the car. Rose had the mildly desperate conviction that the day was going totally out of control. She had meant to take them round Holkham Hall. Or out to Blakeney Point to watch the birds.
But instead they had looked under made-up beds and found blue-flowered chamber-pots.
‘Potties for grannies!’
They had got into everything, except the old locked cupboard in the wall of the sitting-room, by the fireplace.
Timothy had opened the cases of all the old clocks, and got them ticking, if only for a minute. They had found a rusty corkscrew and a rusty can-opener with a bull’s-head on it, and wanted to know how they worked. She had never known them so fascinated, so absorbed, so gentle . . . education, she thought, practical history. They wouldn’t let them use can-openers at Holkham Hall . . .
And she herself had seldom felt so delighted, so safe.
‘It’s like Goldilocks and the Three Bears,’ she murmured to herself; but not softly enough.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mummy, cut the Goldilocks crap,’ said Jane.
‘Don’t use that word,’ said Rose. But gently. For she was totally in love with the sloping ceilings of the bedrooms, the old wallpaper with sprigs of flowers; with the old range in the kitchen, sorely in need of steel wool on the bright parts, and cleanser on the black. It was just like her own granny’s. So real. So unlike plastic Ionic columns and computers and car phones and plane reservations for Salzburg.
Now, as she carefully closed the gate, the sun broke through the mist, for the first time that day. The low-roofed cottage seemed to smile at her, its reds terribly old and red and its greens so luscious-fresh she felt like eating them.
And at that very moment, Timothy said, ‘Hey, Mum, can we stay there? Live there for a bit? We’re only pissing about on this holiday. We’re not going anywhere, really.’
It cut her to the quick; half-destroyed her will, that they should guess so much. Why do we pretend our children don’t notice things, she asked herself, hopelessly. Why do we comfort ourselves by pretending they’re stupid?
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said feebly. ‘No hot water. No proper john. Nowhere within miles to park the car . . .’
‘Wouldn’t be any harder than camping,’ said Timothy, in his wheedling voice. That made her feel guilty, too. For years the kids had asked to go camping. But Philip said he liked comfort on his vacation, and needed to know what sort of people he was going to meet . . .
‘No electricity . . .’
‘Aw, c’mon, Mum! You’re worse than Dad.’
Timothy could not have said a deadlier thing. She looked at their two expectant cherubic hopeful faces. If they didn’t get their own way, the rest of this vacation would be a desert. There were a million ways they could stick pins in her.
And they were such fun, when they chose to be good. Such good company.
‘How would we get the cases from the car?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Jane. ‘On my own.’ Her face was set; she really meant it.
‘And what about the john in the middle of the night?’
‘We could use the potties for grannies . . .’
‘I’ll take her down the garden,’ said Timothy hastily, before Jane wrecked the scheme. ‘I’ve got my torch.’
Then they both chorused, ‘Oh, c’mon, Mum!’
Why not? said a voice inside her. The house, for all its years of standing empty, was as dry as a bone. There was dust and rust, but nothing dangerous. This was England . . . And if the kids got fed up in a couple of days, it would be their own fault. And it wouldn’t cost all that much . . .
She took a deep breath and said, ‘We’ll go and see.’
‘Aw, Mum!’ They hugged her with shining faces, as they had not done for years.
Two
Quarter of a mile up the path, they came to the village of Wallney. Not much of a village; four big farmhouses, a couple of rows of flint-and-brick cottages, pub, sub-post office and an old-fashioned red phone-box. But enough to half-restore Rose’s sanity. The owner of the house wouldn’t want to let it just for a week, or even a fortnight. This was no holiday cottage. The thought brought relief.
But there was the Beach House, one of the four farmhouses. Well kept, but not a working farm. Weeds grew in front of the barn doors. Rose walked up the well-kept front garden, and knocked on the door of the little glass