by McNeir, Leo
*
On the following day after work, Marnie drove to Little Venice with Sally Ann’s curtains, freshly washed and ironed, on the back seat of the car. She had planned to spend the evening on the boat tidying up and getting her ready for the summer. The time was right for spring cleaning and Marnie wanted to think things over. Pottering about on Sally Ann was the ideal solution, or at least it seemed so before Beth rang and said she would be going to the boat that same evening. Marnie had tried to dissuade her from coming, but Beth made excuses along the lines of needing to do things and, as it was her boat, she could hardly be forbidden to visit it. They both knew the real reason for Beth’s visit.
“I thought you’d have been here sooner,” said Beth. “It’s gone half-past-six.”
“It’s the best time. The parking meters have stopped and it’s easier to park.” She dumped the curtains on the bed.
“When I got here and saw the curtains had gone I thought we’d had burglars. I know how much you must have paid for that material. At least no-one would ever have thought of stealing the ones we had before.”
“Not unless there was a national shortage of dish cloths,” said Marnie, “and the underworld was desperate to clean up. Sorry, no joke intended.”
“None noticed.”
“So, what brings you here?” said Marnie.
“It’s my boat.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. You said you had things to do.”
“Oh, this and that. You know what it’s like on a boat. There are always loads of jobs to be done.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll … put the kettle on for coffee.”
“It’s a start,” said Marnie. “Do you want to help me put up the curtains? Or did you want to get on with fitting new pistons in the engine?”
“I thought diesels didn’t have pistons.”
“That’s carburettors.”
“Oh, I knew something didn’t have pistons.”
“Make the coffee, Beth.” Marnie unscrewed the ends of the brass rods and began attaching the curtains. They looked as good as new. Beth poured coffee and sat down.
“Marnie, I was wondering.”
“Y-e-e-s?” The tone in Marnie’s voice betrayed suspicion. Beth looked hurt.
“I only wanted to, to ask you, you know, about your plans, if you’d got any further, or if you’d …”
“Come to my senses?”
“Yes … no!”
“Why are you so concerned about my plans?” Marnie went on putting up the curtains.
Beth sat at the table, coffee cup held in both hands. “I feel worried about you. Ever since you and Simon split up, I’ve been concerned. It’s nothing new.”
“That was a few years ago. I’ve survived. Life goes on. Can you pass me that curtain?”
“I know it does, but I’m still worried about you.”
“What is there to worry about?” Another window was finished. “Not bad.” She turned to gather up another pair of curtains and saw that Beth was looking thoughtful. Her silence was not the product of rapt admiration for Marnie’s handiwork. There was something else on her mind.
“Marnie.”
“This will be bad. You only ever use my name like that when you’re going to criticise me.”
“I’m serious.”
“It gets worse!” Beth was still brooding. “Okay,” said Marnie. “Come on. Let’s have it. What’s the matter? If you go on biting your lip like that, you might bleed on my curtains. Then I’ll turn nasty.” Beth smiled a brief smile and drew breath.
“Well, after your separation I worried about you taking on the flat. It seemed such a big responsibility and so expensive.”
“It was a bargain.”
“Only because you worked solidly at renovating it.”
“It helped take my mind off things and gave me something to do. I enjoyed it. As an investment it’s been good.”
“But at the time I thought, we thought, you were killing yourself with overwork.”
“I didn’t work on it the whole time. I took a break between rooms and relaxed while I planned the next one.”
“That was the next worry.”
“You thought, you both thought, I was getting too idle?”
“No. We both thought you were drinking too much.” Marnie’s jaw dropped. “We did, really.”
“Anything else?”
“When you were restless, I think you called it, at work, we thought you were unable to cope with executive stress. I thought you might be going to have a nervous breakdown.” If Marnie’s jaw had been capable of dropping further, it would have been in free-fall until it hit the ground.
“So what with the stress and the drink, allied to the manic overwork on the flat, you became more relaxed about things when I borrowed the boat for my sabbatical and went on a pleasant trip. Right?”
“Not quite. Remember we were in Boston and all we ever heard from you was about the boat. I worried that you were becoming obsessive about Sally Ann.”
“You think being obsessive might be a family trait?”
“I was glad, we both were, when you came back and got on with your job. You looked so much better, you were more confident. We came back to find you were in the newspapers, on the radio, on the television news, because of the drawings you inherited. You’re practically an institution.”
“Good.”
“But now you seem unsettled again.”
“I am,” said Marnie. Beth groaned. “But, against my better judgment, I think I’ll have to tell you what’s on my mind.”
Beth looked suspicious. “You started to tell us something when we saw you at the flat, but then you clammed up.”
“Well I’ll tell you now,” said Marnie. “The only thing is, you have to promise not to interrupt or gesticulate or huff and puff. Otherwise you’ll have to go home.”
“By that you mean I’ll have to get off my own boat and go back to my house.”
“Exactly.”
“Go on, then.”
“I take that as your promise,” said Marnie. As concisely as she could, she explained to Beth about finding Glebe Farm and her plan to renovate it to create offices, a home for herself and some cottages to sell or let. By now the idea was starting to seem less improbable and she felt more confident about explaining it. During the narrative Beth sat impassively at the table. “Well, that’s about it. Of course, it is just an idea and a lot will depend on whether the place is still for sale, how much it costs and whether I can sell my flat.”
“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing,” said Beth thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Marnie.
“You’d be going provincial,” said Beth. “It’s far enough.”
*
Late that evening, Marnie sat in her living room with a notepad and pencil before going to bed.
Only one table lamp lit the room. Dolly had curled up at the other end of the sofa. Marnie had restored everything with loving care when she bought the flat. It had been offered at a very favourable price as the ceiling had come down in the hall thanks to a burst water tank in the flat above. The owner needed to sell in a hurry. Marnie had arrived with money in the bank, the promise of a mortgage and the ability to see that the damage was only superficial. Where others hesitated, she acted. When others tried to gazump her, it was too late. Now the housing market had changed and property values were falling. This could be an advantage when bidding for the derelict farm buildings, though she had an idea that farmers were shrewd negotiators. On the other hand, selling the flat was not going to be easy. The whole thing was a lottery.
Marnie tried to imagine herself in a rural setting with roses outside the window, hollyhocks across the courtyard and a view over fields to the horizon. She wrote “Removal” on her pad and added “Storage of furniture” as an afterthought.
*
“Marnie, hallo! Welcome aboard!” It was after work on Thursday that Marnie found herself
back in Little Venice, stepping onto Roger Broadbent’s 60-foot narrowboat Rumpole. Roger was the solicitor who had dealt with the will of Old Peter and had informed Marnie of the bequest of the collection of drawings of William Jessop. A keen boat-owner himself, Roger spent many evenings on Rumpole, moored the other side of the pool from Sally Ann. Marnie had phoned him that morning, while working through her list. They settled themselves in comfortable arm-chairs in the saloon.
“So, what can I get you, tea, coffee, or something warm?” Roger blossomed in the evenings in Little Venice once he had changed out of his conventional office suit and traditional canal hospitality took over.
“I think something warm might be a good idea,” said Marnie. They decided on gin and tonic with lots of ice. “Marjorie not joining us?”
“She’s gone late night shopping in the West End. By the time I see her again I expect I’ll be bankrupt. Unless she’s left the credit cards behind. What can I do for you, Marnie? You said there was something you wanted to talk over.” She outlined the plan and Roger listened carefully, his face resuming some of its professional seriousness.
“So you’ll be leaving us and giving up Sally Ann’s mooring?”
“She’s not my boat, remember. She belongs to my sister.”
“Of course, I was forgetting that.”
“Beth thinks I have a tendency to do the same.”
“And you have no problems with contracts from your present firm, no restrictive clauses, that sort of thing?” Marnie shook her head. Roger sipped his drink. “Don’t think I’m prying, but do you have a sound financial base, loans lined up with the bank, perhaps some invested capital of your own?” Marnie shook her head again.
Roger sipped his drink again before he spoke. “The intention is to sell the flat, try to sell the flat, and use the proceeds to finance the purchase and the move. That’s what I would call …” They both chorused in unison: “a courageous decision.”
“Ah,” said Roger. “You’ve been through this conversation before.”
“What I was wondering,” said Marnie, “is what you think of my plan.”
“Presumably you would wish me to keep within the laws of libel?”
“Preferably.” They both took another sip of gin and tonic.
“Well,” he sighed, “I’ve heard better propositions in my time. It’s a big risk. You’d be putting all you’ve got into a derelict collection of ruins. Nowhere to live. Starting a business in a new part of the country where you have no contacts. Would that seem a fair summary of the proposition?”
“As far as it goes. You’ve missed out the bad news. I haven’t yet got a buyer, or even an estate agent, for my flat.” Roger stood up and fetched the bottles of gin and tonic. Frowning, he topped up their glasses. Marnie did not object.
“Actually,” he began hesitantly, “I wonder if I might be able to help you there.” He looked vacant as if searching his memory. “Yes. Robin.”
“Robin?”
“Our new partner. He’s been with us about six months. Commutes in from Alton every day. He’s getting cheesed off with it. From your part of town he could do it in twenty minutes or so. I’ll mention it to him, if you’re sure about it.”
“Thanks. You never know. Mind you, I’m not sure what the value is at current prices.”
“Trust me,” said Roger, tapping the side of his nose. “I’m a solicitor.” Marnie raised her glass with a dubious expression. “And look on the bright side. You’re not going to have any problems with the bank.”
“You think it’s such a good investment?”
“No! It’s so … courageous, no bank’s going to touch it. One less thing to worry about.” He beamed at her.
“You’re such a comfort, Roger.”
“Seriously though, Marnie, it’s a very interesting part of the country up there.” He pulled a thick book from the shelf and passed it over. She opened it to discover plans of battlefields, photographs of cannon balls, muskets, soldiers in the uniform of Cromwell’s time.
“I didn’t know you followed this sort of thing, Roger. Are you a member of the Sealed Knot or something?”
“No, just a passing interest. But it’s very active where you’ll be going. Some might say the old conflict is still alive.”
“After three hundred years?”
“Old hatreds die hard. No, seriously, there are several battlefields and museums, a number of re-enactments every year.”
“Well, I’ll have enough to occupy me without worrying about the wars of long ago.”
“Of course. Give me your phone number. I’ll check up on Robin and let you know the form.”
“Thanks, Roger. And I’ll find out about the farm.”
“A word to the wise,” said Roger. “If I were you, I’d ring up and ask them about houses or cottages in the general area. Give them a broad price range and mention casually that you wouldn’t be averse to buying something that needed modernisation.”
“Modernisation?” said Marnie. “More likely flattening and starting again!”
“No, that’s scope for creative modernisation in estate agent’s language. What to you and me is a derelict shack in the middle of nowhere, with no electricity, water or drainage under the flight path of an airport is, to an estate agent, a charming cottage ripe for improvement in a rural setting, in need of some attention and with good access to communications. Let them tell you that it might be what you’re looking for.”
*
“Good morning, Blackey and Johnson estate agents.”
“Good morning. Can I speak to someone about houses in the area around Yore and Hanford, please?”
“I’ll put you through to Mr Dyson. Who shall I say is calling?” Marnie had to wait a while to be connected. During this time she was entertained by a slightly upbeat version of Handel’s Water Music. It had been creatively modernised.
“Mrs Walker, good morning. Tony Dyson. Properties around Hanford. Yes. Well, we don’t have a great selection, I’m afraid. It’s a highly popular area and things are usually snapped up very quickly. Let me take down a few details and I’ll send you anything we have in your price range.”
“I’d like something in a quiet location, enough space to work from home.”
“There’s not much at the moment,” said Dyson. “We’ve got one or two cottages.”
“… and I wouldn’t mind modernising it, if necessary.” There was a pause lasting several seconds.
“Well … there is one other property in the area, though it may be too large for you. Bags of scope, but lots of work. Just back on the market. Rather a long shot, but worth thinking about. Do you know the village of Knightly St John?”
*
From that day forward events started to gather momentum. Details arrived in the post, including the rare opportunity to acquire a farm complex in need of refurbishment. Roger phoned to confirm his colleague was interested in seeing the flat. Marnie looked in local estate agents and gained a fair impression of asking prices. And there was still a demand for properties in good condition in that part of London, but she would have to act quickly.
After work on the following Friday, Roger brought his colleague round and, although little was said at the time, Roger rang Marnie later that evening to say that Robin was keen and wanted to bring his wife up to see it over the weekend. Marnie set about tidying the flat with a fervour normally only reserved for Sally Ann. She even groomed Dolly, to their joint surprise. When the doorbell rang on Sunday morning, Marnie had a quick glance round, concluded that the flat had never looked so desirable and, muttering under her breath that she must be mad, no, courageous. She pressed the button to open the front door.
Robin and his wife Gwen walked slowly round, nodding but not commenting as Marnie gave them the grand tour. They asked the usual questions about rates, shops and tube stations and it was just as Marnie was offering them coffee that the phone rang. She took the call in the kitchen.
“Mrs Walker? This is Tony Dyson at Blackey
and Johnson. I don’t know if you’ve had time to look through the details we sent you, but you might like to know we are open from eleven till four-thirty on Sundays and viewings could be arranged.”
“Thank you. Actually I have some people viewing my flat at the moment. Perhaps I might speak to you later on.”
When she returned, the couple stared at her.
“Coffee? I’ve put the kettle on.”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Gwen, glancing significantly in the direction of the kitchen door.
“Just the estate agents. A bit pushy. You know what they’re like. Take your time. No rush.” They took coffee in the living room, talking casually about local amenities and Hampstead Heath. When they left, Marnie had no clear impression of whether they were interested or not.
It was nearly ten o’clock that evening that Roger rang up. “I’ve just had Robin on the phone. They were charmed by your flat and Gwen is desperate to buy it. In fact, they’re worried that you might have someone else interested already.”
“How can I? It isn’t even on the market.”
“They said your estate agent was putting the screws on you to let other people come round and you stalled him while they were there.”
“What? No. It was the agent for the farm. I haven’t got an agent.”
“Well, the long and short of it is that Robin will ring you tomorrow evening with an offer. He has to talk with the other partners about detailed matters, but I think you’ll find it very fair.”
“I have a better idea of property values now,” said Marnie. Roger hesitated for a moment and mentioned a figure. It was some thousands more than Marnie hoped to receive. “Mm,” she said.
“Just Mm?”
“I was wondering who gave them that figure.”
“It’s worth it, Marnie. And they can afford it. Also, there will be conditions attached.”
“Of course, he’s a solicitor.”
“The flat must be taken off the market and a date agreed for completion. The offer will be subject to survey and, of course, subject to contract.” Marnie felt her stomach tighten.
