On 19 September 2023, Shukes’s bell rang and Mum opened the door to the woman who had wept all over our village green a few weeks earlier. Mum recognized her instantly, and a shiver rippled through her whole body—not only because of their previous encounter but also because Mum had been expecting a Mr. Henry Christensen at that exact time, 10:00 a.m. “I’m here instead of him,” Lesley Gavey told her, vigorously nodding and smiling in a way designed to work like radiation applied to a tumor on any questions that might have been sprouting in Mum’s mind.
I was there too that day, overheard the exchange and willed Mum to pry further, but she didn’t. Unacceptable! I was desperate to know: Was the sobbing woman Mrs. Christensen, representing them as a couple? Was that what she was implying, or did her ambiguous statement hint at something more sinister? Had she, perhaps, forcibly removed Mr. Christensen from the scene in order to steal his viewing appointment? Chopped him up into little bits that she’d then tipped into the pond by Swaffham Tilney’s war memorial? Astonishingly, the answer to this question turned out to be “Not exactly, but kind of.”
Though she’d stopped short of killing him, Lesley Gavey had indeed stolen Mr. Christensen’s appointment. She wouldn’t have called it a theft, but that’s what it was: the entitled, posh-accented version of one, as Mum soon discovered. While boiling a kettle to make Lesley’s tea (“Oh, thank you. But if possible a tall mug, not a cup, please. I can’t bear cups, not for anything”) and with two closed doors between them, Mum rang Peter, the estate agent, whispering, “Pick up, pick up,” half expecting her visitor to burst into the room and catch her. Just because Mum had left her sitting on the sofa in the lounge, that didn’t mean the weeping woman would stay put; anyone who could lurk and sob and stare could also prowl without permission. Despite the woman’s composed and smiley demeanor today, no part of Mum believed she was dealing with a normal person. How, for instance, was it possible to find drinking from a cup unbearable, unless one was of unsound mind?
I was extremely wary of our visitor too. So was Champ. Since Lesley Gavey had arrived, he’d been following Mum everywhere she went. He sat by her feet now, alert, and seemed to be watchingthe kitchen door. Normally, in this room, his full attention would be focused on the pantry, where his goat chews and roe deer bones lived. As Mum clutched her phone to her ear and prayed for Peter to answer, a wild-feeling, freewheeling part of her pictured herself marching, drinkless, back to the lounge and saying, “I’m sorry but you can’t have a mug of tea or a tour of the house. You need to leave. Immediately. And don’t come back.”
But then Peter answered and Mum forgot about doing or saying any of that. “That’s right,” he confirmed. “Mr. Christensen booked the ten o’clock slot originally, but don’t worry. I’ve put him in for three o’clock this afternoon.”
Lesley Gavey wasn’t his wife, then. “I don’t understand,” Mum whispered. “Did he need to rearrange for some reason?”
“He was quite happy to rearrange, yes,” said Peter.
That didn’t satisfy Mum any more than it would have satisfied me. “Did you ask him if he’d be willing to rearrange, or did he suggest it?” she said, feeling silly and guilty for wasting Peter’s time with such a trivial-sounding question. She heard Dad’s voice in her mind: “Come on, Sal. What does it matter? Do you have to analyze every tiny detail?” Yet her question felt necessary; nothing about her present predicament seemed trivial.
“I asked him,” said Peter. He hesitated, then said, “I suppose I should tell you… It appears that Mrs. Gavey is quite determined to buy your house, Mrs. Lambert, so please don’t accept an offer from her without talking to me first. I’ve got a strong hunch that she’d pay quite a bit more than the asking price.”
“What makes you say that?” Mum asked.
“Where do I start?” Peter chuckled. “She rang at nine o’clockthis morning, said she was very near Swaffham Tilney and please could she view as soon as possible? I told her no—fully booked, all morning. Offered her an afternoon slot. Nope, had to be morning, she said—and then suddenly even morning wasn’t good enough, when I suggested eleven thirty. Ten o’clock, she wanted. Almost insisted. Said, ‘I’ve seen the house from the outside, studied the details, and I know I want it. I’m a cash buyer, and unless I find a cupboard full of radioactive nuclear waste under the stairs, Shoe Cottage is going to be my forever home.’ She didn’t let up until I thought of giving her Mr. Christensen’s appointment. I’ve met Henry a few times, though, so I knew he wouldn’t mind. He’s a proper gentleman. And between you and me, he never offers on anything. Keeps saying he hasn’t yet found anything that makes his heart sing. I told him, most people are happy if there’s off-street parking, never mind a singing heart.”
When Mum told Dad all of this later that evening, it started an argument between them. “So she was keen on the house,” said Dad. “Great. What’s the problem?”
“Was,” said Mum. “She definitely isn’t any more, thank the Lord above. Nothing could give me greater joy than knowing Lesley Gavey’s going to forget all about Shukes and us. Not that I’d have agreed to sell him to her under any circumstances, but I’m still relieved she’s lost all interest in buying him. I’d hate to find out what it feels like to go through life as someone who’s prevented that woman from getting something, anything, she wants.” Mum shuddered.
“You’re talking about her as if she’s Satan,” said Dad.
“I reckon she’s…Satan-adjacent,” Mum told him. “When Petergave her the ten o’clock slot, he told her he’d ring me to let me know, and she ordered him not to. Said she’d tell me herself—but she didn’t have my number, and she knew she didn’t. Obviously she didn’t want to risk Peter consulting me and me saying, ‘No, actually, I’d rather we didn’t rearrange Mr. Christensen,’ so she thought she’d just turn up and present me with a fait accompli.”
“I doubt it,” Dad said, even though doubting what Mum knows for sure is the habit that most often gets him into trouble. “Why would she think you’d care whether it was her or—” He broke off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And so what, even if you’re right? She was super-keen on Shukes, or thought she was, so she got a bit ruthless. Hardly a crime, is it? And now’s she’s been put off by the lack of back garden, so we’ll never have to see her again. End of.”
“Yes, end of, thankfully,” Mum agreed. “I’m just saying… You weren’t there, Mark. Trust me, okay? She’s not right in the head. Having her in the house was chilling. I wanted to fumigate the lounge once she’d gone.”
“Did she smell?” asked Dad.
“Not physically. But spiritually, at a soul level, she reeked. And Champ didn’t like her at all.”
“You mean the way he doesn’t like war movies or westerns orMaster and Commanderbut just happens to loveGray’s AnatomyandThe Good Wifeand whatever you want to watch?” Dad teased.
“She acted like I’d betrayed her or something,” said Mum. “As if our house had deliberately, callously tricked her. She said, ‘When you see a nice, generous-sized front garden, all well tended and nicely planted, you assume there’s an even better garden at the back, don’t you? Betterand quite a bit bigger.’ Mark, she made me feel likeI was the Bernie Madoff of house selling. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to say, ‘No, actually, I wouldn’t assume that, and if you did, you’re a fool.’ A front garden of any size or in any condition tells you nothing about the likely back garden situation. I mean, does it?”
“No,” said Dad.
“If anything, you’d see a front garden like ours that’s clearly been made the most of and think, ‘There’s probably no back garden, or else why would they have made such a song and dance about this small patch at the front?’”
“Small patch?” Finally, Dad had found something to be alarmed by, and Mum was furious that it was her words and not Lesley Gavey’s behavior. “I’ve never made a ‘song and dance,’ as you put it, about our garden,” he huffed. “I keep it nice, that’s all. Look after my roses. Is there something wrong with that? The cheek of it! It’s not even that small. Medium-sized, I’d say.”
Mum took a deep breath. “You know I love our garden, Mark.” She thought, but did not add:You know—or you would if you listened to me properly—that I can’t stand the thought of leaving it or Shukes behind, and the only reason I’m willing to do both is because Champ needs more freedom than Furbs ever had, to go outside whenever he wants to without one of us always having to supervise.
“I get it, Sal.” Dad yawned. “This Lesley Gavey woman acted a bit sharp-elbowed with the estate agent to get a viewing arranged, then decided she was a ‘no’ because she wants a back garden. Fair enough. Is that it? I mean… Did anything else happen?”
“Yes,” Mum sort of wailed. “A lot. I’m trying to tell you what happened, so stop…sounding like we’re winding up the conversation.”
“All right, calm down.” Dad had the sense to swallow his next yawn. “Tell me, then.”
And Mum started to do just that, though privately she was full of doubts. Was it really “a lot”? Would Dad agree? Did it amount to any more than the easily condensable “She’s a nutter, and good riddance to her”? Why did it feel so important to Mum to go over the details, as if everything had to be logged for future reference? She didn’t want any of it to matter. She wanted never to have to think about Lesley Gavey again.
“Well, for a start, I found out why she was standing on the green last month, crying and staring at Shukes,” she told Dad. “So that’s something at least; I got to tick that off my unsolved puzzles list. There was a high price to pay for the privilege, however.”
