What the fuck have we just done? What the actual fuck? My heart is beating twenty to the dozen and it’s all I can do to stop myself from blurting out how I really feel to Mia.
We’ve always said that we’d tell each other the truth no matter how much it might upset the other one, but when it comes to this house, I’ve bottled it. From the moment we stepped into that auction place to when we picked up the keys an hour ago, my gut has told me we are making a massive mistake. We have sunk our life savings into a building we’ve not even been inside, and it’s stressing me out how much cash it will drain.
I just didn’t actually think we’d go ahead with it. The rule of thumb is that if Mum loves it, Mia will hate it. Only this time, Mia really wanted it and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. My parents were planning to flip it and now I feel like crap for taking the opportunity away from them, because they really need the money.
Even when our highest bid was accepted, I still thought that something would happen last-minute. But now here we are, keys in hand, our name about to be added to the deeds. And I’m crapping it like I’ve necked a handful of laxatives. A quick once-over from outside tells me it’s even worse than I imagined. But for Mia’s sake, I’ve got to act like it’s all going to be okay. She’s had enough bonfires pissed on without me joining in.
Perhaps I’m misreading my wife, but something tells me she’s not as into this place as she’s letting on. When she’s anxious or freaked out about something but doesn’t want to admit it, she rubs her thumbs and index fingers together. Today she’s moving them so quickly she’s in danger of giving off sparks.
Mia crosses the road first; I’m close behind. She opens a rusty metal waist-high gate and we fight our way through a driveway so overgrown, it’s hard to see where it ends and the garden begins. ‘It’s like Jumanji,’ I say. ‘I’m half expecting Dwayne Johnson to appear on a motorbike.’ My joke falls on deaf ears.
The front door and ground-floor windows have been secured with metal sheeting, but the windows on the first floor are still visible. Some are broken, either by time and the weather or vandals, while others are hanging on by a thread in their rotten frames. I’ve never seen a wisteria grow this big – its trunk is like a small tree’s, and it stretches all the way up to the roof. Two chimneys and much of the brickwork around the door frame needs repointing and the wooden fascias are rotten. It isn’t a doer-upper, it’s a knock- down-the-whole-damn-thing-and-rebuild-it-from-scratch-er.
Only we don’t have the money to do that. The plan is to do as much of the work as we can ourselves. I’d never say it out loud, but thank God Dad’s business has gone down the drain, because otherwise, he wouldn’t have the time this house needs. Unpaid invoices and work drying up forced him to close his construction business, so now he survives on odd jobs and by labouring for others. He doesn’t talk to me about how difficult it is for him. We rarely talk about anything worthwhile.
Mia uses the keys to open the padlocks on the door and we make our way inside. The boarded-up windows make it dark in here so I return to the van to grab a couple of torches from the toolbox. I also start recording on my phone to watch again later, calculating what to prioritise.
ask.
‘Can you remember how long it’s been empty for?’ I
‘I think the auctioneer said forty-something years.’
The kitchen is our first port of call. It’s made up of
wood-panelled walls, and cupboards hidden by half-curtains or doors. It’s all so dated. The dining room, lounge, bathroom and reception area aren’t any better, and we make our way carefully up the staircase, being sure to tread on the sides of each step or risk falling through a weakened middle. We are just as careful with the floorboards along the landing that leads to all five bedrooms. With no condition report or building survey, we could be tiptoeing across matchsticks as far as we know.
Mia walks ahead of me and opens the last door. Inside is an empty bedroom containing a hook screwed into the ceiling and a rope attached to it. It looks like a noose or something, which is a pretty dark thing to leave behind. I pre-empt what she’s thinking. ‘I’m sure it’s kids having a laugh,’ I say, even if I don’t necessarily believe it. She isn’t convinced either.
Back downstairs, I’m tapping on walls to discover which are load-bearing and which we’ll be able to knock through for open-plan living. It’s going to take us years to get this house how we want it, but it’s doable, I’ll admit.
‘We’ve done the right thing, haven’t we?’ Mia asks. I wrap an arm around her shoulders. ‘Time will tell.’ ‘If that’s supposed to comfort me, it’s a poor effort.’
‘Look, I can’t say hand on heart that this is going to work out for us. It might be a complete disaster. But we can only give it our best shot and keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Funny, that’s what I was going to say in my wedding vows,’ she jokes.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, my wife, the comedienne,’ I deadpan. ‘Anyway, who’d have believed you and Mum were fighting to get your hands on the same thing?’
‘She and I have been doing that ever since I met you.’
‘I meant the house. You two finally have something in common. They say that men marry their mothers.’
‘I’ll remind you of that comparison the next time you’re begging for a fumble under the duvet. I’ll even let you call me Mum if you like.’
‘You win,’ I add, and shake the image she’s just created from my head.
