porch. Too late, she realised the front door was never used. The porch was full of potted plants, several big ones right in front of the door itself.
An inner door opened, and a grey-haired woman in spectacles appeared. Respectable-dowdy, with sharp blue eyes and a very stubborn mouth. She gestured angrily, indicating some other entrance that should be used. It put poor Rose one-down from the start. She blundered for a long time round the barns and farmyard, trying to find a way through, until finally the woman opened a door in a six-foot wall, and looked at her as if she was an idiot.
‘We’ve come,’ faltered Rose, ‘about renting the house. Only for a week or a fortnight . . .’ She was almost ready to take to her heels and run. Only the small eager figures on each side of her kept her steady.
‘Oh, come in,’ said the woman impatiently, and led the way with vigorous but erratic steps, as if she had arthritis but was trying to trample it underfoot by sheer will-power.
The kitchen they were led into was uncannily like the one they had just left, except it was shining and alive. There was a glowing coal fire, which cheered Rose up, even in the middle of July. A grandfather clock ticked soothingly. There was a bundle of knitting in a chair, and a tray laid for tea, with a glass sugar-basin. Various chairs were occupied by various teddy-bears, one wearing full-size spectacles.
And straightaway, Rose was under a spell. This indeed was her granny’s kitchen come again. She felt very small, but very safe.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ said the woman impatiently.
They sat, careful not to inconvenience the teddy-bears.
‘We’re interested in the house up the path, Mrs . . .’
‘Miss,’ said the woman decisively, as if that disposed of marriage for good and all. ‘Miss Yaxley. Were you thinking of renting or buying? Renting is thirty pounds a week; buying is fifteen thousand freehold, including the furniture thrown in.’
Rose gasped at such bluntness. And such cheapness. Why, she had more than fifteen thousand pounds of her own money. She had a sudden wild vision of herself sitting in the cottage, writing to invite Philip up for the weekend. On to her own patch. Where he would be a little diffident, and do as he was told. The prospect was alarmingly attractive. In order to head her imaginary letter to Philip correctly, she said, ‘What’s the house called?’
‘Beach Cottage. Belonged to my brother. Just inherited it under his will. I’ve got no use for it. Takes me all my time to keep this place going, at my time of life. Much too much for me. Much too much.’
‘We thought we’d like to try it for a week . . .’ faltered Rose. ‘To see if the children like it. Then perhaps . . .’
She was sure this woman would sweep away her nonsense with a flood of biting common sense. But Miss Yaxley seemed to be very much of two minds. She turned aside, and rubbed at a tiny spot on the chrome teapot, as if it was annoying her intensely.
‘It’s no place for children,’ she said in a low voice. ‘My brother was an old man . . .’
‘I think it’s brill,’ said Timothy, turning on his most charming smile like a searchlight. He had a swift eye for adult indecision. But Rose thought for once Timothy had overreached himself. Miss Yaxley gave him a grim look, as if to say children should be seen but not heard. She seemed to come to a decision and Rose was sure the answer would be no.
So she was all the more amazed when Miss Yaxley said, ‘Very well. I don’t suppose a week can do any harm.’ She was still vigorously rubbing away at the spot on the teapot, which showed no sign of moving. Then she said, rather grudgingly but also rather guiltily, ‘I’ll only charge twenty pounds for the first week. You’ll have to clean the place up. Men live in such a muddle. They’re hopeless. But I’d like the rent in advance. Weekly in advance.’
There was more thissing and thatting, but in the end Miss Yaxley drove them back to the windmill herself in her battered Morris Minor with the dry bird-droppings turning into rust-stains on the bonnet. Rose thought that, having made her mind up, Miss Yaxley was not only keen to get them into the cottage, but also curiously keen to get rid of