Page 45 of The Do-Over

I stare at him as my heart falls through the floor. He’s obviously completely forgotten how we wanted this to go. Ernest is chatting happily with Ben, but George obviously picks up on it, as he gently pulls Rebecca and me aside as we walk back round to the cottage.

‘Look, I know this isn’t what you wanted, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to adapt your plans if you don’t get the certificate.’

‘I can’t think how,’ I tell him gloomily as Ben pulls out his mobile phone and dials a number.

‘Dave,’ I hear him say when the call connects. ‘I’m calling to ask a favour. Yeah, there’s a tree that I need moving. No, at the mill. As soon as possible really.’

There’s a long pause, presumably while Dave, whoever he is, checks his availability. ‘Wednesday?’ Ben says eventually. ‘Perfect. Thanks. Yeah, see you then.’

‘Dave will come and deal with the tree on Wednesday,’ he announces unnecessarily.

‘Perfect,’ Ernest says happily. ‘I’ll call Charlotte and give her the news. I can’t speak for George here, but, assuming nothing urgent comes up in the meantime, I’ll be back on Wednesday too with a large pot of grease. All being well, and assuming the waterwheel is OK, I reckon we might be able to fire it up as soon as the tree is out of the way.’

‘Well, that couldn’t have gone much worse,’ I mutter darkly as we watch the Volvo bounce back down the track.

‘What are we going to do if we can’t get the certificate?’ Rebecca asks. ‘I guess we could adapt the plans and do up the mill instead of converting it. It would certainly be a talking point for the new owners. “Come next door and have a look at my fully functional mill.”’

‘Sounds like the ultimate dinner party bore to me. It was bad enough listening to Ernest wanging on about wallowers and pit wheels. Honestly, if George hadn’t been there to translate and explain, I think I would have gone to sleep.’

‘Hmm. I did notice you were paying rather close attention to him,’ she says with a half-smile. ‘I still think he’s gay, but I’m sure the idea of him getting hot and greasy with the mill machinery isn’t the worst mental image you’ll ever have had.’

I allow the image to form in my mind, sitting it alongside the earlier one of George on his traction engine, and I have to admit it does improve my mood. I file them neatly away for future use before returning my focus to our predicament.

‘Ben?’ I ask, after thinking about it for a while. ‘I don’t suppose you have any mill saboteurs in your extensive contact list, do you?’

He smiles. ‘Sadly not. In fact, I don’t have anyone with any form of mill expertise, I’m afraid. I do agree with Rebecca though. It might actually be a selling point.’

‘I doubt it,’ I tell them. ‘It’s like a swimming pool on steroids.’

‘What have swimming pools got to do with it?’ Ben asks, confused.

‘Having a swimming pool generally devalues a house and makes it harder to sell,’ I explain. ‘Having a fully functional bloody watermill is going to be even worse.’

‘I’d have thought swimming pools would increase the value,’ Ben persists. ‘They’re aspirational, aren’t they?’

‘Maybe, if you were in a hot country and had an outdoor pool you could use a lot. But here, you either need an indoor pool if you’re going to want to use it year round, or you get to use it on the three nice summer days when you’re not working. And, for the privilege of doing that, you lose a fat chunk of garden and have to spend a fortune on chemicals and what have you to maintain it. Oddly, very few people see that as a plus when looking for a house. How much do you think it costs to maintain a sodding mill? And you’re never going to get any benefit out of it unless you’re some kind of psychotic uber-baker who’s obsessed with milling their own flour. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a pretty niche market to me.’

‘I’ve just had an idea,’ Rebecca remarks thoughtfully. ‘If this mill is so historically significant, or whatever, there are probably grants and stuff you can get to pay for its upkeep. So, you get your dinner party talking point, the government coughs up to maintain it, and every so often you bring in someone like Ernest to mill some flour and charge for entry. It could be a win-win.’

‘Hmm. Maybe, but I reckon it’s still going to need a very specific type of buyer. One who appreciates the privacy the park gives them, but is also happy to invite a load of strangers round every so often to watch Ernest strut his stuff. In fact, you’re going to need specific strangers too, because listening to Ernest talk about milling is guaranteed to send most people to sleep.’

She sighs. ‘You’re right. Back to plan A.’

‘Which is?’

‘Hope like hell that Ernest finds a fatal problem when he tries to run it.’

‘Are you sure you don’t know any mill saboteurs?’ I ask Ben again.

He smiles. ‘Not one, sorry.’

‘Right, well, I guess there’s nothing we can do but crack on for the time being. We’re not going to learn anything more until your mate Dave gets rid of the tree.’

As I settle back into the familiar task of painting the window frames, I allow various images of George to play through my mind. I know I’ll probably never see him again after he and Ernest have sorted the mill out, but I’ve never reacted that viscerally to a man before, even Alasdair. To be fair, the only other eligible man I’ve seen since leaving Morton Lansdowne is Ben but, even if Rebecca weren’t chasing him for all she was worth, the beard would rule him out for me. I tell myself firmly to get a grip and focus on solving the problem at hand.

Not until after I’ve enjoyed these mental images for a little while longer, though.

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