The House on Cold Hill (2 page)

‘Dad!’ Jade protested again. ‘You’re upsetting Bombay and Sapphire!’ Then she focused back on the photographs of the journey to their new home she was sharing on Instagram.

It was Ollie who had jokingly suggested naming the cats after the gin brand, and both Jade and Caro had instantly liked the names, so they had stuck.

To their right, opposite a red postbox partially engulfed by an unruly hedge, were two stone pillars, topped with sinister-looking wyverns, and with open, rusted, wrought-iron gates. A large sign, in much better condition than the pillars and gates, proudly proclaimed: R
ICHWARDS
E
STATE
A
GENCY –
S
OLD
!

Ollie stopped, indicating right, as a tractor towing a trailer spewing strands of straw came down the hill towards them at an almost reckless speed, passing them with just inches to spare. Then he swung the car in through the entrance, and sped up the steep, winding, potholed drive, bounded by railed fences in a poor state of repair. On one side of them was a herd of gloomy-looking brown and white cattle; on the other was a field full of alpacas. As the car lurched and bounced, Jade shouted out, again, ‘Dad!’ Then she saw the animals.

‘Oh wow, what are those?’

‘Llamas,’ her mother said.

‘I think they’re alpacas!’ Ollie said. ‘Aren’t alpacas smaller?’

‘They’re so cute!’ Jade watched the animals for some moments, then returned her attention to her screen.

A quarter of a mile on they rattled over a cattle grid, and the house came into view. Ollie slowed down, scarcely able to believe this was now their home. It looked almost magical, but with a melancholic air. He felt as if he were a century or more back in time. He could see a horse-drawn carriage pulling up here. It looked like something out of a romantic novel or a movie, perhaps Rebecca’s ‘Mandalay’.

He pulled the car to a halt on the crunching mossy gravel, behind Caro’s Golf, which they had left here earlier in the day when they’d brought their first load of stuff over. The rain rattled down on the roof, as loud as hailstones, and the Range Rover rocked in the howling wind. ‘Home sweet home!’ he announced.

‘Why’s it called Cold Hill House?’ Jade asked, still focused on her iPhone and tapping away hard.

‘Because we’re in Cold Hill village, lovely,’ he said, unclipping his seat belt.

‘Why’s it called Cold Hill village?’

‘Probably because it’s north facing,’ Caro replied. ‘So it doesn’t get as much sun as some places – and it’s a bit of a wind trap.’ She looked up at the recently restored grey facade, the white-painted sash windows and the metal wall-ties high up – the few parts of the property that had been worked on – filled with worry about the work that would be needed.

She wished she had put her foot down when they had first seen this place. But it had been high summer then. The surrounding fields had been full of yellow wheat and rape. The paddock had been full of wild flowers, the five acres of sweeping lawns had been neatly mown, and the lake was flat as a millpond, filled with lilies, the willow tree on the tiny island shining golden in the brilliant sunlight. There had been dozens of ducks and ducklings and a pair of coots.

Now the fields were a barren wilderness of mud and stubble. The front lawn was overgrown, and the windows of the house, which had seemed then to be filled with light, were now dark and gloomy, like the sunken eyes of a fish that was past its prime.

The porch also looked as if it had aged two decades since they had last been here. The paintwork, which had been new and fresh back then, was already flaking. The brass lion’s-head knocker, which she had been certain was shiny and gleaming last time they saw it, was a dull green-hued colour. And the circular driveway was more weed than gravel.

The house had been empty for over thirty years, after part of it had collapsed, the irrepressibly jolly estate agent, Paul Jordan, had told them. A property development company had bought it, intending to restore it and turn it into an old people’s home, but they had gone bankrupt in the last property crash after only completing a small part of the renovation work. It had so much scope, Jordan had enthused. It needed an owner with vision. And Ollie, who had great taste – and vision – had convinced her. They’d already moved house three times in the fifteen years since they were married, buying wrecks, doing them up and moving on with a good profit. It was that, and the lump sum Ollie had received from selling his property-search website, which had enabled them to afford this grand old wreck of a place. And, Ollie had persuaded her, they could double their money in five years’ time – if they wanted to move again.

‘God, I can’t believe it’s finally ours!’ Ollie leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Can you, darling?’

‘No,’ she said, apprehensively. ‘No. It is beautiful. But—’

Close up, and real now, she could see the cracks in the front masonry, the patches of damp on the library wall, the peeling paint on the window frames. The sheer scale of the task ahead of them.

‘How’m I going to get to see my friends in Brighton?’ Jade interrupted. ‘How’m I going to see Phoebe, Olivia, Lara – and Ruari?’ Ruari was her boyfriend. She’d told her parents that they’d shared a last, tearful raspberry and mango milkshake yesterday afternoon in Drury’s cafe in Richardson Road, round the corner from their old home.

‘There’s a regular bus service!’ Ollie said.

‘Yeah, right. Twice a day from the village, which is, like, a mile walk.’

‘Your mum and I can drive you in when you want to go.’

‘How about now?’

In his rear-view mirror, Ollie saw the small Volvo of his in-laws and, behind them, the removals truck lumbering up the drive. ‘I think we ought to get moved into our new home first, darling, don’t you think?’

‘I want to go home!’

‘You are home.’

‘This place looks like it’s about to fall down.’

Ollie grinned and looked at his wife. ‘It’s stunning. We are going to be very happy here. It’ll just take a bit of getting used to our new lifestyle.’

‘I liked our old lifestyle,’ Jade retorted. ‘I liked Carlisle Road.’

Ollie squeezed Caro’s hand. She squeezed back. Then she turned to their daughter. ‘We’ll make sure you see your friends whenever you want to. And you’ll make new friends out here.’

‘Yeah? What? Cows? Llamas? Alpacas?’

Caro laughed and tousled Jade’s hair. Her daughter pulled her head back, irritated; she never liked her hair being touched. Caro wanted so badly to feel good about being here, to share in Ollie’s enthusiasm. She was determined to make an effort. As a city girl, she’d always dreamed of living in the countryside, too. But on this rainy September day, heading towards winter, all the work they had to do on the house seemed daunting. And she’d never in her life lived without neighbours. Noise. Human life. ‘You love animals, Jade, darling,’ she said. ‘You wanted a dog – we could get one.’

‘A dog?’ Jade said, her face suddenly animated. ‘We can really have a dog? A puppy?’

‘Yes!’ Caro replied.

‘When?’

‘Well, we could perhaps start looking around the rescue homes as soon as we’re straight here.’

Jade brightened considerably. ‘What kind of dog?’

‘Let’s see what’s around!’ Ollie replied. ‘I think a rescue dog would be nice, don’t you, lovely?’

‘Something fluffy?’ Jade asked. ‘Big and fluffy?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Big and fluffy.’

‘How about a labradoodle?’

‘Well, let’s see, darling!’ Caro laughed. Ollie smiled. Everything was going to be fine. Their dream life in their dream new home. Well, project of a home, anyway.

Caro opened the car door and the howling gale blew it back on its hinges, bending them, the door mirror hitting the front wing of the car so hard the glass shattered.

‘That’s seven years’ bad luck!’ Jade said.

‘Lucky I’m not superstitious,’ Ollie replied.

‘Mum is,’ Jade said, breezily. ‘We’re doomed!’

3

Friday, 4 September

‘Shit!’ Ollie said, standing in the stinging wind and rain, inspecting the damaged door. ‘Go in the porch, darling,’ he said to Caro. ‘And you too, Jade. I’ll unlock the front door in a sec and bring the stuff in from the car.’

‘In a moment, Dad,’ Jade said, looking down at her phone.

‘It’s OK, I’ll help you,’ Caro said.

As she jumped down, he put his arm round her. ‘The start of our new, beautiful adventure!’ he said, and kissed her.

Caro nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. She stared up at the vast front of the building, and at the balustrading above the columned porch, which made it look very grand. The house they had just left was a large Victorian semi in Hove, a short distance from the seafront. That had been pretty grand, with six windows on the front and five bedrooms. This place had eight bedrooms – ten, if you included two small box rooms in the attic. It was huge. Gorgeous. But in need of more than just tender love and care. Turning her head away from the wind, she looked back at Ollie, who was trying to shut the car door, aware that both of them probably had very different thoughts going through their minds.

She knew he was thrilled to bits that today had finally come and they were moving in. She’d been driven along by his enthusiasm, but now they were actually here, their bridges burnt, new people already moving into their old house, she was suddenly, unaccountably, nervous. Nervous about a whole bunch of things.

This place was ridiculous. That was one of the few things they’d agreed on. Totally ridiculous. It was far too big. Far too expensive. Far too isolated. Far too dilapidated. And just plain too far. Too far from friends, family, shops. From anywhere. It needed a huge amount of work – starting with rewiring and re-plumbing. Many of the windows were rotten and their sash cords were broken. There was no loft insulation and there was damp in the cellar, which needed urgent action.

‘It’s beautiful, but you’re bonkers,’ her mother had said when she first saw it. Her father had said nothing, he’d just climbed out of the car, stood and stared at it, shaking his head.

Why?

Why?

Why
, Caro was wondering,
had she agreed?

Neither of them had ever lived in the country before. They were townies, through and through.

‘You have to have vision,’ Ollie had repeatedly told her. His dreary parents, whom he had always rebelled against, were now confined within the walls of their old people’s sheltered housing, which they had entered far too young. They’d never had any vision; it was as if their entire lives had been one steady, plodding journey towards their eventual demise. They seemed to embrace all the ailments old age threw at them as if these were some kind of vindication of their planning.

‘Sure it’s a wreck but, God, it could be so beautiful, in time,’ Ollie had enthused.

‘It might be haunted,’ she’d said.

‘I know your mother believes in ghosts, bless her, but I don’t. The dead don’t frighten me, it’s the living I’m scared of.’

Caro had learned, early on in their relationship, way before they were married, that once Ollie had his mind set on something there was no dissuading him. He wasn’t an idiot, he had a great commercial brain. And besides, she had secretly liked the whole idea of a grand country lifestyle. Lady of the Manor of Cold Hill House.

Ollie removed his arm and opened the rear door for Jade, but his daughter, engrossed in her iPhone, carried on Instagramming.

‘Out, sweetheart!’

‘Give me a minute, this is important!’

‘Out!’ he said, reaching in and unclipping her seat belt, then lifting out the cat carriers.

She scowled, and pulled her hood up over her head, jammed her phone into her hoodie pocket, jumped down, then made a dash for the porch. Ollie lugged the carriers over and set them down, then ran back to the car, opened the two halves of the tailgate, grabbed a suitcase and hauled it out, followed by another.

Caro tugged out two of her cases, then trailed him into the porch. He put the bags down and fumbled with the vast assortment of keys on the ring that the estate agent had given him, selected what he hoped was the right one, slotted it in the lock and turned it. Then he pushed the heavy front door open, into the long, dark hallway.

At the end of the hallway to the right was the staircase up to the first floor. Beyond that, the hall led into a small, oak-panelled anteroom with three doors, which the estate agent said was called the atrium
.
One door, to the left, went through into the dining room, one on the right was to the kitchen, and the third door opened directly on to the grounds at the back. The estate agent had told them it was rumoured that the oak for the panelling had come from one of Nelson’s ships,
Agamemnon
.

Ollie was greeted with a strong smell of floor polish, and a milder, zesty smell of cleaning fluid. A firm of professional house cleaners had spent two days in here, sprucing it up for them. And because of the poor condition of the house, the vendor’s solicitors had permitted them to do some essential decorating of their basic living areas before completion.

Jade followed him in, holding the cat carriers and looking around curiously, followed by her mother. Ollie dumped the two suitcases at the foot of the staircase, then hurried back outside to greet his in-laws and the removals men, the first of whom, a shaven-headed man-mountain in a Meatloaf T-shirt and ancient stone-washed jeans, had just jumped down from the cab and was looking up at the house admiringly. He’d admitted, proudly, to Ollie a couple of days ago, while boxing up their possessions in the old house, that he’d only recently come out of jail for an offence he hadn’t actually disclosed.

‘Bleedin’ gorgeous place you’ve got yourselves, guv!’ he conceded. ‘Love that tower.’ Then, cupping his hand over his roll-up, seemingly oblivious to the elements, he leaned forward conspiratorially and nodded up at the first floor of the tower. ‘Planning to put the missus up there when she gets a bit antsy?’

Ollie grinned. ‘Actually, it’s going to be my office.’