The crazy paving was broken and cracked, leaving the surface uneven. The grass was growing long and wild, and the flowerbeds were a riot of weeds, with the odd snapdragon and forget me not poking out. The scent of the wisteria over the front door was strong, but the plant itself had, triffid-like, taken over the whole of the front of the house and needed cutting back. Claire had blinked in the May sunlight. The sun played upon her face, and she raised her hand to shield herself from its glare. Her fair hair was tied in a high ponytail, and her face was alive and laughing.
‘Um, it’s a bit overgrown,’ she said. ‘And who in their right mind would plant a privet hedge so close to the house? It must be hideously dark inside.’
‘I don’t suppose it was like that originally,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s done anything here forever. I’m sure we can trim that back so it’s not so overgrown. Come on, let’s go in.’
He opened the front door with some trepidation. Uncle Jack was a cantankerous old soul, and from his childhood memories the place had never been clean. Claire was used to the spick and span modernity of their flat in town; would she be able to cope with the amount of work needed here? Even Joel, who loved the idea of restoring an old house like this, felt a little daunted.
They had walked into a house trapped in time. There was dust everywhere, mote beams danced in the green, red and blue shadows cast by sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window of the front door, but the overall impression was of gloomy darkness. The stairway in the hall, though impressive, was made of dark mahogany, and matched the wood panelling up the walls. The parquet floor was partially covered in a faded red and white rug, which had seen better days, and pictures of various aged relatives stared vacantly out of ancient photographs.
‘Who’s this?’ Claire chanced upon a family photo of a stiff-looking Edwardian family: the parents sitting down, the mother with her hair in a bun, looking terribly severe, the father sitting rigid and squinting into the sun, the children solemn and serious, two girls and a boy dressed in their Sunday best. They didn’t look a happy bunch.
‘I think it’s my great great grandfather Edward Handford, who designed the gardens here,’ said Joel. He looked around him, trying to picture what the place could look like without the dust, and the oppressive darkness. The rooms had high ceilings, and there was masses of space. This could be turned into an amazing house, but he could sense Claire’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘I know it’s dark and old fashioned, Claire, but I’m sure if we took away the panelling and opened up the stairway the place would seem lighter. See that window halfway up the hall? If we made that bigger, it would bring in more light. Come on, let’s look upstairs.’
Claire followed him upstairs, pursing her lips as they went through room after room that looked tatty and worn, as if nothing had been touched here for centuries.
‘I feel like I’m in Miss Havisham’s house,’ said Claire, as they walked out of one particularly cobwebby room. ‘How on earth do you think your uncle managed living here?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Joel. ‘Look, I know it’s a lot of work, but can you really resist those views?’
He pointed to the back window. The back garden, as overgrown as the front, stretched down a hill before them, and gave way at the bottom to views of the South Downs. Joel drew the curtains back, and threw open the casement window. Light came pouring in. Suddenly the dark, poky little bedroom they were in was transformed into something much brighter. The sprig-like wallpaper, now faded, had been pretty once. It was possible to see that the room could be bright and pretty again.
‘This could make a lovely nursery,’ Joel cajoled Claire. ‘I know it doesn’t look much now, but really there’s bags of potential. And where else are we going to get so much space for the money?’
Although they were planning to take out a mortgage to buy the house from Joel’s mum, she had generously given them a good price, one they couldn’t really afford to turn down.
‘I suppose,’ said Claire reluctantly.
He looked out of the window and out towards the bottom of the garden. There was a faint sound of sheep in the background, and the birds were singing.
‘You don’t get sounds like that in London,’ he said.
‘True …’ said Claire, still uncertain.
‘You don’t like it?’ Joel had been so certain she would be brought round, once she’d seen the potential of the house. He’d only visited here a few times in his life, but there was something about the mystery and romance of this place that had intrigued him. He couldn’t wait to get going on the restoration.
‘It’s not that exactly,’ said Claire, rubbing her stomach, ‘it’s just such a big move. With Junior on the way, and all the work here, I don’t know how we’ll manage.’
Joel took her hands in his. ‘It will be fine, I promise,’ he said. ‘I am going to make this house perfect for the three of us, and for however many of Junior’s brothers and sisters who come along. It’s going to be fabulous, you’ll see.’
And that’s what he’d done. The first six months they’d been in the house, they’d put in central heating and Joel had worked as hard as he could to strip out the dark wood, bring in more windows, and open the old house to the light. He’d wanted to bring love and laughter back into the house. And now Claire was gone, and the work that had gone into their home seemed wasted and fruitless. He wondered if Edward had felt the same in the end about the garden. Why else had he let it go to rack and ruin? It all seemed such a waste.
Chapter Eighteen
Lauren couldn’t stop thinking about Troy, as she pushed Sam down the hill to the park. It was one of those sharp, cold days you get in early March, but at least the sun was out, so she thought they both needed some fresh air. Over and over she repeated back their last conversation. Troy seemed to be hell bent on showing her he’d turned over a new leaf – he’d even started to pay her a bit of maintenance – and she felt that maybe, just maybe, he actually was.
Her mum was not as convinced, though, and every time Troy’s name came up in conversation, she did her level best to make Lauren ‘see sense’ as she put it. ‘That lad is never going to do right by you,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t got it in him. Don’t let him pull you down.’
Part of Lauren agreed with her mum. It was still early days, and while Troy seemed to be getting on with the kids, and enjoying their company, who was to say when the novelty would wear off? Lauren knew she should keep her wits about her, and remain wary, and yet, and yet …
As she turned into the playground she gasped in horror, all thoughts of Troy driven from her mind. Someone had clearly been having a party. The remains of an impromptu barbecue smouldered in a corner, and bottles, some of them broken, were scattered all over the ground. And yet again, someone had sprayed graffiti over the swings.
‘Oh, this is the pits!’ Lauren said to no one in particular.
‘Isn’t it?’ Another mum Lauren vaguely recognized, came up behind her. ‘We should get on to the council.’
‘What are they going to do?’ said Lauren. ‘I’ve tried that before. All that happens is someone comes down here, paints over the graffiti, and then goes away again. Nobody actually does anything.’
‘Well, what can we do?’ said the mum, introducing herself as Rose Carmichael. ‘The police never come down here. Nothing will ever change.’
‘That’s a bit defeatist, don’t you think?’ said Lauren. ‘I’m not sure it’s as bad as all that. If we all did something, maybe we could change things.’