Rumours (49 page)

Stella gulped. ‘It's not plumbed in yet,' she explained. ‘Nothing is,' she added with a nervous smile.

‘But it
could
be,' said Lydia. In fact, everything was a facade – and yet, far from being fake, it was a hint, a taster, a helpful leg-up to these sweet-natured folk who wanted to climb right to the top of the property ladder, who had the wherewithal but not the know-how.

‘My friend, Caroline Rowland – you'll be wanting her number,' said Stella, regaining her composure. ‘She's been working flat out on this, for the past month.'

‘I need to sit down,' Mr Tompkins said.

‘Crunching figures is so much easier when one's seated, don't you think?' said Lydia, to which Mr Tompkins simply nodded. ‘Now – time's moved on, since we saw you last,' Lydia said, quite sternly while the Tompkins sat to attention and hung on her every word. ‘And I'm afraid the acreage is vastly diminished. There's no longer any farmland at Longbridge Hall – though, of course, it still provides the uninterrupted views. There's just the Hall now – and the thirty acres of parkland it sits in. The dower house too, and the stables courtyard – with the first apartment remaining in the tenancy of Mr Arthur Jonston for his lifetime. Not that you'd want to kick him out – what he doesn't know about the grounds isn't worth knowing. It's testimony to his experience and longevity here that the gardens are as lovely as they are.

‘The livery yard – it's empty. But it used to bring in enough income to wash its face and it's too far away for you to hear, see or smell. The workshops – they're empty too. But I have to say, I quite liked having people in the buildings.'

The Tompkins were taking mental notes, as if all of this would be told to them just the once. Lydia cleared her throat.

‘And the cottages on Tramfield Lane are no longer part of the sale,' she said. Stella whipped around from gazing out the window where she'd been having a private chat with Lord Freddie. She caught Lydia's eye. They hadn't talked about this. Lydia was just slightly flushed, as if perhaps the idea had only just come to her, taking root immediately and was not open for further discussion.

Mr Tompkins looked from Lydia to his wife. ‘Well, your Lady Lady Fortescue,' he stumbled. Looked at his wife. ‘We have a lot to think about.'

Lydia chortled. ‘Nonsense,' she laughed. ‘No, you don't – not at ten million you don't!' She shook her head and laughed again. ‘Silly man!' She tapped Mr Tompkins on the wrist. ‘Silly man!' she repeated.

‘You silly old sod,' Mrs Tompkins said to her husband, ‘course we'll 'ave it.'

* * *

Stella came over to join them.

‘There are two things,' she said, ‘about the sale.'

Lydia winked at her. The Tompkins were all ears.

‘Firstly,' said Stella, ‘the apple store stays.' They shrugged and nodded and it hadn't crossed their minds not to keep it. Stella took a deep breath. ‘Secondly – Mr and Mrs Tompkins – if you are to sell your current house, the condition is that you place it in the hands of Geoffrey Mumford, my lovely colleague at Elmfield Estates.'

Mr Tompkins frowned. ‘Why wouldn't I give it to you to shift, love? Good commission you'd make – last valuation was three mill.'

‘Because,' Lydia interrupted, ‘it's time for Miss Hutton to return to her roots. She's an art historian, you know. And her first role is to be finding purchasers for the art here at Longbridge which I shan't be taking with me.'

‘I love that painting of the big horse,' Mr Tompkins said. ‘Nice round arse – reminds me of someone.' He winked at his wife who simply turned to Lydia and Stella with an expression of theatrical exasperation.

‘You can have first refusal on it all,' said Lydia. ‘Furniture, art – and I'm throwing in all the curtains. For free.'

‘Can't say fairer than that,' said Mr Tompkins.

‘I like a nice big painting,' said Mrs Tompkins. ‘I don't know about art.' She turned to Stella. ‘But you do, then?'

Stella nodded. They could see she couldn't talk and they chose not to comment on the fact that a tear had just fallen audibly onto the plate in front of her.

‘Best in her field,' said Lydia. ‘Especially Rembrandt but unfortunately, we don't have one of those. We do have a Reynolds, though. Come and see.'

* * *

That evening, Xander returned home to find a hand-delivered letter waiting for him on the doormat.

Thursday 28th October

My dear Xander

Would you come to Longbridge tomorrow evening? Join me in a glass of sherry? 6.30 prompt.

Lydia F

‘I've been summoned,' he phoned Stella. Stella thought, it's something to do with the cottages on Tramfield Lane. But though she didn't know what, she sensed not to even mention it to him.

Mrs Biggins was on her way home when Xander arrived.

‘She's in the library,' she told him.

‘How are you, Mrs Biggins?'

‘I'm jolly,' she said. ‘As always.'

‘You always are,' said Xander, ‘unless you're crotchety with Lady Lydia.'

‘That's when I'm at my most jolly,' Mrs Biggins said and Xander knew exactly what she meant.

He shut the great doors behind him, knocked gently at the library door and entered on Lydia's say-so.

‘Good evening, Xander.' She looked tired yet radiant – the sort of heady exhaustion that comes from supreme effort, hard graft and ultimate triumph. A bit like running a marathon.

‘Good evening, Lydia.'

‘Have a seat – no, next to me. There's a boy.'

He sat. She passed him an envelope. It had his name and address on the front. He was about to open it when she stilled his hand. ‘Longbridge has been sold,' she said.

‘I'm so pleased,' said Xander. It was that marathon feeling again.

‘Very good people,' said Lydia. ‘Who want to buy my taste. I have come to see that in this day and age, the big money is found where you'd least expect it. And one is not to judge on background – but the quality of the person alone.'

‘Well done you,' said Xander.

‘Well – I had a little help from Caroline and Stella,' she said. ‘We will exchange contracts by Christmas, with completion planned for next spring.'

‘Very good,' said Xander, ‘that's a decent run of time for you. And we'll all help in any way we can.'

‘I know.'

‘I heard about Art,' Xander said. ‘That's great. I'm so happy for him – and I know how much it must mean to you.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Lydia. ‘And we need to talk about you.'

‘Me?' He laughed. ‘I'll be fine – I'm a grown man, you know.'

Lydia couldn't find her voice. She swallowed hard. Drew herself up nice and straight. ‘You're a Longbridge Boy,' she said.

He took her hand. ‘And I'll never forget it.'

‘I'll say,' and Lydia laughed. She looked at him. ‘Dear Xander.' She paused. ‘In this envelope are the title deeds for number one, number two and number three Lime Grove Cottages, Tramfield Lane, Long Dansbury.' She felt Xander pull away but she grabbed his arm and steadied them both. ‘I know what you are like – how proud you are. I'm not giving them to you, but you will buy them at a peppercorn price. I was in that wretched place, Tesco, the other day. Mrs Biggins wanted to show me
clothing
. Can you believe that? But it gave me an idea.
Three for Two
, they call it. Apparently, it's everywhere these days. So – you can have the three cottages for the price of two, Xander. At their value on the day you were born.'

He couldn't speak.

‘However, there's a great big But,' she said and, automatically, they both glanced through the open door to the enormous horse's arse facing them from the canvas on the stairwell. ‘And the caveat is that you look after Miss Gilbey – just as you do now. You will be her landlord. She's independent – but she's old. Almost as old as me. And we all need a watchful eye in our dotage.'

‘I don't know what to say. I—'

‘I haven't finished!' Lydia snapped.

‘Sorry,' said Xander, ‘please.' Half thoughts churned with a barrage of emotions.

‘The final condition of this deal is that you knock number two and number three into one.'

Xander looked at her. Tipped his head. Knock them into one? He looked at Lydia, who appeared to be wanting to say something, but was unable. He wondered if he should offer her a tissue to wipe away the tears that wouldn't stay put. Wondered if she even realized she was weeping.

But Lydia did speak. ‘You knock the two cottages into one and you make it into a family home, Xander. You make it into a little Longbridge of your own.'

‘Here, Will, you can have this.' Xander plonked a fleece beanie that had been a freebie from a client onto Will's head.

‘How much will My Lady Lydia pay me?'

‘Well,' said Xander, as if doing advanced maths by staring hard at the sky, ‘it depends. She tends to change the going rate from year to year.'

Though all the airports were shut with the snow, the day was bright and the road to Long Dansbury from Hertford was surprisingly clear and very beautiful. It really was like driving through a Christmas card depicting a classic winter scene of yesteryear.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?' Stella asked. ‘Sounds pretty dangerous to me.'

‘Is your mother being rude about my driving?' Xander asked Will, glancing at him from the rear-view mirror. Will just laughed.

‘You know what I mean,' Stella gently scolded.

‘It's a
terrible
idea,' Xander laughed, ‘but it's a tradition.'

‘Is that why she's asked the Tompkins? To hand it down?'

Xander smiled. ‘I reckon so. Come on! There she is.'

Lydia was a strange sight indeed, top to toe in tweed with enormous ancient mittens – the type that Scott would have packed for the Antarctic – and strange old gumboots from which froths of insulating newspaper puffed out of the tops.

‘Welcome!' Lydia called. ‘Come on!' Will scampered over to her and she patted at him as if he was a Labrador puppy mid-training. ‘Come on!'

Arms linked, Xander and Stella strolled over.

‘I haven't all day, you know – there's Christmas carols at Summerhill Place this afternoon. Mercy has arranged for Mrs Biggins and I to attend. Guests of Honour.'

Will looked expectantly at his mother – and Stella said ‘maybe' under her breath.

‘Right,' said Xander, ‘which tree?'

They followed Lydia. A path had been neatly cut into the snow, and the grass crunched underfoot as if it had been iced by Mrs Biggins. Through the gardens they went, to the little copse behind.

‘That one,' Lydia decreed. They looked up the tall straight trunk to the bare branches. High up, like a puff of green candyfloss, the mistletoe gathered in a great thatchy ball. Art was already there. With a ladder. And Clarence, just watching. Art held the ladder, and with a hearty slap across his shoulder blades from Lydia, Xander climbed.

‘Lydia!' Stella gasped.

‘Oh hush, girl,' said Lydia. ‘We've done it this way for ever.'

Xander scaled the tree nimbly at first, then cautiously, and then just an inch at a time. Suddenly, mistletoe rained down on them in clumps and Xander was making his passage back down the tree. There were two baskets nearby and Will was gathering the sprigs and sprays into one of them.

‘Not bad,' Lydia assessed the basket. ‘A little paltry.' She seemed irritated and looked about her, suddenly brightening. ‘There! Look at that lot up there!' The mistletoe in a neighbouring tree was twice as high.

‘Lydia – absolutely not,' said Stella. Lydia turned to Xander as if to say, you're not going to let her talk to me like that, are you?

Xander shrugged. ‘She's the boss,' he said and, after a moment, Lydia thought, that's no bad thing.

‘I'll be back in a jiff,' she said, and disappeared.

In the meantime, the Tompkins arrived, kitted out from top to toe in brand new attire befitting the nouveau landed gentry in a style that was seen last in the nineteenth century. They'd added modern snowboots and ski gloves, and fluffy white ear muffs for Mrs Tompkins. They looked as if they were half in, half out of a time warp but it was rather touching and they looked very chuffed. Everyone chatted amiably as they waited for Lydia. Will went through his Christmas wish list for the umpteenth time, should anyone happen to be listening.

And then Mrs Tompkins screamed.

And Stella said, oh Jesus.

Mr Tompkins said, flippin' Nora.

And Will screeched with delight,
she has a gun!

But Xander, Art and Clarence just laughed and shrugged. They'd seen it all before.

‘This, Mr Tompkins, is how you get the mistletoe down if Xander goes all sissy and won't climb up for it.'

And Lydia raised the rifle and began shooting high up in the branches. ‘Off you go, Will,' she said, sending him to pick up, as if he was a retriever on a shoot. ‘You see, we sell Longbridge Mistletoe – it's quite a nice little earner. Though Xander here insists on taking forty per cent.'

‘Fifty,' said Xander.

‘We'll talk about it later,' said Lydia.

‘Where do you sell it?'

‘At the Long Dansbury Christmas market,' said Lydia. And everyone knew that however she and Xander divvied the proceeds, they always donated the lot to the community fund.

With the rifle now safely in Art's hands and the baskets brimming with mistletoe, Mr Tompkins turned to Lydia.

‘That date you want – next spring for completion – it's a bank holiday.'

‘Well, how ridiculous!' Lydia barked. ‘How very inconvenient!'