincts.’ Jo was definite.

  ‘They took a bashing.’

  ‘Don’t tar him – or anyone, for that matter – with Charlie’s brush. Go with your gut feelings.’

  ‘I don’t know what the etiquette is, these days. In your mid-thirties, what are the rules?’

  ‘They’re bollocks, that’s what they are,’ said Jo. ‘You’re a grown-up. You have a history, you’ve loved, lost, before. You’re a mother. You’re single-handed. You’ve weathered a divorce. You’re more experienced – and probably more canny – than you realize.’

  ‘I don’t have his number,’ Stella said. ‘Otherwise I could send a text.’

  ‘You’ll be in his neck of the woods tomorrow,’ said Jo.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see him around.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t appear to be around, you know where he lives – go and see if there’s a light on.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘She’s sat in her car,’ Mrs Biggins told Lydia, bringing in coffee.

  ‘I know,’ said Lydia, not looking up, ‘I can see.’

  She was busy writing cards at the bureau in the library. The two of them looked across to the driveway where they could clearly see Stella, sitting quietly behind the wheel of her car.

  ‘Who’s this lot, then?’ Mrs Biggins asked.

  ‘I don’t ask the names – Miss Hutton tells me, but I don’t commit them to memory. She’s told me not to be put off by the way the people coming today present themselves. Whatever that means.’

  ‘Well, you can be judgemental,’ murmured Mrs Biggins.

  ‘I have every right to be,’ said Lydia, affronted.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Mrs Biggins in a sing-song voice as she left the room and went out to Stella to ask whether she’d like a cuppa brought to her car.

  ‘Dreadful woman,’ Lydia muttered, observing Mrs Biggins over her half-moon glasses. And then an enormous black brute of a car appeared, gliding its way up the drive like a bison on wheels before pulling to a standstill askew.

  ‘Never is that a Bentley!’ Lydia hissed. ‘What a travesty!’

  When she saw the Tompkins emerge, she clapped her hand to her forehead and thought, oh dear God, no. Mrs Tompkins looked as if she was off to audition for Strictly Come Dancing and Mr Tompkins looked like a tall version of that funny little chap in Only Fools and Horses. A beige V-necked top with nothing underneath and a chunky necklace which, caught by the sun, appeared to be winking coarsely over to where Lydia sat unseen. Above the fireplace, her great-great-grandmother looked at her sternly as if to say, it takes all types, Lydia dear. You should know that.

  Lydia watched them stand on the driveway, the woman putting on enormous sunglasses which surely only people undergoing major eye surgery would be unfortunate enough to have to wear. And the man – the man was looking at the house while he was on the phone! How very vulgar! And just look, he’s patting Stella on the shoulder as though she’s a paper boy or a dog! How terribly rude!

  They were craning their necks and Stella was obviously speaking nineteen to the dozen, using sweeping arm gestures for emphasis. Oh, get back in the house, Mrs Biggins, lest any of them should think you somehow have greater significance to me and my house than is rightly yours. But Mrs Biggins led the party into the entrance hallway. Stella was discoursing enthusiastically about fanlights and the woman was saying, yeah? oh yeah? oh yeah? But at least it gave Lydia a moment to soundlessly shoo Mrs Biggins away and to take an imposing position in the staircase hall, under the circular roof lantern above.

  ‘Aha!’ Stella exclaimed with hushed reverence, smiling at Lydia as if stage curtains had suddenly gone back to reveal the pièce de résistance of Longbridge Hall. ‘Lady Lydia!’ She turned to the Tompkins who were gawping at Lydia. ‘This is Lady Lydia Fortescue. Lady Lydia Fortescue – this is Mr and Mrs Tompkins.’

  ‘Pleased, I’m sure!’ Mrs Tompkins said, extending a hand bejewelled on every finger. Lydia declined to take it.

  Mr Tompkins stepped forward. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, clasping her hand in both of his and giving it a good shake. ‘What a bloody gorgeous house you have.’

  Later, Lydia would muse over this – how someone who initially repelled her could win her over so quickly. It wasn’t so much his sentiment as his choice of words which melted her icy preconceptions and broke the password she’d subconsciously set. Never mind the accent. Regardless of the fulmination. His words were simply artless and so sincere. And, thought Lydia, so very true. ‘Thank you,’ she said. And then, to Stella’s surprise, she drew herself tall and spoke with a booming voice. ‘Welcome to Longbridge Hall!’

  Lydia led the way, side by side with Mr Tompkins, while Stella and Mrs Tompkins followed behind. ‘The drawing room,’ she announced. ‘I’ll have you know, this wallpaper is one hundred and twenty years old.’ She looked Mr Tompkins up and down. ‘Would you be so kind as to remove that painting?’ She gestured to a framed, delicate Chinese painting of a heron. He lifted it away from the wall. ‘That has hung there since the War. And just look – not a fade mark to be seen.’ She turned to Mrs Tompkins. ‘They don’t make paper like that any more.’ Lydia sat down on the sofa and her reminiscences poured out. ‘Mother brought back some divine paper from a trip to America,’ she said. ‘It was blue, with a design in silver. Real silver leaf. Only it tarnished on the boat journey over. She still put it up though – in what was the smoking room. I imagine it’s still there, if you peeled back the modern layers.’ She focused on Mrs Tompkins. ‘Just imagine,’ she said, ‘real silver.’

  Mrs Tompkins, who was now sitting opposite, nodded earnestly. ‘We’ve got real suede on some of our walls. Purple, it is.’

  Stella held her breath, willing Lydia not to respond too spikily.

  ‘How very brave of you,’ she said and to Stella’s relief, Mrs Tompkins had graciously taken this as a compliment. They sat for a while – Mr and Mrs Tompkins and Lady Lydia, while Stella remained standing – and Lydia told them of her family’s history with the house. ‘Great-Grandmother loathed it,’ she said. ‘But from what I’ve been told, everyone loathed Great-Grandmother.’

  ‘Battleaxe, was she?’ Mr Tompkins said.

  ‘I’m a battleaxe,’ said Lydia with some pride. ‘By all accounts, she was a merciless guillotine in comparison.’

  ‘Her ghost don’t haunt the corridors?’ Mrs Tompkins said, with a nervous laugh.

  ‘No, dear,’ said Lydia. ‘But Mr Wakeley’s does.’

  Stella couldn’t help herself. ‘Who’s Mr Wakeley?’

  ‘He was butler, after the War. Disappeared into thin air –’ Lydia paused during which time a mischievous sparkle danced across her eyes – ‘or did he?’

  ‘Shall we move on?’ Stella suggested, noting Mrs Tompkins fiddling uneasily with her rings.

  Lydia’s tour of the ground floor met with Mr Tompkins’ throaty approval. Stella watched his wife carefully as she gazed and gawped her way through the rooms. In the library, Lydia looked over to Stella and raised an eyebrow, its meaning perfectly legible. Stella nodded and smiled.

  ‘Mr Tompkins,’ said Lydia, ‘though I’m sure you are an honest man, should you ever have need of somewhere secure for somethi
ng private –’ she let her words hang as she popped open the bookcase column to reveal the secret shelving. To her surprise, Stella noted the pornographic volumes were gone and Lydia, it appeared, steadfastly refused to catch her eye.

  Door after door, Mr Tompkins held open for Lydia and as she took them into and out of rooms, up and down stairs, through bedrooms and over landings and every once in a while lingering at a window to take in the view, her memories and anecdotes tumbled forth like an overstuffed linen cupboard bursting its doors open.

  ‘This is Frank’s boot room!’ she declared in the basement, Stella never having heard of Frank.

  ‘And this is the flower room,’ she said, on the ground floor in what Stella had assumed was the pantry, where the jars of jam lined up lonely on the otherwise empty shelves. ‘Or at least, it was. The vases were kept here and see this long surface? This is where Hilda would dream up her lovely sprays. And see this?’ Lydia pointed to a strange piece of plaited rope attached to the wall, the free end fraying to reveal some type of narrow hosepipe within it. ‘There used to be a mouthpiece attached. Black. It had a very particular smell. You could call the garage from here – have the car sent around.’ Stella looked at Mr Tompkins who was simultaneously grinning yet apparently close to tears.

  Stella looked at Mrs Tompkins – her shoulders had slumped a little when she’d seen the bathrooms and even more when she’d seen the kitchen. However, venturing outside, Mrs Tompkins’ spirits seemed to lift a little while her husband puffed out his chest as if he were already Lord of the Manor.

  ‘I do love a garden,’ Mrs Tompkins said, ‘but I don’t do gardening.’

  Lydia looked at her. Mrs Tompkins waggled her slender fingers and long glossy nails and shrugged. Lydia paused. ‘That will be music to Art’s ears,’ she said quietly, as if a thought had just taken root.

  ‘Who’s this geezer? Standing here like he owns the place!’ Mr Tompkins put his hand on Lord Fortescue’s shoulder and for a moment, Stella thought he might give Lord Freddie such a hearty slap on the back he’d tumble off his pedestal.

  ‘He did own the place,’ Lydia said, not in the least affronted. ‘He was an absolute bounder – but one with vision. It’s thanks to him that Longbridge stands, that I’m here today.’