Roots

 

The April sun streamed through the window  as Matt Quincy closed the drawer of his bureau.

‘Has to be done,’ Matt murmured to himself. ‘No point leaving it to a bunch of strangers to sort out.’

He was happy to have a  reliable local estate agent, like Spegglys  take charge of the sale.

 Emerging from his bureau, he glanced around at the oak chairs and the murals adorning the corridor leading to the dining room. Many a Lord and Lady had  supped there through the decades.

‘What of all that now?’ he sighed. ‘A septuagenarian like me must downsize.’

He remembered when his father, Piggott, transferred the property to him. A sense of continuity pervaded the transfer as he stood holding the hand of then his six- year- old son, Archibald.

 Wander lust ran in Archibald’s veins. Last Matt heard of him he was deep in the Amazon jungle trying to save the planet.

Now fifty-five,  Matt wondered how long more Archie might be able to pursue his altruistic endeavours.

The sound of bird song outside the casement brought Matt back from his reverie.

 

The crew from Speggly’s real estate had pulled up outside in their truck.

Unloading a yellow and red ‘For Sale ‘ sign from the truck, they  hammered it into the ground.

‘Shouldn’t be difficult to shift this pile, Sir,’ one of the men shouted,’ revival of interest in this old colonial style.’

The remark tugged at Matt’s heartstrings. To them it was just another pile to be flogged to the highest bidder.

Despite himself, Matt nodded in agreement.

Within minutes the crew had departed, leaving a trail of fumes behind.

 

Matt  determined to  complete the sale and  find a  smaller property near the village.

Beneath the chestnut trees he bent down and removed some fresh weeds that had begun to sprout under an April sky.

Hearing the sound of footsteps on the avenue, he turned around. A young couple were approaching.

‘Morning sir,’ the young man said,’ just checking Realtor today and this gorgeous pile came up.’

‘Just getting a sense of what’s for sale in this quaint little village,’ the young woman added.

It irked Matt, somewhat. He wished his only son were here to inherit. Then he wouldn’t have to endure the stares of strangers.

With a blithe wave the young couple headed back down the avenue.

 

Matt now began to wonder how long the sale might take to complete. Daytrippers and onlookers he did not want on his property, his home.

Finishing weeding the patch beneath the chestnut tree, he walked purposefully back to his bureau and put a call into the Estate agent.

Emerging from the  bureau, he felt a lot more at ease.

‘Least that will stop the daytrippers and gawkers,’ he  muttered.

 

Within minutes another crew drew up In a truck and removed the ‘For Sale’ sign.

‘That’s the way to go, Sir, on- line sale. That way you avoid lengthy viewings.’

Matt felt finally at peace. Now he would have time to wait.

 

April was a beautiful month in the village of Wharton. Buntings hung all around. Preparations for local Spring fetes were in full swing.

Matt began to ponder who  might buy his property. He hoped it would be somebody with a love of nature and the seasons.

Matt ached to connect with Archibald and tell him of the sale of his childhood home. He toyed with the idea of attempting to connect with him on Facebook. People did that sort of thing all the time. A few weeks passed and nothing happened. 

Matt finally agreed  a reduction in price. War raging again in Europe after seventy years meant a paucity of interest.

 

Finally, one morning in May a call from the estate agent alerted him to have the property ready for viewing.

At least there was now a revival of interest.

A man and his female companion arrived  to view.

Slamming the car doors the pair emerged, the woman carrying a baby at her breast.

Extending his hand in greeting the youngish  man introduced himself and his wife.

‘Morning Sir, I am John Smith and this is Eve my wife and son, Archie. Been looking in this area for a while. Seems perfect for us. Born and raised not far from here.’

 

Matt felt almost a sense of relief, local buyers who would know the lie of the land.

Still, he wondered if this couple  would be able to come up with the finance.

Matt watched from a distance as the couple and their son made their way through the property. They took time to gaze at the sundial that adorned the little courtyard.  Matt felt  comfortable at the possibility of this little family being in situ.

 

Re-emerging from the property, John Smith continued:

‘My late mother, Mildred left the papers in her will, to be opened on her death.’

Matt was bewildered as to the meaning of these words.

John continued to speak, almost oblivious as to whether anyone was listening.

‘Mamma was one of life’s pioneers,’ he continued. ‘Papa had sustained injuries in war rendering him sterile. So the pair embarked on a fertility quest. Not the type of thing you find in  a small village.’

Matt was enthralled.

'So here I am, John Smith.  Mighty glad that man, my dad, Archibald, your son, took time out from his Amazon activities to donate his sperm. Of course you'll need sir, to check out my DNA  credentials. '

Matt was speechless. There was so much to take in. But a sense of relief and joy began to pervade his being.

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