Free The Dower House by Malcolm Macdonald

asked.
    Willard led them to the room at the farther corner of the house. ‘Can’t you smell it? That’s dry rot, surely?’
    They fetched a bar and lifted a floorboard. Small frills of dry rot festooned the brick wall at one end.
    â€˜No fruiting body yet,’ Willard said. ‘It looks treatable to me.’
    Adam glanced ruefully at Tony. ‘A fine pair of surveyors we’d make!’
    Marianne joined them, not a kirby grip out of place. ‘We just are loving this whole attic,’ she said.
    There was an embarrassed silence, which Felix swiftly quashed. He tapped his chest. ‘Me – Austro-Hungarian German . . .’ Then pointing at the others as he went around: ‘American . . . Swedish . . . French . . . English. It will be good . And we can have gourmet nights – Swedish cuisine, French cuisine, American cuisine, and –’ he turned innocently toward Nicole – ‘Hungarian, of course. Goulash – c’est au poile, n’est ce pas, madame ? And just a handshake away!’
    She flounced away to the stairhead, saying – without turning round – ‘I must draw the arrangement of sewage tanks before I forget them.’
    â€˜She knows,’ Marianne said.
    â€˜â€™Fraid so, old thing,’ Tony agreed. ‘I let the cat out of the bag. I had no idea she’d react like that.’
    Adam turned to Marianne: ‘How d’you feel?’
    She shrugged and looked at Willard. ‘I’m willing to try.’
    â€˜Sure,’ he said. ‘Talking of rations – what’s the nearest US Army base? I might know somebody there.’
    â€˜See!’ Adam said, still to Marianne though his target was Willard. ‘A community has strengths no nuclear family can match.’
    â€˜It’s good so,’ she agreed. ‘But is it strong still after we get our first communal electricity bill?’
    He frowned.
    Sally explained, ‘I told her – we have three electricity meters – one for each phase – and eight fuse boards and no one knows which lights and sockets any of them serves.’

Tuesday, 6 May 1947
    Felix noticed her at once – a tall, svelte, pugnacious young woman who advanced slowly along the gallery, peering suspiciously at each exhibit. Did she doubt their attributions, he wondered? Or did she think she could have arranged the whole gallery far better than this?
    At last she approached the armour he had been admiring before he noticed her. She peered at it with the same distrustful gaze. Then, still without looking at him, she murmured, ‘You’ll know me next time, then.’
    He took a chance. ‘You want to fix that now?’
    Fix! Willard’s word.
    It surprised her into facing him at last. ‘Fix what?’
    â€˜â€œThe next time”, of course. I’m Felix Breit, by the way.’ He offered his hand.
    â€˜Felix Breit!’ The name surprised her so much that her handshake was quite perfunctory. It flattered him – until she added, ‘Did you have an ancestor who was an artist? William Breit?’
    He cringed as he admitted it. To think that this young woman knew of his appalling grandfather, painter of chocolate-box erotica for the rich Berlin bourgeoisie, but had not – apparently – heard of his much more famous and worthy grandson! ‘You know his work?’ he added.
    â€˜Not at all. Just the name – and the fact that he did paintings of some kind. D’you know anyone called Fogel?’
    â€˜Is that your name?’
    â€˜Me? No. Oh – sorry!’ She held out her hand again. ‘Faith Bullen-ffitch.’
    â€˜Will you join me for tea, Miss Bullen-ffitch? I saw a sign saying Tea Room.’
    She accepted without coquetry – no gleam of je-sais-quoi in her eye. He decided she was a collector. Every artist gets to know them as his star rises. For himself he