agent had gone to school together.
‘Aggie, we just want to have a look around for this history that Jodi’s writing. Look at it this way: anyone who is willing to put up the money to buy somewhere as massive as Rathnaree is bound to be egotistical enough to want a history of the place written. Rich people have egos the size of Mars, right, and having a history of their new house already written – well, it’s got to be a selling point. You could put it on your marketing brochures. Can you see what I’m getting at? It’s not just a massive old Anglo-Irish wreck in need of restoration…’
‘I thought you were putting a positive spin on it,’ muttered Aggie, the estate agent.
‘– it’s a beautiful example of classic Irish architecture, with a fantastic history that links it to Tamarin and all the great events in Irish history.’
‘Such as what?’ said Aggie.
‘Well, I don’t know yet. That’s why we want to see inside, isn’t it?’ Izzie said. Honestly, Aggie was hard work.
‘I’m not going to tell Peter about this,’ Aggie said, weakening.
Peter Winters was the man who owned Winters & Sons, the estate agency trying to sell Rathnaree. The company’s motto was along the lines of: If you want to sell an exquisite family heirloom, with style and dignity and no nasty modern advertising, then come to Winters & Sons.
That sort of ploy might have worked years ago, but it clearly wasn’t working now, Izzie realised. Rathnaree had been empty for four years and there was no sign of anybody taking it off the owner’s hands.
‘Peter doesn’t need to know anything,’ Izzie said. ‘We won’t tell him, Girl Guide’s honour.’
‘Were you in the Guides?’ Aggie asked.
‘I went to Brownie camp once,’ Izzie volunteered.
Aggie shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘I’m warning the pair of you, Rathnaree needs a hell of a lot of work,’ Aggie went on as she found the keys for the house. ‘If a bit of plaster falls off and kills you, I’m not liable, right?’
The current owner was one Freddy Lochraven, a distant nephew of the original family. According to Aggie, he divided his time between London and Dubai and had only visited the house once shortly after he’d inherited it.
‘Peter thinks it suits him that it hasn’t sold on the grounds that, with property prices rising all the time, it will make more money when it eventually sells.’
‘And he’d love, I’m sure, a detailed history of the place,’ Izzie interrupted.
‘I suppose,’ said Aggie. ‘Fine, I’ll let you in and I’ll leave you, but don’t take anything, please.’
‘Oh, Aggie, for God’s sake,’ grumbled Izzie. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We just want to breathe in the atmosphere. Besides, you’ve known me all your life – and Jodi’s the Vice-Principal’s wife, she’s hardly going to start ripping the fireplaces off the walls, is she? No. We’re doing you a favour.’
‘We have to go in through the kitchen,’ said Aggie now, jangling keys, ‘because the front door’s a nightmare. The last time I was here, I could barely open it.’
They walked around the side of the house to the big gate into the courtyard through which Jodi had peered once before. She was so excited and was mentally urging Aggie to hurry up but the estate agent was taking for ever, slowly inserting key after key into the lock, trying to find the right one and muttering as she did so.
‘Hurry up!’ Jodi wanted to scream, but she daren’t. If Aggie changed her mind, they wouldn’t be able to get in and she just had to see inside.
Finally, the stiff lock yielded. Aggie unhooked it and pushed the creaking gates open. Jodi ran in first, looking around, trying to commit everything to memory. Photos! She’d better take photos.
The courtyard had stables at one end with arched doorways and horseshoes hung for luck all over the place. Jodi wanted to look everywhere, but she wanted to go inside too.
At the kitchen door there was another interminable wait while Aggie fiddled with the keys again. And then the door was open and they were inside.
‘Holy smoke, it’s an awful mess,’ said Aggie, sighing as they went in.
Jodi and Izzie exchanged a grin. Aggie had never been the most imaginative person in school, Izzie thought and clearly, nothing had changed. All she saw was dust and cobwebs, while Jodi and Izzie saw history right in front of them.
‘If you want to leave me the keys, Aggie, I’ll lock up and bring them back to you in a couple of hours,’ Izzie said.
‘Well, OK,’ said Aggie grudgingly. ‘I have a lot to do.’
Izzie nodded as if this was indeed the case, although she didn’t think so. The phone hadn’t rung once when they were with Aggie in the office. Business didn’t appear to be too brisk at Winters & Sons.
‘Of course, you’re busy,’ Izzie said briskly. God, the fibs she was telling. ‘I’ll take care of this. And thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to us.’
With Aggie gone, they could look to their hearts’ content. Izzie almost didn’t know where to start. She walked around the big kitchen with the huge old Aga and recalled Gran once telling someone about cooking on such a beast. Apparently, it was difficult to learn the vagaries of the giant Aga, and a total nightmare trying to relight it when it went out.
In one part of the kitchen were bells hung high on the wall with names for each room: library, drawing room, study, bedroom one, bedroom two, etc. There were three rows of bells and Izzie imagined staff rushing off at high speed when one rang.
To the right of the kitchen was a huge scullery with two vast sinks and lots of old wooden crates still lying on the floor. There were newspapers on the floor too, dropped carelessly there as if mopping up a spill. Behind the door they found the source of the newspapers, piles and piles of carefully tied-up news print. There must be years worth there, Izzie thought.
It was a dark room with only a tiny light and in her mind’s eye she could see a girl, her hands raw from scrubbing potatoes or peeling mounds of vegetables. Until now, Izzie had never thought of herself as a particularly psychic person but here, in this old house, the sense of the generations who’d worked their fingers to the bone seemed to permeate the very walls.
‘Izzie, look – back stairs,’ came Jodi’s voice. ‘Come on.’
She left the scullery and went out into a little hall. There were plain stone flags on the floor and it was cold, freezing even in the heat of a warm spring day. There were lots of little doors off it and she quickly opened some of them, finding a boot room with old footwear standing dusty and covered with the film of age, and another room with nothing in it but shelves of empty bottles and jars, along with a strange contraption shaped like a sideways barrel on a wooden frame with a big handle on one side. It was a butter churn, she realised, delighted with herself for recognising it. Gran had talked about making butter when she was a child: the fun of separating fresh milk into cream and skimmed milk, and then the hours of winding away with the churn until the magical moment came and the golden butter began to appear like little knobs in the milk.
‘Are
