Southend U3A

July 2023

The picture in the Attic - Pete Norman

John’s fingers were a blur across the keyboard as screen after screen rolled past but the frustrating thing with computers is that speed of entry is never a substitute for accuracy. He knew exactly what he was looking for but, without better precision in the search, he was failing miserably to find it.

He wanted a house, a large house, set back in its own grounds and not too far away. It might be old or it might be not so old . . . but most of all it must be in sufficient disrepair that the asking price woul

d leave him with enough working capital to convert it into a wonderful ‘Grand Design’. He wanted to do what his son Andy had called, ‘Ripping it into bits and then making it nice again.’ Andy is 9 and he is over the moon about the prospect of having a new home and a new bedroom and lots of new places to explore . . . but, unfortunately, first it has to be found.

John opened up the folder where he saved all the possibilities but there was precious little in there to show for his efforts – they were either too big or too expensive or in the middle of nowhere. He kept going back to the first picture, which he knew was way too big and he knew that it looked more like a set from a Hammer House of Horrors film but he also knew that there was something about it which had kept him coming back to it over and over again. It had an olde worlde charm which, if the ornate stonework could be salvaged, would make this a spectacular house for them all. However, its most appealing feature was that it was only 11 miles away, so it was close enough for him to not only project manage but also to keep a careful eye on the builders.

Maggie, though, was not quite so enthusiastic – she would have much preferred to just buy a plot of land and plonk a brand-new house on it. However, John was a budding architect and she knew that it was his drea

m to redesign and build his masterpiece and, if this project was a success, then his business might take off, big time. He decided to drive over and see just how decrepit it was; whether it was a viable project or a worthless money-pit.

From the road it looked magnificent. He turned off onto the serpentine and overgrown driveway and held his breath as the house grew closer and loomed larger – in real life it looked so much bigger than the computer picture. He stopped in the semi-circular gravel parking area and climbed out for a better look. There were steps leading up to an elaborate dark oak front door with a huge brass knocker dominating its centre – it truly was a grand entrance.

He walked slowly around the building, examining it with an architect’s eye, seeking out the defects: there were a few cracks in the brickwork, the small ornate crenelations had clearly seen better days and a couple of gargoyles hovered over the roof edge as if preparing for a suicidal leap for freedom but, at first glance, it looked in quite reasonable condition. However, he knew from experience that beauty in an old house is only skin deep and that behind the reasonable exterior might lurk some quite unreasonable problems.

He completed the circuit and stared up at the ornate front again. It was big – very big – but, there were convenient, symmetrical points on both sides where he could easily remove the wings and replace them with a garden room and a kitchen to die for.

He phoned the agent and arranged for a viewing on Saturday morning, so that Maggie and Andy – who had taken such an intense interest from the very start – could join them.

They set off bright and early. The tree-lined driveway, long and narrow, was in deep shade and, when they finally emerged into the light again, the house loomed over them. Maggie groaned, ‘You have got to be joking, John. It’s enormous!’

He shook his head. ‘No way, sweetheart. This is just magnificent. Look at the crenelations and look at those pillars in the front porch . . .’

Andy leaned across from the rear seat, ‘And look at those great big scary monsters up there.’ The rather precarious gargoyles grinned wickedly back down at him.

Maggie, however, was not convinced. ‘Ok, so maybe it’s got charm but it’s just so big, we’d rattle about in there.’

John huffed. ‘No, no, no, you have to look at this through an architect’s eyes. The middle bit is beautiful and we have to keep most of that but, if we pare back both of the wings, we can put a lovely big glass garden room on that end and an amazing kitchen/diner on the other. You’ll love it.’

Andy pointed up to a large window. ‘And my bedroom is that one up there and it’ll be ginormous!’

They both laughed. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that one, young man.’

The house inside was vast and far better preserved than the internet pictures suggested and after he had finished admiring the main central section John took a detailed look at the wings. They were beautiful too and, try as he might, he was not convinced that he could chop any of that out.

Andy had already run off to explore on his own and Maggie had finally tired of John’s slow, methodical progress and had left him to his muttering and measuring and scribbling and photographing.

John methodically worked his way through the floors until he reached the top floor. Unlike the splendour of the rest of the house, this floor was featureless and utilitarian and at the end of the corridor was a door. It opened into a vast attic space. Beyond a century’s worth of detritus was Andy. He was standing very still and appeared to be transfixed by a huge wooden chest.

John called out, ‘You alright, son? What’ve you found – anything interesting?’

As he got closer, he could see that, resting up against the chest, was a large picture. It looked just like a million other lavish portraits of the rich and self-important, each one trying to enhance his status in society. The portrait was of a man in his prime, with dark eyes and a fixed expression on his face. He wore the clothing of a successful businessman. There were several familiar objects depicted on a small table in front of him, which John could clearly recognise as the architectural tools of his own trade and he looked up at the face in a different light.

Andy whispered, ‘Daddy, the man spoke to me.’

John snapped his head up. ‘What? Don’t be silly. Come on, son, don’t make up stories.’

Andy moved closer to his father. ‘But he did. Honest.’

John turned to his son. ‘But he isn’t talking now, is he?’

Andy pouted. ‘But he did . . . he really did . . . and he said . . . he said . . .’

His eyes glazed over and his voice dropped an octave.

‘I SAID, “I BUILT THIS HOUSE. TAKE GOOD CARE OF IT.”’

Andy shook his head violently. ‘Daddy, what just happened? I’m frightened.’

John dragged his son away from the picture and hugged him tightly. He stared at the man in the picture in disbelief but there was nothing more forthcoming . . . however, the picture had changed – it was very subtle but it had definitely changed. The eyes now appeared to be softer and a half smile warmed the face. Despite everything that had happened, there was nothing threatening about the picture and even Andy had started to relax.

They searched the house and finally discovered Maggie in the large kitchen. She appeared to be taking a few measurements of her own. She looked up as her husband came in. ‘. . . are you sure you really have to change it?’

John smiled. ‘I reckon it looks just fine the way it is.’