Renovation, Renovation, Renovation

by Nell Dixon

  Renovation,

  Renovation,

  Renovation

  Nell Dixon

  Copyright

  Myrmidon Books Ltd

  Rotterdam House

  116 Quayside

  Newcastle Upon Tyne

  NE1 3DY

  www.myrmidonbooks.com

  First ebook edition published by Myrmidon 2011.

  Copyright @ Nell Dixon 2011

  Nell Dixon has asserted her right

  under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  ISBN 9781905802678

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchasers.

  Dedication

  For my parents, who have always supported me on my writing journey and given me a love of books and history.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Jackie Green, Richard Billingsley, and the mediums who allowed me to accompany them for a séance and cleansing at a haunted cottage.

  Many thanks also to the many experts who helped me with research for this story. The staff at the Shakespeare House at Stratford Upon Avon who showed me some lovely architectural details. The Sealed Knot Society who showed me how people lived during the Civil War, let me see the weapons, examine the clothes, cooking pots etc and advised on details of domestic life.

  My thanks as always go to my wonderful critique partner, Kimberley Menozzi, who patiently deals with long and rambling emails without complaint.

  Also fellow authors Phillipa Ashley and Elizabeth Hanbury aka The Coffee Crew who are brilliant, supportive and downright fabulous.

  Much love and thanks also to Kate Nash and everyone at Myrmidon for taking a chance on Renovation, Renovation, Renovation and for all their expertise and support.

  Contents

  Lot 375

  Chapter One - Thirty Four

  Lot 375

  Myrtle Cottage, a grade II listed house in need of considerable renovation.

  Property comprises four bedroomed cottage with a wealth of character features, entrance hall, kitchen, two reception rooms, upstairs bathroom.

  Outside – an array of outbuildings, set in a two and a half acre plot including orchard and wooded area.

  Chapter One

  A small heap of rubble littered the ancient grey tiled floor in the no man's land area of the kitchen. The room was deserted. Only the dirt and a pile of unwashed mugs in the sink showed the enemy had been there. I knew he must still be inside the cottage as his van was parked outside, but for now it was safe to enter.

  Orange plaster dust crunched under my shiny office court shoes as I made my way to the fridge. A layer of grime coated the once pristine white appliance I’d chosen with such loving care twelve months and three houses ago. The interior however was thankfully dust-free with shelves clearly marked in blue and red tape.

  When Steve and I first separated and things had turned ugly I’d marked the shelves. The blue shelves - mine - were stacked with neatly labelled Tupperware. The red ones - Steve’s - were bare except for an opened packet of dried up ham and an out of date box of eggs.

  I suppressed a shudder as I picked up my carton of milk. Flipping up the top I gave the contents a cautious sniff. Everything seemed okay, not like last time when Steve had ‘borrowed’ my milk and left it on the counter in the sun all day before returning it to the fridge. That particular episode had left me in bed for two days with a raging stomach ache.

  I lifted the teatowel off the kettle and retrieved my mug and tea bags from the blue-labelled cupboard on my side of the kitchen. Friday night. Another working week was over at the bank. Ahead of me lay yet another weekend of never ending DIY on the house of horror. I stirred my tea and wished I had a bottle of wine left.

  With any luck Louise, my younger sister, might bring one with her when she arrived for our regular Friday girl’s night in.

  I took my tea over to the door and peered out into the back garden. The overgrown trees dripped rainwater onto the long grass and the skip at the far end gleamed a dull yellow amidst the brambles. I took a sip and stared at the neatly stacked piles of bricks from the salvage yard which were waiting for me to clean them off. It was impossible. We would never get this house ready for the market. I would be trapped in the wreckage of both Myrtle Cottage and my relationship with Steve forever.

  * * *

  1643

  Father is keen to see me settled. He grows uneasy over the political situation. I will have no shortage of suitors for he will make a handsome settlement upon me. Of course, there is always the house and lands too when, God forbid it, anything happens to him or to my mother.

  Already he has suggested several names to me. I know he is very keen on Thomas Crabbe who has a farm and properties in the next village. Several times he has tried to get me to take an interest. T’would be an advantageous match for both of us I suppose but since Michaelmas my heart has already been given to another. Not that my father will countenance a hair of it, for Joshua is but the third son of the miller, and has little monies or prospects.

  Even worse in my father’s eyes, he is known to have leanings towards supporting the rebel Parliamentarians, and my father is the King’s man. He has forbidden me to see Joshua. It breaks my heart to see those I love most at war with each other. I do not know how their differences can be resolved.

  I could be trapped here forever as I cannot give my heart to another despite my father’s ambition to see me matched with Thomas Crabbe. I have no doubt that my father has only my best interests at heart and that the match would bring many financial and material advantages. But how can I marry a man with so many pimples and a face that resembles my father’s horse?

  * * *

  The rumbling of water in the ancient pipes above my head let me know that Steve was upstairs and had reached the shower before me. No doubt there would be no hot water left when he finished. I waited for the feelings of irritation to pass. At the start of our relationship all those years ago it would have been a loveable quirk of his character. Then, when we’d split, it had been a source of arguments. Now we had settled into cautious armed neutrality. Except of course for today’s earlier spat over who had forgotten to call the skip company.

  A movement in the undergrowth outside caught my eye and the sight of my cat, Mr Flibble, making his way through the long grass towards the orchard at the side of the house bought a smile to my face. Mr Flibble was the one good thing that had come out of my seven-year relationship with Steve. Seven years, thirteen houses and all I had to show for it was a broken heart, a half-ruined house and a one-eyed cat I’d rescued from a dumpster.

  A theatrical cough from the direction of the kitchen door alerted me to Steve’s presence in the kitchen.

  I didn’t bother turning round. “Is there any hot water left?”

  “The tank’ll fill up if you give it half an hour.” Steve sauntered past me crossing the neutral zone to reach his red-labelled cupboard. His hair was still wet from the bath and he hadn’t bothered to dress before coming downstairs. Instead he had wrapped one of the dark blue bath towels that my mother had given us as a gift two Christmases ago around his w
aist.

  “You could get dressed before you come down here.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wished I could take them back. It was pointless saying anything like that to Steve. He’d do it all the more if he thought it would annoy me.

  Back in his boy band days I would have found seeing Steve half-naked sexy, and we would have made love amongst the dust and debris of the kitchen. Thousands of screaming teenage Danger Line fans would have killed to take my place. Now, having him roam around clad in only a towel was just one more of his annoying habits.

  “I didn’t know you were back, Kate.” He collected a mug from his cupboard and emptied the dregs of an almost empty coffee jar into it. He strolled past me. “Is the kettle still hot?”

  “Probably. What’s on the schedule for this weekend then?”

  The weekend would probably be spent the same way as all of our other so-called free time – painting, plastering and bricking. Still, the sooner the house was finished and sold the better. Maybe then I could move on, gain some perspective and think about what I wanted to do with my life when Steve was no longer any part of it.

  He poured the remains of the water from the kettle into his mug. “I thought I’d finish patching the plaster now the rewiring is done. I fetched the boards to do the ceiling in the little room upstairs so I’ll crack on with that too and I need to look at the leak in the bathroom ceiling. The planning bloke from the council will be coming again next week and you know what a pain in the arse he was the last time.” He swished the contents of his mug around to mix the coffee and water together. My jaw tightened. Why couldn’t he get a spoon and stir his coffee like a normal person?

  “I guess that means I’m cleaning, clearing and skip monkey again.” My heart sank. Another weekend of wearing overalls and trying to keep gritty, nasty, plaster dust out of my hair.

  “You said you wanted to get this place on the market as soon as possible, didn’t you?” Steve shrugged.

  A loud knock at the front door saved me from continuing a conversation which would have led inevitably to an argument about how fast the work should be progressing.

  I carried my mug of tea into the hall and put it down on the bottom of the stairs so I could wrestle the latch with both hands.

  “This bloody door is stuck again!”

  The door was old, possibly original and it wedged tight every time it rained.

  Steve had been promising to plane the edge ever since we’d moved in. My family usually used the back door when they visited, unless it was wet, like today, when picking their way through the weeds tended to be a slippery and soggy exercise.

  Whoever was on the other side gave the door a helpful shove, and sent me scooting backwards straight into Steve who’d come into the hall behind me. He caught me in his arms and steadied me. He held me securely but gently around the tops of my arms.

  “Kate?” My sister was on the doorstep clutching a bag containing what looked like a takeaway and a very welcome bottle of wine.

  I jerked myself back upright away from the familiar comforting hardness of Steve’s bare chest. My heart thumped against the wall of my chest and I had become a little breathless.

  Lou’s mouth was a round ‘o’ of surprise.

  I glared at her. “Damn door, I nearly broke my neck.”

  Lou raised an eyebrow and stepped into the hall. “Thought I’d better come in the front way to dodge the jungle you so fondly call your back garden. I bought us an Indian.” She gave a Steve a pointed look.

  “Catch you later, LouLou.” He flashed her a smile and slipped past us both, disappearing up the bare wooden stairs of the cottage.

  “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Lou asked as she made her way into the kitchen.

  I followed behind her clutching the mug I’d rescued from the stairs. “Puhlease, you know how it is between me and Steve. It’s over, done, finished. If we could get this bloody house completed and off our hands I would be so out of here.” I ignored the little voice at the back of my mind that tried to suggest that my statement wasn’t entirely truthful.

  Lou frowned. “Who’s rattled your cage tonight?” She pulled a couple of plates from my cupboards and set them down on the worktop.

  I rinsed my tea mug under the tap and placed it next to the white butler’s sink to drain. Overhead the floorboards creaked in the back bedroom as Steve moved around.

  “Nothing, I think I’m just tired. Tired of constantly working on this wretched house.”

  Lou patted my arm. “Find us some glasses and we’ll open the wine, that’ll cheer you up a bit.”

  I dug around in the cupboard while Lou prattled on about her day. She works at the local university as an admin clerk, processing admissions and chasing fees and things. I work in a bank on the opposite side of town.

  Steve always thought it was handy I work in banking. Cheaper mortgages and preferential rates on loans. Fat lot of good it had done us. We were still up to our eyes in debt with every penny we’d made invested in this dump of a cottage. The property crash and slow market meant our finances had nose-dived. Steve’s band royalties kept us in grocery money and paid the gas bill but that was about it.

  Lou wiped a thin layer of dust off the kitchen table while I brushed off the chairs so that we could sit down to eat.

  “Is he going out?” Lou rolled her eyes skywards and nodded towards the ceiling.

  “No idea, I’m not his keeper.”

  Nasreen who works in financial services had said she’d seen him in the pub down the road a few times, talking to the barmaid. Not that I was bothered if he was seeing some bleached blonde floozy with silicone bosoms and a lip ring. I’d never actually seen his new girlfriend but that was how I’d pictured her from Nasreen’s description. He could do what he liked as far as I was concerned. She was welcome to him and his overdraft.

  There was the heavy tread of feet descending the stairs followed by the thump of the front door closing.

  “Sounds as if he’s gone.” Lou took a seat and poured a generous splash of red wine into the glass tumbler in front of me.

  I spooned pilau rice onto my plate. “Probably down the pub.”

  Lou sighed. “I thought when the door opened that you and Steve might be patching things up. You know, him dressed in only a towel and you in his arms.” She avoided my gaze as she helped herself to poppadoms.

  Lou is a hopeless and incurable romantic. Even after everything I’ve gone through with Steve she still has a soft spot for him and constantly hints that we should get back together.

  “The door stuck, remember? And I toppled backwards. Nothing else. The only reason he was in a towel is because he’s an inconsiderate shit who thinks it’ll wind me up if he wanders around the place half-naked.” I concentrated on eating my chicken tikka and tried to forget the little shiver of awareness that had run up my spine when I’d unexpectedly collided with Steve.

  He was a lying toe rag who’d taken all of our money and poured it into this money pit of a house behind my back. I’d been thinking wedding bells, a permanent home and babies. He’d been thinking profit margins and a sports car. After seven years I hadn’t even got an engagement ring; the biggest present he’d ever given me was a pink power drill and my own trade card for the local builder’s yard.

  Lou didn’t look convinced. “I still think you two were great together, and this house will be gorgeous when it’s finished.” She waved her fork to indicate the potential fabulousness of the kitchen.

  Sometimes I wonder if Lou is as bonkers as Steve. Usually when we’ve renovated a house I’ve been able to see the potential even if I haven’t liked the property. This cottage was different. Right from the start there had been something about it that had weirded me out. It was too old. The agent hadn’t been exactly sure of the age but he’d suggested parts of it were Elizabethan.

  The kitchen where Lou and I were eating was one of the oldest parts. The floor was uneven, paved in worn grey stone flags. Two small leaded windows looke
d out onto the back garden next to a door that had obviously been added a few centuries later. The ceiling was low and divided by a huge oak beam blackened with age. At the far end of the room there was a massive open fireplace that now housed an ancient Aga. The relatively few units were gloss painted in 1960’s burnt orange. It was hard to detect any trace of fabulousness at the moment.

  “What’s going to happen to the business side of things with you and Steve when you finish here?” Lou asked.

  The business partnership was something that played on my mind a lot. From everything I’d ever heard or read lots of couples split up but managed to separate their private and business lives quite successfully. Some days I thought Steve and I could do that. We were good business partners - except when he bought properties without telling me. Then there were other days when he drove me crazy or it hurt too much to be around him and I simply wanted the whole thing to be over.

  “Who knows? It depends on how long it takes us to shift this dump with the market how it is.”

  “Have you heard from Mum lately?” Lou adroitly changed the subject.

  Our mum was in Las Vegas blowing her pension on the slot machines. She’d gone with Alice, a friend from her Monday afternoon art class. Her last brief email had sounded as if she was having a good time.

  “Nothing since Tuesday. You?”

  “No, not since she sent me that text that said she’d seen the Osmonds.

  Honestly, fancy still crushing on Donny after all this time.” Lou rolled her eyes and grinned.

  “Yeah, imagine. I said I’d pick her up from the airport on Wednesday when she gets back.” I’d have to remember to check her flight times. Hopefully she hadn’t added to the mountain of luggage she and Alice had taken with them. They’d already had to pay excess baggage charges on the way out.