Hamish and Jonno watched me, eyes wide with interest. Billy gasped. ‘But Iama Magnon Ultra-Ferno Hot Hot Hottest Robot Ever! Look!’
I caught Ellen raising her eyebrows at Will, who winked at her.Hired?
Shortly before I left, the doorbell rang.
“Dad?” Ellen said, sounding surprised. With one remaining shock of silver hair and a sharp suit stretched over his rounded stomach, he seemed somewhat at odds with his now flustered daughter. He shook my hand, eyeing me up and down with a shrewd eye before offering a business card.
‘You’re living in the Meadows’ place. When you decide it’s too much and want to sell, give me a call.’
I read the card: F. F. Fisher, Property Developer.
‘Thanks. But I’m not planning on selling.’
He smiled. It reminded me of an overweight crocodile. ‘Trust me, it’s a money pit. The most sensible option is to knock it down and start again. You could save a whole lot of time and trouble, and I can promise you a decent offer. I can pop round some time next week, give you a professional opinion.’
‘No, thank you.’ I felt my cheeks take on the appearance of a Magnetron Ultra-Inferno Robot. ‘I’m really not interested in selling.’
I downed the rest of my coffee, trying not to think about what Fisher, or Ellen and Will – oranyone –would say if they saw the reality of where I was living. I would die of shame before I let F. F. Fisher poke his professional nose inside my cottage.
* * *
Easily said, when enveloped by soft cushions, sitting beside a crackling fire with a home-cooked meal in my stomach. When the storm broke, later that evening, rattling the rotten window-panes and whistling through the holes in the roof, causing a worryingly loud sound of running water somewhere behind the boxes in the biggest bedroom, the idea of handing the nightmare over to someone else seemed a lot more appealing. Lugging an armful of large bowls, I took a deep breath and ventured into the attic.
Avoiding the droppings and the worst of the manky boxes, I hunted through the freezing darkness and found four places where the rain was pouring in, the wind screaming behind it.
Positioning bowls underneath the drips, I then spent a frustrating amount of time trying to nail, then duct tape, four bin bags to the holes in the roof, while the rain lashed at my face, and my fingers became so numb they couldn’t feel the tape any more.
Stumbling back out, the worst holes finally covered, I tripped over a box tucked to one side of the entrance hatch. In the light from the corridor below, I could see the box wasn’t like the other plain cardboard or wooden crates. Instead, it appeared to be a polished mahogany chest, the lid engraved with a pattern of daisies. My tiredness now overruled by curiosity, I carefully negotiated the steps and placed the box on the bathroom floor while I made a cup of tea.
Prolonging the anticipation, I sipped my drink, allowing the warmth to defrost my extremities while contemplating the possible contents. Jewellery? A priceless stamp collection? The deeds to a secret fortune? A rotten mouse carcase?
But, no. When I managed, with some effort, to force the lid open, I found something far more valuable – I found a wodge of faded school reports, a CSE exam certificate and a thick brown envelope crammed with photographs.
I found my past.
I hastily got ready for bed and then settled down to see the faces of my history.
The pictures started somewhere in the early fifties, I guessed by the style of clothing and the furnishings. They were mostly black-and-white – a woman laughing on a beach. Dressed up in a fur-trimmed coat. Eating Christmas dinner with her parents, paper chains dangling above their heads. I grew certain the woman was my grandmother – although I had to pause and wonder how this carefree, exuberant spirit turned into the old lady dying alone in her hoarder’s prison.
I reached wedding photographs – posing with a formal smile in her lace dress while the man who must be my grandfather draped one arm around her shoulder.
And then, I stopped, mouth dry, at the next photograph. It contained the same woman, but everything about her looked different. Her face drawn, bordering on gaunt. Hair scraped back, eyes hovering below the camera. And in her arms a baby, wrapped in a white blanket.
I did some rapid calculations. This must be my mother. I moved on: saw the baby growing to a girl in school uniform; wearing an Easter bonnet and seated in front of a birthday cake; standing alongside a snowman. There weren’t many – three or four each year. Mostly just the girl, occasionally with her mother. But never the man. And no smiles. The pictures changed to colour, but the expressions remained grey.
I reached the last one in the stack. My mother looked about thirteen. In baggy cords and a ribbed polo-neck sweater, she squinted into the camera. Behind her, my grandmother, hair streaked with silver, skin pulled tight across sharp cheekbones.
I had learnt one thing, if nothing else: my mother did not have a happy childhood. Either that or shereallyhated having her photograph taken. And if her father had been around, he must have hated it even more.
Still, it was questions, not answers, that kept me twisting and turning in the bath that night. What happened to change my grandmother so strikingly? Did my grandfather die, or leave?
Why did we never, ever visit her?
Tomorrow’s cleaning would have to be put to one side. I had answers to find.
7
After a terrible night, the sound of banging on the back door woke me. Scrambling to get out of the bath, I caught my feet in the tangled sheet, tipping me headlong onto the floor. Untwisting myself, while trying not to lose my jogging-bottoms in the process, I heard the door open and a man’s voice call my name.
