‘Something with character,’ the man replied. She decided to give them the details for Cliff Lodge anyway. On the surface it seemed old, with its reclaimed bricks and gnarled timberwork. The builder had done a great job, but buyers were generally savvy. They’d soon realise it was overpriced.
‘This one has amazing views,’ Claire told them, slipping the details inside a glossy brochure. ‘You get the feel of an older property but with all the benefits of a new build. It scores top on energy ratings, has a media control panel for the entire house, underfloor heating, state-of-the-art security…’
‘It looks interesting,’ the woman said, glancing at her partner. ‘Though we really were set on something original.’ She smiled. Her hair was light brown, short and highlighted with flecks of red. Her skin was pale, slightly sun-kissed, and her height, Claire guessed, would be about right. Her breathing quickened.
‘Well, take it anyway,’ she said, handing over the brochures. She’d lost count of how many clients with fixed criteria would, three months later, be moving into somewhere entirely different.
‘I can make a few calls now to arrange some viewings if you like.’ She didn’t usually go for the hard sell, but it had been a lean month, though she also wondered if it was her interest in the woman making her pushy. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
The couple looked at each other and nodded, so Claire went into the back to pour the drinks. ‘Have you a property to sell?’ she asked, returning.
‘Our London place is sold. We’re renting down here,’ the man replied, turning the brochure pages.
Claire’s heart fluttered. With only ten days left in the month, she could do with a decent sale. ‘I’m Claire, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Claire Rodway.’
They both smiled. ‘I’m Gary and this is my wife, Eleanor.’ Claire couldn’t help gripping the woman’s hand for a moment too long.
* * *
An hour and a half later they’d viewed two empty properties. Cliff Lodge, followed by what Claire thought would be the perfect property, not far from Rock. She’d questioned Eleanor about her past as much as she could, but it turned out she’d lived in Kent and London all her life. As they stood outside the last house, gazing back at the fa?ade, Claire’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, stepping aside. She overheard Gary and Eleanor whispering about furniture, the piano, kids’ bedrooms and where they could put a vegetable plot. It sounded promising.
‘Hello, Claire Rodway speaking.’ There was silence on the line apart from background noise that either sounded like traffic or the tide rushing in. ‘Hello? Who is this?’
The line went dead.
Claire stared at the screen. It was the second time that day – and each call had come up as number withheld. She shrugged and went back to the couple. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘It’s certainly got potential,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’d just hoped for more of a project. Something I can put my mark on.’ The couple nodded at each other, joining hands.
‘We were wondering if you have any barns to convert or old farmhouses with potential, that sort of thing?’ her partner said.
Claire stifled a sigh. ‘Possibly,’ she said in a way that would make them believe there was hope, even though she knew they didn’t have anything like that on their books. ‘I’ll check the files and give you a call.’
If she’d known then what she found out later, she could have taken them straight to the perfect property and probably had an offer on the table by close of business.
Chapter Two
‘Mum, Dad, it’s me…’ Claire called from the back hall, letting herself in. She’d stopped by at her parents’ farm next door to her own house to pick up the dress her mum had altered for Amy. There was no reply, so she went straight into the large flagstoned kitchen.
She stopped suddenly.
‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ She glanced between her parents.
Her father was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper open in front of him but obviously not reading it. His glasses were lying beside him, his eyes looking as though they’d been glued, unfocused, to the same page for the last ten minutes. Her mother was making a point of banging pots and pans as she prepared their evening meal.
‘Is anyone going to speak?’ Whatever was going on, Claire didn’t think it seemed fair on her father under the circumstances.
‘Everything’s fine, darling,’ Shona said, glancing up. She wore a tight expression, one that gave her an instant facelift. But instead of making her appear younger – although Claire hoped she looked that good when she reached seventy-one – it made her seem weary, as though she’d had enough.
‘Thanks for altering the dress,’ Claire said, catching sight of it on the chair. ‘Amy will love it. She has a party at the weekend and—’
‘Your mother wants to split up the farm and sell it off to rich people from London, so they can bugger about with it and convert it into bloody holiday lets.’
Claire stared at her father. Surely he was confused again.
‘And considering everything, is that not a sensible idea, Patrick?’ Shona held a large knife inside a tea towel, her long fingers gripped around it. Only her mother could make drying up seem elegant.
‘Mum, is this true?’ Claire felt her heart grinding, as if trying to slow the inevitable. Neither of her parents answered directly.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ Shona said through a sigh. She went to her husband and clasped his shoulders, pulling him close to her chest. She kissed him on the head. ‘We’ve talked about this already. Don’t you remember? You said it was a good idea.’ She returned to the worktop and snipped at a bunch of parsley growing in a pot on the windowsill. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes like a grey brushstroke on a painting. Again, Claire noticed how tired she looked.
‘It’s not a good idea,’ Patrick stated with a growl.
‘You’re really thinking of selling the farm?’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d grown up here. Everything had happened at Trevellin Farm. The enormity of her mother’s decision swooped through her.
Someone must always be here…
They’d made a promise.
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Claire was instantly on her father’s side. And what did she mean, We’ve talked about this already?
‘Your mother’s lost her bloody mind,’ her father said. He rose and went to the old dresser, reaching into the bottom cupboard. He pulled out a bottle of red wine, uncorked it and poured himself a large glass. The kitchen was swollen with silence. Claire felt her mother’s stare, but she couldn’t return the look. It was a relief to see her father so opinionated rather than vague and confused, but what he’d just said cut deep, even though he didn’t realise it.
‘Patrick, have some fruit juice instead.’ Shona tried to remove the glass from her husband’s hands, but he clung on to it, downing a large mouthful. ‘Be sensible, darling. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.’
In the days before his diagnosis, Patrick had always enjoyed a glass or two while Shona prepared dinner. They would chat, reminisce, laugh and bind themselves up in the safety of over forty years of marriage. Now, though, alcohol was strictly off limits, and usually he complied. They’d been told that raised blood pressure could worsen his Alzheimer’s, and Shona wanted to do everything she could to slow the disease.
‘Are you certain about selling, Mum?’ Claire ran her fingers over the perfect seam her mother had stitched on the dress.
‘Yes, love.’ Shona looked at her husband, a knot of concern tied between her brows. ‘We won’t leave the area, of course. We still want to be near you, Callum and the children.’
The subtext of this told Claire that her mother needed to be close, that she wouldn’t be able to cope with Patrick alone wherever they lived.
‘You know how much time and energy this place takes up.’