Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ I know from the estate agent that the upper floors have been completely cleared. So, I tell the logical part of my brain – this is a very small part, with super-selective hearing – that’s where I should start.

      I’m booked for a few days, and there’ll be plenty of time to get around to the lower floors later. It’ll be easier once they’re empty – apart from anything else, it’ll stop me gazing at everything as though I have some weird telepathic power that allows me to talk to dead houseplants.

      Bella is sniffing furiously at the paperbacks, and I know what that might mean.

      ‘Nope,’ I say firmly, reaching down to distract her with a tickle behind the ears. ‘It might smell like it, but this is not the outside. So no puddles, okay?’

      She gives me a look from beneath her grey, whiskery eyebrows, and trots off back into the corridor. I swear, she understands every word.

      I retrieve my cleaning supplies – the usual exciting smorgasbord of cloths, chemicals and bin bags– and climb the wooden staircase up to the top floor. This will mainly be a reconnaissance mission – I’m guessing I’ll have to come back with the heavy-duty floor cleaning gear later, and possibly rope in some of the strapping menfolk of the village to help me lug it up the stairs. Luckily we are insanely blessed with strapping menfolk in Budbury. It seems to be located on some kind of mystical ley line that pulls them in.

      As I climb, I notice the thick layer of dust that’s built up on the curving banister. This always used to be polished so well you could see your distorted face reflected in it – it was kept that way by a combination of Mrs F, Mr Sheen, and the bottoms of boisterous young kids sliding down it.

      Briarwood was always bustling – there was always noise, and music, and activity, and the rich smells of cooking and communal living. Now, it’s so sad and quiet and musty – and I realise I’m thrilled that someone has bought it. I hope Tom Cruise takes care of the place and doesn’t turn it into a Scientologist bunker.

      When I reach the top floor, it is much smaller in reality than in my recollections. In the same way that Mars Bars seemed much bigger back then, Briarwood also loomed large. I think I’d imagined it was an enormous mansion, filled with secret compartments and haunted stairwells. It certainly felt like it back then, especially compared to the crowded three-bedroomed cottage that we all lived in.

      Now that it’s shrunk – or I’ve grown – I see that there are probably no more than twenty rooms, laid out over three floors. It looks a bit like a smaller version of Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, sadly minus Wolverine in his slinky vest top. I’m sure there’s a cellar as well, but there’s about as much chance of me going down there alone as there is of me completing a PhD in astrophysics.

      I can see the marks where the carpet used to be, the floorboards around it more faded and dusty. The walls are bare, and each room I poke my head into is empty. The rooms vary in size, but are all decorated the same way – in blue wallpaper dotted with now-yellowing footballs, with threadbare blue carpet. I remember there were girls here as well. They probably all stayed on the floor below, in rooms with fairy princess wallpaper and pink carpet.

      I’m guessing the new owner will sort all of this out. It’s not my job to check the damp-proofing, or redecorate – it’s my job to give it a once-over with the Will-o’-the-Wash magic touch. I’m assuming there will be some hefty renovations eventually, but making it less disgusting will be a start. My contribution to bringing this place back to life.

      I decide to start with the windows – getting them clean will make the whole experience a lot more pleasant for everyone. By which I mean for me. The dirt and grime all over them is making the building feel even more neglected. It’s a beautiful day outside, and I need to let some of that sunshine in.

      I work my way through almost all of the rooms, opening the windows as I clean each one. Some need a bit of welly – they’re crusted closed by old paint or grot, and I become intimate friends with several weirdly shaped lumps of moss as I go.

      I gaze outside as I work, hoping for a glimpse of the man I saw in the pond earlier. He didn’t see me – I edged away as quietly as I could when I realised there was someone there. Nobody wants to be caught out having a personal moment in a pond, do they? And, as I can’t see any car parked nearby, it’s still entirely possible that I imagined it.

      I mean, I don’t think I did. I’m not usually quite that out there. But I am very tired, I have had a hard couple of days, and I can’t rule it out. Or, of course, he might just be someone who likes the pond and walks up here in the grounds of Briarwood – I’d noticed bits of litter, as well as old cider bottles and cigarette stubs, which is usually a sign of colonisation by the common or garden teenager.

      He didn’t look like a teenager – he was definitely grown-man shaped in all the right ways – but he could have been a walker. We get loads of walkers. Budbury is on the Jurassic Coast, and part of a network of clifftop paths that criss-cross the whole area. The Comfort Food Café is often visited by the kinds of people who wear high-vis singlets over their anoraks and use spiky poles to walk with. Maybe he was just one of those.

      I try and put it to the back of my mind, and concentrate on the job. Bella has found a corner she likes the smell of, and is snoring away as I work. As I keep cleaning, the scent of lemons starts to gradually overpower the scent of neglect. Each room has its own sink – they’re filthy, and will probably be next on the list – but the plumbing is still functional, even if it is creaky, which means I can fill and refill my bowls to my heart’s content.

      It’s mind-numbing work, and in all honesty that’s one of the reasons I like it. It stops my brain from wandering, and there’s also a very tangible outcome. You clean something, it ends up clean. It’s not like so many other things in life where you put in megatons of effort and nothing seems to change as a result.

      I’m hitting my stride, and building myself up to tackling the last room on the corridor, wishing I’d brought my radio or some speakers with me. I could put in my earphones, but hey – I’ve seen horror films. I know what happens to young women, alone in an old deserted house, when they don’t pay attention. The only thing you can do that’s worse than put earphones in is snog someone – the bogeyman will definitely get you if you do that. Stabbed to death in your bra and knickers, end of story.

      I’m not about to snog anybody, but I do wish I had the music. Maybe a bit of Meatloaf, or the collected works of Neil Diamond – something with a big chorus to sing along to.

      I’d like the distraction, as I’m now standing outside that last room. The one I’ve not even been into yet. Staring it down, as though I need to show it who’s boss.

      Not that it’s any different than the others, I’m sure – it’s just that we have a bit of history, me and that room. The last summer I spent any significant amount of time here, my darling siblings persuaded me it was haunted, and dared me to go in and find out.

      I still remember vividly how scared I was. Even though it seems silly now, like most dramas from your childhood do in hindsight, I’m a wee bit hesitant as I walk towards it, bin bag in one hand, spray gun in the other. You know, just in case I need to spray cleaning fluid in a demon’s eyes or anything.

      I haven’t seen my siblings for varying amounts of years. They’ve scattered like sheep, landing in different places doing different things. It’s only me who’s still here, in Budbury – with our mum. I don’t blame them; they’re older than me, and moved away and built their lives long before she started to show signs of her illness. I don’t blame them – but I do miss them.

      Even СКАЧАТЬ