Connor flicked through the paperwork on the desk with no anxiety inside him. He was numb. The bank manager was clicking away on his PC, filling in dates and details and pulling information from savings and looking at mortgages.
“Seriously?” Connor asked. “For real?”
“Yes, seriously,” the guy said. Austin was his name, younger than Connor ever remembered being.
“The house and the partnership.”
Austin tilted his head and peered closer to the screen. “The partnership isn’t my area of expertise, but with your ISA and your savings, and the mortgage you want to take out on the house in question, which is barely nothing, then you have all the finances in place.”
“You can tell that from the screen?”
Austin frowned at him. “Yes.”
Connor might well only be thirty-one, but at that moment, the twenty-one-year-old kid was staring at him like he was some confused old-timer.
“It just can’t be that easy.”
Austin smiled at him. “We aim to make things easy.”
“And timescales?”
“A couple of hours with our mortgage adviser, and you’re probably looking at completion on the house in two to four weeks if you have the legal side in place and the other party is ready to go.” Austin leaned over the desk like he was sharing a secret. “We had another rental property that actually completed in only eight working days.”
“Wow.” What else could Connor say? By the end of July he could own the house from his childhood, and by the middle of August he could be a partner in the practice. He’d literally gone from someone passing through life to someone making a stand in the space of a couple of days.
“So would you like me to call in the mortgage adviser, his name is…”
The words became a blur as young Austin detailed everything he needed to do. He was working from a printed list, damn computer wasn’t leaving anything to chance. The decision to stay here, to live in Upper Fordham, to work in a town two miles from his house, to know everyone, each neighbour, to drink in the same pub, to put down roots? All of that was the scariest thing of all.
“Mr Lawson? Is that okay?”
Connor blinked at Austin. “Yes,” he said with every ounce of conviction he had.
When he stepped out into the sunlight with the bank at his back, he was looking directly at the practice that he could soon be a part of in a very permanent way. The building sprawled a little, a large house conversion with a modern extension behind, it sat square and sure in Aston-Under-Wold like it had been there forever. He was going to be part of this. A solid citizen with responsibilities and ties to a place he thought he’d just be passing through.
His cell sounded and he fished it out of his pocket. Rachel. He answered it with a smile. It was like she knew he needed to hear from someone just at that moment.
“Standing there like a lemon isn’t getting Paddy the Irish setter neutered,” she said. He looked over at the practice, and Rachel stood at the window of the staff break room, waving at him.
“I like standing here,” he said with a returning wave.
“Tell you what then, bring coffees in and I’ll ask Paddy if he’s okay to wait for another ten minutes.”
“Deal.”
There was a queue in the coffee shop. Aston-Under-Wold was a typical Cotswold town, a mix of old stone buildings and beautifully cut grass, ornate signs directing tourists to various views and places of interest, and it appeared a few of the tourists had stopped for teas and coffees. Rachel always said that the locals should have their own line, but Connor was content to stand and wait. He needed the thinking time. He had a house to buy and a partnership to sign up to. And then there was Ash.
Gorgeous, sexy, bare-chested Ash. The man Connor couldn’t help but worry about.
But before he could do that he had to consider the ex, Tristan, the one Connor had dated for three and a half years and the one who’d thrown Connor away like yesterday’s rubbish. Wonder what he’d think of me now? I’m not a student anymore. I’m going to own a house and be partner in a practice. Not such a waste of your time anymore, eh?
The queue moved and Connor realised his mood had shifted from a confused high to the low of wallowing in memories he’d rather forget. The person in front finished quickly and it was his turn.
“Hi, Connor,” Liz, the owner of Lizzie’s Tea Rooms, said with a smile. “The usual?”
“Please.”
“How did the wedding go? Rachel said you went with her? I saw the bride, she was beautiful, and the car must have cost a fortune? Did you meet Benedict? And what about the Lord and Lady? And the brothers? I heard the ring cost thousands. Did you see the ring? Rachel told me that the reception was at The Wychwood, and I ask you why was that? You’d think they’d have had it at the Grange or even at the Manor up by the Villa. Guess if you have as much money as they do, it’s quirky to be celebrating in a pub. Oh did you hear the Barrow farm is being sold on, Jamie Barrow is closing up and moving to France, although why he’d want to go to France, I don’t know.”
Finally she stopped and in the time she’d talked she’d created three coffees and two teas and placed the whole lot in a cardboard carry and in front of Connor.
“I’ll put it on the account. So nice to talk to you,” she added.
Connor left, constantly amazed that somehow Lizzie knew everything she did even when she didn’t let anyone get a word in edgeways. But she was right about one thing, she had talked to him, not with him.
The rest of his day was uneventful, poor Paddy had been neutered, and Connor also had a few regular check-ups and catching up on injections to keep him busy. He made the decision to keep Tux in for another day. The cat looked sorry for himself but he allowed Connor to check on his wounds. Connor left Evan with the task of telling Ash that Tux wasn’t ready today and refused to spend any time thinking about the confusing mess of contradictions that was Ashby Sterling-Haynes.
He made it home to his rented one-bed house on the outskirts of town a little after six pm, ate a quick dinner, and drove out to Upper Fordham.
The village was like the place that time forgot. Unlike Aston-Under-Wold, which had become the tourist destination for “olde worlde” England, the village was more remote and tucked away in the hills and had avoided too much change. Didn’t mean it didn’t get its fair share of tourists, though.
The place was part of the huge Haynes Park Estate and as such there were a lot of very old workers’ cottages clustered along the main through road. Nothing much had changed since he’d visited here as a child. The post box was inside the main stone wall, the red phone box no longer had a phone inside it but a portable defibrillator, common to many villages. The sign for the old school had been painted recently but that really was the only change that Connor could see. Well, apart from the tourists milling up and down the main road taking photos of everything.
He drove past The Wychwood, where the car park was full. The Wychwood had a local reputation as a meeting house for friends, and nationally as the prettiest pub in the Cotswolds, added to which it had been used in an episode of the new series of Sherlock and had become a sudden mecca for fans. Not that The Wychwood minded, it was all good business for them during the day, and the place was turned over to the locals at night.
He turned left after the pub then almost immediately right and onto the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it turning that wound its way up to the church. No one used this road to get to the church, though, not since the back entrance to the church had been gated off in the last couple of years. As such there was even grass growing in the middle of the road. A little way up on the left were three houses. Two set back from the road, rental properties with new families on holiday each week. The other was the place his parents always rented as kids. The house that Connor’s mum had called their summer place. It was actually named something more “cottagey.” As soon as he climbed out of the car, he was clearing long grass from around the gate exposing the real name in a tattered sign. Honeysuckle Cottage. The gate stuck on the grass and sadness gripped Connor. He recalled the place as tidy and clean and cared for, but like Mick said when his cousin’s wife died, it had fallen into disrepair and when Mick had inherited it, he’d been given a place that could well be knocked down.
Connor didn’t quite believe that, a lot of these old workers’ cottages were being snapped up by commuters who wanted a country cottage, then renovated before sitting idle and empty for most of the year. But still, Mick had been right about one thing, this would be Connor’s now. That was one decision he could easily make.
He didn’t want to go any closer. The place wasn’t officially his yet, but he could at least walk around the garden and take some photos. He pulled out his phone and snapped shot after shot, the crumbling in parts of the garden wall, the guttering hanging crooked at one corner, the water butt overflowing and with moss growing on one side. There was a bricked-over well in the yard of the house somewhere, he recalled that, but he couldn’t find it in the mess of the garden weeds. The windows all looked intact, but he shouldn’t be surprised by that.
This village house wasn’t like where he’d been brought up as a kid; an empty place in his childhood neighbourhood immediately meant graffiti and broken windows or, even worse, squatters. Out here, down a road that wasn’t used much, houses sat quiet and forgotten, especially when they were hidden by large oak trees and sat back from the road.
Connor peered through dirty windows and could see the inside was empty. Obviously Mick had cleared it after his cousin’s death, and the enormity of what he was doing hit Connor with the force of a hammer to the skull. He’d need new stuff. A bed at least. And was there even a working kitchen? Could he even live in the house? He’d need to budget for weatherproofing checks, was the roof okay?
Forty-seven thousand was enough to buy this place, but he might well end up spending twice or three times that on making the place a home.
I have the money. And I could borrow more. But… is it worth it?
He sat on the low wall off from the house and hunched over in thought. Self-doubt flooded him. This wasn’t a paint job, where a coat of white would cover the scars of misuse and neglect, this was a renovation project.
“Is it worth it?” he said aloud to no one. Then he closed his eyes and tried all the exercises he’d been shown. The breathing. In. Out. I can do this. I am strong. I am worth it. “I’m in control.”
A cold nose poked at his hand and he startled, eyes open, coming face to face with a wonderful doggie grin. Bessie the Border collie was here, which meant Mick wasn’t far behind. Shaking off the panic and melancholy, Connor fussed Bessie, feeling the lump in her side and hiding his fears as Mick pushed through the partially open gate and ambled up the path.
“Vettrin’rry,” he said and tipped an imaginary hat. “Thought that was your car.”
“I saw the bank today,” Connor said abruptly.
“So I heard.”
Connor didn’t even begin to ask how Mick knew he’d been to the bank. “They said yes to the money.”
“So you want the house, then?”
“You really only want forty-seven for it. I mean, you’re really sure.”
Mick looked briefly up at the church steeple in thought, then back at Connor. “Yep.”
“It’s a big project.”
Mick came and sat next to him, Bessie at his side, leaning against Mick’s leg and looking up at him adoringly. Connor didn’t have it in his heart to mention the lump in Bessie’s side. A sixteen-year-old Border collie wasn’t the best candidate for any kind of invasive procedure, and she’d already beaten cancer once a few months back.
“What would you like to do to her?” Mick asked with a nod to the house.
Connor didn’t know. He closed his eyes briefly to picture how the house used to look, but all he could see was his mum and dad sitting in the garden on stripy deckchairs staring up at the blue cloudless sky, his dad inspecting his eyelids with a soft snore, his mum daydreaming. Those memories still hurt.
“Am I the right person for this house?”
“You mean because of the memories you have of better times?”
“How did you know that?”
“You’ve told me a hundred times about your summer place, about the week every year that you would visit with your parents, and that they’re not with you anymore. I’m sure this wouldn’t be easy.”
Mick was incredibly perceptive for an ornery old man who lived alone with his dog.
“I want to buy the house.”
Mick held out a hand and Connor shook it.
Bessie moved up and away at the movement, stretching in the evening sun and snapping at a fly that flew too close.
“Vettrin’rry, she’s not well again.” Mick wasn’t asking, he was telling. “The cancer, it’s come back.”
Connor’s heart broke. Mick and Bessie were inseparable. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll not put her through anything again,” Mick said, simple and quiet. “She’s earned her quiet time. Like we all have.”
“Mick, if she needs anything, if I can do anything… when the time comes…”
“We’ll both be fine,” Mick said firmly. “But thank you. Do you have five pounds?”
Connor pulled out his wallet and took out a fiver, handing it to Mick, who then reached into his pocket and pulled out keys. He extended the keys and shook them. “Five is surety, rest’ll come in when it does. House is all yours. Shake on it.”
Connor shook Mick’s hand, then took the proffered keys, not sure at all that this transaction was anywhere near legal. At least it was a gesture that this was indeed happening.
Mick whistled for Bessie and the two of them left the garden slowly. Connor watched them depart, and abruptly he felt restless at the weight of keys in his pocket. What had he done?
Given myself the chance to start my life over again.
That’s what I’ve done.