by Lulu Taylor
‘Are we here, Mummy?’ Carrie piped up from the back.
‘Yes, darling. This is our new house.’
There was a pause while the children gazed out of the window, taking in their surroundings, Joe with his head resting against the side of his seat, tired from so long in the car.
Carrie said, ‘But where are the other people?’
A town child, no doubt about that. ‘Good question,’ Emily said. ‘Somewhere about, I’m sure. We’ll make some new friends, don’t worry. But it is going to be a little bit different.’ No dashing to the corner shop when I’ve run out of milk or fancy a bar of chocolate. No shipping us all off to the pub when I can’t be bothered to cook. She thought about winter in a place like this. I’ll have to have a stockpile. I’m going to need a freezer. She shook her head, biting her lip, suddenly anxious. I hope I’ve done the right thing. Could it actually be dangerous up here? She imagined a news reporter on the television staring into the camera earnestly and saying, ‘No one quite understands why Emily Conway thought she could cope in a place like this on her own, with two children. It was a tragedy waiting to happen.’
Idiot, she scoffed at herself. As if we haven’t already been through enough, no need to imagine disaster as well. We’ll be fine. It’s not like we’ve moved to the Antarctic.
‘Let’s get out,’ she said, and opened her door. As her feet hit the ground, she felt a kind of psychic shock, as though she’d literally stepped from her old life and into a new one. She’d left the ground in London and now here she was, landing in north-east Cumbria. The van crunched to a halt beside the car, sending up a wake of dust. Two of the movers jumped out.
‘Bloody hell,’ said one feelingly. ‘That was one hell of a journey.’ He looked about disbelievingly. ‘This is it?’
‘Yes!’ Emily said, trying to sound cheerful and strong as though she had everything perfectly under control and was not arriving at a place she’d never seen before. She went to unbuckle the children and let them out of the car.
‘Brave,’ muttered the other, lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s pretty, all right but . . . well, remote in’t the word.’
The driver climbed down from the cab, stretching theatrically. ‘I thought we were going to drop off the edge of Britain.’
‘I’ll get some tea on,’ Emily said brightly, ‘and then we can get started. The sooner we unpack, the sooner you can get to the pub.’
She’d booked them rooms at the nearest place, which was four miles further on, in Howelland itself.
The children, released from the car, tried out their legs unsteadily and then began to run about, their attention instantly caught by the hundreds of interesting things demanding it: dirt, stones, puddles, marshy places, and squelchy areas where creatures might be found. Emily got out the arrival box, which had been packed in the footwell of the passenger seat. She’d stored her immediate necessities in there: the kettle, teabags, coffee, milk, sugar and mugs, along with a packet of biscuits. There was a tub of a supper prepared for the children and some beers for her to give the movers when they’d finished. One saucepan, a wooden spoon, cutlery, a knife and a pair of scissors, some plates and bowls and cups. Everything else was in a box in the van marked ‘Kitchen’ along with a cool box of more food. Hauling out the arrival box, she headed for the house, pushing open the gate with her hip and walking up the path to the front door, painted the same soft blue as the porch around it. Putting down the box, she lifted up a large flower pot and there were the keys, a modern Chubb and an old-fashioned black one for the original lock below the handle. She picked them up, suddenly breathless.
This is it. We’re here. Now I find out the reality.
She’d conjured up the house in her mind so many times, in the long hours when she couldn’t sleep with worry over the sale of the London house, or to steady herself in the shaking breathless aftermath of a nightmare. She’d paced its rooms, designing and dressing them in her imagination. But now she would face the way things actually were, and all the dreams would disappear forever.
She put the iron key in first and twisted it. The bolt inside the door moved slowly but surely, falling into place with a clunk. She took the small gold key and slipped it into the little shiny round lock above the handle. Its jagged teeth caught the tines of the lock and she moved it to the right, pushing on the door at the same time. The door stuck at first, but a few jolts of her hip sent it scraping open, revealing a grey flagstone floor and shadowy darkness beyond. A musty smell came out to meet her, heavy with dust and the bitterness of emptiness.
Behind her, the children had followed her onto the path, but were occupied with picking up the shiny pebbles dotted among the dun-coloured gravel at the edge of the flower beds that lined the path. She could hear the movers talking and calling to each other as they unfurled the back of the van and began handing down crates and furniture, loading up the grassy mound in front of the stone wall with what was left from the London house.
She looked back to check that Carrie and Joe were all right, then stepped forward into the hall. Her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom inside and she released a breath she’d not known she was holding. She was in a main room, with a fireplace at one end, a staircase in the middle that disappeared into blackness, and two doors at the other end, one leading to the left and the other towards the back of the house. Sweeping the wall with her palm, she found a light switch and flicked it on. A bare bulb hanging down from a flex in the middle of the room glowed dimly and revealed an old table with piles of circulars on it.
Oh my goodness. She sniffed. At least the air was dry, despite the mustiness. Going to a window, she unfastened the shutters and folded them back into the recess at the side of the window. Below it was a deep window seat. The walls were three feet thick at least. As the shutters opened golden light fell into the room, brightening it and revealing the dust that coated everything. There were ashes in the huge fireplace, and cobwebs were strung along the beams.
Well, it’s better with a little light in here. And at least I know the electricity is on.
It had occurred to her on the way up that she hadn’t thought to ask the solicitors if the utilities were still connected, but if there was electricity, there was bound to be water as well. And gas? she thought hopefully.
The door to the right led to a smaller room, this one with windows at the front and side, and a fireplace in the far wall. There were shelves built along one wall. A study, perhaps, or a small sitting room. She opened the door that led to the back of the house and found herself in a long corridor with three wooden iron-latched doors leading off it, one on each side and one straight ahead. The door on her right opened into a pitch-black cupboard under the stairs, which smelt strongly of turpentine; she hastily shut the door again. The one opposite opened into a chilly storeroom lined with shelves, with a window covered in wire netting and whitewashed stone walls. This was probably a larder, designed to keep food cold. She closed it and advanced to the door in front and opened it.
‘The kitchen,’ she announced to herself. ‘Good. I can get some tea on.’
The room was not at all like the country kitchen of her dreams. There were beams, yes, and tucked into the fireplace on the left was a range cooker, but not the shiny red Aga she’d fantasised about. This was a boxy old cream enamel thing with square lids to the hotplates, and it was chipped and grubby. She went over and touched it.
Cold. Of course. She looked around. But it could be worse.
At least no one had tried to install a modern kitchen circa 1985 in here. She could just imagine how bad it would look if there were a riot of chipboard and Formica, tan-coloured tiles and decorative edgings. As it was, it was a battered old collection of oddments: scrubbed pine countertops, with mismatched cupboards underneath. One storage area had no doors but a red gingham curtain strung on a piece of wire. The sink and draining board were stainless steel, scratched and well used, tucked beneath the window that looked out over the back garden. There were, she notice
d, no high-level cupboards.
Where did she keep everything? And, she thought with sudden panic, where on earth can I put the fridge? And the washing machine?
She put her box down on the counter, spotted a door to the right of the old range and went to it. Pushing it open, she saw that beyond lay a scullery which was now a cold utility room, with pipes that must be intended for a washing machine.
I suppose it’s a blessing I had to leave the dishwasher behind. No space for one here, anyway. At least the fridge can go in here.
Another door beyond that led to an even colder, tiny lavatory, with the cistern high on the wall, a long chain hanging down from it.
The height of luxury, she thought wryly, noting the grey cobwebs gathered thickly in the corners of the ceiling.
She returned to the kitchen and tried the other door, which led into a morning room where there had no doubt once been a table and chairs.
So this is where we eat. Her eye was caught by the huge old dresser running the length of the wall opposite the windows. And that’s where she stored her crockery.
She realised she’d been infected by the need for one of the ubiquitous huge eat-in kitchens that she and her friends had in London. The idea that the larder was in one place, the crockery in another and the fridge out in the scullery all seemed bizarre, old-fashioned and inefficient. But, she reasoned, people didn’t think of eating in their kitchens once upon a time. Probably the ones doing the eating weren’t the ones doing the cooking: there’d have been maids, cooks . . . She saw another door leading out of the morning room to the far side of the house.
What’s through there? But she remembered that she’d left the children alone outside for too long. The movers wouldn’t necessarily keep watch over them.
What am I thinking? I must have been at least ten minutes in here. They could have wandered off, got lost somewhere, gone into one of those old buildings and found an axe or a saw or tripped over something . . .
Panic raced through her, and she turned, stumbling blindly for the door, thinking only that she had to find the children as quickly as possible. She felt choked with a sudden black fear, the kind she knew from her nightmares, and she gasped as she hurried back through the morning room door, into the kitchen and out into the passage that led towards the front of the house.
Just then, she heard a sound that filled her with sick terror: Joe’s voice, rising in a wail, screaming out for her. ‘Muuuu-uuummy!’ he shouted on the crescendo of a sob.
Emily pushed through the door and ran into the great hall at the front of the house. A shape was silhouetted in the open doorway, a huge, towering man with Joe, screaming and crying, in his arms.
She stood paralysed with fright. Will’s here! Christ, he’s here. The thought burned through her mind like a red-hot knife. He’s come for us, he’s found us. I didn’t run far enough.
‘Now, little lad,’ said a deep voice from the hulking shape. ‘Here’s your mummy, here she is, don’t worry.’
‘Put him down!’ she yelled in a tremulous voice. ‘Put him down right now!’ It’s not Will, her brain told her – the voice wasn’t his – but her emotions were having trouble catching up. Adrenalin was still racing through her, making her heart pound fiercely.
‘All right,’ said the voice calmly. ‘I think he wants you anyway.’ The shape bent and released Joe, who staggered over towards her, his eyes scrunched shut and his mouth open as he howled. She scooped him up and hushed him, stroking his head, feeling him all over as though checking for broken bones.
‘Where’s Carrie?’ she snapped, blinking as the figure moved towards her, resolving from a silhouette into a proper flesh-and-blood person whose features she still could not make out.
‘The little girl’s outside. She just showed me her first pet. It’s a woodlouse. I think she could do better.’ There was a laugh hidden in his voice. ‘You must be Mrs Conway.’
‘Yes.’ Her panic was subsiding. She frowned as the man in front of her at last came into focus. He looked as though he was in his early forties, tall, and dressed in the kind of classic country clothes that she thought no one really wore outside magazine shoots: dark cord trousers, a checked shirt of worn soft cotton, a fuzzy wool jumper in mossy green under a tweed jacket in autumnal colours. His face was open and friendly, battered and lined as though he’d spent many hours outside in the teeth of a strong wind. His hair, short and brown, stood straight up on top, as if just fluffed by a breeze.
‘I’m James Pendleton,’ he said, holding out his hand to her. She took it and let him shake hers vigorously. ‘I’ve been keeping a lookout for you. Welcome to December House.’
‘Thank you. You must be one of the executors.’
‘That’s right.’ He smiled. ‘Good to meet you at last. You obviously found the key all right.’
‘Yes. Thank you for leaving it out.’ Joe had stopped crying and was nestling in her arms, eying the newcomer suspiciously.
James looked out through the open door to where the movers could be seen stacking up the boxes and furniture outside. ‘They’re going like the clappers, aren’t they? You should have everything inside in no time. Have you managed to have a look around? You’ll need to know where to direct them soon.’
‘Only the ground floor,’ Emily said.
He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, shall I show you the rest?’
She instantly felt that she didn’t want him to rob the house of its mystery by striding through it, revealing it all to her in his bluff, friendly way. She wanted to discover it for herself. ‘I tell you what, you could show me how to get the oven turned on. I’m going to need to cook something before too long.’
‘Good point. You will need it. The range provides all the hot water and the heating too. Come on, I’ll show you how it works.’
In the kitchen, James knelt down in front of the range. ‘Yes. It could do with a clean.’ He looked up at her sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t think of it. Let’s get it started, anyway.’
‘Where’s the switch?’ Emily said, looking along the walls for it. She put Joe down and he settled on the floor, interested in whatever lay behind the gingham curtain that hid the cupboard space.
‘No switch. Solid fuel.’
‘Solid fuel?’ She was confused. What was he talking about? ‘Like . . . hard oil?’ she said stupidly.
He laughed. ‘No. Solid fuel! Wood, in this case. Your supply’s outside in the store. I had a look a while back and there were plenty of good seasoned logs, but you’ll need to top up a few times a year.’
She was still taking in the fact that she would be keeping her cooker alight with logs as James led her out of the back door in the scullery and out into the garden. The log store was tucked away at the side of the house, beside the jutting wing of the old lavatory. She could see now that it had once been an outside one, but the old door had been blocked up and a new one knocked through from the scullery.
‘There,’ James said, indicating rows of logs, well dried and cracked, smelling strongly of bark. ‘A good store there. It’ll keep you going for a while. You grab as much as you can and we’ll soon have the range going.’
She followed him back into the kitchen with an armful of scratchy logs that she suspected were full of beetles and spiders.
Is this what life will be like? Full of tiny, scuttling things? And – she wrinkled her nose against the powerful, woody smell of the logs – it’s going to be a lot smellier than I imagined. Her nose was full of the aroma of dust, mould, cold stone and now wood. This was going to take more adjustment than she’d anticipated. The country idyll she’d dreamed of was clean and orderly and scented by home-baked cakes.
As James knelt down to get the range going, Emily unpacked the kettle, filled it from the stiff tap over the sink, and plugged it in. Leaving James to keep an eye on Joe who was comfortably ensconced in the cupboard, she headed back out again to find Carrie, who was building a home out of gravel for the woodlouse she’d adopted.
/> ‘He’s called Roberto,’ Carrie said gravely as Emily bent down to look. ‘He’s in his bedroom.’
‘He’s lovely, sweetheart. And his home is splendid, I’m sure he’ll love it.’
One of the movers called across to her. ‘We’ll be moving furniture in soon. Van’s nearly empty. You’d better decide where you want us to put it.’
‘Okay. There’ll be tea in a few minutes.’ She stood up and held out a hand to Carrie. ‘Do you want to come and choose your bedroom?’
Carrie nodded. ‘Will Roberto be safe?’
‘I’m sure he will. You can come back out again soon.’
The upstairs of the house lifted her spirits: it was cosy but light, with four bedrooms, each with a view over either the front or the back garden.
‘I want this one,’ Carrie said as they went into a tiny box room with a sloping ceiling just big enough for a single bed, a chest of drawers and, perhaps, a small bookcase. It was papered in a pattern of tiny pink sprigged roses.
‘Don’t you want to share with Joe?’ Emily asked, holding her hand.
Carrie shook her head. ‘This is just for me.’
‘All right. This is your room.’