The Wisteria Crescent Chronicles

by Kate Forster

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'A gorgeous setting for a story with strong female friendships at its core... Loved it!' HELEN ROLFE


It is a truth universally acknowledged... that a widowed woman in possession of a large Georgian home but no money for tea or toilet paper must find a creative solution.

For 70-year-old Marion Gaynor, the answer lies in opening her doors-and her heart-to two unexpected housemates: Felicity Booth, a brilliant but frazzled PhD student, balancing research and the chaos of academia, and Lana Rolls, newly separated and searching for a fresh start.

Together, these three women discover that friendship blooms in the unlikeliest of places, and the bonds they form will change their lives forever.

Readers will love this cosy, uplifting tale of unexpected friendship, set in the picturesque city of Bath, filled with charm and whimsy. Perfect for fans of Helen Rolfe, Heidi Swain and Philippa Ashley.

Release date: April 24, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a widowed woman in possession of a large Georgian home in Bath, but with no money to buy teabags and loo rolls, needs a solution, and one quickly. This is how Marion Gaynor, widow, mother of two and on the wrong side of seventy, found herself entertaining the idea of renting out some rooms in her lovely home, Wisteria Crescent.

If you have been to Bath, you might have seen it. It’s one of the Crescent houses and is the one with wisteria at the front gate that sweeps over the front door like a glamorous updo hairstyle. Marion found it amusing that people assumed she was wealthy because of the house, but the truth was she had no actual income, which is a hard thing to admit, and an even harder thing to live on. Right now, the buds on the wisteria vines were beginning to swell, unsure whether to trust the March sunshine with freezing winds swirling about the city.

Those tourists who stood outside the house, posing while having their photos taken, pretending they were in a Jane Austen book or film, would also have conjured the inhabitants as having huge salaries. But this income was non-existent, due to circumstances out of Marion’s control.

Not that Marion begrudged those posing. She understood it was a beautiful home and it gave you the feeling of better times when you saw it in person. But it had been a year of waiting for better times to arrive and Marion knew she needed to act on what she was planning. Except for one issue, her daughter, Clair, who was currently standing in the kitchen at Temple Terrace, hands on hips, just like she used to when she was five. Now forty-five, not much had evolved, especially when Clair was not in agreement with the issue at hand, like now.

‘Rent rooms?’ Clair was aghast. ‘That’s very Bleak House. You don’t need to do that. Just sell Temple Terrace and we’ll set you up in a little bungalow at the bottom of the garden.’

Marion had tried to keep her calm. She was used to Clair’s overreactions to any decision Marion made since Geoffrey, Marion’s husband and Clair’s father, had died a year earlier. Clair had become more impatient with her, as though she blamed her mother for the position Marion found herself in. After seventy-odd years, Marion had learned that people often blame victims when terrible things happen, clinging to the belief that the world was fair and their need to have the illusion of control.

Clair believed in this world, despite everything that had happened in her life, because she needed everything to be perfect. She liked to think she would have done things differently to others who faced tough times, but her judgement was clouded by the gift of hindsight, because then she could pretend the world is fair and she could have prevented such tragedies. It’s always easier, Marion reflected, to see what could have been done after the fact, when the harsh reality no longer looms so threateningly close.

‘You want me to live out the back of your house in a kennel with a kettle, like an old dog you won’t let inside any more because it smells and spoils the rugs?’ Marion smiled as she spoke, trying to soften the message.

‘Mother.’ Clair shook her head. ‘We just want you to be happy. It’s not a punishment.’

Clair called her Mother when she wasn’t happy with her, Mum when Marion was doing as she was told. Today was a ‘Mother’ day.

Marion was the sort of woman people trusted their children with at the park or who dogs liked to sniff and wag their tails at. She wore lovely cashmere and merino knits in winter with navy or black trousers, and in summer, sensible T-shirts or collared shirts in good-quality cotton, always with a brooch of some sort on the left-hand side of the front of her clothes. Her granddaughter, Sophie, called her brooches ‘boob art’, which Marion thought hilarious. She promised Sophie her extensive ‘boob art’ collection when she died, but right now, Marion was as fit as a fiddle and not planning on letting anything get in her way. She was chic in a tailored way, not taking any fashion risks, always appropriate in how she presented herself.

Of course, Paul and Clair wanted her to sell Temple Terrace. It would serve them well, too. Financially, they could encourage Marion to put the money towards their own home, which was altogether too big and too expensive for a family of four. And it meant they would have a live-in babysitter for their twins, Sophie and Tom.

Marion loved her grandchildren, but they were fourteen and more interested in their phones than their grandmother. They were also too old to be babysat any more. Mostly, Tom grunted at Marion when he saw her, the small boy who used to want to bake cakes with her now with earbuds in and enveloped in a cloud of heavy aftershave, despite him growing only three hairs on his chin a month. And Sophie … well, Sophie was still lovely, but she seemed distant. Perhaps something was happening at school? Friendship drama, Marion wondered, remembering how apocalyptical everything felt as a teenager, even for her.

Clair tapped the kitchen worktop with a manicured fingernail, as though calling a court to order in the case of ‘Marion’s Wants versus Clair’s Expectations’.

‘I know Dad was irresponsible and left you high and dry financially speaking when he died, but with the cash you would make from selling the house, you could do whatever you wanted: travel, buy new clothes, perhaps a new car. Paul can invest the rest and you can live with us.’

Paul walked away and looked out of the kitchen window. He was thin, thinner than usual, and his fingernails were all gnawed. Marion hadn’t realised Paul was a nail-biter, or was this a new thing? She would have asked, but Clair was too far up on her high horse at that moment to think about anyone else.

‘We could go to Ikea and get some nice new things for a bungalow, so you can have a place to land between travel. Get rid of all the old stuff.’

Marion turned the mug of tea around so she could see the peacock on the china. It was a Wedgewood pattern called Fortune. It felt like a slap, since her husband had lost their fortune before he died.

‘I like my old stuff. I am old stuff,’ she joked to try to shift the mood, but Clair didn’t acknowledge it, or perhaps she wasn’t listening.

Marion remembered a quote about death revealing the truth about things but couldn’t recall who said it first. But it was true. Geoffrey’s decisions before he died could have ruined her, except the house was paid off.

‘He wasn’t irresponsible, Clair,’ she said gently, trying to defend the man who had loved both her and their daughter so much. ‘He had a brain tumour and it caused him to make some terrible decisions.’ She paused. ‘The last thing he’d want me to do is leave the house if I wasn’t ready … And I’m not ready.’

‘But we never saw where he put the money, Mother. He said he put it into an investment in Africa, but where in Africa? There was nothing in the accounts. Paul never did find out, did you, dear?’

Paul shook his head. ‘I’ve never found it. The bank and I both looked. He withdrew it, but who he gave it to is a mystery. He might have wired it to someone in Africa – older people do that more often than you would realise – but there was no record of it.’

Marion let the ageist comment go. She was an older person and she had never wired money to anyone, let alone someone in another country. She was proud of herself and how she had been managing to budget since he had died, making do as much as she could, but now, she needed a more stable solution and tenants seemed perfect.

She caught a look between Clair and Paul.

‘I do think the house is too big for you now,’ Paul said in a slightly apologetic tone, as though he knew there would be hell to pay if he outright disagreed with his wife. ‘And you don’t want renters here, smoking and having parties and doing drugs, sneaking pets in or cuckooing the place and you ending up in the garden shed.’

Clair crossed her arms and nodded. ‘Exactly. Paul knows about these things.’

Marion wasn’t sure how or why Paul knew about these things as a financial advisor, but she said nothing. She was used to saying nothing around her daughter and son-in-law. Saying nothing stopped a lot of headaches and arguments, she thought, but sometimes she wished she had the strength to say something. She had let things go for so long that now that it seemed anything was acceptable in their eyes, including uprooting her and changing her life without her having any say.

If Marion was ever asked what her greatest regret in life so far was, she expected that people would assume her answer would be around trying to stop the terrible things that had happened in the past to their family. But it wasn’t. It was Clair being so utterly self-absorbed and disloyal to her own mother. When had it changed? She couldn’t find a date to circle on the calendar, with the note next to it announcing the day. No, it was a slow drip, until one day it had overflowed and Clair was filled with … resentment and entitlement.

Every small grievance, every perceived slight, every moment Clair felt overlooked had accumulated over the years, hardening her heart and narrowing her vision of what led them to this moment. The girl who once brought her mother flowers and listened intently to bedtime stories about faraway trees and wishing chairs had transformed into a woman who saw the world only through the lens of her own desires.

Marion could trace the tiny moments: when Geoffrey missed her ballet recitals owing to work commitments. The conversations cut short by Marion’s busy schedule entertaining Geoffrey’s clients and managing two children at home when her husband was always working. The birthdays when the cake wasn’t quite right according to Clair’s perfectionism. The decisions made for Andy’s funeral, then Geoffrey’s funeral. Each worse than the next, all a drop in the bucket of Clair’s discontent.

But more than that, at what stage had Clair decided to put Paul’s opinion over her own? And when had she become so thoroughly unlikeable? Oh, Marion loved her daughter, that was never in question, but she didn’t like her and she knew Clair didn’t like her in return. Now, facing her daughter’s cold indifference, Marion realised that the overflow had washed away the warmth and connection they once shared, leaving a chasm she wasn’t sure how to bridge.

Clair wasn’t finished. ‘And the whole financial thing, well, that’s never been your strong suit, has it?’

Marion stood up, took her mug and sloshed the remains of the tea into the sink. If she spoke now, she would lose her temper at Clair and she didn’t want to carve the rift between them even deeper.

‘Daddy always took care of the money until he was ill. You aren’t familiar with the ins and outs. I mean, have you even done the figures for the lodgers to see if you will break even? Do you want Paul to look at the numbers – see if it all adds up? You have all sorts of things to consider, doesn’t she, Paul?’

‘Yes, there’s council taxes and income tax from the renters, plus the need for savings in case something goes awry with the heating or plumbing, general repairs. What if they don’t pay the rent and you have to go to a tribunal or seek legal advice?’

Marion looked out from the bay window over the double sink at the garden. It was just lawn and some pots, nothing interesting or special, mostly because Marion couldn’t afford to buy new plants or get the weeds pulled in the beds. An income from some housemates would help, but she hadn’t thought of everything Paul had just mentioned and fear rose in her throat.

Don’t let them see you scared, she told herself.

‘No, I don’t need Paul to look at the figures. I did them myself and I’m fine. I have everything covered and as far as housemates, I would enjoy the company,’ she said, turning to Clair.

It was true. She had thought about getting a dog, but she wanted a real connection, not just an animal waiting for a treat and a walk each day. She wanted to be a part of something again, and a humming household was where she had been happiest, just not at the back of Clair and Paul’s house in a bungalow.

‘That’s a dig at me, because I don’t come around much,’ Clair almost wailed.

Marion took a deep breath. ‘No, Clair, not everything is about you. I think it’s a shame this big house is empty – it deserves to have people in it again.’

How could she explain to Clair the way her days were consumed by a profound sense of loneliness that made her catch her breath when she caught herself doing something for Geoffrey out of habit. Setting a place at the table for dinner on occasion, seeing something on the street she would have pointed out to him. They used to have such a nice routine before he became ill.

Up early, they would get ready and then walk to their favourite bakery. Sit and drink coffee or tea, depending on their mood, and eat a pastry. Pass the papers between them and then head home, stopping to chat to people they knew as well as friendly strangers. Geoffrey would always pat the dogs that passed and when they were home, they would do their separate activities. Geoffrey would read, Marion would read or do a sudoku, or watch interesting things on the internet. Documentaries, dances, interviews, Marion was always curious about the world and the internet made it all so much closer and accessible.

And then Geoffrey had started doing silly things, forgetting things and asking for Andy. That’s when she had taken him to the doctor, then a specialist. Some scans and a week later, they had a diagnosis.

One of their phones pinged with a message, diffusing the situation. Clair picked hers up from the kitchen worktop.

‘The twins are ready to be picked up from rowing,’ she said to Paul.

Marion noticed he looked relieved as he grabbed the car keys.

‘Want me to bring them back here?’ he asked Clair.

Clair feigned a sad face. ‘I would, but we have to get them home and sorted. We’re off to see Coldplay in Bristol tonight and the kids are at friends for a sleepover.’

Marion started towards the front door. ‘That sounds like fun. Another time, then.’

Clair gave that nervous laugh she did when she was relieved. ‘Yes, another time.’

Marion opened the front door and admired some small buds coming on the wisteria as Clair passed through onto the street.

‘I do wish you would think about selling.’ Clair was going in for one more round. ‘A nice new wardrobe, a trip to Kenya – you love Kenya! – or you could buy a lovely handbag, a luxury one. A Kelly or a Birkin.’ She sounded delighted with her plans for her mother.

Marion sighed. ‘I don’t want a Kelly or a Birkin, and the reason I loved Kenya was because I went with your dad. I’m not about to go alone, and for the record’ – she looked at Paul – ‘if the jury can take note, I happen to like my clothes so don’t need new ones.’

‘That’s not fair. I’m trying to help.’ Clair pulled her thick camel-coloured coat around her thin frame.

‘While I’m still capable of making my own decisions, I’ll continue to do so. Unless I start wiping down the kitchen sink with a raw chicken breast, or visiting the local library asking for directions home, let’s continue as normal until further notice.’ She smiled as she spoke, hoping Clair would see it as a peace offering, but Clair’s mouth fell open and her eyes darkened.

‘Mother, please.’

Marion shook her head. ‘Please stop, Clair. I know you mean well and I love you so much for caring, but I’m fine, I promise. This is a good outcome for me and for you. This way we can still have our independence and everything will be balanced between us. Why don’t you all come over on Sunday for lunch? I’ll make your favourite chicken pie.’

Clair scowled at her mother. ‘I’m off carbs,’ was all she said in return.

Paul guided Clair to the car, knowing they had lost this round.

Marion waved goodbye to them, though they didn’t turn around, and with a shiver from the cold spring air, she turned and looked at the front of her beloved Temple Terrace, noticing the tangle of wisteria branches that climbed across its façade. For fifty years, she had watched the seasons change and the wisteria bloom every year, each year bringing with it a renewed sense of wonder and appreciation for the patience and perseverance of the plant. Perhaps it was a reminder for Marion not to give up or to give in to the situation in which she found herself.

There was no point in being angry about Geoffrey’s poor investments when he was ill, or being angry at the brain tumour. It only mattered how she moved forwards and maintained her independence.

Marion walked back inside, where she found her iPad next to her armchair. She sat down and opened the houseshare site she had been looking at over the past week. There was no chance she could live with Clair and Paul. She would rather be homeless, she thought somewhat dramatically as she typed in her login.

Three rooms to rent – Bath proper.

Older landlady who lives on site – who uses emojis, understands TikTok and likes a neat whiskey after dinner by the fire in the winter and in the garden during summer – is opening her house in The Crescent for rent.

Three double bedrooms, all with beds, chest of drawers, wardrobe, an armchair and ensuite available. No smoking, no pets, females preferred. Any age, I am not ageist. My grandkids tell me I’m cool, but they could just be saying so.

She stopped typing for a moment and then typed in the rent and paused.

Was it too much? It looked to be on par with other listings. In the end it was what she needed to pay the bills and have a little to live on, a nice life. She kept typing.

Two sitting rooms, a dining room, a sunroom/conservatory, a snug and library also available for use.

A weekly clean, change of linen and all bills (except energy – gas and electricity) are included in the rental. The monthly rent is collected every four weeks, not by the calendar month, and it is payable in advance.

She finished and looked at the wedding photo of her and Geoffrey on the mantel.

‘Needs must,’ she said, using the old phrase of Geoffrey’s to the photo, and uploaded the ad.

Felicity Booth was twenty-three years old and without friends, money or beauty. The last one was the opinion of her grandmother, who once described Felicity as being ‘as plain as a scone’. Felicity had never been able to eat a scone since, both the words and the baked goods stuck in her throat for ever.

Felicity’s mother insisted that Felicity was beautiful in her own way, but Felicity had not yet found her way to that beauty her mother promised. In centuries past, Felicity might have joined a convent or become a governess, but those were not options for Felicity no matter how much she wished they still were, so she threw herself into the modern version: academia.

After a bachelor’s degree in English literature and a master’s in the Roman Empire from York, Felicity still didn’t know what she wanted to do so decided to keep studying. She had finished school early, due to being prodigiously intelligent, according to her teachers, but since she didn’t have any friends, there wasn’t much else to do but study. Eventually, it felt natural she would combine the two things she knew most about and the best place she could do that was in Bath, known for Jane Austen and the Roman influence.

Sometimes when she walked the streets of Bath, she felt as though she had somehow been transported in a time machine that transitioned her from now to Roman times to the Regency era. Walking the cobbled streets, she would see the grandeur and pomp of the Roman Baths, the towering columns and intricate stonework taking her breath away. As she turned a corner, the elegance of the Georgian architecture greeted her, with its sweeping terraces and the dignified presence of men sporting the upright posture of top hats, typical of Austen’s era.

And just as she thought she had finally been taken back to the times she understood more than the one she lived in now, someone bumping into her while looking at their phone, or tourists with cameras on sticks, would jolt her out of her time travel and back into the present day.

Felicity often found herself wishing she had been born in the Regency era, convinced that her fair complexion, slender figure, petite hands and feet, long straight dark hair, slightly hooked nose and bright blue eyes might have been considered attractive then. Except that she hunched herself so far over that her eyes were always on the ground, making it hard to see her face. Perhaps she might have been considered a great beauty then, but for now, according to her grandmother and her own internal critic, she was just a plain scone with no jam or cream to fancy her up.

Felicity eschewed the frivolities of the other girls at university, preferring to knit her own jumpers and cardigans in what her grandmother aptly called ‘various shades of thunderstorm’. She paired these shapeless yet cosy creations with utilitarian cargo pants and sturdy work boots, giving her the look of a Victorian ghost visiting a building site to undertake a health and safety assessment.

After being in the quietude of the library for most of the day, Felicity headed towards the dormitory where she resided. This was the first time she had lived away from home and she hated it. She thought that leaving York would be exciting, away from . . .