Worms Page 3

  ‘I’m afraid it is in an awful state,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, tight-lipped. I crossed to one of the windows that looked out over the marsh and rubbed some of the dirt from the pane. It was a fine morning and the view was splendid: the sea about a quarter of a mile away with nothing between it and us but the marsh, the mudflats and the sky. Small birds were chattering in the rushes a few yards from the window and as I watched a flight of ducks flew overhead and out towards the mouth of the estuary. I could see the serpentine coil of the river as it wound inland and the glistening muddy banks revealed by the low tide.

  Nearer at hand was a deep channel that seemed to lead directly under the building. Its sides were smooth and slippery but there was less than a foot of water in the bottom which suggested that it must join up with the tidal river. Mrs Valentine saw me looking down. ‘This building used to serve as a boathouse too,’ she explained. ‘I expect you’d like to see?’ She seemed so unsure of herself that I deemed the moment had come to try and take advantage of the situation.

  ‘The cost of making this place habitable would be astronomical,’ I said censoriously. She was struggling with another door and did not respond immediately. I went to her side and pulled at the handle. The damp had made the door swell and jam against its frame; I had to use all my strength to force it open. Some of the slimy verdigris on the metalwork brushed against my sleeve and stained it. This trifling accident caused Mrs Valentine further confusion.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have got Wilson to clear the place up a bit before anyone came.’

  I told her not to worry and led the way in the darkness down a flight of stone steps. There was a door at the bottom and this opened when two bolts were slid back to reveal a small jetty that abutted on the waterway I had seen from the window. A padlocked metal grille was suspended across the channel to stop anybody getting onto the jetty from the marsh and a large flat-bottomed rowing boat lay on its side, pulled up out of the water; it seemed unlikely that it would still be watertight. A smell of damp and decaying vegetation hung in the air – not unusual in such a place – but there was also a more prevailing and unpleasant odour. It smelt like rotting flesh. I looked around and shivered. ‘Damp must be a great problem,’ I pronounced.

  ‘There’s no rising damp,’ said Mrs Valentine. ‘The walls are all stone.’ Her tone was still apologetic and she made no attempt to tell me that a place with its own boathouse and access to the sea was at a premium in the area. I made a grunting noise and tapped one of the timbers that supported the protective structure above our heads. ‘Is there any land that goes with the building?’ I asked.

  Mrs Valentine shook her head. ‘No. The marsh is public land and I want to retain the garden. I just thought I might be able to sell off the stables.’ She was almost thinking out loud. ‘A little more money would be so useful. It’s been very hard since Edgar died.’

  ‘What kind of sum were you thinking of?’ I asked.

  She looked embarrassed and I wondered if she was going to retreat behind the words scribbled on the estate agent’s card: ‘Price to be resolved’. Luckily she did not. She mentioned a figure that made my heart jump with excitement. It was lower than I had dared hope for and could bear no relation to the true market value of the property. My elation was short-lived – I was not dealing directly with Mrs Valentine but through the intermediary of the estate agent. I cursed myself for having proffered his card by way of introduction; I could easily have said that I had heard a house was on the market and brazened things out later. I hoped that none of this inner turmoil showed on my face as we climbed back up the stone steps. I merely catalogued a list of the features that the building did not have: electricity, drainage, sanitation. Mrs Valentine agreed with me and said that perhaps she would be prepared to adjust her price to make allowance for these deficiencies. It occurred to me at this stage that I must show some kind of interest or even willingness to purchase. It was necessary to make the good Mrs Valentine feel obligated to honour the figure she had quoted before the self-interested estate agent got to work on her.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ I said. ‘I am a man of limited means. Nearly every penny I have would be needed to make this habitable.’

  ‘I don’t think I could go any lower,’ she said.

  ‘The figure would have to be in the area you have quoted,’ I said. ‘Then by making a few sacrifices I think my resources could just stretch to making the purchase.’ I turned and looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Despite its dilapidated condition I would be less than honest if I did not admit that the building and its situation exert a strange charm on me.’ I was taking a risk by expressing so strong a preference but I felt it important that I struck some chord in Mrs Valentine’s heart. I sensed that she was a lonely woman who missed her husband and yet was attached sentimentally to the house and surroundings in which they had presumably passed many happy days. If I could show that I shared her feelings of attachment then I would be well on the way to enlisting her commitment when it came to the inevitable tussle with the grasping estate agent.

  Mrs Valentine turned away from me and again I noticed the blush on her cheek. ‘It can be lovely here,’ she said. ‘Some of my friends think I’m foolish to stay on in the house but they don’t understand.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ I said, trying to inject the right note of sympathy into my voice. ‘Shall we say then that I have agreed to purchase the house at not more than the first figure you quoted?’ I allowed my face to cloud over. ‘There is only one thing that bothers me.’

  She looked worried. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I fear that your estate agent, knowing I have expressed an interest, may try and force the price up beyond the figure that we have agreed. I don’t know if you have much experience of the breed but they can behave like that. I recall that once, when I sold a house, the estate agent involved tried to persuade me to accept a higher offer that came in from a third party as the contracts were being exchanged.’ I paused. ‘Of course, I refused.’

  ‘Of course.’ Was there, as I hoped, in that reiteration an assurance that the price would not change? I rather thought so. Naturally, my one-time experience with the estate agent had been pure invention but it seemed to have served its purpose admirably.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, moving towards the door. ‘I will approach your estate agent when you have had time to contact him. Will tomorrow be too early?’

  I wondered for a moment if I was sounding too precipitate but Mrs Valentine shook her head calmly. ‘No. That will be quite all right. I’ll telephone him immediately.’ As we moved out into the garden Mrs Valentine indicated a small door in the outside wall. ‘There’s a track that goes round the outside of the property. You’ll probably find that the easiest means of access. The land around the doorway can be included in the sale.’

  ‘That seems a very good idea,’ I said. ‘How fortunate that your magnificent elms have been spared.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My husband was very fond of trees. I’m glad they survived him.’ She cleared her throat and snapped her fingers at the spaniels who had been following us lugubriously during the tour, although they had refused to make the descent to the jetty with us. ‘I hope you won’t think me inquisitive but are you thinking of living here permanently or keeping the house as a holiday home?’

  I felt that she wanted to know more about me than was suggested by the straightforward nature of the question, but something made me reluctant to answer. ‘I’m approaching retirement,’ I said at length. ‘My idea would be to get the house into sufficiently good condition to move into at that date. I certainly couldn’t afford to own two homes.’

  ‘Perhaps you are in the same situation as myself?’ she said.

  I hesitated and she blushed again, at the same time extending an arm to touch my sleeve. ‘Forgive me if I mention something you would rather not talk about.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I have a wife. She is here with me now i
n Blanely. She has a slight chill so I left her where we are staying.’ Was it my imagination or did a fleeting expression of regret pass across Mrs Valentine’s face? ‘I hope she will like the house,’ she said simply.

  ‘I’m certain she will,’ I said. ‘She’s enchanted by the region.’ It was strange but I found that once I started inventing the truth each successive lie came easier than the last. If necessary I could have peopled a landscape with figures, all of my own creation.

  I took a respectful leave of Mrs Valentine and made my way down the drive feeling that her eyes were following me. I had applied a subtle pressure to her hand and held it just a trifle longer than was necessary. In this way I hoped she would appreciate that I was reminding her of the bargain we had made and also, perhaps, expressing an incipient warmth of feeling that would have sounded importunate if conveyed by words.

  I left the gate and walked a few hundred yards till I had an uninterrupted view across the marshes. Once again the sight produced a sense of awe and suppressed fear that revealed itself as a kind of excitement. There was something menacing about the flat, windswept land draining into the sea and yet I felt myself drawn to it. Whatever destiny I had belonged here.

  No sooner had this realization occurred to me than it was followed by the reality. Although I had blithely said that my wife found the area enchanting, this was the opposite of the truth – she had done nothing but complain since our arrival. Furthermore, she controlled the purse strings; it was her legacy that would be required to pay for the property. In her present mood she hardly seemed likely to feel well disposed either towards me or the semi-derelict house.

  I returned to the inn wondering what to do for the best. If Mrs Valentine stuck to her word and remained unswayed by the estate agent then I would be expected to proceed with the purchase the following day. Of course, if I did nothing, then no harm would be done; Mrs Valentine might feel a pang of regret but the dwelling would soon be sold to someone else and for a better price. It all depended on my wife. I had twenty-­four hours to persuade her that Marsh Cottage, as I had already decided to call it, would make an ideal purchase for our retirement. It occurred to me that I should have made an appointment with Mrs Valentine for a return visit accompanied by my wife. She would have to see the place.

  When I got back to our room I found my wife in one of her worst moods. She was now dressed and complaining that she had been kept waiting for her breakfast. When I innocently commented that she should have gone down by herself as she had done for lunch the previous day, she flew into a rage and demanded what conclusions I wanted the other guests to draw from the behaviour of a wife who was forced to eat alone because her husband was never there. Was I trying to make her a figure of ridicule and contempt? Was I trying to make it clear to everybody that our marriage was a mockery?

  This, though by no means an atypical beginning to a day in my married life, was not how I wanted this one to begin. I apologized fulsomely and gave assurances that I would never leave her side for the rest of our holiday together. I asked her what she would like to do and whether there was any special treat I could procure for her breakfast.

  If anything, my contrition seemed to make her even more annoyed. She returned to my choice of a holiday on the Broads as a subject for further abuse and assured me that the last few days had been amongst the most miserable that she had ever spent. The sound of her voice must have been heard all over the inn and when we eventually came downstairs it was obvious from the landlord’s manner that he found us far from being ideal guests. My wife complained that the tea was cold and sent back her boiled egg because it was overdone. I tried to smooth things over but it was a relief when I eventually persuaded her into the car for what I described as an ‘excursion’. I felt that her mood could only improve and that the more time it was given to do so the better as far as property viewing was concerned. I would drive her around the local countryside and encourage her to eat a large lunch. This, with the aid of a few gin and limes, might induce a more sanguine humour. Though by no means an alcoholic my wife did enjoy the occasional tipple and was sometimes quite tractable afterwards.

  My plan was to visit a number of local monuments which I hoped would prove interesting and might even awaken in her a flicker of enthusiasm for the area. Unfortunately, nearly all of them had closed with the end of the tourist season, and we were thus restricted to looking across moats and up at barred gatehouses. The promise of the early morning faded and a fine drizzle began to fall, pressing a pall of mist down on the landscape. Having criticized everything that she had seen and not seen, my wife fell to complaining about my driving. It was either too fast or too slow, too timid or too reckless; I was a poor judge of distance and had no powers of concentration. It was a refrain that I had heard many times before but today, perhaps because I was overwrought and worried about the house, it began to unsettle me. I overshot a turning – despite all her criticism, she expected me to map read as well as drive – and then reversed too fast, nearly colliding with a brewer’s dray coming out of the side road. There was a screech of brakes, an angry blast on the horn and the back of the Morris was nearly under the driver’s cabin. My wife let out an ear-piercing scream and pressed her hand against her bosom. The driver of the dray let out a few choice remarks and I quickly drove away from the scene of the incident.

  ‘Are you mad?’ she demanded. ‘Have you completely taken leave of your senses?’ I apologized but she continued to dramatize the incident, making melodramatic claims that I had nearly given her a heart attack. At this moment we passed a respectable looking pub and I pulled into the car park.

  ‘You need a drink,’ I said firmly.

  This statement provoked no argument and we entered the saloon bar where a log fire blazed in the grate, a large red setter stretched out before it. I ordered my wife a double brandy and she sat before the fire and talked to the red setter, who rested his head upon her knee and gazed up at her with adoring and uncomprehending eyes. I felt a sudden affection for the dog because in a way that I could never have done it was putting my wife in a better humour. She had a second brandy and talked to the landlord’s wife about dogs. The woman had an affected upper-class accent and my wife soon began to imitate the inflection – an imitation of an imitation. I did not think that Mrs Valentine would warm to my wife.

  My wife was hardly saying a word to me but, when I suggested that we stayed where we were for lunch, she agreed and said nothing when I ordered a bottle of wine. She drank most of this and had her third double brandy before I called for the bill. She was not noticeably drunk but talking volubly and waving her arms about freely enough to knock a string of horse brasses from the wall. Her relationship with the red setter had now progressed to the point where she called him her ‘lovely boy’. When I suggested that the country was the only place to have a dog she did not disagree with me. All in all, I felt that I had salvaged something from a potential disaster. Now I had to capitalize on the ground I had won.

  ‘What would you like to do, dear?’ I said as we left the pub. ‘Perhaps a little nap would be nice.’

  ‘I do feel sleepy,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have made me eat that trifle.’

  I said nothing but felt her settle heavily in the seat beside me. She leant back and momentarily closed her eyes before putting on her seat belt. ‘And drive carefully for heaven’s sake. We don’t want another accident.’

  ‘No, dear.’

  I eased my foot off the clutch and took a route that I knew would bring me back to Blanely along the coast road. The rain had stopped, the mist had lifted and a feeble sun was trying to break through the light covering of cloud. The view across the marshes was unimpaired, and I saw a hawk swooping down into the reeds. ‘It has a certain wild charm doesn’t it?’ I said.

  My wife’s chin was drooping forward towards her bosom, her eyelids flickered. ‘What?’

  ‘The landscape. It’s like a painting isn’t it?’

  My wife grunted and I did not pursu
e the matter. She was clearly not interested and I could think of no oblique way of approaching the question of the house. I would have to come right out with it – make a bold statement of what I wanted. This would be best made on the spot; if I described the property she would probably refuse even to see it. Heart thumping, I put my foot down and immediately received a caution to drive slower. For a malicious moment I thought of the brewer’s­­­­ dray smashing into the car and crushing her in a tangle of twisted metal; I saw a sheet being pulled over an inert body and a white-coated figure turning to me and shaking his head. The picture was so vivid that it frightened me.

  We came round a bend and the road straightened out. Two miles ahead lay Blanely and I could see the elms which marked the Valentine property. Tall trees, like church towers, were landmarks in this part of the world.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ I said to her. ‘I’ve found something that could be a real investment.’

  She had nearly drifted off again and sat up irritably. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Houses around here sell for very extravagant sums,’ I said. ‘Just out of interest I looked at a very ordinary little bungalow in the village. Do you know how much they wanted for it?’

  My wife said that she did not and I quoted a figure slightly in excess of the true one. ‘You’re not thinking of moving out here, are you?’ she said.

  I changed down to third and prepared to brake. We were almost level with Marsh House. ‘I’m thinking of the money we could make. I’ve found something that could be worth a small fortune with a little bit spent on it.’