by Anna Kent
We’d stared at each other for a moment, then she’d said, simply, ‘Hi, I’m Grace. Can I come in?’ and the force field had really failed me there because I’d stepped back and let her walk right into my life.
And, to be fair, they’d been happy days, just the two of us hanging out. Sure, to begin with, I’d had to back away when her boyfriend, Alex, came up to visit, but I was her North Star – ‘the fridge to her magnet’, as she used to say – the one thing she’d always come back to with a knock on the door and a smile. She’d slink into my room in her lounge pants and her glasses with neither apology nor explanation, and there we’d be again, just the two of us.
Grace and Abs. Abs and Grace.
It soon became apparent that Grace was popular. And why wouldn’t she be? A keen and brilliant medical student, she had everything going for her – brains, beauty, emotional intelligence by the bucketload. Her dimpled smile won everyone over, from professors and students to grannies on the bus. She was the type of girl who’d dance or sing with buskers in the stuffy tunnels of the Underground before blowing a kiss and giving them her last fiver; she was on first-name terms with all the Big Issue sellers we ever passed; and she shouted ‘thank you’ to bus drivers. She gave off an aura of loveliness in which everyone wanted to bask – yet she chose to attach herself to me.
‘Go out with your friends,’ I’d tell her. ‘I’m fine on my own’ – and that was the stupid thing in all this: I really was. I was happy to be alone, to lie in my filth and revel in my misery, but she’d roll her eyes and punch my arm, and joke that I was stuck with her now. If Alex wasn’t coming up to stay, she’d bound into my room on weekend mornings, tearing open my curtains and say, ‘Come on! Get up! Let’s go on an adventure!’ She’d suggest ice-skating, tap-dancing, going out to dance Zumba, or taking the train down to the Kentish coast to eat ice cream with Flakes down by the sea.
She told me everything – all the details of her life, even her love life, assuming, incorrectly, that I, too, was no virgin, and I’d look at the floor and flush as she told me about this position and that position and how she liked it best. The intimacy was unnerving. Overwhelming. All-consuming. Flattering. We were chalk and cheese but, somehow, it worked.
For a while.
The coffee machine beeped, startling me from my thoughts and I stared at the email, still not believing that Grace had written to me; not believing that she was coming back. It had been four years since she’d left, just before my gallery show – just before I’d met Rohan. By then I’d lived with her for five years, through university and beyond, until she’d disappeared – pouf! – like a pantomime genie, off to Australia with her latest boyfriend.
I should invite her to stay with us, of course. That’s what she wanted – that’s what was expected, but then… I stared into space as I weighed up the dilemma. I was older now. Stronger. Married. Living in a lovely home. Although she was as familiar to me as a favourite old shoe, there was no space for Grace in my life. I picked up my phone and clicked ‘reply’.
Dear Grace, I wrote, thumbing the words before I lost my resolve.
Lovely to hear from you! Sounds like you had a wonderful time in Australia, and how exciting to be moving back to London. Yes, I live in North London now, with my husband. I’m very busy with work but I’d be very happy to help you find somewhere to stay – if you give me an idea of budget and the sort of area you want to be in, maybe I could see what’s available. When are you planning to arrive? Cheers, Abi
Upstairs, a door slammed, and the noise ripped through the house like a gunshot. I jumped in my seat and Alfie, our cat, shot into the room, his claws skittering on the hard floor.
‘You got a shock, too?’ I said and he prowled, his tail fluffed up like a squirrel’s. Outside, the trees rustled, the first wind we’d had in days – weeks, it seemed. ‘It was just the wind,’ I said. ‘Nothing to be scared of, you wuss.’
I turned back to my phone and read the email again to myself, as pleased with myself as an alcoholic pushing away a drink, then I put the message into the ‘drafts’ folder – it was time to visit Mrs Keyson. Her husband was one of my patients at the hospice: a sparky, ex-fighter pilot, he was one of my favourites, but he didn’t have long left, and he missed his dog, Bruce. It was way beyond my remit as a volunteer, but I was going to paint a portrait for him to keep by his bedside.
Three
It was midday by the time I’d finished photographing the dog at Mrs Keyson’s and got off the bus at the High Street. I was sweating, my T-shirt damp against my back; the music in my AirPods drowning out the sound of whatever birds might have been singing. Summer was never easy for me; things that other people loved – the scent of a flower, or the slant of light at sunset – had the potential to tip me into a full-blown panic attack. I knew that now. I dealt with it.
At the bus stop, a woman fiddled with a tube of sunscreen and a dotty pink parasol that protruded from the handlebars of her pushchair. The buggy was close to the kerb, its wheels facing the road, and I looked away, uncomfortable. You saw these random accidents all the time on the news. ‘It happened in the blink of an eye’ or ‘I only turned away for a second’. Children run over in their own driveways; toddlers slipping under the water of holiday swimming pools; kids running out into the street to catch a ball. But the woman spoke, forcing me to turn around and pull out an AirPod as I pressed ‘pause’ on my iPod. She was slim with long dark hair, not much more than twenty, her face bare of make-up.
‘D’you think it’ll rain?’ She nodded up to the sky as if scanning for invisible clouds and, for a moment, I froze. Talking to strangers wasn’t something I generally did. I looked up at the sky, too, my mind working to frame a reply.
‘Feels like it might,’ the woman said, and I knew what she meant – the morning’s wind had dropped to nothing, and there was a ripeness in the air; a feeling that something might pop and that that pop would bring the relief the very fabric of the city was waiting for.
‘How long can this go on for?’ she continued, unbothered by the fact I hadn’t replied, and then her bus hove into view, announcing its arrival with a long, drawn-out squeal of brakes, and I turned away.
The pavement was unusually deserted, the thrumming heat that bounced off the shop fronts and up from the tarmac of the road presumably having driven people to stay home during the hottest part of the day. Even the birds had fallen quiet. The heatwave had gone on so long people were adopting the siestas and late al fresco dinners of their European cousins, sleeping during the day and eating light suppers in gardens and on terraces as the sun’s warmth teased out the evening scent of the vegetation.
Only the occasional car passed me now, one or two throwing out the startling thwump of a Euro-beat from open windows; the others hermetically sealed, locking in the air-conditioning as they swished silently past on tyres pliant with heat. I skirted the edges of the buildings, seeking what little shade there was until I found myself outside the window of one of London’s best-known estate agent’s. I stopped abruptly, as if that had always been my plan, and searched the ‘for rent’ ads, just wondering what sort of thing Grace might be able to afford, should she decide to live in my neck of the woods. It was all so expensive. There was a movement inside the shop; I looked past the ads and caught the eye of a woman at a desk. She smiled and tilted her head and, before I knew it, I was pushing through the door into the cool interior.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’ the woman asked, rising and holding out her hand. ‘I’m Katie.’
She was wearing a sleeveless cream-coloured dress that had creased across her hips. Her tan spoke of summer weekends spent lounging in the garden. Her hair was blonde, her lipstick a bright pink. I shook her hand and her tricep wobbled.
‘I was just trying to get an idea of ballpark prices for a friend.’
‘To rent or to buy?’
‘To rent. Just something small. For her. One bedroom. But she’s not here yet. I was just looking.’
‘Do you know what her budget is?’
‘No. I just wanted to get a sense,’ I said, but Katie was already rummaging in her filing cabinet. She pulled out some papers. ‘These are all the one-beds we have for rent at the moment. Hmm. Whereabouts are you looking?’
‘As close to here – and the station – as possible, I suppose. She’d like to be reasonably close to me. I’m in Albert Road.’
‘Oh?’ A barely noticeable nod told me she was impressed. ‘Nice… Which house is it, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Semi on the corner. Fifty-nine.’
Katie’s chin lifted and fell in another nod. ‘Oh yes. I remember that one.’
‘One person’s misfortune is another’s good luck, right?’ I said brightly and Katie exhaled through her nose.
‘Sad story, though, wasn’t it?’ She tapped her nails on the desk.
I nodded. ‘And they just upped and left the house as it was. As you would, I guess.’ I shrugged. ‘It was untouched for nine years and then… well.’ I shrugged again. ‘Anyway, it was a blank canvas for us. We’ve done lots.’
‘Good,’ Katie said. ‘Well, if you’re ever ready to sell…’ she gave a little laugh and a wink, ‘I expect you’d get a very good return on that one.’ She sorted her brochures and pushed one across the table. ‘Right. For your friend, we currently have this. It’s very nice. Spacious. Recently redecorated. Walkable.’
I looked at the price and recoiled. ‘Is that what a one-bed costs these days?’
Katie pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Yep. It’s commuter-belt. Good schools, too. We also have a few studios that would come in a bit cheaper. Do you think your friend would consider that?’
I waggled my head this way and that, already regretting coming in, and Katie slid over another brochure. The photographer had tried their best but even I could tell they must have had their back pinned to the wall to make the room look anything other than tiny. Despite containing a bathroom and a ‘kitchenette’, it wasn’t much bigger than our rooms in Halls had been – all very well when you were eighteen and starting out, perhaps not so now.
Still, Grace did have a knack with interiors. She’d taken one look at the way I’d done my room in Halls and waved her magic wand over it. Shifting the bed up against the window and moving the desk to the side, she’d created a much more inviting area with more floor space. A potted plant here, a throw and a couple of cushions there, and she actually made the room look homely and welcoming. But I couldn’t see what she could do to improve this place.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, pushing the details back to Katie. ‘Honestly, I don’t really know what she’s looking for so maybe it’s best I leave it to her. But thanks anyway.’
‘No problem,’ Katie said, handing me her card. ‘Get her to drop by or give me a call when she’s here and I’ll see what we can find for her.’
I practically ran out of the shop, shielding my eyes against the sudden blast of light. I owed Grace – we both knew that. It was why she’d written to me in the first place. I’d still do anything for her – as I always had. It’s what was expected.
In my gut, I had that feeling I was cresting the top of a rollercoaster, my stomach clenched and my muscles tensed; my mouth open ready to scream as I plunged headfirst into the abyss. Walking quickly, I turned into Albert Road, glad to leave the High Street, Katie and the estate agent’s behind.
Four
Albert Road marked the beginning of the older, more established, part of town, and the trees that towered above my head threw shade across the entire street, bringing the temperature down a notch. The roads on this side of the railway meandered in curves that were laid over a hundred years ago, Albert Road the backbone from which the other, narrower streets sprung like the broken ribs of an ancient skeleton. It was the most desirable part of this expensive satellite of London – a part that Rohan and I would never usually have been able to afford. But fifty-nine had been underpriced, largely – though not entirely – because it was what the estate agent had called ‘a project’.
Rohan had been surprised I’d even looked outside our usual search area.
‘Great location – but, bloody hell!’ he’d said as we’d stood outside on the pavement, taking in the dilapidated three-storey house that sat eternally linked with its smarter twin where the street made a sharp turn left. The matching attic windows of the two houses gave the appearance of eyes that watched the comings and goings of the street ahead of them.
The front of the house was choked with ivy that stretched its tendrils towards and around the third-floor window and the front garden was overgrown, giving us only a hint of red brick and a glance of peeling paintwork around the edge of the front windows. Cast-iron railings ran around the edge of the plot, looking more as if their aim was to restrain the house and its residents than to keep out any undesirables; and a path of cracked terracotta tiles led to the porch. Decrepit was the word that came to mind. Decayed.
‘It’s a vacant property,’ the estate agent said vaguely as he ushered us down the path, keys rattling in his hand. ‘It’s still furnished, and comes “as is”, but you might not want…’ he’d cleared his throat behind his hand. ‘Well, see for yourselves.’
Inside, the theme of decay continued, the semi a far cry from the neo-Georgian new-builds that my husband coveted, with their gleaming new kitchens, plantation shutters and easy-breezy, open-plan layouts. Untouched since the owners’ sudden departure, the interior spoke almost of a different age, its air loaded with the stale exhalations of people long gone. We’d explored its musty depths as the agent had spoken of ‘original features’, ‘exciting potential’ and a ‘rare opportunity’.
‘I know you’re up for doing some work, but it’s too much,’ Rohan said as we contemplated the master bedroom. Busy floral wallpaper coated the walls from floor to ceiling and even suffocated the back of the door, closing up the room and constricting my lungs with the feeling that I might never find my way out. The agent had tugged at the heavy damask curtains, releasing a scattering of dead flies and a cloud of dust that made us all cough, and pointed out the original marble fireplace, the high ceilings, the sash windows and the stained-glass inlays that cast colours across the thinning green carpet. The double mattress, stripped of its linen, sagged.
Outside, the back garden was more overgrown than shady. It was dominated by a huge oak tree, the branches of which reached toward the house like greedy arms. At the back fence, I could just about make out the faded pink paintwork of a children’s Wendy House, its roof now camouflaged with mildew. Its edges were indistinct, as if it were dissolving back into ancient oak and becoming a part of the garden’s wilderness. With my forehead pressed to the window, I cut back the plants in my mind’s eye. I trimmed the grass and sat on the wooden bench by the roses – in my head, I pictured a little girl in red shoes and a flowery dress make her way across the lawn to whisper secrets to her dollies at a Wendy House tea party.
‘It smells like someone died in here,’ Rohan said, looking dubiously at the bed’s stained mattress.
I turned to face the room with a sigh then wandered back onto a landing fringed with ornate wooden railings and across into the big family bathroom. It was rife with peeling, yellowed wallpaper and featured a stand-alone bath so filthy I had to trail a finger through the dirt to see it was made of porcelain.
The second bedroom was smaller and darker, much of the light stolen by the oak tree. It was cool and I shivered as I entered. The room still contained the single bed and dresser of a girl – presumably the one for whom the Wendy House was built. It had a grey carpet, and lilac-and-white wallpaper that swirled and twirled, its pattern marked with the greasy smudges of old Blu Tack. The room had its own fireplace, functional rather than fancy, the ashes of a solid object still lodged in the grate. I bent down to look closer: a book of some sort; a diary maybe, perhaps 90 per cent destroyed by fire, but the swirl of handwriting was still visible on the fragment of a line
d page that faced me. I reached out to touch the paper and it disintegrated. I jumped back up, goosebumps prickling my flesh.
Rohan was right: there was a smell about the place, but I could see through the detritus of the years to the families who’d lived there before; to the child who’d worked, played, lived and breathed in this very room. I stood back on the threshold and surveyed the room, imagining her again: I pictured her waking up in the morning, opening the curtains, looking out at the street; picking out clothes for the day; getting dressed and ready for school. I’d told the estate agent to keep the story to himself – there was no way that Rohan would buy the house if he knew about it. He and his mother were as bad as each other with their ridiculous superstitions. I inhaled deeply. Was it my imagination or could I pick up a shadow of the girl’s scent; something sweet and flowery?
‘Aww,’ said Rohan when he joined me there. He slid his arms around me and nuzzled my neck. ‘Are you getting all teary-eyed on me? I agree it’s the perfect size for a baby.’ He stepped past me, opened the wardrobe door and closed it again with a frown. ‘But I really don’t like older houses. I swear, they give me the creeps.’
‘But just look at the proportions,’ I said. ‘A project would be good. It’ll keep me busy. Maybe it’ll unlock my creativity! And look at the area. We can renovate it bit by bit, starting with the kitchen and bathrooms.’ I paused. ‘If we bought this place, we’d have the budget to do that.’
Rohan sighed. ‘I really don’t know. It’s a lot of work.’
‘It’ll be worth a lot more when it’s modernized,’ the estate agent said helpfully from the landing. ‘If you can do the work, it’s a great investment.’
It was only then that I saw the small wooden door, about threequarters the height of a normal door, on the landing.
‘Where does this go?’ I asked but already my hand was on the heavy latch, the tickle of a cobweb trailing on my skin as I lifted it and pulled open the door, releasing air stagnant with heat. I craned my neck up to see a narrow, spiral staircase. Using my hands to steady myself as I climbed, I stopped in my tracks at the entrance to a third-floor attic bedroom, and I knew at once that there was something special about this space. High in the eaves with its sleepy eye looking down on the street, it was quiet and still, with an energy that was different to the rest of the house. It had clearly been used by the girl who’d lived there, perhaps as a playroom and maybe later as a study, because stencilled flowers danced around the walls and a desk and bookshelves were pushed up against the wall. In the corner were a few dusty cardboard boxes and a couple of old suitcases. Energy thrummed through me.
