Inside, it’s so dark that it’s hard to tell what condition the farmhouse is in. I find a light switch near the door, but nothing happens when I flip it. Great. So there’s no electricity either. I step inside and close the front door behind me, but it does nothing to alleviate the draught blowing through the place.
I stand still and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark, half-expecting something to jump out at me, but nothing breaks the silence. It’s quiet in a way things never are in London. In my flat, you can hear the neighbours shouting through the thin walls, the traffic, the general hustle and bustle of the street outside, and the ever-present sirens in the distance. Here, the only sound is the rustling of the breeze blowing through from the empty window frames and missing roof.
It’s a small house, even smaller inside than it looked from the outside. I’m standing on a threadbare doormat that’s still got the dried remnants of mud from someone else’s boots on it. There’s a wooden staircase in front of me, to the left is what looks like the kitchen, and to the right is a living room. I can see the outline of an upside-down sofa covered with dust sheets. I hold the banister of the staircase, my fingers leaving lines in layers of undisturbed dust as I walk up slowly, using my phone to light the way. Upstairs, circled around a narrow landing walkway, I find a storage room, a tiny bathroom, and a bedroom with a single bed on its side and the wardrobe knocked over with one door hanging off. Telltale stones lie among the broken glass reflecting from the floor, evidence of what happened to the empty window frames. No one’s even bothered to board over the upstairs ones.
Half the landing and the storage room have brown stains of water running down the walls, a freezing wind is howling around my neck, and there’s the constant flapping of tarpaulin sheets where someone’s tried to repair the roof and the repair has fallen in too.
In the bathroom, there’s still toilet roll unravelling from a rusty holder and when I try to flush the discoloured water in the loo, nothing happens. Great. No electricity and no water. The estate agent had plenty of warning that I was coming today, shouldn’t they have got everything turned back on? I glance in the cracked mirror on the wall. Maybe they didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to live in it. It’s not exactly inhabitable by any stretch of the imagination.
The stairs creak under my feet as I go back down them. There’s a curtain of cobwebs blocking the living room door, and I pick up an old umbrella that’s leaning against the wall by the door and use it to swipe them away. I scan my phone light across the room, aware that I won’t be able to charge it again until I can get the electricity turned back on. The room looks like it’s been ransacked. Apart from the upturned three-piece suite, there’s a sideboard on one wall with an old-fashioned TV perched on it that was probably modern once but not this side of the Seventies. There’s a bookshelf on its front on the Eighties-style damask patterned rug, surrounded by limp books that have fallen from it, and a table that’s listing dangerously to one side with half a leg missing. There’s an open hearth in the middle of the back wall, and two sets of windows, one at the front that looks out onto the driveway and another at the back that must look out to the garden behind the house. Both sets have got gaps in the wood boarding them up and look riddled with the holes of a woodworm infestation.
I turn away and trudge back through the hallway to the kitchen to see if that’s any better. The upper hinge of the door has rusted away, and it leans dangerously into my hand when I go to move it. Just as I’m trying to prop it back into the frame, there’s a knock on the front door behind me, which makes me jump out of my skin in the silence. Maybe it’s the estate agent come back to tell me he’s dreadfully sorry but he’s made a huge mistake and taken me to the wrong property after all?
I cross my fingers as I open the door.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say in surprise at the sight of the little old lady on my doorstep in the darkness. There’s a yellowed porch light above us, but it doesn’t look like it’d work even if the electricity was on.
‘Hello, flower. It’s Leah, isn’t it?’ She thrusts an age-spotted hand out, but I’m too surprised to take it, so she reaches over and grabs mine, pumping it enthusiastically. ‘I’m Glenna Roscoe. You met my son and his dog earlier.’
‘Oh!’ I say in realisation. No wonder the news travelled fast. Let’s hope she’s a bit nicer than her offspring. ‘Yes, he came to rescue me when I screamed at an unexpected squirrel. He’s so adorable, he spun in circles and let me give him a cuddle.’
‘Noel does that sometimes, you’ll have to excuse him.’
It takes my brain an embarrassing amount of time to realise she’s joking, so I laugh hysterically to overcompensate and by the time I’ve finished, she’s looking at me like I’ve got at least one screw in need of tightening.
‘It’s an easy mistake to make, they’ve both got barks that are worse than their bites.’
In Gizmo’s case, I believe her. In Noel’s case, not so much. Noel and biting makes my mind wander to that … For god’s sake, I’ve got to stop thinking about that sodding lip piercing. It might’ve been hot, but the hotness is regulated by the twattishness.
In the hand that’s not still shaking mine, she’s holding a plate with a slice of pie on it, and I don’t realise how much I wish it might be for me until she clears her throat and I realise I’m staring at it and probably drooling.
She extracts her hand and holds the plate wrapped in cellophane out to me. ‘A slice of pumpkin pie freshly baked this afternoon. It’s not much of a housewarming, but I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have baked something for the occasion. Welcome to Elffield, Leah.’
The kindness of the gesture and the gentleness of her voice makes my eyes fill up involuntarily. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur as I take it from her.
The underneath of the plate is warm and I breathe a sigh of relief as my fingers touch it and heat spreads through them. I didn’t realise how numb they’ve gone and how cold I am until this moment. There are airholes in the cellophane and cinnamon-spiced steam is rising through them, making my mouth water because I hadn’t realised how hungry I was either. As if on cue, my stomach lets out the loudest growl of hunger I’ve ever heard, and Glenna giggles. ‘Noel said you weren’t local. You must’ve had a long day of travelling?’
‘London,’ I mumble, my cheeks burning with redness. First I nearly cry in front of her, and now my stomach is auditioning for the role of Pavarotti. And I bet her charming son told her exactly how much of an idiot I am, so I must’ve made a stonking first impression on my nearest neighbour so far. ‘And I didn’t bring any food with me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this. A pumpkin pie from a pumpkin farmer – thank you.’
‘Noel’s the farmer, flower. I make use of the produce to save it going to waste. We have a lot of pumpkins.’
‘Do you want to come in?’ I look behind me into the dusty, dark hallway, but the look of distaste on my face is mirrored on hers. ‘I mean, you’re welcome to but I wouldn’t recommend it …’
‘Let me guess – no water, no electricity, and quite a lot of spiders?’ She leans forward and peers in the door. ‘You’re not really staying here on your own, are you?’
‘Well, I have nowhere else …’ I start, before swallowing hard as I realise I really am alone up here. Tears threaten again so I paste on a smile. ‘The sooner I get started on cleaning up, the better.’
Which is true, but my smile is so false that it actually hurts my cheeks to hold my face in that position.
‘What a lovely positive attitude. You must be very brave.’
Am I? I don’t feel brave. I feel cold and lonely and like the idiot her son thinks I am.
‘Aren’t you freezing?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say breezily, despite the fact I’m hugging the pumpkin pie to my chest in an attempt to absorb any residual warmth from