rest of the village, its golden stone houses glowing in the sun, seemed welcoming and cheerful as Doreen drove down the long main street, pulling up outside old Cyril’s house. It was like coming home, already! She looked into her driving mirror, and saw Howard’s sleek car pulling in behind her. He got out swiftly, and tapped on her window. “Out you get, pet,” he said. “Nobody here from the agents yet?”
He was in tycoon mode, and pulled out his mobile. “Hello! Jenkinson here. Where’s your chap? I made an appointment, and I expect it to be kept.”
Before there was time for a reply, the Toyota appeared, and the young man was with them. “Sorry,” he said humbly. “Got held up in traffic.”
“I came the same way,” Howard said, “and there were no hold-ups. Anyway, let’s get going.” He looked up at the old house, noting the need for re-pointing and the slipping slates. “Don’t suppose it will take us long,” he added, and took Doreen’s arm. “Lead on, then,” he ordered the agent, and they followed him into the house.
It was more of a success than Doreen could have hoped for. Howard was clearly pleasantly surprised. The vicar was out, but the agent had a key and permission to show buyers around. Rev Rollinson was a tidy man, and had loved the old house. He’d redecorated much of it, and had found a sympathetic home for his lovingly collected antique pieces. “I bet the vicar doesn’t want to move into that dreadful new house,” Doreen said, looking round at vases of flowers and real paintings on the walls. She made a mental note to visit the gallery in the village. Her own reproductions of old masters and scenes of holiday places they had visited would not do for this house. She and Jean could have a lovely time tracking down originals. Mind you, originals cost money.
“Up we go, then,” Howard said. He began to see himself living here, inviting friends from the Club to dinner in the beamed dining room, with its old stone fireplace. A leaping log fire in the winter, some really good wine. Yes, it was looking good.
The bedrooms were pleasant, all white and full of sunlight. “Not really much to do inside, is there?” he said to Doreen. “Quite a bit needed on the stonework and roof, I reckon, but we could live in the house more or less straight away.” He looked down into the back garden, and saw an orchard of old trees, a sloping lawn running down to a stream. Oh yes, he could see them in the summer, out on the terrace with tinkling glasses of Pimms, watching the dog playing ball with the grandchildren. They didn’t have a dog, of course, but that was easily fixed.
When they were outside on the pavement, Howard looked at Doreen and nodded. Then he turned to the agent, and said, “I’ll be in touch. Quite a bit to be spent on it, so I’ll work out the figures and make an offer. Hold it for us, will you? You know who I am, don’t you? Contact me at the Town Hall. Mayor’s Parlour. Don’t want to bother the little woman with the details, do we, pet?”
Doreen restrained herself with case this time. She couldn’t believe it was all going so well. Maybe Howard wasn’t a total philistine, after all.
She watched him drive off, and noticed he had taken the wrong road for Waltonby. A passing suspicion reminded her of his shifty performance at breakfast. He’d probably got another call to make. She looked up and down the street, a villager in spirit if not in fact yet. A familiar car was parked outside the shop, and she saw Bill coming out with a bag of shopping.
“Hi, Bill!” she called. He stopped and stared, then waved, and walked towards her. “Hello, Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said. He noted her car parked outside Cyril’s, and added, “Glad to see you’ve had a look at the house. What d’you think?”
“I love it!” Doreen’s face was alive with enthusiasm. “And what’s more, Howard seemed keen too. We’re going to make an offer. It’s bigger than I thought,
He was in tycoon mode, and pulled out his mobile. “Hello! Jenkinson here. Where’s your chap? I made an appointment, and I expect it to be kept.”
Before there was time for a reply, the Toyota appeared, and the young man was with them. “Sorry,” he said humbly. “Got held up in traffic.”
“I came the same way,” Howard said, “and there were no hold-ups. Anyway, let’s get going.” He looked up at the old house, noting the need for re-pointing and the slipping slates. “Don’t suppose it will take us long,” he added, and took Doreen’s arm. “Lead on, then,” he ordered the agent, and they followed him into the house.
It was more of a success than Doreen could have hoped for. Howard was clearly pleasantly surprised. The vicar was out, but the agent had a key and permission to show buyers around. Rev Rollinson was a tidy man, and had loved the old house. He’d redecorated much of it, and had found a sympathetic home for his lovingly collected antique pieces. “I bet the vicar doesn’t want to move into that dreadful new house,” Doreen said, looking round at vases of flowers and real paintings on the walls. She made a mental note to visit the gallery in the village. Her own reproductions of old masters and scenes of holiday places they had visited would not do for this house. She and Jean could have a lovely time tracking down originals. Mind you, originals cost money.
“Up we go, then,” Howard said. He began to see himself living here, inviting friends from the Club to dinner in the beamed dining room, with its old stone fireplace. A leaping log fire in the winter, some really good wine. Yes, it was looking good.
The bedrooms were pleasant, all white and full of sunlight. “Not really much to do inside, is there?” he said to Doreen. “Quite a bit needed on the stonework and roof, I reckon, but we could live in the house more or less straight away.” He looked down into the back garden, and saw an orchard of old trees, a sloping lawn running down to a stream. Oh yes, he could see them in the summer, out on the terrace with tinkling glasses of Pimms, watching the dog playing ball with the grandchildren. They didn’t have a dog, of course, but that was easily fixed.
When they were outside on the pavement, Howard looked at Doreen and nodded. Then he turned to the agent, and said, “I’ll be in touch. Quite a bit to be spent on it, so I’ll work out the figures and make an offer. Hold it for us, will you? You know who I am, don’t you? Contact me at the Town Hall. Mayor’s Parlour. Don’t want to bother the little woman with the details, do we, pet?”
Doreen restrained herself with case this time. She couldn’t believe it was all going so well. Maybe Howard wasn’t a total philistine, after all.
She watched him drive off, and noticed he had taken the wrong road for Waltonby. A passing suspicion reminded her of his shifty performance at breakfast. He’d probably got another call to make. She looked up and down the street, a villager in spirit if not in fact yet. A familiar car was parked outside the shop, and she saw Bill coming out with a bag of shopping.
“Hi, Bill!” she called. He stopped and stared, then waved, and walked towards her. “Hello, Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said. He noted her car parked outside Cyril’s, and added, “Glad to see you’ve had a look at the house. What d’you think?”
“I love it!” Doreen’s face was alive with enthusiasm. “And what’s more, Howard seemed keen too. We’re going to make an offer. It’s bigger than I thought,
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