Chapter 17
17
An hour later, I feel quite optimistic. Despite the musty air in the house, I couldn’t detect any signs of damp and, although they look very tatty and desperately need sanding down and repainting, the window frames felt reassuringly solid when I prodded them with the screwdriver I brought with me for the purpose. As I feared, though, the coal range is the only current source of heat. Ben described how his grandmother would lug an enormous pot of boiling water from the range and pour it into the bath, adding just enough cold to make it bearable, and then the three of them would take turns to wash as quickly as they could before the cast iron of the tub sapped the warmth out of it. The mill had been his grandfather’s domain, although Ben admitted he’d never seen it running, as it had been mothballed before he was born when his grandfather realised he couldn’t compete with the new mills.
The machinery in the mill looked rusty and unloved to me, even though Ben assured me it had been checked and maintained regularly every year until his grandfather died. However, I found it easy to imagine what the building could look like once all the milling paraphernalia was removed; if we put glass in the large doorway, it could be a light and airy space.
As we pull off the bumpy track onto the road, I can sense Rebecca fizzing with excitement next to me.
‘What’s got you more revved up, Ben or the property?’ I ask.
‘Both, but the property mainly. It has so much potential, and it’s not nearly as bad as we thought it was.’
‘I agree. There’s one possible red flag though. Did you spot it?’
‘No. What?’
‘What Ben said about the land. “Too big for a garden but too small for a farm.” Do you think we could split it into smaller plots?’
‘Not a bad idea, but sometimes there’s covenants and things dictating what you can do. If there was any hope of getting planning to develop it, I reckon the price would be way higher, don’t you?’
‘Good point. Something to check.’
‘Anyway, even if we can’t split it into smaller plots, there’s the tractor and that thing in the barn to keep the grounds under control. What did Ben call it?’
‘A gang-mower.’
‘That’s it. Stick that on the back of the tractor and you’ll have the place mowed in no time.’
‘Assuming the tractor works, the mower isn’t seized solid and the owners don’t mind spending their weekends cutting the grass.’
‘I think it’s a small price to pay. Plus, it’s all about perception, isn’t it?’
‘How so?’
‘Describe it simply as a ten-acre plot and it falls flat. Describe the house as “set in ten acres of idyllic parkland with a lake” and it suddenly sounds aspirational. Basic marketing.’
I laugh. ‘You’ve got a point. So, what do you want to do?’
‘I think we should go for it. I didn’t see anything there that I felt was beyond us and I still think the potential returns are massive, way bigger than anything else we’ve looked at. What about you?’
‘I think so too, even though I’m worried about the mill and how much it will cost to get all that dilapidated machinery out. We’ll probably have to take the roof off and hire a crane.’
‘That’s the big expense, I agree. But it’s the only one. We don’t even have to knock through the wall between the house and the mill because there’s already a door.’
‘We might need to extend it though, otherwise it’ll still feel like two buildings rather than one.’
She smiles. ‘What?’ I ask.
‘We’re doing this, aren’t we?’
‘It would seem so.’ I smile back. ‘I need you to promise one thing though.’
‘What?’
‘If we bid for it, and we get it, you’ll be 100 per cent focused on the renovation, not distracted by the man who lives at the end of the drive.’
‘From nine to five, Monday to Friday, I solemnly swear I’ll be focused.’ She grins. ‘Outside those times, I’m making no guarantees. Take it or leave it.’
‘He might have a girlfriend, or a wife.’
‘No wedding ring.’
‘Men don’t always wear them.’
‘Ben would.’
‘How on earth have you figured that out?’
‘I just have a feeling about him.’
‘Is this your ovaries again? What are they singing now?’
‘Easy. Michael Bublé, “Feeling Good”.’
‘I do think he was a little blindsided by your need to clarify our relationship,’ I observe after a while. Rebecca is humming the song as she drives.
‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘It wasn’t my finest hour, but I couldn’t risk a repeat of the school mix-up. Not when there’s so much at stake. Anyway, distract me from my pornographic thoughts. What happens now?’
‘We need to get a survey done before auction day. Let’s get that organised first.’
When we get back and study the listing again, I’m pleased to find that the mill is one of the lots in a live auction, rather than an online one. The idea of entering our maximum bid and then having to wait up to a month to learn if we’ve won doesn’t appeal to me at all. I’d rather be in the room, gauging the competition and ready to move on immediately if we’re unsuccessful. Rebecca and I have agreed that we’ll go up to ￡850,000 if the bidding exceeds the guide price, which gives us a buffer of ￡50,000 from our combined pot to spend on anything vital that a mortgage company would want fixed before lending against the mill.
‘So,’ Rebecca says on auction day once I’ve parked my car. ‘Most important rule?’
‘Don’t go above the price we’ve agreed, whatever happens.’ Although I bought my house in Walthamstow at auction, we’ve been doing lots of research online to hone our techniques, and this has become our mantra.
‘And rule number two?’
‘Don’t suddenly get tempted to bid on something else that we haven’t looked at.’
‘Absolutely. And we’ll sit tight to begin with, see who else is interested in the mill before we start bidding.’
‘Sizing up the competition.’
‘Exactly.’
I’m buzzing with adrenaline as we collect our bidding paddle and take our seats in the busy hall. I’d forgotten how exciting auctions are. It hasn’t even started yet, but there’s a real sense of anticipation in the room as people mill about, chatting to one another and finding places to sit. I’ve bought a few things on online auction sites over the years, and it is satisfying to win, especially when there’s a flurry of last-minute bidding, but you can’t beat a live auction. It’s the fast pace of the bidding, the patter of the auctioneer and the slam of the gavel to announce the winning bid. I’ve never been interested in gambling, but I reckon this must come as near as dammit to the kind of rush people get from that.
Silence falls as the auctioneer makes his way to the podium, but the first few lots attract little interest and don’t reach their reserve price. As we make our way steadily through the catalogue, my heart begins to thump hard in my chest. All these people are obviously here for something, but we don’t seem to have reached it yet. I just hope it’s not the mill.
‘Lot twenty,’ the auctioneer announces. ‘A three-bedroom end-of-terrace property in Ashford. Who’ll start me at ￡230,000?’
‘That’s one of the ones we looked at,’ Rebecca whispers to me, in case I’d forgotten.
No paddles go up, but the auctioneer seems unfazed. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Two ten. Any takers?’
In the end, he has to drop another ￡10,000 before a bid comes in, but then they flow in quickly and the property quickly climbs back to the guide price before finally selling at ￡240,000.
‘They’re all playing the same tactics,’ Rebecca observes. ‘Not revealing their hand until they absolutely have to. Ah, here we go.’
‘Lot twenty-one,’ the auctioneer calls. ‘A disused watermill with attached cottage and grazing land. Who’ll give me ￡800,000 for it?’
Again, no paddles go up and he progressively drops the price to ￡700,000. At ￡650,000, you can tell he’s starting to get frustrated but a paddle goes up near the front.
‘Finally!’ the auctioneer exclaims. ‘Right, six-sixty anyone?’
Another paddle goes up and I can sense Rebecca twitching next to me. ‘Hold your nerve,’ I encourage her.
The two current bidders push the price back up to ￡700,000 fairly quickly, but one of them drops out at that point.
‘Seven-ten,’ the auctioneer calls. ‘Can I get seven-ten from anyone? I have to tell you we’re still below the reserve here, so we aren’t selling.’
No paddles go up.
‘OK, if that’s how it is,’ the auctioneer continues. ‘Seven hundred thousand. Once, twice?—’
‘Go!’ I whisper to Rebecca, and her hand shoots up.
‘Seven-ten from the back of the room!’ the auctioneer announces with renewed enthusiasm, and I see the other bidder turn around with an annoyed look on his face, trying to locate his competition.
‘Yeah, buddy, we’re coming for you,’ I murmur under my breath as I smile sweetly at him. From that point on, the price climbs in increments of ￡10,000 until, at ￡750,000, the other bidder throws in the towel.
‘We could be there,’ Rebecca murmurs excitedly. ‘The reserve has to be within 10 per cent of the guide price, so that’s anywhere from ￡720,000 upwards.’
‘OK. We’re still not at the reserve,’ the auctioneer announces, puncturing our optimism. ‘But seven-fifty is the final bid. Any more for any more? No? Seven-fifty once, twice, and not sold. Contact the team afterwards if you want to make an offer. Paddle number 604. Right, lot twenty-two, four acres of land with planning permission for three detached houses.’
This is obviously the lot that everyone has come for, as the bidding is fierce and it ends up going for substantially more than the guide price. Although it’s entertaining, I feel spent and just let it wash over me. Everything depends on Ben now, and whether he’s prepared to accept our offer. If he does, we’ve got ourselves a bargain.
‘The suspense is killing me,’ Rebecca mutters. ‘How many more lots?’
‘A few, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t think we should offer any more than ￡775,000,’ she says firmly. ‘We were the only bidders left, so I don’t think we should have any competition now.’
‘I agree,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s wait and see what happens though.’
After the flurry of enthusiasm for the building plot, the rest of the auction is fairly lacklustre, and I’m glad when the final lot grinds its way up to the reserve price and the gavel falls for the last time. When I bought my house in London, there was fast-paced bidding for every property, so this has been a bit of a let-down in some ways.
‘Let’s go and find someone to talk to,’ I tell Rebecca, heading for the cashier desks. Although a large number of lots went unsold, the area is still busy and we have to wait for nearly an hour before a desk comes free.
‘How can I help you?’ the woman behind the desk asks.
‘It’s lot number twenty-one,’ I explain. ‘We’d like to see if we can make an acceptable offer for it.’
She taps at her screen for a while. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I have to inform you that there has already been an offer put in from another bidder. Let’s see the status of that.’
My heart sinks as she taps some more. I know it’s not the end of the world, but we’ve put enough work into this that it will still be disappointing to lose it.
‘I can see that offer hasn’t been accepted yet,’ she says eventually.
‘Can you tell me how much it was?’ I ask.
‘No, sorry. I can take your offer and put it to the vendor though. Or, if your offer happened to be above the reserve price, I can authorise the sale myself.’
‘We’d like to offer ￡775,000,’ Rebecca tells the woman behind the desk, and I find myself mentally crossing my fingers.
‘Great. Let’s see then.’ She makes some entries on the screen and smiles.
‘Congratulations,’ she says. ‘It’s yours.’