Warmed and comforted and a little drunk, Louise relaxed enough to ask the old man if he knew what had happened to her childhood playmates, the Lytham family, who used to live in his house.
He did not know where the family was, he said. He knew only that the leasehold of both cottages had run out, and that the Lythams had not renewed theirs, but that Celia’s grandfather had come to an agreement with the earl to renew his for another hundred years. ‘Because the houses are very well built, and your granddad probably wanted to keep his in the family for holidays.’
It was obvious from Louise’s expression that she had no idea what was meant by leasehold, so Celia asked, ‘What exactly does that mean? I’ve always wondered.’
Mr Fairbanks picked up his cup of tea, and took a sip. ‘Well, you see, luv, nobody round these parts owns much land. Nearly all of it has belonged to the earl since time began. If you want to build on land round here – or farm it – you can persuade the earl to give you a long lease on it – these cottages had one for fifty years – and then you can build on it. However, at the end of the lease, you have to pay the earl to renew it; otherwise the land – and the buildings that you have built on it – revert to him, and he can rent them to somebody or pull them down.’ He put his cup down neatly in its saucer, and then added, ‘And what’s more, you’ll probably find that Mr Billings ‘as been paying a ground rent to his lordship’s agent each year on your behalf.’
Louise asked, ‘Can we sell the cottage, if we want to?’
‘Oh, yes, Ma’am, if someone is prepared to buy the lease from you. But you’d have difficulty getting a good price for it – they’re a bit isolated – it’s a fair walk to Meols railway station, and your cottage has bin proper neglected, if I may say so. And in winter the wind comes in from the sea something awful. The gentleman that came to look at it brought Mr Parry, the estate agent from Hoylake, along with him – and that’s what he said. Neither house is worth a great deal.’
Louise felt a little comforted. At least Albert had considered selling the cottage, before he had condemned her to it.
For her part, Celia swallowed hard. Pay an earl for the right to live in a house that belonged to you, but you probably could not sell? What other money problems that they knew nothing about lurked amid the present turmoil of their lives? What other financial demands could they expect? She felt faint with fear, unreasonable fear that Cousin Albert might have deserted them, leaving them penniless. He had made it clear that the price of their Liverpool home would be used as the foundation of their income, and certainly not to buy another house. Once he had sold it for them, would he be honest and hand over the money? Celia felt sick with apprehension.
Her mother must have had similar vague fears, because she said rather desperately to her daughter, ‘Perhaps we should go to see Mr Billings now, Celia.’ She rose carefully, to hand her cup to their host, and thank him quite sweetly for his hospitality. He was a mere working man – but he was male and he knew things that she did not. Like Celia, Louise began to view him as a possible pillar of support, like a good butler would have been, had she been fortunate enough to have one in her employ, instead of a giggling fool of a parlourmaid.
Eddie Fairbanks insisted on walking with the ladies down the sandy lane to Meols Station, and waiting with them until the steam train chugged in. He recommended that, instead of changing to the electric train at Birkenhead Park Station, they should get a cab from that station to Mr Billings’ office. ‘Being as it’s getting late, and his office is nearer to Park than it is to Birkenhead Central.’
They took his advice, and were fortunate in catching small, rotund Mr Billings just as he was putting on his overcoat ready to go home.
As the ladies were ushered in, after being announced by his fourteen-year-old office boy, he resignedly took off his bowler hat again and hung it on the coat stand, then went to sit at his desk. As the women entered, he half rose in his chair and smiled politely at them.
The office boy sullenly pulled out chairs for the forlorn couple. Because of their late arrival, he would be late home and his mother would scold him. He returned to the outer office to sit on his high stool and depressedly contemplate the beckoning spring sunshine which lit the untidy builder’s yard outside.
Louise had retired behind her mourning veil, and Mr Billings eyed her with some trepidation: widows could be very tiresome, particularly a real lady like this Gilmore woman; they never understood what you told them. Since she showed no indication of an ability to speak, he turned his eyes upon her companion, a thin sickly-looking woman, dressed in mourning black. She must be the daughter. He smiled again.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. How can I help you?’ he inquired politely of Celia. Then, before Celia could respond, he added, ‘May I express my condolences at your sad loss. Very sad, indeed.’
There was a murmur of thanks from behind Louise’s veil, and Celia blinked back tears. They were not only tears because of the loss of her autocratic father, but tears for herself because she had little idea of how to deal with business matters – and Mr Billings represented a solid weight of them.
With what patience he could muster after a long, trying day, Mr Billings waited for one of them to speak, and, after a few moments, Celia nervously wetted her lips, and explained about the need to get the cottage at Meols into liveable shape.
While he considered this, Mr Billings brushed his moustache with one stout red finger and then twisted the waxed points at each end of it. He said slowly, ‘Oh, aye, it needs a bit of doing up if you’re going to live in it yourselves. It was rented for a good many years to a Miss Hornby after your auntie died; she was crippled and she never did aught about aught. When she died, Mr Gilmore saw no point in doing repairs on a place he didn’t use – and the rent wasn’t much. So I had the ground-floor windows boarded up – they being expensive to replace if they were broken by vandals. And that’s how it’s been for a couple of years now.’
He clasped his hands over his waistcoat and leaned back in his chair.
Celia told him about the broken bedroom window and asked if he could recommend a builder who could repair it quickly, and anything else that needed doing, like new floorboards in the hall bedroom.
He immediately wrote out on the back of one of his business cards the name and address of a Hoylake man, Ben Aspen, who, he assured Celia, was as honest as the day. ‘I’ll get my own man to put a new windowpane in for you tomorrow – I got a handyman I keep to do small repairs. Later on, you can tell Ben Aspen what else you want doing.’
She was greatly relieved and thanked him, as she carefully put the card into her handbag.
‘Don’t mention it, Miss,’ he replied, as he turned to her mother, to address the daunting veil. ‘Seeing as how you’re here, Ma’am, I’d like to speak to you about your property in Birkenhead.’
Louise sniffed back her tears and lifted her veil sufficiently to apply a black handkerchief to mop up under it. ‘Yes?’ she fluttered nervously.
She jumped as Mr Billings shouted to his young clerk, still fidgeting in the outer office, ‘George, bring the Gilmore file.’
Muttering maledictions under his breath, the youngster got down the file and brought it in and laid it in front of Mr Billings. When he was dismissed he bowed obsequiously to the ladies as he passed them.
They ignored him.
‘Now, let me see.’ Mr Billings rustled through an inordinate number of pieces of paper, while Celia watched anxiously.
‘Humph.’ He leaned back in his chair again, and addressed Louise. ‘Now, yesterday afternoon a Mr Albert Gilmore come in. Said he was your trustee – when he said it, I thought for a second that you was passed on as well as