Methinks The Lady Doth Protest Too Much...

It was one of the biggest properties we were likely to sell that year and we all wanted to be the one to claim that it was they who secured the deal.

Home Farm was located in the county's most sought after village, an elegant Georgian Farmhouse which had been extended over the years to become a very impressive Grade II listed 12,000 square foot home with a prestigious address. The present owners had gone to great lengths to create a fabulous and enviable family home but sadly, as is often the way in such matters, the vendors’ marriage had hit the rocks.

I had been flirting with the applicants, Mr & Mrs Chumley-Pilchard for some months, they were keen to buy but hadn't been able to find anything for a considerable time. I was desperate to sell them something and finally I was able to persuade them that Home Farm was worth a look.  

She was apparently quite well known for having done something many years ago, that something involved her wearing crushed velvet and protesting about a war and acting in the best interests of trees; a conscientious objector type from a wealthy and no doubt political background, bursting at the seams with “daddy issues”.  He was a bumbling port drinker who only cared about sailing and Land Rovers.  He wasn't worried about the house - he planned on spending as little time in it, and indeed with her, as he possibly could.

Initially it was going reasonably well, we pulled up in the car and the right noises were being made about how impressive it looked, it's location in the centre of this desirable village and yet it was still felt very private.

When walking around the property it seemed to fit in with their lifestyle, it backed on to several uninterrupted acres of farmland which still belonged to the house and so far seemed to "tick a lot of boxes".  The swimming pool, games room, gymnasium, a flat for the nanny, an annex for her elderly mother and a cottage for the eldest daughter.  Character abound and lots of opportunities to enjoy all of their hobbies.

"Is the property totally private?" she asked.

"There are rights of way to the neighbouring fields which have been retained by the local farmer and one bridle path but otherwise totally private, yes."

"So we won't be disturbed then, that's nice." She sighed.  "There's something missing, I don't know what it is but it just doesn't feel terribly exciting."  

She turned to Mr Chumley-Pilchard looking for sympathy, but received none.

Two of my favourite movies in my youth were "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and the "Hound of the Baskervilles”.  It couldn’t be seen from where we were, but it sounded very much like a live version of both films was being played very loudly nearby.

Mrs Chumley-Pilchard knew what it was instantly.  Her face switched, she looked utterly terrifying, she and I shot to the nearest window.  I turned to look look at Mr Chumley-Pilchard in time to see his shoulders drop and his whole demeanor developed an air of defeatism that can only come from years of knowing what was coming and when to keep quiet.

By the time we made it downstairs the Hounds had made it into the Courtyard with the Riders in hot pursuit.  Mrs Chumley-Pilchard's patchwork coat and scarf waving wildly around making her looked like a possessed 1980's, female Doctor Who.  The language coming out of this woman's mouth was staggering, the change in her personality mind-blowing. 

"Murderers" "Killers" she shrieked, holding the huge gate shut to stop the hounds in their tracks.

The Master was yelling at her to move, the horses were flaring and the hounds baying.  Mr Chumley-Pilchard was nowhere to be seen.  This was not going to end well.

She knew she could never win, but an flame had been lit inside this old girl and she was loving every moment, her passion was protesting, not the cause.  Eventually the inevitable happened, the gate was pushed back and the hunt continued on their journey having learnt a few new swear words and having experienced an old fashioned protest.  

She turned towards me, disheveled and flustered, pushed her greying wiry hair back and marched over.

I'm not going to lie, I was worried.  She had just taken on an entire hunt and hadn't backed down without a fight, it looked like I was just about to be her next victim.

As she drew near the fire in her eyes died down and she started grinning from ear to ear.  She looked like she had just finished judging a gin competition.  Mr Pilchard appeared at the door.

"How quickly can they move out?" she blurted, seemingly incapable of hiding excitement.

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