proper feel for the
place.’
The children’s footsteps thump up the stairs and they go into one of the rooms and shout. It sounds like a fight. There’s crying.
‘Yes, that’s a great idea,’ Clive says and nudges his wife towards the stairs. ‘See you in a mo.’
They follow the children up and their voices filter through the threadbare carpet and floorboards above my head. More screams, shouting from the mum, then quiet.
‘Are you OK, Rachel?’ Simon says.
‘I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting anyone apart from you, that’s all.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. Bit of a surprise for me too, but you have to strike while the iron’s hot. They’re the only people who’ve asked for a second viewing
since the property went on the market, and I know you’re keen to sell. After all, if the Sandersons take the bait then we’re all done and dusted, and our change of tactics meeting is
null and void.’
I hold my hands together in a tight grip to stop them from shaking and look out the window.
‘It’s always sad leaving the family home,’ he says. ‘Would you like to be alone for a bit?’
I turn to him. ‘Yes, thank you, that would be good.’
He follows the Sandersons upstairs and I pick up the paper again, reading the article in more depth. ‘Police not ruling out foul play . . . searching the UK Missing Persons register . . .
appealing for witnesses . . . building work for new estate on hold.’ The whole newspaper is too big to fit in my bag but the front two pages will, so I fold them into a small square and zip
them inside a pocket, the same place I keep the man’s watch.
Footsteps move slowly in and out of the rooms upstairs. Doors squeak. ‘I want this room,’ I hear one of the children say. ‘No, I want it,’ from the other. ‘She
always gets what she wants, it’s not fair.’ Relaxed laughter from the parents, no more scolding, already at ease in the house, and I sense that they will buy. Simon bounds down the
stairs and from his speed I can tell he’s taking two at a time. He launches himself through the lounge door, cheeks blazing with the possibility of a sale.
‘Rachel, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ He takes a moment to catch his breath. ‘I know it’s something the surveyors will pick up on, but as you’re here, we could
really speed this thing along.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Sandersons, they have a question about a wall. I wonder if you could help?’
I follow Simon up the stairs. With each step, his trousers lever up and reveal an inch of stripy sock at his ankle. There’s mud on the heels of his shoes and the dirt has bled into the hem
of his trousers, but all he’ll see is the polished leather on the toes of his shoes and the neat line of his trousers as they drop across the laces.
Upstairs the viewers are huddled in my old bedroom and the children bounce on a bed frame that’s been left by the house clearers. Sally and Clive are tapping walls and listening to the
dull knocks, opening a tall floor-to-ceiling cupboard in the far corner next to the window. Inside the cupboard is an immersion tank, and above this are slatted pine shelves. When I was a child,
after I’d brought the washing in from the line, I’d fold the clothes on to these shelves. The system involved making three piles: one for me, one for Mum and one for towels and bedding.
They would dry beautifully in the warm space. The lagging round the tank is trussed up with thin leather belts and buckles, like a series of Victorian waists. Fibrous fluff, probably asbestos,
puffs out from slits in the material, and underneath is a rust-red tank through which has passed the water of so many of my baths.
‘We were wondering,’ says Sally, ‘if you knew when this was put in? The cupboard, I mean. Whether it was an addition to the house or if this wall’s meant to be here? You
know, if it’s a supporting wall?’
The couple keep their eyes on me.
‘You see,’ says Clive, ‘we’d
place.’
The children’s footsteps thump up the stairs and they go into one of the rooms and shout. It sounds like a fight. There’s crying.
‘Yes, that’s a great idea,’ Clive says and nudges his wife towards the stairs. ‘See you in a mo.’
They follow the children up and their voices filter through the threadbare carpet and floorboards above my head. More screams, shouting from the mum, then quiet.
‘Are you OK, Rachel?’ Simon says.
‘I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting anyone apart from you, that’s all.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. Bit of a surprise for me too, but you have to strike while the iron’s hot. They’re the only people who’ve asked for a second viewing
since the property went on the market, and I know you’re keen to sell. After all, if the Sandersons take the bait then we’re all done and dusted, and our change of tactics meeting is
null and void.’
I hold my hands together in a tight grip to stop them from shaking and look out the window.
‘It’s always sad leaving the family home,’ he says. ‘Would you like to be alone for a bit?’
I turn to him. ‘Yes, thank you, that would be good.’
He follows the Sandersons upstairs and I pick up the paper again, reading the article in more depth. ‘Police not ruling out foul play . . . searching the UK Missing Persons register . . .
appealing for witnesses . . . building work for new estate on hold.’ The whole newspaper is too big to fit in my bag but the front two pages will, so I fold them into a small square and zip
them inside a pocket, the same place I keep the man’s watch.
Footsteps move slowly in and out of the rooms upstairs. Doors squeak. ‘I want this room,’ I hear one of the children say. ‘No, I want it,’ from the other. ‘She
always gets what she wants, it’s not fair.’ Relaxed laughter from the parents, no more scolding, already at ease in the house, and I sense that they will buy. Simon bounds down the
stairs and from his speed I can tell he’s taking two at a time. He launches himself through the lounge door, cheeks blazing with the possibility of a sale.
‘Rachel, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ He takes a moment to catch his breath. ‘I know it’s something the surveyors will pick up on, but as you’re here, we could
really speed this thing along.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Sandersons, they have a question about a wall. I wonder if you could help?’
I follow Simon up the stairs. With each step, his trousers lever up and reveal an inch of stripy sock at his ankle. There’s mud on the heels of his shoes and the dirt has bled into the hem
of his trousers, but all he’ll see is the polished leather on the toes of his shoes and the neat line of his trousers as they drop across the laces.
Upstairs the viewers are huddled in my old bedroom and the children bounce on a bed frame that’s been left by the house clearers. Sally and Clive are tapping walls and listening to the
dull knocks, opening a tall floor-to-ceiling cupboard in the far corner next to the window. Inside the cupboard is an immersion tank, and above this are slatted pine shelves. When I was a child,
after I’d brought the washing in from the line, I’d fold the clothes on to these shelves. The system involved making three piles: one for me, one for Mum and one for towels and bedding.
They would dry beautifully in the warm space. The lagging round the tank is trussed up with thin leather belts and buckles, like a series of Victorian waists. Fibrous fluff, probably asbestos,
puffs out from slits in the material, and underneath is a rust-red tank through which has passed the water of so many of my baths.
‘We were wondering,’ says Sally, ‘if you knew when this was put in? The cupboard, I mean. Whether it was an addition to the house or if this wall’s meant to be here? You
know, if it’s a supporting wall?’
The couple keep their eyes on me.
‘You see,’ says Clive, ‘we’d
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