by Jodi Taylor
I don’t rush into things; I’m not an impulsive person, but Jones’s suggestion that I begin again somewhere else had begun to take root. One day, I caught the bus into Rushford. I thought I’d have a look around the shops, have lunch somewhere, cross the bridge and visit the library, and just generally have a nice day out. The sun was shining and the first daffodils were coming through. It was definitely time to get back out into the world.
Actually, I rather enjoyed myself. It was pleasant to browse around the shops. Time passed more quickly than I realised, and I suddenly found I was hungry and I wanted my lunch. There’s a nice little café up by the castle and I wanted to call in at the library anyway, so I crossed the bridge and trudged up the hill. It is a bit of a trudge, as well. The castle is built on high ground, guarding what was, before they built the bridge, the original crossing point. The River Rush is quite wide and shallow here and a tall stone on either river bank marks the site of the original ford. Some medieval entrepreneur put together the money for a bridge which they built about a hundred yards upstream from the ford. That was the signal for the town to spill over to the other side of the river, taking the commercial centre with it. The market place was built near St Stephen’s, the guildhall is there, the town hall, the banks and the best shops. The area around the castle is now almost completely residential and there are some nice properties up there with lovely views across the river.
I strolled up through the narrow streets trying not to puff too much, entering Castle Close through the archway between two fine Tudor houses that have miraculously survived the centuries.
The castle lay to the right and ahead. Built in the twelfth century, I think, modernised in the fifteenth, and again in the seventeenth. It survived the Civil War by siding with whoever seemed appropriate at the time. The outer ward was gone – that was where I was standing now. At some point the wall had been removed and the remaining two sides of the square not part of the castle walls were now occupied by a dogleg of quaint residential houses representing every architectural style known to man. Some of them were quite ancient, others had been built in Victorian and Edwardian times. Nothing was less than a hundred years old. The centre of the square was grassed over and a wide cobbled path ran around the outside. The remains of what had once probably been a dark and dirty moat were now silted up and only two horseshoes of glittering water remained, fringed with willows just coming into leaf. With the castle as a backdrop it really was a very pretty place and the council had placed seats around the green for people to enjoy the view and be mugged by opportunist swans and ducks, keen to investigate their shopping for anything edible.
A wooden bridge led across one of the ponds into the castle proper, which was still well preserved. They hold civic banquets here whenever they want to impress someone. An entire wall is covered in gleaming horseshoes because tradition decrees that every monarch must send a full set of horseshoes as a gift, otherwise they won’t reign for long. Next door is the library, which was where I was heading, and the council keeps an information centre there as well. There are people in and out all the time.
I was reminded of Thomas Rookwood telling us his castle had once been the focal point of local life and he was determined to keep it so. It was good to see this old pile still had a place in the community.
After lunch, I found the library, warm and welcoming, joined on the spot, and was issued with a library card.
‘Do have a look around,’ said the woman behind the desk. Her colour was a gentle fawn, shot through with gold. She loved her job. ‘The reference section is upstairs – the stairs are just through that door there. Or there’s a lift if you prefer it.’
I said I thought I might as well have a look around while I was there.
‘The Local History Society is meeting in there at the moment, but don’t worry about disturbing them.’ She smiled. ‘I think sometimes there’s not a lot of local history discussed.’
I strolled around, pulling the occasional book off a shelf to have a closer look and helped myself to some leaflets. I did take a look upstairs. The reference section held a bank of PCs for public use, tables and chairs for quiet study, and the Local History Society, two of whom were knitting, one was laying out cups and saucers, another was cutting a cake and they were all chatting nineteen to the dozen. I left them to it.
Emerging into the sunshine again, I paused to enjoy the scene. People were wandering around, enjoying the day. A little boy and his father were trying, very unsuccessfully, to fly a kite. The swans paddled quietly in water that reflected the blue sky and white clouds. Everything was lovely.
And then I saw it.
Almost directly opposite me, sandwiched between two larger, much more substantial bow-fronted houses, was a tiny, narrow little cottage. What had caught my attention was the red and blue “For Sale” sign in the window.
I stared. What a wonderful place to live. Imagine seeing this, every day. It called to me. I swear it called to me. And who wouldn’t want to live next door to a castle?
I started to walk away and then stopped and looked back. It was ridiculous. The location alone must add tens of thousands of pounds to the price.
‘You’re looking for a new home,’ said half of me.
‘Yes, but something affordable,’ said the other half – the sensible half. ‘Not this.’
‘How do you know you can’t afford it? How much are they asking?’
‘More than I can pay.’
‘You don’t know that. And the estate agent’s offices are on the way back to the bus station. You can call in and ask.’
‘If I can afford it then so can everyone else. Everyone will want it. And I don’t have a job. I’ll never get a mortgage.’
‘You don’t need a mortgage.’
‘To buy that I’d probably need six mortgages.’
Silence.
I trudged back down the hill because I had a bus to catch. And the estate agent’s office would be full of people clamouring to buy this little gem and I’d miss my bus and be stranded and …
The offices were empty. I could see three people sitting behind their desks and no customers.
I went in.
Twenty minutes later I was back up the hill, in the company of a charming young man, he trying not to puff in case it put off a prospective buyer, and me trying not to puff as a matter of pride.
I’d thought the little house would be far beyond my means and that would be the end of the matter. The price was surprisingly reasonable and easily within my means. Oh my God – I could actually buy this place. I know I’d thought vaguely about leaving Ted’s house, but now, suddenly, I could, and the thought was frightening. I took a deep breath. Perhaps I wouldn’t like the inside.
So much for that. The house was a little jewel.
Downstairs was all one room – the kitchen at one end, divided from the living room by a smart breakfast bar. The wooden floors glowed honey in the sunshine. It was perfect. There was even an open fire and built in bookshelves. I stared around in delighted surprise. He was reciting facts and figures and I really tried to look interested because he was doing his best, although if he’d been a little older and more experienced, he’d have shut up and let the house sell itself.
I pointed to a door in the wall. ‘What’s behind there?’
He opened it with a flourish, revealing a narrow staircase winding up through the wall.
I did still retain some small amount of common sense. ‘How do they get furniture upstairs?’
‘Beds usually come apart and can go up these stairs. Mattresses bend. Anything else usually goes through the upstairs windows.’
There was another door on the stairs.
‘Access to the cellar,’ he said before I could ask, and the next thing I was downstairs staring at a large room lit only by a small window up near the ceiling. My mind filled with thoughts of dungeons and secret tunnels to the castle.
‘Plumbing for washing machine and dryer,’ he said, reminding me w
hy I was here. ‘And hooks for overhead washing lines.’
I nodded wisely and tried to look like a prospective homeowner who was interested but would need a considerable amount of favourable negotiating before saying ‘yes’.
We went upstairs.
The landing was huge with a door on each side.
‘Actually,’ he said, you could probably make this space a second bedroom if you didn’t mind having to access the bathroom through it. The previous owner kept a bed settee here for guests.’
I nodded. It was a good space – no window, but there was a skylight overhead. I could make a little study here.
‘Just the one bedroom,’ he said, ‘but very large as you can see. Pretty fireplace. Built-in wardrobes.’
Another lovely room, lit by two long sash windows through which the sun flooded, making patterns on the walls. The floors up here were slightly darker in colour. As downstairs, the walls were cream.
The bathroom was clean and modern, all white and chrome. I liked everything. There was nothing I would change. There was no reason in the world not to buy this house.
‘Can I look at the kitchen again?’
‘Of course.’
The kitchen, like the bathroom, was spotless. The oven looked as if it had never been used.
‘It hasn’t,’ he said. ‘The previous occupant was a single lady. A student.’
‘Oh.’ I said.
‘No, no. Her father had the house fitted up for her, but she just never cooked. She ate out or had a takeaway. I remember, when I came to measure the place up, she was keeping some of her books in the oven.’
There was a pause. I couldn’t put it off any longer.
‘Why is it so cheap?’
He sighed. ‘It’s cheap because it’s very small, situated at the top of a very steep hill and there’s no vehicular access. Not even close. Furniture removers will have you on a blacklist, delivery drivers and refuse collectors will not love you.’ He grinned, suddenly looking very young indeed. ‘And don’t even think about dying here. They’ll have to carry your body all the way down the hill and across the bridge before they can get you in the hearse.’
‘Not my problem,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll be dead.’
I walked slowly around the house. Now he had the sense to shut up.
‘Have you had much interest?’ I said, watching him closely.
‘Some’, he said evasively, while his colour said none.
‘Well, I quite like it,’ I said. ‘But this lack of access could be a problem. I’ll need to think about it.’
‘Of course,’ he said, keeping his end up, ‘but I have several other viewings scheduled.’
Oh, bless him.
* * *
I rang Jones two weeks later.
‘I think I might be buying a house.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Rushford – as you suggested.’
‘Have you made an offer yet? Do you have a solicitor? What about the valuation? How much did you pay?’
What is it about the British and house buying? We’re obsessed. We make TV programmes about it. You can mix together a room full of the most incompatible people in the country and just let someone mention property prices and the next minute they’re all rabbiting away like maniacs.
He paused for breath and I enquired if he’d finished.
‘Don’t tell me you offered the asking price. Cage, you idiot. Why didn’t you ask me to negotiate for you? Have you had a survey done?’
‘Obviously you haven’t finished. I’ll just sit down and wait until you’re done, shall I?’
He sighed. ‘Where is it?’
‘Rushford. Up by the castle.’
There was a long silence.
‘What?’ I said, suddenly unnerved.
‘Nothing. Nothing. I was just thinking – good choice.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, yes. Unless he deploys a squadron of Black Hawk helicopters, there’s no way Sorensen’s going to get you out of there quietly is there? It’s public, there are always people around. And they can’t even get emergency vehicles up there so even if he does murder you then he’s going to have to carry your body all the way back down to the bridge.’
‘Strangely, Sorensen accessibility was rather lower on my list of desirable features than wooden floors, clean kitchen and a modern bathroom. And yes, I’ve had it surveyed. And valued. And the asking price is fair. And I made them take a couple of thousand off the price to bribe the removal men with. Are there any other aspects of my house-buying technique you’d like to criticise?’
‘You know, Ted never mentioned you were such a shrew.’
‘Ted thought I was perfect. Anyway, I’m going in tomorrow to measure up. Are you in Rushford?’
‘Of course. Where did you think I was?’
‘Well, it’s you. And this is your mobile, so I was rather thinking Ulan Bator.’
‘I’ll pick you up at ten, tomorrow.’
‘Just let me see if I’m free.’
He laughed and hung up.
Chapter Twenty
Things go quite smoothly if you’re a cash buyer. They go quite quickly, too. Ted’s house sold a week after I put it on the market. Six weeks later, I was in my new home.
My last day in Ted’s house was sad. Jones, displaying a tact I hadn’t known he possessed, waited in the car, surrounded by my last-minute boxes.
I walked slowly around the house, just in case there was one last, faint echo of Ted lingering on somewhere, but he was gone. I closed the front door behind me, posted the keys back through the letter box for the new owners, and never looked back.
Climbing in, I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about a job and what exactly I could do.’
‘Is money a problem?’ he said, pulling away. ‘I knew it. You spent too much on the house, didn’t you?’
‘No, not at all. There was the money from the sale of Ted’s house. Plus the money from my parent’s house. Ted had life insurance. And a pension. If Sorensen pays it.’
‘It’s not up to him. And don’t worry. Something will turn up.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh yes. You’re the sort of person things happen to.’
Thinking it over, that might not have been as comforting as he’d intended.
* * *
Ted’s house hadn’t been large, but my new one was even smaller. I took some favourite pieces of furniture, but left most behind for the new owners.
It took me a while to settle. It was some years since I’d lived alone. And that had been in my parent’s house. Safe and familiar. Now I was striking out on my own.
It was scary at first, getting used to living alone, managing my day with no Ted to give it focus. I missed him very much, but there were some rather nice shelves fitted either side of the chimney breast and on these I put my favourite things, including the picture of Ted and me – the one taken at the Tower of London. I angled it so I could see it from wherever I was in the room and there was always a little vase of fresh flowers alongside. I felt as though I’d brought him with me.
I was still anxious about Sorensen, but Jones said not to fret over it, so I tried not to. It had been some months since my stint as a ‘voluntary patient’ at the clinic. Yes, he knew where I was but, as Jones pointed out, I knew where he was as well. I wasn’t sure how much better that was supposed to make me feel.
I lived a quiet life. Jones disappeared off to somewhere or other. He didn’t say where and I knew better than to ask. I shopped daily – I had to. One bag of shopping was about all I could get up the hill. In the afternoon, I would sit on the green opposite, watch the people and feed the swans. If it was raining I sat in the window seat with a book. I wasn’t unhappy. I had my picture of Ted, smiling at me and there were always his flowers nearby. When we’d been married, he’d brought me flowers every week and now it was my turn to bring them for him.
And I had neighbours. To my left was a small firm of very upm
arket solicitors. There were two elderly men, a middle-aged woman and two young women. I had no idea who was who, but they always smiled and waved when they saw me.
On the other side was Colonel Barton and his wife. They spent much of their day sitting in their bay window watching the world go past. And even up here out of the way, it was amazing how much of it did go past. Tourists, of course, masses of them, to visit the castle. Mothers and pre-school children to play on the grass. Elderly people to sit on the benches and feed the birds. People to use the library, or patrons of the very good little café next to the castle. Some days the place was heaving with people, but all of them a safe distance away. I loved it.
In my ignorance, I thought all this activity was the reason why, like me, Colonel and Mrs Barton spent so much time in their window, but I was wrong.
Mrs Barton had good days, explained the colonel, but these were not as often as he could wish and getting fewer all the time. I watched his colour, already deep red with anxiety deepen even further, shading towards purple and black. Mrs Barton’s colour, a delicate shade of robin’s egg blue, thin and tenuous, was growing weaker day by day. Sometimes I could almost see straight through it. Those were the days when she didn’t know him. Or where she was. Or why their son wasn’t here. Or anything at all really. He was devoted to her and the days when she wouldn’t even speak to him hurt him deeply. I began to perceive there were people in the world with worse problems than me.
The only time he ever had a few hour’s respite was every other Thursday afternoon when, as president of the Local History Society, he went over to the library for what he referred to as one of their ‘little sessions’. He did agree there wasn’t a lot of local history discussed, but the ladies took it in turn to bring in cakes and the tea was very good. I suspected he was not the only one who enjoyed his few hours’ freedom. He offered me membership and I said I’d think about it.
Jones was still away that summer but I had the occasional email from him. Just a few lines, mostly telling me to stay out of trouble. I think he imagined that in his absence I’d wander in front of a bus, or inadvertently board a flight to Sierra Leone.