store which also sold newspapers and stamps, and Michael Lazarus’s ironmongery – which was more of a museum than a shop, if the number of people who ventured into the Dickensian interior simply to look rather than to buy, was anything to go by. The houses along the high street were defined as being either at Top End or else at Back End, though in fact from the centre, which was marked by the gates and long, snaking driveway to Longbridge Hall, the high street sloped upwards to either end. But Top End had always been known as such because here the finer, larger houses sat spruce and proud, like dapper Georgian gentlemen keeping an eye on things. In comparison, like a scatter of peasant children, were the cottages which defined the Back End; some standing on their own like shy sheep, some in a chatter of four or five in short terraces. What made the high street so pretty was that all the buildings, whatever their size, had frontage. Even in winter, flowers and well-tended shrubs proudly sang forth.
Beyond the cottages, a thatch of woodland bristled to either side of the road, after which the new houses stood in an embarrassed huddle. These were, in fact, pre-war and far more sensible family homes than the old cramped cottages. But they would always be known as the New Houses in a gently dismissive way. Even the people who lived there gave their address with a slightly resigned tone.
Pride of place, not just in the village but in the wider locale itself, was Longbridge Hall, seat of the Fortescue family, the Earls of Barbary, for eight generations. It was as if Longbridge Hall had sat down so firmly, so emphatically, directly at the centre of the village, that the road to either side had been pushed upwards; rather like a portly old uncle settling himself right in the middle of a sagging sofa. The house itself was not actually visible from the high street; set some way back, its presence was nonetheless felt – the wrought-iron gates with handsome stone supports and the parade of lime trees lining the imposing driveway and heralding something undeniably grand beyond.
When Stella arrived on the Saturday morning, to meet Mrs Benton at number four Tidy Row Cottages, she couldn’t believe that, as a Hertfordshire girl, she’d never once been to Long Dansbury. Parking her car, as she’d been instructed, in the gravel rectangle opposite the Spar, she was glad to be early and she walked slowly, taking in the surroundings. In fact, she was so enthralled by the houses, she wasn’t actually looking where she was going. And Xander was so busy checking his pedometer as he ran, estimating he’d need to sprint up Back End, that he saw the woman only at the last minute.
The runner clipped Stella’s shoulder hard, sending her Elmfield Estates folder flying.
‘Oi!’ she turned and glowered, rubbing her arm indignantly.
He ran on the spot for a step or two, held his hands up in mock surrender and panted, ‘Sorry!’
‘Honestly!’ Stella muttered as she chased the scatter of sheets. ‘You could at least help.’
He jogged in an exasperated arc back to her and gathered some of the papers, thrusting a scrunch of them at her, before belting off.
As she sifted and sorted, somewhat flustered, a passer-by stopped to help.
‘Don’t mind Xander,’ the good Samaritan said. ‘He’s in training.’
‘He’s a public liability,’ Stella muttered. ‘Joggers – like caravans and big lorries – should only be allowed out after hours.’
The other woman picked up the Elmfield Estates terms and conditions and thought how Xander would have something to say about being called a jogger. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Er, Tidy Row Cottages. Number four.’
‘Mercy,’ the woman muttered and for a moment Stella wondered if there was something she should know before she remembered the appointment was with a Mrs M. Benton.
‘Mrs Benton,’ Stella said.
‘Fancy that,’ said the woman, looking Stella up and down. ‘John Denby won’t be pleased.’ John Denby’s For Sale sign had been outside Mercy Benton’s cottage for quite some time. Houses in Long Dansbury were only ever sold by John Denby. Fancy that. Wonder if they knew! She’d call Margaret as soon as she was home. See if she’d heard anything.
‘Well, thank you for your help,’ said Stella, sensing slight resistance when she tried to take the Elmfield forms from the lady.
Mercy Benton’s cottage was compact and immaculate and though the kitchen was old it could be modernized with minimal fuss. Stella walked around with the owner, genuinely charmed by the features and also by the owner’s furniture and trinkets. It reminded her of her late grandmother’s place. A porcelain ornament of a Shire horse and foal. A cut-glass lidded bowl full of stripy humbugs. Antimacassars on an olive-green velvet sofa and armchair. Photographs of family on top of the telly.
‘I love it!’ Stella told her.
‘I do too,’ said Mrs Benton. ‘But it’s time to go.’
‘And you’ve found an apartment at Summerhill Place?’
‘Oh, it’s lovely. It really is.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Stella.
‘You know it was once a country mansion? How grand that I’ll be living there! They’ve done a lovely job. It’s all self-contained apartments now – but with tea served in a smashing room downstairs for residents every afternoon. And a cleaner once a week. And bridge on Tuesdays. Bingo on Thursdays. Recitals and the like on Saturdays. And an emergency call button. All sorts going on. Such lovely grounds – ever so grand. Beryl went there a year ago. Loves it. We were at school together, you know.’
Stella nodded. ‘Was Beryl from Long Dansbury too?’
Mercy Benton laughed. ‘Of course!’ She paused. ‘Silly bugger.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That fast-talking chappy from John Denby.’ Mercy thought about it quietly. He’d expressed no interest in her home – only in the house. He couldn’t see the intrinsic difference. He hadn’t even asked a thing about Summerhill Place. That’s why, twelve weeks later and with only a dribble of viewings, Mercy had decided to invite Elmfield Estates to cast an eye. She liked this young woman. Look at her now, peering at the face on the toby jug as if it was someone she recognized; running her fingers lightly back and forth across the tasselled edging of the tapestry cushion. She had gazed and gazed at the view of the garden from the back bedroom. She’d asked Mercy what flowered out there. Made notes on her pad of all Mercy told her.
‘Would you be considering Elmfield as joint agents? Alongside Denby?’
‘What do you suggest, dear?’
‘Between you and me, Mrs Benton, if you haven’t had an offer in three months, they are showing the wrong people around. Off the top of my head, I have two clients on my list – this beautiful home would suit either of them down to the ground. Also, if you give Elmfield a crack as sole agents, the commission you pay is much less.’
‘Will it be you?’
‘I wish I could afford it. I’d love to live here.’
‘No, dear – I mean, will it be you who does all of the everything?’
‘All of the everything,’ Stella smiled. ‘Yes, it’ll be me. I assure you. Everything. Phone calls, visits, negotiations. The lot. Just me, Mrs Benton.’
‘Call me Mercy.’
‘Well, Mercy, I’ll need a couple of days to organize the particulars, photographs and red tape – and hopefully, by midweek at the latest, I’ll be back, with my clients.’
‘Would you like a humbug?’
‘I’d love one. Thank you! And Mercy – when I bring people to view, offer them a humbug too, or a cuppa. It helps.’
That brash young man from Denby’s had recommended she go out when he brought anyone to her home. ‘Thank you, dear.’
‘Thank you.’