Rumours Read online

‘We have to nip in to M and S. No buts. Come on. Percy Pigs?’

  I know that voice.

  Xander turned to locate it.

  It’s that estate agent woman. Jesus. Couldn’t he get away from her? She hadn’t seen him. There she is – waiting for the pedestrian green man. Stella. Known as Ms Hutton. Known too, it now transpired, as Mummy. It surprised Xander. He wasn’t sure why. And it surprised him to see that she’d teamed her workaday estate agent garb with trainers. Shoddy ones at that.

  ‘Mummy – please.’

  ‘Poppet – no. You’ve probably seen the episode a million times anyway.’

  ‘A zillion times wouldn’t be too much,’ the boy remonstrated.

  ‘How about we play Clone Wars when we’re home?’

  ‘You and me? With Lego?’

  ‘And Percy Pigs.’

  And Xander thought, who are the Percy Pigs? Distantly related to the Ewoks, perhaps? Surely there couldn’t be George Lucas characters he’d somehow missed? And he thought, so that’s what an estate agent does behind closed doors.

  The Black Ox was always busy, every night of the week, and that Monday was no exception. In fact, Xander needn’t have suggested rounding up the troops; most would probably have meandered in at some point, as if rewarding themselves for surviving the first day of the new working week. Eventually, pints in hand, they gravitated away from the bar to the large scrubbed wooden table which, on a Saturday night, could sit two parties of six without either feeling encroached upon. Word must have spread, Xander thought, because it wasn’t just Jim and the interchangeable Dan and Dave, but Len Hutchins had come along. And Mr Patek. Then there was Xander’s neighbour Tom George, and Bob Redline who’d moved away from the village but was a school governor. Xander looked around. No Art or Mr Tringle. No Clarence. They did know, didn’t they – about Lydia’s intentions? Had they known about tonight? Did they feel guilty – as if to show up somehow made them disloyal to her? Or did they just want to think it was all hearsay? Who brings a tale takes two away, Xander recalled some old adage or other. Would Lydia get wind of this? Would she think it a cabal? Would she be furious with him?

  Dan or Dave said Lydia hadn’t mentioned anything to them directly – apart from informing them that some agent would be visiting ‘for valuation purposes’.

  ‘To be honest,’ said one of them, ‘if we’re given notice to leave, then so be it. But when? And how long will we have?’

  ‘We love it – we’re attached to the place, we started up here,’ said the other. ‘But – there’s other places to go. As long as we’re given enough notice. She’s not very approachable.’

  ‘It’s different for us.’ It was Len Hutchins. ‘You’re young, Longbridge is just where your business is, you’ve homes to go to. But my wife and I – we’ve rented off Lydia for over forty years. It’s our home – but it’s her house. And it won’t matter the years we did in service at Longbridge. She hasn’t come to see us yet. Doreen’s not in a good way about it.’

  ‘What about that parking space opposite the shop?’ Mr Patek’s favourite subject. ‘She’ll never sell it to me, but if she sells the whole place, what’ll come of it then? My customers depend on it. It’s a silent agreement, if you like, between the Lady of Longbridge and the villagers. Someone new comes along? Who knows!’

  People murmured and nodded and said ‘Who knows?’ over and again.

  Xander thought, with some relief, that no one had turned to him directly. They were here, all of them, for a sense of comradeship – an arena in which to voice fears that were shared, to pool what scant information had snagged on the grapevine like fluff on a thorn.

  The landlord came over with pints all round. ‘For what it’s worth, what will it be worth – that huge house and all that land and properties?’

  People were excited to toss figures around.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he repeated, ‘I think it could be a good thing – for the village. At the moment, there’s no cash coming in from there. There’s only a handful of folk living up on the estate itself – it’s not as if my business is boosted by any of them. Mr Patek, how often does Her Ladyship come into your shop?’

  ‘Twice a week,’ Mr Patek said amiably, ‘in person. But she has her daily order.’

  ‘And how much does she spend, then, a week?’

  ‘Well, that’s seven Telegraphs – and seven bars of Fry’s Chocolate Cream.’

  The landlord sat down. ‘So, say she shifts the place to some nice new millionaire – it’ll inject cash into the village directly or indirectly. Jobs, quite possibly. Employ far more locals than she currently does – craftsmen, tradesmen. It could be good for all of us.’

  Xander couldn’t speak.

  The landlord sensed it and it was to Xander he turned. ‘Lad, I know it means everything to you – you of all people. You grew up there. You have –’ he paused – ‘history with the place.’ People glanced away from Xander because most of them knew to what he alluded. ‘But change isn’t always a bad thing, lad. It might save the place and inject something positive into the village. Then that will be a good legacy – won’t it?’

  Xander wanted to say, but there have always been Fortescues at Longbridge. However, he wasn’t a Fortescue. And he wanted to say, the place needs saving – but couldn’t acknowledge, just then, that Lydia currently wasn’t doing a very good job of that. And he wanted to say, but people in the village are dependent on the estate – that was true, some were here tonight. But he could see that, fundamentally, their interests weren’t altruistic but for themselves really, not the Longbridge community as a whole.

  He sipped his pint. ‘There are so few places like Longbridge left.’ He paused, thinking to himself how he was privileged to have the run of the place. He shuddered at the thought of keep-out fencing, of being suddenly shut out. ‘And there are vulnerable people currently dependent on the estate, on Lady Lydia, who aren’t here tonight. Other businesses operating out of the barns.’ He glanced at Dave and Dan. ‘The buildings themselves. The kitchen garden – a property developer would just bulldoze the lot.’

  ‘They mightn’t.’

  ‘English village life is an endangered thing,’ Xander went on, not caring that he sounded pompous. ‘We have tradition and balance here – between the house and the village. It would be a travesty not to at least try to preserve it.’

  Finally, after many opinions were thrown into the mix, Bob Redline spoke up. ‘It’s a difficult time because little is known and nothing is certain. Not everyone will be happy with whatever outcome transpires. But it is interesting to consider that the future of Longbridge might not necessarily be in the hands of the Fortescues.’ He paused and looked from Xander to the landlord. ‘And that is a very, very strange concept indeed for anyone who’s connected with Long Dansbury, whatever their age or involvement.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a waiting game at the moment,’ the landlord remarked.

  And the concept was as unsettling for Xander as it was for the rest of them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘I have a date for you.’

  Stella was standing in the kitchen, clearing away the supper things, when Sara rang.

  ‘Oh, yes? Hang on,’ Stella made her way to the calendar.

  ‘A date, date,’ Sara clarified.

  Oh. One of those. But Stella knew she’d previously agreed to it in principle with both her sisters-in-law. No point protesting. She’d just have to say yes. Get on with it, get it over with – like a check-up at the dentist.

  ‘He’s called Riley.’

  That is a ridiculous name.

  ‘Which I know sounds faintly ridiculous – but it doesn’t suit him.’

  ‘You’re not selling him particularly well,’ said Stella.

  ‘He’s early forties and has been living abroad – recently moved back. No dependants. He’s a friend of my friend Bella’s husband.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘Yes?’ Stell
a was looking at the calendar wishing more of the weekend boxes were taken so she could truthfully say, so kind of you to think of me but I don’t have a window until July.

  ‘How about the fifteenth? This coming Saturday night. Will could come for a sleepover – the Stickies would love that.’

  This coming Saturday, 15 May. Not a jot on the calendar. Not even something crossed out that could be reinstated at a push. A gloatingly bare square saying, fill me if you dare.

  ‘OK,’ said Stella. ‘Why not. Riley O’Blimey.’

  ‘Don’t take the piss before you’ve met him. Apparently, he’s handsome and clever – and rich.’

  Just what I need, Stella grumbled as she hung up. And then she thought, if he ticks so many boxes as well as fills the empty one on my calendar, why don’t I feel remotely excited? She thought, perhaps I just don’t need it – Riley, anyone – rich, poor, gorgeous, other. Perhaps it’s everyone else’s needs that I’m to take care of – some notion they have that I ought to be paired off, as if it will then cancel out the negative of my past, render Charlie non-existent. Make everyone feel better. They all felt so helpless at the time – maybe this is their own way of making amends, of feeling proactive, useful, kind.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said quietly, ‘perhaps it’s just not for me. Maybe I like life; just me and my boy.’ She scraped the plates and rinsed them before filling the sink with hot water and adding the washing-up liquid last so it didn’t foam too much.

  ‘It’s not like I’m pining. I’m not losing sleep hoping for Mr Lovely. I don’t even miss sex. My life doesn’t feel the poorer for the absence of these things – and maybe the presence of them would just complicate the cosy balance I have, me and Will together.’

  * * *

  ‘Hold on, please, I’ll just transfer you.’ Belinda pointed her desk phone at Stella as though it was a lance. ‘It’s for you.’ She bashed at the numbers and Stella’s phone rang. Belinda didn’t hang up but Stella, sitting at the front of the office with her back to the stabbing eyes of her colleagues, didn’t know this. Geoff did, but he diverted his gaze because work was trying enough without the added conflict of taking sides.

  ‘Stella Hutton speaking.’

  ‘You need to see the coach house apartment. And Clarence’s.’

  Stella hadn’t heard of either development but thought they might be in Sawbridgeworth.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella, ‘could you tell me a little more? Where they are? Sale or rent? Could I take your details please, Mrs – Mrs?’

  The exasperated sigh on the other end of the line hit Stella so sharply she felt winded. It was Lydia. Of course it was! The sigh said, Good God, girl – don’t you know who I am!

  ‘Lady Lydia!’ Stella said. ‘I’m so sorry – I’ve had a cold and the line isn’t great.’ Flimsy – but plausible.

  ‘Yes yes,’ said Lydia dismissively. ‘But you’ll come soon, please.’

  ‘Saturday?’ Stella said covertly, now aware that, around her, ears might be open and tongues ready to lash.

  ‘Very well,’ Lydia said. ‘Nine o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Stella. ‘Cheerio.’

  There was a pause. ‘Toodle pip,’ said Lydia, tentatively, as if unsure whether a jaunty sign-off was her thing.

  But in Longbridge and Hertford, as each woman replaced the handset, they gave it a quizzical smile. And behind Stella, in the offices of Elmfield Estates, Belinda gave Gill and Steve a sly nod. And although Geoff was relieved not to be included, he sensed it and wished he’d remained in the dark. Or just at home, off work with stress.

  * * *

  ‘How posh is posh?’ Will asked.

  ‘Posher than posh,’ Stella said.

  ‘How big is big?’ Will asked.

  ‘Bigger than you could even imagine,’ said Stella.

  ‘Bigger than Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Stella. She looked at her son. ‘A different style of architecture.’

  ‘But really big and really posh?’ Will said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella, turning through the gates of Longbridge. ‘Don’t touch anything, remember. Just see how well you can impersonate my shadow.’

  ‘OK,’ said Will. ‘Is this the way?’

  ‘It’s the driveway,’ said Stella, ‘their own private drive.’

  ‘All of this?’

  ‘Every inch.’

  Mrs Biggins opened the door, greeted Stella but looked horrified once she’d noticed Will.

  ‘Are we expecting – both – of you?’

  ‘I –’ Stella stopped. ‘It’s just that – it’s the weekend?’ She put her hand protectively on Will’s shoulder but he wriggled away.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Will, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. Mrs Biggins shook it. ‘I am William, but you may call me Will.’

  And then he bowed.

  Mrs Biggins was visibly delighted. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said to Stella quietly. And she winked at Will.

  They were shown to the hallway in which Will found it impossible to keep his head straight – there was a magnetic pull to tip it back, mouth agape. Nor could he walk straight, turning a constant 360 as he was led deeper into the house.

  ‘Miss Hutton is here,’ Mrs Biggins told Lydia, who was in the drawing room, standing in front of the electric bar heater in the fireplace though, being mid-May, it wasn’t cold at all.

  ‘Very good,’ said Lydia.

  Mrs Biggins didn’t move. ‘With young Master William.’

  ‘Who?’ Lydia’s brow knotted into itself.

  ‘William,’ Mrs Biggins announced. ‘Her son.’ She paused.

  ‘She has brought a child? A boy? Here?’ Lydia looked appalled. ‘She has a child?’

  Mrs Biggins thought, God in heaven forgive me for lying. ‘She did phone to check – it being the weekend and all. I did mention it.’

  Lydia couldn’t bear to acknowledge lapses in memory. They were so undignified. So troubling. She straightened the furrows across her forehead with a swipe of her hand. ‘Of course you did. Yes, of course. Very well. Show them in.’

  Mrs Biggins returned to the hallway. ‘You may go in,’ she said. Then she said to Stella, ‘Of course, I did pass on your message to Lady Lydia – when you phoned ahead and spoke to me the other day. That you’d both be coming.’ She stared levelly at Stella but with complicity, not malice.

  Thank you, Stella mouthed and she straightened Will’s hair, a lock of which was jumping straight upwards as if electrified.

  ‘Shadow,’ Stella whispered to him and they entered the drawing room. ‘Don’t forget.’ She placed her hands on the handles of the double-height doors and pushed them open.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Lydia.’ Stella liked to be formal when she first saw Lydia each visit.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hutton.’ Lydia was staring at Will, like a person scared of dogs but trying not to show it.

  Will thought, I’m not to say a word. He thought, I’m to be a shadow. But then he thought, the Lady lady is staring at me. He thought, it’s rude to royalty not to say hullo. It’s the sort of thing that they used to chop your head off for, in the olden days.

  So he kept his head down and raised his hand. Glanced up. Still being stared at.

  ‘Good morning,’ Lydia said to him, an audible rasp to her voice.

  ‘Good morning, Your Ladyship,’ said Will, stepping away from Stella to bow. ‘I am William Ewan Taylor-Hutton.’

  Stella thought, oh, Jesus Christ, he’s gone and double-barrelled his surname. Will Taylor, son of Charlie Taylor and Stella Hutton. His father’s surname was the most he’d ever had from the man. Every time Stella wrote or spoke Will’s surname, she felt the contradiction acutely – it was so present, so fixed, yet served only to exaggerate the distance Charlie had created. The total lack of presence, let alone any valid connection.

  Lydia glanced at Stella, as if unsure as to whether the boy was taking the mickey or, worse, fi
bbing.

  ‘Commonly known as Will,’ Will said, apologetically, stepping back just behind his mother, not daring to catch her eye. At least he’d saved his neck. No dungeon for him.

  ‘I see,’ said Lydia. ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘I am seven and just over a half, Your Ladyship.’

  She looked at him warily. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Will, with a sage nod.

  ‘Come here!’ Lydia barked. ‘Will!’

  Watching Will walk over to Lady Lydia, Stella recalled how she had felt like Tess first meeting Mrs d’Urberville. Now it was like watching her son take the role of Pip, summoned by Miss Havisham. Thank God Lydia called him Will, not ‘boy’. Stella watched as Lydia stared down her aquiline nose and Will looked up at her in awe tinged with terror.

  ‘I’m normal size for my age,’ he said, nervously.

  ‘Your hair is preposterous,’ Lydia said and, taking him by the upper arm, she led him to the circular table on which a display of lilies and ferns was choking in a vase too small. Keeping a hand on him, she rooted through the stems for one in which the bloom was past its best. She removed it, snapped at a joint below the flower head and squeezed the gluey sap between her fingers. This she then smoothed onto the errant lock of Will’s hair, patted it down, tugged it and then lay her hand there for a long moment.

  ‘That should do it,’ she muttered, leaving the broken stem on the table and shooing Will back to his mother. She tapped her nose at Stella – as if she’d imparted an invaluable secret known only to the landed gentry.

  ‘The carriage house apartment,’ she said, ‘and Clarence’s place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella.

  ‘It is Art’s day off. And I don’t do those stairs any more. So I have asked Mr Fletcher to show you what you need to see.’

  ‘Mr Fletcher?’ Stella wasn’t sure whether she baulked or reddened or how visible either might have been.

  ‘Yes?’ Lydia regarded her sternly. ‘You’ve met him. Xander.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Stella, ‘I know who he is. He was the one who accosted me in your garden.’

  ‘For which, I am sure, he has since apologized.’