Chapter 22
22
‘Now what?’ Rebecca asks gloomily once the others have left and it’s just the three of us once more. After its successful trial, Ernest got George to shut the mill down again fairly quickly, and they’ve promised to return next week to inspect the wheel more thoroughly and perform any adjustments needed, including dressing the stones, whatever the hell that is. I think this is probably Ernest’s equivalent of winning the lottery, and George seemed pretty excited too. In my mind, the only upside of this disaster is that we might see more of George, as he’s assured us that he and Ernest will help with any work the mill needs, and HIBT will be on hand to make sure we’re aware of the various grants on offer. What HIBT absolutely won’t give us, however, is the one thing we really wanted, namely the certificate that would have enabled us to proceed with the conversion.
‘I don’t know,’ I sigh. ‘I mean, we’ll have to finish the renovation of the cottage, because nobody will buy it in its current state, but if the council and HIBT slap a preservation order on the mill, which Ernest seems to think they might, that’s literally a millstone round the neck of whoever owns the property.’
‘Ha ha.’ Rebecca smiles grimly. ‘I see what you did there.’
‘For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry,’ Ben offers.
‘What have you got to be sorry for?’ Rebecca asks him.
‘I feel kind of responsible. It was me that sold you the mill, after all.’
‘It’s not like you forced us to buy it,’ she tells him reassuringly, laying her hand on his forearm. ‘Thea and I jumped into this hole all by ourselves.’
‘Maybe George would like it,’ she continues after a long, morose silence. ‘He’s into all that kind of thing, and he could keep his traction engine in one of the barns.’
‘I don’t think George is going to be able to give us the return on our investment that we’re looking for,’ I say sadly.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Unless he’s a secret millionaire, I very much doubt a charity like HIBT is going to pay him the kind of wage he’d need to buy this.’ In the silence that follows, I do allow myself a brief fantasy where George is in fact a secret millionaire who buys the cottage, declares undying love for me, and I spend the rest of my days watching him hurling sacks of wheat around in the mill as effortlessly as if they were filled with feathers, his muscles rippling as he does. I’m just getting to the bit where he picks me up as if I’m similarly weightless and takes me upstairs for some thrilling sex when Ben’s voice punctures my reverie.
‘Maybe it would be more attractive to a buyer if you could find a way to make it earn its keep,’ he suggests.
‘But how would we do that?’ I counter. ‘It’s not commercially viable; it’s basically a museum piece.’
‘Exactly,’ he replies. ‘Open it as a working museum.’
‘Sorry, Ben, but I think that would make it even more unattractive to a potential buyer. Even if the council let you do it, it would be a load of aggro. You’d need to provide car parking, you’d have strangers permanently wandering around the place and, oh God, you’d probably have to have some sort of gift shop selling overpriced tat. Plus, and this is the killer, this is just a two-bedroom cottage without the mill conversion. Who’s going to want to pay top dollar for that, even when we’ve renovated it?’
‘You could extend the cottage in another direction. It might even be cheaper than converting the mill and it’s not like there’s a shortage of space.’
For the first time since Ernest pronounced the mill operational, a flicker of hope stirs in me. The mill itself is still a problem, but if we got permission to extend the house in another direction, we could still make something desirable out of it.
‘Do you know what, Ben?’ I tell him. ‘I think you might be on to something with that.’
‘You’re a genius,’ Rebecca agrees, giving him a kiss and earning herself a dark smudge on the cheek to go with the one on her nose.
By the time George and Ernest return the following Wednesday, it feels like we’re back on track. The architect has visited and is drawing up new plans for us to extend the house backwards, which will include knocking through the current rear wall to create the all-important open-plan kitchen-diner, with space for the extra bedrooms that were originally going to go in the mill above. As a bonus, it means we’re going to be able to install bifold doors that will not only let in a lot of light, but also give a beautiful view of the pond. I hesitate to say it, but I think it might even be better than our original plan. Plumber Chris, despite being initially frustrated that his original piping diagrams for the mill were going to have to be redone, is now also on board and trying to persuade us to install underfloor heating in the extension.
We’ve looked at the possibility of splitting the plot into several subplots and applying for permission to build multiple houses, with the aim of selling it on to a developer, but Rebecca was right that there’s a covenant to stop us doing that and, having done a quick straw poll in the pub, Ben told us that there would be quite a lot of objection from the village as well, so we’ve abandoned that idea. We do have an extensive list of questions for Ernest and George though, and I’m looking forward to sitting down with George and grilling him. Rebecca has agreed to distract Ernest because she thinks I deserve a bit of one-on-one time with George, although she’s admitted that she still thinks he’s gay and she’s also worried about listening to Ernest drone on about tentering and all his other strange little milling terms. I have done my absolute best to resurrect enough of ‘old’ Thea to remind me that mooning around over men is not what modern, self-sufficient women do and I’m not some fifties housewife who isn’t complete without a man. It hasn’t been a complete success.
‘Morning, ladies,’ Ernest says happily after he’s wriggled free from the driving seat of the Volvo. ‘Have we got some treats in store for you. Any chance of a cuppa first, though?’
Without waiting for a response, he strides through the open door into the house, carrying a large folder under his arm. ‘Doesn’t look like you’ve made a lot of progress in here,’ he observes, staring at the blank walls where the kitchen units used to be.
‘Yeah, we’re having to adapt our plans because of the mill,’ I tell him, trying not to sound annoyed as Rebecca and I set about making the tea. ‘So everything’s up in the air a bit at the moment.’
‘That mill is a real beauty. I’ve been telling everyone at HIBT about it.’
‘I bet that was a delight for them,’ Rebecca murmurs in my ear, causing me to snort with laughter.
‘Yes, well, we’ve got a lot to do,’ Ernest continues, shooting us a suspicious look. ‘There’s rather a lot of paperwork, but I’m happy to take you through it.’
‘I expect you’re anxious to get out into the mill,’ Rebecca says hurriedly. ‘Can’t George take us through the paperwork?’
Ernest looks at us suspiciously again, evidently trying to weigh up whether we’re up to something or not.
‘You have been saying it’s time I stepped up on the admin side of things,’ George chips in. ‘I’m happy to do it if you like.’
‘Hmm,’ Ernest says doubtfully. ‘I could use a second pair of hands really, but someone’s got to do the forms.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Rebecca tells him.
‘But you don’t know anything about watermills,’ Ernest protests.
‘I seem to own one, so I probably ought to learn, don’t you think?’ she replies smoothly, giving me a surreptitious wink as she adds milk to the mugs.
‘Very well. Let’s have our cuppa and then I’ll show you what’s what. I just need to pop to the loo. You really ought to do something about your track. It plays havoc with my bladder.’
‘He’s a bit eccentric, but he does know what he’s talking about,’ George assures us once Ernest is out of the room. ‘At HIBT, they call him the mill whisperer. He’ll have that thing purring like a kitten in no time. Have you given any more thought to what you’re going to do with it? Mills are happiest if you run them pretty much every day.’
‘We’re still trying to figure that part out,’ I tell him honestly as we sit down at the table and he pulls a fat wad of papers out of the folder that Ernest brought in.
‘OK, well, the good news, at least I hope it’s good news, is that there are lots of ways that the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust can help you, if you want us to. I think I mentioned that last time we were here.’
Although he’s taken up a lot of my fantasy time over the last week, some of which has been shockingly graphic, having him here in the flesh is way better. My eyes linger on his long lashes as he blinks. In fact, even the way he blinks is sexy: it’s not merely a functional down and back up like most people, it’s more languid, like a cat. It’s as if his eyelids are aware how special his lashes are and don’t want to rudely hurry them.
‘The first thing we need to do,’ he continues, seemingly totally oblivious to the effect he’s having on me, ‘is get you to sign the agreement with HIBT.’
‘Make sure you get her to sign the agreement,’ Ernest says as he emerges from the loo, tugging up his zip and totally ruining the moment.
‘I’m already on it,’ George reassures him.
‘Good.’ Rebecca hands him his mug of tea and he takes a long, loud slurp. ‘That,’ he observes in a solemn tone, ‘is a damn fine cup of splosh. I don’t know what you ladies do, but it always tastes better when you make it. It’s the same with the missus. She makes a cracking cuppa too. It must be something in your genes, like you’re born with the ability to make great tea. Right, Rebecca, would you like to accompany my good self to the mill?’
There’s so much wrong with what Ernest has just said and done that I can’t stop myself from staring at him aghast as he leads the way to the door. As Rebecca follows him through, she turns and mouths, ‘You so owe me for this,’ at me, drawing her hand across her neck dramatically.
‘Like I said,’ George murmurs once they’ve closed the door behind them, ‘he is an eccentric.’
‘How the hell does his wife put up with his rampant sexism?’ I exclaim. ‘I’d have killed him by now.’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ George says conspiratorially, flashing me a smile that combines with the tone of his voice to do frankly unnecessary things to me. ‘What I can tell you, having met her, is that she’s very encouraging of any projects that take him out of the house. Now, back to the agreement.’
‘What am I agreeing to?’
‘HIBT is a charity, so we need income from somewhere. A lot of the buildings we’ve been involved with over the years are open to the public, and the owners generate revenue from them. In return for the help we can give you, we ask you to agree to a 5 per cent contribution from any profits you might make from the mill.’
‘What if we don’t make any profit?’
‘Then you don’t give us any money. However, if you sell the mill and the subsequent owners decide to make an income, we would still expect a contribution from them.’
‘And how long does this agreement last?’
‘We ask for a ten-year commitment, but we have many HIBT partners who are still happily contributing decades after the official agreement ended, because they recognise the value that we bring. I think it’s important to explain that this is about relationship. We want you to get the best out of your historic building, so we’re not just going to get you up and running and then disappear. Any time you have an issue, or even if you just want some advice, you can call on us. Think of it like a subscription.’
The idea of regular visits from George is almost enough to make me sign on the dotted line immediately, but I manage to rescue my rational lawyer brain from wherever it’s been sleeping and read the small print carefully. It’s all pretty standard stuff and seems like a fair deal, so I sign at the end without any qualms.
‘Welcome to the HIBT family,’ George says with a smile as I push the document back to him. ‘We’re really excited to be working with you on this project.’
Not half as excited as I am, but that’s got nothing to do with the mill. My mind is already conjuring up excuses to get him on site regularly. So much for ‘old’ Thea and her self-sufficiency.