Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

‘Oh, I will, don’t worry, I’ll do that now. Listen Rosie, I’ve um, I’ve been talking to Michael about you having the cottage.’ She sounded embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, right. Is he not keen?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not that, it’s just rather than us lend it to you and then come down at weekends, we wondered – well he wondered actually – if you’d be able to take over the whole thing. Then we’d give it up, as it were. It’s just that, to be honest, it’s always been a bit of an extravagance and we hardly ever use it these days and Michael says we can’t really afford to let you, sort of, have it for free …’ she trailed off sheepishly.

  ‘No, no, that’s fine,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll take over the rent and there’s no reason why you can’t still come down at weekends if you want to. I wasn’t expecting to have it for nothing. How much is it?’

  She mentioned a sum so exorbitant it made my eyes water and my knees buckle, but I needed this house badly. I’d find the rent somehow. If I was making a break for it I wanted to get right out of London and a cottage near Philly was perfect.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said faintly.

  ‘Oh, great,’ she sounded relieved. ‘Only you know what Michael’s like, I can’t really argue with him over something like this.’

  This was true. For all Alice’s breast-beating about feminist enlightenment, at the end of the day it was the man in the natty pinstriped suit with the chiselled chin and the fine line in charm who wore the trousers in that house.

  ‘But I thought he still worked quite a lot in Cheltenham? Won’t he need the cottage during the week?’

  ‘He still goes down there about once a week but to be honest he’d much rather stay in a hotel with a decent bathroom and a hot meal in the dining room which the company pays for anyway. He’s been doing that recently because, apart from anything else, in the winter it takes about a day to get the cottage warm and to air the beds, and then just when it’s all cosy, he’s off again.’

  ‘Well, tell him he’s welcome to come and stay any time, and listen, don’t forget to clear all this with the sculptor chappie, will you? He might not take kindly to a new tenant just pitching up and moving in.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ll ring him now, but don’t worry, as long as I recommend you, he’ll be fine. Joss is the last person to worry about that sort of thing,’ she promised. ‘He’s pretty cool.’

  When Philly and I arrived at Farlings Manor an hour or so later, minus the children who’d stayed with Miles, it soon became clear that this man was anything but cool. As we stood on the steps of his gorgeous, crumbling Cotswold manor house for what seemed like an eternity, the door was finally flung back and a tall, well built, angry-looking man with tawny hair and heavy lidded eyes glowered down at us.

  ‘Yes?’ he said irritably.

  Philly nearly fell off the step in alarm.

  ‘Oh, um, I’m sorry to bother you,’ I stammered. ‘We’re friends of Alice Feelburn.’

  ‘And who the hell is Alice Feelbum?’ he drawled.

  ‘Burn,’ I corrected, stifling an immature giggle. ‘She’s, er, your tenant. In the cottage? Didn’t she telephone to say we were coming?’

  ‘If she did it’s still on the answer machine. I don’t take calls when I’m working if I can help it and as a rule I don’t answer the door either.’ As he spoke he stared fixedly at Philly, as most people do. His evident distraction gave me a little steel.

  ‘I’m so sorry, we’ve clearly interrupted you,’ I said smoothly. ‘Let’s start again. I’m Rosie Meadows and this is my sister Philippa Hampton.’ I held out my hand, smiling determinedly.

  His eyes came back to me. He took my hand. ‘We’ve met.’

  I blinked. ‘We have?’

  ‘Outside a solicitor’s office in Kensington. You’re a little more decisive today than you were then, Mrs Meadows.’

  ‘Oh!’ I was taken aback, but yes, of course, those eyes, that subtle American drawl. I gaped. ‘Gosh, how strange that we should both be –’

  ‘Seeing divorce lawyers? I agree, except that mine was a purely social call. My brother-in-law runs the joint and he keeps a very fine malted Scotch in his bottom drawer. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I – don’t have one,’ I stammered, feeling myself blush.

  God, this man was rude. Rude and intrusive, and actually not nearly as good-looking as I’d originally thought. His face, though tanned, was tense and drawn and he was older than I’d imagined too. His baggy navy jumper and cords were strangely covered in dust, and without the Savile Row suit he’d lost that urbane suaveness.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ he demanded briskly.

  Apart from not ask us in, of course, I thought, but I stifled my annoyance. I needed this cottage. I took a deep breath and explained Alice’s offer.

  ‘So you want to take over the rent from her, is that it?’

  ‘Please. If you don’t mind.’

  He considered us as if we were a couple of urchins touting for a car wash or something.

  A telephone rang from inside the house. He glanced back. ‘I’ll have to take that. It’s probably my wife calling from the States. Come in a minute.’

  Marvelling at how he could distinguish between the time-wasting calls that took him from his work and important ones from America, we followed him into a large, honey-coloured hall, two walls of which were lined from top to toe with books. Underfoot, deep red Turkish rugs took the chill off the ancient grey flagstones and a fire burned brightly in the grate, completing the glowing red and gold effect. I sighed. It was the ultimate in luxury, I thought, to have a fire burning just to take your coat off in front of. He answered the telephone on an antique bureau in the corner.

  ‘Hello? Annabel! Where the hell have you been, I’ve been calling you all morning … Oh, okay, okay, well, at least I’ve got you now. I take it you’ll be back on Tuesday, at least that’s the message I got from some lackey of yours … Thursday, I see.’ He sounded grim. ‘Amazing how it creeps up and up, isn’t it? We’ll be into the millennium soon.’

  Poor Annabel, I thought, joining Philly by the fire and warming the backs of my legs. He must be hell to live with. I turned round to warm the fronts and surreptitiously gazed at the photographs on the stone mantel in front of me. There was a family group in a silver frame of him, his wife – presumably Annabel – and three rather beautiful children, a boy and a brace of identical girls, all with blonde hair, creamy skins and bright blue eyes. I gazed at their mother. She was absolutely stunning too but in contrast to her children, sleekly dark with a strong, intelligent face, large brown eyes and swift dark strokes for eyebrows. Suddenly I realized I recognized her. Gosh, yes, of course, she was one of those American health Hitlers, wasn’t she? Very young, tremendously successful and wrote all those books about how to run your life, your diet, your lover, and God knows what else. Of course, Annabel Johnson. God, she looked far too young to have those strapping school-age children flanking her, must have slipped them out when she was about eighteen, in between best-selling books and TV appearances. I sighed. Made you realize some people didn’t waste any time making a success of their lives, did they? And look how long I’d fannied around making a complete mess of mine.

  I turned back to look at Joss, studying him as he finished his conversation with his wife. He looked slightly mollified now, barking marginally less and smiling occasionally. His face, as it softened, was undoubtedly handsome, if a little haughty for my taste. As he half turned, giving us the benefit of his profile, the light from an artfully poised lamp on the bureau fell on him, highlighting the lines around his eyes and the few flecks of dust in his hair. Presumably he had quite a job keeping up with Annabel. He put the receiver down.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ He stared at us for a moment as if he couldn’t quite remember what we were doing there. I saw him divert his gaze to Philly again. ‘Oh, okay, the cottage.’ He opened the bureau drawer and brought out a bunch of keys. ‘Well, if the Feelburns want to pass it over, that’s fine by
me. You’d better come and see it first though, before you get excited. It’s a helluva dump. Come on.’

  Well, whose fault is that, O landlord? I thought as he ushered us out through the ancestral porch. He banged the door shut behind us and set off at a cracking pace down the gravel drive. Philly and I scampered after him. The drive forked at some trees and we followed the right hand curl as it swept round and down, behind the back of the house, heading for the garden. Beyond the garden were some paddocks, then meadows which dipped down into a valley and were crossed by a stream, before soaring up the hill on the other side, far away into the distance. I caught my breath at the sheer beauty of the vista, then turned around and looked back at the house, perched on the brow of the hill behind us. It was certainly huge, but very mellow and totally in tune with the surrounding landscape and the picture perfect village below. It was almost as if a spontaneous natural eruption of Cotswold stone had risen up from the ground hundreds of years ago, settled there, and then been given the finishing touches by a sympathetic human hand which had sketched in a collection of Gothic windows, a few doors, some arches, and a smattering of pinnacles and gargoyles, before nature had returned once again, lavishly coating the whole edifice with a web of wisteria, vines and honeysuckles, softening the whole effect.

  ‘Gorgeous house,’ I muttered shyly.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Could be, but it’s going to rack and ruin inside. It’s too goddam big – costs a fortune to run. I’d like to pull half of it down to tell you the truth, it would certainly save on the heating bills.’

  I’d got to the stage in my own disastrous life when I was faintly irritated by people who belly-ached about their own good fortune. If you were going to complain about living in a pile, give it away to the local peasants for God’s sake. Go and live in a caravan.

  ‘You might try turning some radiators off,’ I suggested lightly. ‘It’s a little less extreme.’

  He had the grace to smile. We strode through a stable yard and out the other side at breakneck speed, then he turned to look at me quizzically.

  ‘It’ll just be you in the cottage, will it?’

  ‘And my little boy, Ivo. He’s two and a bit.’

  ‘Oh, okay. So where’s the father?’

  ‘We’re not living together any more.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘That’s what I was doing in the solicitor’s office yesterday.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry. I don’t mean to pry but I guess I have to vaguely know the set up.’ It was a genuine apology and I accepted it as such.

  ‘That’s all right, I understand. Oops!’ I steadied myself as I tripped over some huge lumps of stone in the yard.

  ‘One of the hazards of living here I’m afraid,’ he remarked. ‘That’s my debris from the workshop. Any bits I don’t need I just chuck out here. That’s where I work.’ He nodded over at a large barn, the huge black doors bolted and barred. ‘Where I mould and tap away. Quite a lot of it joins the crap out here.’ He kicked at a boulder.

  Ah so that’s where all his precious sculptures were. A barn full of bronzes and bits of old rock no doubt. I wondered what they were like. Alice had said he was an Associate Professor at the Royal College of Art, so I supposed he must be pretty good.

  ‘Are these yours too?’ I asked, nodding at the herd of hairy cattle gazing at us over the fence.

  ‘Yeah, they’re Longhorns. I only keep a very small herd, but animal sculptures are pretty popular at the moment so I use them for models. I’m only interested in ancient breeds though – Belted Galloways, that type of thing.’

  ‘My husband’s a farmer,’ said Philly with a smile. ‘You probably know him. Miles Hampton?’

  He looked at her. ‘You know, I don’t believe I do.’ It was said politely, but coldly. Philly blushed, unused to getting such a chilly reception.

  He stopped suddenly and Philly and I, slightly behind, almost cannoned into him like a couple of cartoon characters. ‘Here we are then,’ he said, ‘and don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  I looked around in surprise. We’d been passing a row of what I’d assumed were just farm outbuildings, but I now saw that tacked on to the end of one of the barns was a tiny stone cottage, almost a lean-to, an afterthought.

  Joss jingled his bunch of keys, peering for the requisite one. ‘Annabel usually deals with all this, I haven’t been in here for years so – Christ, these keys all look the same, ah, wait a bit, here we go.’ He separated a key from the rest and stuck it in the lock. ‘Like I say, I haven’t a clue what it’s like inside. Oh hell. The damned door’s stuck.’

  He stood back, put his shoulder to the flaky blue paint and as it flew open he flew with it, disappearing into the gloom. Philly and I followed rather more cautiously under the low doorway. It was very dark, very musty and from what one could determine extremely small.

  ‘Can’t see a damn thing,’ said Joss.

  ‘That’s because there are shutters,’ I said eagerly. I ran across to fling them open. Cold winter light streamed in through dirty windows.

  ‘Oh look,’ I cried, spinning round. ‘It’s sweet!’

  ‘It’s not sweet at all, it’s a disgrace,’ he said, gazing about him. We took in the threadbare green carpet, the sofa exploding with rusty, exposed springs, the faded rose wallpaper curling at the corners where it met the low ceiling which was sprinkled with suspiciously pale brown water marks, the general air of mustiness and neglect.

  ‘It’s damp,’ said Philly, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  ‘Nonsense, it just needs a good airing. No one’s been here for a while, that’s all.’ I crossed the room – in about three strides – and flung open the shutters at the other window, letting in more light. I tried to open the window too, but hastily shut it again as it threatened to come right off its hinges. I looked around, ignoring my disapproving companions. I, too, could sense the neglect, the decay, but I could also see an encouragingly large open fireplace and a pretty bay window with a wooden window seat which looked out on the most marvellous view across open Gloucestershire countryside. I gazed far away into the dark green winter fields, all parcelled up and neatly tied with low, grey, drystone walls and sprinkled liberally with sheep.

  ‘Oh, it’s bliss!’ I breathed.

  ‘Rosie, you can’t possibly live here,’ Philly’s angry voice called from elsewhere. ‘Come and look at the kitchen. This place is much worse than I thought.’

  I had to admit, the kitchen took a bit of laughing off. There was a cooker of sorts, but it looked decidedly pre-war and the cracked enamel sink defied anyone to fill it with water. The white paint was peeling off the walls and the red lino floor was more than cracked, it was erupting all over the place like teenage acne.

  ‘Superficial,’ I said defiantly. ‘A lick of paint, a few nails in the floor, some rush mats, a bowl in the sink and it’ll be fine. I can fix this place up in no time.’

  ‘Your sister’s right,’ said Joss, walking in looking grim. ‘I’ve just been inspecting the plumbing, there’s no way you can live here with a little kid. I don’t know what Annabel was thinking of letting it out in the first place. Even as a weekend cottage it’s a disgrace.’

  ‘Please,’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t say that. Don’t say I can’t have it. It’s fine, honestly, I can make it fine.’

  He regarded me through his tawny lion’s eyes. ‘You’d have to be desperate to live here.’

  ‘I am desperate.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course she’s not!’ said Philly hotly. ‘You know very well you can come and live with us, Rosie!’

  I swung round to her. ‘I know I can, Philly, but I don’t want that, I want …’ I struggled. ‘I need,’ I corrected, ‘something of my own.’

  I had a rather panicky feeling that if I did go to Philly and Miles’s place I might never get out. That it would all be too cosy, that Ivo and I would sink down into their sumptuous, ragged and swagged Colefax and Fowler spare rooms
for ever, become part of my big sister’s nest, just a couple of extra beaks that needed feeding. I had to start again on my own, repair my life on my own terms, and this rickety old cottage in need of a certain amount of repair itself fitted the bill. We could get sorted out together.

  ‘All this place needs,’ I said, turning to Joss, ‘is a jolly good clean, a lick of paint and some new curtains and I can make those. I can do all that sort of thing myself, really, I’m a demon with a needle.’

  He was watching me closely. I knew he’d seen my need and I saw him hesitate.

  ‘Let’s take a look upstairs,’ he said finally.

  Upstairs, happily, was slightly better. The paper was at least still clinging to the walls, the carpets were not overtly worn and the fittings in the bathroom, although clearly old, were at least clean and operational.

  ‘See?’ I said triumphantly. ‘It’s perfect!’

  ‘It’s marginally better than downstairs but it’s far from perfect,’ said Joss grimly. ‘Most of this furniture is hopeless, it’s falling to bits.’

  He bent down to examine an old pine chair that had clearly lost a leg and was only balancing because the fourth one had been propped into position. He kicked it and it duly collapsed.

  ‘Why Annabel sees fit to stuff the place with garbage like this is beyond me. All this folksy old pine rubbish is riddled with woodworm when she buys it in the first place. It probably all comes from car boot sales.’

  ‘I like it,’ I said smiling. ‘I like old things.’

  I sat down on the ancient iron bed, happily patting the mattress. Yes, this really could be home for a bit. I could see us living here, could see Ivo in that sweet little room next door where the eaves dropped down almost to the floor and the two windows poked out like beady eyes. I’d do that room first, I decided, paint it in a day, put a border up for him, clean the carpet, hang curtains, put all his toys around. He’d love it. Become a real country child. Joss looked down at me sitting on the bed. He frowned.

  ‘Do you have a problem with reproduction?’

  I was startled. ‘Er, no! At least, not with Ivo, I conceived straight away actually. Why?’ God, what sort of question was that? Was the squire into breeding from his tenants or something? Was this some sort of archaic tithe?