The Perfect House

by R. P. Bolton

  ‘We are going to have fun,’ she ordered Trinity, laying her under a baby gym. ‘Yes, we are.’

  Ellie’s hand wavered for a nanosecond over an apple, then helped itself to a biscuit. She poured a coffee and took the closest available chair. In the adjacent seat, a woman glanced from her phone long enough to bestow a dismissive half-smile, then returned to scrolling through the virtual lives of more interesting people.

  Go for it. Join the tribe.

  She leaned into the woman’s sightline and gestured to the mat Trinity lay on. Lights flashed and bells rang on the play bar above her mesmerised eyes.

  ‘Fruit machines for babies. And in a church hall!’

  The joke fell flat.

  The woman’s manicured finger hovered over the screen for a second longer before she dropped her phone in a leather bag.

  ‘Hi, I’m Norah.’ She reached under the chair for her coffee cup. ‘First time?’

  After the initial introduction, it didn’t take long to establish that Norah’s greatest love was talking about herself. About as long as it took Ellie to regret choosing that particular chair, in fact.

  ‘Just the one? Lucky you,’ Norah said, taking a long sip. ‘Whenever I used to meet people who said, “I’m a full-time mum,” I’d think, all you do all day is watch CBeebies and go to things like this.’ She waved vaguely around the room. ‘And then I had the twins, and the hard work started. Then Harry came along. And just when I thought I knew what I was doing, he does something totally unprecedented and I’m back to square one. If I were at work, I’d call it upskilling, I guess. Harry is upskilling me.’

  She laughed then took a dainty bite of an amaretti biscuit. While her mouth was otherwise occupied, Ellie shoehorned in a sentence.

  ‘It’s certainly been a steep learning curve with Trinity.’

  Norah laughed, daintily dabbing at the crumbs. ‘Trust me, one is a piece of cake. Don’t even think about complaining till you’ve got three. And you know what’s weird? All the time I was working, I hated it. Office politics, sicknote colleagues who took a fortnight off if they sneezed. But at least I could go out for a drink to unwind. Now I’m always at home and I’ve been breastfeeding so long, I’ve forgotten the taste of gin.’

  ‘What did you do before?’

  ‘Journalist.’ She dunked the remaining biscuit. ‘Stockfield Express, but I’m moving into freelance feature writing now.’

  Norah tucked her caramel-highlighted hair behind one ear, and Ellie made a mental note to ask about a local hairdresser.

  ‘I was – I am – a copywriter for a craft magazine. But we’ve just bought a house to do up, so maybe I won’t go back for a while.’

  ‘Have you bought in the village?’

  ‘No, just outside. Moss Lane. Do you know it?’

  Her eyebrows twitched. ‘I certainly do. We walk the dogs in Mosswood most weekends. Very nice. Which one are you?’

  ‘Number six.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Boxy-looking one set back from the road?’ Ellie offered.

  Whichever part of Norah’s brain dealt with gossip lit up like a fruit machine.

  ‘Number six. Well, that’s interesting. I heard it had gone up for auction.’ She leaned forward, balancing the mug on her knee. ‘How are you finding it?’

  Ellie settled back in the chair, pulling her top down where it had ridden up over her belly.

  ‘Well, we’ve only just moved in and it needs quite a bit of work, as you can imagine, because it was empty for so long. But the garden is amazing and obviously the views are lovely, so …’

  Like Joan the Moan, Norah was the kind of listener who peppered conversations with absent-minded uh-huhs and oh really?s to kill time before she got to the important stuff. Her stuff. When Ellie paused to inhale, Norah pounced.

  ‘It was sad, the whole situation. Very sad. I’m assuming you know?’

  ‘About the owner’s death? Yes, we do.’

  ‘And the rest? Did you know—’ The pointy tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. ‘The full history before you bought the house? Everything about the Brennan family? Does it impact on the way you feel now you’re living there or do you prefer not to think about it? Do you have any regrets?’

  Norah fired questions quicker than Ellie could hear, let alone answer. She took a bite of her hobnob in lieu of a response.

  Perhaps realising she was being too intrusive, Norah flashed a sorry-not-sorry smile. ‘Hey, once a journalist …’

  She stayed quiet for a beat, brushing a few invisible crumbs from her cashmere jumper. ‘Some good came out of the situation, you know. My paper started a campaign after Mary died. Combatting loneliness. Old people, the vulnerable, the invisible. My boss said it was a …’ Norah mimed air quotes ‘… Community Awareness Initiative, but honestly, I think he read that story and saw his future. Divorced three times. Not on speaking terms with his kids. Staring down the barrel of old age. I mean, Mary wasn’t old but dying in that horrible way after such a tragic life. Losing her mother so young and then her father committing suicide. And then all the scandal at the council, of course.’

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ A twin hurled itself at Norah’s knees.

  Dregs of coffee from the mug threatened to spill.

  ‘Shi-sugar!’ she exclaimed, tilting it back just in time. ‘Silly Mummy.’

  Another took firm hold of Norah’s sleeve. ‘Mummy! India called me a poo poo!’

  Norah swung the little girl up into her arms.

  Ellie was still knitting together the last strands of the conversation. ‘What do you mean by a scandal?’

  But Norah’s focus had shifted entirely away.

  ‘Don’t kick Mummy. You little … poo poo.’ She threw Ellie an apologetic smile, revealing slightly pointed canines, like a vampire’s. ‘Lovely meeting you. See you next week?’

  ‘Sure,’ Ellie replied to Norah’s retreating back.

  She watched the clusters of other mums chatting while their children played for a minute or two. But the coffee swirled uncomfortably in her guts at the thought of gate-crashing one of those tight cliques, especially after the bizarre interrogation from Norah.

  ‘Time to go, honey,’ she said, picking up Trinity who immediately wailed. ‘Sssh.’

  She was elbowing the door open when she spotted a woman in gym gear and holding yellow rubber gloves slaloming through the play area.

  ‘Ellie?’ The Aussie accent was unmistakable. ‘Sorry I missed you. I’m Asha, Diane’s daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I was about to come over, but some little monkey stuffed a whole loo roll down the toilet and now I need to …’ She flapped the gloves. ‘You know how it is.’

  Trinity gurgled and Asha leaned in close. ‘Hello, gorgeous. What’s your name?’

  ‘This is Trinity.’

  ‘I’d introduce you to Freddie, but he’s …’ she turned ‘… toddled off somewhere. Are you going already?’

  Ellie’s sinuses ached. Oh God. Was she actually about to cry?

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ Asha said, kindly. ‘Did you get to meet some people?’

  ‘I talked to Norah.’

  ‘Okaaay,’ Asha drew the final syllable out. ‘Well, come back next week and I promise I won’t let Norah monopolise you. She can be quite …’

  ‘Full on?’

  Asha laughed. ‘That’s a nice way to put it. Look, I was thinking, I’m up at Diane’s a lot. Maybe I could drop in for a coffee if you’re not too busy?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Great.’ Asha tugged the rubber gloves on. ‘I’d better get back to the chaos. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ Ellie said, meaning it.

  Using her back to open the exit into the vestibule, she didn’t see Norah standing by the buggy park until it was too late. She was applying glossy beige lipstick with the help of a gold compact. No screaming kids in sight. And bloody hell, she was
standing right by the pram, so Ellie couldn’t even pretend she hadn’t seen her.

  ‘Oh, are you going already?’ Norah said.

  ‘Yes, things to do,’ Ellie replied, dragging out the pram. ‘You know how it is.’

  The net on the base caught on a Bugaboo and she bent over to shake it free.

  ‘I do indeed. Try having three,’ Norah said with a dismissive wave. ‘Nightmare. Oh …’ She extracted an immaculate leather purse, drew out a business card. ‘That’s my number. Anytime you want to talk, about the house or, you know, anything.’

  Ellie put her coat on, ready for the long walk home. Her caesarean scar itched under the jeans’ elastic waistband and the keys dug through the thin pocket lining. More sweat ran freely down her spine, sticking her top to her back, and to make matters worse, one soaked nursing pad had folded over and slipped down, forming a sticky rosette on the front. She buttoned her coat and prayed the stain wouldn’t show through the fabric.

  She hunched over the pram and, head down, wheeled past the graveyard, the playground and out on to the high street.

  How could Norah say that caring for one baby was ‘nothing’? And the way her face lit up like a lottery winner when delivering bad news reminded her of Joan the Moan delivering redundancy notices.

  It was more than Norah deserved, but at least Ellie waited until she was on the edge of the village before she flashed her own sorry-not-sorry smile, crumpled the card and dropped it into the gaping mouth of her bag.

  21. Now

  Ellie folded the buggy and locked the front door, placing the keys carefully in the basket.

  ‘Keys,’ she murmured into the baby’s head. ‘Definitely in the basket, right?’

  At their old flat, the thin walls and plentiful neighbours had provided a 24/7 human soundtrack. And living on the main road at Howard’s, with the screech and rumble of non-stop traffic, had her craving peace and quiet. She’d certainly got that on Moss Lane. Apart from the faint whisper of Trinity’s breath in the cot, a deep hush settled on the house and she almost jumped off the nursing chair when her phone dinged a message from Jess.

  When are you coming into the office? Everyone’s dying to meet Trinity.

  Let me know when good for you, Ellie tapped back. No car so will have to organise a lift.

  Any lunchtime good for me but will have to check with Joan.

  Ellie responded with a GIF of a fire-breathing dragon and an unexpected yearning for the daily gossip, laughs, the mutual hatred of management. Even getting up at freezing o’clock to drag her weary arse through the Mancunian rush hour had acquired a nostalgic glow.

  Silence rang in her ears, pushing against her temples. She switched the night-light on. The faint notes of the lullaby were just enough to take the edge off and the room welcomed her. It was cosy. Relaxing. And yet, her traitorous mind would not stop picking at Norah’s conversation – interrogation – at playgroup.

  Do you have any regrets?

  Did she? Her subconscious flashed up a slideshow of unwelcome images. Mary Brennan in bed, clutching her chest. Mary Brennan praying for help that never came. Mary Brennan’s body lying undiscovered day after day. Looking round this tranquil space, it was hard to imagine it as the setting for such a sad event.

  A flicker by the cot caught her attention. A moving black dot that buzzed above the singing from the night-light.

  ‘Ugh.’

  A fat bluebottle alighted on the carved cot rail and rubbed its cellophane wings together.

  ‘Gross.’

  She opened the window and flapped until it buzzed out. Then she wiped the sleeping baby’s face and hands just in case, shut the window and sprayed and rubbed the fly-walked furniture. Then sank back into the nursing chair.

  Trinity slept on. The night-light played on. Ellie drummed her fingers on the wooden chair arm. Could she ring Jess for a chat? No. Wouldn’t be fair to bring the wrath of Joan upon her. Not Mum either while she was still feeling wobbly and liable to burst into tears. Better to send some all-is-well photos instead. Very quietly, she snapped a few shots of Trinity and pinged them off with the message: Sleeping beauty! xx

  What had Norah meant about a scandal? Before she could persuade herself poking around Google was a bad idea, she typed ‘Stockfield Express Moss Lane’ into the search bar. The picture of her house with police tape across the drive appeared. Buried right at the foot of the article was a link:

  Join this paper’s Campaign against Loneliness by N. Aryan.

  N for Norah? Ellie curled her legs up on the chair and began to read.

  The House on Moss Lane

  Secluded, exclusive and affluent … Moss Lane in the pretty village of Uppermoss is not the kind of place you would associate with human tragedy. But recent police activity has sent shock waves through the neighbourhood. And perhaps it has forced the local community to face some uncomfortable home truths: is this once close-knit village falling apart?

  No one can tell us much about Mary Brennan, the woman whose body was recovered from number six Moss Lane. Close neighbours seem reluctant to talk, perhaps uncomfortable at the damning coroner’s report that confirmed that Mary lay undiscovered on the floor of her bedroom for up to two weeks during the hottest days of the year.

  The sad truth is, we know little for certain about the circumstances of Mary’s death. The cause of death was given as ‘inconclusive’ due to the deterioration of the body. The report also stated that she was diagnosed with high blood pressure and put on a course of medication by her GP in 2011. But she never collected the drugs. Did she have a heart attack? A stroke? How long did she lie dying in bed waiting for help that never came?

  We will never know.

  What we do know is that Mary Brennan died a victim. A victim of a society that no longer cares for its vulnerable and lonely members. A victim of neighbours who turned a blind eye to the invisible woman at number six. In life, Mary’s tragedies were ignored and in death she lay forgotten.

  She is the hidden face of misery, a recluse who no one cared for and no one missed and her death poses many unanswered questions. She may have had no family or friends, but she had neighbours. Neighbours who had lived next door to Mary Brennan for over forty years. Why didn’t they notice something was wrong at 6 Moss Lane? Why were they so unwilling to help?

  Had the postman not glanced up to the first-floor bedroom to see a swarm of flies at the window, who knows how much longer Mary would have lain undiscovered?

  The question we must all ask ourselves now is: how many other Mary Brennans live in our town and villages? How many other men and women live alone among neighbours who turn a blind eye to their suffering?

  That’s why we at the Stockfield Express have decided to launch our campaign against isolation. Over the coming weeks, we’ll be focusing on local organisations that work within the community to combat loneliness and promote togetherness. Perhaps Mary Brennan’s legacy will be to teach us all to be better neighbours.

  Ellie clicked her phone off and rubbed her leg, digging both thumbs into the muscle. When she curled her toes into the carpet to stand, pins and needles shot through her calf and she winced.

  You had to hand it to Norah, it took talent to be a bitch about the neighbours while writing a plea for community kindness. One of those women with #bekind in her bio and venom at her fingertips. Still, Mary’s story seemed more sad than tragic. Unless by ‘tragic’ Norah meant the neighbours’ ignorance.

  She reached into the cot and gently stroked Trinity’s cheek. There was a stack of laundry to sort in her own room, but it didn’t seem fair to wake the baby. Surely she’d be OK for a few minutes?

  The nursery door hadn’t stuck since the first night but better safe than sorry, she propped it open with one of Tom’s giant trainers and tiptoed across the landing. She tipped the clothes onto the duvet, bent to retrieve a stray bra that had slithered to the floor and found the TV control half under the bed. The picture wasn’t great up here, and the old TV had an annoyin
g purple stripe across the top of the screen, but she needed something to lure her brain away from Mary Brennan.

  With a yawn, she clicked the volume down to not-wake-the-baby level. Flick, local news. Flick, cookery programme. Flick, property show and back to the chateau.

  Today the presenter wore a hi-vis vest over his suit and was patting an interior wall. ‘This old lady has been through so much.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But hessian wallpaper? Heinous.’

  Ellie shook out a star-print onesie. The mums at playgroup probably ironed theirs. Should she …?

  On screen, the camera panned up and over a faint water stain in one corner of the ceiling. The chateau owner’s eyes were glazed with unshed tears as she wailed, ‘And on top of everything, we’ve got a damp patch in the lounge.’

  Ellie rolled her eyes. Call that a damp patch?

  The boiler rumbled and the radiators made a ticking sound and as the room grew warmer, her eyelids grew heavy. She folded the baby’s soft cotton vests and stacked clean nappies in a monotonous rhythm until her brain and limbs felt anaesthetised. Setting the basket to one side, she kicked her slippers in the air and lifted her legs on the bed. Two minutes, then she would get the baby.

  On the TV, Mrs Chateau sobbed. ‘Every day in this house is a nightmare and I just can’t wake up.’

  Ellie laid her cheek against the pillow and, succumbing to the weight of her tiredness, let the presenter’s calm voice drift into her subconscious:

  ‘If these old walls could talk, imagine the stories they could tell.’

  22. Now

  The low murmur of voices dragged her back to consciousness. How long had she been asleep?

  She clicked the remote control. Nothing. The batteries were dead. Swinging her feet to the floor, she rolled her stiff shoulders. Through sleep-smeared eyes she saw the tumbledown chateau had been replaced by a modest family home in equal need of updating. The camera tracked through a hall covered in textured wallpaper. Stair treads creaked under the weight of ascending feet. Hairy fingers curled to grip the banister. Flesh puffed around a gold signet ring. Heavy, laboured breathing accompanied the visuals.