Page 4 of We Live Here Now

3

Emily

There are so many rooms downstairs I feel almost dizzy. My walking stick tap taps on the wooden floor, and I keep one hand on the cool walls as I slowly explore. The wallpaper’s thick, lining every room thus far, the different damask patterns in the flock like braille under my fingertips. The rich colors—faded greens, yellows, blues, and reds—remind me of ladies’ evening gowns from long ago, stretched out across the walls like skin. The formality of the colors against the dark wood floor makes the rooms oppressive and austere and full of shadows. Uninviting.

The house, I decide, as I move from room to room, is like a prim governess judging me disapprovingly for my baggy jeans and sweatshirt. It doesn’t help that several rooms are still unused, the air filled with dust and abandonment. God knows how long the place has been empty, but I make a mental note to get some paint samples as soon as possible. Light, bright colors will make a world of difference. Bring some joy to the place.

Along with the kitchen and sitting room that I’ve already seen, there’s a dining room, a drawing room, and another room that Freddie’s turned into a games room, as well as a smaller room that may have been a study since there’s a desk pushed up against the wall, maybe left by the previous occupants, and beyond there a downstairs toilet and a utility or storage room.

Past the kitchen there’s a corridor leading to what must have once been tack and boot rooms. There’s no wooden floor in those, just uneven flagstone, freezing underfoot, and high, narrow windows that need a winder to open. They’re colder than the other rooms too, no pretense at heating, and I guess we could use them as a pantry or storage room.

I head back to the warmth of the central hallway, where I can hear Freddie whistling along to the radio as he cooks on the Aga. I’ve always wanted an Aga. I get a frisson of happiness at that, a hopeful moment that once I’m used to this house, it’ll be okay. I wish we’d moved in summer. I wish Larkin Lodge felt like it had looked in the photos. I wish I could stop being so ridiculous.

I climb the stairs to the middle floor, slowly and carefully, my right leg taking every step, the left following behind, and the creaking wood gives away my slow progress. No running up and down with no thought of danger for me. Maybe never again. One serious brush with death brings every danger into sharp focus. It changes a person. I grip the handrail tight and finally turn the corner.

From up here I can’t hear Freddie anymore, only the rattling of the landing window from a breeze outside, and I tighten up the lock to quiet it before continuing. Three double bedrooms and two bathrooms. The doors’ hinges creak as I push them open. The largest of the bedrooms is made up, the pink duvet cover a spark of brightness amid the dour, and has our things on the bedside tables, and in the nearest bathroom I find the beautiful roll-top bath I’d seen in the photos—which makes me happy because I’ve always wanted one of those too—and all our toiletries.

There’s a steeper staircase leading up to the third floor where the primary suite is, but, as Freddie warned me, until my leg is stronger, there’s no way I can contemplate making it up there. I go back into the bedroom Freddie’s allocated to us and look out the window. The thin mist of earlier has become a thick fog, wound around the house in the darkening sky like a shroud, and if I want to see the views or garden I’m going to have to wait until morning.

“It’s ready,” I hear Freddie call up from the bottom of the stairs. “Hope you’re hungry.”

As I turn my back on the creeping fog, I hear a creak from some where in the upstairs corridor. It’s long and slow, almost deliberate. Too close to be downstairs. Has Freddie come up to get me?

The landing, however, is empty and quiet. It’s just an old house , I tell myself, shaking away my unsettled feeling. Old houses creak like old bones.