Page 40 of The Do-Over

‘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 councilsays 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,oldpeople. 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.

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