Coming Home to Cuckoo Cottage

by Heidi Swain

  ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ I swallowed. ‘If it’s no trouble.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I felt rather foolish minding my P’s and Q’s but somehow it seemed as necessary as being on my best behaviour. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that Mr Miller was weighing me up and felt duty-bound to make a good impression.

  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled politely, as he handed me a glass.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ he said, once again taking the seat behind his desk and fixing me with another intense stare, ‘but I can’t help wondering if you already know what it is that I am going to tell you?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ I shrugged, hoping it wasn’t going to be anything bad.

  My only knowledge and experience of solicitors had been greatly embellished by the late-night dramas I occasionally watched on TV, and in the vast majority of those there was rarely good news to share during situations such as the one I now found myself in.

  ‘Gwen hadn’t spoken to you at any point about what would happen after her funeral?’ he probed.

  ‘No,’ I said, feeling further confused. ‘The only time she ever talked to me about her funeral was years ago, and that was to insist that no one should wear black.’

  ‘She hadn’t spoken to you recently about making a will?’

  ‘No,’ I said again. I was beginning to feel increasingly unsettled by his dogged interrogation. ‘I didn’t even know she had one.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ he announced, ‘I must warn you that what I am about to say may come as something of a shock.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I squeaked, trying to gulp away the lump in my throat.

  I really didn’t think my overwrought emotions could cope with another blow. I’d already had far more than my fair share during the last few months.

  ‘I have been instructed by my dear friend Gwen,’ Mr Miller continued, seemingly unaware of my rising panic, ‘to explain to you that she has left you something rather special.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again, but this time in a totally different tone as my shoulders dropped somewhere back to where they should be.

  For a terrible moment, I had thought that he was going to tell me she had passed on some terrifying debt or dreadful secret, but ‘something rather special’ suggested that this wasn’t going to be one of those bad news kind of shocks at all.

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood now that I felt more relieved than neurotic. ‘I hope it isn’t anything too big. I’ll never be able to manhandle her sideboard home on the bus!’

  Mr Miller surveyed me over the top of his glasses again.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologised, clumsily lifting my drink and slopping at least half the contents over my skirt. ‘I sometimes say silly things when I’m nervous.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, laying his glasses on the desk and rubbing his eyes. ‘I do understand, but I’m still surprised Gwen never said anything to you. She was so thrilled when she came up with the idea, and given that she was such a rotten secret keeper, I was sure she’d spill the beans.’

  My nerves sprang back up again as I wondered what on earth it was that she could have planned that would have gotten her so excited. I hoped she hadn’t arranged for me to go and ‘find myself’ in some far-flung corner of the earth because I really wasn’t up for anything like that. That was far more her idea of fun than mine.

  ‘Like I said before,’ I insisted, ‘she never said a word and it’s never crossed my mind that she would want to leave me anything. I can’t imagine for one second that she actually had anything to give.’

  Aware that I was babbling, I snapped my mouth shut, mentally tried to pull myself together and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. My mind flitted back to Gwen’s pretty but cluttered little home and its eclectic contents and I wondered if perhaps it really was the old sideboard that she was so keen for me to have.

  ‘Look, I’m ever so sorry, Mr Miller,’ I said, suddenly mindful of the time as my memory struck upon the distinctive chime of the grandfather clock in the sitting room. ‘But do you think we could carry on talking about this over the telephone, only I have a bus to catch and, to tell you the truth, I can’t afford to waste the ticket. Would it be possible to send whatever it is Gwen wanted me to have through the post?’

  ‘Hardly, Miss Foster,’ smiled Mr Miller, looking mildly amused.

  ‘But please,’ I put in, ‘I really do need to go and could you possibly,’ I added, thinking it would make me feel better and stop me stressing quite so much, ‘call me Lottie, everyone does.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘Lottie, but we really do need to talk this through today.’

  ‘But . . . ’

  ‘I will happily make sure you have the means to get home.’

  ‘Well, I . . . ’

  ‘Miss Foster,’ he said firmly, pulling my attention back to the business in hand as opposed to my waiting bus, ‘it has fallen to me to explain to you that Gwen has left you Cuckoo Cottage.’

  ‘She’s what?’ I gasped, my hand flying up to my chest.

  My lungs felt as though every last drop of air had been squeezed out of them and I struggled to catch my breath.

  ‘She has asked me to arrange for you to inherit the cottage, its entire contents and the barns and land that go with it.’

  That couldn’t possibly be right. My ears must have been making it up. Surely he or I, or both of us, had misunderstood.

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake,’ I began.

  ‘I can assure you there is no mistake.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ I spluttered.

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ he confirmed. ‘Everything is all arranged.’

  ‘But,’ I stammered, my eyes the size of saucers and my cheeks feeling far hotter than they had been in the pub when he first called out my name, ‘but why?’

  ‘Why, what?’

  ‘Why would she want to leave everything to me?’

  Shakily I put the glass of water back down on the desk before I ended up wearing the little that was left. I simply couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, shuffling through the pile of papers in front of him, ‘the gist of it is that she loved you very much, considered you her family, her very own granddaughter and she rather hoped that the gift of Cuckoo Cottage would give you the opportunity to actually make something of your life.’

  I looked at him accusingly.

  ‘Her words, not mine,’ he quickly added, thrusting a sheet of paper under my nose.

  I swiftly scanned the page, the lines of Gwen’s spidery handwriting swimming before my eyes as Mr Miller carried on saying words I neither heard nor absorbed.

  ‘Oh, and the final thing,’ he was adding when I eventually tuned back in. ‘There is just one more stipulation.’

  Clearly I’d missed something, but I was too shocked to ask him to go over it all again.

  ‘Gwen was adamant that you have to live in the cottage for at least a year from the day you move in.’

  ‘A year?’

  ‘And not a day less,’ said Mr Miller firmly. ‘Gwen told me that you would feel overwhelmed by such a dramatic change in your circumstances and would most likely not want to take it up at all.’

  I couldn’t deny that she had perfectly summed up my immediate feelings.

  ‘She was most insistent that you should live in the cottage long enough to get used to the idea. She wanted you to give the place a chance, but if you decide you want to sell up after that . . . ’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, cutting him off and knowing now was the time to dig deep and be brave. ‘I’ve always loved Cuckoo Cottage and if it really is mine I couldn’t bear to part with it, not ever.’

  ‘Well, that is a relief,’ Mr Miller sighed, ‘because to tell you the truth I was actually more concerned that you wouldn’t want to move in at all.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have
worried about that if you could see where I was currently living,’ I shot back, biting my lip as the words tumbled out unchecked.

  Forcefully I pushed the thought of my current living arrangements away and skipped back to the long lazy days of summer holidays spent with Gran, Grandad and Gwen. I remembered picking strawberries and raspberries, watching the swallows dart in and out of the barns, riding Gwen’s old pushbike through the fields and revelling in the fact that it never rained, not once in all the time I stayed there.

  Cuckoo Cottage was simply perfect and now, if what Mr Miller was telling me was true, it was mine. All the time I had been grappling to find myself a future and Gwen had just handed me one on a plate, and yes, just as she had predicted, I was rather terrified by the thought of such upheaval but I wasn’t going to deny myself the opportunity to give it a go. But was there something specific she wanted me to do with the place? I wondered. Had she some other plan, besides me just living there, in mind for my future?

  ‘Obviously,’ Mr Miller continued, ‘there are things we need to go through in order to settle matters, transfer of ownership and so on, but it’s all very straightforward. Both I and Gwen’s accountant Miss Smith, have detailed instructions. Gwen was extremely organised,’ he added with a frown.

  ‘Well, that makes a change,’ I sighed, amazed that Gwen even knew an accountant and a solicitor, let alone employed them to work for her.

  ‘It does rather, doesn’t it?’ he agreed with a smile.

  ‘Do you think she knew what was going to happen?’ I gasped, horrified by the thought. ‘Do you think perhaps she hadn’t been well after all?’

  Surely if she had been worried or unwell she would have told me. I hated the idea that she felt she couldn’t say anything because she knew I was still grieving for Gran. I reached for my handkerchief as I felt yet more tears stinging my eyes. It was a miracle my body could produce any more. I must have been in a permanent state of near dehydration for the last six months.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Miller reassuringly, ‘absolutely not. I’m quite sure she wasn’t ill.’

  I nodded, but couldn’t say anything.

  ‘However, when she came to see me she was very keen to have everything in place,’ he continued. ‘She insisted everything should be properly prepared for this eventuality, whenever it should come. I got the impression that having lost her dear friend Flora, your grandmother, Lottie, she thought it was high time she properly put her own affairs in order.’

  ‘I see,’ I said huskily, trying to stem the flow of tears and save the little that was left of my kohl liner.

  ‘I take it you are happy for me to deal with the legalities of the situation as Gwen wished,’ Mr Miller asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘of course. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘She also left instructions asking Chris and Marie Dempster to look after the cottage until it is officially yours, but I think it would be a good idea for you to at least have a look at the place before you actually move in.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said firmly, putting my handkerchief away again. ‘I don’t need to do that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, feeling surer by the second, ‘my mind’s made up. I know every inch of that cottage by heart. Let’s go through what we can today and when I come back to Wynbridge it will be to collect the keys to Cuckoo Cottage and my future.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Helen, shaking her head in disbelief as I sat on the end of her bed the next day and explained what had happened. ‘You leave the house a pauper and come back a princess.’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said, rolling my eyes and inwardly wincing at her strange analogy.

  I hadn’t known Helen for all that long, having only moved into the house a few months ago, but I knew she sometimes had a very strange way of putting things. I hadn’t particularly wanted to share my news with her at all, but shock could do funny things to a normally private person and it had all tumbled out before I could stop myself.

  ‘But this is the sort of thing you read about in books,’ she said, pointing to the pile of pastel-packaged romance paperbacks stacked next to her bed. ‘A proper rags-to-riches story.’

  I decided not to further feed her fantasy by rushing to the kitchen, grabbing the broom and twirling around like Cinderella.

  ‘No one gets this lucky IRL.’

  ‘IRL?’

  ‘In real life,’ she expanded.

  At that particular moment, still tired out from the funeral, the unbearable sense of loss and all the information I was trying to assimilate, I wasn’t actually feeling all that ‘lucky’.

  ‘Believe me,’ I said harshly, ‘I’d far rather have Gwen in my life than her house.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Helen, her face flushing crimson as she realised her faux pas. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . . ’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I sighed. ‘And I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just going to take me a while to get my head around all of this.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ she sighed, a faraway look in her eye. ‘But just so I can start advertising for a new housemate, when do you think you’ll actually be going?’

  Mr Miller and I had been in almost daily contact since Gwen’s funeral, but our frequent conversations didn’t seem to have any impact on hurrying proceedings along. During the first couple of weeks, as the details of the gargantuan bequest gradually sank in and I began to think seriously about packing up my few belongings and working my notice, I had expected every phone call to be the one telling me it was time to collect the keys, but I soon realised it wasn’t going to happen like that. According to Gwen’s solicitor, even though the legacy was incredibly straightforward, I wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.

  ‘These things always take time,’ he reassured me. ‘It doesn’t mean that anything is wrong, it’s just how the system works.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I see,’ but I didn’t really.

  ‘Look,’ he added, no doubt picking up on my lack of understanding. ‘Why don’t you come back to Wynbridge and have a look around the place? Surely if you could be planning any remedial work that might need doing or considering how you want to redecorate, it might help the time pass more quickly.’

  ‘Redecorate?’ I gasped, not then picking up on his suggestion that the cottage might need more than a quick spring clean. ‘Update! I won’t be changing anything.’

  Clearly, and in spite of what I had worn to Gwen’s funeral, her solicitor had no inkling of my passion for all things authentically vintage, or as plain-speaking Gwen would have put it, ‘old’.

  ‘Sorry, Lottie,’ he said, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I just assumed you would want to change things a bit.’

  ‘I’ve always loved Cuckoo Cottage exactly as it is,’ I said firmly, ‘so thank you for the suggestion, but no, as I explained before, I’d really rather wait, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Every day I was feeling more and more grateful for the wonderful gift Gwen had bestowed upon me, but the last thing I wanted to do was cross the threshold before I’d signed on the dotted line and had the keys in my pocket. I guess a part of me was still holding back just in case something went wrong.

  Even though I knew everything was legal and above board, I was finding it hard to believe that I really could be this ‘lucky’. As Helen had so keenly pointed out, it was exactly the kind of thing that happened in the pages of a book, not in real life.

  ‘As you wish,’ he sighed, ‘and besides, I’m certain things won’t take too much longer.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ I reminded him wryly, ‘you said that last week.’

  It was the beginning of August, just over four months after Gwen’s funeral, and when the sunshine was only occasionally capable of rivalling what we had enjoyed in April, that moving day finally dawned. Heading back to Wynbridge on the bus again, this time I was more suitably attired and wearing footwear that was fit for purpose.

  I had somehow man
aged to cram my eclectic mix of clothes, along with everything else I wanted to keep, into two old suitcases which had belonged to Gran and Grandad, and a gargantuan camouflage rucksack which I had picked up from the army surplus store in town. Admittedly I didn’t have a lot in the way of material possessions but, I reminded myself stoically, this was a fresh start and Cuckoo Cottage was already packed full of wonderful things.

  I hadn’t found it at all difficult parting company with my tiny bedroom, or Helen who had hardly bothered with me once she knew I was moving on, but saying goodbye to my bosses, Eric and John, was harder. I had joined the pair in their bespoke business when I ditched my waitressing job looking for a change of scene where I could indulge my passion for renovating and recycling and they had become my only real tie to the town.

  We had worked together for the best part of four years, remodelling and restyling all manner of campers and caravans, and I had enjoyed every minute. The pair had furnished me with all the skills I needed to complete a total interior renovation and refit and sometimes I even got to help the owners with the decorative finishing touches, which I absolutely loved.

  Had I not been moving, this would certainly have been an aspect of the business I would have wanted to develop and I imagined, had Gwen not given me the opportunity to renovate my life, I would have happily worked alongside my two kind and generous employees forever.

  ‘We really are sorry to see you go,’ said Eric as he and his twin, John, helped me unload my luggage from the back of their van at the bus station.

  ‘Although we’re pleased about the cottage and everything, of course,’ John quickly added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Eric, ‘delighted for you in that sense, but we’re really going to miss your side of the business, Lottie. Your creative input has been second to none and the customers love your clever styling.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find someone else who can match cushions and curtains as well as I can,’ I told them with a dismissive wave of my hand. ‘It’s hardly rocket science after all.’