Read Chapter 13: — WHAT A HOUSE IS WORTH

Arthur's resistance to selling the house changed after a humiliating morning at the council offices.

He had decided to create a small school for local performance traditions. He imagined hiring a room, offering free classes and finding occasional paid performances for students.

Reality introduced insurance, safeguarding requirements, venue rules, accounts, registration, risk assessments and forms he did not understand.

A patient council employee explained everything twice and finally suggested Arthur return with somebody younger who could help.

He came home carrying a folder and feeling ancient.

For the first time, the archive room seemed less like a treasure house and more like a room full of things that might die with him.

That evening he said, “Tell Adrian I'll discuss the house.”

Eleanor stared. “Why?”

“Because keeping a building and keeping a tradition aren't the same thing.”

He would sell only if the new project preserved the character of the site and included opportunities for local performance and teaching.

Adrian agreed immediately.

He also offered practical help setting up Arthur's school: affordable space in a commercial building, introductions to accountants, assistance with insurance and administration.

Arthur's suspicion shifted into respect.

“I'm not asking for charity,” he said.

“Good,” Adrian replied. “I'm proposing partnership.”

The house deal would leave Arthur and Margaret with enough money to secure their future and divide a substantial amount among the children.

That was when everybody's principles became mathematical.

Daniel wanted more because of Oliver's school fees.

Caroline believed Eleanor, as a married daughter who had lived away for years, should receive less.

Jamie pretended not to care, which usually meant he cared very much.

Arthur announced a family meeting.

Before it, Margaret asked him, “How much are you keeping?”

“Enough to fund the school.”

“You're nearly seventy.”

“So?”

“So most men your age buy a caravan.”

“I hate caravans.”

Margaret sighed. “I married an exhausting man.”

“You knew.”

“I was young.”