where the wind desisted a little.
‘They love the s-s-space,’ stammered Brendon, red with pride. ‘My yields have sh-shot up.’
He was wearing a shirt which had on it a pattern of buxom, dark-haired women with garlands around their necks.
‘You should change your cartons,’ said Adam. ‘You’d get more business.’
‘I don’t think I can. I’ve got a new customer that likes them.’
Adam lifted his head suspiciously.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sh-shelby’s.’
‘You can’t supply someone like Shelby’s from here,’ said Adam. ‘There isn’t the infrastructure.’
Brendon moved his mouth, as though he were ingesting the word.
‘Come inside,’ he said finally. ‘You look a bit stressed out. Beverly says it’s pretty manic up there.’
We followed him through the door of the cottage and into a cramped sitting room. The ceiling sagged perilously in the middle. On one wall a large dark patch of rot was smeared across the plaster. A decrepit-looking sofa and a malformed armchair were the only furniture. The room smelled of damp and wood smoke. It didn’t look like a place where a person could live. I remembered what Adam had said about Brendon receiving perks, and wondered if this was meant to be one of them.
He went through a doorway into a lean-to that housed the kitchen. I watched him pick up a hot-water bottle that lay on the counter and unscrew the plug. With his back to us he emptied the contents into the kettle and switched it on.
‘We should sort this place out,’ said Adam, looking around. ‘People are getting a fortune for this kind of thing. They rent them out as holiday cottages. The Brices say theirs is booked nearly the whole year round.’
‘You can’t do that here,’ said Brendon from the kitchen.
‘Why not?’ Adam demanded.
‘You can’t. Dad w-wanted to. He got someone to come and look at it and they found, you know, asbestos. In the roof. So officially the building’s a, um, health hazard.’ Brendon appeared in the doorway. ‘It isn’t harmful so long as you don’t touch it.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Asbestos.’
The kitchen was so small that when the kettle boiled it sent a jet of steam out into the sitting room.
‘Bloody typical,’ muttered Adam. He seemed to think Brendon had put the asbestos there himself. ‘How much isthat going to cost to sort out, I wonder?’
‘I d-don’t know. A lot. Dad decided it wasn’t worth it. It would have h-halved the price.’
‘What price? We’re talking about renting it out, not selling it.’
‘No.’ Brendon shook his head. ‘No, it was to s-sell.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘He wanted to sell it,’ repeated Brendon. ‘With some land. Half the l-little field down the hill and –’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Adam again.
‘The problem was,’ Brendon continued, tentatively coming further into the room like something being slowly lured out of its burrow, ‘they’d have knocked it down.’
‘Who would?’
‘The new owners. And built something else. An eyesore.’ Brendon tugged at his eye with his middle finger and disappeared into the kitchen again.
‘Brendon doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ said Adam, to me.
Brendon did not contradict this, although he was now standing right beside his brother with two cups trembling in his hands. Some of the hot, light-brown liquid spilled over the brim of one of them and pattered over the carpet.
‘It’s not as if he needs the money,’ Adam persisted. ‘He’d never let a piece of the farm go, not in a million years.’
He seemed distressed, as much by the fact that he hadn’t been told about it as by the inadmissibility of the idea itself. I felt sorry for him: this was a state into which I was frequently thrown by Rebecca.
‘I was glad,’ Brendon said. ‘I didn’t want them to knock it down. This place stands on a l-ley line, you know. It’s a s-sacred site. Bad luck to harm it. Did you know Caris is coming?’ he
‘They love the s-s-space,’ stammered Brendon, red with pride. ‘My yields have sh-shot up.’
He was wearing a shirt which had on it a pattern of buxom, dark-haired women with garlands around their necks.
‘You should change your cartons,’ said Adam. ‘You’d get more business.’
‘I don’t think I can. I’ve got a new customer that likes them.’
Adam lifted his head suspiciously.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sh-shelby’s.’
‘You can’t supply someone like Shelby’s from here,’ said Adam. ‘There isn’t the infrastructure.’
Brendon moved his mouth, as though he were ingesting the word.
‘Come inside,’ he said finally. ‘You look a bit stressed out. Beverly says it’s pretty manic up there.’
We followed him through the door of the cottage and into a cramped sitting room. The ceiling sagged perilously in the middle. On one wall a large dark patch of rot was smeared across the plaster. A decrepit-looking sofa and a malformed armchair were the only furniture. The room smelled of damp and wood smoke. It didn’t look like a place where a person could live. I remembered what Adam had said about Brendon receiving perks, and wondered if this was meant to be one of them.
He went through a doorway into a lean-to that housed the kitchen. I watched him pick up a hot-water bottle that lay on the counter and unscrew the plug. With his back to us he emptied the contents into the kettle and switched it on.
‘We should sort this place out,’ said Adam, looking around. ‘People are getting a fortune for this kind of thing. They rent them out as holiday cottages. The Brices say theirs is booked nearly the whole year round.’
‘You can’t do that here,’ said Brendon from the kitchen.
‘Why not?’ Adam demanded.
‘You can’t. Dad w-wanted to. He got someone to come and look at it and they found, you know, asbestos. In the roof. So officially the building’s a, um, health hazard.’ Brendon appeared in the doorway. ‘It isn’t harmful so long as you don’t touch it.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Asbestos.’
The kitchen was so small that when the kettle boiled it sent a jet of steam out into the sitting room.
‘Bloody typical,’ muttered Adam. He seemed to think Brendon had put the asbestos there himself. ‘How much isthat going to cost to sort out, I wonder?’
‘I d-don’t know. A lot. Dad decided it wasn’t worth it. It would have h-halved the price.’
‘What price? We’re talking about renting it out, not selling it.’
‘No.’ Brendon shook his head. ‘No, it was to s-sell.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘He wanted to sell it,’ repeated Brendon. ‘With some land. Half the l-little field down the hill and –’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Adam again.
‘The problem was,’ Brendon continued, tentatively coming further into the room like something being slowly lured out of its burrow, ‘they’d have knocked it down.’
‘Who would?’
‘The new owners. And built something else. An eyesore.’ Brendon tugged at his eye with his middle finger and disappeared into the kitchen again.
‘Brendon doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ said Adam, to me.
Brendon did not contradict this, although he was now standing right beside his brother with two cups trembling in his hands. Some of the hot, light-brown liquid spilled over the brim of one of them and pattered over the carpet.
‘It’s not as if he needs the money,’ Adam persisted. ‘He’d never let a piece of the farm go, not in a million years.’
He seemed distressed, as much by the fact that he hadn’t been told about it as by the inadmissibility of the idea itself. I felt sorry for him: this was a state into which I was frequently thrown by Rebecca.
‘I was glad,’ Brendon said. ‘I didn’t want them to knock it down. This place stands on a l-ley line, you know. It’s a s-sacred site. Bad luck to harm it. Did you know Caris is coming?’ he
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