People often inquire about my enduring fascination with property. For me, it’s the perfect blend of history, human connections, engineering, and the art of negotiation that contribute to the creation of a building’s essence. The desire to own property has always been burning within me. From a young age, I yearned to have control over my environment, to work for myself, and to take pride in the roof over my head. This drive may have originated from the loss of my mother when I was just ten years old.
The first night without her, my father, my older brother Diccon, and I huddled together on a mattress in the spare room of our cottage in rural Hampshire. We slept side by side for the following six months until the house was sold. Relocating felt like a fresh start, a way to escape the emotional and physical wounds left behind. Six years prior to her passing, my mother underwent a radical mastectomy, leaving her chest concave with a scar stretching from under her arm to her cleavage. Despite this, I was unaware of her battle with cancer as a child. I was only four at the time of her diagnosis, and the era was different. However, six years later, at the age of just 39, her breast cancer had spread to her brain. She peacefully departed this world in my parents’ bed as I read her a bedtime story.
Diccon and I were taken in by a compassionate family who owned a farmhouse nearby. It was a safe haven filled with warmth, love, and countless pots of stew and mashed potatoes. The sympathetic gazes we encountered conveyed the fact that everything was not okay. These moments of pity have always been difficult for me to handle. But the care and support I received from that family fueled my desire to create a large, loving family of my own. I discovered my joy amidst the chaotic atmosphere of a bustling household.
My mother possessed a pushy parenting style, at least from an outsider’s perspective. My early years revolved around music and poetry recitals, which she eagerly enrolled Diccon and me in. We often emerged victorious, not because we were the most talented, but due to the hours she dedicated to encouraging us to practice the piano, flute, or trumpet. In retrospect, I realized that she must have known her time was limited and wanted to cram as much parenting as possible into the short remaining years she had with us.
According to my husband Graham, I’ve always been driven to accomplish things at a rapid pace. Perhaps there’s a touch of attention deficit disorder within me, or maybe I’m simply eager for what lies ahead. Whatever the reason, I was merely 18 years old when I acquired my first property—a former local authority Simca van that I transformed into a cozy living space with layers of old underlay, carpet, and cushions. I drove it to London and resided there for several months. By then, my father had found his first wife, and I no longer felt responsible for his pain. I could finally focus on building my own life. It was in 1990 that I met Graham, whose sister happened to be dating and is now married to my brother.
Shortly after meeting Graham, we embarked on a 30-year journey in property development. We convinced the bank to lend us money for a dilapidated flat in Battersea, South-West London. We refurbished it and sold it for a profit of £20,000. In those days, mortgage checks were not as stringent as they are now, allowing us to explore numerous houses and flats. One notable purchase was Rise Hall, an impressive estate in East Yorkshire encompassing 40,000 sq ft, 97 rooms, and 32 bedrooms. When we acquired it in 2000 for £375,000, it lacked running water and still sported the multi-stall bathrooms from its days as a girls’ school. However, Graham and I had always dreamed of restoring such a grand residence. At 28 years old, I believed that living there would transport me to a sepia-toned version of my life, a blend of “The Waltons” and a period drama.
What’s the point of dreaming if you don’t strive to make it a reality? Restoring Rise Hall required arduous work, but weekends spent there were always filled with laughter and fun. Friends would gather, participating in various projects before unwinding with a bottle of wine. The house gradually filled with the laughter of children. My four sons adored our time at Rise Hall, where they experienced the boisterous, chaotic family life I craved. The halls echoed with the sounds of children whizzing through on skateboards and rollerblades. It provided a wonderful backdrop for unforgettable parties, like the memorable New Year’s Eve celebration where we hosted 150 adults and 80 children.
I celebrated my 40th birthday at Rise Hall, a joyous occasion but one tinged with a peculiar feeling. Turning 40 when your mother never lived to see that age leaves you with mixed emotions. Perhaps it was her absence that fueled my sense of urgency, compelling me to accomplish so much before reaching that milestone. The age of 40 marked a new phase of my life, one I hadn’t anticipated. And when I turned 50 last year in our new Somerset home, where we moved in 2019, I believed I had overcome life’s challenges…
Until I received a breast cancer diagnosis six months later. In some ways, I had expected it, but accepting such news is never easy. When a doctor utters the words, “You have cancer,” what you hear is, “Prepare for the worst.” However, throughout the past year of treatment, I came to realize that this reaction greatly exceeds the actual risk I faced. My incredibly patient breast surgeon and breast care nurse helped navigate me through this mindset. The odds were in my favor, with an 80% chance of a complete cure. Thanks to remarkable advancements in treatment over the past 40 years, partially attributed to the valiant efforts of my late mother and others like her, who never witnessed their children grow up, I will have the privilege of seeing my grandchildren grow.
Due to my mother’s influence, I underwent testing for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations. These mutations increase the likelihood of developing breast cancer and ovarian cancer. The potential benefit of testing was the option to consider removing my healthy breast if the results were positive. However, I tested negative for BRCA genes and positive for a lesser-known gene mutation called PALB2, which opened up a new set of considerations. Individuals with PALB2 gene mutations, though rarer than BRCA mutations, have a 30-60% chance of developing breast cancer and a 50-50 chance of passing it on to their children. With this knowledge, I chose to undergo a bilateral mastectomy, as the risk of cancer in my other breast was slightly elevated. Since I was already going under the knife, I decided it was best to address both breasts.
PALB2 presented me with a marginal increased risk…
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