The Women of Heachley Hall Read online

  I tried hard not to use her as an agony aunt, but her generosity brought me to door, laden with the baggage of bitterness or fatigue, typically down to ex-boyfriends and work related stresses. Freelancing was a lonely affair and as a writer Ruth appreciated the solitude. A divorcee, she sympathised with the issues caused by failed relationships, and as a primary school teacher she was an excellent sounding board for ideas. She often diverted me from my woes with witty tales about her ‘kids’, pupils she taught part-time. She couldn’t bring herself to give up her teaching post to write full-time.

  She swept aside a strand of dappled hair with a flick of one hand while dropping a herbal teabag into the pot with the other. The kettle ceased singing and the brew stewed as Ruth listened without interrupting my account, although her eyes popped wider when I mentioned the value of similar houses.

  ‘I’ve done a little research on the Internet during the week,’ I explained.

  ‘So, you’re going to be a millionaire after all,’ she jibed, dragging up memories of a drunken night when we’d fantasied about winning the Carnegie book prize for children’s books, or in my case the illustrator’s equivalent, and the glory of basking in unending royalty payments at the end of our imaginary rainbow – I actually drew her a picture illustrating the evening and gave it to her as a birthday present.

  I fished a document out of my oversized handbag and tossed the solicitor’s report on the breakfast bar. I’d leafed through the contents and my brisk digest had confirmed everything Mr Porter had told me.

  ‘This,’ I tapped the document, ‘is a preliminary report on the state of the house and land.’

  ‘Surveyor’s report?’

  ‘A basic survey and it makes for grim reading.’ I flicked through a few pages. ‘Plumbing: pipes need replacing. Electricity: rewiring. Walls: replastering. Heating needed, unless I plan to rely on open fires, and a new boiler is essential. One good point, the roof doesn’t leak, so buckets unnecessary. However, in my opinion, it’s not as dire as he made out to me.’

  Ruth poured the tea into my mug. ‘But, you’re not keen on living there.’

  ‘Living there is far from ideal.’ I heaved out a sigh and leaned over my steaming mug. ‘I have to prove I’m living there. Just me. Utility bills, council tax, etcetera. And I’m only allowed two weeks continuous absence in every quarter of the year. At least she’d thought of vacations or her solicitor added the proviso out of sympathy.’

  ‘What?’ She spluttered mid-gulp and mopped her dripping chin with the back of her hand. ‘Sounds like one of those ridiculous fairytale quests – sleep for a hundred years surrounded by thorns.’ Ruth drew a sword from an imaginary scabbard and hacked at a brier wall.

  I chuckled and conjured up a fragmented image of my aunt with gaps about the eyes and lips. The ivory hair remained a strong memory.

  ‘I don’t remember her much, if at all.’

  ‘She picked you though.’

  I shrugged my shoulders then blew across the scolding tea and contemplated Ruth’s comment. ‘Nearest and dearest, I suppose. She’d no kids, a dead brother with one child – Mum – who is also dead.’

  ‘So your mum must have had some connection to her?’

  ‘If she did, she kept it to herself. We stopped visiting Felicity after Mum died and Dad never mentioned her.’ Dad had barely stayed in contact with his sisters never mind a distant in-law.

  ‘Who does the house belong to during probate?’

  ‘The solicitor is the sole executor. There were no guarantees I could be traced. Mr Porter assumed I was still in Colchester, where Dad and I lived. It was on the cusp of going up for auction—’

  ‘And the solicitor gets his fee as a percentage of the sale?’ She rolled her eyes to her arched eyebrows. ‘Quite an incentive to have you sell quickly, otherwise it means he only gets what, an hourly rate until the will is executed fully?’

  ‘Done some conveyancing before?’ I quipped.

  She smiled. ‘Granddad left a bit of a mess for my parents to sort out.’ She tore open a packet of rich tea biscuits and I nabbed one to dunk. She nibbled on the corner of hers. ‘Let me bring things up to date. You’re thrilled by the idea of inheriting this house, but not the living in it part, especially as you’re going to be alone. A caravan in the garden?’

  ‘Not acceptable, according to the terms. Crafty aunty. No camping out or temporary accommodation. It’s the house or nothing.’

  ‘It’s all very weird, if you ask me.’

  I guffawed. ‘Frankly I’m confused. Joyous at the legacy, less enthusiastic about the time frame of a year. At least I’m freelance and can relocate swiftly. I can’t think how it would have worked out if I’d not been an artist or I’d not dumped my last boyfriend. It’s like she predicted things about me, which is impossible.’

  She swallowed her tea with a few impressive mouthfuls: an asbestos tongue or more likely limited time between lessons. ‘You can’t do it up and then move in?’

  I sipped a teaspoon’s worth. ‘I don’t have the time. The clock started ticking the moment I agreed; I have to be in by the end of September.’

  ‘Blimey,’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s cruel of her. How much is it worth – the house?’

  ‘The reality is, God knows,’ I groaned. ‘Mr Porter prattled on about poor location, preservation order on the woodland and nobody, whether developer or private landlord, whoever, can build on the grounds beyond the scope of the original house.’

  She picked up the report and scanned over the page. ‘Original house?’

  I frowned. ‘Not sure what that means either. It’s a short walk from the village on a single track road with passing places.’ I pointed at the description on the opposing page. ‘The outside is listed. I can’t alter the exterior, which makes it unappealing for property developers.’

  Ruth ran a finger down a few more pages, skimming the lengthy paragraphs and her face transformed into a grimace. ‘Okay,’ she murmured. ‘Didn’t your aunt leave you money, some cash to help?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware – and to be frank, Mr Porter has been evasive on the matter – any money leftover is there to pay off outstanding debts, including the solicitor’s fees for the duration of my living there, since he will need to be retained. I don’t get it – why a year and a day? What is it about the place that requires that kind of stipulation? Does she want it kept in the family? If so, why not say as much in the will.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful nightmare,’ said Ruth, ‘a conundrum. Your aunt has cursed you: dammed if you do sell, damned if you don’t.’ She handed me the report back. ‘My advice, Miriam, and that is what you came here to know, isn’t it? Trust your feelings. You felt something in the house. Saw yourself working there. Go with it. But, be careful. You could find yourself up to your neck in debt trying to sell the place. Oh, and as for Mr Porter. Hassle him about the money. She was in a nursing home – how were the costs covered?’ She slid the biscuit tin towards me.

  ‘Good question.’ And where exactly had all of Felicity’s possessions gone?

  Having seen the condition of the house, discovered the duration of its vacancy, and understood the significance of Ruth’s hint that there had to be money somewhere, I armed myself with a list of essential repairs. Fired up by Ruth’s warnings, I intended to ring the solicitor first thing in the morning and pick apart his elusive clauses.

  FOUR

  Any hope of forming a genial relationship with Mr Porter was about to be fractured. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t my solicitor, a fact that dawned on me as I dialled his number.

  ‘I can’t afford two lots of council taxes, utility bills, my mortgage – I’m not giving up my flat especially as I planned on spending Christmas there – plus the ridiculous amount of things needed to be done before I can move in.’

  I paced up and down the narrow space, recalling the grand salons of Heachley Hall, superimposing them over my shrunken apartment. I’d been fooled by Mr Porter’s smooth accent and forgotten
to fight for my corner. Usually, my phone calls were with clients, people I knew and respected, and words came easily. I had to put aside my reticence at dealing with the solicitor over the phone, especially the lack of body language, and harden my tone.

  Mr Porter’s voice ruffled with limp sympathy. ‘I’m sure it is a very, um difficult position your aunt has put you in—’

  ‘Difficult, too right. I can’t believe Felicity, with whom I had little contact, would expect me to live in a derelict building. She had a fall while she was living in the house, but I don’t think she anticipated her absence would extend to it being left dormant for five years. I’m curious to know why she didn’t make further provisions, extra little stipulations in her will, to ensure my well being?’

  A vacuous pause ensued. I opened my mouth to harry him further, but he spoke. ‘She’d had a stroke, shortly after she broke her hip.’

  Why hadn’t he told me? I expelled my frustration into the speaker. ‘Severe?’

  ‘She’d lost her speech and mobility.’

  ‘She had no ability to change her will, did she? And I suspect there was plenty of money in the estate at the time of her stroke and it got frittered away in expensive nursing fees.’

  ‘Probably,’ he mumbled, a distancing voice, one that fed my ire.

  ‘The money, Mr Porter,’ I seethed. ‘Don’t tell me she didn’t provide for extenuating circumstances. Nothing I’ve learnt about my great-aunt implied she was callous. I remember her giving me cake and dolls to dress up.’

  The recollection popped into my head, along with a clearer picture of her wrinkled face, a spiral of long hair and the pearly teeth glinting by the firelight. She’d put a cushion before the open fire and I’d sat on it. Mum had warned me to stay clear of the hearth, but when I’d ignored her advice and poked at the blackened wood, her reprimand had been swiftly countered by her aunt, ‘She’s a sensible girl.’ The words I remembered, but not the character of her voice.

  The memory spike ended abruptly; Mr Porter was rallying. ‘The estate has provisions. However, I assure you, these instructions are to be enacted after the house is sold or you complete the agreed time span for habitation.’

  ‘I think it is time to have my solicitor review this will.’ I called his bluff. I retained no solicitor on my behalf and couldn’t afford one anyway. An eerie silence greeted my abrasive tone, then a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Miriam.’ Mr Porter had lost his haughty accent and something else surfaced, a less sophisticated tone.

  ‘Let me make this clear,’ I ceased my pacing. The threat of another legal professional had caught Mr Porter by surprise. I crowded out any chance of rebuttal by speaking quickly, determined to win the argument. My plans depended on financial security. ‘I accept that when Felicity drew up this will the house was in a reasonable shape, it might have lacked modern fittings, but it was functional. It isn’t now. I don’t believe my aunt intended me to spend buckets of my money living there – why would I? She wanted me in Heachley Hall for a reason. I don’t know what it is, but I think she saw the house as part of my future. So, the finances, Mr Porter, what are they? Tell me, how much money is left in the estate. Cash, not intangible assets.’

  ‘I have to make contingencies—’ the pause lasted longer than I anticipated and was punctuated by the shifting of papers. ‘A little over twenty thousand,’ he almost whispered it.

  A considerable amount, but not a fortune, nothing like what the house would be worth, but it was money, more than what was in my savings account. I scrunched my trembling fingers into a fist and etched my nails into my palm. ‘Twenty thousand. Enough for your fees, basic repairs and living expenses for a year.’

  ‘Possibly, with frugal—’

  ‘Am I not the sole beneficiary?’ I hoped he flinched on the other end. He didn’t answer my rhetorical question. I’d caught him: the money was mine. ‘When will the money left in the estate revert to me?’

  ‘A year and a day,’ he stated clearly.

  He expected me to sell and not accept the year and a day stipulation. He’d paid no attention to the living conditions of the house because I wasn’t suppose to move in.

  ‘This is what is going to happen.’ I laid out my expectations, the basic necessities of living. Once habitable, I’d move in and then the year and a day clock would start ticking. He argued when I insisted on a monthly allowance to pay for essentials and I held the high ground. ‘Call it a loan, whatever.’

  I had the list I’d made at the pub and I told him my intention to email its contents. ‘Any other improvements I elect to make beyond the scope of this list, I will cover out of my pocket on the grounds these will be recuperated when I sell the property.’

  ‘My fee—’

  ‘Twenty thousand, more than sufficient to cover all eventualities.’ Was it? I’d no idea, but no way was he going to dictate the terms.

  ‘When will you move in?’

  ‘When I’m ready. Oh, the cost of hiring a van will come out of the estate, too.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can release the funds—’

  ‘Then I shall ring my solicitor. Oh, and I want a copy of the whole will, not parts of it.’

  Porter spoke with icy precision. ‘I will send it.’

  The moment the call ended I punched the air and breathed a sigh of relief. I was on course to inherit a remarkable house, land, an allowance to cover the costs and when I sold the hall, it would pay off my mortgage and give me the chance to buy a decent house somewhere. Something with a downstairs toilet, no open fires, and a studio.

  FIVE

  The wrought iron gates with their perpendicular struts of flaking black paintwork towered over the hedgerows on each side of the entrance to Heachley Hall. Left wide open because they wouldn’t budge from their sunken tracks, the gates framed the ample length of the driveway.

  Ruth clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Dickens, here we come.’

  Her limp attempt at humour wasn’t far from reality. Heachley Hall, the abandoned mansion, was the perfect setting for Great Expectations’ Miss Havisham and her Satis House. The house portrayed a different time, before the arrival of regimental bricks and smooth mortar work. Several pointed gables crowned the upper storey, their lofty apexes topped off by small tottering obelisks. The jumbled rows of flintstone blocks transformed the walls into a patchwork of greyness. The perpendicular windows with their lead-lined miniature panes created a network of fake prison bars, while the variegated creepers that freely spawned over half the house had smothered the diminished porch. The house represented an era when romance dictated architecture not practical things like insulation and double-glazing.

  The welcoming mist had slithered away, the breeze assisting in its dispersion, but the gloom lingered forming a canopy. The sun, for all its power, failed to produce an autumnal halo in the sky. Parking the rental van, I recalled the reason why I felt called to live there: Heachley might have lost its beauty, but not to the detriment of losing its character or appeal. Whatever it had in store for me, I alone would befriend it. I switched off the engine and rubbed my hands together, eager to see the interior again.

  I had a mission to complete.

  Where would I be without Ruth or the kindness of friends and a few strangers? I appealed for help from my Pilates classmates, next-door neighbours and a few artisans who lived around Essex. I even resorted to Facebook and Twitter to ask for some things. I usually kept my social media accounts for professional contacts and marketing my services, not begging letters for second-hand beds and electric heaters.

  The response was overwhelming and deeply touching. I supplemented the hand-outs with cheap purchases from eBay and charity shops, including a slim-line fridge, a basic washing machine and a new mattress to go on a donated pinewood double bed.

  When I sent him the expenses Mr Porter quibbled a little, but relented as he had done on most of my requests with the exception of the issues relating to the Internet. Once the
telephone line had been reconnected, it quickly became apparent the copper wire, in conjunction with the distance from the house to the nearest junction box with broadband cable connection, was infuriatingly insufficient; a carrier pigeon would have been quicker.

  ‘Unessential,’ Mr Porter had persisted. ‘The cost of upgrading the line is beyond the scope of the funds available. I would suggest you reconsider your priorities.’

  ‘I need it for work.’ However, my plea had fallen on deaf ears and I realised I’d lost that fight. Also, he was right because it would costs thousands. I would have to rely on hijacking Wi-Fi hotspots in the local area.

  I’d been exceptionally busy for the last few days and accumulated everything I needed to equip a kitchen including an urn.

  ‘Why an urn?’ Ruth asked as we inspected the contents of the van. I hoped nothing had broken during the journey.

  We’d departed in the dark of a blustery Saturday morning with the intention of stretching the daylight hours. I ground the gears several times before the sun rose; the hire van was a nightmare to drive as I’d little experience of such vehicles.

  We’d driven past Knottisham’s neat village green, which Ruth sighed longingly over, before I cautiously navigated the van’s girth down the claustrophobic lane leading towards the estate.

  The urn was an unfortunate necessity. ‘No hot water.’

  ‘None?’ Ruth’s exclamation didn’t surprise me. I hadn’t told her about all the plumbing issues. Kevin, the appointed plumber and friend of Bert, had managed to salvage the cold water tank and due to the presence of an insulating cover, there had been no dead rats or birds floating inside it. However, the rusted hot water tank and boiler needed replacing.

  ‘There is no gas to the house, instead, there’s an oil fired boiler, which is a pity as it’s not working. I’m currently negotiating with Porter the ramifications of fitting a new heating system. Hence the urn to make sufficient quantities of hot water until the issue is resolved.’