Before entering the main bedroom, the estate agent paused, assuming his best salesman smile. ‘Now, just to warn you, this is the one room that the owners hadn’t got around to yet. However, I think the rest of the house demonstrates the incredible potential. It also gives you a chance to style the room to your own taste, of course, if you decide to redecorate.’
If I decide to redecorate?
The bedroom was covered in peeling, mildewed wallpaper. The ratty rose-pink carpet was dotted with various unidentified stains. There was a cracked fireplace, one grubby door half-hanging off the fitted wardrobe and a distinct whiff of dead something.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said, unable to keep up the playing-it-cool act.
‘It is?’ The estate agent’s professional façade vanished behind raised eyebrows.
Buying a house to do up was item three on the Dream List, but now that I was tackling the list by myself, transforming only one dilapidated room was a much more doable challenge.
‘Well, if you like the room, you’ll love this.’ He gestured over to the large window. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you have any questions.’
Moving across, I gripped my hands together and breathed a sigh of happiness. Out of all the reasons for buying this house, this had to be top. The main bedroom looked out onto the back garden. All three gardens in the row were separated by a line of pretty flowers rather than a fence or a hedge, creating the effect of a large communal space. With it being so easy to see into (as well as step into) each neighbour’s plot, they must surely be friendly, neighbourly people?
Even better, at the end of the garden was a hedge, and in the middle section of the hedge was a gate. And on the other side of the gate was miles of nobody and nothing but the trees, birds, deer and whatever else happened to live in this offshoot of Sherwood Forest.
End Cottage sat right on the border of Bigley Forest Park, consisting of over a thousand acres of woodland footpaths and bike trails. I gazed at the sunlight dancing off the treetops, stretching out into the distance, and I resolved to explore them all.
I did have one question for the estate agent:why on earth would ANYONE in their right mind want to sell this Dream Cottage?
‘Why are the owners selling in such a hurry?’ I asked, once I’d re-joined him in the kitchen.
‘They won the Euro Millions and moved to Monaco. They want everything here sorted as soon as possible.’ He squinted at me. ‘I know people expect the sales pitch and the spin, but I’m telling you straight that you are not going to find a better house than this for anywhere near the price. Not even in Bigley.’ He pulled a wry grin. ‘Honestly, if you don’t put an offer in, I think I will.’
I took another deep breath of galvanising country air, closed my eyes for a brief moment, and with trembling voice, offered him the asking price.
I was moving out.
* * *
But before then, I had some major work to do. Otherwise, I was going to end up paying the mortgage on a house I didn’t have the guts to ever move into. To force me into action, I had orchestrated a multi-step plan. The next stage in the plan was happening this evening.
As I set off home, a girl of about ten or eleven was wheeling a bike around the corner of the cottage at the other end of the row. She paused to glance at me as I unlocked my car and climbed in, offering a shy nod of her head and the hint of a smile before starting to pedal in the opposite direction to the village. I watched her whizzing off to freedom, T-shirt flapping in the late-afternoon breeze and, in that moment, I knew exactly how she felt.
* * *
‘Who’s this friend again?’ Mum asked, one side of her mouth twitching downwards as she took three large bowls out of the cupboard.
‘Her name’s Karina.’
‘And you met her at work?’
‘Yes.’ I lifted the lid on the pot of chilli I’d made and gave it a stir. ‘Can you take that sour cream out to the table too?’
Mum just stood there, clutching the bowls to her midriff. ‘So she can’t read?’
‘She found reading challenging when she started classes two years ago. She’s just signed up to do her English GCSE.’
Mum frowned, unconvinced that a woman lacking in basic qualifications was a suitable dinner guest. I smiled and carried on grating cheese. I had absolute faith in Karina’s ability to change her mind.
‘She’ll be happy to tell you if you ask her. In fact, you definitely should ask. It’s a good story.’
She sniffed, but at least went to finish setting the table. I also noticed that she added her favourite hand-embroidered table runner. My optimism cranked up one more notch.
At precisely six o’clock, the exact time I’d asked Karina to arrive, the doorbell rang. Karina entered with a blast of fresh air, an enormous smile, a bunch of Mum’s favourite pink roses and a box of Quality Street.
‘Oh! How thoughtful of you,’ Mum said, sufficiently thrown by the gesture to forget that she was being aloof. ‘I love the strawberry creams!’
