‘I don’t suppose you know anything about her, or her family?’
‘Sorry, we’ve only been here two years.’ He looks down, then back at us. ‘The wife and me,’ he adds, though it doesn’t make any difference to anything.
‘Thanks anyway,’ I say.
He lifts a hand in a wave and is about to get in his Audi when he stops and calls out. ‘I’ve just remembered. When we came to look at it, the previous owner told us she’d done some research into the house’s history. Maybe she’d know something. My wife’s inside, if you want to knock.’
He gets in his car and starts the engine, not waiting around to see how we react.
‘That’s something,’ Julie says. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Could be,’ I say.
Julie rings the bell, and a slight, nervous-looking woman of around Julie’s age comes to the door. She looks taken aback to see us, and I realise we must look a ragtag bunch. Not who you might expect to find on your doorstep on a Thursday morning.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘We just spoke to your husband,’ Julie says, taking charge. ‘My friend Mabel here is looking for someone she knew many years ago, who used to live in this house. Your husband said you might be able to put us in touch with the previous owner, who’d done some research.’
The woman doesn’t invite us in. She fetches a tatty telephone book and leafs through it on the doorstep, and then, when she finds what she’s looking for, she pauses before sharing it.
‘I’m not sure I should give her details over without checking with her,’ she says.
‘Perhaps you could phone her right now, and ask if it’s okay?’ Julie says.
She likes that idea. Leaves the door open and us on the doorstep while she gets her mobile telephone.
‘Hello, yes, Trisha? This is Angela Mortimer, who bought the house on Manor Lane from you?’
She explains the situation, nods a couple of times.
Julie holds up a hand, asking permission to speak, and when it’s not granted, she speaks anyway. ‘Maybe we could just talk to her now, on your phone, rather than you giving us her number?’
Angela looks slightly affronted, but she hands the telephone over, her eyes never leaving us. Does she think this is some elaborate ruse to steal her mobile telephone?
‘Hi, this is Julie Reynolds. Yes, yes, no I never lived there. It’s my friend Mabel, no, she never lived there either, it was her friend… Dot, or Dorothy, Brightmore? I know, great name. You haven’t come across her? Well, how far back has your research taken you? Oh, I see. Yes. Well, it was worth a try, I suppose. Can I leave my number with you, in case you think of anything else that might be helpful to us? And yes, of course, I’m sure Mabel would be happy to tell you what she knows about them. Okay great, thanks. So it’s Julie Reynolds…’ She rattles off her number, then says thank you and goodbye.
She hands the telephone back to Angela, thanks her too. And then we’re back where we started, at the end of the drive, looking at the house I once spent so much time in.
‘She didn’t get further back than about thirty years. Four or five owners, it sounded like,’ Julie says.
We’re walking back to my house, and it feels like the wind is more biting than it was on the way. There’s a smell of smoke in the air, hanging around after the weekend’s bonfires. Olly was terrified of the fireworks, always is. I had to have him in bed with me.
‘Why was she researching the house?’ Patricia asks. ‘Isn’t it more usual to research your own family?’
‘No idea,’ Julie says. ‘Maybe she’s done her family and still had time on her hands.’
I like the idea of it, but I don’t say anything. Knowing a bit about all the people you’ve shared a space with. The people who’ve bathed in your bath and cooked in your kitchen. I’m not surprised that Patricia doesn’t understand. None of the houses in America have any history, do they? Not old enough.
When we’re back at mine and Julie’s made us all a cup of tea, I ask the question that’s been on my mind ever since we walked away from the house.
‘What now?’
Julie and Patricia look thoughtful. Julie’s the first one to speak.
‘You said it was her mother who told you she’d left. Did she say where in London?’
And that’s when it hits me. I wrote her letters. I had her address. Maybe I still have it, somewhere. I tell them, and Julie looks pleased as punch.
‘Do you remember it?’ she asks.
‘Not off the top of my head. But I would have written it down.’
‘And would you still have it, do you think?’
Almost certainly. I’m a thrower-away of things, but Arthur was a hoarder. Especially of paperwork. Notepads and address books, there’s no way he would have let anything like that go. Thank goodness.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Somewhere.’
‘Well, I guess we dig it out,’ Julie says. ‘And then we go there.’
‘To London?’ It’s years since I’ve been to the capital. Sometimes, Arthur and I would go in to see a show or to have a walk around the busy streets, but not for a long time.
‘To London,’ Julie confirms.
It’s then that Olly goes to the door, whinging.
‘Has he been for a walk today, Mabel?’ Patricia asks.
He hasn’t. The truth is, I’m struggling to keep up with the walking he needs, and I know what that means, but I’m still not quite ready to face it.
‘Not yet. I didn’t want to take him to Dot’s, in case we were invited in, and I’m not really up to more than one trip out a day.’
‘I’ll take him,’ she says, and grabs his lead from where it’s hanging by the door. She turns to me. ‘I mean, if that’s okay with you, Mabel?’
There’s something a bit strange about the way she says my name. Slightly too much emphasis on the second syllable. But I don’t say anything.
‘He’s not a fan of people,’ I say.
She laughs her frothy laugh, as if I’ve told a joke, and she must take that as a yes because she’s out the door before I can say anything else.
I must have a bit of a nap, and when I wake there’s a delicious smell wafting through from the kitchen. Julie appears, wearing oven gloves, her face flushed.
‘What are you up to in there?’ I ask.
‘I thought I’d do you a fish pie for your dinner.’
I haven’t had fish pie for years. Arthur didn’t like it, didn’t like any kind of fish other than the sort that’s battered. And it’s a faff to make for one. Julie’s done it, though.
‘I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble for me.’
‘No trouble, Mabel.’
‘You know,’ Patricia says, coming back through the door as if we were just this minute in the middle of a conversation, ‘if the walking’s getting too much for you, I could have a word with my neighbour, Kirsty. She’s always out and about with her baby and she was only telling me the other day that she grew up with dogs and misses having one. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind taking Olly on the odd walk. I’d be happy to as well, of course.’