have to take this out and knock through. The room’s far too small, and if we opened it up we could make a proper bedroom for the
kids.’
Underneath my clothes it’s as if a blow heater’s been turned on. I look past the couple’s shoulders to the window, wishing I could open it and fill the room with freezing air,
but Sally and Clive already have their coats pulled tight round them. Outside, a tree close to the house sways in the wind. Once I’d tried to jump on to a branch from the window, but looking
at it now, I never would have made it. Mum caught me before I made the leap and smacked me. Years later, when she recounted this story, she told me, ‘You were always trying to run before you
could walk. You never had any sense.’ I’d wanted to shout, ‘I was a child. You were the adult. Where were the lessons?’
‘Clive’s a bit of a DIY nut,’ Sally says. ‘Likes nothing better than to strip a place bare and start again. Obviously if this is a supporting wall and we’ve got to
put in steels it’s more expensive, and we may have to put in a lower offer.’
The cupboard is thin, like a larder, and it goes back a long way. The immersion tank sits at the end and in front is space for more shelves, but they’ve been taken out and stacked down the
side, the brackets left on the walls. I kneel down and squeeze into the small space. A smell lifts up: dust mixed with something sharp, ammonia, but it’s faint. There are stains on the
carpet, big plumes of dark colour, like ink. On the wall inside is a quote I wrote in pen – some hippy thing Mum’d said after being dumped by one of her boyfriends, about letting the
one you love go free.
I straighten up and bang my head in the small space as I try to catch my breath.
‘And we wanted to know what this was for,’ Sally says, prodding a hinge and rusty padlock hanging on the inside of the door. ‘What d’you think your mum kept in there? A
family of pixies?’ She laughs. ‘So strange to have a lock on the inside, don’t you think?’
I pull off my jacket to try and get some air as I lean against the wall. A slick of wet is left on my hand after I wipe my forehead. The Sandersons look at each other with concern, and Simon
moves towards me.
‘Is everything all right, Rachel?’ he says. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘No, I’m fine, just getting over the flu, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Sally. ‘Look at us keeping you here when you’re not well.’
‘Yes, I have to go. Please excuse me.’ And I walk towards the door, my footsteps out of kilter.
‘Did you . . . I mean, if it’s possible before you go,’ Simon calls to my back, ‘have any thoughts about this wall?’
I turn to see the trio lit up for my answer, the sale more important than any health issues I might have, though they’d fall over backwards to disagree.
‘The cupboard was built when we had the heating put in,’ I say. ‘You can rip the whole thing out. Take it all down. Get rid of everything.’
I hurry back downstairs, not bothering to say goodbye, and close the front door behind me. The garden path is a chequerboard pattern and some of the tiles are broken where the frost has got in.
In the centre the tiles dip a couple of millimetres, worn down by each person who walked the path: Mum, Dad, a smaller me, past owners, generations of postmen and milkmen chipping away a few atoms
at a time. New tiles are expensive, so the Sandersons will probably skim over the top with concrete and fossilize the pattern. I think of the new family coming into this house, Sally and Clive,
their two kids running to the door after school, and I hope for them that the walls give up the old so that the family can start anew.
9
1979
Our house is on a road where all the houses look the same. Upstairs above the main bedroom the pointy bit of roof has beams outside to make it look like a Tudor house, but
it’s stupid because the houses here aren’t that old.
kids.’
Underneath my clothes it’s as if a blow heater’s been turned on. I look past the couple’s shoulders to the window, wishing I could open it and fill the room with freezing air,
but Sally and Clive already have their coats pulled tight round them. Outside, a tree close to the house sways in the wind. Once I’d tried to jump on to a branch from the window, but looking
at it now, I never would have made it. Mum caught me before I made the leap and smacked me. Years later, when she recounted this story, she told me, ‘You were always trying to run before you
could walk. You never had any sense.’ I’d wanted to shout, ‘I was a child. You were the adult. Where were the lessons?’
‘Clive’s a bit of a DIY nut,’ Sally says. ‘Likes nothing better than to strip a place bare and start again. Obviously if this is a supporting wall and we’ve got to
put in steels it’s more expensive, and we may have to put in a lower offer.’
The cupboard is thin, like a larder, and it goes back a long way. The immersion tank sits at the end and in front is space for more shelves, but they’ve been taken out and stacked down the
side, the brackets left on the walls. I kneel down and squeeze into the small space. A smell lifts up: dust mixed with something sharp, ammonia, but it’s faint. There are stains on the
carpet, big plumes of dark colour, like ink. On the wall inside is a quote I wrote in pen – some hippy thing Mum’d said after being dumped by one of her boyfriends, about letting the
one you love go free.
I straighten up and bang my head in the small space as I try to catch my breath.
‘And we wanted to know what this was for,’ Sally says, prodding a hinge and rusty padlock hanging on the inside of the door. ‘What d’you think your mum kept in there? A
family of pixies?’ She laughs. ‘So strange to have a lock on the inside, don’t you think?’
I pull off my jacket to try and get some air as I lean against the wall. A slick of wet is left on my hand after I wipe my forehead. The Sandersons look at each other with concern, and Simon
moves towards me.
‘Is everything all right, Rachel?’ he says. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘No, I’m fine, just getting over the flu, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Sally. ‘Look at us keeping you here when you’re not well.’
‘Yes, I have to go. Please excuse me.’ And I walk towards the door, my footsteps out of kilter.
‘Did you . . . I mean, if it’s possible before you go,’ Simon calls to my back, ‘have any thoughts about this wall?’
I turn to see the trio lit up for my answer, the sale more important than any health issues I might have, though they’d fall over backwards to disagree.
‘The cupboard was built when we had the heating put in,’ I say. ‘You can rip the whole thing out. Take it all down. Get rid of everything.’
I hurry back downstairs, not bothering to say goodbye, and close the front door behind me. The garden path is a chequerboard pattern and some of the tiles are broken where the frost has got in.
In the centre the tiles dip a couple of millimetres, worn down by each person who walked the path: Mum, Dad, a smaller me, past owners, generations of postmen and milkmen chipping away a few atoms
at a time. New tiles are expensive, so the Sandersons will probably skim over the top with concrete and fossilize the pattern. I think of the new family coming into this house, Sally and Clive,
their two kids running to the door after school, and I hope for them that the walls give up the old so that the family can start anew.
9
1979
Our house is on a road where all the houses look the same. Upstairs above the main bedroom the pointy bit of roof has beams outside to make it look like a Tudor house, but
it’s stupid because the houses here aren’t that old.
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