a primary school teacher, wedded to her vocation rather than to any man. I only knew her by reputation – according to my grandmother, she was opinionated and cared little for her appearance. I think I met her at a family wedding once when I was a child, but that was it. She led a solitary life. Not having any family of her own, she left the house to me in her will, with the rest of her estate going to an educational charity for girls in Africa. Frankly, I was surprised she knew I existed.
When I was told that I’d inherited Midsummer Cottage, I pictured a thatched roof, oak beams and roses around the door. Excited and intrigued, I hurried down to Dorset immediately. I was greeted by a single-storey rectangular building rendered in grubby white concrete. The outer walls were streaked with green mildew and the window frames had rotted. It looked more like a scout hut than somebody’s home.
Inside, the decor was more cottage-like: dark wooden furniture, heavy brocade curtains, patterned carpets (different in every room), tapestry cushions (probably stitched by Dolly’s own hand), cheap china ornaments on the heavy sideboard, and on the walls a collection of horse brasses and several paintings of dogs. It had a certain fusty charm, but none of it was to my taste. It was what an estate agent would call ‘a project’.
I started to fantasise about refurbishing the place from top to bottom, or even pulling the bungalow down and rebuilding from scratch. It was all part of my fairy-tale vision of the future. Midsummer Cottage would make a wonderful holiday home for the family I was planning. Our children would run wild and free, we’d teach them the names of birds and flowers and trees, we’d take them fishing in the stream and build campfires in the garden. Then we’d be happy.
At that time, we were still together and the relationship, whilst up and down, was going through a good patch. We stole a weekend away to inspect the place. Rather than book into some boutique hotel, as was our usual habit, we decided to camp out in the cottage, just for the fun of it. We would embrace the hideous decor, dingy lighting, dodgy boiler, rattling windows and broken oven; even the toilet that took about ten minutes to refill. Everything was uncomfortable and inconvenient, but it was fun, and a relief not to have internet access, a landline or even a reliable mobile signal. Nobody could hassle us or pin down our location. It was the perfect romantic hiding place.
I can see us now, standing in the poky lounge that first evening, opening a bottle of champagne and filling two of Dolly’s sherry glasses to the brim. We couldn’t find more suitable glasses and had to constantly top up. I arranged a platter of antipasti bought from the luxury deli in London – sourdough bread, farmer’s pâté, sweet roasted peppers, Serrano ham, giant green olives, fresh anchovies sprinkled with garlic. We covered the horrendous carpet with an Indian throw and picnicked by candlelight.
Later, we decamped drunkenly to the bedroom and snuggled beneath Dolly’s satin eiderdown, which smelt of mothballs and lavender water. We bounced around on the creaky springs and made sweet, sweet love, while the rain splashed over the broken guttering and the wind whistled down the chimney.
When everything went so horribly wrong, I lost interest in Midsummer Cottage. I almost lost interest in living at all. Submerged in grief, I forgot the place existed – or pretended to forget. There were delays with probate, but I stopped chasing the solicitor. I couldn’t bear to visit the place because the memories were too painful. Let it rot, I thought, just as my life is rotting. But now I see that it was all meant to be. Dolly’s gift is far more important than I or she could have imagined.
I dry the inside of the cupboards with paper towels, then put the shopping away. When the food runs out, I will buy fruit and veg from roadside stalls, paying in cash, using honesty boxes when I can. Longer-term, I will dig up the garden and grow my own. The days will become longer and warmer, the earth will soften. All I need is a few seeds. When Mabel learns to walk, she can help me with the weeding. I’ll plant sunflowers and she can watch them grow up the side of the house.