Fifteen
Two hours later, with a very excitable Adam (it’s not every day he has the opportunity to drive a rental van), we are finally off to Sir John’s. I take a drawn-out final glance at the flat’s front door in the rearview mirror as it recedes into the distance and start to feel mournful again. I can’t believe I never appreciated the beauty of the slightly cracked blue paint on the door or the way the hedgerow tilts somewhat to the left. My eyes almost start to fill as my home disappears from view for the last time.
“Oh, give over,” Adam interrupts my reverie. “You’re coming for dinner on Friday. That’s in four days. I think you’ll survive.”
I glare at him through damp lashes and spend the rest of the drive looking out the window, vacillating between moping about our Clapham den and daydreaming about Ryan.
I’m caught up in a lovely fantasy of Ryan kissing me at the top of the Eiffel Tower when the van slows abruptly (Adam isn’t as smooth a chauffeur as he would like us all to think), and we’re pulling into the driveway of my new home.
I wasn’t expecting bunting, a barbecue, and a Take That tribute band to welcome me, but Sir John’s welcome, when he finally decides to open the door, is muted at best.
“Oh, you’ve come after all,” he says, glancing pointedly at his watch in a tone that suggests he’s pretty indifferent to my existence. It’s only 11am. He sighs huffily,
“Well, I’m too old to assist with moving things, but I’ll show you where to direct your movers.”
“We are the movers!” I say, gesturing sheepishly to the collection of antique suitcases Adam is unloading from the car. “This is it.”
If the suitcases were human, they would most closely resemble four very elderly, overweight and inebriated (but friendly) men who haven’t made an effort with their outward appearances since England last won the World Cup. I can’t remember exactly when that was, but from Adam’s frequent mocking exclamations whenever England plays, I think it’s been a long time. Even as I glance towards the cases, the eldest teeters drunkenly for a moment before collapsing backwards onto the drive (broken castors). It’s not all bad, as it knocked a cobweb off one of the others as it fell.
Sir John looks for a moment like he’s having second thoughts about me and the suitcase menagerie. Then, with a shake of his head and another (in my opinion) excessively dramatic sigh, he disappears inside. I drag two of the elderly brethren after him, praying they don’t scrape, pull or knock any of his antique furniture as they trundle through. We go through the kitchen and turn right into another small hall. Through the open doors, I see a bedroom and a sun-filled but petite living room/kitchen. Sir John directs me to the sitting room, where large French windows frame a mass of greenery so dense and wild it looks more like a scene from Jurassic Park than Hampstead.
There’s beauty in the wilderness, though, and I look out as it stretches away, a brief untidy lawn disappearing into thickets of beech trees (not through choice, but I am a country girl, I notice these things) and great untamed bushes. As a view goes, it’s already heads above Adam’s living room vista of Londis and the bus stop. And a kitchen! Tiny and dated (I haven’t seen orange tiles matched with fawn-coloured peeling wallpaper for a very long time), but it’s mine and perfectly adequate for my culinary repertoire of pot noodles and toast. Maybe this isn’t going to be so terrible after all.
“Are these rooms all mine?” I ask, thrilled.
I think Sir John prefers my premature homesickness to my rising excitement and looks faintly panicked. “Well, this sitting room and kitchen, that bedroom through there, and a small bathroom off the bedroom.”
“They’re quite small,” he says, less apologetically and more in the hope of deflating my mood. “And they’re very cold in winter,” he adds triumphantly.
“They’re lovely,” I say, “and so quiet. Were these the servants’ quarters?” (I’ve been a Downton Abbey fan for many years).
“They were the old kitchen stores and an office,” Sir John replies. “We converted them to be the nanny’s quarters back in 1972. For our daughter.”
He falls quiet momentarily before barking that he’s going back up to his library and will leave me to settle in and to call for him if anything else is needed (offered in a tone that suggested the “need” better qualify as life or death) and stomping out.
In the meantime, a sound resembling a small brass band trapped in a jungle gym heralds Adam, bringing the remaining three cases down the hall. He drops them with an exaggerated grunt on the living room floor before sprawling himself on the sofa and looking around, “Cor. Is this all for you? I thought it was just a room?”
I join the sprawl, finding the elderly floral couch mercifully well-sprung and comfy. “Did you just say ‘Cor’?”
“It’s being in a posh place like this. It brings out the working class in me.”
“Oh yes,” I reply sarcastically, “I’d forgotten your days as a barefoot urchin on the mean streets of Altrincham.”
I look around properly. Everywhere, the decor is faded, which, given its 1970s vibe, is a mercy, but it’s clean and private. My own living space as well as a bedroom. “It’s not bad, is it? And no drunk lady-killing housemate with a revolving bedroom door.”
“You’ll miss me really,” he responds.
And I will. Suddenly, the perkiness disappears.
Adam looks alarmed at the prospect of more waterworks, “You’re not going to be far, though. You can phone me every day.”
“Can I?” I say brightly.
Adam looks even more alarmed, “Well. Every other day. Maybe on a Wednesday and a Sunday. Non-gym days. And maybe text first in case I’m busy.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll make an appointment,” I smile.
“And once you’ve made your dough and the tenancy comes back up for renewal, I can kick out your replacement, and you can move back in!”
“We’ll see. I may have become too posh by then to slum it in Clapham with my cousin,” I reply.
Adam helps me manoeuvre the elderly cohort of travel luggage into the bedroom. The avocado bathroom suite, complete with bidet (which I’m secretly quite excited about), looks like it was installed for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. However, it’s scrupulously clean, and everything seems to work. There’s one final door in the hall, with a jangle of keys behind it, which leads out onto the side path.
“Perfect,” says Adam, trying the keys, “You’ve got your own entrance to smuggle as many men in as you want.”
“Great,” I reply, “I’ll just call it the orgy door.”
He looks horrified, which is more than slightly hypocritical, considering what I’ve had to grin and bear while living with him.
In the quiet after Adam leaves, I oscillate between contentment and lonely despair. My mood is pretty much dictated by my success rate in getting the TV working. After a lot of fiddling (how can a digital TV be so old?! How?), the BBC news theme finally blares out, and I flop down in relief.