The Undead. The First Seven Days (111 page)

‘Ah, well yes…possibly,’ not sure how to answer that.  Does that mean I have the job already then?

‘Well this is the house; it’s been in our family for generations, many generations,’ he says turning to hold one large arm up at the mansion behind him.

‘Oh this is the family home? I thought no one lived here?’

‘Ah yes well, there’s a rather heated legal battle going on you see.  Divided the family terribly.  Everyone thinks they’ve got a right to it.  The courts have ruled no one can live in it until the estate is resolved formally.  Which is where you come in.’

‘Me?’ What have I got to do with his family squabbles?

‘You see, no one has the right to live in it otherwise they might claim possession.  Been going on for a while now but finally we got the lawyers to get everyone to sign a contract promising they won’t try and get in until the court hearing.’

‘Right, I understand.’ I don’t.

‘The only way we could get everyone to agree was by employing someone to stay here and make sure no one tried to move in, or even get in.’

‘Get in?’

‘That’s why I’m stood outside old chap.  Some of the antiques and furniture in there are worth a fortune so we all agreed that none of the family would even enter it.’ Didn’t stop you from driving up the mile long driveway and picking me up did it fatty?

‘Ah, I understand, so you want someone here to stop anyone entering or trying to move in and claim squatter’s rights or possession by their virtue of residency?’

‘Yes! That’s wonderful! That’s it old chap, well done you!’ Patronising shit.

‘Thank you, very kind,’ I nod back, if I had a cap I would be doffing it.  He stares at me with a big smile, it seems he wants something but I don’t know what.

‘Well, do you want the job then or what old chap?’ He said finally.

‘Er, well yes of course but…’ This is the quickest interview I’ve done.  He didn’t ask me for references, or where I see myself in five years, or if I would say I’m a team player or not, he didn’t even tell me they’re a mad bunch here and it’s amazing they get any work done with all the madness.

‘Great, well here’s some petty cash in case you need anything and we’ll get the salary paid into your account.  You’ll find a list of emergency numbers on the telephone table in the main entrance.’

‘My account?’

‘Yes, you do have a bank account don’t you old chap?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Well that’s wonderful; we’ll get the money paid into that.  Do you have the details?’ He takes out a pen and notepad, writing down my account number and sort code.

‘Let me get the keys,’ He hands me a jailhouse bunch of keys on a large metal loop.

‘That’s a lot of keys.’

‘It’s a big house,’ He replies, ‘I would go in and show you round but ah, sadly the courts prevent me from crossing the threshold.  Anyway, I always find the best way is to look for oneself and get the feel for things.’ I’m sure you do, I’m sure you spend lots of your aristocratic time looking and feeling for things.

‘Of course Sir, I think the same.’

‘Splendid old chap, well I hate to rush off but well, I er…have to rush off.’ He shook my hand again with a weak grip but an energetic pump, smiling away while all the time backing up to the car.  He got in, waved and drove off.  Leaving me standing there, holding the jailhouse keys and looking about expecting someone to jump out and say “Ha gotcha” or something.  No one did jump out though and after his expensive leather upholstered Range Rover disappeared out of view I was left completely alone.

Chapter Two

The door opens into a vast majestic hallway with a black and white tiled checked tiled floor, wide and airy with a grand stair case in the middle.  Corridors down each side and huge white columns set either side.  The staircase is wide enough for eight men to walk up side by side, no banister or handrail though; Just a sheer drop down to the hard floor.  I guess health and safety didn’t figure much in whatever century this was built.  Matching grandfather clocks on either side of the wide landing and gilt framed portraits on the walls of hunting scenes, men on horseback wearing red and surrounded by small dogs.  A big man with whiskers and a red face in the middle sat on a grey horse and he bears a striking resemblance to Charles Huntington.  I open the envelope to find five hundred pounds in crisp twenty pound notes.  Petty cash! My word these people move in different circles than I’m used to.  Most places I’ve worked since leaving the force struggle to buy tea bags with their petty cash.

Still carrying my bag I head over to an antique looking telephone desk, with an old fashioned dial telephone on the top.  A printed sheet tells me to ring this number in case of emergency and more numbers of local tradesmen.  The advert said about maintenance, but there’s nothing on the note suggesting what maintaining I should do, no list of jobs or chores to be completed.  Rooting through the papers on the desk I find sheets of thick creamy paper with Huntington House embossed in gold letters across the top.  I look back at the pictures on the walls and can see why it was called Huntington House.  Very good use of creative imagination there; ‘Hey Lord Farquhar Tennyson Shithead, what shall we call our new country house that we shall use for chasing little foxes while lording it over the poor peasants, yeah I know, Huntington House, oh you’re such a card Lord Shithead.’ Switching my abusive imagination off for a while, I set the bag down and decide to follow Lord Fatty’s advice and go for a recce.  After all, it now looks like this will be my home for the next few months, or until they sort out the court issues.  My experience of civil law court proceedings tells me it could go on for years, with greedy lawyers doing their best to drag it out and keep the fee’s coming in.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the opposing lawyer teams are all members of the same golf club, meeting for funny handshakes in the sauna.

I left the bag in the entrance and started making my way through the rooms and if I wasn’t so bitter and angry at the world, my mouth would have dropped open a little more with each room I entered.  On the ground floor I find massive rooms with chaise longue, sofa’s, armchairs, dark hardwood dining tables that could seat fifty people all with matching chairs.  The floors are mostly exposed wood, with each one finished to an exact shade of varnish to match the décor of the room.  Thick carpets and rugs precisely positioned, the walls equally matching the classic tastes of the rooms.  Lightly coloured majestic wall paper, or dark wood ornately carved panelling.  It looks amazing but old and unused.  Sterile and something nice to wonder in awe at, but not homely.   A ballroom with a grand wooden dance floor, a drawing room, a sitting room, more drawing rooms and then another sitting room.  No wonder rich people are always fat; they have far too many rooms for sitting down in.

The library is awe inspiring with floor to ceiling shelves covering every inch of wall and leather bound books crammed onto every shelf.  This is the only room I’ve found that actually looks functional; desks with lamps, comfy looking armchairs and good lighting.  The view out the French doors took in the sweeping pastures going to the wooded copse and I imagine seeing myself in here most evenings reading through some of these old treasures. The carpet is a deep red colour with thick velvet curtains hanging down either side of the windows and doors.  It looks warm and inviting.

After the library, the other rooms all looked even more sterile and show-home and I knew that I wouldn’t be spending much time in them.  I could see what Lord Fatty meant about the fixtures and fittings though.  Some of these things would be worth an absolute fortune.  I hadn’t seen any sign of an alarm system, no sensors within the rooms and no wiring loops or alarm box visible on the house outside.  With the recession on and acquisitive crime on a rapid increase I was amazed this place hadn’t been emptied by now.  It was in the middle of nowhere and as far as I knew, the next nearest dwelling must be at least a couple of miles.  Thinking this prompted me to dig my mobile phone out my pocket.  I used to be on contract and have an upgrade every twelve months, but since my financial decline I had been using a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, still it did the job.  Not now though with an empty signal bar.  In case of emergency, run three miles through the house to the old phone, push the dial round to 9 three times and wait for the local bobby to turn up on his Penny Farthing a couple of hours later.  Wonderful.  Why did they do that with old phones? Put the nine at the end of the dial? Eccentric old Britain.  Those were the days when calling the police was an event, something rarely done and only in the direst of situations.  Nowadays though, people pick the phone up for anything.  The neighbour’s dog took a crap in my garden, call the police. My boundary fence has been moved by an inch, call the police.  Someone sent me a text saying I was fat, call the police.  We even had an emergency call on Christmas day a few years ago from a woman who couldn’t change a light-bulb.

At the rear of the house I find the second nicest room of the house so far; the kitchen.  Light blue wooden panelled walls and a flag stone floor perfect for sluicing off.  A huge old Aga set into one wall.  Dressers with plates stacked on shelves and mugs hanging off hooks.  Pine units and cupboards off all different size and styles set against the walls.  A double row of shiny copper pans hanging from hooks, going from small to very large, and they look used too with battered and misshapen bowls.  The big solid table in the middle had chunky metal mincers bolted to the ends and the surface of the table looked pitted, dented, burnt, scratched and just lovely.  There was life here.  None of the stuffy overly polite pretentious tripe with Lord Shithead and his merry fox hunters, this was where the real people worked and lived.  The side units were long and low with deep ceramic butchers sinks set deep.  Old style taps and expert craftsmanship everywhere.  As with the library, I knew I could happily spend time here too.  Mild panic did set in when I realised there was no microwave and I took a longer look at the Aga.  I’d seen them before in the many visits I had conducted to people’s houses for incidents.  And I knew posh people always made sure they slipped it in if they had an Aga, but I’d never actually used one.  Time for that later.

I crossed over to the back door which is held shut with a single key lock that could be popped open with a kick from an asthmatic paraplegic dosed up on sleeping tablets.  Heavy duty bolts set in the top and bottom but drawn back and not pushed home.  Some people just have no sense of security.

Shaking my head I step through into a square shaped courtyard with a high wall running round and a thick wooden gate set into it, on one side is the back of what looks like a workshop or garage.  A patio table with chairs leaning against it are the only furniture, and a few orange coloured plant pots holding withered plants.  Looking round I saw the upturned plant pot next to the door leading into the garage or workshop.  I went over and tried the door; locked.  Shaking my head I used my foot to knock the plant pot over and find the key hidden underneath.  The key unlocked the door and I was in, looking at an old style blue coloured Landrover four wheel drive vehicle with a white roof.  Workbenches bolted to the walls and big double swing doors at the front that once opened would easily give enough room for the Landy to get out.  The Landy was unlocked and I climbed in expecting to see the keys in the ignition, they weren’t.  They were wedged into the driver’s sun visor instead.  Very cunning.  One of my chores is obviously to nail a big sign up saying please come and rob this house and don’t forget to steal the shitty old Landrover while you are here. 

I expected the Landy to be just for private use on the grounds, but it had current tax in the window and unsurprisingly, the insurance certificate and other documents were all in the glove box.  It started first time and for the first time since I entered the house, instead of shaking my head, I nodded with satisfaction.  If someone had told me a couple of years ago that I would be pleased at finding myself looking after a stately home and being happy at finding a library, kitchen and Landrover I would have laughed at them, now though I’ll take whatever good fortune I can find.  The thought plummets my mind and not for the first time I feel the bitterness start to set in my stomach.  I could take some of these antiques in this Landrover get a few quid and disappear.  Do a runner; maybe even have time for a few trips.  Sell the loot and run overseas.  But then I’d be running for ever and never able to come back.  These people might be idiots but you don’t get rich by letting people rob you blind.  I would be hunted and anyway, I might be many things but I’m not a thief.

Not having the correct documentation with me, I was unable to take out a mortgage in the buffet car on the train and buy one of their tepid cups of coffee and I can feel the gnawing inside.  I head back into the kitchen, putting the Landy and garage keys in my pocket.  Rooting around I find the kettle and a jar of instant coffee and see two used wine glasses on the side next to the sink.  I sniff the contents and the pungent smell of red wine fills my nostrils.  No milk though, in fact the fridge is empty, completely empty.  Do I use the petty cash for food or am I expected to buy my own?  There’s not much choice really.  I can keep receipts and re-reimburse them when I get paid.  I hate black coffee and head back into the entrance to retrieve my bag.  I unload the side pockets on the table and find my stash of milk portions, pilfered from the train buffet car, justifying to myself that it’s not theft if it’s offered gratis.  Okay, so it’s gratis when you buy something but even my once high morale’s have had to slip to survive.