I, on the other hand, pick my way across the rocky farmyard in leather shoes before retreating to my trunk for the rubber ones I should have worn from the start. She appears at my shoulder as I’m tugging them on.
“Good afternoon, Ben,” she says, crisp and composed. “This is quite a project you’ve taken on.”
“Potentially.”
There’s no retreat without external funding. I need it to continue this journey. Antonia is my only real hope just now. And she knows that. I have no doubt she’s done her homework.
“But I’m excited by it,” I add, straightening. “This place is exactly as I envisioned it would be.”
Her gaze sweeps over the land.
Hillsnek Farm is located an hour from London city center. The retreat needed to be close enough that people could take advantage of it without hours of traveling, but far enough away that it felt like an escape.
The red-brick farmhouse and outbuildings date back to 1882. They’ve survived two world wars, housed multiple generations of one family, and weathered disease outbreaks. It’s only being sold as the last remaining member of the Ashcombe family died this spring. With no living heirs, the property passed to a cancer charity they supported quietly for years.
A colleague tipped me off before it reached the open market. If it had gone public, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I offered what I could afford. Every saving I’d set aside for a safer future. A deposit placed before I had the full funding guaranteed.
A risk. But it felt right.
“So,” Antonia says, surveying the buildings. “Tell me what you see here.”
I move immediately to the backseat of my car, pulling out the rolled-up architect drawings. I spread them across the hood,dropping my keys on one corner and my phone on the other to lay it flat.
“This,” I point to the main structure drawn in blue lines on white paper, “would be the communal dining room. Families can meet each other if they wish or not.”
Bright-red nails press against the drawing. She steps into my space. I shift back instinctively, and my hand brushes hers. The contact is brief; her skin warm and unexpected.
I still. My heart rattles in my chest. She doesn’t flinch.
“No,” she says quietly. “Show me what you see here.”
She gestures beyond the plans. The roofline sags low, the windows are broken, weeds smother the yard. A home that was once majestic, now cracked and derelict.
“I don’t need to see drawings,” she continues. “I have every confidence that the documents will be in order. I want to know what you want this place to become.”
The paper rolls easily in my hands, and I place the drawings back in the car. Everything lifts, Antonia’s interest in my ideas, not just technical specifications, a welcome surprise.
“This way,” I say, moving toward the main house. My gaze lingers on her a fraction too long.
We navigate around the surveyor’s lines, muddy puddles, and broken brick. I pass her a hard hat at the door to the old farmhouse. She puts it on without comment, squashing her high ponytail.
“I want this to be a place families can breathe,” I say. “Somewhere that the word terminal disappears at the threshold.”
She nods, then follows me through each room as I explain the layout and purpose. Communal spaces mixed with private rooms. Medical equipment within reach but hidden from view. “The retreat needs to have the facilities of a hospital, but the face of a holiday home.”
“Time is one thing you have in abundance and none of at the end,” she whispers, her eyes moving over every broken surface. “You have so much of it, but can do so little.”
I don’t pry for more information. Part of me thinks she’s telling me something private without meaning to. I curb my urge to reach out and squeeze her arm in comfort.
“At the end,” I say. “Bex barely left her bed. We would sit for hours. I’d talk; she’d listen. But most of the time she slept. I’d read her books aloud, but she rarely remembered them.”
“That must have been difficult.” She steps toward the staircase leading to the upper floors, blocked off with red tape. “What’s on the second floor?”
“Bedrooms with attic space above. The floor isn’t safe, but it will be usable space.”
After our tour of the grounds and outbuildings, we return to the cars. She hasn’t spoken since I finished telling her about the communal garden I envisioned, or the separate counseling building to be located in the old barn, so the accommodation spaces are kept for families to enjoy the holiday vibe.
“I like it,” she says, taking off her Wellington boots and slipping on black heels. one hand on her car door to balance. “I’ll move forward with the conditional funding. You’ll receive the draft terms on Monday. I’ll tell the board.”