A Sprinkle of Sabotage by Fiona Leitch (famous ebook reader TXT) 📕

hedges or striped lawns that I’d imagined; but once inside, the full extent of the disrepair and neglect the building had fallen into became all too apparent. Instead of the beautiful period decor I’d been hoping for, handprinted wall coverings, plaster mouldings, and gilding, there was woodchip wall paper – that weird embossed paper that you put up and then paint over. It had been painted over in a kind of stale-tobacco yellow; or maybe it hadn’t been painted over and it was down to generations of heavy smokers. The furniture was a bizarre mismatch of old antique pieces, most of which needed re-upholstering, and flatpack stuff from Ikea. There was a strange, musty, and unpleasant smell emanating from somewhere, and the thought of inviting my guests to sit down and eat something that had been prepared in that mould-ridden cesspit of a kitchen made my insides go all squirmy. No thanks. I had quickly made my excuses and left, but not without seeing the look of utter helplessness and despair on the owners’ faces. I felt sorry for them, lumbered with this monstrous house, but not that sorry. I hoped the new people had worked their magic on their own home as much as they had on the village.

We drove past the entrance to the new estate, which was all grass-verged cul-de-sacs, internal garages, and identical boxy but neat detached houses, then turned into the long driveway towards Polvarrow House. The wrought-iron gates stood open, painted glossy black with a curly PV motif picked out in gold; there was no sign of the rust that had blighted them on my previous visit.

We headed along an avenue of elm trees, their leaves beginning to colour into that almost lime-green that would turn to yellow then bronze as autumn established itself more fully on the landscape. To the right, a narrow strip of neatly trimmed grass was bordered by huge shrubs – ancient rhododendrons and azaleas by the look of it, although I’m hardly a horticultural expert and they are just about the only plants I can ever recognise. Beyond them lay the back gardens of the new houses, bordered by black iron railings.

The avenue curved left, away from the housing estate, and we were greeted with our first view of Polvarrow House itself, looking rather more salubrious than when I’d last been there. There were box topiary balls in big stone planters lining the driveway, and the ornate carved fountain that had been cracked and covered in green moss the last time I’d seen it was now shooting plumes of water into the air that landed with a gentle plashing sound in the pool below.

‘Wow,’ said Daisy, and I had to agree.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘I didn’t mean the house,’ she said, and then I saw what she was looking at.

It looked like Hollywood – or the behind-the-scenes part of it, anyway – had come to Cornwall. There was a whole village of tents, motorhomes, and trucks parked on the gravel at the side of the house. There didn’t seem to be any filming going on, but it was still a hive of activity – movie people with clipboards walking around looking important, talking into mobile phones, and gesticulating wildly. I pulled up next to a friendly-looking older man who was just about the only person standing still, and wound down the window. He bent down to speak before I could say anything.

‘Hello! Are you here for the casting?’ he said. All three of us nodded. ‘Lovely! Just follow the drive round to the back and park up, then follow the signs.’ He stepped back with a smile, and indicated where to go.

We drove around to the back of the house. The car park was rammed, and I recognised a few cars. We parked up and got out of the car. I had managed to persuade Mum to change into something a little less eccentric, tempting her with the promise of a visit to the local garden centre afterwards. She always enjoyed pottering around and looking at the plants, even though she had brown fingers like I did and rarely bought anything. They also have a particularly good café there, and I had learnt long ago that my mum would do pretty much anything for a toasted teacake and a nice cuppa.

We followed the signs for ‘Casting’ back round to the front of the house and towards a big marquee tent. The friendly man we’d spoken to earlier stood outside and smiled as he saw us.

‘You found somewhere to park? Marvellous!’ he said enthusiastically.

‘Are you the director?’ asked Daisy. He laughed.

‘Oh, good Lord no,’ he said. ‘I’m nothing to do with all this. I’m David Morgan, the owner of Polvarrow.’

‘You own this place?’ I said. ‘It’s beautiful. I came here once, years ago when the last owner was still here, and it was in a right state.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, they were lovely people but I think the repairs had just got on top of them. It’s very expensive, running a place like this.’

‘But worth it.’

He turned and looked proudly at the house. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

We all admired Polvarrow House for a moment, then—

‘Nosey!’ We turned to see my oldest friend in the world, Tony Penhaligon, standing in the doorway of the tent, clutching a piece of paper. He waved it at us. ‘Come to put your name down?’

‘Don’t tell me your mum dragged you along here too?’ I said, as Germaine rushed over to him, tail wagging. She was always pleased to see him. He dropped onto his haunches and started to make a fuss of her.

‘Nobody dragged me,’ he said, laughing as Germaine snuffled at his hand, then at his pockets. ‘I’m sorry, gorgeous, no treats for you today.’

‘I wasn’t expecting any,’ I said. He straightened up, eyebrows raised.

‘You do know I was talking to the dog?’

I sighed. ‘Yes. I’m used to her getting more attention than me. So what, you really want to be in this