by Judy Nunn
Having discovered the house locked and deserted, Sam had been prepared to simply drive back to London, but her glimpse through the stable windows changed her mind. The sales brochure had said the place was ‘open for inspection’; well, she’d demand a guided tour, she decided, and she drove to the real estate office in West Street, near the mall. It was one of three listed on the brochure, the others being in Southampton and Portsmouth.
‘Yes, Chisolm House is on our books,’ the middle-aged man behind the reception counter told her. He was tall and gangly, the sleeves and trousers of his suit too short for his lanky limbs. ‘But as it’s a deceased estate,’ he explained, ‘and as the beneficiaries live in London the sale’s being principally handled by Holdsworthy Realty in Mayfair.’
‘But you’re the local agents?’
‘We are indeed.’ Jim Lofthouse was sure he’d seen the young woman before but he couldn’t think where. She certainly wasn’t a local, but her face was familiar. ‘Excuse me, have we …?’
‘Then how come you don’t have the place open for inspection?’ Sam demanded, dodging enquiry, aware that the man had recognised her. She wanted to get straight down to business.
Her tone was brusque, and the secretary tapping away at the computer in the far corner looked up briefly.
Jim decided, with regret, to forgo his questions; the young woman appeared a little annoyed and he wondered why. He smiled to put her at her ease.
‘Chisolm House is not on the market yet,’ he said.
‘Not on the market?’ Sam stared blankly at him, then fumbled in her shoulder bag. ‘So what’s this supposed to mean?’ She slapped the brochure down on the counter.
Jim’s hand automatically went to his breast pocket for his reading glasses, but he stopped as he recognised the photograph of Chisolm House. ‘Dear me, how strange,’ he said, ‘the brochures haven’t been distributed yet. Where did you get hold of that?’
‘It was sent to me.’
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t know.’ The man’s obvious bewilderment only exacerbated Sam’s irritation. ‘By one of your colleagues, I presume.’ She stabbed a finger at the list of agents on the brochure. ‘Someone from Southampton or Portsmouth, or maybe someone from Holdsworthys in London. Surely there must be some form of communication between the lot of you.’
Jim Lofthouse was an even-tempered man. Ingenuous, mild-mannered and, according to the old Fareham locals, ‘just like his father, unflappable’. The girl’s obvious slur upon his competence and that of his colleagues intrigued rather than annoyed him. Her belligerence was so at odds with her appearance, he thought. Lovely looking thing, where on earth had he seen her before?
‘No, we’re not in communication. Not yet.’ He ran his fingers through his thick mop of greying hair as he studied her thoughtfully. ‘Not until next week when the place goes on the market.’
The man was an imbecile, Sam thought, her irritation turning to anger. His imperturbability was driving her insane, and she wished he’d stop staring at her so blatantly. He was obviously trying to place where he’d seen her before, but it was bloody rude. ‘Then why send out the brochures?’
‘We didn’t.’
‘Well, somebody did!’ She’d hit him in a minute. ‘Maybe one of your colleagues is trying to get a step ahead of you.’
He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be to their advantage, the place isn’t ready for inspection yet.’ Jim suddenly twigged. ‘Of course, that’s it,’ he said and the snap of his long, bony fingers was startling. ‘“Families and Friends”, that’s where I know you from!’
Sam had presumed he’d recognised her from one of the many British television dramas and series she’d appeared in over the past few years. ‘Families and Friends’ came as a surprise and she found herself momentarily halted. ‘That was nine years ago,’ she said.
‘Oh they’ve been showing reruns for a long time.’ He smiled, happily relieved that he’d placed the face. ‘“Families and Friends, the Early Years”, it’s on at five o’clock in the morning. Mind you, they’re up to the middle years now. You’ve just come on air. Little Margie Nielson, and you’re wearing pigtails.’
‘You watch the show at five o’clock in the morning?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘Oh I’m up at that time anyway. I’m from a farming family,’ he explained, ‘always been an early riser.’ She didn’t seem cross any more. That’s good, he thought. It’d be nice to have a chat, interesting to meet a genuine television star. ‘It’s more of a comfort really, it reminds me of when the kids were little, it was always their favourite show. They’ve grown up and left home now, and I miss them.’
‘Look, why don’t we start again.’ Sam smiled. Her intense irritation had passed and she realised she’d been rude. She offered her hand. ‘I’m Samantha Lindsay.’
‘Jim Lofthouse,’ he said as they shook. ‘I saw you in a panto too, at Ferneham Hall. Took the kids to it. Cinderella, you were very good …’
‘Thank you,’ she interrupted before he could go any further. ‘Now, Jim, I’d like to take a look at Chisolm House.’
‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ he said doubtfully. ‘The cleaners and the gardener are going in on Friday. Couldn’t you come back next week?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ Sam decided that, at the risk of being rude once again, she must be firm. ‘I’m doing a show in London and this is the only time I can get down to Fareham.’
‘What show would that be?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘A Doll’s House at the Haymarket. Could we go over there now? I really don’t have much time.’
‘Right you are then.’ He instructed the receptionist to look after the office, took his time finding the keys and, as they drove off in his car at a snail’s pace, he started again. ‘I don’t go to the theatre much, just the pantos …’
He seemed understanding, however, when she told him she’d like to have a look around on her own. ‘It’s a bit of a trip down memory lane,’ she said apologetically as he unlocked the front door; she couldn’t bear the thought of him chatting on whilst she explored the old house. ‘I stayed here when I was doing the panto.’
‘Right you are,’ he said, ‘I’ll wait out here.’ Jim propped himself against one of the stone lions, more than happy to stay outside: he was dying for a cigarette. He didn’t allow himself to smoke in the office, it was his way of cutting down. But, with a surprising display of sensitivity, he gently closed the door behind her, aware that she wanted to explore the house in private.
Sam peered into the kitchen. It was cold and bare, but nonetheless welcoming. She could almost smell the hearty aromas of Mrs M’s cooking. She walked into the front drawing room and, although it too was devoid of furnishings, it no longer seemed deserted as it had when she’d peered through the front bay windows. It echoed a warmth and invitation that seemed intensely personal and she felt as she had that Christmas morning nine years ago. The house wanted her. She felt at home.
Then she heard the piano. A light tinkling at first, she thought she’d imagined it. Then the melody became clear. ‘Auld Lang Syne’. It was coming from upstairs. Impossible. She followed the sound, slowly climbing each step, half expecting to see Betty at the keyboard. But the hand didn’t sound like Betty’s, this was a skilful hand with a gentle touch and the rendition had a melancholic ring to it. She pushed open the door. There was no piano and no Betty, the drawing room was bare, and even as Sam stared at the corner where the piano had once stood, the sound dwindled to the light tinkling she’d first heard, then slowly faded away altogether.
She’d imagined it, of course, she’d known from the moment she’d first heard the sound. Her mind was working overtime in the deserted house which held such memories. The experience was not unpleasant, but it was eerie and a little unsettling.
Jim was sitting, lanky-limbed, all elbows and knees, on the steps of the porch when she reappeared. He was finishing his second cigarette and he took one final hefty drag, unf
olded himself and rose to his feet, grinding the butt out with the heel of his shoe.
‘I’ll show you the stables at the back. Converted to a self-contained flat. Very picturesque,’ he said, quoting the sales pitch, ‘you’ll like the stables.’
‘No need, Jim. I know the stables.’ The house had had enough of an effect on her, she thought, God only knows what the stables would do. She was contemplating the ridiculous, she told herself, but the urge was irresistible.
‘Of course, I forgot. You stayed here.’
‘Deceased estate, you said?’
‘That’s right. Old Miss Chisolm died about a month ago …’
The portrait of the young Phoebe Chisolm, eyes radiating life, flashed briefly through Sam’s mind.
‘… and the house was left to some relative and his wife, a cousin, I think.’ Jim was opening the car door for her. ‘He’s a businessman and he wants a quick sale.’
‘Thanks.’ She slipped into the passenger seat.
‘It’s investment money to him. He hasn’t even bothered to come and look at the place. Just sent down an independent assessor and then left everything up to Holdsworthys. I don’t think he’s even in the country.’
Jim walked around to the driver’s side, and Sam smiled to herself. He really was a terrible salesman. As the car crawled around the block into West Street she plied him with questions. What figure had Holdsworthys put on the property? If the owner wanted a quick sale, would he be interested in an offer right now, before the house was officially on the market?
‘More than likely,’ he said, ‘if the offer was right.’
She didn’t come into the office upon their return, but accepted his business card and shook his hand warmly. ‘Thanks, Jim.’
As she pulled out from the kerb she could see him in the rear vision mirror, standing in the street, lighting a cigarette. She waved to him and he waved back. Then, as she rounded the corner, she picked up her mobile phone. Ridiculous as the idea was, it was also irresistible.
Sam had been amazed to discover that she could afford the house. Just. It would take every penny of the capital she’d accrued, but then that had been her plan, hadn’t it, to buy a property? Of course there would be the exorbitant upkeep and the rates to contend with, but she didn’t want to think about the impracticalities of the purchase. She didn’t want to think about anything but the fact that Chisolm House could be hers.
She knew she should phone Reg, but she didn’t – he’d only try to talk her out of it. She rang her London solicitor instead, giving him Jim Lofthouse’s phone number and issuing instructions for him to contact Holdsworthys immediately and make an offer. She looked at her watch as she hung up. It was midday.
For the rest of the drive back to London, Sam pondered her actions. She had no second thoughts, she would not renege on her offer, but perhaps she should rethink her career decisions. There was a contract from the Royal Shakespeare Company sitting at the agency awaiting her signature – a six-month season at Stratford upon Avon – but she’d been hedging, hanging out for the possibility of the movie deal. It was a long shot, she and Reg both knew it. Why should the Americans take a punt on an obscure stage actress? This was a leading role in a big-budget production, they’d go for an A-list movie star. The only reason she’d scored a screen test was because of Nick.
Nicholas Parslow had been an Academy Award nominee two years previously for his screenplay of Red Centre. At the time the film had been made he’d lobbied heavily for Samantha Lindsay to recreate her stage role, but to no avail. Nick hadn’t won his Oscar, but a nomination was a big career boost, and producers had been quick to vie for his screenplay of Torpedo Junction. Again, he’d lobbied for Sam and this time his vote had resulted in a screen test. It was a sad fact, however, that writers’ recommendations, even writers with a reputation like Nick’s, didn’t ultimately carry much weight with Hollywood producers. There’d been no word from Mammoth Productions and Reg had advised Sam to sign the RSC contract.
‘They won’t wait around forever,’ he’d warned, ‘and a bird in the hand …’ It was his favourite proverb, and one he quoted repeatedly to ambitious young actors.
Reg was right, Sam decided as she hit the outskirts of London. And the sooner she grabbed this particular bird the better. The movie was obviously out the window, and if the RSC deal fell through, then she’d never be able to keep Chisolm House.
The moment she was back in her flat in Kensington, she rang the agency. ‘I’m going to sign the RSC contract, Reg,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop in first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘good decision. But I’m out of the office for a couple of days. Let’s leave it till Friday, shall we?’
‘Sure, if you think that’s all right.’
‘Oh yes,’ he assured her, ‘they’ve waited this long, they can hang on until the end of the week.’
The purchase of Chisolm House went through without a hitch. The vendor was particularly eager for a quick sale, her solicitor told her. And, as her finances were unencumbered and she could pay up front, he was willing to accept her offer.
Sam prepared herself for Reg’s outburst, she knew he wouldn’t approve and that he’d be cross she hadn’t consulted him. She’d tell him on Friday, she decided, when she went into the office to sign the contract.
But Reg got in first. He rang her on Friday morning. Early by stage actors’ standards. ‘Did I get you out of bed?’ he asked.
‘No, I’ve been up for a while.’ She looked at her watch. Nine o’clock. Strange. It was one of Reg’s rules never to ring actors before at least ten in the morning. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Simon Scanlon just called. You got the movie.’ Reg sounded as calm and businesslike as usual but Sam knew him well enough to sense the underlying excitement in his tone. ‘He came to the show last night and decided you’re it, the whole thing’s cut and dried. Even the Yanks bow down to Simon Scanlon.’
Simon Scanlon, although fiercely Australian, had directed a number of American box-office hits. He was selective and his films had achieved success across the board, both artistically and commercially, a fact which the American producers very much respected.
Sam was slow in assimilating the news – perhaps it was too early in the morning – and she felt confused. ‘I didn’t even know Simon Scanlon was in London.’
‘He wasn’t. He rang out of the blue on Tuesday and said he was getting on a plane that night and would I line him up a ticket for Thursday’s performance. I didn’t tell you,’ Reg apologised, ‘because I didn’t want to raise your hopes.’
‘He rang on Tuesday? From Sydney?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What time?’
‘Pardon?’
‘What time did he ring?’
‘Oh.’ Now Reg was confused. He’d expected Sam to be over the moon and here she was grilling him for details. ‘I don’t know. London time, do you mean?’
‘Yes, yes, our time. When did he ring?’
Reg thought for a second. ‘Greta had just brought my lunch in so I suppose it was about …’
‘Midday!’ she said. Reg always had a chicken and salad sandwich from the next door deli at midday. ‘Simon Scanlon rang you at midday!’
‘Yes, that’s right. Why?’
Exactly the time she’d bought the house! Sam’s hoot of laughter was a mixture of amazement and triumph.
‘What’s so funny? I thought you’d be thrilled, breathless with excitement and all that.’
‘I am, I’m ecstatic.’ Chisolm House was her good luck omen, she knew it. ‘I’m over the moon, Reggie, I’m over the moon.’ It was all meant to be, Sam thought. The old house had dictated it so.
‘I see what you mean,’ Reg said as he drove through the broad gates of Chisolm House. ‘It’s lovely. And large,’ he added with a meaningful look.
But Sam wasn’t listening. ‘Oh look,’ she said, ‘they’ve cleared up the front garden.’ The garden was immaculately
tidied of its tangled foliage and litter, and the fountain, no longer choked with leaves, was scrubbed and free of mould.
She was further delighted to discover a plant in a white clay pot beside one of the stone lions, right in the spot where the conifer in the earthenware tub had once stood. How thoughtful of Jim to have gone to all that trouble, she thought. It was hardly customary for a real estate agent to tidy a place up after the sale had gone through.
She suddenly realised what he’d meant when they’d collected the keys from the real estate office only ten minutes earlier. ‘There’s a couple of surprises waiting for you,’ he’d said. She felt riddled with guilt that she’d so blithely dismissed his offer to come with them.
‘No, we’ll be fine thanks, Jim,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll give you a ring if there’re any problems.’
He hadn’t seemed remotely bothered. ‘Right you are,’ he’d said. But Sam chastised herself now as she unlocked the front door. It was typically insensitive of her, she’d go around and see him tomorrow and she’d take him a present, a bottle of Scotch or something.
‘Welcome to Chisolm House,’ she said to Reg as she formally ushered him inside.
He walked on ahead to the drawing room as she checked the light switches in the hall. Jim had assured her that the gas and electricity had been connected and she was thankful to discover he was right.
‘Good heavens above,’ she heard Reg exclaim.
‘Yes, it’s fantastic, isn’t it,’ she said as she joined him. She expected to find him admiring the ornate ceiling and coved cornices – he was an admirer of fine architecture – but his gaze was fixed upon the wall above the mantelpiece.
‘That’s a James Hampton, I’m sure of it.’ Reg was an habitue of art galleries, a connoisseur who prided himself on his ability to recognise the work of lesser known artists. He crossed to the painting and studied the signature in the right-hand corner. ‘Yes, it’s a Hampton all right. There are several of his pieces at the Tate. I love his work.’ He stepped back admiringly. ‘Just look at the light.’
