Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  I sank into one of the chairs and stared at the picture.

  So far I had been focussing on the fact that Jane Kennedy had foisted some pretty tricky decisions on me. What I should have worked out was that her home was the most precious thing she had and for some reason she had entrusted it to me.

  My lip wobbled. I was a terrible person and I didn’t deserve so much as a tiny mention in her will, let alone the whole lot.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

  On Monday, I would find out where she was buried and take some flowers. I was ashamed that I hadn’t thought to do so already.

  I stood up and forced myself to look round the rest of the bungalow. My head was all over the place and my breathing was shaky. This visit was affecting me far more than I had envisaged.

  A second door off the hallway revealed a double bed covered with a rose pink bedspread. A heavy old-fashioned dressing table held hairbrushes, a collection of glass bottles and a china vase containing a silk rose.

  I swallowed a lump in my throat, backed away, tried another handle and went in.

  This room was at back of the bungalow and contained a single bed and tall thin wardrobe. The spare room, by the look of it.

  I wondered if my father had ever stayed there. I lay down on the bed and tried to imagine him as a little boy. He would be in his fifties now, I guessed. There had been some photos of him knocking around when I was little. But now I couldn’t even picture what he looked like. I used to probe my mum for information: Where did he live? Did he have another family now? Why didn’t he love us? Mum’s reaction went one of two ways depending on her mood: either a clam-like refusal to answer or a torrent of anger. I quickly learned that life was far more pleasant if I avoided the subject altogether.

  When I was about thirteen, I went through a phase of really hating him. For about six months, all my teenage angst was aimed at my absent parent. I used to plot how I would track him down and force him to face up to his responsibilities. My mum had been so relieved when Take That had arrived on the scene to distract me. Then, of course, I was filled with hormones of a different kind and just as tormented.

  I sat up on the bed and felt a stirring of those old angry emotions.

  Why did you leave me, Dad? What sort of man walks out on a pregnant wife and then never bothers to get in touch. You knew you had a baby, weren’t you even the slightest bit interested?

  I wiped a few stray tears off my face and heaved myself up.

  And you, Jane Kennedy, what were you thinking, putting that condition in your will? You must have had your reasons, but I wish you were here to give me a clue.

  I shook my head and sighed. Whatever she was up to from beyond the grave, it was beyond me.

  The sound of Jess and Emma’s laughter echoed through the wall. I scurried off to find them, grateful to escape from my own thoughts. All these questions were giving me brain-ache.

  They were in a tiny galley kitchen. Jess was demonstrating how impossible it was for a woman with a generous figure to move about.

  ‘I can’t even open the oven without squashing my bum on the cupboards behind me!’ she said indignantly. ‘I wonder how your great aunt managed!’

  ‘Perhaps she was very skinny,’ I suggested, thinking back to her wedding picture.

  ‘Or perhaps cooking skills run in the family and she never bothered,’ Emma said with a sly smile.

  Run in the family. I shivered. I’d never even considered that we might share family traits.

  ‘Oh, look at this!’ Jess held up a hand-knitted tea cosy. ‘How cute! She was a tea drinker, like you.’

  ‘It’s a real home, isn’t it?’ I sighed, feeling close to tears again.

  ‘Oh babes,’ Jess squeezed her way along the kitchen and folded me to her in a bear hug. ‘I expect you’re feeling over-whelmed with it all. Well, you’ve seen it now, so we can go if you like.’

  Emma opened a door at random. ‘Wow, there are at least ten tins of red salmon in here! And tinned ham, fruit cocktail… Ha! Perhaps she used to do three-tin-surprise too!’ she cackled.

  I frowned and closed the cupboard door. Emma yelped and snatched her fingers away. Despite having been given a set of keys, it still felt as if we were prying.

  ‘So what do you think you’d do with the place?’ asked Emma, rubbing her hand.

  I extracted myself from Jess’s protective arms and shrugged. ‘Oh, I dunno. Probably knock down a few walls, open the whole place up, put a power shower in…’

  Whoa, where did that come from? I’m not actually planning on going through with this, am I?

  Jess was staring at me, wide-eyed.

  Emma’s eyebrows had all but disappeared over the top of her head. ‘Bloody hell. You’ve changed your tune,’ she spluttered.

  ‘Theoretically speaking, of course,’ I added, weakly.

  I patted my jacket pocket for the car keys. ‘Anyone ready for that drink?’ I asked brightly, with all the avoidance tactics of a politician.

  We all piled back into the car. This time, with Emma folding her long legs, origami-style, into the back seat.

  I glanced at the two neighbouring bungalows, wondering which one Great Aunt Jane’s friend lived in, the one who had found her.

  The car seemed to be much calmer now that we were homeward-bound. Or maybe that was just me. Either way, I was able to drift out of the Piper sisters’ debate about the benefits or otherwise of rural living and focus on my own internal struggles.

  It seemed likely that if I didn’t inherit the house, it would go to her next of kin, who, I imagined, was my father. A niggling little voice in my head reminded me that if Great Aunt Jane had wanted him to have it, she would have left it to him. Perhaps she thought he didn’t deserve it? I was with her on that one.

  What would happen to all her stuff, her hairbrushes and clothes and photographs? My father lived in the States, he wouldn’t want it. I couldn’t bear it if it all got scooped up and put in the dustbin.

  But the house itself? In all my dreams of creating my own home, my own oasis of comfort and security, I had never pictured an ugly, damp and draughty box like that. It was old, characterless, had no redeeming features and appeared to have been built in a time that style forgot.

  I was so lacking in experience in these matters. I needed some professional advice. Maybe the solicitor could help?

  ‘Hey! You promised a drink in a pub!’ complained Emma as we headed back into suburbia.

  Or an estate agent?

  I braked sharply and swerved, pulling the car half onto the pavement in front of a short run of shops. Jess squealed in terror as a double decker bus thundered past us, making the car shake.

  ‘Jesus, Sophie! I’m not that desperate!’ yelled Emma from the back, bracing herself between the two front seats.

  ‘Sorry. I need to pop in there.’ I pointed at the middle shop, which advertised itself as Prestige Properties. ‘I’ll be five minutes max.’

  Four minutes later I jumped back in the driving seat, earning myself a shake of the fist from a passing cyclist, who I nearly wiped out with the car door.

  ‘D’you want to borrow these?’ he shouted, waving his glasses at me through the windscreen.

  I mouthed my apologies and turned to my passengers, who looked a bit stroppy for some reason.

  ‘Guess what!’ I beamed. ‘The estate agent has offered to come and have a look now. What do you think?’

  Their tuts and huffs told me they didn’t share my enthusiasm for a second visit to the bungalow. Something was drawing me back there, though. Mr Whelan would be expecting the keys back on Monday and I wasn’t ready to let go of them yet. Maybe the estate agent could offer me some advice? I wasn’t sure on what exactly, but surely it couldn’t hurt to have a professional opinion?

  A pub on the opposite side of the busy road caught my eye.

  ‘Here,’ I said, rummaging in my purse for a twenty pound note and thrusting it in Jess’s hands. ‘It’ll only take me an hour. Why do
n’t you wait for me in the pub?’

  They didn’t need asking twice.

  Back on the road to Woodby, I had an attack of nerves. Technically, the bungalow wasn’t even mine. I wasn’t even sure whether I should be letting an estate agent in, let alone procuring advice. Besides that, what was I going to ask him: Oh, hello Mr Estate Agent. I might be inheriting this bungalow, but I might not. What shall I do with it?

  He was hardly going to suggest what colour to paint it, was he?

  Even in my limited experience, I knew that you only contacted an estate agent if you wanted to buy or sell a house. Full stop. I’d rushed in without thinking it through.

  I glanced in my rear view mirror. Too late now. He was right behind me in his Ford Mondeo, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and nodding his head energetically.

  Back on the drive at the bungalow, I waited as the estate agent pulled up behind me and then sat in his car, playing air guitar, apparently waiting for the end of the track. The music was so loud, I could feel the bass through the paving slabs. Something with crashing drums and electric guitars.

  ‘Now That’s What I Call Music Sixteen. The best Now album in my opinion,’ he said, emerging from the car, puffing his cheeks and shaking his head. ‘Queen. Legend.’

  I shook his hot hand. Mr Hanley had oily hair and a handlebar moustache. Perhaps he wore a white vest top and tight white trousers when he was off duty? The thought made me feel a bit queasy. He certainly wasn’t built like Freddie Mercury, I noted, as he forced his shiny jacket to button up.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ His eyes roamed the frontage of the bungalow greedily. He jotted a few notes on his clipboard. ‘A hidden gem, as we say in the business.’

  ‘Thanks for doing this at such short notice, Mr Hanley.’ I ushered him into the dark hallway.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ he chuckled. ‘And call me Colin. The property market can be a scary place for a first timer. Especially a young lady on her own.’

  I swallowed a snarky retort, trying not to bristle. He would be patting me on the head and giving me a sweetie next.

  ‘So, what does the future hold for this humble abode, then?’ asked Colin.

  Oh, if only it were that simple! If only I could fast-forward the next few weeks, months even, and reappear when things were less complicated.

  ‘Let me show you around,’ I suggested, avoiding the question. ‘With your expertise, I’m sure you’ll have some good ideas.’

  I gestured for Colin to follow me. This time the tour of the bungalow didn’t take long, and five minutes later we were in the garden, perched on a moss-covered wooden bench.

  ‘What do you think?’ Despite my initial impression of the house being dreary from the outside, I was already feeling unaccountably protective towards the little place and found myself wanting him to like it.

  Colin smoothed his shirt down over his pie-and-pint belly and clamped his mouth together in a lipless smile. He breathed hard out through his nose. His expression was one of a doctor about to impart bad news.

  ‘The trouble with these properties built in the thirties is that they were thrown up quickly in the boom years and the build quality was very poor. The walls are thin and there will be no insulation.’

  My face drooped, along with my expectations.

  ‘They’re prone to damp. This garden is on a slope, leading towards the property, so water will run off the fields behind and into the foundations – if there are any,’ he chuckled.

  My shoulders slumped as the dire prognosis continued. Colin was on a roll. On and on he droned. I found myself zoning out and only catching the worst of it: money pit… lethal electrics… good money after bad…

  ‘You could throw thousands of pounds at it,’ he concluded, ‘and not see a return. My advice? Sell up and buy a little town house closer to the city centre. Brand new, easy maintenance. Perfect for a career girl like yourself.’

  He reached under his clipboard, pulled out a Prestige Properties brochure, and thrust it into my hand.

  ‘This little development is much more your style. Don’t waste your time with this place. Nothing worth salvaging. Someone will buy it for the location, flatten it and stick two or three houses on a plot this size,’ he said airily.

  Nothing worth salvaging! I was sure Great Aunt Jane would have had something to say about that. I was torn between wanting to cry and punching his lights out.

  ‘But my great aunt lived here for years, it was her home, her pride and joy,’ I stammered.

  ‘Different generation,’ he sniffed, dismissively. ‘I’d be happy to handle the sale for you, of course.’ He added his business card to my pile of bedtime reading.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, reading it and half expecting to see Colin Hanley, Snake oil salesman, and Freddie Mercury Impersonator alongside his other profession.

  ‘Thank you for your insightful advice,’ I said through gritted teeth as I showed him out.

  Flatten it? I’d only been after a few renovation ideas.

  Tina Turner’s ‘Simply the best’ blared out as he reversed the car off the drive and sped away.

  What an insensitive, rude, boorish, oily man! And what a waste of an afternoon.

  eight

  Emma was squashed on one end of the sofa, while Jess, spark out, took up all the rest. Every so often Jess would stir as Emma tried to throw a Malteser into her open mouth.

  Jess couldn’t handle alcohol at lunchtime. It had taken Emma and me quite some time to wrestle her away from her unfinished pint of cider and her new pensioner friends, who she had been entertaining with her version of ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’. One or two of the old men had even had a tear in their eyes.

  ‘We should go out tonight,’ said Emma, ‘it’s ages since we’ve been anywhere.’

  Floppy and comfy in the armchair and drained from the excursion to Woodby, I ignored her. She didn’t want to go out really. She only said it because she felt she should. Because like me, Emma was thirty-two and single. Because she worked on her own in a little studio bashing away at precious metals all day and she knew she would never meet a man unless she made an effort.

  I flicked through the TV channels, trying to find something to distract her, and settled Grand Designs. I loved this show.

  ‘It’s Saturday night,’ she persisted. ‘Come on, it’s only seven o’clock. Let’s crack open a bottle, put some music on and get tarted up. We could be in town for eight.’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten someone?’ I nodded in Jess’s direction as she gave a gentle snuffle. Emma grabbed another Malteser, squinted, took aim and fired. ‘Goal! And the crowd go wild,’ she chanted.

  Jess’s eyes popped open and she sat up, munching away as if being woken with a mouthful of chocolate was the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Are we going out tonight?’ she asked.

  I rolled my eyes. Not another Piper sister intent on disrupting my sedate Saturday night telly with a glass of wine and a bag of unhealthy snacks. I loved going out with them both, I did really. We always had fun. Although it usually descended into ‘Clash of the Titians’ once the two redheads clapped eyes on a man they both fancied. Then it was gloves off, game on.

  I grimaced. ‘Not tonight. I don’t think I’m ready to put myself back on the market yet.’

  Marc hadn’t called despite the glimmer of interest he had displayed when he popped round the other night. This was a good thing, I told myself. Surely it was better if he didn’t want to get back together simply because of the financial benefits? But just in case, I didn’t want to scupper my chances by making myself unavailable. I would stay in, in case he called. Besides, I fancied doing a bit of sketching.

  Emma huffed and puffed for a bit, then, ‘Can I be blunt?’

  I met Jess’s eyes and we snorted. Emma was never knowingly backward in coming forward.

  ‘When was the last time you went out?’ she continued.

  ‘Marc and I went out all the time!’ I protested.


  ‘I mean out out. Not last orders at the bar when he finally turns up after being God knows where all night.’

  Jess bit her lip and looked at me in sympathy. ‘It’s true, babes. You did pretty much put your life on hold for him. Dressed up and ready to go out, sitting on that sofa with your lipgloss on for hours. Just waiting.’

  I saw myself for a moment through their eyes. It did sound a bit pathetic, but at the time it seemed the right thing to do. Perhaps that’s why he thought I was boring, whereas I thought I was being accommodating and flexible. Next time I had a boyfriend (or got Marc back) I would have to be less accessible.

  ‘You’re gorgeous, Soph,’ said Emma. ‘And you can do a million times better than waiting in for a booty call from him. You should be paraded round and shown off.’

  ‘Oh, gerroff,’ I interrupted, shovelling a handful of Maltesers into my mouth. ‘You’re making me sound like a prize racehorse.’

  ‘You need to get back in the saddle…’

  ‘So now I’m the jockey!’

  Jess yawned. ‘Are we deffo not going out, then?’

  Emma stared at me.

  ‘Er, no,’ I answered, picking up my sketch pad.

  ‘OK.’ Jess plumped up a cushion, stretched her legs out on her sister’s lap and closed her eyes.

  ‘And if you ask me –’ Emma added.

  ‘I’m not!’ Grabbing the remote, I turned the volume up on Grand Designs several notches, hoping she’d take the hint.

  Emma huffed and tutted for a good ninety seconds, while I attempted to apply myself to my sketch.

  ‘That takes me back, seeing you draw,’ she sighed. ‘Pass me the remote control.’

  I slid it across the carpet.

  I knew why she was sighing; she was thinking back to our teenage years, when our heads were full of dreams and plans. So young and optimistic about life.

  ‘At college, you used to have a sketchpad permanently glued to your hand, remember?’

  I nodded fondly.