“Ah, shit. Time’s up.” He got up from his seat. “I’ll have a chat with my Aunt Sheila—she used to be a solicitor—about what happened with your neighbour’s house. I reckon you could get some compensation or something. No promises though.” He put the catalogue in one of his jacket pockets. “See you tomorrow.”
I sat, pleasantly dumbfounded.
“See you tomorrow,” I said.
Later that day, my phone buzzed with another alert.
It said,
DRINK WATER.
I did.
CHAPTER 57
The whole of 1a had come down that night, collapsed like a diseased ribcage over desiccated lungs. The floorboards on the ground floor had rotted through and the whole thing was sodden with mould and lichen.
When the building surveyor called, she said the destruction was so total she could see all the way down to the basement from outside. I had braced myself for news of what they found down there; images of the boneyard I’d seen in the apple grove crept their way into my mind. But there had been nothing. It was empty now. Just lonely old stones, worn and blackened with age.
When I asked about the door in the basement, there was a small pause, then she said something about all doors being completely destroyed. So, I guess I’ll never know for sure. Probably for the best.
A few weeks later, the estate agents who’d sold me the building got in touch. Apparently, the fact that the house was semi-detached wasn’t the only thing they’d missed from the details. They’d sourced the original survey from an old friend and known property cowboy in the area who’d sign off on rural properties for cheap; of course, never actually making their way out to survey the place at all. I quickly got the impression they were concerned I’d take them to court for this. As a sign of good faith, they gave me a cheque for damages plus some. If I kept my expenses modest, I calculated the money would last a year or two. Time enough to figure out a new path for myself, a different way of living. Fergus’s Aunt Sheila reckoned I could get more if I wanted, but I didn’t. I had fought enough for a lifetime. This was one battle on which I was happy to call a truce.
Fergus started dragging me along to antiques fairs and car boot sales under the guise of getting some fresh air and helping him pick out stock for the shop. I almost always come back with some bargain piece of furniture. I have a proper bed now, a wingback chair, and a set of vintage curtains we got for a steal. I’ve yet to find a round dining table that fits my kitchen, but Fergus says we can keep trying.
As I recovered at home, I watched next door recover, too.
People in hi-vis jackets and hard hats came to tear it down to the bones. They ripped out the old rotten beams, floorboards, doors, countertops and plaster, and threw them into the successive skips that came and went via the driveway each week. But the stones, I noticed, they stacked to the side.
Once I grew steady on my crutches, I went outside to ask about the stones under the guise of offering tea. Thanks to Fergus’ near-weekly interference, I now had enough cups to cater for a small army. They were setting the stones aside because they were still good, the builders told me. They just needed to be put back in the right place, with the right support.
Once I was able to, I started going with Rowan to one of his group meetings. Fergus calls them Angerholics Anonymous. Everyone sits in a circle and talks about what makes them angry, when they last lost it, how they’re learning to listen to and express their anger in more ‘productive’ ways. To my surprise there were a couple of other women there. One of them shared how she once took a shit on her manager’s chair. We’re supposed to share stories for accountability, but I think she shared that one for clout. I meet up with her for coffee every other week.
I also started attending online anger management sessions in earnest. I talk about my dad, and what happened at the office, and the ringing I hear in my head. It’s actually alright.
Every now and then I find new alerts on my phone.
GO SEE PEOPLE.
TAKE A WALK.
EAT A VEGETABLE.
I don’t know how Fergus keeps sneaking these things on, but I don’t mind.
When I was able to, I walked back into Carlinsrest. All of the ‘improvements’ had disappeared, and it was back to looking as it always had. Maggie from the café gave me a wave when she saw me and helped me to a seat at the window, the same one I’d had that first day. The bunting and the flowers had disappeared overnight, she told me. Round about the time when 1a’s roof fell in. I realised that she didn’t smile at me with her mouth like she did for customers, but she raised her eyebrows like how she did with her waiting staff and regulars. A weary kind of ‘Can you believe this?’ at the world in general. I raised my eyebrows back at her and nodded. She patted my shoulder and got me a macaroni pie. I hadn’t been in the mood for one, but I was happy enough just to be treated as a regular, so I didn’t say anything.
I took a bite.
It wasn’t gourmet. No critic would be writing home about it. But it was warm and cheesy and delicious. Every bite a comfort, like a light being lit in the pit of my soul.
I let out an involuntary, “hmmmm.”
I looked back at the counter and Maggie nodded.
See. Best macaroni pie in the area.
After I was done, I came across the group of teens again back at the monument. The main boy stood up when he saw me and barked in my direction. The others around him laughed.
