The Sweetest Thing (3 page)

My heart sinks. Another expense to add to all the others that I hadn’t budgeted for, like paying for the Aga to be serviced and having the chimneys swept before we moved in.

‘What will we sit on?’ I groan.

‘Our bums,’ says Adam.

‘Adam, that’s rude,’ Sophie says, wagging a finger at her big brother.

Dad grins. ‘We aren’t going to have much time for sitting, are we? This place is going to take a bit of work to get it sorted.’ He squints towards the exposed beams above our heads. ‘I hope you haven’t taken on too much.’

‘You do like it, though?’ I say anxiously. ‘You do think it’ll be worth it in the end?’

‘I love it, Jennie.’ Mum links her arm through mine. ‘I wish me and your dad had had the courage to move out of London when we were your age. I’d have loved a place like this. It’s so romantic, like something out of a fairytale.’

‘Without the handsome prince,’ I say wryly.

‘You don’t know that yet,’ Mum says.

But I do, I think, my chest tight with regret. With David gone, there are no princes left for me. I still feel so let down. The princess – because David did treat me as a princess to begin with – was abandoned with her three children and banished from the kingdom. Okay, it’s a modern-day fairytale without a happy ending, in which we share joint custody and I chose to move away.

‘Let me give everyone a quick tour so you know where everything is,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Let’s go.’ I pick up the cool bag and the cake boxes and take them through the next room, a kind of lobby with stairs leading up to the landing, then into the kitchen, my favourite room. It’s enormous, double aspect with views to the front of the overgrown garden, the lane and open fields, and yet more overgrown garden to the back. In the stone alcove which used to house the open
fire is an ancient but, I’m assured, perfectly serviceable Aga. To the right there is a hole in the stonework, the access point to the original bread oven that doesn’t appear to have been used for years.

Dad walks across to the stable door on the far side and opens the top, letting the afternoon sunshine stream in across the stone floor.

‘You’ll be able to bake plenty of cakes in this kitchen, Jennie,’ he says.

‘That’s what I’m planning to do,’ I say.
Jennie’s Cakes
. I can see it now. A vast oak table in the centre, cooling racks piled high with all kinds of calorie-laden goodies: cream pastries, chocolate-chip cookies, fairy cakes, tea breads, lemon drizzle cake. I picture myself flicking through an exercise book – one with a chintzy cover to go with the lifestyle, of course – filled with orders. I imagine removing three tiers of rich fruit cake, fed with brandy, from the walk-in larder, to be covered with marzipan and iced a few days before a client’s special day. My mind runs riot.

‘It’s going to take some cleaning before you get your hygiene certificate,’ Mum observes, bringing me back to earth. She scratches at the butler’s sink with her fingernail. ‘I reckon this is sixteenth-century grease.’

It’s true. I am realistic though. It’s going to be some time before I get a taste of success. Whatever. I know it’ll be sweet eventually, like golden syrup.

‘When did anyone last live here?’ says Dad, looking up at the cobwebs which hang like rags from the ceiling.

‘Mrs Barnes – the last owner – moved out a few years ago, so I’ve been told.’ I run a finger across the wooden draining board, picking up a sheen of reddish dust and a splinter. The kitchen is going to have to be sorted out
before I can set up my business – it needs a little updating.

‘It doesn’t look as if she looked after the place,’ says Dad.

‘I got the impression from the agent that she was pretty ancient.’ I squeeze the splinter out and rinse it off under the tap. The water comes out with a bang and a gurgle then a rush.

‘Like the house,’ says Adam. ‘You know, this would make a great games room, Mum.’

‘No way! This is my domain. I thought you could make yourself a den in the barn eventually. It’s twice the size of this.’

‘But the pony’s hay will have to go in the barn,’ says Georgia.

‘There are three stables,’ I point out. ‘We aren’t having three ponies so you can store pony food in one of those. Guys, we have four acres – there’s more than enough room for all of us.’

‘Yeah, I’ll be able to get away from you lot,’ Adam says, and he gives Georgia a big brotherly shove at which she flies back at him, aiming a kick at his shin, a scene repeated so many times before that I’ve lost count.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Mum says quickly, diverting them before the scrap can escalate, but I can’t help suspecting that another fight will ensue almost immediately over allocating bedrooms.

‘This is a strange layout,’ Mum observes when we reach the upper floor. All four bedrooms and the bathroom lead off one long corridor which runs along the rear of the house.

‘It’s very traditional,’ I say. ‘I’ve been doing my research, and the longhouse was built to house the
family and their animals under one roof. They would have been separated by the cross passage – the hall under our feet.’

‘How on earth do you get a cow upstairs, Mum?’ Adam says.

‘The animals didn’t live upstairs,’ I say, giving him a teasing nudge. ‘This would have been a loft with ladders up to where the people slept and where they kept the hay.’

‘Which end did the animals live in?’ Georgia asks.

‘Yeah, I wanna know because I’m not living in a cowshed,’ says Adam, the authentic voice of a twenty-first-century teen.

‘The kitchen and lobby would have been for people. The drawing-room end was the shippon, the area for the cows. That’s why the floor slopes and has a drain running down the middle. It would have been for the dung.’

‘That’s completely disgusting.’ Adam wrinkles his nose. ‘No wonder it stinks in here.’

‘It’s a lovely countryside aroma,’ Mum says, bending her knees slightly to look out of the low window where red roan and white cows are visible, grazing in the field. ‘I expect it’s from those cows – or are they bulls? – across the way there. Malcolm, are those cows or bulls?’

‘Better find out before anyone goes out there,’ Dad says.

‘We can’t go out there,’ says Georgia. ‘It’s the farmer’s field.’

‘Yuck,’ says Adam.

Ignoring him, I open the door to the first room we come across, the bathroom.

‘That’s a good size,’ says Mum before falling
silent, because that’s about all you can say. The rose-patterned wallpaper is peeling away and faded to brown. The bath has lost much of its enamel and stands in the middle of the dark floorboards. The old-fashioned toilet with its high cistern, and a chain to pull, is positioned on top of three steps like a throne.

‘I’d make a feature of that,’ says Mum brightly, ‘it’s historic.’

‘There’s no shower,’ Adam says.

‘We’ll get one fitted,’ I assure him, quickly moving on to the next room. ‘I thought this would be yours, Adam.’

He takes a quick tour of the room, opening the door to the left of the fireplace and closing it again.

‘There’s no en suite?’ he says.

‘Well, you’ve been spoiled up to now,’ I say. Adam was lucky – at our old house, he had his own shower room attached to his bedroom. ‘There is just the one bathroom.’

‘It’s like the Dark Ages,’ he says. ‘You’ll be telling me there’s no broadband connection next.’

‘Um, actually, as far as I know, there isn’t. What else did you expect, Adam? We’re out in the sticks.’

‘How am I going to get on Facebook? How am I going to keep in touch with my friends?’

‘I’ll have to contact the phone people and get them to set up some kind of internet access.’ I’m being suitably vague. I haven’t a clue what I’m talking about. David used to deal with all the techie stuff.

‘I’ll do that with you tomorrow, Adam,’ Dad tells him.

‘Okay,’ Adam says, and I wish he’d add a ‘thank you’.

‘I don’t like the look of that patch of damp up there,’ Dad says, moving closer to the window to inspect the black mould which adorns the ceiling above. However, there isn’t as much damp in Adam’s room as there is in the one which is supposed to be Sophie’s. Even more off-putting is the desiccated bat lying in the middle of the floor.

‘I’m not sleeping in here.’ Sophie squeals and runs to Mum, grabbing her around the waist. Mum strokes her hair, tangling her fingers through Sophie’s curls. ‘It’s a horrid room.’

‘It is a bit different from what you’re used to,’ Mum agrees.

‘You’ll have to share with Georgia then,’ I say, repressing a memory of Sophie’s delight at moving back into her old room after we had it redecorated with pink and pale lime paint, and a new carpet. This is shabby, dirty, and I can imagine a decrepit old lady – think Miss Havisham from
Great Expectations
– living here with her withered wedding dress and mouldering cake. Poor Sophie.

‘I don’t mind sharing,’ Sophie says hopefully.

‘I don’t wanna share,’ says Georgia.

‘I think people who want ponies might have to be a bit more accommodating,’ I point out gently. At least, if the girls share, it’ll make decorating easier. I take Georgia’s silence on the matter for a yes, and give her a hug.

‘I wanna go home,’ says Sophie. ‘I really wanna go home now.’

Mum gives me a small, sympathetic smile.

‘Let’s go and make that tea, and find some squash for the removal men. Come on, Sophie. Georgia too.’ She touches my shoulder and a few minutes later, I join
them back in the kitchen, wondering how long it’s going to take us to settle in.

There’s a lot to do, but I’m confident that I can deal with everything by taking one day at a time. The work doesn’t scare me at all. What is worrying me is the children’s reaction to the house. The last thing I want is for them to be unhappy living here.

Dad disappears with Adam for a while then reappears.

‘About the sofas,’ he begins.

‘You can’t get them indoors,’ I say, reading his expression.

‘I’m afraid we can’t get them in the barn either,’ Dad goes on.

‘It’s full of stuff already,’ Adam adds.

‘What kind of stuff?’ I say sharply, picturing my sofas having to stand outdoors, exposed to the elements.

‘Rubbish,’ says Adam.

‘Junk,’ Dad says. ‘Old lampshades, wardrobes, a roll of chicken wire …’

‘Ladders, tractor tyres, even a rusty old tractor,’ Adam goes on.

‘Great,’ I say. (I’m being sarcastic.) ‘I was told everything would be cleared out before we arrived.’

‘Did you get that in writing?’ says Dad, smiling wryly because he already knows the answer.

‘No. The agent said he’d spoken to the owner’s son and he’d promised to deal with it.’ I feel let down.

‘Come and have a look, Mum.’ Adam tugs on my arm.

‘Just a minute. Are you all right there?’ I ask Mum who’s firing up the Aga for pizza, shop-bought ones that she brought with her.

‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘Does this thing come with instructions?’

‘If it does, they’ll be written in Mediaeval English,’ Adam says, sounding more cheerful now.

‘I’ve got a book somewhere.’ Summer, my best friend, gave it to me before we left. ‘It’s called
How to Make Friends with Your Aga
.’ I’m not sure, looking at it though, that we are going to be friends and I rather wish I’d brought my old cooker with me. The cream enamel surface is chipped and scratched, and I’ll never be able to work out how to use all those ovens. It has four, and two hotplates with lids on the top.

‘It’s taking its time. There is some oil in the tank outside, isn’t there?’ Mum asks.

‘There’d better be. Mr Barnes charged me for it, right down to the last litre.’ He didn’t give anything away, except all this stuff that Dad and Adam say is in the barn.

I join them to investigate, following them back out into the late-afternoon sunshine, then picking my way across the stone path which is obscured by long grass and apologising to the poor snail that I scrunch underfoot en route. The yard is cobbled and patched with brick where the weeds have forced their way through. We skirt around the removal lorry where the men are sitting on the tailgate, taking a break, and reach the open end of the barn which is built from cob and thatch, like the house. It’s filled from floor to rafters with – well, I tend to agree with Adam – rubbish, and I’m not happy. It’s been a long, hot and increasingly frustrating day, and this is the last thing I need.

‘That Barnes man’s been nothing but a pain in the neck,’ I say, close to tears. He didn’t want to sell the house to me, and now it’s as if he’s getting back at me
for paying him good money – cash, by the way – for it. His delaying tactics almost forced me to pull out when my buyers threatened to withdraw their offer if there was no prospect of moving in until the beginning of the school summer holidays, but I managed to mollify them by knocking another two thousand off the price. ‘If he really didn’t want to sell, he shouldn’t have put it on the market in the first place.’

‘I expect he has his reasons,’ Dad says philosophically. ‘These old Devonians are never in a hurry to do anything. Don’t you remember how we used to wait hours in the tea shop for a cream tea when we were on holiday? We used to joke that they were picking the strawberries for the jam.’