Sitting inside Finn’s van, we stare at the property to our left. He turns off the ignition and the silence is palpable. Neither of us knows what to say first.
‘So,’ he eventually begins, ‘this is going to be our home?’
It’s as if he wants me to confirm information he already knows. I try to muster up something suitably enthusiastic, like, ‘We’re going to be so happy here’ or ‘This is our dream home’, but my reply is more succinct than reassuring. ‘It is,’ I say.
He responds with a slow nod as he tries to comprehend what we have done. Then we fall silent again as the enormity of the task before us sinks in. I feel nauseous.
I catch a glimpse of the rest of the high street in the wing mirror. We walked and drove along these roads a handful of times over the last year agreeing it was exactly the kind of village we wanted to move to. Our criteria were straightforward: the place could be no more than a fifteen- minute drive from the town centre and train station, it must have shops and a pub, it couldn’t be too overlooked and had to be surrounded by plenty of long countryside walks for when we get that dog we’re always promising ourselves. Stewkbury ticked each box.
The only sticking point – and it was a biggie – was property prices. If you don’t want to live in an identikit new
build, then be prepared to pay for the privilege. And we didn’t have that kind of money.
Neither Finn nor I had noticed this two-storey, five- bedroom, detached Victorian house in our previous recces. It only appeared on our radar when my monster-in-law saw it advertised in an online auction-house brochure. She and my father-in-law were going to put a bid in to renovate it themselves, but it was perfect for Finn and I. And after a fair few arguments, they eventually – albeit reluctantly – agreed to let us make an offer for it.
And before we knew it, we were sitting in a draughty hall bidding on it against half a dozen strangers.
When the auction began, Finn’s knuckles were as white as his face. It was as if he was having a premonition of what lay ahead of us. Tearing apart and rebuilding this house was going to put an end to our Mr & Mrs Smith boutique hotel weekends away, my spa breaks with the girls, his Sunday morning football league with the lads, along with gigs and overpriced gym memberships. Goodbye fun, hello hard graft.
House buying hasn’t been an easy process for us. When we married five years ago, we sold my flat in London and moved into Finn’s terraced house in Leighton Buzzard. But the two-up two-down wasn’t spacious enough to start a family. So we sold it and moved in with his parents, Dave and Debbie, while we waited to find somewhere. Four times we had an offer on a house accepted, but four times we were either gazumped or the owners had a change of heart. So, throwing caution to the wind and without even seeing this house in person or organising a surveyor, we found ourselves the last ones standing at the auction.
Now, I look towards Finn, his gaze fixed on the house like he’s a rabbit caught in the headlights. I can’t let him know I too have doubts. My next question invites criticism, but I ask it regardless. ‘Is it better or worse than you thought?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ he says. He’s choosing his words carefully. I can almost hear the cogs in his brain turning as he prioritises the work required. Finn is the pragmatic sort, and possesses a natural talent for solving problems. I suppose that’s what makes him a good plumber and all- round handyman. He can look at an object and instinctively know how it works or how to repair it. I’m the opposite. I look at something and it falls apart.
‘But you and your dad will do a lot of the work, won’t you?’
‘I hope so.’
We exit the van. ‘Shall we go inside?’ I wrap my hands around his arm. He’s as tense as a hostage negotiator.
We’ve always been 100 per cent honest with one another, but today I hold back on sharing what I’m really thinking – that we’ve made a bloody huge mistake and we are so far out of our comfort zone that we can’t even see it from where we’re standing now. But this is the only way to get what we wanted – a house in the country for a fraction of the price, and to escape living with his parents. He may be close to them, but I am most definitely not.
This place could be good for us, I tell myself. It could be just what we need.
My positivity lasts for as long as the thought does. And then I’m back to feeling nauseous again.
