‘I’m sorry,’ said Sally, though she wasn’t particularly. Barbara had only wanted her for the rent, not the companionship. She’d even been stingy with her cornflakes.
11
It was very peculiar, standing on the steps of a house that had once been yours, staring at the paint you had chosen for the front door – Railings, by Farrow and Ball. She was surprised it hadn’t been changed, but she’d left the tin behind in the shed, and she supposed the subsequent owners had liked her choice. It did indeed look very smart.
Outwardly she was her calm professional self. Inside, her stomach was roiling, her breathing was shallow and her palms felt clammy.
The High House. Her forever house. Their forever house. The house where they had been going to start their family, and then live with them right up until they became doting grandparents to their children’s children. And maybe even great-grandparents. How long was forever, after all?
The High House was in a row of old wool-merchants’ dwellings off the bottom of Peasebrook high street. It was square, double-fronted, with five steps up to the porticoed entrance, a set of black railings, sash windows, and two little dormer windows in the roof.
Belinda could remember drawing a house like this when she was small, over and over again on the big pad of sugar paper she’d had for her birthday. The sort of house she would like to have lived in if they’d had a normal life, instead of being nomads. She couldn’t really draw very well, but houses were easy. Lots and lots of squares. So when she had first seen The High House it was as if she already knew it.
And as soon as she saw it, a roll of film had flashed through her head. A small girl on a rocking horse, a boy in the midst of a Hornby train-set, a towering Christmas tree in the hall, a table set for eight gleaming in the candlelight. A Hansel-and-Gretel playhouse at the bottom of the walled garden. Cast-iron bedsteads in the attic rooms, made up with soft bedding and fleecy blankets with stars on, well-worn teddy bears sitting on the pillows.
Nowadays she took the earlier turn off the roundabout to avoid going past the house, cutting into the high street higher up. She didn’t want to be reminded of her shattered dreams on a daily basis.
Today, however, she was finally facing her fears. Or, to be hard-headed and rational about it, hopefully picking up another few thousand quid. She couldn’t afford to be neurotic.
She picked up the door knocker and rapped it firmly, then waited until she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, trip-trapping over the tiles.
The woman on the other side of the door was petite, with pale blonde hair and a pretty face, clad in jeans and a voluminous cream jumper.
‘Mrs Blenheim?’ Belinda held out her hand.
‘Fantastic! You must be Belinda. Come in! The house is in a state of perfect tidiness but I can’t guarantee it will last so you must be quick before it descends into the usual chaos. I’m Suzi, by the way.’
‘Please – don’t worry about tidiness. I can see past all of that.’
‘You mean I could have just left the washing-up in the sink?’ Suzi feigned looking affronted.
‘For me, yes. But maybe not when you have actual viewings.’
‘Oh. I was going to go for the lived-in look.’
Belinda followed Suzi into the hall. It looked exactly the same, but with different photographs on the wall: Suzi and a handsome husband and two small children. But Suzi had made her laugh so much, it was not as excruciating as she’d thought it would be.
‘I left you until last because secretly I want to go on with you,’ Suzi told her. ‘But my husband will kill me if I don’t get other valuations.’
‘You shouldn’t be telling me.’
‘I know! But I always love the houses you put on and I love your sign. I think that dark red will look really good on the wall outside.’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I mean, that might as well be the reason. Aren’t all estate agents the same really?’
‘Well, there are other advantages to going on with me—’
‘Yes, you’re not a lairy pervert like Giles Mortlake.’ Suzi looked disgusted. ‘I swear he was looking down my top all the time I was showing him round.’
Belinda tried not to laugh, and didn’t comment, tempting though it was. She warmed to Suzi immediately. She zipped around the house like Tinkerbell, chattering away and giving Belinda far more information than she needed, not least because she knew the house inside out already.
She remembered going to view The High House for the first time. This had been a rundown part of town then, a bit shabby. The house had looked uncared for, owned by an elderly woman who was going into sheltered accommodation. She clearly hadn’t done a thing to it for years. The front door had been painted a dreary beige, but as soon as she walked over the threshold of The High House, Belinda knew it was The One.
Clients and customers often talked about ‘the feeling’: a sense of certainty that a house was right. A house could be perfect on paper, but if it didn’t feel right, there was no point in trying to make it so. It was funny, she thought, that people were often more tuned in to what house was right for them than what person.
Inside, the floor of the hallway had been covered in pink carpet that was grey with dust. The windows were filthy, the doors bulged with damp. The kitchen had shiny dark brown units and a peeling lino floor. There were old milk bottles on the side, and a rust stain in the sink. It had needed totally gutting. Rewiring. Damp proofing. A new roof, probably. It was going to eat money. But she’d loved it.
It said: ‘I can be whatever you want me to be’.
And it was still perfect. All the things she had loved about it were still here. The beautiful stone staircase. The light-filled kitchen. The larder with its slate shelf. The old-fashioned bell system for calling the servants still high up on the wall in the hall. She could imagine it at Christmas, the house smelling of cloves and cinnamon.
And now, in spring, the cherry tree in the back garden was white with blossom and light flooded in through the windows.
The Blenheims had put their mark on it, but the bare bones were still the same. She barely breathed as she walked through all the rooms. She could still feel herself in here, like a ghost. So many of the things she had put in were still here: the glass pendant light in the hall, the silver mosaic tiles in the bathroom, the striped runner on the stairs. It was like rewinding through her life but without her in it.
She hesitated behind Suzi, stopping at the foot of the staircase to the third floor. This was going to be the hardest.
‘The kids are up here,’ said Suzi. ‘I spend all my time running up and down the stairs, so it keeps me fit. But it will come into its own when they are bigger and don’t need me so much.’
Belinda didn’t reply. She just nodded, and followed Suzi up. She had never quite finished the top floor. She blocked out the memory, trying to maintain a professional façade, but as she saw the children’s bedrooms, she felt her throat tighten with unshed tears. Suzi had done them out just as she would have liked, in soft colours, with thick curtains to keep out the darkness and keep in the warm, and carpets like clouds underfoot. Two bedrooms, for a boy and a girl, a pigeon pair.
She would never know now.
She stood in the door of the boy’s room, with its Harry Potters lined up and the Lego in boxes. She could feel the pain, even now. Do not cry, she told herself. It would be so easy to break down.
She held on to the door jamb and breathed away the urge to collapse into a puddle of tears.
‘Lovely,’ she managed to say to Suzi. ‘Two good sized rooms and a bathroom. Just what everyone wants.’
Full marks for an Oscar-winning performance, she thought, as they went back down the stairs.
‘So what do you think?’ asked Suzi. ‘Giles Mortlake said it was “a classic townhouse that has been lovingly restored with particular attention to period detail”. Though that’s not down to me. Doing a house up is my idea of hell.’
‘Actually,’ said Belin
da. ‘It was me. I used to live here. Quite a while ago.’
‘Seriously? Oh my God, that’s amazing.’ Suzi frowned. ‘We didn’t buy it from you, did we?’
‘No – there have been a couple of owners in between. It was more than ten years ago.’
‘You don’t look old enough!’
‘I was quite young, to be fair.’
Now she had confessed, she felt an overwhelming need to share the details with Suzi. She wanted to talk about the house; to exorcise it. Normalise it.
‘You should have seen it. It was a complete wreck, full of awful wallpaper and terrible carpets. It was definitely a project.’
‘How long did it take you?’
‘About two years. I was as high as a kite on paint remover for ages.’
‘Was it you who took those before and after photos?’
She’d been painstaking about recording her renovation and photographed each stage. She’d framed some of the most contrasting features and had left them hanging in the scullery when she left. They were still there, she’d noticed.
‘Yes.’
‘My goodness – it must have been incredibly hard work.’
‘I don’t think my nails have ever recovered.’
She looked down at her nails because she was finding the memories difficult. The excitement when she had lifted the hall carpet to find pristine tiles underneath. The satisfaction of stripping all the paint off the bannisters. The pleasure of choosing just the right wallpaper, the right lighting, the little touches that raised it from pleasing to perfect. And all the while she had been a little in awe of the house and its previous inhabitants and had wanted to respect its heritage.
‘Well, you made it a very beautiful home,’ Suzi told her.
‘Thank you.’
‘Why did you sell? After all that hard work?’
‘Oh, lots of reasons. Property crash, a bad relationship, I wasn’t very well . . .’
That was one way of putting it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Suzi.
Belinda looked out of the window. Don’t cry, she told herself. It was so tempting, to tell Suzi everything. She would hug her, wipe away her tears, take a bottle of wine out of the fridge. She sensed Suzi was the sort of woman who would understand.
‘Well, let’s make sure we get you a good price and a quick sale,’ she managed to say instead.
Suzi signed the paperwork on the spot, and Belinda promised to come round with Bruce to take the photographs as soon as she could pin him down.
As she left The High House she thought I bloody did it! She’d confronted her demon and nothing terrible had happened. She felt elated, as if the dead weight that was holding her down had been lifted. Her past was no longer haunting her. She really was ready to move on.
12
1967
On Monday, Alexander fetched Sally promptly at ten. He looked tired, with black rings under his eyes, and she wondered what he had been up to, but he didn’t give anything away. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been in the day before, and she thought he might have slept in them.
Her suitcase only just fitted into the boot, even though she didn’t have many clothes.
‘Sorry,’ said Alexander. ‘I don’t know why Mum and Dad bought this car. It’s pretty useless for anything except going fast.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Sally. ‘Isn’t that why people buy things sometimes? Just because they’re beautiful?’
She pushed her key back through the letterbox and heard it thud on to the doormat inside. She liked Kensington, but she hadn’t felt at home with Barbara and wasn’t sorry to leave.
Alexander wasn’t very talkative on the journey. He turned up the radio so conversation wasn’t really possible. Sally wondered if he was unhappy about her coming to Hunter’s Moon. Eventually she plucked up the courage to lean forwards and turn the radio down.
‘If you think this is a bad idea, just say,’ she told him. ‘I know it was all a bit sudden. And I know people sometimes make offers they later regret.’
‘No!’ he said. ‘It’s the best idea any of us have had for ages. Things can’t go on as they are. You are exactly what we need. I’m sorry – I’m being very rude. I had a bit of a night of it.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s very difficult, trying to break things off with someone, especially when they won’t take no for an answer.’
His dark brows were knitted together.
‘I suppose it must be.’ Sally hadn’t ever been in that situation, but she’d seen her brothers negotiate several minefields. ‘Nobody likes being dumped.’
He didn’t elucidate and she didn’t press him. She tried to imagine the girl Alexander was breaking it off with. She pictured someone with white-blonde hair and panda eyes and kinky boots, and it gave her a funny feeling inside; as she examined the feeling she realised it was jealousy. She batted it away. Alexander was never going to be interested in someone like her. She was the housekeeper, she reminded herself. She mustn’t forget that.
Margot came rushing out of the house when they arrived, wreathed in smiles. She had managed to get dressed today, in capri pants and a sleeveless blouse, her hair tied up in a ponytail. She hugged Sally.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘I hardly slept a wink, thinking you might have had second thoughts when you woke up this morning.’
‘I thought the same!’ laughed Sally. ‘I was terrified you would send word to say don’t come.’
Margot was holding both of her hands and looking at her. ‘I think you are meant to be here,’ she said. ‘The house has cheered up already. I can feel it. We haven’t been treating it very well, I’m afraid.’
She spoke about the house as if it was a person as she led Sally inside. ‘And now you will have to see the horrible truth. We’ve been living in absolute squalor. None of us is very house-trained. But the thing is, Dai and I went from living in a ghastly two-roomed flat in the arse end of Chelsea to living here. And I’ve never really worked out how to run a big house. I sort of get the hang of it every now and then and then it all falls apart.’ Margot looked anguished, as if it was a very real failure on her part. ‘And we do get people in to help but we can’t keep them.’ She looked pleadingly at Sally. ‘If it gets too much just say.’
Sally smiled brightly.
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m used to looking after my brothers. Neither of them know how to wash up a cup or pick up a dirty towel.’
‘Well, you’re to have free rein and to run the house exactly as you want. The main aim is to keep everyone happy and fed. So I can work.’ Margot began to chew on her thumbnail. ‘I’ve got a deadline and I need to be able to concentrate. I can’t worry about anyone or anything else. I know that sounds ridiculous . . .’ She laughed, then looked serious.
‘It’s fine, I understand,’ said Sally.
‘Just tell me if you need money for anything. You know, if you want to buy a . . .’ Margot cast around in her mind for something Sally might want. ‘A vacuum cleaner or something.’
‘Isn’t there one?’
‘Yes. Yes! There’s one in the scullery. But you know, you might have a particular kind you like.’
‘I’m not particular about vacuum cleaners,’ Sally smiled.
‘There’s a chequebook in the kitchen drawer. Draw out whatever money you need from the bank in Peasebrook. And you can use the Mini whenever you like. It’s in the garage. Alexander seems to have bagged the Jag. I’m not leaving the house for the foreseeable future.’
‘Do you want me to bring you anything during the day? Tea or coffee or lunch?’
Margot looked appalled. ‘God, no. Please don’t interrupt me. I’ll only want to talk.’
‘Well, what time would you like the evening meal?’ Sally wasn’t sure what they’d want to call it. Dinner? Supper? ‘And what would you like?’
Margot shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ham. Lamb. Spam. Anything. Honestly, anything that somebody else has cook
ed would be lovely. I must go and do some work.’
Alexander came in with her bag. ‘I’ll show you up to your room, shall I?’
Sally followed him upstairs. On the landing was a huge portrait of Margot in a shimmering emerald green dress. There was a look in her eye that made Sally feel a bit uncomfortable, as if Margot was challenging her.
‘Mum’s publishers had that painted for her when she published her fiftieth book.’
‘Fiftieth? Doesn’t she ever run out of ideas?’
‘She hasn’t so far. But she does work hard, Mum. I don’t think any of us really appreciate it.’
She followed him round to the next staircase.
‘I know it seems as if I’m taking you up to the servant’s quarters, but these rooms are very nice. They’ve been done out for guests. So you should be comfy.’
The room was wonderful, in the eaves of the house, with a dormer window, and floor-length flowery curtains and a huge bed with a pink satin eiderdown.
Alexander put her case on the floor. The room felt very small suddenly, and the bed loomed very large.
‘I’ll leave you to unpack,’ he said, very formal all of a sudden. When he had gone, Sally shivered slightly. She’d got too cold in that open-top car, she decided, and opened her case to find a cardigan.
Margot walked in the spring air to the coachman’s cottage that was in the courtyard at the side of the house.
She felt filled with hope. Spring did that, for a start: it smelled sweet and fresh. The drifts of purple and white crocuses with their egg-yolk middles always lifted her heart: they were such brave and cheery little things, pushing through before everything else as if to tell them it was all right.
And then there was Sally. She felt good about Sally. Sally had been sent to her, she was sure of it. Sally was going to restore order and look after them all. The house would be calm and organised and happy. And Margot wouldn’t have to worry. Sometimes she thought she was going mad because she just couldn’t manage it all. Sometimes she thought that she worked her fingers to the bone so that none of the rest of them need worry and she wasn’t sure that was fair.
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 8