‘We’re going to sell up,’ William announces from his armchair in our living room. His feet are up on the pouff where they’ve been all day, the Guardian and his ‘medicinal’ glass of Merlot discarded at his side.
I widen my eyes behind my husband’s head and look at my sister. Her expression gives nothing away.
‘I wondered why there was a For Sale board outside,’ Serena notes. ‘That was quick work. You didn’t say you were planning on moving.’
‘It’s this damn thing,’ Will says, pounding a fist in the region of his heart. I do wish he wouldn’t do that. Sends shivers down my spine. ‘Makes you think.’
‘The doctor said you’d hadn’t actually had a heart-attack,’ I point out. ‘Just a scare.’
‘It certainly was,’ Will says, with a fulsome laugh. ‘Most of my family have croaked it when they were still young. I don’t want that to happen to me. Scared me into thinking what I’d really like out of life.’
‘And that’s to sell your beautiful home?’ Serena sips at the red wine I’ve poured for her. I hold out my hands behind Will in a what-can-I-do? gesture.
I called Serena to come over and see us today with a view that she might be able to talk some sense into Will. I have tried and I have failed. My big sister is a city slicker – cool and calculating. She’ll get right to the nub of this, fight my corner for me as she’s always done. I’ve talked and talked to Will over the last three weeks and he’s systematically ignored every single thing that I’ve said. All of my protests, my objections, my desires, my insecurities have fallen on deaf ears.
‘More than that,’ my husband tells her proudly. ‘We’re leaving all of this behind.’ His sweeping gesture encompasses the room. My eyes widen further. ‘It’s only bricks and mortar at the end of the day.’
Bricks and mortar that I’ve spent the last seven years pouring loving care into, I think. But I say nothing.
Take this living room. I had handmade bookcases of fine oak commissioned to fit our nooks and crannies just perfectly. The curtains alone cost me three months’ salary – a not inconsiderable sum. The modern statement chandeliers are hand-blown Murano glass. This room could feature in Homes & Gardens, no trouble. And Will wants me to leave it all behind? On a whim? Just like that?
‘I’ve had enough of the stresses and strains of city living,’ he continues volubly. ‘It’s crowded, it’s dirty, the pollution’s terrible. I never see the children.’
‘That’s because you’re always working,’ I remind him.
‘And now things will be very different, my love.’ He reaches behind his armchair for my hand and I supply it. ‘I want to feel the wind in my hair, dirt under my nails, connect with the fact that I’m part of nature.’
Bang on the head, definitely. I do not know this man.
‘This job, this life is killing me,’ he says. ‘Literally.’
It will have to get in the queue, I think.
‘I’ve been on the internet,’ Will continues, unaware of my dark and murderous thoughts, ‘while I’ve been recuperating. There are some great properties to be had in the country.’
And some rubbish schools. How much do we pay to get our children perfectly educated and now we’re proposing to rip up our former game-plan and throw it all away? Or rather, my husband is.
‘And Amy’s in full agreement with this?’ Serena wants to know.
‘Absolutely,’ Will says.
I shake my head and mouth a very vehement, ‘No!’
Will squeezes my hand again. ‘I know that she has some doubts about leaving Town, but she’ll love the country life. I’m sure of it.’
I won’t!
‘Perhaps you could get a place within commuting distance for her so that she continue at BTC? What about that, sis?’
I clutch at the straw that’s offered. ‘That would be good.’
Now it’s Will’s turn to shake his head. ‘We want to get right away from it all. Properties within striking distance of London are still way too expensive. We want to be remote with a capital “R”.’
We don’t!
‘We’ll find other ways to make a living,’ my husband says.
‘Really?’ Serena sounds unconvinced.
‘We’ve given too much to that company over the years and they’ve been happy to bleed us dry. They badgered Amy to go into work while I was lying in hospital. They’re on the phone to me every day asking when I’ll be fit to go back. I should have told them to stick their precious job long ago.’
‘But how will you live?’ Serena asks. And I’m glad she does, because that’s exactly what I want to know too and, so far, Will hasn’t been able to give me any satisfactory answers. The British Television Company might be a rubbish employer, but are there going to be heaps of other less pressured jobs for us to rush into?
‘I could do some freelance work,’ Will says. ‘So could Amy. If we got a big enough place we could do up a few rooms and do bed and breakfast.’
My mouth drops open. I’m appalled. Bed and breakfast? Do I look like a woman who’d be comfortable doing bed and breakfast?
‘I didn’t realise that you liked the country so much,’ Serena observes.
‘Love it!’ Will pronounces decisively.
Since when? I want to scream. One holiday a year surrounded by greenery doesn’t make us natural straw chewers. We like the odd stroll among the hills once every blue moon – an hour from the convenient car park and the ubiquitous ice-cream van – but that’s our sum and total involvement with the country. We don’t possess waxed jackets. We haven’t even got wellies! You don’t need them for the occasional tootle round Hyde Park – not even in the winter.
‘Isn’t this a case of the grass is always greener?’ my sister suggests, calmly. ‘Hasn’t that become a cliché? Loads of Londoners up sticks and go to the country every year, only to find that they hate it.’
I think that’s a very reasonable observation.
My husband rocks with mirth at the thought. ‘Just because you can’t get a cappuccino on every corner doesn’t make the country a bad place.’
‘There are a lot of things – other than the availability of cappuccino – to consider.’
Like the happiness of your wife, I might add.
More hilarity from Will, who has clearly lost his wits.
‘You’ll be giving up everything that you know, all that’s been dear to you for so many years.’ Serena is presenting the voice of reason when I bet she’s seething inside due the obstinacy of my normally perfectly affable spouse. ‘Is that really wise?’
‘It’s time for a new start. Off with the old, in with the new.’
I really don’t like the sound of this at all. I’m rather attached to the old.
‘It will be better for the children. Better for us. Besides . . .’ A little laugh here from Will. ‘I’ve already given in my notice.’
My wine glass falls from my hand and smashes on our bleached oak floor. There will always be a stain there now. ‘You . . . you . . . you didn’t tell me,’ I stammer.
‘You knew I was going to do it,’ he says reasonably. ‘Graham says there’s no need for me to go back at all. How about that?’
Perhaps I can phone Will’s boss, Graham Copeland, on Monday and beg for his job back. If I go down on my knees and weep real tears copiously, he might just reconsider. BTC don’t like people who no longer want to be part of the family. They tend to take it personally. Surely they must realise that Will is unwell? Surely they can’t have taken him seriously?
‘I think we should take this very slowly,’ I venture.
Will grins magnanimously. ‘I think we should go just as soon as we can,’ he counters.
This is time for me to make my stand. I look to Serena and she nods her approval. Taking a deep breath, I say, ‘William, I’m really not sure about this at all.’
‘This is what I need,’ he implores. ‘How can you consider making me stay here in this hideous rat race? I want to escape – want us
to escape. I have dreams of providing a better life for all of us – you, me, the children. If we stay here, dealing with all the strains and stresses of modern life, I might not be here to see the children grow up. Do you think about that?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘This move will be better for all of us,’ he insists. ‘How can you possibly deny me this chance to grab a new lease of life?’
Chapter Seven
Which is why I find myself less than three months later standing outside Helmshill Grange, a sullen monstrosity of a house, deep in the Yorkshire moors. It’s July and it’s raining. The clouds are down by my knees. In London it’s probably 90 degrees. Our furniture lorry has gone missing – our tables and chairs are probably on their way to Lithuania or somewhere. Jessica is crying again. I feel like joining her.
‘We’re going to live here?’ she wails in horror. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
‘Yes, darling.’ I hug her to me.
‘But it’s spooky!’
‘It’s got character,’ I correct. And probably a couple of ghosts.
Tom is wide eyed with horror. ‘How will our friends come and play here?’ he wants to know.
‘With great difficulty’ is the answer I fail to give.
I look at the house again and my heart sinks. What was Will thinking of? What was I thinking of when I agreed with him? Except I didn’t agree with him. Not really. It’s just that I allowed him to get swept away with this ridiculous plan for a new life for us when we were all perfectly happy with our other life. That’s nowhere near the same as agreeing, is it?
‘Will I still be able to do ballet classes here?’ Jessica asks tremulously.
‘We’ll try to find a class just as soon as we’re settled.’ Which is my way of saying, ‘Probably not.’ This does not look like a place that has a wide range of leisure activities on every corner.
The house is double fronted and, once upon a time, it was probably very lovely. Now it looks like it needs several grand spending on it simply to make it habitable. The couple who lived here previously had been here all of their married lives and were, I think, a hundred and eight years old apiece and hadn’t decorated since their early twenties. They’re now snuggled up in purpose-built sheltered accommodation with gas central heating and double glazing in the nearby market town of Scarsby, and I can certainly see why that might be a more attractive proposition.
All the windows need replacing. And the roof. And the front door. The house needs re-wiring, re-plumbing, re-pointing and re-painting. Or bulldozing.
Will bought it over the internet without us actually having been here, purely on the agent’s recommendation. Which is so unlike him, as he’s previously spent our married life being as reliable as the Swiss rail network. In spite of that, the silver-tongued salesman managed to convince my husband that it was a very desirable property in a very desirable part of the world and that it wouldn’t remain on the market for more than five minutes. That bit was true enough. Three minutes later and it was ours.
The picture on the worldwide web was clearly very flattering. We have exchanged our comfortable, well-appointed home in Notting Hill for a house more suited to the Addams Family in the wilds of fuck-knows-where. The gate is hanging off its hinges and the front garden hasn’t been troubled by a mower in a very long time. My daughter could go in there and never be found again.
Jessica cries some more and, frankly, I don’t blame her. Perhaps she’s thinking the same thing as me.
Behind the house is a large open barn in a tumbledown courtyard. The garden stretches out as far as I can see into the surrounding moors, and there’s an orchard that might well be ours.
‘Look at this!’ my husband cries – but in a happy way. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
Mental note to self – I must get myself some of those rose-tinted spectacles he’s started wearing since his wobble. I would so like to be able to see life as Will sees it.
When I remain silent, he adds, ‘Admittedly it needs some work, but we can do it up slowly. Together.’
I am still stunned into speechlessness. It may surprise you to learn that I haven’t the slightest urge to renovate an old wreck. I get men in to do that kind of thing. Polish ones, usually.
‘And look at the scenery.’ Will waves his arms around.
I can see clouds. Lots of clouds. Grey ones. Grey like underwear you’ve had for too many years and really should throw out.
‘And listen.’ My husband cocks an ear in theatrical style. ‘Nothing.’ He beams at his stunned wife, his weeping daughter and his goggle-eyed, disbelieving son.
I can hear something: sheep. Lots of sheep. All complaining. Their miserable, moaning baas carry across the fields. Sensible things, sheep.
‘Breathe in that air!’ Will fills his lungs in an exaggerated manner.
I inhale and all that I can smell is poo. Probably from the whingeing sheep.
‘Where is supermarket?’ Maya wants to know.
Heaven knows how we’ve persuaded our nanny to come to this godforsaken place with us, but she’s here. She too, is now looking as if she bitterly regrets her decision.
‘Not too far,’ Will assures her. ‘It’s about half an hour from here to Scarsby.’
Maya gasps. And not with joy.
I turn and take in the rest of the village, unable to look at my new house any longer. An ITV newsreader and her music producer boyfriend are now ensconced in our lovely, lovely home in Notting Hill. They were bowled over by it, they said. I wonder what they’d make of this. I too am bowled over by Helmshill Grange – but not in a good way.
The village of Helmshill looks pretty enough, even to my biased eye. In front of the Grange, there’s a neatly mown green, complete with its own textbook duck pond. The green is bounded by a genial-looking country pub and several pint-sized cottages with roses growing round the door. There’s a stone water fountain surrounded by a blush of red geraniums. A tiny, picturesque church stands at the foot of the hills. The stone is blackened with age, but the grass round the ramshackle of tombstones is neatly trimmed. I like old churches. Maybe I’ll find the time to have a wander round there sometime. So far, so very lovely. The village hall looks too small, even for the populace of this community, but there are more geraniums in hanging baskets flourishing by the door – must be all that rain. However, there’s no shop, no post office, no chi-chi little deli selling a wide selection of olives and certainly no café serving frothy cappuccino.
Our nearest neighbour is up on the hill and to the same side of the green as the Grange. The house is an imposing modern stone place with large windows gazing down on the rest of the village in splendid isolation and I wonder, idly, who might live there.
‘Let’s get ourselves settled in then,’ Will says, rubbing his hands together in glee. ‘Home Sweet Home.’
Jessica howls again and is comforted by Maya, who is also crying. I have to be strong for them, so I’m digging my fingernails into my palms in an attempt to focus my pain.
To think that I’ve given up a wonderful, high-paid, life-affirming job for this. A job that I had fought and clawed my way up to for the best part of the last fifteen years and I’ve walked away from it because my husband wanted me to. I’ve done it for Will, because that’s what marriage is all about. And, try as I might, I’m currently wishing I hadn’t.
Maya and the children go ahead of us, but – to be honest – I can’t make my legs work. Can shock bring on paralysis?
‘Say you like it,’ Will urges. He puts his arm round me and gives me a bear hug. I feel that I might break. I’m trying so hard to smile that my cheek muscles are hurting with the effort. ‘I wouldn’t want to think that you’re unhappy.’
‘I’m not unhappy,’ I tell him. I’m desolate, despairing, desperate and devoid of all hope.
‘This is it!’ He beams at his new estate with proprietorial pride. ‘This is what I’ve always wanted. My own land as far as the eye can see.’ This from a man who
couldn’t even be bothered to do his own gardening in Notting Hill, a man who’d much rather pick up a book of poetry than a spade. ‘Now we’ll be living the dream!’
The only thing is, that it’s my husband’s dream and not mine.
Chapter Eight
Our home, it turns out, is the place where all the spiders in England come on holiday. It’s a good job that I haven’t seen Arachnophobia recently or, indeed, suffer from it otherwise I’d be in a permanent state of terror. Some of them have hairier legs than Will and are wearing hobnail boots.
Our furniture eventually arrived as darkness fell and – all credit to the removal men they unloaded the van in double-quick time. Two charming young men, Paul and Daniel of ShiftIt – movers to the clearly insane – worked frantically until midnight to make sure that we all had beds for the night. The rest of the furniture has been arranged haphazardly in more or less the appropriate rooms.
Despite still being in a state of shock that my husband is happy to swap what we had for this, I have forced myself to get out of bed even though I was tempted to stay there with the covers pulled over my head, hiding from bitter reality. From the wealth of packing cases, I’ve somehow managed to locate my oldest, skankiest clothes. Now, the next morning, Maya and I are setting to in the vast farmhouse kitchen with mops and buckets and gallons of pine-scented disinfectant. Mr and Mrs People Who Lived Here Before were clearly strangers to Mr Muscle. I haven’t yet risked opening the Aga as I feel there might be a body in it. Same reason I’m not going anywhere near the cellar.
Maya is still weeping gently as she mops.
‘It’s not so bad,’ I try to reassure her. ‘Once we get it cleaned . . .’ I falter as I realise that this could take about three years. There are mouse droppings everywhere and I didn’t actually think that I knew what mouse droppings looked like. The glass in the windows is opaque with years of grime.