The Friends We Keep(45)
The dirty brick houses lining the way to the M25 soon gave way to fields lining the M3. Leaving the motorway for the A roads just outside Warminster, Maggie felt her heart lift. This felt like home, driving through the pretty country villages, pausing at the roundabouts, roads she remembered from university days. They turned off the radio as they pointed out places they had visited years ago.
“I think this is it,” said Ben finally, looking down at the map on Maggie’s lap as he turned left down an old country lane.
“This is gorgeous.” Maggie looked out the window at the fields and the high hedgerows on either side. “A proper country lane. Apparently all this land used to belong to the house, but the owners needed money sometime in the seventies, so they sold it off.”
“Do you know who they sold it to and what they’ve done with it?”
“The estate agent said it was owned by a local farm. Look! That must be the gate!”
The house was down a long driveway flanked by old hedgerows—elder, hawthorn, and beech tumbled together in a mass that formed a canopy over the narrow road. At the end, emerging from the tunnel of plants, was dappled sunlight and an old split rail gate.
Maggie frowned. “Are you sure this is in our price range? This is like something a rock star would live in.”
“I know!” Ben turned to her, as disbelieving as she. “It must be awful inside. We mustn’t get our hopes up. The house is probably terrible.”
The car pulled through the open gate onto a sweeping gravel driveway, the stately house standing at the end, bathed in sunlight as if spotlighted by a talented lighting director. With stone mullion windows and a heavy wood gothic door, the entrance was flanked by spiraled topiary yews, beautifully clipped box balls flanking the driveway. Wisteria clambered up the left wing of the house, almost to the gabled roof, and the two of them pulled up and just stared at the house, both with huge grins on their faces.
“This is beautiful,” said Ben, shaking his head. “We can afford this? If this was our house, I’d wake up every day feeling like I owned the world.”
“Isn’t it stunning?” Maggie took in the three classic gables, the four chimneys, the beauty of the house and the freshly mown lawns, and she felt a swell of happiness. “I would be happy if we lived here too.” She squeezed his hand and got out of the car. “That must be Robert, the estate agent.” She gestured to a black BMW parked discreetly on the side.
The man came out to meet them, explaining that he had been inside making sure all the lights were on and everything was open.
“Remember,” said the estate agent, “you have to use your imagination. The house would be transformed with paint and modern furniture, but as you can see, the Jacobean front elevation is one of the prettiest in the area, and the slate roof was renovated five years ago, so that’s in excellent shape.”
Maggie didn’t have to use her imagination. The house dated back to the seventeenth century, with some later additions, and was everything she had ever dreamed of. The hallway was large and square, a handsome staircase leading upstairs, heavy wood-paneled doors opening onto a gracious living room with a large stone fireplace and windows everywhere, including deep window seats tucked into two oriels, sunlight flooding into the room.
She didn’t say anything, just walked around unable to wipe the smile off her face, occasionally looking at Ben, delighted to see that he had the same smile. The kitchen was large, with dated wood cabinets and a terrible linoleum floor, but there was a giant old Aga, which made her heart beat faster.
“Just a lick of paint,” said Robert as Maggie turned to him with a skeptical look.
“I think the kitchen needs a little more than that,” she laughed, turning to Ben. “Cabinets are easy though. The layout is perfect, it just needs new cabinets and countertops and maybe a new floor. Possibly a butler’s sink. Is that a conservatory?”
“That’s one of the more recent additions,” Robert said, leading them out to the conservatory. “I believe it would be very easy to get planning permission to knock through. This wall between them is not a permanent wall, and that would give you the dream kitchen.”
It would, thought Maggie, wrapping her arms around herself, not trusting herself to speak, not wanting the estate agent to know quite how much she had already fallen in love.
They moved through the house, to the drawing room painted a dark red, the “den” a dark green, through various rooms that seemed to be filled to bursting with the detritus of childhood, and then upstairs. Every bedroom was large and light, each with a fireplace.
They moved outside, to the stable block and guest cottage, the barn that had been used as a playroom that could become a lab for Ben, thought Maggie, if he ever decided to work from home.
The lawns were clipped and neat, but the trees and bushes and hedges were overgrown. The house felt like it was a solid, happy, much-loved family home that had been neglected in recent times.
“Do the owners still live here?”
“They don’t. They moved to a town house in Bath.”
“So they must be keen to sell?” Ben perked up.
“I would definitely make an offer,” said Robert.
“A low offer?”
“The thing with a low offer is that you can always go up.” Robert laughed.
“Would you mind if we wandered around again?” said Maggie. “Maybe just the two of us can walk around the house?”