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“How long?” I ask, pushing away the little spark of hope.
“We’ve issued a three-month extension on the original Stay.”
My mind is calculating furiously. Three months. That’s much better than two weeks. May, June, July. Good tourism months.
“But it’s likely to be renewed for another three months after that.” Myles continues “And maybe longer. The seigneur is going to wait until every soldier who may have hidden in that cottage has been contacted. In many cases, they’ll be deceased, so it’s probably their descendants or relations. It could take some time. Until it’s resolved, the property is still yours so you can go ahead with any holiday rentals.”
I stand in the middle of the village square for ages, staring at the fountain splashing water on the cobbles, while my brain shuffles itself trying to adjust to the new information. Three months, maybe six months? That would take us just past the autumn festival Gabriel told me they were planning. Six months of rental income will take a massive bite out of my business loan.
The Secret House has in fact been the one hope I never expected. It won’t save the land, but at least I won’t face bankruptcy.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Elodie
Grandad wears his blazer, the one with elbow patches, and a shirt and tie because he says we need to look smart.
“You don’t go to war without yer armour an’ ye don’t go to argue wi’ lawyers in pyjamas.”
So, here we are sitting in a small conference room in the Municipalité. There are indeed lawyers, three of them, two from the Municipalité and one who came in for Morris and Sweeny. There are also four others, admins, or something.
George Du Montfort chairs the meeting, every inch the cordial and impartial seigneur. He leaves the talking to one of his lawyers, Karen Chell. She’s a forty-something woman-next-door type with curly blond hair and pale coral lipstick. Karen has been assigned to help me and Grandad.
Karen starts by outlining our case, she does a much better job than I did when we went to see George, because she focusses on one issue only. She points out that the vendor, that’s Grandad, had intended to sell a different property and that at no time in the agreement heard by the two witnesses was the name Labri Catch mentioned. The phrase, the Honey Shop, could just as easily refer to the old shop on Lavender Lane in the Village. She reads out the statement, taken from Grandad earlier in the week. “In which Mr Algernon LeFevre, aka, Hedge, maintains that he never agreed to sell his own house and lands on Catcher Lane and Catcher Hill.”
It takes a long time to go through all of this and even longer when she presents my own affidavit about the original discussions and the agreement to join the gardens with Hal. Morris and Sweeny’s lawyer objects to calling it an agreement because it has not been ratified or witnessed. Karen insists “This agreement goes to show, like every other fact we’ve presented, that none of Mr LeFevre’s actions had been consistent with a desire to sell his own house.” In the end they agree to call it ‘a draft agreement’ and we move to the next legal issue.
When she’s done, George calls for a short break.
I fetch Grandad a cup of tea from the refreshment table, hope surging in me because the case seems very clear. I am so relieved that I didn’t take the mental incapacity route after all. I’m also glad the lawyer told us not to speak, because I can see Grandad hasn’t really kept up with all the legal jargon. He’s found the long presentation tedious, and I was afraid he might nod off. So, throughout the meeting, I have held on to his hand, giving it a squeeze every so often to keep him alert. There are too many people in this room, and I don’t want anyone to gossip that he seemed ‘out of it’.
But all my efforts are wasted the moment Morris and Sweeny’s lawyer starts his rebuttal.
“Thank you for your opinion Ms. Chell.” He gives Karen a condescending look. “But in your eagerness, you missed an important factor. Mr LeFevre is a senile old man, he’s clearly confused about his own intentions and has made conflicting promises to different people. My clients entered into the sale in good faith, and they cannot be responsible for any other promises he might have made to others when he might have been confused.”
He talks for another hour, more or less around the same point. Grandad flinches when they keep referring to him as a senile old man, a doddering old man close to a hundred. At least forty-five minutes is wasted while their lawyer proves that Grandad is ninety-six not ninety-four. And another half-hour proving he left school at fifteen without getting any qualifications. They make him sound like the village idiot. I can’t help looking at the others in the room, the administrators, and minute-takers, the person serving the coffee. They all hear what’s being said.
All the time, Sweeny just leers at Karen Chell as if sorry to be wasting his time on such an incompetent woman. I wish George had given us the other lawyer, a man in a pin-stripe suit. Not because I think he’s better, but it might have forced the other team to take us more seriously.
When their lawyer is finished, he sits down and all three of them at the opposite side of the conference table look smug, as if they have proved their point.
We take another break. Grandad refuses any more tea; he just sits there staring at his hands in his lap.
“Gentlemen.” George now addresses the meeting. “As you know, this is not a court, it’s at best an informal mediation and the aim is to reach a compromise.”
“We have already compromised; we’ve been delayed by two weeks. Time is money and if they don’t move out of our property in two days, we are going to sue for financial compensation. We have booked demolition workers and we’ve spent money on a large quantity of supplies which are due to arrive on Monday. So, unless we take possession this weekend, we are going to lose money. And you,” he says this directly to me. “You will owe us for every minute of delay.”
“Gentlemen,” George says, and this time his voice is firm enough to take complete charge. “I will remind you to address your remarks to myself or my associates, not to anyone else. Now, it seems to me that your case relies on the assumption that Mr LeFevre’s decision is not reliable. Can you prove this?”
“Of course.” This time it’s Sweeny and he actually stands up. “I have been dealing with him on a weekly basis. He can never remember how much money he paid, or how much he owes us. It’s been going on for months.”
George says nothing just rolls a pen between his thumb and fingers. It’s Karen Chell who asks. “How can you be sure about this? Most people can have trouble keeping track of small details.”
Sweeny laughs at her. “Yes. Of course, we are sure. We’ve both witnessed him being confused and forgetful. He’ll tell you something then forget he said it and starts telling you again, and again, in one visit.”
“That’s right.” Morris now stands up. “Hedge has been losing it for years. He rambles and forgets.” He glares at Grandad. “And he’s very hard of hearing.”
Karen looks directly at Morris and Sweeny’s lawyer, who is busy writing. She waits until the man can’t avoid her anymore and looks up. His expression isn’t as confident or smug as before.
