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turn and give my brother a tight-lipped smile. ‘It’s not that bad, Danny.’ ‘Not that bad?’ he replies in dismay. ‘Half the bloody roof is gone!’ ‘It’s certainly seen better days, I can’t argue with you there.’ ‘When exactly were they? Before or after someone set fire to it?’
don’t think the damage is too bad, actually.’ Danny gives me a look. ‘I’m just trying to stay positive,’ I tell him, through only slightly gritted teeth. ‘This was Grandma’s last gift to us.’ ‘Gift?’ he replies incredulously.
the garden gate open with his foot. The gate, its hinges rusted completely through, falls over onto the cracked garden path with a loud clatter. Birds in the trees and bushes around us take flight, startled by such a loud noise in such a quiet place. ‘Very generous of her,’ he says drily. ‘And what exactly did she leave Mum and Dad again?’ ‘£75,000. All her life savings,’ I reply, as quietly as I can, so it doesn’t sound so bad. ‘And just
mental.’ Danny stares at me. He’s not going to let this one go. ‘They’re going on a year-long cruise around the world.’ I sigh. Danny nods angrily. ‘Yes, indeed. That’s what our loving parents are doing with their part of Grandma’s inheritance.’ He waves a hand at the crumbling house. ‘While we get to stare at this crap magnet and decide what the hell to do with it.’ ‘It could be very nice with some work,’ I counter. ‘Would said work
another smart-arse comment he returns his gaze to the house. ‘What did you say it was again?’ he asks me, trying to sound more upbeat. ‘A Victorian farmhouse. Built around 1890.’ ‘Right.’ Danny stands and stares at the place a little longer. ‘I like the windows.’ ‘They are nice.’ ‘And the place is quite . . . symmetrical I guess. That’s good.’ ‘It is. Double-fronted,
of silence follow. ‘I’m sure the front door was nice once. You know, when it wasn’t quite so rotten.’ ‘You’re reaching now.’ Danny throws his hands up. ‘Oh, give me a break! I’m trying my hardest here.’ ‘Sorry.’ He rubs his face with both hands. ‘And nobody knew Grandma owned this place?’ ‘Nope.’
about that either, Danny.’ ‘And what is that brown pile in the middle of the doorstep?’ ‘Ah, I think I can help you there. That, Danny, is a big pile of cow shit.’ ‘I thought so.’ He rubs his face again and groans. ‘What a shithole.’ Without saying more, Danny walks over the fallen garden gate, and starts to make his way down the cracked path, pushing the brambles out of the way as he does so. I let him go. Sometimes it’s best to not talk to my brother when he’s in one of these moods. He has a habit of dragging you down with him. Instead, I look
ago – if not far further back, considering the house’s age. Since then, the place has been gently rotting into the picturesque Hampshire countryside, and is now what you would charitably describe as a ‘fixer-upper’. Victorian farmhouses are quite impressive when they’re in decent condition, but the only thing impressive about this particular example is the fact it hasn’t caved in completely after several decades of neglect.
with him. This must have been the house she left behind when she did. But how did she come to own it in the first place? And why did she keep it all these years without telling anyone? These questions have been buzzing round my head for weeks. They will probably continue to do so, as I have no real way of getting any answers without the benefit of a medium or a Ouija board. I join Danny, standing in front of the doorstep, looking down at the cowpat. ‘It’s still steaming,’ he remarks. I look around for the cow that left it, but none is immediately apparent. Danny bites a fingernail. ‘You know,
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