Property of a Lady(36)
TWELVE
Charect House, when Michael got there, did not look very habitable; in fact, it did not look as if it was likely to be habitable for another ten years. Window frames were hanging off their moorings like teeth torn from the roots, and it looked as if there was a gaping hole in part of the roof. But the skip parked on the lawn on his last visit seemed to have vanished, which presumably was progress.
He went cautiously inside. The skip had not vanished at all; it, or a smaller version of it, was blocking most of the hall. Michael stepped carefully round it and went into the long drawing-room. This was a daunting sight, but probably it would not take very long to sort out the bare electricity wires spilling riotously out of the wall. He went across the hall to the room Liz had designated as a dining room – ‘Although we’ll mostly eat in the kitchen,’ Jack had said, sending Liz’s enthusiastic sketches for the kitchen’s comprehensive refurbishment. ‘Except when we have classy Oxford dons to stay . . .’
The dining room was not much better than the drawing room. Michael sat on a low window-sill and saw he had told nothing but the truth to Jack and Liz about the house not being habitable in time for Christmas. But as he had booked them into the Black Boar, they might still decide to come, just for a short stay. The idea of asking Nell and Beth to join them there for Christmas dinner flickered in his mind, but probably Nell would be spending Christmas with her own family or her husband’s. Still, they might all meet for a drink.
The rotund builder he had met last time came trundling down the stairs and hailed Michael with cheerful recognition. ‘Taking another look round, Dr Flint?’ he said.
‘Yes. You’ve made a lot of progress,’ said Michael, hoping this was the right thing to say and trying not to look too fixedly at the cascading electric wires.
‘We’ve done a lot of the basic work,’ said the builder. ‘Plumbing and treating the rot. Those things don’t show. The electricians are in this afternoon to finish off most of the wiring,’ he added, clearly seeing Michael’s doubtful look at the tangle of cables. ‘And high time too, for I’m surprised the whole place didn’t go up in smoke years ago. Matter of fact, we’re about to make a start on opening up the attics – smashing down that dividing wall for the playroom Dr Harper wanted.’
‘That sounds quite a major job.’
‘No, we’ll have it down in a trice. No sooner the word than the deed. Come and watch, why don’t you?’
‘Well, I don’t think—’ began Michael, but the builder was already going upstairs.
‘I like seeing a wall come down,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Very satisfying it is. You see something happening for your efforts. There’s always a lot of dust, though.’
Michael, who had spent ten minutes trying to brush the bracken of St Paul’s Churchyard from his cords, supposed one more layer of dirt would not make much difference, and he followed the builder, grateful that the secondary stair, where he had seen the intruder that first day, was brightly lit by battery-powered lamps.
Access to the attic was by a low door, which the men had propped open. There was a slanting ceiling, and beneath the miasma of builders’ rubble was a warm, powdery scent of age. Michael thought if you were here by yourself there would be a sense of having crossed from one world to another – of having come through a semi-magical portal. Wardrobes and railway stations, he thought, smiling inwardly.
Two tiny windows let in a small amount of light, softened by the thick dust on the panes, but when Michael walked across to the nearer one he saw there were views of Shropshire countryside stretching for miles. In one direction was a faint blue-grey smudge that might be the start of Welsh mountains. He looked down into the gardens directly below, and the memory of the photographs he had taken that first day came back to him – that faint but unmistakable figure of a dark-haired female pressed against an attic window, one hand raised in greeting or entreaty . . .
‘These floors are pretty sound as far as we can tell,’ said the builder, walking experimentally along the sides of the room. ‘But we’ll lay new boards where we think they’re needed. Probably strengthen the roof joists as well, before we create a false ceiling.’ He reached up to tap the rafters overhead and a shower of dust cascaded down. ‘Clean dust though,’ he said, happily, wiping his palms down the sides of his overalls. ‘No bat droppings. Makes a difference, not finding bats in a house.’
‘Protected species?’ said Michael, eyeing the rafters with misgiving.
‘Too true. Once you’ve got bats you can’t do much to get them out. Personally, I’d poison the evil little bastards as soon as look at them, never mind if twenty Preservation Groups or fifty Dracula Societies marched round the place waving banners. Still, whatever else might live here, there’s no bats.’
Michael, ignoring the oblique reference in this last sentence, said he was very glad to hear there was no evidence of bats and he thought his friends would agree. ‘They’re wondering about moving in for Christmas,’ he said tentatively. ‘Would the work be finished by then?’
‘Bit tight,’ said the builder. ‘New Year, more like.’ He walked along the wall due to be demolished, while two men, armed with fearsome-looking sledgehammers and pickaxes and wearing yellow site-helmets, awaited his verdict. When he tapped the wall, the sound, in the small space, was shockingly loud, and Michael jumped because it was exactly the sound he had heard on his first visit.