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THE HOUSE ON COLD HILL
PETER JAMES
MACMILLAN
FOR LINDA BUCKLEY –
MY TIRELESSLY WONDERFUL ASSISTANT
CONTENTS
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
Joh
‘I need to wee,’ Daisy said.
‘Are we? Are we nearly there?’ Felix whined again.
Joh
They’d bought the house despite the surveyor’s report, which had been twenty-seven pages of doom and gloom. The window frames were badly rotted, the roof needed replacing, there were large patches of damp and the cellar and some of the roof timbers had dangerous infestations of dry rot. But nothing that the shedloads of money he was making right now could not fix.
‘Dad, can we have the top down?’ Felix said. ‘Can we?’
‘It’s too windy, darling!’ Rowena said.
Although the late-October sun was shining brightly, straight in their faces, it was blowing a hooley, and darkening storm clouds were massing on the horizon.
‘We’ll be there in five minutes,’ Joh
They passed a sign saying COLD HILL – PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY, with 30mph warning roundels on either side of the narrow road, then swooped over a humpback bridge, passing a cricket pitch to their left. To their right was a decrepit-looking Norman church. It was set well back and perched dominatingly high above the road. The graveyard, bounded by a low flint wall, was pretty, with rows of weathered headstones, many of them tilting, and some partially concealed beneath the spreading branches of a massive yew tree.
‘Are there dead people in there, Mum?’ Daisy asked.
‘It’s a graveyard, darling, yes, there are.’ She glanced at the low flint wall.
Daisy pressed her face against the window. ‘Is that where we’ll go when we’re dead?’
Their daughter was obsessed with death. Last year they’d gone on a fishing holiday to Ireland, and the highlight of the trip for Daisy, who was six, had been visiting a graveyard where she discovered she could see into some of the tombs and look down at the bones below.
Rowena turned round. ‘Let’s talk about something more cheerful, shall we? Are you looking forward to our new home?’
Daisy cuddled her toy monkey to her chest. ‘Yes,’ she said, a tad reluctantly. ‘Maybe.’
‘Only maybe?’ Joh
They drove past a row of terraced Victorian artisan cottages, a rather drab-looking pub called The Crown, a smithy, a cottage with a ‘Bed & Breakfast’ sign, and a village store. The road wound steeply uphill, past detached houses and bungalows of various sizes on either side. A white van came tearing down the hill towards them without slowing. Joh
‘I think we’re going to need another car for our new country life,’ Rowena said. ‘Something more sensible.’
‘I don’t do sensible,’ Joh
‘Don’t I know it! That’s why I love you, my darling! But I’m not going to be able to walk the kids round the corner to school any more when the new term starts. And I can hardly do the school run in this.’
Joh
On their right, opposite a red postbox, were two stone pillars, topped with savage-looking ornamental wyverns, and with open, rusted, wrought-iron gates. Below the large Strutt and Parker ‘Sold’ board, fixed to the right-hand gatepost, was a smaller, barely legible sign a
As he turned in, Joh
After a quarter of a mile, the drive curved sharply to the right and they crossed a cattle grid. As they reached a gravel-surfaced plateau at the top of the hill, the house came into view ahead.
‘Is that it?’ Felix said. ‘Wow! Wowwwwww!’
‘It’s a palace!’ Daisy squealed, excitedly. ‘We’re going to live in a palace!’
The central part of the house was fronted by a classically proportioned Georgian facade clad in weather-stained grey rendering, on three floors, or four if the cellar was included. There was a porch with a columned balcony above it – ‘Like a super-grand Juliet balcony!’ Rowena had said the first time she had seen it. On either side were tall sash windows and there were two dormer windows in the slate-tiled roof.
On the left side of the building was, incongruously, a crenellated tower with windows at the very top, and on the right was a two-storey extension which, the estate agent had told them, had been added a century after the main house had been built.