The view from upstairs is really quite impressive. Growing up here, I suppose, you just take it for granted, don't you; the sea an expanse of sparkling sapphire, the rolling countryside laid out like patchwork, little stone buildings clustered snugly in the hollows. And it's nice and warm in here too, with slimline central heating panels fitted discretely against the walls. Of course, the curtains will need replacing, the wallpaper is horribly dated, and the carpets are surprisingly worn. But it's got so much more character than I remember, and so much lovely natural light. Every room I walk into seems just really spacious, the large windows framing the vistas like some enormous work of art. I can't help it of course, I'm imagining us here, picturing where our furniture is going to fit.
Behind me, the Estate Agent hovers in the doorway. "You understand that the property is not yet officially on the market?" He says carefully, glancing at his notebook.
"Yeah…well, you know how it is in the village," I remark lightly, recalling Joan's announcement over breakfast, her expression anxious, her hands balled together at her chin. "But it's lovely of you to let us view it at such short notice…and it is such a beautiful house…"
He clears his throat. "Under normal circumstances, of course, unless we had a contract with the vendor, viewing would be absolutely out of the question but, as your husband pointed out so…umm…emphatically….you are only down from London for the weekend."
I force myself to breathe out, my expression determinedly serene, pointlessly turning the light switch off and on a few times as I attempt to contain my excitement.
"Fortunately, a family member does have enduring power of attorney. " He intones, tediously. "And they have assured me they will be signing the paperwork this afternoon on behalf of the vendor so, all things considered, making an exception seemed reasonable in your case."
"Well, thank you." I say, and I try to smile. "But it's all so sad really…the circumstances I mean. To have to give up your home so suddenly…Gosh, it must have been a nasty fall."
"It's an ill wind…" He mutters, a little bit callously, distracted perhaps as he nudges a loose skirting board with the toe of his shoe.
But his mask of pleasantness has now all but been abandoned, his face now an irritated scowl, and I do wonder if Martin's earlier summation of Estate Agents as vulturine, unprincipled opportunists is more accurate than I care to admit. Knowing that the poor woman lay undiscovered all night doesn't even seem to register with this pale, pompous, little man and I feel myself shudder. Slipped on some post left on the stairs, Auntie Joan had told us with tears in her eyes, as Martin stood in the doorway, shaking his head in imperious disbelief.
"And now Royal Cornwall refuse to send her home." She had raged, alternating between waving her arms in frustration and biting her fist in despair. "Of course I told them in no uncertain terms that they were completely out of touch. Their definition of healthcare, pfft; cold, impersonal box ticking if you ask me. Not that they did. What about the community approach to care, one that has kept this village going for centuries, hmm? Completely unacceptable apparently. Against all regulations and guidelines is what they said. What a load of tosh! I'll tell you what. If Jim Sim were alive this never would have happened…"
Stepping around the agent in the hall, I hesitate, revisited now by the memory of venturing somewhere that had forever been off-limits. Beneath my feet, the floorboards creak and it reminds me that I never was very comfortable with being disobedient. Sneaking up here had always left me feeling guilty even if I was the only one of us who seemed to have a conscience about it. Suddenly, I am seventeen again and, as my confidence wavers, I find myself procrastinating, opening the hall cupboard absent-mindedly, only to be jolted back to reality by the clutter barely contained inside. Cricket pads and croquet mallets, battered old boxes of board games and shelf upon shelf of jigsaws. On the floor, expensive tennis rackets tangled hopelessly within a tattered net, and stacks of faded Quality Street tins, sealed years ago with tape that is now pointless, yellowish and peeling. Hastily, with a tiny disbelieving shake of my head, I force the door closed and resist a sneeze.
"As I'm sure you're aware, Mrs. Ellingham, we are anticipating significant interest in the property." The agents adds, and I turn to face him. "Homes of this size, especially with the spectacular coastal prospect this one boasts, certainly don't come up in Portwenn very often…"
"Yes, I'm sure." I assure him breathlessly, anxious now as I glance back over his head because I'm wondering what on earth's become of Martin. One quick phone call, he'd said, and that must have been fifteen minutes ago.
But, in a way, perhaps it's quite fortunate that I get this part over with before he eventually joins us. Because, you know, if anything could make this moment more awkward than it already is, it's the idea of Martin standing at my shoulder, asking uncomfortable questions. I linger at the entrance to this end bedroom, my fingers wrapped around the door frame, and I realise I am holding my breath, anticipating the awful metallic odour of teenage boys; of sweat, Blue Stratos, and the cloying stench of Clearasil. While that's all long since disappeared, everything else seems horribly familiar; a disturbing time capsule perhaps, or even, dare I say it, a mother's shrine. Everything the same as it was: faded Farrah Fawcett posters over the bed, the bookcase stacked with paperbacks, Wilbur Smith and Louis L'amour, and tiny silver trophies; another small deception, because I recall they're made of plastic.
I do allow myself a tiny smirk at the clusters of meaningless certificates, neatly framed by his dad and hung in columns on the wall. But one glance at the racing car bedspread and my amusement doesn't last. Inside my boots, my toes curl tightly and I feel my face flush, searingly, with shame.
"The best view in the house is from that end window." The agent announces, inclining his head, and pointing behind me, his raised eyebrows and slit of a mouth an obvious reprimand. "Please feel free to sit on the bed and see it for yourself…".
My skin prickles beneath my blouse. For an instant, the teenage girl inside me is roused. My arms fold across my chest and, lifting my chin, I want to roll my eyes at him, telling him in a surly voice that I'm well aware of that. But, before I can reply, downstairs the front door slams and, instead, I gasp and duck past him as he quickly flattens himself against the wall.
"We're up here, Martin!" I cry out, pausing then to listen, biting my lip as if the cadence of his footfall on the stairs might provide insight into his mood.
God, it had all been so frustrating really. Nothing had really gone to plan so far, from the state we'd found Joan in this morning, to Martin's realisation that Truro was an hour's drive each way from the village, even with his propensity for speed. The news about this house was another bombshell not to mention Martin staring at the poor old cashier at the co-op, until she had shouted at him to leave her alone. Of course, he'd been insistent; the creases on her earlobes, and her poor old clubbed fingernails; they both were apparently signs of cardiovascular disease and he'd instructed her firmly that she must see her GP first thing in Monday.
"Oh really? The doctors is it? And just how'm I gonna manage that when I don't finish work til six?" She snapped, so scornful and animated that her top set of dentures slipped down in her mouth. "Ish a bleddy long way, Wadebridge…!"
Martin, of course, was both horrified and incandescent with disapproval, which did nothing to improve his temper. I'd followed behind helplessly as he stormed back to the car, muttering reassurances as he railed against what he perceived as people's reluctance to take responsibility for their own health. I mean I tried to explain that very few villagers owned a car, that even the fastest bus was a two hour return, and that services were few and far between, if they ran at all. But he had said nothing, settling into an ominous silence as we roared along the lanes.
Honestly though, neither his aunt, nor the distance to the nearest vascular department, nor even the ailing and infirm amongst the village were culpable when it came to his levels of exasperation. He'd actually been out of sorts since last night when, far from being the relaxed dinner with friends I'd envisaged, our evening with Chris and Helen seemed particularly fraught. My meal had been cut off, ending abruptly as his cutlery had crashed together on his plate, and the walk back to our room was anything but anticipatory, with Martin grimly taciturn and remote.
"Are you alright?" I'd quizzed him gently, as soon as the door behind us closed.
But he had barely managed a low grunt in reply, keeping his back to me as he strode to the window, pushing the curtain across with the back of his hand and staring out into the moonless night. Unconvinced, I'd lingered for a moment, biting my lip, not knowing what to say that wouldn't make everything worse. Darting off to get ready for bed didn't seem like the best idea but I suppose I was hopeful that pale ivory silk might go some way to distracting him from his bad temper. Because, the truth was, I knew what he was thinking; I was only too aware that deep down he completely lacked self-belief; i mean, hadn't I spent hours drawing that out of him and even longer trying to convince him that he was actually wrong?
Emerging from the bathroom, to my dismay, he was still standing like a statue by the window, only looking up at me briefly when I murmured his name. The air was cool and I'd pulled back the duvet, settling on the edge of the bed, the thick cotton sheet cold and starchy against the back of my thighs.
"Are you going to join me?" I'd asked, trying to keep my voice light, even though I was conscious of the way he glanced back at me, not with desire or even vague approval, more with what seemed like sadness, possibly even resignation.
I'd shivered, slipping hurriedly beneath the covers, propping myself up on the pillows and shamelessly watching him undress. Immediately though, everything was different, and I couldn't help but be concerned at this return to his very old habits; a shyness I hoped he had long abandoned, his reluctance to expose his naked self to me. Stripped to his trousers he had disappeared into the bathroom, ducking as he went under the roof beam, turning sideways to fit his massive frame through the tiny door.
Had his spirits been higher, I might even have teased him then because, despite his strict adherence to a life of moderation, a healthy diet and regular exercise, even Martin was not immune to the little signs that middle age was fast approaching. His fair hair now greying rapidly around the temples, even his impossibly firm jaw was softening, and I could almost detect a slight thickening around his girth. It's all down hill once you turn forty, I'd warned him cheerfully, the day after that significant birthday, from the smug vantage point of my early thirties.
"Is it?" He'd growled, his eyes glinting, eyebrow raised as he'd advanced toward me. Laughing, we'd tumbled onto the bed, content to devote an entire sunny autumn afternoon to Martin emphatically disproving my allegation.
But, last night, that same man had slid into bed beneath the cover of darkness and was like a stone sarcophagus beside me, cold and rigid as he settled on his back, his hands on his chest, his eyes glinting, perhaps even swimming, as he stared hard up at the ceiling. For a while I had lain curled on my side, watching him, waiting for his tenseness to dissipate. But ten minutes later, his unhappiness was still palpable and I felt painfully sure that neither of us would sleep if we didn't sort it out. Tentatively I'd reached out to him, slowly wrapping my leg around his and resting my head against his chest.
"Are you going to tell me what the matter is?" I'd asked gently, slipping my hand beneath his t-shirt, hoping that the darkness would help me prise the problem from his tightly clamped jaw.
I was aware of his breathing; fast, shallow breaths that made me suddenly furious at Chris Parsons and his clumsy sense of humour. And damn his parents too, and even his Auntie Joan actually; in fact damn everyone who seems to take such satisfaction from making a big thing about Martin's alleged flaws. I kissed him softly but his lips were hard and unresponsive, and I found myself anxious, whispering in his ear, as my mouth moved to his neck.
"You know what? The problem with being so intensely private, Martin, is that no one really knows you."
I stroked his hair, smoothing it forwards, enjoying the soft bristly sensation beneath my fingertips. So typical of him. No frills, no vanity, no attempt to conceal anything; the only consideration practicality on those frequent trips to his barber. I pressed my lips to his cheek, experiencing an intense surge of affection for both he and his deeply ingrained and rigid habits. The shorter the cut, the more important the occasion, I think to myself and I smile.
"Mm." I heard him concede. His voice was quiet and still he didn't move.
"They might think they do but they really don't." I told him, and my hand went to his stomach, sliding over muscles still hard and taut against my palm.
"No." He agreed and I felt him exhale. The skin below his navel is as soft as a child's and I lingered there for a moment, before drawing my index finger down the trail of fine, silky hair that ran beneath the waistband of his boxers.
"But, the thing is, Martin, I know you." I whispered, closing my teeth gently on his earlobe, breathing softly in his ear. "And I know you'll be brilliant. I just know! So, isn't that all that matters?"
I'd felt him relax then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the muscles of his chest softening, tension disappearing from his jaw, his hand sliding up my thigh and curling around my hip.
"But you can do so much damage." He said, and his voice was hoarse as he buried his fingers in my hair.
"But you never could." I assured him, pressing my lips to his chest, the edge of ribs, his waist, the soft flesh of his belly.
He had groaned softly, before reefing his shirt over his head and tossing it into the darkness. I gazed at him for a moment, and he seemed so vulnerable then, faint and ghostly in the gloom, one forearm across his eyes the other flung helplessly across the bed. And, as I slid his boxers down I realised, in a way that made me sad for both of us, that as far as the next step in our life together went, Martin was still totally unconvinced.
The agent glances at me as Martin bellows my name in his usual impatient fashion. I grimace, conscious of the vigour of his arrival, the familiar energy in his ascent; the leather soles of his shoes striking the tread of the stairs with remarkable lightness.
"My husband." I say brightly, shoving my hand deep in my coat pocket to prevent it pointing madly in every direction. The agent takes one look at me, and I swear his complexion pales.
When Martin finally appears on the landing I smile; sometimes, even after all this time, I still feel a little flutter of excitement when I see him. He has an air of briskness and is wearing an expression that indicates he will tolerate no nonsense, no sales pitches, no half-truths at all; a half sneer that he directs at the agent before I have even had the chance to introduce them to each other.
"Has a radon test been carried out on the property?" Martin demands, folding his arms and casting suspicious glances about the place. The agent visibly blanches.
I look from one to the other. "Radon test? Martin, What are you on about?"
"He knows..." Martin replies, lifting his chin and gazing haughtily at the man he towers over.
"Umm…Yes, possibly. I will have to check." The agent replies carefully, flipping open his notebook and hastily jotting something down.
I frown, fighting what feels like the start of a massive disappointment. Despite its history, I think I could love this house; with a bit of renovation and updating it could be perfect for our plans. But it seems like my dream is about to be scuppered by something I've never heard of, yet one that is clearly of extraordinary importance to my husband; radon, whatever the hell that is.
"Martin!" I hiss and I thread my arm through his, dragging him a few steps down the hallway, out of earshot of the agent who is now so pale as to be transparent. "Do you mind telling me what you are bangin' on about?"
"Certainly." He says, in a low voice, his tone patient and as smooth as silk. "The radon gas map was first produced in 1990 by the National Radiological Protection Board and, umm, combined with geological data from the British Geological Survey, it predicts the areas that could be affected by high levels of radon. Unfortunately, Louisa, this part of Cornwall is about as affected as it's possible to be…"
"Oh." I reply and suddenly I just can't seem to breathe. "I take it Radon's not good then?"
He frowns at me. "No, of course it's not good." He says sharply and his voice rises an octave. "It's a radioactive gas! Long term exposure especially when inhaled, has been proved by numerous studies to cause lung cancer. Especially in smokers…"
I stare back at him, unable to hide my distress. Biting my lip to fight back the tears, I am overwhelmed by the most horrible sense of failure. So much riding on this weekend and everything that needed to go smoothly just seems so ridiculously difficult. Why, now, does he have to be like this, springing this radon thing on me out of nowhere, implying that everything in Portwenn is just so hopelessly unfavourable? In the distance I hear the sound of car tyres on gravel, and I turn toward the noise. The agent excuses himself and clambers down the stairs. No doubt another potential purchaser, eager for a chance to view my dream house, and probably one whose husband isn't bloody health and safety obsessed either.
"Louisa, surely you don't want to raise your children in a house with a radon level greater than two hundred Becquerels per cubic metre?" He demands, and though I can see he's perplexed, I'm not even trying to hide my frustration with him now.
"Our children, Martin." I point out bitterly and I turn sharply on my heel to follow the agent down the stairs.
"Yes, of course!" He calls out as I hurry away, but I don't answer, because all of a sudden I'm desperate to get back to the car before anyone sees the tears begin to fall.