by Caron Allan
Oh God! What have I agreed to? Mrs H hugged me and blotted tears with the hem of her apron and Mr H just puffed up with happiness and kept on saying I’d not regret it (which I already am), and they’d never forget my kindness.
Oh My God!
And now I’ve got to drink more tea and eat more bloody cake, provided by Mrs H’s overactive gratitude. I’ve ballooned to a size two, I just know it. I know it’s too late to tell them I’ve changed my mind, even if I claimed mental exhaustion following the drive home. I have made my bed, and now I’m going to have to lump it.
Have been on the phone finalising arrangements to view some houses. Wish I could just stay in bed for a week and sulk with my head under the covers, instead of yet another trip looming on the horizon.
Thurs 17 January—3.20pm
It’s so hard to cram everything in. We’re driving down to Gloucester tomorrow to base ourselves there, and starting out exploring a variety of properties the following morning.
We’ve now got three houses to see on Saturday and one on Sunday. We couldn’t do two and two, for some reason to do with someone going to a wedding, so Saturday will be quite busy, and I hope I don’t mix up all the kitchen and bathrooms until I can’t remember any of them clearly and the whole experience is a complete waste of time.
And then it’s a quick nip back home for a day or two, and I believe the Hopkins’s will be flung headfirst into preparing for the arrival of their Bundle of Joy. I’m not very clear about the precise arrangements either for his accommodation or for his conveyance to the house, but Mr and Mrs H tell me not to fret, it’s all under control.
Which is exactly what worries me.
I know I’m being a bit silly about it, but what if they brainwash me into leaving all my money and everything to them? What if the three of them gang up on me and make me into their slave and I end up waiting on them and doing all the housework and everything? Or… What if they wait until I’m asleep and they creep in and murder me in my sleep and, again, take all my money and everything? What if he moves in and then starts bringing in all his prison buddies? What if he turns my home into a halfway house for murderers and rapists?
And then after that there’s a quick dash up to Scotland for a long weekend next weekend for Murdo’s birthday. I’m a bit anxious about that. I mean, I haven’t been there since…and I’m a little bit scared of how it’s all going to feel, how I’m going to feel, how I’ll cope…but it’s just for a couple of days, so I’d be silly not to go, and anyway, I can’t let what happened stop me from going there—we had so many lovely visits, and there are good memories too, it’s just that they are mostly submerged by the loss. All I can think of is the dark panelled hall, and the shape of Thomas’s body on the stretcher, of how I felt seeing the stretcher and the big sheet over the top of him, and the way the sheet curved up and down with his body and I was thinking, that’s my husband under there, that’s his body, and there’s his blood soaking through that cloth, and he’s dead.
And then only two weeks after that, it’s our tenth anniversary, and I can’t bear to think about that because Thomas had promised to take me to Tahiti to celebrate, and we had said (although half as a joke) that we would have one of those recommitment ceremonies on the beach, a sort of cheesy re-marriage, but I had it all planned out in my mind—though I never told him, I wanted it to be a surprise—and I could visualise the flowers and the clothes and it would be sunny and all perfect and beautiful and the sea would be gently lapping the sand and we would be there, gazing, gazing into each other’s eyes.
But now that will never happen.
Fri 18 January—7.15am
I’ve been feeling so down since yesterday when I wrote that bit about Tahiti. I had to stop to go off to find a hankie because I was crying. Then I went to lie down and when I got up, I didn’t feel like doing anything except sitting in front of the television. All night I had a terrible headache, and I’ve woken up still with it this morning, and I just feel like sobbing or smashing things. I wonder how long I’m going to feel this way? I wish I could lose my memory or something. It must be wonderful not to be haunted by your own history.
Mrs H has been very sweet both last night and this morning. Last night she fussed over me with cups of tea and bowls of soup, and this morning she’s spoiled me with French toast. I know she’s trying to cheer me up, and I’m touched that she wants to, or even that she knows me well enough to gauge my mood, but really, sometimes…sometimes I wish I could just be alone.
She’s done my packing for the trip. Mr H is getting the car ready and then we’ll be off. I feel like the whole day is yawning in front of me and I don’t know how I’m going to get to the end of it—bedtime seems so far off.
Same day: 10.35am
We are on our way down to Gloucestershire, and we’ve made good time, should be in Gloucester itself in around half an hour or so. Mr and Mrs H are sitting in the front together, so I’ve got plenty of room, sprawling here in the back playing Angry Birds on my phone and listening to my fave tunes.
We stopped for a coffee, and I earned about a million brownie points by making them go and find a nice place to sit whilst I went to buy the refreshments for us all. I get a bit embarrassed though. When we go anywhere they’re always far too grateful and far too ready to accommodate my wishes. I wish I could get them to relax and be themselves a bit more and not behave like grateful orphans on a daytrip.
Anyway.
Had a call about an hour ago, bit of a nuisance really, from the estate agent, saying that the owners of the first house we had planned to see today have called to cancel due to the kitchen ceiling coming down after a flood in the bathroom above it. If he’d only let us know sooner, we wouldn’t have had to leave quite so early this morning. But I suppose it can’t be helped. So that’s one property scratched off the list. Fortunately, it wasn’t ‘The’ house.
On arrival at the estate agent’s office, and after meeting the man I’ve been speaking to almost continually over the last week or so, we will go straight to house number two, which I’m pleased about—well, not just me—as it’s the one we all like the most so far, in spite of the rather rubbish description the little agent chappie has furnished us with. And all the photos are too dark or blurry to be of much use, so fingers crossed! In spite of this lack of information, it seems to have that certain something.
It’s quite exciting, having these potential new homes to inspect. I’m looking forward to walking round with the Hs and hearing what they’ve got to say. They certainly seem to have very firm opinions about how they want me to spend my money!
At home, our current home, Mr and Mrs H have been clearing out one of the smaller guestrooms for the arrival of their son. Next week! Eek! How did that come round so quickly?
Everything has been cleaned and the bed aired, the curtains washed and rehung, the linen is neatly folded in the airing cupboard and the eager parents are full of excitement. I keep finding them chatting together in hushed voices around the place. This means so much to them. I do hope he’s not a scumbag, for their sake, they are so happy and excited. They obviously love him heaps more than my parents ever loved me, or Clarice loved Thomas.
I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but at Christmastime, I persuaded Sid & Lill (yes, that is her name—I began to wonder if she even had a first name at all, then out of the blue, one day a couple of weeks ago, call me Lill, she says!) to move out of their cosy little attic hideaway where they’d secretly stashed themselves last year following their financial difficulties.
I’ve let them convert the guest suite into their own little spot. They’ve got their own little sitting room and a private bathroom, so it’s quite nice and cosy for them, and it’s nice for me too, knowing there is someone there within calling distance and not miles away up under the eaves with the tea-chests. When one no longer has a lovely husband to snuggle up with at night, one suddenly feels very—well, I don’t know, but vulnerable doesn’t even begin to cover it—na
ked is more like it. Like one of those little baby birds in a nest, unable to feed itself and unfeathered and liable to get chucked out of the nest to its doom at the slightest whim of a light breeze. So they are such a comfort to me. I’m not quite so all alone with them just a few yards down the hall.
Probably by now they could have moved out and back into their own place again, even if it was only a rental, but they haven’t suggested it, and I’ve been so thankful for their company, I’m happy for them to stay forever. They’re no trouble whatsoever and of course, they pamper me to within an inch of my life. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
I’ve asked the agent in Gloucester to put the sale of my present house in the hands of his counterpart in my area. I’m a little concerned now, because apparently, the property market is very depressed at the moment, but he assures me there is still plenty of money around and that it shouldn’t be too difficult to find a buyer for a superior property such as mine.
At least I don’t have to wait to sell that house before I can buy the new one. In fact, I suppose it’s pretty obvious that the reason I’m getting such a good personal service is due to the fat commission the house sale is likely to generate for the agent if I decide to buy. What is 1.5% of £3.8 million? I never was very good at sums at school, in spite of the private tutor who (God alone knows how!) managed partly to coach and partly to bully me through my exams. But however much commission that is, even I know it’s not to be sniffed at, and it’ll only be that low if I decide to plump for the cheapest one on the list; the one we really like is actually a fair bit more than that.
But whatever happens, I’m going to choose one of them. I mean, how bad could a house worth £4 million be? I’ve got to move, I’ve made up my mind. I can’t bear the thought of staying in my house a moment longer than I have to, two, three months at the most I can manage, I’m resigned to it taking that long. But longer, no, I can’t even begin to think about facing that length of time. I get this feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach at the mere thought of not being able to escape. It’s too big, too cold, I’m beginning to have dreams about it, I feel like I’m being chased, well not chased, just—vaguely menaced, pursued, I can’t explain it, it’s just as if someone is after me. I’m afraid to go outside, yet I’m scared to be indoors, and I feel like I have to keep away from the windows, I’m afraid to be seen. I just want to find somewhere safe and small and cosy so that I can hide away where no one will ever find me.
So even though Sid and Lill have advised me to ‘wait and see’ and ‘keep an open mind’ and keep telling me not pin my hopes on finding the right house immediately, privately I’ve decided that I’ll take the best one available out of the bunch we’re viewing this weekend. I can’t wait any longer, it’s got to be now. If I don’t move now, I’m beginning to fear I may not be able to move at all.
I only hope the Hopkins’s do keep their promise to come with me, I’d be lost without them, and…
Oh good, Sid says we have arrived.
Same day: 11.05pm
Amazing! We’ve seen the loveliest house. It was the second of the day, or technically would have been the third if the first one hadn’t been cancelled. That first one we saw, the one we were all so keen on, was absolutely ghastly, by the way. Really dark and weird. Definitely haunted!
I wanted to cancel the other viewing. We all loved the house that much. Of course, the agent was all doubts and caution. Was I really so sure I liked it that much, after all I might see something even better if I looked at others. I shouldn’t go rushing after only the second I’d seen. Like I was a kid in a sweet shop pointing and screaming.
But I was adamant. Mrs H agreed with me, she had fallen in love with the kitchen, with its perfect little breakfast nook, preparation island, and Belfast sinks (yes two!). And the almost silent extractor fan above the smooth, cool expanse of the double ceramic hob with superfast temperature control and plate warmer. There was a double wall oven and more cupboards than even she could fill, and a lovely aspect over the kitchen garden with bird table. No, nothing is going tear that room from her heart now that she has seen it. I believe even if I didn’t want the house, she’d try to talk me into it.
But I do want it.
Anyway, eventually we managed to talk Mr Lavish into cancelling our viewing appointment for tomorrow and he has arranged a further viewing at The Beeches instead.
There are six bedrooms, so it’s only a little place, but so cosy, so homely. And anyway, I don’t need anywhere bigger, I only have the occasional visitor.
The master bedroom is done out in a really lovely pale peach jacquard design paper, clean and fresh, elegant but also warm, with a really good carpet, brand new, only a few shades darker, then there’s a simply huge dressing room, leading to the ensuite bathroom. The whole suite looks out over the rear garden, so that’s lovely.
The other bedrooms are neat and clean, good light and plenty of storage space. Two of them have ensuites, and of course there’s a decent-sized family bathroom, which is admittedly a little tatty, if we’re honest, but renovating a bathroom is not the end of the world.
I think the Hs have selected their room already, a biggish one at the opposite end of the house to ‘mine’ and up its own little flight of stairs, almost in the attics, and the set-up is a little like the one they have now, with their own bathroom, and a little sitting room and stairs down to the back part of the house—very Upstairs Downstairs.
There are doors into the garden from the drawing room and the study, leading first onto the wide paved area of the terrace (not sure if they said they were leaving all those little pyramid-shaped box trees? Must check tomorrow, they were just perfect), and from there you go down a few steps into the garden itself, first to a wide lawn surrounded by borders and the fence separating the property from the neighbours on one side and from the kitchen garden on the other; and from there you go to a rather nicely kept shrubbery beyond which is a little summerhouse by a lily-pond (a bit like Monica’s but nicer), and then on again to another shrubbery, and then to a lovely shady spot, all cottage garden flowers and overgrown roses, a delightful little retreat. In all about 250 feet long and a good 150 feet wide, so again, quite a bit smaller than my current home, but then as I keep reminding myself, I am down-sizing. I don’t need so much room now I am alone.
The entrance hall is a little smaller than I would have liked, but it is a bright, regular square, with some storage and of course the downstairs cloakroom, and the stairs come down with a little bit of a sweep and some nice cornice-work, it’s all very pretty.
The sitting room, or ‘Family slash Drawing room’ as the agent kept calling it, putting imaginary quotes in the air every time he said it, is a large rectangle, and I can just see how I want to arrange everything: a nice seating area around the old-fashioned fire place—actually it’s not that old—it’s really a modern thing made to look old, the best sort, in my book. A nice surround and a mantelpiece and those lovely doors out to the garden at the far end.
I can’t really remember the dining room, apart from the fact that it was almost as big as the sitting room. Then there was the study, currently used as a home office, which I suppose is the same thing, smallish, but neat, clean and cosy, with more doors to the garden. Shame Thomas won’t be there to use it—I could just picture him wandering out those doors to potter around the garden, coffee cup in hand, mulling over some contract or deal or something and deep in thought, with that little frown line between his eyebrows as he concentrates. Such a shame he won’t ever see it, I think he’d approve.
And there was a small sitting room, very, very sweet, and then the games slash hobbies slash fitness room, which I probably wouldn’t use but my guests might like to.
Off the kitchen there is also the utility room and a small boot room with a nice big area for outdoor coats and shelves for all one’s stuff. Outside, a double garage with a workshop, Sid’s little empire, the usual shed and greenhouse, a nice little walled kitchen garden
area, it’s all a bit like a grand country house in miniature.
The house is off a quietish road just on the outskirts of Stow-on-the-Wold, in a tiny little village—or really, it’s a hamlet, it’s all terribly picturesque, like something off a chocolate box, and everyone seems very, very nice. There’s a pub and a shop and a sweet little church. I think I’m in love!
Finally! The agent has just got back to me to confirm tomorrow’s appointment has now been cancelled and a further appointment has been made to view The Beeches, after which, I’m almost certain, I will be ready to make my offer. If I don’t, Mrs H will probably give notice, and I’m not about to go back home on the train, let me tell you! I’m getting used to being driven everywhere.
I’m spending the evening in my room. I had dinner sent up, and have been sitting in bed all evening doing crosswords, watching a bit of television and writing in this journal.
Mr and Mrs H have gone out for dinner and to the pictures, they were so excited to be away, anyone would think they’ve never had any time off before! Before they went out, Mrs H insisted on ringing her friend at home who is cat-sitting for us, to check on Tetley. I’m only surprised her pal Maureen didn’t insist on putting the cat on the phone so Lill could talk to it.
We’ve arranged a late breakfast and then we’re going back to The Beeches for around 11.30.
