THREE
I stepped across the threshold, and a distinctive old-lady smell hit my senses—damp with just a hint of lavender. The smell provoked memories of visits to my granny: chocolate biscuits dunked in tea and little tuna sandwiches for lunch. I scanned the hallway of the 1930s semi-detached house. My house. I pressed a shaking hand to the ache in my chest. Thinking of this house as mine and not Dad’s was still jarring.
For the past eight months, I had become accustomed to pushing emotions down like pressing a buoyant beach ball below salty waves.
So far, it had only hurtled above the water once.
Don’t think about the funeral.
As if that tactic had got me anywhere.
As I looked at the hallway, the beach ball threatened to come up. I pressed my head against the door frame. What have I got myself into? What was I thinking? Would renovating this house even give me closure?
I took another deep breath and tried not to spiral at the sight of a broken door latch hanging precariously from a rusty nail. I’d need to sort that out today if I wanted to sleep safely tonight. I mentally added it to my ever-growing list, but I knew I’d forget it quickly unless I wrote it down. Your head is like a sieve , my mum used to say, straight in, straight out . I tried not to take it personally.
Anaglypta wallpaper adorned the walls, cemented on in the 1970s, seemingly never to be removed again. Popcorn ceilings and thick swirling green carpet led up the narrow staircase from the hallway. Some of it looked… wet and sticky. Like there had been a leak at some point. I shuddered. A suspicious brown stain marred the ceiling; I didn’t want to know the source. The damp intensified through the hallway.
This wasn’t as I remembered it. Sure, it had been dated when I’d visited as a kid. But it had been warm and homely and looked after.
Some original features, like picture rails and skirting boards, remained. But someone had ripped out the original stairs and replaced them with horizontal bannisters to “modernise” the look of the hallway. But the teak was chipped and flaking off now.
Various mismatching but equally loud shag carpets were on display as I moved through the house. The living room boasted a bold geometric orange carpet, and the dining room showcased a green swirly one. The small kitchen at the back of the house had avocado green units and old-school appliances. I tentatively opened the oven door to see it completely black on the inside.
“No home-cooked meals for me,” I muttered.
Upstairs was a matching green bathroom suite, equally grimy and dirty. The house was silent apart from the ticking of the ancient boiler (the villain behind the E energy rating) and the loudness of my brain screaming a never-ending to-do list. Even though it was only a modest three-bedroom semi-detached house, it hadn’t been touched in years.
Hire a skip. Remove the carpets. Steam the wallpaper off. Ditch the electric fireplace and tiled surround . My mind rattled off more and more demands.
Okay , I thought, let’s get started .
Time blurred, and I wasn’t sure how much had passed when I heard a loud “Hello!” call from the open front door.
I glanced around, coming back into my body. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and a bead of sweat formed at my neck. I could almost hear my hair curling and growing, like some disturbing cartoon version of myself. I glanced down. I was holding a bleach spray, cleaning the bathroom sink upstairs. I put the bleach down and made my way downstairs, seeing the chaos I had created in the last few hours—so many half-finished jobs. The hallway was littered with partially ripped-off wallpaper; in the bedroom sat a suitcase that had been opened and rummaged through alongside a deflated inflatable mattress. I’d gone to fetch the pump but had got distracted setting up the kitchen, and I knew I’d left the cupboards open downstairs.
“Fuck.” My head fell into my palm.
I’m such a fuck up.
I felt like an eleven-year-old child again. It brought back the smell of Mum’s deputy headteacher’s office. Her disappointed expression when I told her I’d forgotten my maths homework, PE kit and food tech basket on the same day. You need to be more organised than this, Katherine. I can’t always be there to hold your hand . My mother shook her head. Post-diagnosis, my mum’s remarks didn’t change much. It shifted from You just need to apply yourself to It doesn’t mean you have an excuse, Kat . She didn’t understand that my lack of focus wasn’t laziness or for want of trying.
“Kat?” The loud voice called from the open front door again, pulling me from my thoughts.
I ran down the stairs to find my cousin Lydia standing in the hallway. She was brandishing two bottles of prosecco like they were awards, and she’d just swept the board.
She raised the bottle above her head. “Surprise, bitch!” She accosted me into a bone-crushing hug, her long blonde hair making its way into my mouth. Our height difference (me, five foot five and a half, Lydia, five foot eight) was even more apparent when we hugged, which was rarely. We were “weddings and funerals” cousins, mainly due to the distance. Lydia was a born and bred Mancunian, like all the paternal side of my family, while I was raised in Reading.
“How’s it going?” Lydia asked, her faint Mancunian accent coming through, the first I’d heard since arriving. Sometimes, it hurt to hear it; that lilt evoked memories of late-night phone calls from my dad after missed milestones—apologies for absences at dance performances, school award ceremonies, and first days at school.
I shrugged. “Not too bad. ”
Lydia looked around the place, probably seeing the destruction in our wake, but didn’t comment directly. My familiar friend, self-doubt, was waving like Forrest Gump in my head. There was so much to do, and I couldn’t even complete one task without a breakdown.
How did I plan to renovate a whole house if I couldn’t clean one?
Lydia looked around the hallway, picking at the plaster. “So, Uncle Jim left this place to you? You had no idea?”
“I just got a call from a solicitor.”
The subtext was obvious.
He hadn’t told me because we didn’t speak.
Lydia’s blue eyes, the Williams family eyes we shared, met mine and softened.
“I’m so sorry, Kat.”
I tensed.
“It’s fine. Anyway. I’m going to renovate it myself.” I pulled my curly hair up into the bobble on my wrist.
“You’re going to renovate it?” she squeaked, eyes going wide.
Great.
Even Miss Motivation herself doubted me.
“It was Dad’s childhood home, and your dad’s too.” I nodded towards Lydia. My uncle looked so much like my dad, with darker red curls and crinkly eyes, that I’d struggled to say more than a few words to him at the funeral last year. Looking at Brian felt like looking at the sun.
“I know… but I know you and your dad… were strained. Everyone would understand if you wanted to sell. Let someone else renovate it.”
Were they talking behind my back? This is because of the funeral. They saw how I messed up and thought I would choke at this, too.
I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “It feels right to bring it back to life. Let someone else build memories here.” My nose began to burn. “Plus, it makes more business sense. I met with the estate agent, and he reckons if I spend money on just a few basics, it will sell for a lot more. Then I can use that money to buy a place in London.”
“Does that mean I get to see my cousin more than a few hours this year?” Lydia smiled and threw her toned arm around my shoulders.
“Yep, you have me for two months.”
Lydia’s lips pulled back in mock disgust. “Alright. Don’t overstay your welcome, cuz. This town isn’t big enough for two Williams girls.”
I chuckled. “I’m sure it will survive.”
“We’ll have to warn the town crier.”
Lydia’s town. Dad’s town. My paternal family had set down deep roots in Everly Heath. But I’d always felt like an outsider on the few occasions I’d visited, even before my parents’ divorce. I’d been a pre-teen, an infamously awkward age, and while everyone had been friendly and welcoming, I’d always felt anxious and awkward compared to the relaxed way everyone talked to each other. There was a rhythm, but I didn’t have the hymn sheet.
Lydia ruffled my sweaty hair. “Where shall we start, then?” She eyed the hallway and kitchen .
“You don’t have to help, Lydia. I’ll manage.”
“Nope, nope, nope. Not having this, you’re just like your dad. Never accepting any help. I will be here either way, so tell me what to do or else.”
We agreed that Lydia would work upstairs, and I would tackle downstairs. Three hours of arduous work later, we’d done a deep clean of the whole house while listening to a true crime podcast. I’d heard Lydia exclaim the occasional “Bastard!” and “ It’s the brother !” and snorted. Satisfied, we collapsed on the living room floor with plastic cups and a bottle of prosecco.
Warmth spread through my chest. It was addictive, that high. It spurred me on. When Lydia left, I would smash out that to-do list and kick arse. But in the meantime, I was quite happy to enjoy the company.
“How’s work?” I asked while topping up her glass of prosecco.
“Busy. Really busy. But I have no clients tomorrow, so I can be naughty,” she replied haughtily and took a swig.
I raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t personal trainers supposed to be, like, super healthy?”
Lydia shrugged. “All about balance. Plus, if I can’t celebrate my cousin moving home—”
“—temporarily,” I reminded her.
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yes, temporarily, but still. What’s the point of all this”—she gestured to herself—“if I can’t enjoy life?”
To say Lydia was in good shape was an understatement. She was tall and lean, features she got from her mother’s side of the family because the Williamses were all short, stocky, and usually ginger. Lydia always wore bright sports gear, today favouring yellow and orange, and her long blonde hair was perpetually tied up into pigtails or space buns. She had the energy of the Duracell bunny and the spirit of a children’s TV presenter. I stared at her toned arms. How the hell did they even look like that?
“I work hard, but it is my full-time job,” Lydia added, as if answering my mental question. “Most people don’t have time to work out because they have actual lives. And families. Or see exercise as a means to an end, which I get. But I love it. I live for it.”
I nodded, wishing I understood that mentality. I liked graphic design, sure, but I didn’t live for it. Some days, I wondered if I even liked it all that much.
“Speaking of work—how did you swindle the time off?” A curious tone entered Lydia’s voice.
“Extended compassionate leave. Unpaid, but still. My boss, Willa, was understanding. She also lost her mum last year. Plus, I think two months of not paying my salary was appealing. They aren’t having the best time, financially.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a silver lining. The extended leave, I mean.”
“Yep. Thank god for dead dads, huh?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m joking, Lyd. You’re right. It’s a relief to be able to focus on this: new carpets, a lick of paint. The only big job will be opening the kitchen into the dining room to create an open-plan kitchen-diner. I looked it up, and I don’t need planning permission if I’m not extending. Even if it would be much better if we could… ”
Lydia jumped up, and I trailed after her. We looked at the wall separating the dining room and the galley kitchen.
“Yeah.” Lydia nodded. “But if you knocked this wall down, it would be huge.”
I nodded. “I could even create a little snug here. I think there is enough room for a TV and sofa.”
“I can see that.”
“And over here”—I gestured to the centre of the room—“once the wall is gone, there is enough room for an island, with barstools for three at least.”
I began designing the space in my head. My mind flooded with Pinterest-like images of arched bookcases and gorgeous parquet flooring. Soft plaster-pink walls contrasted with deep navy cabinets—a cosy breakfast nook by the window. I was itching to pick out the perfect tile for the backsplash. My mum and Graham’s Edwardian terrace house resembled an eccentric library. Annotated novels and travel books doubled as coffee tables, cups of tea balancing precariously on top. I loved it but always longed to put my own stamp on a house. I just hadn’t expected it to be my dead dad’s childhood home.
“What did your mum say about you moving up here?” Lydia asked wryly.
My mum had never made her dislike of the North unknown. When my parents got married, my dad agreed to a wedding with all his friends and family at Everly Heath Church in exchange for moving down south to Reading, where my mum was working at a school. It seemed like an even exchange in my head, but now that I thought about it, ultimatums probably didn’t set a good tone to start a marriage.
“She…” Should I lie again? I lied to get out of trouble all the time. At this point, I was worried it was pathological. But something about Lydia’s earnest face and helpful spirit made me want to be honest.
“She doesn’t know,” I admitted and waited for the gasp. My mother was scary as fuck. Even Lydia, who didn’t know her all that well, knew that.
I didn’t hear any reaction, so I looked up to find Lydia staring at me, a fearful expression on her features.
“What?”
Lydia whistled. “You grew some balls.”
“What do you mean!” I protested. “It’s fine. It’s two months, and we’re not in each other’s pockets, so I’ll be back in London soon.”
Lydia laughed. “Okay. God. This is what it feels like to be in the rebel alliance.” I ignored Lydia’s comment because I didn’t get the reference. I was too busy spiralling. Why did I think lying to my mum was a good idea?
I groaned and threw my head against my cousin’s muscly shoulder. “Please help me.”
“You just talked me through it. It seems like you have it all planned out.”
“I don’t. I will get overwhelmed and stressed and get carried away and spend too much. Everything I want to do will cost a million pounds. And maybe I could justify half of it if I was staying, but I’m selling,” I said so fast that I ran out of steam towards the end.
“Okay, okay. Let’s break it down,” Lydia said, patting me on the shoulder. “What first?”
“Builder quotes.”
“Oh!” A light bulb appeared over Lydia’s head, illuminating her dirty-blonde hair. She grabbed my arm. “Some family friends of ours, the Hunters, could help. They’re builders. I’ll give you Kevin’s number,” Lydia added, searching for her phone.
“Do you think they’d be available?”
“They always do favours around here, especially for locals. I bet if I twisted his arm—”
“I’m not local.”
“No, but your dad is. Was.” She flinched, then recovered. “And I am. I’ll call in my favour, don’t worry.”
She grinned, infectious; it made me smile back.
“That would be great. Thanks, Lyd.” I looked around the dusty dining room. “God, there’s so much to do. I don’t know where to start.”
“Why don’t we make a list together, now?”
A list would be helpful. It would be even more helpful to get the words out. To speak it all out loud. I forced down the instinct to say no. To insist I could do this alone. She’d already offered the Hunters. I couldn’t take up more of her time. I couldn’t be more of a burden.
“That would be great. Shall we start upstairs and work our way down?”
Lydia grinned. “I’m opening the next bottle of prosecco.”