Rumours (15 page)

He waited. There was a long silence, during which he glanced at her to find her still sitting poker straight and seemingly emotionless.

‘Rumours, eh!' Finally, she laughed – a little acidly – as if Xander was an idiot to have been seduced by them and a bore for bothering her with them.

‘I rubbished it,' Xander qualified. ‘I didn't trouble you with it – and it's been doing the rounds for a week or so. Apparently.' He was still standing and Lydia had made no gesture for him to sit. ‘But today, I came across this woman with a clipboard, teetering around the gardens here in high heels, with some hideously emblazoned car parked on your drive.'

‘Miss Hutton,' Lydia corrected. ‘And you didn't come across her, Xander – you trespassed at a gallop and frightened the poor thing witless.'

He bowed his head because that part was true.

‘I was concerned,' he told Lydia quietly.

‘Oh, do sit down – standing there like a naughty schoolboy does not become you.'

Xander sat opposite Lydia, grateful for Mrs Biggins' appearance with the tea tray. Shortbread, dusted with icing sugar when still warm so that it formed a delicate, sparkling crust. When he was a child, Mrs Biggins had facilitated Verity and him by leaving the biscuits in an empty kitchen, cooling on a rack with a linen napkin folded helpfully into an envelope to one side. Even now, Xander wondered if Lydia knew about that, and felt a surge of nostalgic gratitude towards the housekeeper – not so much for her baking skills, but for being a conspirator back then. Maybe that's why there was shortbread today – maybe Mrs Biggins wanted Xander to have something sweet to soften the dressing-down. Only she didn't know he was coming, did she, because he'd made no prior arrangement. It could be just coincidence, but as he bit gently into the biscuit and the buttery crumble of sweetness filled his mouth, he saw it as a good omen.

Unbeknownst to Lydia and Xander, Mrs Biggins had been listening at the door. She was never in the dark about anything. It was her, after all, who'd told Lydia about Mercy Benton's to-do with John Denby & Co. And it was she who'd told Mercy about Elmfield Estates in the first place. And then kept Lady Lydia abreast with the sale of Mercy's cottage.

Lydia watched Xander. He hadn't changed all that much over the years, really – look at the boy! Waiting on tenterhooks for her say-so to take another biscuit. Not too dissimilar from the spaniels they used to keep. She let him eat, she sipped her tea and then she waited for him to speak, enjoying his awkwardness when returning to the contentious subject.

‘Is it?' he said. ‘For sale? Longbridge?'

She stirred thoughtfully at the long-dissolved sugar in her cup and then placed it down carefully onto the table. ‘Yes, Xander, it is.' Her spikiness had gone: her tone was still grave but softened now by a slight tilt of her head which Xander knew to look for.

‘But why?' Xander's response surprised neither of them.

‘Because I can't afford to run the place.'

He looked at her – it was the kind of statement that stood alone and one really couldn't question it further without sounding impolite, nosey, or, worse, uncouth. ‘Is there no alternative?' he asked tactfully.

She shook her head. ‘It's ridiculous, me rattling around the place simply because my forebears lived here.'

‘What about a grant or something? National Trust, English Heritage, the Lottery – I don't know? Longbridge is listed – doesn't that help?'

‘On the contrary,' Lydia said.

‘How about fund-raising? You could open the house, charge an entrance fee, perhaps. Open the kitchen garden, sell produce.'

‘I can't think of anything I'd like to do less,' Lydia said with utter disdain.

‘Weddings?' Xander ventured. ‘You can apply for a licence these days. Hold them out in the folly – or just erect a marquee.' This suggestion warranted only a look from Lydia, but Xander knew that look well enough. ‘You could put our rent up? I'm sure we'd all rather pay more than find we had nowhere to live.'

Privately, Lydia was touched by Xander's response; his passion for the place, his yearning to find a solution, to save it. She drifted away for a moment, remembering too how she'd reacted when she was told little Edward's condition was terminal. The hopeful yet futile straw-clutching, the questions and ideas she bombarded the physicians with, the energy and hope that underscored each flailing suggestion; but all the while receiving only the same calm, benevolent response which was essentially negative – much as she was now giving to Xander. But this was just a rotten old house, not a child. It didn't compare. An inanimate block of brickwork and a lead roof that would take a king's fortune to repair.

‘It's the end of an era, I know,' she said and he saw that she didn't dare look around her, instead locking eyes fixedly with him. ‘But it's not happy – this silly old house. It needs an obscene amount spending on it just to keep it going, never mind restoring it to its former glory.'

‘Could you not sell off all the other bits – the farmland, the barns, the other houses?'

‘And stay here? Good God, can you imagine how distasteful, how depressing, that would be? Longbridge would be
surrounded
– besieged. A fine old house tottering atop a shrinking island. The house needs its land, in the same way that the land and cottages need the house – it gives order, hierarchy, balance. Control is in the right place, proportions
and
harmony are maintained.'

She spoke eloquently with no concession to theatre and Xander had to nod. ‘I know,' he said. ‘I know.' He had half a shortbread left. He couldn't touch it. He'd had half a shortbread left the day Verity told him she was being sent away and he'd scoffed at her words and scoffed at the biscuit and it had lodged in his throat, curdling with the stuck tears until he threw it up later that night back at home. He shrugged. ‘It's such a shame,' he said to Lydia. ‘It's a worry,' he said. ‘Say it falls into the wrong hands?'

‘Not many pairs of the wrong hands have the wherewithal to purchase a place like Longbridge,' Lydia said. ‘By virtue of its size, its location, it can only attract a certain type.'

Xander felt cynical but too deflated to debate. Was Lydia so naive as to think that money was still the domain of the landed gentry, of historical families with the abundant funds and the taste, the discernment and knowledge – the breeding – to invest in an estate like Longbridge? Didn't she often complain that she was one of a dying breed? But he knew now was not the time to warn Lydia of Russian oligarchs, footballers' wives or chavvy young pop stars. He knew, too, that there might never be a time appropriate to discuss it – because what business actually was it of his? None whatsoever. He loved the place because he'd grown up here, all his rites of passage had happened here, love and heartache, prosperity and poverty, safety and danger.

‘OK,' he said at length. ‘I do understand, Lydia.'

She drained her tea, placed cup and saucer neatly down and looked at him straight. ‘Then you will understand that I need to have the whole estate valued – which includes Lime Grove Cottages.'

‘The woman with the high heels and clipboard,' he said darkly, as if she was the Grim Reaper in disguise. ‘Were you there today? Earlier? Outside my place?'

‘Yes,' said Lydia.

‘Why didn't you come in? You didn't even knock.'

‘Because you were in,' she said. ‘Because we had no prior arrangement.' She looked at him. ‘It's terribly impolite to simply turn up, unannounced, uninvited, with no prior warning whatsoever.' Her words sounded sharp but they were edged with a glint to her eye and a wryly raised eyebrow. And when she told him to bugger off home – there's a good boy, her tone had softened and her smile was fond. Xander didn't want to wipe it from her face by asking whether or not Verity knew anything about any of this.

* * *

Caroline had collected Millie from school and was trying to distract both children from the lure of the corner shop when she saw Xander walking on the other side of the high street in a world of his own. What was he doing back from work so early? And when did he ever go in to work dressed like that? She called and waved but he didn't hear. It was one of the busiest times on the high street, the thirty minutes after school; the slinking cortège of four-wheel-drives with darkened windows and personalized registration plates, the gaggles of mothers chatting amidst a fidget of children wanting wanting wanting. One of the mums was trying to chat to her about fund-raising, and Sonny was tugging at her, and Millie started wandering off, and God knows where the dog had gone – and although Caroline prided herself on her ability to multitask, watching Xander had to be forfeited.

Finally walking home, Caroline stopped in her tracks and stood still. Her children and her dog looked up, surprised. They'd never had cause to wonder if she knew what she was doing. But now, she was standing still, appearing to be unaware of the chill, of the three sets of eyes staring at her in growing puzzlement. She didn't say anything when she executed an about-turn and retraced their steps at quite a pace and it wasn't until they'd gone way past the school gates that she turned to them and said, we're going to see Uncle Xander. The children hooted a chorus of Xander! Xander! (because it was only Caroline who prefixed his name) and the dog barked because he thought he ought to.

She phoned him while she marched.

‘Get that kettle on, pet – you have visitors.'

Oh God, thought Xander. You can't come – I've tidied the house.

This had nothing to do with any mess the children might generate. Quite the opposite: if Caroline saw the house in such extreme order, she'd know in an instant why. He only cleaned like a dervish when something was afoot. And Caroline, of all the people in his life, would be able to elicit anything and everything he was intending to keep private. He did, for a moment, consider pretending he wasn't home. But she'd phoned his landline, not his mobile. She was on a mission, she was coming over – and that was before she'd even set eyes on the spruce interior.

Even if he went out, if he knew Caroline she'd just go to the shed at the back for the spare key and let herself in anyway. Switch on the television and pop the children in front of it; root around for a Tupperware container and give the dog a drink. Make herself a cup of tea and wait for him. With an air of resignation, he set the kettle to boil and filled a plastic bowl with water which he put by the back door.

‘Surprise!'

‘Xander!'

‘Xander!'

The dog barked.

Xander looked at the posse on his doorstep, the children ruddy cheeked, Caroline beaming, the dog scrabbling halfway up Xander's leg.

‘Well, hullo,' he said and he swept his arm low to invite them in. In an instant, the children tumbled around on his sofas, the dog was lapping at the water and Caroline was looking around, wryly flabbergasted.

‘You're either preparing for guests, or else you're clearing up after them.'

‘Yeah,' said Xander, ruffling his hair, which contradicted his lightweight laugh. ‘Something like that.'

‘Or,' she said, noting that she hadn't heard Xander say ‘yeah' since student days. ‘Or there's something going on that has nothing to do with Cillit Bang being on special offer at all.'

‘Tea?'

‘Go on then!' she said, with a little nudge in his ribs as if he was twisting her arm to stay.

‘Pretty please may we watch the smellovision?' Millie asked, employing Xander's terminology and her mother's canny wink.

Little Sonny simply chanted,
smelly! smelly! smelly!

Usually, Caroline would say no, that they had to chat to their Uncle Xander first. But today she walked boldly over to the set and turned it on to CBeebies. Xander knew this wasn't for her children's benefit as much as to afford her the peace and quiet to grill him to within an inch of his life. He tried to deflect it by waffling on about Andrew and work and running and the next half-marathon but Caroline simply stood with her back to the wall, arms crossed and an expression that said, I'm humouring you, sunshine, and as soon as you shut up I'll be wading on in.

He handed her a mug of tea and, gave her a shrug. ‘Go on then,' he said, with a measured sigh.

‘Why didn't Mrs Mop go into work today?' she asked him. ‘And Mrs Mop'll be you, before you get all Smart Alec on me.'

Xander thought about it.

He'd started off the day perplexed by his situation with Siobhan and that was the reason for playing hookey – yet he had given her little thought since seeing Lydia. It was the news of Longbridge which loomed largest, and darkest, for him.

‘It's been a weird day,' he said.

‘Go on, you dark horse you – who
is
she?'

‘She's no one,' Xander said.

‘That's not very nice,' said Caroline.

‘She'd say the same about me,' Xander said. Caroline looked confused.

‘So you weren't on a hot date yesterday?'

‘Not in so many words,' said Xander. He looked at Caroline and shrugged. ‘She's a hook-up,' he said, ‘as I am to her. That's all.' He rinsed out his mug, filled it with cold water and drank it down. ‘So it's a “no” to dinner at yours, but it was kind of you to ask.'

‘Oh my God – you didn't meet on one of those sad-fucker Internet sites, did you? Shag Buddies Dot Com or some such? Oh, Xander – no!'

‘No, of course I didn't,' he said. ‘We met in a bar – it's been like a one-night stand on repeat.'

Caroline looked at him askance. ‘Oh?'

‘It's easy,' he said, now a little irritated. ‘I like it that way. It suits me.'

The concept didn't seem to suit at all the Xander that Caroline knew so well. ‘Isn't it all a bit – shallow?' she said. ‘And a bit – seedy?'