Rumours (28 page)

Mr Tompkins stepped forward. ‘Pleased to meet you,' he said, clasping her hand in both of his and giving it a good shake. ‘What a bloody gorgeous house you have.'

Later, Lydia would muse over this – how someone who initially repelled her could win her over so quickly. It wasn't so much his sentiment as his choice of words which melted her icy preconceptions and broke the password she'd subconsciously set. Never mind the accent. Regardless of the fulmination. His words were simply artless and so sincere. And, thought Lydia, so very true. ‘Thank you,' she said. And then, to Stella's surprise, she drew herself tall and spoke with a booming voice. ‘Welcome to Longbridge Hall!'

Lydia led the way, side by side with Mr Tompkins, while Stella and Mrs Tompkins followed behind. ‘The drawing room,' she announced. ‘I'll have you know, this wallpaper is one hundred and twenty years old.' She looked Mr Tompkins up and down. ‘Would you be so kind as to remove that painting?' She gestured to a framed, delicate Chinese painting of a heron. He lifted it away from the wall. ‘That has hung there since the War. And just look – not a fade mark to be seen.' She turned to Mrs Tompkins. ‘They don't make paper like
that
any more.' Lydia sat down on the sofa and her reminiscences poured out. ‘Mother brought back some divine paper from a trip to America,' she said. ‘It was blue, with a design in silver. Real silver leaf. Only it tarnished on the boat journey over. She still put it up though – in what was the smoking room. I imagine it's still there, if you peeled back the modern layers.' She focused on Mrs Tompkins. ‘Just imagine,' she said, ‘
real silver
.'

Mrs Tompkins, who was now sitting opposite, nodded earnestly. ‘We've got real suede on some of our walls. Purple, it is.'

Stella held her breath, willing Lydia not to respond too spikily.

‘How very brave of you,' she said and to Stella's relief, Mrs Tompkins had graciously taken this as a compliment. They sat for a while – Mr and Mrs Tompkins and Lady Lydia, while Stella remained standing – and Lydia told them of her family's history with the house. ‘Great-Grandmother loathed it,' she said. ‘But from what I've been told, everyone loathed Great-Grandmother.'

‘Battleaxe, was she?' Mr Tompkins said.

‘
I'm
a battleaxe,' said Lydia with some pride. ‘By all accounts,
she
was a merciless guillotine in comparison.'

‘Her ghost don't haunt the corridors?' Mrs Tompkins said, with a nervous laugh.

‘No, dear,' said Lydia. ‘But Mr Wakeley's does.'

Stella couldn't help herself. ‘Who's Mr Wakeley?'

‘He was butler, after the War. Disappeared into thin air –' Lydia paused during which time a mischievous sparkle danced across her eyes – ‘or
did
he?'

‘Shall we move on?' Stella suggested, noting Mrs Tompkins fiddling uneasily with her rings.

Lydia's tour of the ground floor met with Mr Tompkins' throaty approval. Stella watched his wife carefully as she gazed and gawped her way through the rooms. In the library, Lydia looked over to Stella and raised an eyebrow, its meaning perfectly legible. Stella nodded and smiled.

‘Mr Tompkins,' said Lydia, ‘though I'm sure you are an honest man, should you ever have need of somewhere secure for something private –' she let her words hang as she popped open the bookcase column to reveal the secret shelving. To her surprise, Stella noted the pornographic volumes were gone and Lydia, it appeared, steadfastly refused to catch her eye.

Door after door, Mr Tompkins held open for Lydia and as she took them into and out of rooms, up and down stairs, through bedrooms and over landings and every once in a while lingering at a window to take in the view, her memories and anecdotes tumbled forth like an overstuffed linen cupboard bursting its doors open.

‘This is Frank's boot room!' she declared in the basement, Stella never having heard of Frank.

‘And this is the flower room,' she said, on the ground floor in what Stella had assumed was the pantry, where the jars of jam lined up lonely on the otherwise empty shelves. ‘Or at least, it was. The vases were kept here and see this long surface? This is where Hilda would dream up her lovely sprays. And see this?' Lydia pointed to a strange piece of plaited rope attached to the wall, the free end fraying to reveal some type of narrow hosepipe within it. ‘There used to be a mouthpiece attached. Black. It had a very particular smell. You could call the garage from here – have the car sent around.' Stella looked at Mr Tompkins who was simultaneously grinning yet apparently close to tears.

Stella looked at Mrs Tompkins – her shoulders had slumped a little when she'd seen the bathrooms and even more when she'd seen the kitchen. However, venturing outside, Mrs Tompkins' spirits seemed to lift a little while her husband puffed out his chest as if he were already Lord of the Manor.

‘I do love a garden,' Mrs Tompkins said, ‘but I don't do gardening.'

Lydia looked at her. Mrs Tompkins waggled her slender fingers and long glossy nails and shrugged. Lydia paused. ‘That will be music to Art's ears,' she said quietly, as if a thought had just taken root.

‘Who's this geezer? Standing here like he owns the place!' Mr Tompkins put his hand on Lord Fortescue's shoulder and for a moment, Stella thought he might give Lord Freddie such a hearty slap on the back he'd tumble off his pedestal.

‘He
did
own the place,' Lydia said, not in the least affronted. ‘He was an absolute bounder – but one with vision. It's thanks to him that Longbridge stands, that I'm here today.'

‘Does he come with the house?'

Lydia looked at Mrs Tompkins. ‘Part and parcel, my dear.'

As they walked on, Stella lingered at the back and glanced at Lord Freddie, who appeared to be giving her a very strange look from this angle. Not hostile – but as if she'd presented him with a gift and he wasn't sure quite how it worked.

The tour had taken over two hours and Stella could see how Lydia was suddenly fatigued.

‘Thank you – so very much,' Mr Tompkins said. ‘It's a gem. It's a jewel. And it's been a pleasure to meet you.'

Lydia tipped her head graciously.

‘Thank you,' said Mrs Tompkins. ‘I'm all lost for words. Not me at all, is it, Barry?'

‘Talk the arse off a donkey,' her husband said fondly. Stella cringed until she noted Lydia's wry smile.

‘Just a bit overwhelmed,' Mrs Tompkins said. ‘It's modern places, really, what I know. And that's what we've been looking at, really. Nothing like this. It's – well, a bit unbelievable.'

‘
Do
come again,' Lydia said extravagantly as if they were her favourite guests in a long time. ‘
Do
.' With that, she went back to the house, waved from the steps and went inside.

‘Gobsmacked,' was all Mr Tompkins could say to Stella while Mrs Tompkins shook her head incredulously.

‘I'm sure, if you wanted a second viewing, it could easily be arranged – perhaps even for this weekend,' Stella told them. ‘Lady Lydia appears to like you.'

‘She's a colourful old bird, isn't she,' Mr Tompkins laughed. ‘Though I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her.' He whistled.

With anyone else, Stella would have shuddered, thanking the stars Lydia was out of earshot. Yet with Mr Tompkins, she found herself wishing Lydia had been right there. She'd have cuffed him around the head. She'd have laughed like a drain.

Stella followed behind the Bentley in her little car, feeling as if she was being pulled along in their slipstream. They indicated left at the high street and drove off with a merry blast of the horn. She turned right, without indicating, and headed for home, keeping her eyes fixedly on the road ahead, resolutely refusing to look left to the Spar or to Mercy Benton's cottage or, a little way along, to look right, up Tramfield Lane. Up the hill and out of the village she drove, woods to either side, on to the New Houses at the top, clustered together as if resigned not to be part of the main hub of Long Dansbury. Stella drove past. And then she slowed down, right down, until her car juddered at the point of stalling. She swung into someone's driveway and, with her head pounding and adrenalin running havoc with her heartbeat, she turned the car and headed slowly back towards the village.

What am I doing what am I doing what am I doing?

Don't be in.

Say he is in?

Don't be in. Don't be in. Be in. Be in.

She turned left into Xander's street. The postbox. The scraggly patch of rough ground. The grit bin on the left. The cottages just ahead. One two three. Everyone's recycling boxes neatly outside their gates.

Car outside the middle cottage.

Stella drove past all three, continued on to the end of the dead end.

Now what?

Now what!

She turned the car badly, backing up too quickly, brushing against the thick hedgerow. It sounded like fingernails on chalkboard.

Slowly, she drove back.

Miss Gilbey is in.

The Georges are home.

There are no lights on at Xander's.

Should she wait?

Five thirty.

What time does a person with their own business usually arrive home?

She sat in the car and switched the engine off.

But say he comes around the corner right now? What would I say?

She switched the engine half on, so that the radio and the air conditioning were active.

She phoned Jo. Straight through to answering machine. That's no use. No point sending a text. She opened the glove compartment, saw the sweets that Caroline's little boy had put in her basket and which she'd forgotten to give Will, and wolfed them down as she rooted around for paper. All she could find was the printout of her car's last service. It had cost her £214. It was blank on the other side. She used the roadmap as a surface on which to write, sucked her pen thoughtfully and then began. She phoned Jo. Straight through to answering machine. Stella would just have to read it through to herself instead.

It sounded OK.

I'd be chuffed to receive a note like that, she thought.

She was going to phone Jo one final time but she thought, no, I know what I want to do. And then she thought, it's what Jo would tell me to do anyway. And without further ado, Stella left the car, walked calmly down Xander's path and, with a slightly shaky hand, posted the folded note through his letter box. Walking back to her car she felt ridiculously jubilant. Her phone was ringing. It was Jo.

I'll phone you when I'm home, Jo. I have to pick up Will. I'm running late.

Xander went to his parents straight from work, taking them a bag of Marks and Spencer's prepared meals which he knew they'd tut at, but enjoy. Then he dumped the car outside his cottage and strolled down to the pub for a couple of pints. Andrew was there and they discussed where they'd run and how long they'd take and what time they'd set off on Saturday morning. Xander left at last orders and strolled home. It was a beautiful night, no breeze and just slivers of high cloud inching past the moon. He'd already decided to watch
The Sopranos
all the way from the beginning – again – and was looking forward to a couple of episodes before he went to bed. He went into his house, took the boxed set of the series through to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and read all the episode breakdowns, as if his appetite for the show wasn't whetted enough.

It was close to one in the morning when he forced himself to switch off the DVD and go to bed. It was gone two in the morning when he woke, ragingly thirsty, and went downstairs for water. Taking a glass back to bed, he suddenly noticed the folded paper on his doormat. He hadn't seen it when he came in – but there again, his mind had been focused on a good strong cuppa and all things Mafia. It was probably just some flyer about all-weather coatings for houses, for Jim and Bob's local plumbing services; but something made him venture over to it anyway.

It was a handwritten note. No ‘Dear Xander', just ‘Xander'.

Stella. It's from Stella.

He took it to his chair and put the glass of water on the coffee table. It was chilly. He was in a pair of boxers only. He put the letter down, unread, went upstairs and pulled on a pair of socks and a sweatshirt and returned to the living room.

Thursday 5.30

Xander

I was at Longbridge and was just passing so thought I'd just call by. Actually, that's not strictly true – I wanted to see if you were in but I bottled and drove on out of the village only finally doing a ‘U'-ey at the last point possible. Anyway, you're not in and I don't have your number and I wouldn't know what to say if I did. And so I thought I'd just write you a little note (I know I shouldn't start a sentence with ‘and'). But – and here's the big But … I don't actually know what to say!! Well, I sort of do – but I just feel stupidly shy … Ridiculous!

Anyway, Lydia is well and the viewing was with a colourful couple whom she really took to. The gardens at Longbridge are looking gorgeous. Mrs Biggins made tea. And so what I actually wanted to say was I was wondering if at some point you might perhaps like to have a drink or something if you're not too busy if you wanted to and I apologize for the lack of punctuation.

Or if not a drink, perhaps a walk – somewhere, at some point, or something. I don't do jogging. I mean, running.

Anyway, that's what I wanted to say.

And this is my only sheet of paper – if I returned home for some fancy little notelet, the chances are I'd never deliver it. Ramble ramble – apologies …

Hope all's well.

Ta-ta