Chapter 18
18
The purchase of the mill went through very quickly, and we’ve spent the last two months getting on with as many of the jobs on the outside as we could. The fiddliest, and most time consuming, has undoubtedly been the windows. Our initial efforts were slow and incredibly frustrating until Ben showed us how to remove the window frames from the hinges so we could lay them flat on a workbench. In fact, Ben has been a surprisingly regular visitor and helper. He’s one of those guys who seems to know how everything works and is so well plugged in to the local community that, on the rare occasions that something is beyond him, he knows exactly who to contact to sort it out. We’ve learned that he doesn’t have a regular job, preferring to earn his keep doing bits and pieces for friends and acquaintances as required. He explained that he doesn’t have a mortgage on his cottage and lives quite frugally, so he doesn’t need much. I have no reason to doubt him as his invoices, when I can persuade him to submit them, are ridiculously small in comparison to the work he’s done.
Thanks to him, the tractor is up and running and the gang-mower (which proved to be seized) has been thoroughly overhauled. Under his patient instruction, Rebecca has learned how to attach it to the tractor and mow the area we now refer to jokingly as ‘the park’. To my mind, it seemed to take her a long time to learn such a simple-seeming task, until I realised that she was getting to spend extended time with him in a hot cab, necessitating them to strip down to the bare essentials to try to keep cool.
‘God, the way his arms glisten when he’s hot and sweaty,’ she confided in me when I called her out on it. ‘I was so distracted by them the other day, I nearly drove straight into the lake. And then there are his thighs. Dear Lord, I’ve never seen thighs like that before. I reckon you could attack them with a chainsaw and it would just bounce off.’
Unfortunately for her, Ben either hasn’t noticed her dialling up the flirtation or is so far impervious to it. We’ve been completely up front with him about our plans, so my gut feel is that he’s either not attracted to her, or he’s protecting himself because he knows we’ll be moving on as soon as the renovations are done and the mill is sold. However, Rebecca is growing increasingly frustrated, and I think the only reason she hasn’t jumped on him is because she has just enough presence of mind to realise that we’d be a lot worse off if he took it badly and stopped helping us.
Rollo, on the other hand, has had an idyllic summer and totally idolises Ben, especially since he pitched up one day at the end of August with a slightly dilapidated-looking wooden boat in tow.
‘The people I got it off were glad to see the back of it,’ he’d explained when I asked where it came from. Since then, whenever he hasn’t been helping us with something, he and Rollo have been working on it, sanding it down and re-waterproofing it. Ben has promised to teach Rollo and Louis how to row as soon as they’ve finished it. Saffy and Louis are regular visitors and, although she doesn’t help with the house, having someone keeping an eye on the children has been a huge plus. They’ve built various dens around the place, had picnics and water fights, and generally enjoyed the kind of summer you’d expect to find in an Enid Blyton novel before school started again at the beginning of this month.
Although I’m sure I could have found someone local who would charge less, in the end Rebecca and I agreed to play it safe and re-use the architect who’d drawn up the vision for my house in London. It’s paid off, with a stunning set of plans submitted to the council, showing sympathetic conversion of the mill. We’ve put an open-plan kitchen-diner on the ground floor, a bedroom with en suite on the first, and a second bedroom and shower room on the top, accessed by an exquisite oak staircase that promises to be one of the most expensive single items on the build. We looked at a number of cheaper options, but nothing else fitted so naturally. We’ve opened up the doorway on the ground floor to make the space flow better into the adjacent cottage, and also added an opening on the first floor. Every so often, we spread out our copy of the drawings on the dining room table and Rebecca and I stare at them, sighing with pleasure.
The email arrives one particularly hot afternoon. Ben and Rollo are working on the boat while Rebecca and I paint another in the seemingly endless series of window frames. My hands are sweating as I press to open it, and that’s not just because of the heat. Although our application is strong and well researched, you can never tell which way the council is going to go, and the fact that they write to the architect rather than us with the decision just adds another layer of bureaucracy.
‘I’ve got an email from the architect,’ I tell Rebecca.
‘Read it out then.’
‘OK, there’s some standard text letting us know that they’ve heard from the council, and an attachment.’ I scan the text. ‘It seems like we’re not quite there, we need to get a certificate of some sort. Let’s have a look.’
I open the attachment and begin to read.
To: Hutchinson and Roberts, Architects
Ref: The Mill
Mill Lane
Little Mappington
Ashford
Thank you for your application in regard to obtaining permission to convert the above property from commercial to residential use. We have examined the plans submitted, and agree that they are sympathetic to, and in keeping with the character of the current building.
‘That’s pretty encouraging, isn’t it?’ Rebecca interrupts.
‘Wait, there’s more,’ I tell her, before continuing to read.
However, industrial buildings such as this form an important part of our cultural heritage, and the council has a responsibility to preserve them in their current state wherever possible. Therefore, in order for us to proceed with your application, we require you to supply certification that the mill is beyond economic repair. Such certification can be acquired through the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust, details of whom we have included below.
We look forward to hearing from you in due course.
Yours sincerely,
Barbara Evans (She/Her)
Ashford Borough Council Planning Department
‘That’s not too bad,’ Rebecca says encouragingly after I’ve closed the attachment and read the rest of the mail from the architect asking if we’re happy to sort out the certificate. ‘I mean, it would have been better if they’d just said yes, but at least it’s not a blanket no. All we have to do is contact these historic people, get them to agree the mill has had it, and it sounds like we’re there.’
‘I guess so,’ I agree cautiously.
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘I am,’ I reassure her. ‘I just don’t like unknowns, and when I read “historic trust” my mind says “fanatics”.’
‘What’s up?’ Ben asks as he and Rollo wander over from the barn. They’re both covered in fine sawdust, apart from clear patches around their mouths and noses where they’ve evidently been wearing masks.
‘We’ve got to get certification from some historic trust that the mill can’t be fixed, but then we’re there,’ Rebecca tells him, looking him up and down appreciatively.
‘Uh-oh.’ Ben’s face falls.
‘What? First Thea and now you. It’s a formality, that’s all,’ she stresses.
‘I hope you’re right,’ Ben tells her. ‘It just reminds me of all the hoo-hah when the local vicar wanted to take the pews out of the church to make it into a multi-purpose space.’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘Most people were broadly supportive. The pews aren’t original and, by all accounts, they’re horribly uncomfortable. But then the Victorian Trust got involved, arguing that they were historically important and one thing and another, and eventually sucked all the life out of the idea.’
‘That’s not going to happen to us,’ Rebecca assures him. ‘It’s a rubber stamp in our case, no more.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he agrees, but I can see the doubt in his eyes.
I sent my email to the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust before Rebecca and I set off for the mill this morning. I took care to explain that we’re planning to convert it sensitively and that the council broadly approve of our plans, deliberately couching my request for the certificate in terms of it being a mere formality. Although I did have a slightly sleepless night, including the usual 4a.m. wide awake spot when everything seems calamitous, I feel more positive this morning and I’m humming along to the radio as I carefully apply primer to the latest window frame when my phone rings.
‘Is that Thea Rogers?’ The female voice on the other end sounds brisk and efficient.
‘That’s me,’ I confirm.
‘Great. I’m Charlotte, and I’m calling from HIBT.’
‘HIBT?’
‘Sorry, the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust. It’s a bit of a mouthful so we generally just use the initials.’
‘Wow, I didn’t expect to hear back from you so quickly.’
‘You caught us in a lull,’ she explains. ‘So, you’ve got a watermill, I understand?’
I explain the situation to her, and she sounds reassuring.
‘That’s common,’ she says. ‘Councils don’t know what they’re looking at, and they’re terrified of approving an application and someone coming after them later. If your mill is anything like most of the ones we see, it’s not going to be an issue. People generally worked them into the ground, only giving up on them once they really couldn’t be fixed any more, so the chances are the poor thing’s had it. However, we’d better do as the council says and give it the once over. Let me see who’s available and I’ll call you back, OK?’
‘Thanks, Charlotte.’ Her pragmatic approach has lifted my spirits no end, but it takes me a while to share the news with Rebecca and Ben. Rebecca is mowing the park, and typically is at the far end when I go to check, and Rollo is at school today, so Ben has been taking the opportunity to test the boat on the lake without putting him at risk. We’ve agreed that we won’t say anything to Rollo about it, so he thinks he’s on the genuine maiden voyage when he next comes.
‘That’s great news,’ they both agree when I finally manage to get them together at lunchtime.
‘I am relieved, I’ll admit,’ I tell them. ‘I was worried we’d be crawling in beardy enthusiasts, spilling real ale everywhere while banging on about flange gaskets or whatever.’
‘Is that what happens, then?’ Ben asks with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘I’ve got a beard, quite like a pint of real ale, and I expect I could get enthusiastic about a flange gasket if I knew what one was. Maybe this is my tribe.’
‘You know I didn’t mean you,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I meant, you know, old people. The type who like Morris dancing. Oh, God. You’re not into Morris dancing, are you?’
‘What have you got against Morris dancing?’ Ben asks, evidently enjoying my increasing discomfort. ‘It’s a centuries-old tradition. If you’re going to succeed outside the Big Smoke, you’re going to need to learn to be a bit more accepting of our customs, Thea.’
‘Oh, come off it!’ Rebecca laughs, punching his arm playfully. ‘You’re no more a Morris dancer than I am.’
He grins. ‘I had you going for a moment though, didn’t I?’
His eyes meet hers for a second and, although I’m no relationship expert, I definitely see something pass between them. Maybe Rebecca is in with a chance after all.