The sunlight streams in uninvited; the day insistent upon me, demanding my attention. In the morning light, I can see that the overhanging roof that obscured my view of the sky last night is so much more than that. Wooden panels, as intricate as lace, line the guttering of the roof above my window. They drip down like icicles, roughened by peeling paint that would be impossible to reach to redo. At the top of each eave, I can see the underbelly and chin of a gargoyle, both with their tongues poking out in front of them. ‘Gog and Magog,’ Richard used to say every time he met a pair of anythings – puppies, infants, artwork – that could be described as ugly. I wonder if these two stone monsters are the reason why.
We are three storeys up and the view of the garden is breathtaking. Then I realise that’s the wrong phrase. This isn’t a garden, these are ‘gardens’: wild and sprawling, over-grown and unkempt, but ‘gardens’, in the same way that this apartment is ‘rooms’. I wonder if every aspect of this place will require new vocabulary. The lawn spreads away from the house – it isn’t as overgrown as I would have expected. Someone mows this vast expanse of grass, clipping the edges where the trees have been so carefully planted around it, ancient enormous trees with trunks you could never fit your arms round.
Beyond the lawns – they are large enough to be plural too – I can see what I assume is the outside edge of a walled garden. There are shrubs and vines growing over the red brick wall and back towards the house. I can only imagine what else might be in there.
To the left of the walled garden and gesturing up to the back of the house, two gold statues gleam. They are so incongruous in all the disorder, as if they have a daily maintenance routine that involves scrubbing and brushing and polishing. The two life-sized figures look like skaters, moving across the surface of a large pond but stuck, for now, in the middle. Each balances on one leg, the opposite arm outstretched and their heads turned slightly to look at one another.
‘Who are they?’ asks Leo and something in his voice says that he’s not sure whether they’re real people or not.
‘They’re statues,’ I say. ‘But I don’t know who of. Aren’t they beautiful?’
‘Are we allowed to touch them?’
‘Probably. I would have thought so. But we can’t because of the pond. The pond’s too big.’
‘I can swim.’ Leo has a twinkle in his eye.
‘I know you can but that pond is probably heaving with slime and diseases. Seriously, you must be very careful near the water. Really.’ I pat the bed beside me so he can hop on. ‘What time is it?’
We’re not in any rush so we spend the next few minutes figuring out the time on the big face of Leo’s watch. It’s not quite 7 a.m. At home we would be listening to a familiar soundtrack now. There would be movement from the flat upstairs – nothing from the Pearsons next door yet – it would be far too early for them. Below us, cars would be starting to choke the main road by our block, a popular rat-run for commuters. There would be shouts, and buses, and the wail of sirens.
I expected this place to be as silent as it was last night but it isn’t. Birds fly in and out of the eaves above my window, screeching like insistent and unanswered phones. They’re a blur but I don’t think I’d know what sort they were even if they sat still long enough. I know a pigeon from a chicken, and a sparrow from a starling, but I’m very much a city girl. There are other noises too, the trees rustle gently in the wind and bird song pours in from every angle. On the warm air, the burr of a tractor engine reaches the window, someone out and at work early. Someone with work to go to.
Leo and I are going to have to fill the days of this long still summer. Before I was made redundant, the six-week break was an urgent rush of everything we needed to get done ahead of the new term. This autumn will be different but I have no idea how, or where. I had thought that perhaps they’d need some help in the museum – I could see myself as a tour guide, knowledgeable and bossy, a bit funny – but according to Araminta there will be no museum.
‘I’m hungry.’ Leo always wakes up hungry.
‘Shall we go and find the kitchen? Then you can make some cereal.’ I had the foresight to bring a carton of UHT milk – I knew we were coming beyond civilisation. Leo won’t notice the difference if I let him have a special occasion cereal, drenched in sugar coating. The kitchen boxes are stacked up in my bedroom, the one with the bowls, cereal and spoons in is clearly marked.
‘Is the kitchen in the house?’ Leo asks.
‘I bloody hope so.’ I swing my feet out of bed.
I pull on the same clothes as yesterday, jeans and a T-shirt. Leo has already dressed himself with one of the flamboyant outfits he packed in his overnight bag. His shirt is orange and floral, underneath a waistcoat with a plaid silk front.
‘Nice Thursday kind of clothes,’ I say.
‘Thank you.’ Leo has lovely manners; everyone says so. And a complete disregard for sarcasm.
I let Leo lead the way along the corridor. He’s excited and slaps his palms on his thighs in anticipation: I wish I felt the same.
We find our way out of the flat easily enough and we’re back in the long corridor that leads to our little set of rooms. If claustrophobia had a smell, the unstirred damp of this passageway is the one it would choose.
‘It’s down here.’ Leo starts off down the corridor at a pace and I might as well trust him – he’s got as much idea of where the kitchen is as I have.
‘Hold on,’ I say. I put the breakfast things down on the floor while I check my jeans pockets. ‘I need to find the number for the alarm. We might set it off.’ The scrap of paper is still there and I chant the numbers under my breath in case I need them in a hurry. There were times in my life when remembering a four-digit code wouldn’t have been a challenge: this isn’t one of them.
‘I could dive under the alarm.’ Leo waves his arms about, an adventurer warding off any dangers. ‘I can stop it.’
‘And you’ll knock the paintings off the wall if you carry on like that. You’ve got to be careful. We can go mad when we get outside.’ I give him the cereal box and the milk carton to keep his hands busy and close to his body. ‘You take these and I’ll carry the cups and bowls.’
‘It’s a long way.’ Leo doesn’t want to carry anything.
‘It is, but when we get there you can have breakfast. I hope we haven’t missed it.’ We go down the same staircases we came up last night and back into the hallway. There must have been plenty of balls and weddings in this room once upon a time, with brides and debutantes coming down these stairs in cascades of satin and silk. Leo and I make a rather poor apology, although he’s done his best to dress for an occasion.
Several doors lead from the hall. There is the huge heavy door we came in through last night, even more impressive from the back with its iron bolts and long black hinges. The key is noticeably missing and the idea of being locked in makes me uncomfortable.
‘Let’s see if we can find another door and get into the garden.’ I keep my voice light but it is trapped in this huge hall, stifled by the fact we couldn’t get out if we wanted to. The door I pick opens on to another little corridor. At the end I can see the outside world clearly visible and still real on the other side of the back door. It is the ordinary half-glazed back door of any house, a three-bed suburban semi somewhere. It looks as out of place as we are.