It’s not the fault of the man at the end of the telephone, but Maggie still lets him feel the full force of her disappointment the next morning. In her head, everything has been hanging on this one call: Cloudesley will either thrive or fall, depending on her powers of persuasion.
‘But you don’t understand,’ Maggie says, trying to retain a degree of patience, ‘the house is old. Really old. Built in the 1700s, or something.’ She is sitting in her grandfather’s study, her feet up on the desk, gazing unseeing at the mosaic of objects scattered across its surface. She reaches for a heavy crystal paperweight, turns it over in her hand absent-mindedly before returning it to the desk. ‘I’ve had a good look on your website and it’s really not that different from any of the other places your members pay to visit each year. You know, the blue-rinse brigade? All those old biddies who love flower gardens and teashops? With just a little work, they’d love it here too. I know they would.’
The man at the other end of the phone clears his throat. ‘At the National Trust, we’re very proud of the fact that we’ve expanded our membership database to become much broader than “the blue-rinse brigade” as you call it, Miss Oberon.’
‘Yes, of course,’ agrees Maggie, quickly. ‘Families would love it here too. There’s plenty of space for kids to run around and trees to climb. It’s magical.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ says the man. He sounds younger than she’d imagined, and he’s not exactly unsympathetic. ‘It sounds charming. And of course it’s our aim as an organisation to preserve as many heritage properties as we can. Everyone who works here believes passionately in protecting our cultural history.’
Maggie nods, encouraged. ‘Exactly.’
‘But I’m afraid it’s simply not feasible for us to support every property that comes our way,’ he continues. ‘We’re a charity, dependent on memberships, donations and legacies for our income and we must be guided not just by our mission statement, but also by financial objectives and targets. We have very strict criteria that must be met before we’d even begin to consider a new property. Tell me,’ he asks, ‘have you considered a private investor? Perhaps selling the property to someone better equipped to undertake the restoration work required?’
‘There is a potential buyer sniffing around, but I’m not sure restoration is quite what he has in mind. Besides, we don’t want to sell,’ she says, lowering her feet and leaning forwards in the chair. Nowhere but Cloudesley. Lillian’s words echo in her ears. ‘It’s been the Oberon family home for over a century. We want to preserve it. I was thinking that my grandmother and I could move into one wing of the house and hand the rest over to you, to restore and open to the public. You’d never see us. We’d be like mice. I promise.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Miss Oberon. Believe me, I do understand your distress—’
‘But I don’t think you do. If you don’t help us, Cloudesley might not even be standing here in a year’s time. If you’d only come and see it?’
The man sighs. ‘All I can do is pass on your details to one of our regional contacts,’ he concedes wearily. ‘I can ask them to consider your proposal. If they deem it a viable property, it would move forward to our acquisitions panel and trustees.’
‘Great. How soon could that happen?’
‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving you an exact time frame. There are a great many properties across the country suffering the same fate as Cloudesley, I’m afraid.’
‘But are we talking weeks or months?’
‘Months . . . perhaps longer.’
Maggie’s heart sinks. It had seemed like such a brilliant plan when it had come to her in the middle of the night. It had felt like the most obvious way to save the crumbling house, in the light of their financial stress. Yes, it involved signing it over to a new entity and opening their home to the public, but if that’s what it took to save the old place . . . She had never anticipated such a lukewarm response.
‘I must advise you, Miss Oberon,’ continues the voice at the end of the telephone, ‘that in the case you’ve outlined to me, it is unlikely we would take on Cloudesley. As beautiful as your home sounds, in these matters the head must rule the heart. If the property doesn’t have unique historic or cultural significance then in these financially challenging times, I don’t believe it’s something we would consider taking on. I wouldn’t want to give you false hope. I feel your time would be far better spent seeking an alternative solution.’
Maggie puts the phone down. All around her are papers and bills spread across the desk. A rather eccentric ornament of a frog, mouth gaping in a wide ‘o’, gazes up at her from beside the banker’s lamp. His shocked expression mirrors exactly how she feels. ‘I know,’ she says, dropping her head into her hands and letting out a long groan. ‘Seems we can’t even give the old place away.’