The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner

by Veronica Henry

  Belinda had her own reasons for wanting to wrestle the listing from Giles’s grasp. And she knew Mortlake Bassett weren’t as upstanding and reliable as their image might indicate. She never expressed her opinion on them to clients, however. Much better to win the business with a confident, well-informed and very personal service.

  She sat down at the kitchen table, which was covered in a blue oilcloth decorated with birds’ eggs. There was an old wooden box in the middle crammed with jam, honey, Marmite and ketchup.

  ‘Have you got a timescale in mind?’ she asked. ‘Have you found somewhere you’d like to buy?’

  Discussing practicalities rather than price first helped people relax. Plus it was useful to know if they needed a quick sale, or if they could hang on for the right buyer.

  Sally brought over two mugs of coffee, and put a jug of milk on the table. Belinda helped herself as Sally answered.

  ‘The place is too big for us. It’s just not practical any more. The garden’s a full-time job for a start . . .’ She waved a hand to indicate the grounds outside.

  Belinda nodded. This was the fourth D. Downsize.

  Sally sighed. ‘It’s difficult when you’ve lived somewhere as wonderful as this. But a property has come up on the Digby Hall estate. It’s not big, of course, but very luxurious. And beautiful grounds, but there’s a gardener.’ She laughed. ‘And a management fee, of course.’

  ‘The Digby Hall estate? It’s a very special development,’ Belinda nodded. Special and massively over-priced. When it was converted to a high-spec retirement village, all the units had sold off-plan in a trice. There were plenty of people around Peasebrook who wanted to carry on living somewhere lovely and not have to think too much about maintenance.

  Sally nodded and voiced almost exactly what she was thinking.

  ‘Designed for old crocks like us who are used to grand living but are slowing down somewhat . . .’

  ‘You don’t look as if you’re slowing down at all.’

  She didn’t. Sally was one of those women who still had boundless energy and a great spirit. Belinda hoped she would have an ounce of her brio at her age.

  ‘Yes, but it’s better to move while you still have a choice about where to go, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’ There was nothing more distressing than an elderly person having to be rushed out of their home in a hurry because they couldn’t cope. She’d seen it too many times and it was horribly sad. One minute a panoramic view, next minute some ghastly warden-controlled bungalow with two square metres of block paving to look out at.

  ‘And my husband . . . well . . .’ A cloud flittered over Sally’s face. ‘He can’t manage stairs terribly well or surfaces that aren’t level, and of course this place is huge so it takes him hours just to get out to the car . . .’ She grabbed a china bowl full of brown sugar lumps. ‘Sugar?’ It was clear she wanted to change the subject.

  ‘Not for me, thank you.’

  ‘It seems serendipitous, because those properties don’t come up very often, but we need to get this on the market as soon as possible. I have expressed an interest, but I want to feel confident we’ll sell this easily so I can make a formal offer.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, Hunter’s Moon will fly, I’m sure of it. It’s just a question of getting the price right.’

  Sally gave a dazzling smile. ‘Yes. But I know as well as the next person it’s only worth what someone will pay for it.’

  ‘Not everyone understands that. I wish they did. But we need a guide price.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. I’m relying on you to tell me.’

  ‘There are no records of the house’s value last time it was sold, which can often be used to estimate.’

  ‘Yes. It would have been years and years ago. And I didn’t actually buy it. It was left to me by my mother-in-law.’

  Belinda raised her eyebrows, intrigued. That must have been Margot Willoughby. ‘Golly.’

  Sally picked up her coffee with a grin. ‘Don’t worry. It didn’t cause a rift, though I suppose it could have.’

  She didn’t elucidate. Belinda wasn’t going to push her. The story would come out eventually. People didn’t say things like that unless they wanted you to know more.

  She opened up her iPad. ‘Anyway, what you paid or didn’t pay doesn’t make any difference. All we’re worried about is what we can get for it now.’

  ‘Quite.’ There was a wheel of home-made shortbread on a plate. Sally used a sharp knife to cut it into segments and offered her one. Endless coffee and biscuits were the bane of Belinda’s life and usually she said no, but homemade shortbread was impossible to resist. She bit into its buttery sugariness and started a Hunter’s Moon folder.

  ‘Let’s get the boring bit over with, then you can show me around.’ She went in with the killer question. She might as well know what she was up against. ‘Have you had any other valuations?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sally, tipping her head to one side in an I’m no fool gesture. ‘You’re the third. Best of three. Isn’t that what they advise?’

  Giles would have overvalued. He was the most bullish agent in the area, and very annoyingly his strategy often worked. He had a nose for buyers who didn’t care how much they paid for the right house. Belinda would be more cautious. She had a figure in her head, but she needed to see everything before she committed.

  She was excited. Having Hunter’s Moon in her window would be the perfect start to spring. And her commission on it would bring her one step closer to realising her ambition. Her own house again, at long last. It had been a long haul, but it was starting to become more than just a dream.

  ‘Well, this is certainly the perfect kitchen,’ she told Sally. ‘A big kitchen is what everyone wants, now dining rooms are a bit out of fashion.’

  ‘Oh, it’s seen some fun,’ Sally’s eyes sparkled. ‘There is a dining room too, of course, but we hardly use it. Shall we start the tour?’

  Belinda finished her coffee and stood up. This was her favourite part of the job and, as she expected, Hunter’s Moon was enchanting. Light and airy but cosy, its rooms were perfectly proportioned. The living and dining rooms were about twenty feet square each, one either side of the hall looking out over the gardens. To the back of the house were a study, a snug, the kitchen and various utility rooms, and on the side was a pretty glass-roofed garden room with a tiled floor, perfect for morning coffee or afternoon tea.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all a bit old-fashioned. No private cinemas or wet rooms,’ Sally apologised.

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter one bit. It’s unspoiled – that’s the important thing.’

  Belinda followed her back into the hall and up the stairs. At the top on the landing was a painting of a woman. She was lying on a sofa, dressed in a dark green dress that shone like the sea, her hair piled on top of her head. She was staring out of the painting with a half-smile on her lips, teasing, provocative, her expression full of promise. And something else. Defiance?

  Belinda gasped in admiration.

  ‘That’s Margot,’ said Sally. ‘She still likes to keep an eye on us all.’

  ‘She was stunning.’

  ‘She was. And quite a character.’ Sally opened the door to the master bedroom and ushered her inside. Belinda could feel Margot’s eyes follow her, as if she was saying What are you doing in my house? and she shivered slightly. It was the first time she had felt uncomfortable.

  The bedroom was large, with a small bathroom adjoining it that was pretty antiquated, so whoever bought the house would doubtless rip it all out and start again – everyone wanted rainforest showers and heated towel rails nowadays – but the point of the room was the view. Belinda imagined waking up in the four-poster bed and looking out of the window to the garden and the hills beyond.

  ‘I’d never want to get up,’ she said. ‘I’d just lie here all day, staring out of the window.’

  Sally laughed. ‘It is heaven,’ she agreed. ‘My favourite thing in the
world is Sundays. I get breakfast in bed, and I lie here planning what to do with the garden. Weed it, mostly.’

  There were three more bedrooms on the first floor, each a good size, then three more in the attic, the last done out like an old-fashioned nursery – Belinda could almost imagine Wendy and Peter and John beckoning Peter Pan in through the window. There was a set of bunk beds and piles of books and puzzles.

  ‘For my grandchildren,’ smiled Sally. ‘Two so far, but they live in Scotland.’

  ‘They must love coming here.’

  ‘They do.’ She touched a ship in a bottle on the shelf, wiping off some dust with the tip of a finger. ‘But there’ll be room for them at Digby Hall. Not as much, but . . .’

  She turned away, and Belinda sensed she was finding this more difficult than she made out.

  ‘Shall we go into the garden?’ she asked rather briskly, and Belinda followed her downstairs.

  3

  Alexander was following his son around Borough Market.

  He felt surprisingly OK. He was a little slow, because his left leg dragged. It was this that had alerted him that something was amiss, which led to the tests, and the diagnosis. He wondered, would always wonder, if it would have been better not to know just yet, to have lived longer in blissful ignorance. After all, there was nothing that could be done. That much was clear.

  But now he knew he couldn’t un-know it. So the important thing was to make the most of the time he had while still reasonably fit. Which meant spending time with his offspring. He loved his son’s energy, and he loved getting an injection of London.

  They often did this. Alexander would jump on the nine o’clock train from Peasebrook – the one after the crowded commuter train – and they’d meet up for lunch. Sometimes they’d go to a gallery first, or Leo would take him to see his latest client or discovery – Leo’s company, Fork PR, was flourishing, with an office near Borough Market, a staff of six and a huge range of clients. Last time they’d spent a blissful few hours with a knifemaker in east London, riveted by the painstaking craft. Alexander had come home with a hand-forged chef’s knife with a walnut handle, and hadn’t told Sally how much it had cost. Not that she would have minded, but you had to be there, to watch the skill and the love that had gone into making it, in order to really appreciate its worth.

  Alexander wondered bitterly how much longer he would be able to use the knife, then reminded himself he was not going to be bitter. He dragged himself back to the moment.

  ‘It’s good to be on the ground, seeing what’s new.’ Leo stopped at a stall and handed his dad a creamy nib of cheese to sample.

  Alexander didn’t want this day to end. He loved his son’s company, his energy, his knowledge, but the time was getting nearer. He was charged with breaking the news to him. He and Sally had agreed to divvy up the unpleasant tasks: she was doing the estate agents; he was going to tell Leo his diagnosis and prognosis.

  Then he and Sally would drive up to Scotland to break the news to Jess together. Jess was younger than her brother – she was only just thirty – but she was settled, with two little ones, running a luxury bed and breakfast in the Scottish Highlands. Above all, they wanted to make it clear that what was to happen over the next few years should have as little impact as possible on their children’s lives.

  Alexander wasn’t so worried about Jess’s reaction or the impact it would have on her. Jess was doughty. She had her mother’s practicality. But Leo was . . . what? Alexander couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Not hopeless or vulnerable or incapable. He’d made a huge success of his business. He had a luxurious flat with a view of Tower Bridge.

  ‘What do you fancy for lunch, Dad? Middle Eastern? Tapas?’

  ‘I’ve had so many samples, I’m not that hungry.’ Alexander smiled. He looked around at the vegetables stalls, spilling over with bright produce, some of which he didn’t recognise and couldn’t name for the life of him. The tantalising bakeries wafted the aroma of freshly baked breads. The rich, truffly scent of cheese filled his nostrils.

  ‘We need a glass of something, at any rate. And you need to sit down.’ Leo looked anxiously at his father. ‘You seem tired.’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine. It’s just this wretched knee.’ Alexander blamed his lack of mobility on a touch of arthritis – a diagnosis that was suitably unalarming and only to be expected in a man of his age. ‘I’m very happy to go wherever you choose.’

  ‘Let’s get a nice plate of Iberico ham and a crisp Manzanilla.’ Leo slung an arm around his father’s shoulder. ‘Just to start with . . .’

  As they wove their way through the throngs, Alexander thought he would never admit either to himself or anyone else that Leo was his favourite, but he was the most like him: passionate, maverick, sensitive. He looked like him too: dark, chocolate-drop eyes and delicate bone structure, with thick glossy hair that always seemed to need cutting. Jess was fair, like Sally, and of a more practical outdoor nature. He felt a bond with Leo that he didn’t feel with Jess, though of course he adored them both. But in different ways.

  With Leo, he felt as if he was passing a bit of himself on, and never had a sense of immortality felt more important.

  And as Leo pushed open the door of a buzzy tapas bar to be greeted warmly by the waitress, he realised what it was as they kissed each other on both cheeks. He would feel so much happier about all of this if he knew Leo was settled with someone. He knew that was probably madly old-fashioned and traditional of him, but what he needed was the reassurance that the line was going to be carried on. Leo was never short of girlfriends – on the contrary – but they never seemed to last terribly long.

  He knew who he got that from.

  Alexander managed a wry smile. It was simply a question of meeting the right girl. He knew that too, better than anyone.

  He switched his attention back as Leo introduced him to the waitress, the owner and the chef. There was much hand shaking and smiling and they were settled at the best table in the house and chilled glasses of sherry appeared as if by magic. Leo had a conversation in broken Spanish with the chef about the best things on the menu.

  ‘You’re OK if I order for us, Dad? I’ve just asked them to bring what’s good.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alexander, and went to pick up his glass.

  His fingers felt useless. They wouldn’t do what he was telling them. He put his hand in his lap and reached out the other one. Happily, that was more obedient. He raised the glass, hoping Leo hadn’t noticed.

  Leo raised his own glass to his father’s with a smile. ‘Cheers, Dad.’ He leaned forward. ‘This is great. I needed a break. Work’s been crazy for the past few weeks. Which is a good thing, obviously. But every now and then it’s good to press the pause button.’

  Bugger it, Alexander thought. I’m not going to tell him. Not yet. Not now. I can keep up the pretence. I love my son and I love all of this. I’m not going to burst the bubble.

  4

  As Sally led her outside, Belinda realised the grounds at Hunter’s Moon were even more perfect than the house.

  The more formal gardens were on the first tier of lawn: a pretty combination of box hedging and rose beds around a pond. A small walled garden to one side held a Beatrix Potter greenhouse, soft fruit cages, cucumber frames and sheds. And behind a manicured box hedge was the nicest surprise of all – a swimming pool, with shallow steps at one end, surrounded by a stone terrace. Belinda could imagine sleepy, sunny summer afternoons, bodies draped on sunbeds, splashing and shrieking . . .

  ‘Of course not everyone wants a pool, and it’s not heated,’ said Sally. ‘It’s ancient. I expect the next people will fill it in.’

  Belinda watched the surface of the water ripple. The bright blue of the tiles made the pool seem azure and inviting. She wondered what it would be like to be brought up somewhere like this. She had been lucky if she was taken to the public swimming baths on her birthday.

  ‘Well, it’s a lovely spot. Whatever they decide
to do.’

  They walked back up to the top lawn and through the formal garden, past the pond. It was still and deep green; flashes of bright orange darted amidst the lily pads as the fish chased each other.

  ‘The lilies will be in bloom in a month or so,’ said Sally. ‘They’re my favourite thing in the garden. As big as soup plates . . .’

  She held her hands up to show how big, then trailed off, perhaps realising that next month would be the last time she would see them.

  Belinda sat on the edge of the pond for a moment to take in the view. She looked at Sally, who was gazing at the horizon. What was she thinking? Or feeling? It must have taken months of discussion and soul-searching to reach the decision to sell a place like this.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sally eventually. ‘There’s masses more.’

  They walked up past the side of the house, where a little path led to a small courtyard, on the far side of which were the garages and a tiny coachman’s cottage.

  ‘We haven’t done anything with this,’ said Sally, ‘but obviously you could. My mother-in-law used to work in the room upstairs. It would be a perfect home office. Careful – the staircase is a bit rickety.’

  Belinda followed her up the stairs. At the top was one large room with wooden floorboards, filled with old furniture and covered in posters. An old-fashioned sound system loomed in one corner with massive speakers. The window looked out over the garden and grounds. Belinda imagined Margot Willoughby sitting here at her typewriter, gazing out over the hills. There was a shelf full of her books on one wall.