The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl

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      ‘More than that – I went inside! The owners are a lovely elderly couple called Harold and Vera Delamere and they remember how the older folk in the village told them stories of Barty St Clair when they moved it. Apparently he was a bit strange. Very sociable but wouldn’t let anyone in the house. Maybe he was hiding something – ooh, maybe there’re some skeletons in my ancestors’ closets!’

      ‘Good stuff. I don’t get this obsession with your ancestors, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose.’ He grinned, and patted my shoulder. His way of apologising for the morning’s row. I smiled back, accepting the apology.

      ‘Kids! Dinner’s ready!’ Simon called. He plonked three plates of spag bol on the table, then left the kitchen. Looked like supervising the kids’ dinner time was going to be my job, then. Fair enough. I’d had my time off. I helped Thomas climb up onto a chair, and ruffled Lewis and Lauren’s hair as they sat at the table.

      ‘Hey, mind the gel!’ Lewis ducked away from my hand. Only ten but already spending hours in front of the mirror before school each day.

      ‘What do you want to put gel in your hair for, you’re not a girl.’ His twin sister Lauren flicked his ear. ‘With those spikes you’ll puncture the ball when you next play rugby with Dad.’

      ‘You don’t head the ball in rugby, derrr,’ retorted Lewis. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

      ‘More than you, stupid.’ Lauren swished her blonde mane over her shoulder and stuck out a bolognese-encrusted tongue in his direction.

      ‘That’s enough, you two,’ I said. ‘Eat up and if you can’t speak nicely to each other don’t speak at all.’

      They glared across the table at each other but otherwise got on with it. Little Thomas, as usual, was keeping his head down and out of trouble. He caught my eye and flashed me a winning smile. Apart from the strand of spaghetti that was slithering down his chin it was one of those expressions you just wish you’d caught on camera.

      I made myself a cup of tea while the children finished their dinners. Once they were finished and the kitchen was clean, I sat down at the table sipping my cup of tea, and drifted off into a pleasant fantasy in which the Delameres sold up and somehow Simon and I could afford to buy the house, move in and discover all its secrets.

       Chapter 4

       Hampshire, December 2012

      ‘I know,’ I said, decisively, ‘let’s take Mum and Dad out for Sunday lunch at the pub this weekend, rather than cook it here. It’s always a squash when they come for dinner, and it’d be lovely to have someone else do all the work.’ It was a few weeks after my visit to Kingsley House. Simon and I had managed not to row again, mainly because I’d not said a single word more about my ancestry research, and he’d foregone another rugby practice to take the whole family out to see The Polar Express at the cinema.

      Simon put down the book he was reading and peered over his glasses at me. ‘OK, and maybe your dad will want to pay …’

      I threw a cushion at him. ‘No, we’ll pay, you tight git. It’s supposed to be Dad’s birthday dinner, after all. Anyway, we can easily afford to since your promotion and pay rise.’

      He hugged the cushion and threw his feet up onto the sofa. It was a cold, dark evening – one of those where you wish you had an open fireplace instead of a gas fire, when you just want to cuddle up with a blanket and a good book. And maybe a glass of wine.

      ‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ I said.

      ‘Yeah, go on then.’ Simon swung his legs off the sofa and stood up to fetch a bottle. ‘Arrgh, what did I tread on?’ He hopped around then sat back down to investigate the damage to his foot.

      ‘Lego, I expect. Lewis had some in here earlier.’

      ‘When’s he going to grow out of Lego?’ grumbled Simon, kicking the offending piece under the Christmas tree.

      ‘About the same time as Thomas grows into it,’ I replied. ‘I’ll get the wine, seeing as you’re incapacitated.’

      ‘Thanks. What we really need is a bigger house. One with a playroom, so we can keep the lounge clear of toys and the kids can injure themselves on their own Lego without involving us.’

      I went to fetch a couple of glasses and a bottle of Pinot Noir from the kitchen. Simon was right – we had outgrown this house. The two boys had to share a room, which didn’t work very well because of the difference in their ages. The kitchen was a reasonable size but had to double as a dining room. Just about OK for the five of us but hopeless if we had visitors. And the garage was stuffed to bursting with bikes, gardening tools and DIY debris.

      ‘Do you mean it?’ I asked, as I returned with the wine.

      ‘Mean what?’

      ‘What you said about wanting a bigger house.’

      He frowned, stared at the ceiling as though looking for an answer written on it, then sat upright. ‘Yeah, I think I do. How do you feel about moving?’

      ‘Well, I love this house, but we do need more space.’

      ‘Right then, let’s start house-hunting.’ He grabbed my laptop from the side table which doubled as a desk, and started tapping the keys.

      ‘Really? Right now?’ Was he serious or just fooling? Sometimes it was hard to tell with Simon.

      ‘No time like the present, eh? And no harm in looking.’ He grinned and patted the seat beside him. I sat down, and a moment later we were browsing a list of houses in Southampton which matched our criteria: four bedrooms, garden, two reception rooms. It was nice to do something together, as well.

      I pointed to a Victorian three-storey semi. ‘That one looks good.’

      ‘Bit pricey.’

      ‘What can we afford?’

      ‘Dunno, I’d have to do the figures. Say four hundred thousand maximum – that’ll give us an idea of what’s available. Good job I got that promotion.’

      They all looked nearer the half-million mark. I began to get despondent as Simon scrolled through. There was no point compromising on size – might as well stay where we are. We wanted to stay in Hampshire near our parents. Mine helped out with childcare occasionally and Simon’s mum – adoptive mum – was suffering from dementia and needed support. And there needed to be good schools nearby.

      ‘Winchester would be good. That’d cut fifteen minutes off my commute to London,’ said Simon.

      ‘Yes, I like Winchester too.’ I reached over and selected Winchester from a dropdown list of areas, and we began browsing a new set of houses.

      ‘Period or modern?’ Simon asked.

      ‘Period, definitely. Something with character. More wine?’

      ‘Why not? Period for СКАЧАТЬ