Wishing all readers a happy and safe New Year. This is the latest chapter of Wheezer, published on my own page a month ago. I hope you enjoy it.
Inside the car, the upholstery is hot to the touch, and the air is stifling. I shift uncomfortably in the seat as Martin jabs at the air conditioning panel, the tired blooms of the hedge a blur as we accelerate up the driveway. Behind us, Danny's forlorn figure appears as a fleeting glimpse in the wing mirror; cradling his elbow as he watches us drive away. Seeing him again was difficult, at times excruciating, but perhaps, you know, he might just have lanced a boil.
I bite my tongue until we swing into the laneway but, as the engine roars and the tyres spin in an explosion of dust and gravel, I can contain myself no longer.
"Did you mean what you said about starting a family…" I ask, "Or was it just…you know, to…"
"No, I meant it. Every word of it…" He interrupts, in a low voice; so unequivocal, so insistent that I am even a little bit tearful, closing my eyes and biting my lip.
In my head, his reassurance is like lighting a fuse; there's an explosion of thoughts, all scrambling for attention, all tumbling over the top of one another. And feelings too, and they're just as overwhelming; relief and excitement, and sheer disbelief. Because I've waited so long to hear him commit to starting a family, I mean really actually commit. Turning my head, for a few seconds I just stare at him; his profile so reassuringly familiar yet, in this moment, almost unrecognisable. It's not just that he appears unusually casual in his shirt sleeves and sunglasses, and totally out of place against a country backdrop. Of course, people can look a bit incongruous, can't they, when you see them outside their usual environment. Like teachers on the beach, or vicars in the pub. But there's something else about him that I just can't put my finger on, and I've never before seen this expression. His jaw is clenched, his eyes focused and bright; his whole posture purposeful and firm. And all the time I'm staring at him, I'm wondering what it was that changed his mind.
"Martin…" I venture, after a minute. "I know you don't think much of Danny, but I really don't think it's a reason to disregard his mother's house…"
He glances across at me, hesitant and thoughtful, his mouth forming a sound he doesn't quite utter.
"Perhaps we should go back for an another look…" I suggest hopefully. "Actually, go through the rooms together this time…see how we could make it work when, you know…we're a family."
His fingers flex on the steering wheel and, for a moment, he drums them against the leather cover as if he is deliberating over what to say.
"Louisa…you don't really want to buy that house though, do you? I mean, it's a long way from the village and it needs a lot of work…"
I feel a stab of disappointment, the childish sort that makes you want to stamp your foot. I've got my heart set on that house. But even if I tried to explain to him, Martin would never get it. Because he was never that kid was he? Living in a cramped and gloomy cottage, his eyes like saucers when visiting friends lucky enough to live in big, double-storied, detached houses. How could I ever explain that staying the night at Caroline's was like being in a fairytale for me; Narnia, or The Secret Garden, exploring dusty attics and spooky cellars, or playing in the sunshine on vast, neatly mown lawns. If you were tired, you'd wander inside, ravenous, to be greeted by the heavenly smell of baking, and rooms lined with books, and comfy chairs. There was space enough to all be together, yet room enough for even the largest family to have time apart. And, now that owning such a place is not beyond my wildest dreams, houses like the Steele's, and the Curnow's too, well, they've just become the blueprint for the childhood I want our kids to know.
"I suppose it might need a bit of updating, but it's got all the original fittings." I counter determinedly. "And I didn't think it was in bad nick, all things considered…"
"Louisa, the downstairs windows are uniformly rotten and I'd wager that every last flake of paint is lead-based…." He says, and then he pauses. "…And your friend didn't help much, did he, attempting to batter his way through rotting framing and annealed glass? Trust me, that won't be a straightforward repair. The man's an idiot…"
"Oh Martin, for goodness sake, Danny's an architect, " I reply, waving my hand dismissively. "If he can't fix it himself I'm sure he knows someone who will…"
Martin grunts, his expression sceptical and, for some reason, it puts me just a little bit back on the defensive. I don't care about peeling paint, all I've imagined since Joan mentioned the house this morning, is how it would feel waking up to those views every day, throwing open a window and breathing in the crisp sea air again. How lovely it would be to lie in bed and listen to the sound of the seabirds, to snuggle up to Martin, safe and sound within those solid stone walls when even the most ferocious Atlantic storms bear down. And having a house like that, bringing up our kids there, creating memories; I mean, even Martin might come to love living in Cornwall, almost as much as I do.
"Louisa, umm…actually, there's something else…I…"
My shoulders slump and I suppress a groan. God, he can be so bloody frustrating! I wonder if he's going to be like this about every house we view?
"You said yourself that that porch was a monstrosity!" I retort. "In which case, Danny's probably just done us a bit of a favour, and we can just knock it down and start again!"
"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself. " He replies crisply. "Louisa, if you'd just listen for a minute I…"
"Am I Martin? Am I really? Why would you say that when the house was everything you said you wanted…or did I imagine all your blimmin spreadsheets?"
He looks across at me, exasperated.
"And I thought it was everything you said you didn't want! Isolated? Tick. Needing copious and inconveniencing renovations? Another tick. And, correct me if I'm wrong but wasn't your chief stipulation that our home be within walking distance of the village school?!"
"But that was before I knew this house was on the market!"
"What difference does that make?"
"Shut up Martin, it just does!"
He sighs.
"And what about the garden? Do you really want a garden that big?"
"Oh for goodness sake! It's just a bit of lawn and a few shrubs. It's hardly St. James' Park…"
"A few shrubs? For a start, it's infested with hydrangeas! Not only do they play havoc on the paintwork of one's car, they contain toxic levels of cyanogenic glycoside..! I meant do you really want…"
"Hydrangeas, which the generations of children who've grown up in that house have been taught by their parents not to eat!" I counter triumphantly. "Honestly, make your mind up. One minute you don't want kids, next minute you're wrapping them in cotton wool…"
"I am not wrapping them in anything! I am merely discussing the practicalities of owning that house! Have you given any thought to how small children might be contained in that garden, or does the idea of them stumbling off the cliffs onto the jagged rocks below not concern you in the slightest?"
"Now you're just being ridiculous…" I hiss, folding my arms and turning to stare pointedly out of the window.
We have reached an impasse, Martin's scowl is as deep as the furrows in the fields on either side of us. As a result, we travel quite some distance in a cool stubborn silence, the only sound my anxious gasp as we overtake a lorry in one of the narrower country lanes. The hedges are tall here now and it's hard to get my bearings; I'm not even exactly sure of where we are. As the crow flies, I think we are not that far from Joan's but, to be honest, to get there from here is like navigating a maze. Funny the things you forget from your childhood: it dawns on me that we are actually quite deep into the countryside, even further out from the village than Havenhurst Farm. But I tell myself that's it's alright; just a small sacrifice in the scheme of things. I mean, initially travelling that distance might take some getting used to but, it's like anything really, you've just got to adjust.
More minutes tick by, the car eating up the road; up hill, down dale, past a score of vaguely familiar cottages. My neck aches from having my head turned so sharply sideways, and I don't have to see his face to imagine what he's thinking. Because he's Mr. Punctuality isn't he, Mr Regular Routine? A man who has a schedule for everything, a man who has filled our flat with scores of synchronised clocks. Alright, so I might not have the best track record when it comes to timekeeping but I'm just going to have to do a bit of work on that. I am sure I can get up with the alarm if I really put my mind to it. It's probably time to buy myself a nippy little car - I'm going to need to be independent when there's not much public transport about, especially when Martin's working long hours at his clinics. I open my mouth to share my thoughts, just as we round a bend but, before I get the chance to speak, we come up behind a small herd of dairy cows.
Groaning, he reaches again for the air conditioner; the smell of manure already pervading the car. From the corner of my eye I see him pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, I hear him muttering beneath his breath. Anticipating a flaring of his legendary impatience, I'm about to warn him not to rev his engine, not to edge up far too close behind the herd. But, as I turn to face him, Martin's sardonically raised eyebrow sees me lose my train of thought. He must be dying to say I told you so, and point out the perils of country living: a dozen dawdling Jersey heifers, another nail in the coffin of Moo Steele's house.
I ignore it, that slight lift of his chin as he clears his throat; no need to hear him pontificate when I've already imagined his voice in my head, low and resonant with condescension because he thinks he's proven right: Have you considered, with your propensity for running late Louisa, how frequently you will encounter this sort of hindrance on your way to work, hmm? Have you given any thought to what your pupils will think? What your governors will say? How unprofessional it will look?"
But, instead, he is oddly silent, brisk and busy as he retrieves his handkerchief and wipes it back and forth across the dashboard. I watch as he refolds it with irritating precision while, close to the window, the bony hip of a caramel-coloured cow is suddenly so close I could touch it. Her udder swings from side to side, banging against her mud encrusted legs with every leisurely step she takes. And it dawns on me, I mean why couldn't we replace all the lead paint covered windows with triple glazing like we have in our flat? And, if it's just a matter of pulling up the old Axminster, I'd settle for that if it means a choice of lovely children's rooms that get the morning sun. For a moment I am lost in thought; imagining cheerful decor and colourful nursery furniture until Martin clears his throat abruptly; a sudden, awkward sound. I flex my jaw and fold my arms, as I realise we're still not actually moving.
"You're upset about that house." He says in a low voice, as if it's only just occurred to him.
"Yes Martin." I reply succinctly, and less tartly than he deserves. "I am."
Vaguely agitated, he seems to fill the whole car now, a massive, looming presence. I notice him inhaling deeply, his ribs expanding, the fabric of his shirt stretching across his chest. Glancing over his shoulder, he reefs at the steering wheel, and we swing around the last meandering cow and back out onto the road. As I am thrown back against the seat by the force of the acceleration, he slips a finger inside his collar and gives an unhappy tug. But, if he is frustrated with me, honestly, he's only himself to blame.
"You don't like the house, so my opinion doesn't count, is that it? " I add peevishly.
He glances at me quickly, frowning, and wearily I shake my head.
"Look, I know you don't really want to leave London. I know you're not even convinced about starting a family but this obsessive search for negatives, this constant stream of objections…it's just exhausting, honestly, it really is…"
"What?! Who said I don't want to leave London? I've never…."
"You may not have said those exact words but vetoing every house in the village amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?"
"But that's the point Louisa! That house isn't in the village, is it? For goodness sake, stop imagining some sort of devious ulterior motive on my part, and just allow me to explain…"
Staring at him open mouthed, I bark with indignant laughter. But something about his face suggests I might just be being a little bit unfair. His gaze is steady, perhaps even slightly wounded and, just for a moment, like a lion with a thorn in his paw, Martin seems troubled, even almost vulnerable. He swallows hard, his mouth silently forming shapes, teeth clenched behind frequently-moistened lips, and I feel myself relent. I've learned to notice those worried wrinkles around his eyes, a subtle little signal that he's about to drop his guard. So I nod in a way that I hope is encouraging, keeping my expression sceptical though, so he doesn't think he's won.
"Well…" he says carefully. "It's just that there might be a more… practical solution… under the circumstances.….that is to say…another house…"
I frown at him. "Which house?"
He glances at me, and that's when he finally shows the whites of his eyes: full of trepidation, like a man about to walk the plank. When he finally replies, it's as if he's choosing every word with infinite care.
"Umm…the one above the harbour…we walked past it yesterday…"
With just one sentence, he has totally floored me. There's no other word for it: I am gobsmacked. For a moment I just stare, until a slow, warm flush of delight sees me reach out impulsively and wrap my hand around his thigh. Oh my god! That house, a Portwenn landmark with its ornate facade of brick and stone and slate! So imposing! So large that it had always been divided into two, so forbidding that I had never dared venture off the coastal path into the private confines of its grounds.
"Martin!" I say breathlessly, as he lowers his hand from the wheel to the gear knob. "Really? Are you sure?"
He nods, hesitating before saying my name in that way I find maddeningly compelling. "Louisa…you see, the thing is…"
"Martin!" I interrupt, as excitement threatens to overcome me. "Honestly, we don't have time to muck about! If we want to be shown through today, you'd better call the agent now!"
He agrees, bemused and even shell shocked, and smiling to myself, I simply can't believe it. The folklore surrounding that house is part of the fabric of Portwenn. Built allegedly on the proceeds of smuggling, it's been home to generations of shadowy characters, always on the periphery of village life. Everyone always has a story to tell about the place and, as Martin flips open his phone, something occurs to me. But I decide not to mention that stealing apples from the kitchen garden has been a right of passage for every small boy in the village since my granddad was in britches. And I'm even more reluctant to tell him that the leafy path that meanders along the boundary is known to every teenager and courting couple as the village's Lover's Lane. Gosh, I want to laugh too because in a way I'm incredulous. I mean it's twice the size of Muriel Steele's house. Even if I gave birth to several sets of triplets, we still could never possibly fill all those rooms.
The stand of pine trees is a blur as Martin fishes one-handed in the centre console and retrieves a business card. Nervously, I clutch at the armrest as he dials the number, stabbing at his phone with his thumb as we fly down the last stretch of open road toward the village. My mind is spinning as Martin resumes his purposeful air as soon as the call is connected; the aura of invincibility he likes to present to the world. The man at the other end of the line barely has time to announce his name, before Martin abandons any idea of pleasantries.
"It's Martin Ellingham." He growls coldly. "You've just shown us the house at…Yes, that's it. Yes. That's correct. No further interest. No. No. Well, I should have thought that was obvious…Don't be ridiculous! I'm informing you now, aren't I?"
If he hears me gasp, if he feels my fingers digging into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, he does not react. Instead, his voice becomes several degrees icier.
"I haven't finished yet. We'd like to inspect the house on Roscarrock Hill…no, not that one, the other one…yes that's it…right…I see…well that's none of your business! Really? And that's supposed to make a difference I, is it? Honestly!…alright…yes…yes…just tell me when can you show us through, will you?"
I close my eyes in despair as he snorts, his derision palpable. I know Martin's never suffered fools but London is a big enough place that you can sort of get away with it. It won't be like that in the village. He'll have everyone antagonised before we've lived here a week. I scowl at him and shake my head but he's no longer taking any notice.
"Of course…." He growls. "How predictable. I suppose you'll still have your hand out for a fat commission cheque at the end of it though. Oh I'm sure it will. Don't be ridiculous. No….what? Of course it is."
Whether the Land Agent likes it or not, the conversation is apparently at an end. With an extravagant flick of his wrist, Martin closes his phone and glances across at me, his fury at the telephone conversation apparently rendering him speechless.
"Well?" I ask hopefully, curling my fingers around his knee. "Can he take us through it?"
"Absolutely unbelievable…" He replies, his voice dripping with contempt. "Apparently, a sheepdog trial takes priority and if we really want to see it then we have to show ourselves through…"
"I think I'd actually prefer that though Martin." I tell him, flashing him a positive sort of smile. "Wouldn't you?…I mean…isn't it better to have a good poke around without him breathing down our necks?"
"Yes, of course." He replies briskly, barely slowing the car as we begin our descent down through the village. "It's more what passes for professionalism here that rankles. For God's sake…the man's pushy and insistent one minute, contemptuous and casual the next…"
I bite my lip, wondering if I should attempt to explain to him the importance of sheepdog trials to a rural community but, in the end, I just think better of it. I can't imagine in a million years Martin ever comprehending the fascination taciturn, tweed-clad men have in the sport; I can't picture him standing stone-faced and transfixed as black and white collies push obstreperous sheep into little square pens. Besides, the sun has peaked out from behind the clouds again, and the hills around the village are lit up; a deep verdant green against a dramatic gunmetal sky. I feel a sudden joy I can't express that I am finally coming home and just want it to be a lovely afternoon, just the two of us, choosing a place to live. I smile again and, this time, my voice is conciliatory.
"Well, if it's just a matter of picking up another key, I'm sure we can manage. Can we just try and enjoy the experience, please? Can we, Martin?"
"Well that's just it." He growls, throwing his hands off the steering wheel for a moment in utter exasperation. "Apparently there is no key. Allegedly, a plumber had the only spare and he has lost it. As a consequence the back door is simply left open and we're just to let ourselves in. Cavalier agents, unreliable tradesmen. Honestly Louisa, it all seems rather amateurish to me."