December 2010
I arrived punctually for my appointment, ensuring I was well turned out. Apparently Mr. Clifford’s niece was rather a stickler about that sort of thing. My boss complained that she bent his ear for half an hour about young hooligans with tattoos and earrings.
He chose me to go because I was the most presentable of the staff at ‘Buy Buy Homes’. He was always banging on about what a clever name it was for an estate agency. He led us to believe it was his idea, however, I had heard it was actually his five year old daughter had thought of it.
After driving across the rickety wooden bridge and past the chestnut trees, I saw the house for the first time. Mist lay low around it so that it seemed to be floating on cloud.
The niece was standing on the steps in a fur coat and hat, striking a Cruella Deville pose. When I pulled up I saw an old fashioned Rolls Royce parked, inside a chauffeur was seated at the wheel.
‘You are late!’
I was about to protest but she had already stooped to remove an enormous key from beneath a stone. I scuttled after her. She must have been seventy, but I, at forty, could hardly keep up with her.
Doors were flung open and a brief description given. I tried to scribble down some details, which was nigh impossible. Breathless, I begged her to go more slowly.
‘I will not spend a moment longer than I have to in this repulsive house. My aunt was bitter and cruel. She hated men . . . a Miss Havisham character. She died alone here.
When we visited she tolerated me, but made my little brother’s life a misery. She had a way of getting under his skin and taking away any shred of confidence he ever had. I blame her for his suicide.
It’s a good job you are a woman. Nasty things seem to happen to men in this house!’
I stood there, mouth agape, as she dropped the key into my hands and told me to take what measurements and so on that I needed and get the house sold as soon as possible.
I heard the car roar away and I stared at the monstrous key; shivers went down my spine. I can honestly say that I have never completed a task quicker than I did that day.
I put the key back under the stone, trying to shut out the gloomy, neglected gardens and the distant hooting of an owl.
My car park nearly skidded off the road in my haste to leave before the dark enveloped me and the house.
I marketed the house as best I could, but there was little interest in it. I didn’t relish going back to show any one round to tell you the truth.
A couple of weeks later, I did get a phone call from a chap who was in my class at Primary School. Our mothers were friends and we spent a lot of time together while they gossiped and drank tea.
He was a property developer in London now, but had heard the house was up for sale and thought he might be able to do something with it.
He was popping down to see his mother for tea on Christmas Eve and wondered if he could view it before hand. I agreed only because he was an old friend, as we only work half day on Christmas Eve.
We settled on three o' clock, but I told him about the key in case I was held up.
On that morning, in the office, I kept thinking about Miss Clifford and wondered if she had been jilted on her wedding day and if that was why she hated men so.
At twelve, we all went to the pub for our Christmas lunch. Although alcohol was flowing freely, I resolved to stick to orange juice because of my appointment.
There was a recent, unwelcome addition to our staff, a spotty youth called Rupert. He was being a pain, trying to persuade me to ‘loosen up’ and have a drink.
I only realized when it was too late that he had been lacing my orange with something. I found it difficult to walk. I felt very sick and unwell.
My boss took me home telling Rupert that he would deal with him later. As we drove, I tried to tell him about the appointment. He reassured me that he’d sort it out, but he told me later that he had just thought I was rambling and disorientated.
The next day, the local policeman came to see me. It was the very worst of news. My friend had been found dead in the house after suffering a heart attack. His mother had reported him missing and mentioned our appointment to the house.
I just couldn’t take it in, how could such a thing happen at his age?
The policeman’s voice interrupted my reverie, ‘The look on his face though, it was as if he had seen a ghost. Oh, by the way, miss . . . Merry Christmas!’