I drag myself back to the present; that’s all in the past and I need to let it go. Instead I concentrate on the view from the window and see that finally we’ve arrived.
We turn into Cleaver’s Lane, flanked on one side by fields and the other by dense woodland. The trees arch over the road, unfurling their leaves toward the light. The property is on the right, with rusted gates opening onto a gravel carriageway between the trees. “The Lodge,” incongruously painted directly onto the gatepost, removes any element of doubt that we’re at our destination.
“It is the same house, I’m sure of it,” Tom says.
His awestruck tone makes me want to slap him. My bad.
The driveway opens out onto an expanse of neglected lawn and directly in front of us is the house. It’s a Victorian villa with red brick elevations beneath a tiled roof. Despite my reservations I have to admit it is an attractive house, mellow and welcoming in the afternoon sun.
A car is parked on the gravel and as we pull up, the agent from Stratton and Keep gets out to greet us. He’s a tall thin man with an exceptionally high forehead and comedic teeth. He introduces himself as Kevin Gaines and proceeds to enthusiastically pump Tom’s hand all the way to the front door.
“So glad you’ve made it, hope it wasn’t too difficult to find. This really is an absolute gem, been empty for a while but the old boy has finally had to sell up. You’re the first to see it and lucky I’d say, as I’m pretty sure it’ll be snapped up.”
I try to catch Tom’s eye but my amusement in the moment is gone as I see the expression on his face. He is spellbound and I start to understand he will stop at nothing to own this place.
Mr. Gaines turns to shake my hand. “You must be Mrs. Dryland, so pleased to meet you.”
His hand is cold and clammy against my skin and I resist the urge to pull mine away and rub it frantically against my jeans. There was a time when I would’ve done, with scant regard for politeness or social nicety, probably shouting “Clammy!” a couple of times for good measure. I’ve come a long way since then; now I smile and make do with a surreptitious wipe.
“I’m Isabel, Isabel Dryland-Weir.”
I have retained my maiden name, in part for professional reasons but also to hold on to my identity. If you lose yourself as I once did, you feel the need to grasp more tightly to the newfound you.
The front door opens onto a narrow entrance hall with dark floorboards and a faded runner leading up the wide staircase. The earthy smell of mildew and neglect seeps from the walls, mingled with an undertone of wood smoke. For a moment I feel a fleeting sense of déjà vu that passes as quickly as it came.
Two doors open immediately off the hallway. To the left there’s a dining room carpeted in a mossy green. There’s a fire still laid in the grate as though waiting for the owner’s return, the logs now silvered with cobwebs and dust. The walls are papered; striped in burgundy, cream and a dusty verdigris that was probably once gold. The paper is lifting at the edges, curling back to expose the flesh-pink plaster beneath, like a wound.
To the right is a sitting room, which extends into a later addition to the property, giving dual aspect to the garden and grounds. Some furniture remains and faded curtains hang from fringed pelmets. A desiccated houseplant of unknown provenance sits browning on the windowsill, its leaves turned toward the glass as though reaching in desperation for the sunlight and moisture beyond. Its partner, a parched chlorophytum, listlessly dangles its spidery babies over the sill in the vain hope they’ll find water. Although it’s hard to ignore the melancholy air of neglect, I like the feel of this room and the play of the light through the dual windows. For the first time I glimpse the possibilities of what I could do with a house like this.
Tom is deep in conversation with his new friend Kevin, animatedly discussing renovation options, and I follow them through the dining room into the kitchen. I don’t like the kitchen at all. It makes me feel disoriented and trapped. I need air. I go to the back door and fumble with the latch. It won’t open.
“Steady on Mrs. Dryland, it’s locked. Here, I’ve got the key.”
Gaines unlocks the door and I stumble into the garden. Tom appears not to have noticed my distress. I feel irritated both with myself and with him. I occasionally get panicked in unfamiliar places and though it is another thing that frustrates me, I seem unable to control it. Tom is usually sensitive to this, sometimes annoyingly so, but today he is preoccupied, wrapped up in his desire for this house.
I take several deep breaths and compose myself before returning to the kitchen and its air of oppressiveness and neglect.
Kevin Gaines looks quizzically at me but says nothing, instead continuing his conversation with Tom. The house is apparently owned by a retired clinician, a widower with dementia who now lives in sheltered accommodation. His daughter has power of attorney and it’s she who’s handling the sale. I switch off, concentrating instead on the view from the window, so many trees and the impression of nothing for miles. It’s so unlike home.
Tom is talking to me. “I love it,” he says, “we could really put our stamp on it, make it a home. We probably won’t get another chance to find anything like this. What do you think Iz?”
I certainly have the urge to stamp on something, but I don’t have the heart or the energy to quash his enthusiasm. I say nothing.
We continue our guided tour of the property to the soundtrack of Kevin’s sales patter. Downstairs the remaining rooms are pleasant, if unremarkable. There’s a study, a larder cum storeroom, a cloakroom and upstairs four “exceptionally spacious” bedrooms and two bathrooms. Above it all is an attic “with options to convert” but to which there’s currently no means of access.
Tom desperately wants to see the grounds. There’s close to four acres in all, which is mind-blowing compared to where we live now—unless you consider the numerous parks and the communal green space we share with our neighbors. He bounds out the door with such exuberance I half expect Kevin to throw him a stick or a ball.
I have taken against Mr. Gaines and it isn’t just the unfortunate dentition. I find him overly chummy and patronizing with Tom and dismissive of me, so I’m glad when he asks if we’d like to “do the outside” on our own.
“I have another viewing to do, so if you’re okay on your own I’ll just lock up and leave you guys to it.”
He self-importantly locks up the house, testing the locks and patting his pockets a few times before making his way to his car. I watch him drive away with some relief. My threshold for irritation can be low.
The “outside” is spectacular, I can’t deny it. To think we might actually afford all this. At the rear there is garden laid to lawn, with trees and shrubbery. Weed-strewn flowerbeds and a sundial covered in moss and lichen. There’s a vegetable patch and beyond that a paddock and what was once a tennis court. There’s also an orchard and woodland—everything so dazzlingly green and overgrown but somehow the better for it. There is a beauty in this place that touches the artist in me, a thousand shades from viridian to chartreuse. But there is also the potential for darkness, for how many would-be attackers could such leafy covert conceal?
I shrug the thought away and despite myself can feel the pull of this place. It’s a mixture of attraction and repulsion. We fetch the picnic basket from the car and settle under the trees in the orchard.