Chapter 8 #3
“Mr Corvin?” he says, recovering quickly. The older man nods. “My name is Cormac Reilly.” He takes my hand, drawing me closer, and I gulp at the feel of his skin on mine. “This is my husband, Wes.”
The man turns to me. He’s tall with iron grey hair and a bushy moustache. He’s dressed in chinos and a navy jumper and doesn’t smile. It looks like he wouldn’t know a grin if it came up and bit him. He doesn’t say hello but just nods at me, his face set in hard lines.
“I believe my assistant made an appointment for us to look at the house,” Mac says, drawing Mr Corvin’s attention back to him.
“Well, you’re on time. Thank god for small mercies,” he barks. He has the air of a sergeant major, and I narrowly avoid standing to attention and saluting.
He steps back and gestures us in. I look around curiously. We’re standing in a hallway. The floor is parquet that’s covered in dust, and the ceiling is vaulted. Light floods in through the glass in the front door, showing the peeling wallpaper. There’s a strong smell of damp.
Mr Corvin turns to Mac. “I hope your assistant told you that I’m unsure whether I want to sell the old place. This might be a wasted journey for you.”
“He did tell me. Thank you for the opportunity to see the house,” Mac says smoothly.
The older man cocks his head. “Do I know you?” he asks abruptly.
Mac smiles at him. It’s an icy smile, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice. “No, sir. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
He grunts, dismissing the notion, and strides down a corridor, gesturing for us to follow him. I whisper to Mac, “Do you think you can persuade him? He does seem pretty anti.”
He watches the other man disappear from sight, his expression distant. “It’s a lot of money for anyone to turn down.”
“How much?”
“Two million, give or take.”
I blink. “Bloody hell. I need to put my prices up if you’re paying that.”
“Surely you know?—”
He breaks off and I prompt breathlessly, “What?”
“I would pay whatever you asked, Wes.”
The simple honesty is stunning. I’m without words and he doesn’t seem much better, so we stare silently at each other.
The moment is abruptly broken when Mr Corvin appears from down the corridor. “Something wrong?” he asks.
“Not at all,” Mac says quickly. “Wes was just admiring the contours of the hall.”
The older man glances at me, and I immediately try to look like I’m enthusiastic about hallways.
He grunts. “Hurry up, please. I don’t have all day.” He vanishes around the corner again.
“Maybe he’s the exception to your money rule,” I murmur.
Mac shrugs. “He’s not. I happen to know he needs the money, so that will hopefully tip the balance.”
“How did you know that?” I ask.
Ignoring me, he ushers me ahead, his hand at my back as usual. I love the gesture. It’s almost old-fashioned but still very nice. I feel safe and appreciated, even if it’s all an illusion.
Mr Corvin pauses by a door and flings it open. “Study,” he says and gestures for us to look in.
I gasp in delight. It’s a large room with a view over the river through the multi-paned window. Shelves line the room, but they’re largely empty apart from a few lonely-looking books, and the carpet is pink and stained in places.
Mac looks at me curiously. “You like it?”
“Oh yes. I can imagine you working here with the river in the distance. It would be so peaceful for you.”
Mr Corvin clears his throat, and Mac starts as if he’d forgotten the older man. “Sorry. This is a delightful room.”
Mr. Corvin shrugs. “It was my study before I retired. Now I rarely venture in here.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, softly, wandering to the window.
The garden is overgrown, but the scents coming through the window are lush.
I can see the remains of an old shed, but it looks like the garden is reclaiming it along with the old summer house.
“I think I’d be in here all the time,” I say dreamily. “All these bookshelves.”
Mac looks at me. “I didn’t know you liked reading—” I widen my eyes, and he jerks as he remembers what we’re doing. “That much,” he finishes rather lamely.
Luckily, Mr Corvin isn’t paying us any attention.
He gestures us out, shutting the door behind us, but not before I direct one more longing gaze at the bookshelves.
When I look up, Mac is watching me with a wry look on his face.
“You’re as full of surprises as ever,” he murmurs as Mr Corvin once more strides ahead of us down the corridor.
“Why? Because I can read?” I say crossly. “I bet you thought I’d been raised in a zoo.”
“God help the other animals. They’d have escaped after twenty minutes of conversation with you.”
He laughs as I elbow him.
Mr Corvin opens another door, and we find ourselves in a long lounge that’s incredibly light due to the patio doors and two-stained glass windows that look onto the front garden.
The sunlight through the glass sends red, blue, and green stripes on the old carpet.
The room is dated, with chintzy furniture and a huge seventies-looking brick fireplace.
It smells strongly of damp, but it has a certain charm despite that. It feels rooted and solid.
“ Lovely ,” I say with emphasis.
The old man’s face cracks into a smile that’s all too brief. “Yes, it was my wife’s favourite room. She spent a lot of time in here.”
The silence stretches, and I look at Mac, waiting for him to say something. He’s watching the man with a strange look in his eyes, his face a cool mask.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quickly when it becomes evident that Mac isn’t going to talk.
The man shrugs. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
“Some losses mean something via their absence, don’t you think?” Mac says suddenly.
I stare at him. What the fuck did that mean?
Mr Corvin’s face creases in confusion. “I suppose,” he says slowly. “She was a very quiet woman.”
He’s spoken as if he’s given his dead wife a compliment. It’s very odd and somehow sad—like he thinks it was a virtue that she was quiet? I’m sure that “compliment” would never appear on my gravestone.
Mac turns away carelessly and walks to the patio doors. Beyond them is a wide, cracked patio with an old table and chairs, the wood rotten, and the parasol a faded pink. “Was this your family home?” Mac asks, touching the door gently. It’s warped, and a pane of glass is cracked.
“Erm, yes, I suppose so, although it was only me and the wife.”
“How lovely.” Mac turns. His expression, hard and unsmiling, sends an icy finger down my spine, and for a moment I don’t recognize him. He gestures to the door and says, “Shall we see the rest of the house?”
The moment is gone so quickly, I wonder whether I imagined that vague feeling of threat.
I traipse after them as we make our way through a big kitchen.
It has ancient-looking cupboards painted a dreary avocado colour, but it’s still a beautiful room with a side window that looks down on another garden—this one overgrown but with the river glinting through the branches of an old willow tree.
I imagine big doors opening onto that garden, and a table set in front of the view.
Music would be playing while I cooked dinner, and Mac tapped away at his laptop.
I sigh wistfully and then have to smile.
I can’t cook, and so it would be likely that I’d make him something inedible or that would make him choke to death.
I follow them into a dining room and then up some back stairs to the upper floor, where we see five huge bedrooms, most of them empty apart from a few pieces of furniture under dustsheets.
As we walk along, I experience a gamut of emotions.
This place feels strange to me, and not just because of its combination of beauty and shabbiness.
It’s almost as if I’ve been here before, like I know this house deep in my bones, and it’s welcoming me back.
Mac seems to have forgotten I’m here, and he discusses floorspace and council tax brackets with Mr Corvin.
Finally, we head down another flight of stairs, and into the lounge. Mr Corvin doesn’t offer us a seat. I hover awkwardly, but Mac shows no sign of discomfort. “It’s a lovely house,” he says slowly.
Mr Corvin nods. “There’s a nice community on the island.
The neighbours do a lot of things together, and people like to help each other.
” He grimaces. “I don’t like that sort of social life myself, but I don’t think the place is as isolated as it first appears.
A lot of the people here commute to work.
They moor their boats at the pub on the other side and then catch a train into the city.
There are a few families and a lot of younger people here, too.
” That last bit is aimed at me, and I nod dutifully.
Mac stirs. “I can imagine it would be a dream for children to live here.”
There’s something odd in his voice—some note of something that I can’t work out. It makes me feel protective of him, and I edge closer, taking his hand. He jerks as if suddenly realising I’m here, but when I go to move back, he tightens his grip on me, keeping me by his side.
Mr Corvin watches us intently. A shadow passes over his face. “There are children on the island. I believe they go to school in Shepperton. Sadly, we were never given children, so there were no grandchildren for us.”
Mac’s hand tightens so hard that he hurts me. I suppress a gasp and squeeze back, still compelled to comfort him. This old house holds no threat to him, so why do I feel that something is happening under the surface that I can’t see?
Mr Corvin turns to me. “And you, Mr Reilly? What do you think of the place?”
I blink and realise he’s talking to me when Mac nudges me subtly. “Oh me,” I say stupidly. I look around. “I love this house,” I say slowly.
“Why?”
I search for words. “Because it feels safe, like it could hold the world at bay. It feels like a bit of England that’s lost in time. It feels like home.”