| Cutting
down to size
by Valerie Bowes
‘Yes! Yess! Yesss! Two point five mill! Now that’s
what I call a sale, right!’
The other negotiators at Robert Fletcher, Estate Agents, looked up with
expressions varying from resentful to resigned.
Charles watched Ashley doing his David Brent impression and could not
help the small twinge of envy that stirred in his gut. The commission
on a sale of two and a half million would be considerable.
‘Rosemount, was it?’ he asked. There were several properties
in that price bracket on the books. Robert Fletcher had a name for handling
the big stuff, and it was usually Ashley who got it, much to the others’
disappointment.
‘Yup. One down, four to go.’ Ashley pulled out the file on
Rosemount and began to fill in the relevant paperwork. ‘How’s
your end doing?’ he asked.
Charles stiffened involuntarily, although, after a moment’s thought,
he acquitted Ashley of being subtly pointed. Ashley was never subtle.
‘So-so. I thought we’d clinched Matlock Road, but the buyer
pulled out at the last moment. The poor Marshlands are devastated.’
Ashley tossed the completed paper into the file and sat back, his arms
behind his head. ‘Oh, well, they know the market’s slow at
the moment.’
‘Not for you,’ Charles muttered under his breath.
‘Say again?’
‘Got to go.’ Charles reached for his briefcase and jacket
and made a thankful exit.
Why was he so different from the Ashleys of this world? he wondered, as
he drove to his appointment. Why did he get the small, bread-and-butter
sales; the Matlock Roads instead of the Rosemounts?
It wasn’t hard to figure. Ashley was young. Go-getting. He could
talk up the dreariest property, make a wreck sound like a golden opportunity
for a makeover, fire a prospective buyer with enthusiasm while glossing
over the drawbacks.
I’m making him sound like your typical estate agent, the one everyone
loves to hate, he thought guiltily. Wasn’t it just as true that
Ashley loved what he was doing and justifiably reaped his reward? Whereas
Charles had drifted into it, drifted through his life, and would drift
on into his retirement.
And that’s not so many years away. The realisation hit him in the
midriff as he pulled in through the narrow gateway at Number 12, Browning
Road.
He was early. The client was not due for another fifteen minutes or so,
but the property was empty and he let himself in. It was a large, undeniably
ugly late Victorian house. Unimproved, the details said; estate agent-speak
for dingy with few modern amenities. Charles knew what his wife would
think of the cavernous kitchen, with its cracked china sink and the slatted
clothes-airer pulled up to the ceiling but, with sudden zeal, he pulled
a large notebook out of his briefcase and started to sketch.
The dring of the doorbell echoed down the long hall. Charles opened the
heavy front door. ‘Ms Muldoon? Charles Ponting, Robert Fletcher.
Do come in.’
Janet Muldoon was tall and elegant. The car pulled up behind his own was
a top-of-the-range model. More of an Ashley client than his usual ones,
Charles thought, masking his surprise that she would be considering a
property like this. He’d have put her down as more of a town flat
type, stylish and minimalist for the modern businesswoman she clearly
was. Perhaps she was an investment buyer. He stood aside to usher her
into the large front room.
‘Ah, this is nice.’ She looked around with obvious pleasure.
‘You like Victorian style?’ he asked with a stirring of curiosity.
It seemed he’d been way off the mark.
‘I do. And these houses were built to last. None of your cheap,
stuck-on stuff here, is there!’
‘No, it’s all good solid wood and brick. But I have to say
that it would benefit from some modernisation. Quite a lot of modernisation,’
he added truthfully, responding to her uplifted eyebrow and quizzical
smile. ‘But if you don’t mind that…?’
‘It’s the part I enjoy most, but we’ll see. Show me
the rest of it, please, Mr Ponting.’
Charles left the kitchen until last, afraid of blowing the sale before
she’d even seen the other rooms. Ms Muldoon certainly grimaced as
she entered, but wandered round, subjecting every feature to a keen inspection.
He had forgotten the sketch he had been making until she picked up the
pad from the table.
‘This is good,’ she said, and Charles bristled slightly at
the faint note of surprise in her voice. ‘Do you do this for all
the properties you show to people?’
‘No, it’s purely for my own interest,’ he said, holding
out his hand for his drawings.
She took no notice, but flipped through the rest of them. ‘Such
attention to period detail! You must love houses. Was that why you went
into the property business?’
‘Actually, I wanted to be an architect,’ he said, surprising
himself. His wife was the only person to whom he’d ever confessed
that early ambition.
‘What happened?’
He shrugged. ‘Life. The need to make ends meet.’ He smiled
a little shyly. ‘Maybe I just wasn’t good enough.’
‘These drawings are very competent,’ she said, ‘and
you have an eye for individuality. I doubt it was that.’
A small glow warmed his cheeks at her approval. ‘Ah, well, I always
preferred the practical stuff. Architects don’t get very hands-on,
you know. It’s all planning and pretty pictures. And it wasn’t
just the buildings I liked. I find furnishings fascinating as well.’
‘You’re very knowledgeable, if these are anything to go by.
Do you do anything with these sketches, or is it just the drawing you
like?’
Charles looked down at his hands. ‘Yes. No,’ he said, and
explained his hobby.
She cast a last glance around the cheerless room, then at her watch. Here
it comes, he thought with a lingering rankle of bitterness at Ashley’s
big sale. Well, let’s leave it there, shall we? I’ll think
about it. Be in touch. And she’ll be out of here so fast she’ll
leave scorch-marks.
‘That pub on the corner of the High Street looks nice. How about
buying me a drink?’ she said.
He couldn’t settle to watching television that night, even though
there was a programme he normally liked. Jill was busy with her needlework,
so he turned the set off and called, ‘I’m going down to the
shed for a bit.’ He could think there, with the scent of wood warm
in his nostrils, the graded chisels upright as guardsmen in their racks
and the planes ready and waiting for his hand.
But even in this Holy of Holies, Janet Muldoon was at the forefront of
his mind. He couldn’t get her out of his head. And he was meeting
her again tomorrow.
When Charles got back to the office, the others were busy on their phones
and Ashley perched on the edge of his desk, giving a pair of prospective
buyers his persuasive spiel. Unseen by the young couple, who were poring
over a sheaf of property details, he flashed Charles a wink and steered
them out, clutching their dreams alluringly photographed and peppered
with words like ideal and benefits.
‘Wotcha, me old mate. Sold that pile of rubbish in Browning Road
yet?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but nudged Charles in the
ribs and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Word to the wise, Charlie,
word to the wise. Get as many sales under your belt as poss, my old son.
Fletcher reckons there’s too many of us not earning our corn, especially
with all these scare-stories in the media about the market crashing. He’s
looking to downsize, if you get my drift.’
‘Oh?’ Charles’s heart did a slow flip and he laid his
briefcase down on his desk with care.
‘So digitalis extractus, yeah?’ Ashley advised, with a meaningful
look around the office.
‘Thanks,’ Charles said gruffly. He was both surprised and
a little touched that Ashley should warn him but, right this moment, he
was having difficulty concentrating on anything. He hadn’t expected
Janet to be so… so enthusiastic.
Jill had always said he was good. He’d thought she was merely being
partisan, but Janet thought he was good, too, and – Charles mentally
aimed an apology at his wife – her opinion was the one that counted.
Maybe, he dared to hope, this downsizing would work in his favour. It
could give him just the push he needed. No pun intended. He held the secret
laughter in with difficulty. Honestly, what was the matter with him today?
Two point five mill. Charles checked the measurement again with his micrometer.
It was spot on. Two and a half millimetres precisely. He rubbed his thumb
across the satin smoothness of the wood and looked across the spacious
workshop to where Jill sat, sewing her tiny, delicate stitches. Feeling
his gaze, she glanced up and smiled before bending over her work once
more.
He examined the chair minutely, until he was positive. It wouldn’t
do for Pontings Muldoon to fall below the exacting standard that was making
them such a name.
Satisfied, he set it carefully in its place. The exquisitely detailed
Victorian doll’s house was ready for the big exhibition that Janet
had organised. One of the top venues, too. She certainly knew her business.
He gazed with contentment at the miniature world that he and Jill had
created with such loving care and laughed suddenly.
‘Something funny?’ Jill said.
‘No, love, just thinking.’
How wrong could you be? He had always thought that downsizing was a silly
word.
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