‘It’s one of those lovely wide new roads near the common.’
‘I eventually find her. Or at least I think it’s her.’
For the very first time, I’m looking into the eyes of a Hayward.
‘He peers again at the picture. “Margaret Thatcher?”’
‘a grocer’s daughter called Mary Goodall Strange’
‘when she died she was cremated in it.’
‘George’s views must have led to a few arguments around the lunch table’
‘It might have been the last match ever played at this piece of ground.’
CONTENTS
Chapter One CALLING OUT THEIR NAMES The Myersons since 1988
Chapter Two THE BOY IN THE TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR ROOM ThePidgeons 1981–1987
Chapter Four THE FORERUNNER, THE DREAMER, AND THE ONE NOBODY REMEMBERS The Jamaicans 1959–1975
Chapter Six WHY WON’T HE WRITE? The Povahs and the Askews 1944–1948
Chapter Eight ELECTRIC LIGHT AND A SEWING MACHINE The Haywards 1881–1893
Chapter Nine RIDING HORSES IN BEDThe Maslins 1873–1880
Chapter Ten GRASS AND SILENCE Before 1871
Appendix Chronological List of Residents
Chapter One CALLING OUT THEIR NAMES
The Myersons Since 1988
Last autumn I came home from the local archives library where I’d been trying to research a novel set in the nineteenth century.
‘You’ll never believe what I found out today,’ I told my daughter Chloë, ‘about this house and the people who lived here before us. I found out that in 1881 there was a writer and journalist living here called Henry Hayward –’
Chloë stopped on her way up the stairs and paused, hand on banister – a banister sticky with the marks of three children who don’t often wash their hands.
‘A writer? Just like you, you mean? Was he famous?’
‘I don’t know but listen, this is the good bit – he had a wife called Charlotte and three kids who were just exactly the same ages as you three are now.’
Chloë’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, cool! What were the kids’ names?’
I told her: Frank, Arthur, and Florence.
‘And Florence was my age?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Hmm … good names.’
Chloë swung round and sat on the stairs.
‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘how long since anyone shouted those names out in this house.’
‘You mean the way we shout for you to come downstairs?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, except we never do.’
I laughed.
‘A long time,’ I said. ‘Years and years. A hundred years at least, I suppose. It’s a funny idea, isn’t it?’
I watched her think about this. It was dusk on a chilly October evening. We carried on upstairs and stopped together on the landing. I had a pile of ironing in my arms. Chloë had blue ink