free local papers, one of which lies open on the carpet. We don’t get the local news at home as David has put a sign on our letter box to forbid delivery
of anything not directly addressed to us, and since the accident he’s been even more guarded with what I see. The few times I’ve gone to watch TV, I’ve not been able to find the
remote control. But really I’m a coward; I could go online and check the news but I choose not to. On the floor at Mum’s house, I flick through the pages of news and community trivia.
It surprises me that all this living goes on without me. Trapped cats, fights in the High Street, a vandalized bus shelter. Names: Marjorie Staples, Brian Cahoon, Anita Brand. Is it they who are
invisible or me? A large section of the paper is dedicated to the campaign against Alex’s development off Blackthorn Lane, and there are several pages of protest letters alongside photos of
old women in anoraks holding banners. The centrefold shows a group of activists dressed in blends of khaki, as if they’ve all shared a giant washing machine on a hot wash. Hairstyles are
matted, scarves and piercings feature large. They stand at the entrance to the woods and in the forefront is their leader, a man captioned as ‘Tyrone Aldridge’. He’s tall and
muscular, and in one hand he holds a chain. His other arm crosses the shoulder of a pregnant woman with a small baby. The caption reads, ‘We shall not be moved.’
Folding the paper shut, I catch the front-page headline: MYSTERY BODY FOUND NEAR CONTROVERSIAL DEVELOPMENT . A picture of a road – the road I drove down, Blackthorn
Lane – and an aerial map pinpoints the location of the body, some way from the development site but in the same woods. The article talks of ‘levels of decay consistent with a
month’ and ‘police treating the death as suspicious’.
There are voices and then keys in the door. Simon enters, followed by a young couple flapping the house details in their hands. Two children lunge after them, leaving wet footprints on the
carpet, and they scatter into the rooms. Simon’s eyes search the space and settle on me on the floor, my legs splayed out and surrounded by papers.
‘Good God, Rachel, are you OK?’ He moves to help me but I wave him away. ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this. What on earth are you doing down there?’
Pushing myself up, I stand with a small sway.
‘This is Sally and Clive,’ he says, ‘they had a viewing only yesterday, and they love the house.’ Simon extends his arm behind the two people standing on the other side
of the lounge door. He prods them gently forward from the comfort of the doorway. ‘They rang on the off-chance of a second viewing today and, as I knew I was meeting you here . . . I hope you
don’t mind. I tried calling but your mobile was switched off.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, stroking down my rumpled clothes.
Sally bounds forward and stretches her arm out to me. I shake her hand.
‘So nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘I was just saying to Clive, it’s always good to meet the former owners. Get the vibes and all. Check out they’re not murderers or
anything.’
The couple look at each other and laugh. Simon joins in with a bellow.
‘How long did you live here?’ Clive asks.
After a pause I realize he’s talking to me. ‘Oh, when I was a child.’ I shift my feet. ‘It was my mother’s house. I left years ago.’
‘I love the way you’ve kept all the original features,’ Sally says. ‘So many people ripped these houses to pieces. I mean, you have the old Bakelite door handles and
everything. Your mum had a real eye for quality.’
‘Um, yes.’ I smile. Mum hated all this old stuff, but if you wait long enough everything comes back into fashion. Sally laughs a small laugh. We all stare at each other.
‘Do you mind if I start the tour, Rachel?’ Simon asks, then turns to the couple. ‘Or would you rather show yourselves round this time? Get a
of anything not directly addressed to us, and since the accident he’s been even more guarded with what I see. The few times I’ve gone to watch TV, I’ve not been able to find the
remote control. But really I’m a coward; I could go online and check the news but I choose not to. On the floor at Mum’s house, I flick through the pages of news and community trivia.
It surprises me that all this living goes on without me. Trapped cats, fights in the High Street, a vandalized bus shelter. Names: Marjorie Staples, Brian Cahoon, Anita Brand. Is it they who are
invisible or me? A large section of the paper is dedicated to the campaign against Alex’s development off Blackthorn Lane, and there are several pages of protest letters alongside photos of
old women in anoraks holding banners. The centrefold shows a group of activists dressed in blends of khaki, as if they’ve all shared a giant washing machine on a hot wash. Hairstyles are
matted, scarves and piercings feature large. They stand at the entrance to the woods and in the forefront is their leader, a man captioned as ‘Tyrone Aldridge’. He’s tall and
muscular, and in one hand he holds a chain. His other arm crosses the shoulder of a pregnant woman with a small baby. The caption reads, ‘We shall not be moved.’
Folding the paper shut, I catch the front-page headline: MYSTERY BODY FOUND NEAR CONTROVERSIAL DEVELOPMENT . A picture of a road – the road I drove down, Blackthorn
Lane – and an aerial map pinpoints the location of the body, some way from the development site but in the same woods. The article talks of ‘levels of decay consistent with a
month’ and ‘police treating the death as suspicious’.
There are voices and then keys in the door. Simon enters, followed by a young couple flapping the house details in their hands. Two children lunge after them, leaving wet footprints on the
carpet, and they scatter into the rooms. Simon’s eyes search the space and settle on me on the floor, my legs splayed out and surrounded by papers.
‘Good God, Rachel, are you OK?’ He moves to help me but I wave him away. ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this. What on earth are you doing down there?’
Pushing myself up, I stand with a small sway.
‘This is Sally and Clive,’ he says, ‘they had a viewing only yesterday, and they love the house.’ Simon extends his arm behind the two people standing on the other side
of the lounge door. He prods them gently forward from the comfort of the doorway. ‘They rang on the off-chance of a second viewing today and, as I knew I was meeting you here . . . I hope you
don’t mind. I tried calling but your mobile was switched off.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, stroking down my rumpled clothes.
Sally bounds forward and stretches her arm out to me. I shake her hand.
‘So nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘I was just saying to Clive, it’s always good to meet the former owners. Get the vibes and all. Check out they’re not murderers or
anything.’
The couple look at each other and laugh. Simon joins in with a bellow.
‘How long did you live here?’ Clive asks.
After a pause I realize he’s talking to me. ‘Oh, when I was a child.’ I shift my feet. ‘It was my mother’s house. I left years ago.’
‘I love the way you’ve kept all the original features,’ Sally says. ‘So many people ripped these houses to pieces. I mean, you have the old Bakelite door handles and
everything. Your mum had a real eye for quality.’
‘Um, yes.’ I smile. Mum hated all this old stuff, but if you wait long enough everything comes back into fashion. Sally laughs a small laugh. We all stare at each other.
‘Do you mind if I start the tour, Rachel?’ Simon asks, then turns to the couple. ‘Or would you rather show yourselves round this time? Get a
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