A New Beginning (15 page)

Martin
had
spent
the
three
weeks
after
we
had
moved
in,
crouched
over
the
kitchen
table
drawing
plans
for
the
modernisation,
and
pacing
round
the
house
measuring
things,
and
grumbling
at
my
inability
to
comprehend
the
brilliant
nature
of
his
design
for
a
completely
new
drainage
system.

With
his
new-found
expertise
as
a
builder,
he
had
taken
a
sledge-hammer
and
demolished
the
wall
which
divided
the
two
small
reception
rooms,
to
make
one
large
sitting
room
which
would
look
out
over
the
valley.
I
suppose
it
was
pure
luck,
really,
that
we
had
decided
to
shop
in
the
nearby
town
the
following
afternoon,
and
taken
the
dogs
with
us.

We
had
arrived
home
to
find
John,
the
farmer
and
our
nearest
neighbour,
parked
outside
in
his
‘pick-up’
truck,
waiting
for
us.

‘You
can
come
and
stay
with
us
while
you
get
sorted
out,’
he
said.

‘That’s
very
kind
of
you,
but
we
don’t
mind
a
bit
of
dust,’
I
said.

‘There
won’t
be
much
dust,’
he
said.
‘The
rain’ll
soon
settle
that
-
but
you’re
going
to
find
it
a
bit
draughty
with
that
hole
in
the
roof.’

My
stomach
had
somersaulted.
Martin
had
gone
pale
and
said:
‘Oh
my
God!’
as
we
all
stood
staring
at
our
new
home.
Without
the
support
of
the
inner
wall
that
Martin
had
demolished
-
inner
load
-
bearing
wall,
as
John
had
helpfully
pointed
out
–
some
of
the
roof
timbers
had
collapsed,
and
they,
and
the
thatch,
had
fallen
straight
into
the
upper
floor
of
the
building.
Much
of
what
we
owned
was
now
buried
under
three
feet
of
dusty,
mouldy
straw,
a
lot
of
which
was
blowing
around
the
garden
and
lodging
in
the
hedges
and
trees.

‘Apart
from
that,
the
cottage
was
pretty
sound,’
John
said.
‘Thatch
needed
re-doing
of
course,
but
I
would
have
thought
the
timbers
were
okay.
You’ll
have
to
sue
your
surveyor.
He
should
have
insisted
on
putting
in
an
RSJ.
Anyway,
I
must
get
on.
We
do
bed
and
breakfast
at
the
farm
and
we
have
nobody
in
at
the
moment.
Betty
says
you
are
welcome
to
stay
with
us
till
you’re
sorted.
We
don’t
mind
dogs.’

I’d
wrenched
my
eyes
away
from
the
unbelievable
mess
in
front
of
me:
‘Thank
you,
John,
and
thank
Betty
for
me.
It’s
very
kind
of
you,
but
I
think
we’ll
take
a
room
at
the
pub
for
tonight
while
we
sort
things
out.’

Apart
from
his
initial
remark,
Martin
hadn’t
spoken.
He
gave
John
a
rather
sickly
smile
as
he
climbed
into
the
pick-up
and
started
the
engine.
John
drove
a
few
feet
before
stopping
and
winding
down
the
window:
‘Ring
Harry
Pearce,
he’s
in
the
book.
He’s
got
a
JCB
and
will
help
clear
that
lot
up.’
He
waved,
and
pulled
away.

‘Well,
we’d
better
see
what
we
can
salvage
in
the
way
of
clothes
and
toothbrushes,
then,’
I
said,
to
try
to
bring
Martin
out
of
his
state
of
shock.

‘Aren’t
you
going
to
shout
at
me?’
he
asked.
His
eyes
flicked
to
the
sledgehammer
still
propped
beside
the
back
door.

‘What’s
the
point?
And,
anyway,
it
looks
as
if
it’s
going
to
rain.
Oh,
and
what’s
an
Irish
Jay?’

‘Rolled
steel
joist,’
he’d
muttered,
leaving
me
not
much
the
wiser.

After
giving
them
a
short
run,
I
put
the
dogs
back
in
the
car
and
we
scrambled
about
in
the
ruins
of
our
new
home,
rescuing
things
and
beginning
to
understand
how
a
bombed
out
refugee
in
London
must
have
felt
during
the
war.
We’d
managed
to
unearth
the
wardrobe,
which
was
still
intact,
and
save
some
of
our
clothes,
but
the
ominous
creaks
and
groans
from
the
upper
floor
soon
had
us
out
of
the
building
and
driving
up
to
the
Wheatsheaf
Inn
in
the
village.
I’d
sorted
out
our
accommodation
while
Martin
sat
in
the
corner
of
the
bar
with
a
stiff
whisky,
his
mobile
phone
and
a
copy
of
the
Yellow
Pages
open
at
Caravans,
Motorhomes
and
Trailers.