It was a little past midnight when they pulled in to a dark garden. Francis was a little disappointed - being in the country at night was so dark you couldn't see a few steps in front, not to mention anything about getting a good look of the house. All he could see was the withered wooden front door, light from a lantern hanging next beside shining on it. The windows stood tinted black, except for a few on the first floor. They stepped out of the car and while Francis took the bags from the trunk, Arthur let Bosey out. To the creaking and banging of the car's doors a few shepherd dogs ran out from a barn behind the house, wagging their tails that a person they knew had returned. They couldn't care less about Bosey and the feeling was mutual; on the other hand, Arthur and especially Francis were very interesting. While they were petting the dogs, a short red-haired old woman reminding Francis of Molly Weasley from the Potter series came to the door. With a stern voice she commanded the dogs to go back where they came from and went back inside, waving her hand and signaling the two men to step inside.
Once inside, the first thought that came across Francis' mind was the Bag-End, Bilbo and Frodo Baggins' home. The house was quite similar to it and the Frenchman thought that maybe it's just how British cottages and country-houses were. The open rooms were dimly lit, and the fireplace cast golden and orange shadows on the earthly-colored interior. Handmade carpets covered the stone floors, scraped wooden furniture looking ancient, yet neat with all different books and trinkets covering them and the shelves. Pictures, paintings and photographs hanging from the walls where heavy windows weren't covering them. Armchairs didn't belong to any set and the small rounded tables near them bore signs from many years of usage. Everything felt homely and warm, a smell of freshly baked pumpkin pie mixed with homemade tobacco hanging through the air.
"It might not be much or fancy, but it's home," Arthur sighed happily, looking at Francis awe at the house. "It's really nice," he answered and noticed the Brit smile in content, which made him happy in turn. He laughed quietly when he saw Bosey strut to the fireplace and lay down on the carpet in front of it. "He clearly knows where the best spots are," he wanted to say but was cut off by the same red-haired who came from a doorway on the left. "Oh, Artie!" she sighed and fondly took hold of her son. "Hello, mum," Arthur answered and closed his eyes in the warmth of her mother. Francis couldn't help but to smile at the loving sight. A few moments later the woman let go of Arthur and turned to the Frenchman. "And you must be Francis!" she said quirkily, her voice was strict and rigid, yet gentle. "Yes, that I am. Francis Bonnefoy; it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said, giving her his hand. "My name is Margaret Kirkland." The woman took it, but instead of shaking it she pulled Francis to her embrace, hugging him so hard he thought his bones were about to break. Arthur laughed in amusement - he was as surprised over his mother's behavior as Francis was. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you so much, Francis!" she whispered while swinging back and forth, still having a firm grip around the man. "For what?" he was confused when she had finally let go. Margaret just winked at him and went away, leaving the two look at each ohter, puzzled. "Well, are you two coming or not?" came a commanding voice from the other room and hurriedly the two friends followed it.
They arrived in the kitchen where Margaret told them to sit behind the table. "You boys must be hungry from that long ride. And tired too. I warmed some soup for you and while you eat, I'll go make the beds," she said, tussling around the big kitchen. The table they sat at was a heavy and huge piece of oaken woodwork, scrapes and scratches covering it, for many meals and works had been done sitting by it. In the middle of the table lay a crocheted veil and on it a royal blue vase, in it many different forest flowers, smelling pleasant and calming. The kitchen itself was orange and dim from the few lights in the room, but when morning came and daylight shone, the big glazed windows in the corner would light up the whole room during the time the Sun made its way from east to west until sundown, when it went behind the other corner of the house. A big black iron stove covered almost half of one of the walls, numerous teapots, pans and pots hanging above it. Shelves filled with ceramic plates, mugs, jugs, bowls and other tableware hung across the wall where the door leading to a big pantry was. Warm and lowly built, the room was sure to be a sauna when preparing a bigger feast than usual. Francis stared in awe at the old-fashioned brown kitchen; the herbs growing in wooden boxes by the window, the barrels in the corners of the room filled with all sorts of farm products and ale, a massive fridge, dirtied from the coal coming from the fireplace across the room - everything seemed so homely and lovely. He could only guess what was behind the doors of the cupboards and where every single different chair by the table had come from.
All this time Arthur had been quietly looking at Francis study the room, feeling happy that his friend was impressed by his childhood home. He was currently thinking what would be the first thing he should see in daylight when his mother gently put two bowls of steaming and aromatic onion soup in front of them. She also had made some ham sandwiches with homemade bread and put them on a plate next to the bowls. "Now you enjoy your supper while I go see which rooms are all set to put ready. I'm thinking Francis can sleep in Robert's room, since he isn't coming," Margaret said, wished them a great meal and went upstairs, the wooden stairs creaking under her marching heavy steps. "This is all too nice," Francis said after having finished what he thought to be the most delicious onion soup in the world. "How come?" Arthur asked, a wry smile on his face, cheeks tinted pink from the sudden outburst by his friend. "It just is. Good food, nice people, great house - seems like I've walked into a dream of some sort. It's all so different, in a good way of course," the Frenchman explained while they were washing their bowls. The first rule in the house of Kirklands was to always clean up after oneself, but this rule was usually ignored by the sons of Margaret and her husband Joseph Kirkland. To the father's dismay and mother's annoyance, her love for the boys would always make her clean up after them. Even though they may get an ill look and harsh words from their mother, it would all mean nothing when they're enjoying her pastries, sitting in comfortable chairs, enjoying each other's company.
"Your beds are ready," Arthur's mother said when she was back in the kitchen. The two young men thanked him and after Arthur had kissed her goodnight, they went up the narrow and wobbly stairs to the third floor. Going through the cramped hallway, they reached the end of it. "Luckily I am sleeping in the room right across Robert's, or rather, yours," Arthur said and opened one of the doors, the edge of it nearly scraping the wall against it; so narrow were the corridors in that house. "You'll come wake me up, right?" Francis asked, remembering Arthur's promise of looking after him while they were there. "Of course," Arthur smiled and went to his room after wishing his friend goodnight. Francis closed the door behind him and smiled at the coziness. The room was low and an old oil lamp on a night-table next to the fat bed was the only thing lighting it. Across the door was a big rounded window, delicate green curtains covering it. Too tired from the long day and feeling warm from the food, he didn't have the energy to look at anything else. Lazily he dropped his bag on the chest at the foot of the bed and changed his clothes. He pulled the patched overblanket from the bed and crawled between the fresh white sheets. The quilted blanket was heavy and very cold to the first touch, but in time it warmed up and soon enough Francis was feeling very comfortable, the smell of some herbs on the table beneath the window drifting him to sleep; a short while later he was dreaming of even better things.