Conditional Love (6 page)

There were no odd numbers, only evens, so number eight was the fourth house along. I pulled onto the drive and turned off the engine. Blood was pumping so hard round my body that I had a whooshing noise in my ears.

We all got out and stared at my inheritance.

The bungalow was unlikely to win any prizes for Britain’s prettiest home. It had two bay windows with Georgian-style panes flanking a central front door, beneath which was an untidy concrete slab serving as a step, with thistles peering through the cracks. The walls were covered in some sort of render and painted the colour of clay. The overall effect was one of a grey, melancholy face: ‘Nobody loves me,’ the house seemed to be saying. If Eeyore lived in a house, I thought to myself, fumbling with the door keys, this would be it.

‘Do you think it’s got broadband?’ asked Jess, waving her phone around trying to locate a signal.

‘I think we’ll be doing well if there’s gas and electric,’ sniffed Emma, pursing her lips.

I caught Jess nudging Emma out of the corner of my eye.

‘Are you all right, Sophie?’ asked Jess.

‘You don’t have to go in, you know,’ said Emma. ‘We could just go straight to the pub.’

Never had I been more grateful for their moral support.

‘I’m fine, thanks. Now we’re here, we might as well go in.’

I slid the key into the lock, half hoping that it wouldn’t turn so I could get back into the car and carry on with my safe, uneventful life.

The door opened smoothly.

We stepped into the dark hallway in silence. It was cold and there was a smell of damp in the air. Emma turned the light on and I pushed open one of the doors and went inside. It was the living room. Jess and Emma chose a different door. I had a feeling they were giving me some privacy.

There were three high-backed armchairs in a semi-circle in front of a gas fire and a chunky television in the corner. A single framed photograph sat on the mantelpiece and two watercolours of country scenes adorned the walls. It was old-fashioned and not to my taste, but very homely.

I was in my great aunt’s living room.

A wave of shame washed over me and my legs turned to jelly.

This old lady had been family. My relative. I was her great niece. I realised how unbelievably self-centred my reaction to her passing had been: I had focussed solely on what the inheritance meant to me, whether I was going to accept it or not; deciding if I could possibly agree to meeting my dad. I cringed with embarrassment.

I shuffled over to the 1940s fireplace and picked up the photograph. A young bride smiled out at me, in her white below-the-knee lace dress, arm in arm with her dashing young husband in his dark double-breasted suit. They looked like a lovely couple.

I sank into one of the chairs and stared at the picture.

So far I had been focussing on the fact that Jane Kennedy had foisted some pretty tricky decisions on me. What I should have worked out was that her home was the most precious thing she had and for some reason she had entrusted it to me.

My lip wobbled. I was a terrible person and I didn’t deserve so much as a tiny mention in her will, let alone the whole lot.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

On Monday, I would find out where she was buried and take some flowers. I was ashamed that I hadn’t thought to do so already.

I stood up and forced myself to look round the rest of the bungalow. My head was all over the place and my breathing was shaky. This visit was affecting me far more than I had envisaged.

A second door off the hallway revealed a double bed covered with a rose pink bedspread. A heavy old-fashioned dressing table held hairbrushes, a collection of glass bottles and a china vase containing a silk rose.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, backed away, tried another handle and went in.

This room was at back of the bungalow and contained a single bed and tall thin wardrobe. The spare room, by the look of it.

I wondered if my father had ever stayed there. I lay down on the bed and tried to imagine him as a little boy. He would be in his fifties now, I guessed. There had been some photos of him knocking around when I was little. But now I couldn’t even picture what he looked like. I used to probe my mum for information: Where did he live? Did he have another family now? Why didn’t he love us? Mum’s reaction went one of two ways depending on her mood: either a clam-like refusal to answer or a torrent of anger. I quickly learned that life was far more pleasant if I avoided the subject altogether.

When I was about thirteen, I went through a phase of really hating him. For about six months, all my teenage angst was aimed at my absent parent. I used to plot how I would track him down and force him to face up to his responsibilities. My mum had been so relieved when Take That had arrived on the scene to distract me. Then, of course, I was filled with hormones of a different kind and just as tormented.

I sat up on the bed and felt a stirring of those old angry emotions.

Why did you leave me, Dad? What sort of man walks out on a pregnant wife and then never bothers to get in touch. You knew you had a baby, weren’t you even the slightest bit interested?

I wiped a few stray tears off my face and heaved myself up.

And you, Jane Kennedy, what were you thinking, putting that condition in your will? You must have had your reasons, but I wish you were here to give me a clue.

I shook my head and sighed. Whatever she was up to from beyond the grave, it was beyond me.

The sound of Jess and Emma’s laughter echoed through the wall. I scurried off to find them, grateful to escape from my own thoughts. All these questions were giving me brain-ache.

They were in a tiny galley kitchen. Jess was demonstrating how impossible it was for a woman with a generous figure to move about.

‘I can’t even open the oven without squashing my bum on the cupboards behind me!’ she said indignantly. ‘I wonder how your great aunt managed!’

‘Perhaps she was very skinny,’ I suggested, thinking back to her wedding picture.

‘Or perhaps cooking skills run in the family and she never bothered,’ Emma said with a sly smile.

Run in the family. I shivered. I’d never even considered that we might share family traits.

‘Oh, look at this!’ Jess held up a hand-knitted tea cosy. ‘How cute! She was a tea drinker, like you.’

‘It’s a real home, isn’t it?’ I sighed, feeling close to tears again.

‘Oh babes,’ Jess squeezed her way along the kitchen and folded me to her in a bear hug. ‘I expect you’re feeling over-whelmed with it all. Well, you’ve seen it now, so we can go if you like.’

Emma opened a door at random. ‘Wow, there are at least ten tins of red salmon in here! And tinned ham, fruit cocktail… Ha! Perhaps she used to do three-tin-surprise too!’ she cackled.

I frowned and closed the cupboard door. Emma yelped and snatched her fingers away. Despite having been given a set of keys, it still felt as if we were prying.

‘So what do you think you’d do with the place?’ asked Emma, rubbing her hand.

I extracted myself from Jess’s protective arms and shrugged. ‘Oh, I dunno. Probably knock down a few walls, open the whole place up, put a power shower in…’

Whoa, where did that come from? I’m not actually planning on going through with this, am I?

Jess was staring at me, wide-eyed.

Emma’s eyebrows had all but disappeared over the top of her head. ‘Bloody hell. You’ve changed your tune,’ she spluttered.

‘Theoretically speaking, of course,’ I added, weakly.

I patted my jacket pocket for the car keys. ‘Anyone ready for that drink?’ I asked brightly, with all the avoidance tactics of a politician.

We all piled back into the car. This time, with Emma folding her long legs, origami-style, into the back seat.

I glanced at the two neighbouring bungalows, wondering which one Great Aunt Jane’s friend lived in, the one who had found her.

The car seemed to be much calmer now that we were homeward-bound. Or maybe that was just me. Either way, I was able to drift out of the Piper sisters’ debate about the benefits or otherwise of rural living and focus on my own internal struggles.

It seemed likely that if I didn’t inherit the house, it would go to her next of kin, who, I imagined, was my father. A niggling little voice in my head reminded me that if Great Aunt Jane had wanted him to have it, she would have left it to him. Perhaps she thought he didn’t deserve it? I was with her on that one.

What would happen to all her stuff, her hairbrushes and clothes and photographs? My father lived in the States, he wouldn’t want it. I couldn’t bear it if it all got scooped up and put in the dustbin.

But the house itself? In all my dreams of creating my own home, my own oasis of comfort and security, I had never pictured an ugly, damp and draughty box like that. It was old, characterless, had no redeeming features and appeared to have been built in a time that style forgot.

I was so lacking in experience in these matters. I needed some professional advice. Maybe the solicitor could help?

‘Hey! You promised a drink in a pub!’ complained Emma as we headed back into suburbia.

Or an estate agent?

I braked sharply and swerved, pulling the car half onto the pavement in front of a short run of shops. Jess squealed in terror as a double decker bus thundered past us, making the car shake.

‘Jesus, Sophie! I’m not that desperate!’ yelled Emma from the back, bracing herself between the two front seats.

‘Sorry. I need to pop in there.’ I pointed at the middle shop, which advertised itself as
Prestige Properties
. ‘I’ll be five minutes max.’

Four minutes later I jumped back in the driving seat, earning myself a shake of the fist from a passing cyclist, who I nearly wiped out with the car door.

‘D’you want to borrow these?’ he shouted, waving his glasses at me through the windscreen.

I mouthed my apologies and turned to my passengers, who looked a bit stroppy for some reason.

‘Guess what!’ I beamed. ‘The estate agent has offered to come and have a look now. What do you think?’

Their tuts and huffs told me they didn’t share my enthusiasm for a second visit to the bungalow. Something was drawing me back there, though. Mr Whelan would be expecting the keys back on Monday and I wasn’t ready to let go of them yet. Maybe the estate agent could offer me some advice? I wasn’t sure on what exactly, but surely it couldn’t hurt to have a professional opinion?

A pub on the opposite side of the busy road caught my eye.

‘Here,’ I said, rummaging in my purse for a twenty pound note and thrusting it in Jess’s hands. ‘It’ll only take me an hour. Why don’t you wait for me in the pub?’

They didn’t need asking twice.

Back on the road to Woodby, I had an attack of nerves. Technically, the bungalow wasn’t even mine. I wasn’t even sure whether I should be letting an estate agent in, let alone procuring advice. Besides that, what was I going to ask him: Oh, hello Mr Estate Agent. I might be inheriting this bungalow, but I might not. What shall I do with it?

He was hardly going to suggest what colour to paint it, was he?

Even in my limited experience, I knew that you only contacted an estate agent if you wanted to buy or sell a house. Full stop. I’d rushed in without thinking it through.

I glanced in my rear view mirror. Too late now. He was right behind me in his Ford Mondeo, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and nodding his head energetically.

Back on the drive at the bungalow, I waited as the estate agent pulled up behind me and then sat in his car, playing air guitar, apparently waiting for the end of the track. The music was so loud, I could feel the bass through the paving slabs. Something with crashing drums and electric guitars.

‘
Now That’s What I Call Music Sixteen
. The best
Now
album in my opinion,’ he said, emerging from the car, puffing his cheeks and shaking his head. ‘Queen. Legend.’

I shook his hot hand. Mr Hanley had oily hair and a handlebar moustache. Perhaps he wore a white vest top and tight white trousers when he was off duty? The thought made me feel a bit queasy. He certainly wasn’t built like Freddie Mercury, I noted, as he forced his shiny jacket to button up.

‘Well, well, well.’ His eyes roamed the frontage of the bungalow greedily. He jotted a few notes on his clipboard. ‘A hidden gem, as we say in the business.’

‘Thanks for doing this at such short notice, Mr Hanley.’ I ushered him into the dark hallway.

‘No trouble at all,’ he chuckled. ‘And call me Colin. The property market can be a scary place for a first timer. Especially a young lady on her own.’

I swallowed a snarky retort, trying not to bristle. He would be patting me on the head and giving me a sweetie next.

‘So, what does the future hold for this humble abode, then?’ asked Colin.

Oh, if only it were that simple! If only I could fast-forward the next few weeks, months even, and reappear when things were less complicated.

‘Let me show you around,’ I suggested, avoiding the question. ‘With your expertise, I’m sure you’ll have some good ideas.’

I gestured for Colin to follow me. This time the tour of the bungalow didn’t take long, and five minutes later we were in the garden, perched on a moss-covered wooden bench.

‘What do you think?’ Despite my initial impression of the house being dreary from the outside, I was already feeling unaccountably protective towards the little place and found myself wanting him to like it.

Colin smoothed his shirt down over his pie-and-pint belly and clamped his mouth together in a lipless smile. He breathed hard out through his nose. His expression was one of a doctor about to impart bad news.

‘The trouble with these properties built in the thirties is that they were thrown up quickly in the boom years and the build quality was very poor. The walls are thin and there will be no insulation.’

My face drooped, along with my expectations.

‘They’re prone to damp. This garden is on a slope, leading towards the property, so water will run off the fields behind and into the foundations – if there are any,’ he chuckled.