A Serious Investment

  I don't believe in ghosts.

  It was the third time I'd reminded myself in less than five minutes. Maybe it was the cobwebs. Or the rusted hinges. Or the broken pane in the bedroom window that blasted bitterly cold air through both floors of the tiny cottage.

  More likely it was the way the estate agent, Simon-from-Dawsons, had stopped at the front gate, handed me the keys and suggested he wait in the car. I fiddled with the front door lock for a couple of minutes before looking at him for help. When he raised his eyebrows and made the ‘push’ gesture with both hands I realised I was viewing a property that had gone well beyond needing a key. I stepped inside and the front door clicked shut behind me. I’d meant it to stay open.

  I shivered, and that was the first time I considered ghosts.

  There was just one ‘reception’ room, that part of the estate agent details was accurate but I hadn't noticed that had mentioned ‘decorative mould’, ‘picturesque squalor’ or the shade of paint that had been daubed over doors and skirting during its last refurb – a shade I recognised as ‘festering mustard c. 1973’.

  “Oh boy” I muttered, then coughed just in case I'd inhaled too much of the cottage’s rustic charm.

  Pull it down and start again.

  They were Mark’s words, not mine, but I heard them as clearly as if he’d been standing next to me and, for the first time, I felt glad I'd made the trip alone. The sentiment made sense and was a lot closer to the truth than the advert which had repeatedly used the word potential.

  ‘No, it’s not my idea of a holiday home either’ I thought in answer to his imaginary question.

  I glanced at the kitchen and downstairs bathroom and without stepping into either turned to leave. I had just passed the foot of the stairs when I heard my name.

  “Katrina.”

  The voice was faint and soft. And spooky. The estate agent didn't know my first name and, even if he had, I couldn't somehow imagine that sneaking upstairs and calling me in a wispy female voice would do anything to help him sell the place.

  This, of course, was my second consideration of ghosts but, on the basis that I don't believe in them, I headed for the stairs.

  The ceiling was low and the stair-treads small, I hoped the creaking underfoot was only a sign that I was taller and better nourished than my early Victorian counterparts rather than a sign that the floor was about to collapse.

  The landing was a small square leading to the two bedrooms, one single and one double. I realised then that the voice must have travelled in through the broken window of the larger room, when I crossed to it I finally saw the view. For once the estate agent had undersold: Village location, overlooks farmland didn't do it justice.

  The fields were low and flat, ploughed and fertile, the soil like moist chocolate cake and the sky above it like frosty blue icing. Cars passed in the distance and the far horizon seemed a dozen miles away. The air hit my face, colder than in London but clearer too. This was the Cambridgeshire countryside I remembered from my childhood; unpolished, hard-working and often inconvenient. But with space to think and breathe and grow.

  We’ll come up once a month. Twice maybe.

  Mark’s words again, complete with that great get-out clause ‘maybe’.

  I knew he hadn’t meant to be so unenthusiastic, the way this had come about so suddenly had thrown both of us. My grandfather had died and left me some money, with the instruction that I should invest it in my future.

  I realised that I could choose to interpret that one hundred different ways... Maybe put it towards paying off our mortgage, or spending it on our wedding, or even spending part of it on a proper holiday.

  Mark’s first choice was to have a holiday then reduce the mortgage.

  Mine was to move.

  We’ve always said we’d move to the country before we started a family. And after six years together, and with both our thirtieth birthdays just months away the time felt right.

  Grandad had made it possible.

  We didn’t fight about it; it was a discussion.

  Mark reminded me of the wedding I’d always envisaged and pointed out the practicalities of the situation, how it made more sense to get married, invest time in our careers and therefore stay in London for a few more years.

  I understood his logic and felt secretly guilty and ungrateful when I realised that the lavish wedding I’m imagined seemed less appealing now. In the end I found it impossible to totally abandon the idea of buying somewhere in the country, I estimated the cost of a modest civil ceremony and quietly turned my attention to ‘something for the weekend.’

  I showed Mark a couple of adverts. He nodded and said he was happy for me to take a look. I added our modest savings to my inheritance, deducted the amount we’d need to keep back for the ‘big day’ and approached the estate agent with the final figure.

  It wasn’t a hug sum but I hoped there’d be something. It’s amazing how well an estate agent’s scepticism carries down a phone line.

  But eventually over the next weeks Simon-from-Dawsons rang back with three possibilities. I’d viewed a small flat over a village shop, a one bedroom mid-terrace and this - what the TV property shows would call the wild card.

  Really wild. Without selling our London flat there will be no way to even begin repairs on this one.

  I turned my back on the window. That view was the only redeeming feature, and let's face it, it would look just as good from a ghost-free, rot-free, bill-free tent pitched on the nearby common.

  I opened the front door and headed down the tilting footpath towards Simon. I knew it was time to admit that my dream of a part-time life in the country just wasn’t going to happen. It was time to return to London and let go of the urge to save this unloved little house.

  I bit my lip and fought a sudden urge to cry.

  “Katrina.”

  I turned as I heard the woman’s voice again. The nearest cottage stood thirty feet away and a woman about my age was in the front garden with her daughter. She smiled when she saw me.

  “Katrina Shaw?”

  “That’s right, were you calling me earlier?”

  “No, my daughter’s Katrina too. I wanted a pretty name that wasn’t really common and I picked Katrina from a book. You are the only other person I’ve met with it.”

  I guess I just stood there looking blank.

  “The Village College. You were two years above me.”

  “I'm sorry I don't remember you.”

  “Dawn Meadows, but don't worry, you wouldn’t. I was very quiet besides, everyone’s looking up at the older ones at school, aren’t they?” She walked over to me, with little Katrina’s hand in hers. “It’s haunted you know.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “It’s OK, it’s friendly. So are you going to buy it?”

  I shook my head. “It’s more than we could take on.”

  Dawn grinned, “I remember you as one of those really determined girls. You were netball captain when the school won that big cup and the Head, Mrs Pearce, gave that speech about dreams and dedication and stuff... remember?”

  I had forgotten, but now it came back to me like it was yesterday.

  Dreams, dedication, passion.

  The lump rose in my throat again. “Excuse me” I mumbled and headed back inside. I pulled my mobile from my pocket and rang him. “Hi Mark, you should come here and look at it” I said.

  “Isn't it a wreck?”

  “Totally, but we could do it. And the village is pretty. Has a shop and a pub.”

  “We have those in town sweetheart.”

  I tried not to sound uptight but I don’t think I could keep the tension from my voice. “Look, why don’t just check out the area with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Forget maybe Mark, come this weekend.”

  “I really don't...”

  “Please?”

  He paused and I heard him draw a long slow breath. “Kat, I thought you'd be thrilled that we've got a place together. We're not the second home types, you know that.”

  “But we’ve always said we’d move back this way.”

  “Yes,” he conceded, “It’s been mentioned.”

  “Mentioned?” I breathed and suddenly I felt angry. I hadn't expected it, but from nowhere it hit me. I thought I’d been happy with the compromise of a weekend cottage instead of an all out move. He’d convinced me that it had made sense, but I now saw how wrong I’d been.

  “Mark, you’re right about this cottage, it is a mess, but we could do it. We could make that move right now, if we sold up and used my grandfather’s money we could afford it. I can transfer my job up here, so could you. We can throw ourselves into turning our future plans into ‘now’ plans.”

  I waited while Mark weighed this up.

  “The thing is” he said finally, “I like things as they are. I love you, but I don’t want to change anything. You’ve bought into this whole idea of marriage and kids and a cottage in the sticks. They’re not the things we’re about, are they?”

  Dreams, dedication, passion.

  I stared from the window. The view looked like home.

  I turned slowly, surveying the mess of the room, then through the opposite window saw Dawn and little Katrina further along the lane. I could imagine my future and that’s where I knew I needed to invest. It was my grandfather’s legacy.

  I started to explain but Mark cut in, telling me how I needed to think of it differently, that I

was wrong, impractical, ridiculous even. He repeated things I’d heard so many times until finally, he started sounding angry.

  It was no one’s fault, we’d just ended up in two different places. For a long time I hadn’t wanted to see it and he hadn’t wanted to admit it. But today, suddenly, I understood. “Listen to me” he shouted, “A stupid decision now will haunt you forever.”

  “Maybe” was all I replied. I hung up then; I had a house to buy and a ghost to meet.

 

 

  Alison Bruce, A Serious Investment

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