| The
Art and Craft of Deception
by Susan Butler
Although the card on the dashboard read Gemma Walker, Real Estate
Agent for Palmer and Stewart, I’d yet to sell a single piece
of real estate. Driving past number 10 The Drive, I’d usually
slow down, or pull over to the kerb. Despite its condition the house
fascinated me. It still retained its dignity, although, according
to realtors, it had lain neglected for fifty years.
The residence faced the well-kept mansions opposite in unapologetic
shabbiness. Sandwiched between two smart homes of the same period,
the house with its mouldy stucco walls and peeling paintwork looked
like a poor relation.
All the houses on the street were built between 1900 and 1905, at
the height of the Arts and Crafts movement. With a direct line to
London via the Thames Link, house prices had rocketed in Radwell.
The six real estate offices in the village had all grown affluent
from the area. But since I’d arrived from the London office
the market had taken a sudden dive.
I’d heard number10 was the stuff dreams were made of. The
wallpaper, curtains and furniture, said to date from the same period
as the house, were as valuable as the property. Stories were rife
about agents who’d tried to convince the owner to sell. But
despite their various ploys they’d all been met by stubborn
refusal. Dreams of fat commissions and fast sports cars had evaporated
like summer dew. Mrs Thornberry would not sell.
I was desperate to see inside the house. The deadline for my design
course assignment, based on the Arts and Crafts movement was looming
closer. I’d yet to start working on it, but I felt sure I’d
get a good mark if I could only get access to the house. And as
to photographing the interior, that would be icing on the cake.
Parking across the street from number 10 as usual one morning I
yawned and reached for my coffee thermos. The combination of working
days and studying nights was taking its toll. Looking idly at the
house I’d noticed that the only part of the property that
seemed well maintained was the garden. I’d seen a gardener
once pushing a wheelbarrow up the slope towards the back of the
house.
As I watched the house this morning an elderly lady appeared from
the side door. I assumed this was Mrs Thornberry, I’d heard
she lived alone. Dressed in a knobbly cream twin set and faded tweed
skirt, and leaning heavily on a walking stick, she shuffled towards
the pavement in her slippers. She pulled the black wheelie-bin to
the kerb, before walking back in the direction she’d come.
A skinny white tomcat rubbed itself against the back of her legs.
It was then that I saw an opportunity to get access to number 10.
When darkness fell I returned to the house, parking directly in
front of the driveway. Around ten the back door squeaked open, and
the cat was pushed outside. I slid a saucer of milk towards him.
As he lowered its head to drink, I snatched the saucer and hoisting
the cat under my arm, bolted for my car.
The next morning was a Sunday, and the church bells were ringing
when I returned to number 10 with a wicker cat-box in one hand.
Climbing the steep steps to the front door I knocked loudly. I felt
sure Mrs Thornberry was home, she wasn’t a churchgoer, and
the only times I’d seen her leave the house, were to go shopping.
After some time I heard shuffling footsteps in the hall, followed
by the sound of a latch being pulled back and a chain released.
The door opened an inch; Mrs Thornberry looked me up and down suspiciously.
‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me but I found this cat wandering in the village,
I’ve noticed a white cat outside your house. Is it missing
by any chance?’
‘Since you mention it I haven’t seen Sebastian this
morning. He usually scratches at the kitchen door at seven sharp.’
Mrs Thornberry peered into the wicker basket where the cat cowered
in the back.
‘I can’t see well in this light, you’d better
come in’
She opened the door grudgingly, while I crossed the doorstep into
another world. The hall walls were patterned with William Morris
wallpaper in a sage willow design. Molten light streamed through
a stained glass window half way up the stairs. Peasant women in
white bonnets were bringing in the harvest, staking golden sheaves
amidst fields of stubble.
I was so overcome I nearly forgot my mission. Then remembering,
I hastily opened the basket; the cat leaped out and dashed upstairs.
‘That does look like Sebastian, but he’s a very timid
cat. I can’t think how he ended up in the village.’
Mrs Thornberry looked at me sharply.
‘You look familiar, do I know you from somewhere?’
My heart sank.
‘You’d better wait in here while I check his collar.’
She showed me into a large room, dwarfed by an impressive stone
Inglenook fireplace. A motto was carved into the mantle. ‘Have
nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe
to be beautiful.’
Two tall stained glass windows on either side featured barefooted-
redheaded women. The one on the left was encircled with apple blossoms,
while the one on the right was garlanded with pink roses. Their
robes glowed indigo blue and saffron yellow against an olive green
background.
As I stood in the middle of the room running my hand along the back
of an embroidered chair, Mrs Thornberry appeared in the doorway
with the cat in her arms.
‘Yes this is Sebastian, but I hope you’re not expecting
a reward? I’m a pensioner living on a small stipend.’
‘That’s quite all right It’s very kind of you
to ask me into your home. I’m studying the Arts and Crafts
Movement at university, it’s a privilege to see William Morris
designs outside a museum.’
Mrs Thornberry releasing the cat, who took one look at me and beat
a hasty retreat. His owner sank wearily into the sofa; and turned
to me with renewed interest.
‘My parents were very influenced by William Morris as you
can see. The architect who built the house consulted him about the
décor.’
She pointed to the dark oak bookshelves under the stained glass
windows. ‘They collected books on the Arts and Crafts Movement
as you can see. But I prefer a simpler style myself.’
The back garden could be seen clearly through the open conservatory.
Pots of cream Arum lilies stood on either side of the patio doors,
while white jasmine and pink clematis clambered over the glass roof.
The herbaceous border, that stretched the whole length of the garden,
glowed with crimson poppies, and indigo blue cornflowers. Mrs Thornberry’s
voice grew wistful as I complimented her on her garden.
’My late husband landscaped everything when we first moved
here. He loved that garden more than life itself.’
She turned her face away sadly, before patting the sofa cushion,
and motioning me to join her.
‘ At least you’re not a real estate agent. I’ve
been offered substantial amounts for this house, you know?’
I was beginning to feel guilty about deceiving Mrs Thornberry. She
plumped up the scatter cushions. ‘I’ve never told anyone
this before, but I can’t sell the house. You see, it would
mean leaving my husband behind, and I couldn’t do that’
‘But it must be comforting taking these flowers to his grave.’
I motioned towards the herbaceous border.
‘Oh dear me no, my husband’s not buried in the cemetery,
he’s much closer.’
Mrs Thornberry pointed in the direction of the flowerbeds.
My heart sank. Surely there were regulations about burying relatives
in one’s garden? If not what were the ethical issues implicated
by this situation?
Did one tell prospective buyers, and if so, when? Was it actually
possible sell a house with a dead husband buried in the back garden?
Visions of walking into the real estate office triumphantly dangling
the keys for number 10 vanished like a burst soap bubble.
‘I scattered his ashes over the herbaceous borders,’
Mrs Thornberry said as she showed me to the door. She placed her
hand on my arm, and my relief was replaced with sympathy.
‘It’s nice to talk to someone who appreciates art, you
must call again, I was thinking of cataloguing the collection, perhaps
you could help?’ She looked down at her cat that who was winding
himself around her legs and looking up expectantly.
‘And thank you for returning Sebastian, he looks as though
he’s ready for his breakfast. I only give him cheap cat food,
but he seems to like it.’
I hadn’t the heart to tell her he loved roast chicken. Thrusting
the cat basket into her hands, I said.
‘You’re welcome to keep this if you like?’
As the door closed I turned with a sigh to confront my ramshackle
car with its bumps, scratches and coat hanger aerial. Maybe the
idea of documenting antique furniture wasn’t such a bad idea
after all. It would beat the cut-throat real estate business. For
the first time since arriving in Radwell I left number 10 with a
spring in my step.
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