The Christmas Surprise
Page 71
‘You will.’
Finally, late, tired and absolutely starving, they arrived in the long road of identical houses. Even the dark and the rain couldn’t disguise the burnt-out cars; the washing machines and old mattresses littering the front gardens; a noisy party taking place at an upstairs window. There were plenty of beautiful streets in Derby, and some lovely houses. This wasn’t one, and that was that. Rosie sighed. Maybe it would be better than she remembered.
Lance was waiting for them under a large golf umbrella. He was wearing a huge puffa jacket over his suit, which made him look a little like a jovial bear.
‘Weather a bit different from Cornwall, then?’ said Rosie, and Lance got a rather faraway look in his eye and fumbled with his keys and said, let’s go in if we’re going, then, which Rosie didn’t think he’d have said if they were going to see somewhere really lovely.
It was worse than Rosie remembered. She didn’t know how it could be, but it was. The living room, with its dangerous-looking gas fire, and cars passing in front of the window, mere inches away, it seemed, every two seconds. The horrible kitchen, with its stained and ripped linoleum and empty unit spaces like gaping teeth; the dark stains on the peeling wallpaper; the weird, musty smell; the sagging ceilings.
‘So you know it’s very hard to find a house in your budget,’ said Lance quickly. ‘And this is an extremely vibrant area.’
As if in answer, a siren went off so loudly it sounded as if it were in the front room. Apostil woke up with a start and started grumping. Rosie ferreted in her bag for a bottle.
Upstairs was even worse. The solitary bathroom was peach in colour and deeply stained. A cracked window looked out over a tiny patch of brambles and bins that was officially their new back garden. Rosie tried not to think about the view from the dormer windows in Lipton: Lilian’s beautiful garden, with its neat rows of vegetables and stunning tumbling roses; the great rolling hills beyond their back door; barely a person to be seen; sheep occasionally straying close to town; snowdrops that would be appearing any day now, followed by daffodils carpeting the hills as spring arrived again …
Rosie blinked.
‘And the internet speeds round here are very reasonable,’ Lance was saying, obviously somewhat at a loss as to how to continue. ‘As a starter property …’ He ran out of inspiration. ‘It’s … it’s definitely a starter property.’
They were standing in a horrible, tiny bedroom at the front of the house. An old, highly suspicious mattress was lying on the floor. A bare wire came down from the ceiling; there was not even a light bulb. But the curtainless room was bright with a street light directly outside it and car headlamps shining across the pockmarked ceiling, illuminating cobwebs in every corner.
Stephen turned to Lance.
‘Can you … can you give us a minute?’
‘Sure,’ said Lance, who looked slightly nervous about going downstairs all by himself, but retreated nonetheless. Rosie could feel a familiar lump in her throat. No. She wasn’t going to cry.
Without saying a word, Stephen pulled them both into his arms.
‘We’ll make it okay,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I’m sorry … I’m so sorry I was such a dick about this. I was sticking my head in the sand, I really was. I’m so sorry. I didn’t … I didn’t realise quite how bad it was.’
Rosie swallowed.
‘There’s nothing … you know there’s nothing we can do.’
‘I know,’ said Stephen, rocking her. ‘But it’ll be all right. We’ll make it all right, won’t we?’
Another siren split the night.
‘We’ll have a roof over our heads. So many people have it much worse.’
‘But so far away from our friends, and everyone we know.’
‘So we’ll make new friends. Well, you will. I’m rubbish at it.’
‘You are,’ agreed Rosie, half laughing.
‘Come on, you’ll make it nice. It will be fine. Bit of paint …’ There was some shouting down the road. ‘Few extra burglar alarms.’
Rosie chose not to tell him that the home insurance was going to cost almost as much as the mortgage.
‘All that matters is us. Not the money, not my ridiculous family, not anybody else’s opinion. You, me and Apostil. And Lilian. Who’d better get us a REALLY good housewarming present.’
‘Lilian,’ said Rosie softly, ‘already gave me everything.’
They stood together for a while, until suddenly Rosie’s phone buzzed.
‘See. Good phone connection,’ said Stephen, trying to cheer her up.
It was a message from Pamela.
‘Fuck it,’ Rosie read. ‘My boss has had a heart attack. Old job back. Fuck yeah! Back to NYC, baby! Fuck you losers! At the airport now. Tell that brother of mine to break it to the old bat. Am sure she’ll be pleased. Oh, and you can stay in that fucking house if it means so much to you. Sayonara.’
Blinking, Stephen and Rosie walked slowly together down the rickety stairs.
‘Um,’ said Stephen, clearing his throat. ‘Lancelot.’
‘Just Lance,’ said Lance.
‘Lance. Anyway. We’ve changed our minds. For now. I don’t think we’re going to take the house.’
‘Quite right,’ said Lance instantly. ‘It’s a shithole. The survey is unbelievable. I can’t believe it’s still standing. There’s been two murders in this street in eight months.’
Rosie coughed.
‘We’re going to DISCUSS it,’ she said, looking at Stephen, horrified. ‘We’re going to TALK IT OVER.’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ said Stephen.
Apostil slept all the way home in the Land Rover, as the rain gradually turned to hail, then snow. At last they turned in to sleepy Lipton, the lights of the houses and farms shining brightly, Christmas trees lit in every window, with the town’s tree up at the market cross, its lights sparkling against the snow. In unspoken agreement they drove straight past the sweetshop, its little Christmas train in the window, then turned left, taking the steep, unlit road up through the hills that Rosie had cycled in inclement weather; where they had walked Mr Dog and picnicked and chatted and where they would teach Apostil to walk, to identify trees, to find conkers and snail shells, and worms; where he and Mr Dog could roam together, have adventures, grow up together. One hand in his father’s, the other – however it turned out – safely tucked in his mother’s, they would swing him, then later he would run, his dark eyes sparkling in the wind or the rain; his strong body filling out, raised on Isitt’s cream, and local butter and milk, and strawberries in the summer, and cabbages and carrots from their own patch, and lemon drops when he was good.
Finally, late, tired and absolutely starving, they arrived in the long road of identical houses. Even the dark and the rain couldn’t disguise the burnt-out cars; the washing machines and old mattresses littering the front gardens; a noisy party taking place at an upstairs window. There were plenty of beautiful streets in Derby, and some lovely houses. This wasn’t one, and that was that. Rosie sighed. Maybe it would be better than she remembered.
Lance was waiting for them under a large golf umbrella. He was wearing a huge puffa jacket over his suit, which made him look a little like a jovial bear.
‘Weather a bit different from Cornwall, then?’ said Rosie, and Lance got a rather faraway look in his eye and fumbled with his keys and said, let’s go in if we’re going, then, which Rosie didn’t think he’d have said if they were going to see somewhere really lovely.
It was worse than Rosie remembered. She didn’t know how it could be, but it was. The living room, with its dangerous-looking gas fire, and cars passing in front of the window, mere inches away, it seemed, every two seconds. The horrible kitchen, with its stained and ripped linoleum and empty unit spaces like gaping teeth; the dark stains on the peeling wallpaper; the weird, musty smell; the sagging ceilings.
‘So you know it’s very hard to find a house in your budget,’ said Lance quickly. ‘And this is an extremely vibrant area.’
As if in answer, a siren went off so loudly it sounded as if it were in the front room. Apostil woke up with a start and started grumping. Rosie ferreted in her bag for a bottle.
Upstairs was even worse. The solitary bathroom was peach in colour and deeply stained. A cracked window looked out over a tiny patch of brambles and bins that was officially their new back garden. Rosie tried not to think about the view from the dormer windows in Lipton: Lilian’s beautiful garden, with its neat rows of vegetables and stunning tumbling roses; the great rolling hills beyond their back door; barely a person to be seen; sheep occasionally straying close to town; snowdrops that would be appearing any day now, followed by daffodils carpeting the hills as spring arrived again …
Rosie blinked.
‘And the internet speeds round here are very reasonable,’ Lance was saying, obviously somewhat at a loss as to how to continue. ‘As a starter property …’ He ran out of inspiration. ‘It’s … it’s definitely a starter property.’
They were standing in a horrible, tiny bedroom at the front of the house. An old, highly suspicious mattress was lying on the floor. A bare wire came down from the ceiling; there was not even a light bulb. But the curtainless room was bright with a street light directly outside it and car headlamps shining across the pockmarked ceiling, illuminating cobwebs in every corner.
Stephen turned to Lance.
‘Can you … can you give us a minute?’
‘Sure,’ said Lance, who looked slightly nervous about going downstairs all by himself, but retreated nonetheless. Rosie could feel a familiar lump in her throat. No. She wasn’t going to cry.
Without saying a word, Stephen pulled them both into his arms.
‘We’ll make it okay,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I’m sorry … I’m so sorry I was such a dick about this. I was sticking my head in the sand, I really was. I’m so sorry. I didn’t … I didn’t realise quite how bad it was.’
Rosie swallowed.
‘There’s nothing … you know there’s nothing we can do.’
‘I know,’ said Stephen, rocking her. ‘But it’ll be all right. We’ll make it all right, won’t we?’
Another siren split the night.
‘We’ll have a roof over our heads. So many people have it much worse.’
‘But so far away from our friends, and everyone we know.’
‘So we’ll make new friends. Well, you will. I’m rubbish at it.’
‘You are,’ agreed Rosie, half laughing.
‘Come on, you’ll make it nice. It will be fine. Bit of paint …’ There was some shouting down the road. ‘Few extra burglar alarms.’
Rosie chose not to tell him that the home insurance was going to cost almost as much as the mortgage.
‘All that matters is us. Not the money, not my ridiculous family, not anybody else’s opinion. You, me and Apostil. And Lilian. Who’d better get us a REALLY good housewarming present.’
‘Lilian,’ said Rosie softly, ‘already gave me everything.’
They stood together for a while, until suddenly Rosie’s phone buzzed.
‘See. Good phone connection,’ said Stephen, trying to cheer her up.
It was a message from Pamela.
‘Fuck it,’ Rosie read. ‘My boss has had a heart attack. Old job back. Fuck yeah! Back to NYC, baby! Fuck you losers! At the airport now. Tell that brother of mine to break it to the old bat. Am sure she’ll be pleased. Oh, and you can stay in that fucking house if it means so much to you. Sayonara.’
Blinking, Stephen and Rosie walked slowly together down the rickety stairs.
‘Um,’ said Stephen, clearing his throat. ‘Lancelot.’
‘Just Lance,’ said Lance.
‘Lance. Anyway. We’ve changed our minds. For now. I don’t think we’re going to take the house.’
‘Quite right,’ said Lance instantly. ‘It’s a shithole. The survey is unbelievable. I can’t believe it’s still standing. There’s been two murders in this street in eight months.’
Rosie coughed.
‘We’re going to DISCUSS it,’ she said, looking at Stephen, horrified. ‘We’re going to TALK IT OVER.’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ said Stephen.
Apostil slept all the way home in the Land Rover, as the rain gradually turned to hail, then snow. At last they turned in to sleepy Lipton, the lights of the houses and farms shining brightly, Christmas trees lit in every window, with the town’s tree up at the market cross, its lights sparkling against the snow. In unspoken agreement they drove straight past the sweetshop, its little Christmas train in the window, then turned left, taking the steep, unlit road up through the hills that Rosie had cycled in inclement weather; where they had walked Mr Dog and picnicked and chatted and where they would teach Apostil to walk, to identify trees, to find conkers and snail shells, and worms; where he and Mr Dog could roam together, have adventures, grow up together. One hand in his father’s, the other – however it turned out – safely tucked in his mother’s, they would swing him, then later he would run, his dark eyes sparkling in the wind or the rain; his strong body filling out, raised on Isitt’s cream, and local butter and milk, and strawberries in the summer, and cabbages and carrots from their own patch, and lemon drops when he was good.
