“Yeah.”
“Let me see a smile. There’s a good lad. Wait here a mo.” She left Hollis in the kitchen. The yellowed fridge clicked on, vibrating the Ziggy Stardust magnet that held up a pizza takeaway menu with coupons three years out of date.
“Here we are.” She handed over the plastic bag.
“What’s this?”
“Open it and see.”
Hollis set the bag on the laminate countertop, wincing as its contents clanked, and pulled out a brand-new frying pan and electric kettle.
“Couldn’t have you going without your morning fry-ups, could I? Best thing for a hangover, ain’t it?”
“Mam, you didn’t . . . there’s a kettle here.” He pointed to the plastic one on the counter, lime scale visible through the blue measuring window.
“You deserve your own. Now, keep ’em clean. I don’t want to see mold growing over the sides. And after you wash ’em, they go right back in your room. They’re not for anyone else, all right? They’re yours.” She hugged him, her head barely reaching his chest as he wrapped his arms around her wide shoulders.
“There.” She pulled away. “Enough of that now. Best be off. Dad needs the car for bingo. Saw a chippy down the road, off that round-about. Get yourself a good meal tonight.”
“Yes, Mam.” He walked her to the door.
“Oh, and here.” She pressed her cigarette pack into his hand. “Don’t spend it all in one place.” She winked again, then waddled to the Escort, breathless by the time she reached it. “Call us tomorrow!” she shouted, voice hoarse. “Let us know how you’re getting on.”
“Aye!” He waved her off, watching her lopsided three-point turn and listening to the engine’s rattle as it sputtered into the distance. The street fell into a silence made worse when he closed the front door, the house filling with the type of quiet unfamiliar to a teenager with three brothers, a mam, a dad, and a gran squeezed into a two-story, one-bath maisonette.
He brought up the new kettle and pan, tucking them on top of the wardrobe. From the outside pocket of his knapsack, he pulled out the wrinkled Freshers’ Week pamphlet and plopped onto the bed, resting his head against the wall. There were plenty of things to keep him busy—parties, pub crawls, picnics. Enough so he wouldn’t get bored. So it wouldn’t be so quiet. Hollis took out his lighter and opened the half-empty cigarette pack Mam handed him. Only then did he notice the £20 note stuffed inside.
It was later in the day, but not long after Hollis slipped the note into his wallet, that Lorna Torrington paused before house number 215. Sweat rolled down her back, plastering her fringe to her forehead and producing a faint odor from her armpits. Though exhausted after walking from the train station, her arms and back sagging from the weight of her luggage, it was the sight of the building itself that made her drop her things.
“Shit.”
The pictures from the estate agent hadn’t depicted the water-stained roof, cracked front steps, or clogged gutters. She leaned against a pillar box and considered returning to the agency and demanding to be let out of her lease, but as the feeling returned to her shoulders and arms, she decided it was better to be stuck in this near-condemned pit than homeless for the night or taking the convoluted train route back to her parents’.
“Might be better on the inside.”
She took it in trips to carry her bags up to the front door, which squeaked open without the need for a key.
“What an exceptionally good start.” She kicked the door in and dragged her first bag over the threshold.
Lorna had requested a bedroom on the highest floor, preferably in the corner where it would be quiet, so of course her bedroom key opened a room one floor up across from the bathroom. Perhaps if one of her housemates were particularly gullible, she could convince them to swap. For now, she was stuck with scratched white walls, a metal-framed bed, and a flimsy fabric wardrobe. The beat-up desk sported a pink Post-it proclaiming DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY! Lorna crumpled up the note and tossed it in the bin.
When she made her second trip downstairs, she peeked through the kitchen, not sure if she was prepared to learn of its condition, and spotted someone in the garden. She watched as a guy in a baggy hoodie and torn jeans sat on a three-legged lounger and held a flame to a pink bag. She crossed her arms and leaned against the door jamb.
“What are you doing?”
“Naught.” The boy dropped the lighter. “I’m Hollis.”
“Do you have a habit of setting things on fire, Hollis?”
He shrugged.
“Right. Keep it outside. I haven’t bothered to get renter’s insurance, and I don’t want all my things going up in flames.”
He shrugged again. Lorna decided that was the extent of his communicative abilities and turned to go inside.
“Hey! What’s your name?”
Lorna kept walking.
Having carried all her belongings to her room, she locked her door and pulled out her books and word processor. She tried the small television, but it wouldn’t turn on. In fact, all the outlets in her room were dead.
“Is everyone here completely useless?”
Lorna called the agency from the house phone but received no answer.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Back in her room, she opened the letter her mum had handed her before she left. Sixty pounds and a photograph of her Spitz-mix, Alfie, dumped into her lap. Mum had scribbled on the back of the photo: He misses you already!
Lorna stared at his smiling face and her chest tightened. Alfie would love that back garden, she thought, but pets weren’t allowed. For their own safety, most likely. If the boy outside was any indication, her housemates were liable to set Alfie on fire or feed him beer and crisps. No, he was better at home without her. She could trust Mum and Dad to take decent care of him, even if it meant he couldn’t be here, snuggled up at the end of her bed or sitting at her feet as she finished an essay.
Unable to sit still, Lorna tried the electrical outlets again, flicking the switches off and on. No power. She unlocked her door, ready to handle this in person at the estate agent’s office, when a flurry of chirpy voices rose from downstairs. Lorna retreated and locked the door. As the voices escalated, she sat on her bed and stared at Alfie’s photo, willing the house to quiet.
Lorna could’ve had her quiet if it weren’t for Eleanor Hunt. She was squealing as soon as her father parked the Rover. The house, to her, was absolutely marvelous. Everything. From the little painted fence to the decorated sashes.
“Are you certain this is it, poppet?”
“Caldwell Street, number 215,” Ellie read from her notes. “Oh, Daddy, isn’t it wonderful?”
“It’s certainly something.”
Her sandals flapped on the pavement as she ran through the front door.
“Hello?”
Light trickled in from the back of the house, but the front room remained dark until she flung back the faded red curtains, allowing the sun to pour in. Dust motes danced in the air. Bathed in light, the sunken pink sofa looked like a smile, and the pale yellow paint a sunrise. She ran her fingers across the mantelpiece above the bricked-up gas fire-place despite the dust. When her father entered with the first of her bags, Ellie skipped across the carpet and clung to his arm.