by McNeir, Leo
“Well, slightly. But you’re seriously interested?” Marnie looked round at the buildings and the land sloping up to the horizon.
“As I said, it’s full of problems. Even if the price could be agreed, it could be destroyed by vandals. Then there’s the question of where do I live in the meantime. And I’d have nowhere safe to put my furniture.”
“At least you’re not put off by the thought of it being cursed.”
“No. No, I’m not.”
“In that case, maybe there’s a way I could help with one of the problems. Of course, I don’t like to push myself on you, but storing furniture is in my line.”
“Your line?”
“Yes. I have a removals firm. You may have seen our vans. Days of Yore.”
“Days of Yore.” Marnie repeated the name to herself and shook her head. “I can’t say I’ve seen them.”
“We’re well-known hereabouts. The Days have lived in these parts for generations. Yore is the next village going North.”
“Right. I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Good. You’d find us quite reasonable. We’re not as expensive as London up here. I’m afraid I haven’t got a card with me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you in the phone book. It’s an easy name to remember.”
“That’s the idea.” He smiled pleasantly and set off, leaving Marnie feeling that she was closer to the prospect of moving, even though she had almost discounted the idea a few minutes before. Almost, but not quite. As she made her way back up the track, an idea was beginning to take shape in her mind. But even that idea gave rise to further problems. She sighed and breathed in deeply. It was time for lunch.
*
“Did you enjoy that?” Marnie looked up from the particulars on Glebe Farm as the young woman cleared her empty soup bowl from the table in the pub garden.
“It was good. My compliments to the chef.” She ordered coffee, a whole new meaning to the concept of the liquid lunch. It occurred to her that if she put everything she had into moving to Glebe Farm, she might well find herself living on bread and water. She put the idea out of her mind and went back to the particulars. Marnie passed quickly over the asking price, winced inwardly, and returned to the narrative.
“… Glebe Farm was built by the Earls of Knightly circa 1640 to service agricultural expansion … at that time it was surrounded by thick forest and water-meadows … it was sold out of the estate shortly before the Second World War to the tenant farmers who had worked it almost since new and are the present owners … stone barns reputedly built by ex-Napoleonic War prisoners of the Earl, who worked on the estate in the early 19th century …” She skipped quickly on, scanning the text for mention of the docking area. There it was. “… some nine years ago the docking area (80 x 6 x 12ft with gate) was completely rebuilt to become a working canal dry dock capable of serving narrow boats up to 72 feet … concrete slip … low block area …” It was unrecognisable as the muddy, overgrown patch of shrubbery and rushes that she had seen.
“Sorry to be so long. I had to make a new pot.” The young woman put the coffee on the table. “At least you know it’s fresh.” Marnie thanked her and went back to her reading.
Towards the back of the folder was a page of photographs. She noticed that the trees were in summer foliage and she compared the photos with the farm as it now stood. Even in the short time since last summer, many changes had occurred: the buildings were much more dilapidated, the site much more overgrown. One or two of the barns still had their roofs in the photos. Now, there were only fire-blackened trusses. She could not see the so-called docking area, but even in high summer, the site looked more orderly than today. No doubt this was why the details were so inaccurate. They were not a deliberate falsification, simply an outdated description of what was there. Dyson had been talking about what he remembered of the place from last year, not what remained.
“Would you like a top-up?” The young woman was hovering over Marnie with the coffee pot. She filled the cup and remained where she stood. “You seem to be studying that brochure very closely. It must be interesting.”
“Glebe Farm. Do you know it? Down by the canal.”
“Of course. The fete was there last year. It was great. We had to wear fancy dress from the time when the canal first started.”
“About two hundred years ago, wasn’t it?”
“1794,” the barmaid intoned importantly. “That was the year Parliament approved it; ‘ course they didn’t get it built it for another few years.”
“You can celebrate that as well,” suggested Marnie.
“It was great fun. I loved the costume. Derek - that’s my boyfriend - said I looked like Bo-peep!”
“Did he go in a sheep-skin jacket?”
The barmaid laughed. “He had a soldier’s uniform. You know, red jacket, white cross belts, cap with a feather. They all used to dress up in those days, I think.”
“This sounds like a nice place to live,” said Marnie. The young woman smiled and sighed.
“Yes, it is really. I shall be sorry to leave. We’re planning to get married next year.”
“And you’re moving away?”
“I expect so. It’s all too expensive round here.” She pointed at the brochure and laughed. “Even the ruins cost a fortune!” As they chatted, the sound of raised voices came from across the road. Two men were emerging from the church doorway, engaged in animated conversation, two old men gesticulating with vehemence and passion.
“I wonder what that’s about,” she said.
“Don’t take any notice. They’re always arguing, those two.” The men turned and walked off in opposite directions.
“I thought village life was meant to be peaceful and tranquil.”
“It will be when the war is over,” said the barmaid with a laugh.
“It’s been over for fifty years.”
“Not the Civil War,” said the young woman.
“That’s been over for three hundred and fifty,” said Marnie.
“Not round here it hasn’t.” She took the bill and Marnie’s payment. “I’ll get your change.”
“That’s all right,” said Marnie. The barmaid thanked her. Marnie shouldered her bag. “I don’t expect your vicar would be very happy to hear them rowing like that in the churchyard.”
“He probably started it,” said the young woman and turned to go back to the bar.
7
The three sisters walked out of the village in their good clothes. That day they would not collect berries or flowers. It was the Sabbath and no work was done. The Fourth Commandment: Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Sarah Anne had little to say, though her sisters spoke of the men and women who had stood up in the middle of the vicar’s sermon and walked out of the church. On the Sabbath day! These were hard times. Nothing seemed to be sacred. Nothing seemed to be certain.
From the rising land they looked back and saw nothing of the village but the church tower standing tall among the trees. Sarah caught sight of movement in the distance. She raised a hand to shield her eyes and see better. Smoke smudged the horizon. Someone was busy on the Sabbath. Sarah knew beyond any doubt that it was no ordinary work. In time of war there were no commandments. The smoke was the sign of fighting. It was the Devil’s work.
*
“From here it seems a million miles away,” said Marnie. Sitting opposite Roger and Marjorie Broadbent in the comfortable saloon of their narrowboat Rumpole, she sipped her tea. It was Sunday afternoon, the day after her visit to Glebe Farm. “The whole idea seems crazy.” A boat slipped quietly past the window. “I suspect that if I hadn’t gone off on Sally Ann last Summer, I would never have dreamt of doing anything so radical.”
“Sally Ann opened up your horizons, you might say?” Marjorie pushed the plate of biscuits closer to Marnie. “Do you regret it now?” Marnie sighed softly. Before she could reply, Roger cut in.
“If you’re having second thoughts about selling
the flat, don’t worry at all. I know Robin and Gwen would understand. It often happens.”
“I’m usually all right at taking decisions,” said Marnie. If there’s something I want to do, I just get on with it. But this is rather more drastic. When I’m here in Little Venice, the plan just seems far-fetched and I wonder how I ever got myself into it.”
“But not when you’re there?” said Marjorie.
“No. There I’m surrounded by the reality of it all, buildings, land, the canal, even some ideas about how to make it work.”
“It’s probably the risk factor,” said Roger. “In your place I’d feel just the same.”
“I don’t think you’d have got into my place.”
“Probably not, but then solicitors aren’t noted for their boldness. You’re a different matter altogether.”
“Well, if you do go, we’ll all miss you in Little Venice,” said Marjorie. “You’ve done wonders with Sally Ann and with the bequest from Old Peter. You’ve become quite a local celebrity.”
“Which is what I really came to discuss.” Marnie fished in her bag and pulled out an envelope. “This came from the Board of Trustees of the museum. It’s the terms of my loan to them of the collection of original drawings.”
“The official opening of the gallery’s coming up soon, isn’t it?” said Roger. “I expect they’ve suddenly realised it’s about to happen and have jumped on their solicitors to tie it all up.”
“The opening’s on Wednesday,” said Marnie. “I think the timing’s just a coincidence. Basically, they accept it as an indefinite loan and I can ask for the collection to be returned at six months’ notice. As far as I’m concerned, it’s permanent, but they have to ask permission if they want to send part of the collection off on tour. The rest is about insurance, copyright, merchandising and so on. It’s more complicated than I imagined and I thought you ought to have a look to see if it’s all right. On a professional basis, of course.”
“Of course, Marnie. In this matter, we’re acting on behalf of Old Peter. It’s a favour from us both to a friend.”
“Well, it’s important to me to know that everything is as it should be.”
“Quite.” He looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “Which makes it rather more straightforward than Glebe Farm, doesn’t it?” They laughed and Marjorie picked up the tea-pot. Lighting the gas under the kettle, she called across from the galley.
“Have you made up your mind, Marnie?”
Marnie hesitated for a moment. “I think I can see a way of making it work.” Her tone was less than definite.
“But?”
“It all depends on the price being right and a number of other things falling into place. It’s all such a long shot.”
“Marnie.” Roger looked up from glancing through the legal document. “Would it be patronising to offer a word of advice?”
“Not at all. That’s why I asked if I could come and see you.”
“Not about this matter, about your negotiating for the farm.”
“Assuming I am negotiating for the farm.”
“Of course. I see your point, but a lot could depend on what happens in the next day or two.” He took off his glasses and started to clean them. “You think the asking price is too high and the agent and the vendor will hold out for an unreasonable figure.”
“The agent seems to be talking about the place as it was last year, not as it stands now.”
“My guess is the agent will ring you tomorrow and ask what you think. The idea is to get you talking so that he can see how keen you are.”
“Should I say I’m interested but not at the price they’re asking?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Roger. “The agent will read that as opening negotiations, with you trying to talk the price down.”
“Sorry, silly of me. I just thought that was the idea.”
“Remember, Marnie, estate agents don’t talk the same language as the rest of us. If you hint you’re interested, you’re at a disadvantage. They want you to be positive.”
“So I tell them I wouldn’t take it at half the price and they offer it to me as a free gift?”
“Almost, but not quite. My advice would be to mention one or two failings and let him try to talk you round. End by saying you’ll think about it in such a way he thinks you just want to get rid of him. After that, he’ll have to try and persuade you to negotiate. I think it’s the only way to get things moving in your direction.”
“Always assuming,” said Marjorie quietly, “that you want to buy the place at all.”
*
Marnie rushed into the office like a typhoon, glancing at her watch at the same time as juggling three files of papers and muttering under her breath. It was mid-morning on Monday and already her meetings were running behind schedule. Lois, the design group’s new secretary, was hovering over Marnie’s desk, reading the diary.
“Oh there you are, Marnie! I thought you must have left for the meeting in Bloomsbury.”
“Problems with Foster Sinclair. Honestly, there are some people who just cannot make up their mind about anything.” Marnie dumped the files on one corner of the desk and reached for another in her pending tray.
“If I’d known you were still in the meeting room I’d have brought you the message,” said Lois. She had a Scottish accent that combined a pleasing tone with an efficient manner.
“Make my day,” said Marnie. “Tell me the Bloomsbury meeting’s cancelled.”
“Afraid not. A Mr Dyson rang. He wants you to phone him this morning. He said you knew what it was about.” Marnie continued checking her papers for the next meeting.
“Lois, can you tell Faye when she gets back that Foster Sinclair want to look at the pale grey scheme again. They now think the black and white with blue is too bold.”
“Didn’t they turn the grey scheme down because it was too restrained?”
Still rummaging, Marnie replied without looking up. “Yes, but one of them went to a meeting in a multinational that was all grey and pastel, so now they’re undecided. Why couldn’t they have gone to Heal’s?” She gathered up her bag and diary and headed for the door. “I’ll be back after lunch, assuming I ever get there.” She called back over her shoulder. “Lois? Can you ring and warn them I might be held up in traffic.” Lois raised a hand in acknowledgement.
“Oh, Marnie,” she called out. “Shall I ring Mr Dyson and say you’ll be in touch this afternoon?” Marnie stopped in the doorway.
“No, it’s all right. He can wait a bit longer.”
It was after two-thirty when Marnie returned. When she reached her desk, Lois appeared with a pile of messages.
“Oh Marnie, Mr Dyson tried again. I said you were out, but he didn’t want to leave a message.” Mention of Dyson brought recollections of decaying barns and rotting rafters. Marnie felt a pang of culture-shock and reached for her Filofax. At that moment Philip appeared, shaking his head.
“You’re not going to believe this, Marnie.” Marnie put on her just-try-me expression. “Foster Sinclair have had second thoughts.”
“You can’t have second thoughts ten times,” she interrupted.
“Okay, they’ve had eleventh thoughts. It’s the same thing.”
“What is it this time, pastels signify repressed aggression? Or do they want wallpaper with pink roses?”
“They’ve been looking at your original scheme.”
“The one they rejected out of hand.”
“The very same. Anyway, they now think it’s rather good.” Marnie rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Can you give them a ring and talk about it? I know you’ll be glad to get this one wrapped up.” He set off back to his office and Marnie reached for the phone.
“Shall I get you their number?” said Lois.
“I know it by heart.” Marnie began pressing buttons and Lois withdrew. Suddenly she turned.
“What about Mr Dyson? You’ll not forget?”
“No. I’ll not forget. Hal
lo? This is Marnie Walker. Hugh Sinclair, please.”
A few minutes later, Marnie put her phone down to discover Faye Summers, one of her team, lurking beside her. For a few minutes they discussed a new police headquarters west of London. As the conversation came to an end, Marnie began assembling a clutch of papers.
“Off again?” said Faye.
“I must. It’s Foster Sinclair. They’re dangerously close to a decision. I want to pin them down and I’m out all day Wednesday.” She looked across to Lois’s desk, but her secretary was absent. “Faye, can you tell Lois where I’ve gone. I’ll probably not get back this evening. See you tomorrow.”
Marnie crossed the entrance hall and vanished through the door to the car park. At the reception desk, Julie on the switchboard was handling a call from a Mr Dyson, but did not see her.
*
“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to end where I began.” At the hint that the speech was coming to an end, the audience stirred. To be fair, the speech had not been long, nor had it lacked its witty moments, but half the guests at the official opening of the gallery were keen to view the exhibits. The other half were keen to sample the food on the buffet table and help it on its way with a glass or two of Chardonnay or Claret. The Chairman of Governors of the museum continued. “There would be no Peter William Gibson Collection in this fine new gallery if it had not been for the generosity of our benefactor, Mrs Marnie Walker. It gives me great pleasure to invite her now to perform the official opening.” Applause broke out as the distinguished elderly gentleman stepped down and everyone present hoped that performing an official opening, in whatever form it took, would not be a long-winded affair.
There was a buzz as Marnie came to the rostrum. She was wearing a navy blue velvet jacket and skirt, with a cream silk shirt open at the neck to reveal a simple gold chain. With her dark wavy hair and little make-up, the impression she gave was of youth and energy. Most of those present had expected an older woman. Silence fell as she leaned towards the microphone.
