Home: The Story of Everyone Who Ever Lived in Our House. Julie Myerson

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      ‘But it’s seven o’clock on a Thursday evening.’

      ‘Best time to get people. Why do you think all those irritating sales people always ring at this time?’

      He gives me a bossy look as he leaves the room.

      

      I sit at the desk and stare out at the hot blue evening sky and bite the ends of my fingers.

      If I ring Diane and it’s really her, a real Askew relative, then what on earth do I say? I try scribbling a script for myself but it only makes me more apprehensive. I suppose the worst she can do is put the phone down on me. Which would be awful.

      I fetch a large glass of wine and gaze at the will. I have to find Laurie Steam’s living relatives, that’s certain. And call them. There’s no way round it: if I can’t do that, then I might as well give up on this whole idea.

      Downstairs the children are shouting in the garden and the dog is barking. I shut the window and, coming back to the desk, I see something that even Jonathan hasn’t noticed. The will was witnessed back then by two people in Cambridge – E. G. Harrison, housewife and H. P. Harrison, clerical assistant. And in 1971 they were living at 36 Godwin Close, Cambridge. Could they possibly still be there?

      I phone directory enquiries and give that name and address. I hold my breath and wait to be rebuffed. ‘Here’s your number,’ goes the voice.

      Feet thundering up the stairs. Chloë bursts in without knocking. Her long blonde hair is plastered to her face with sweat and little bits of grass are also stuck in it. Her eyes are dark with fury.

      ‘Can you please tell those boys to stop kicking their football in my garden?’

      I put down the receiver and explain that I’ve got difficult phone calls to make and must have peace – ‘And anyway, are they really doing anything bad?’

      She glares at me. ‘Well! They’ve knocked a branch of blackcurrants off my bush and now they’re starting on the rocket. So what do you think, is that bad enough for you?’ Her eyes widen. ‘And they’re using a real football by the way, not the foam one you told them to use – just thought you might like to know that.’

      I sigh. ‘They shouldn’t be using a hard ball.’

      ‘You tell them that!’

      ‘Can you tell them? Say I said so. Are they doing the stuff to your garden on purpose?’

      She gives me a sulphuric look. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘Guess what,’ I say. ‘I think I’ve just found a phone number for someone who may know someone who once lived in this house! It’s my first real breakthrough to one of the long-ago people.’

      She folds her arms sarcastically. ‘Well, how fantastically exciting.’

      ‘It is actually – it’s really exciting. But I need some peace to ring these people now.’

      ‘Great.’ Chloë regards me for a second. ‘Thanks for caring about your only daughter’s garden! I’ll probably have a nervous breakdown when I’m older but at least you’ll have got your fucking book written!’

      She kicks the door once, before slamming it shut. She’s not allowed to say that word. I should call her back. I shut my eyes and wait. She stomps downstairs as loudly as possible. I wait to check she’s really gone and soon all I can hear are the boys’ shouty-laughs and the small sigh as the house settles.

      

      Before I can think of another reason not to, I dial the number.

      ‘Yes?’ It’s a female voice, oldish.

      ‘Mrs Harrison?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, you don’t know me. I’m a writer and I’m researching a book about a house in London – my house – and I found your name on a will, as a witness, and wondered if you used to know someone called Laurie Stearn?’

      ‘Stearn?’ The woman sounds nonplussed and a little bit wary.

      ‘Yes, I know this sounds odd but it was her will and I’m trying to trace her granddaughter, Diane Askew.’

      ‘I don’t know anything about any wills,’ says the woman even more warily, ‘and I don’t know any Stearns, no, I’m not sure I can help you.’

      It’s the wrong person or the wrong Harrison or something. Could it be a daughter?

      ‘But you know what,’ she says more brightly, ‘it’s really funny because my next-door neighbour has a niece called Diane Askew. I know she does. Isn’t that peculiar?’

      ‘But that’s her!’ I almost shout. ‘That’s who I’m trying to contact.’

      ‘What a coincidence,’ continues the woman blandly, ‘that she should have the same name

      I want to reach down the phone and hug her. ‘No,’ I try to explain, desperate that she shouldn’t hang up on me, ‘it’s not a coincidence at all. That’s who I’m looking for – that’s the person, that’s her!’

      The woman pauses. ‘Well … Clayton is her name.’

      ‘Audrey Joan Clayton?’

      ‘Yes actually … how on earth did you know?’

      ‘Well, it’s complicated, but I’m looking for her too.’

      ‘Come to think of it,’ Mrs Harrison says, ‘I think I might have witnessed Audrey’s mother’s will a very long time ago.’

      ‘Laurie Stearn?’

      ‘It might have been Stearn. Yes, oh yes, I think so.’

      The room’s suddenly hot, I’m sweating, my heart is banging crazily.

      ‘Look,’ I tell her, ‘I’m so sorry to be disturbing you like this, but could you possibly give me a phone number for Mrs Clayton?’

      Mrs Harrison hesitates. ‘Well, she’s not in right now, so you won’t get her.’

      ‘Oh, but –’

      ‘But I know where she is.’

      

      I wait. She’s going to say she’s out of the country or something.

      ‘In fact, I can see her right now,’ Mrs Harrison tells me. ‘She’s just out there in the street chatting to a neighbour. Do you want me to get her for you?’

      I wait for what feels like ages but is in fact a moment or two. A sound of rustling and crunching as the neighbour comes to the phone.

      ‘Mrs Clayton?’

      ‘Ye-es?’

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