36. Home hunting (3/4)
Off we went for a second, proper visit. My husband made me promise not to bother the nice man with my silly questions about how many people had died in there or anything remotely similar.
It was sunnier - which honestly was not in itself an achievement - and yet the front of the house looked the worse for it. Dirty white paint all other. The corridor seemed even darker and narrower ...
The estate agent was a lot more cheerful though and teacher-me thought it was because he had had time to do his homework.
'So, as I told you, the keys were dropped in that very morning ... out of the blue, and we did not even have it on the market when I showed it to you. But since you liked it ... (he looked at me sideways) ... You are the only people who have seen it ... Honestly it is quite a gem if one knows what they are looking for (an other glance in my direction) ... An old lady was living here, the doctor next door ... they are ... found her and took her to hospital. Where she died ... (an other glance in my direction) ... so the house has been empty for some time now. (He looked up as if the cobwebs were a proof of his honesty) ... The family is far away, somewhere in the East ... So they ... the house has ....'
I had stopped listening and was walking around the downstairs floor. The tiles were still there and that cheered me up instantly. At the same time I thought how stupid can you get being cheered up by floor tiles. But then my sane and English husband (therefore not the kind to lose his head over trivialities such as floor tiles) said:
'These tiles do look the part, don't they?' to which our estate agent was off again.
'Can we see the upstairs?' I rudely interrupted.
'Yes! Yes, of course. Let's go this way.' He sounded so pleased with himself as he opened the cupboard door.
The door indeed opened onto stairs leading up to the first floor, nicely hidden in the cupboard (this would become the naughty steps, which mischievous little children playing tricks with the lock, but that is an other story) and we went inside the cupboard to go up the stairs!
The first floor in itself was very uneventful. A landing shaped as if on second thoughts led to two rather large bedrooms. The beams were so low that my husband banged his head right away and following that the estate agent would go 'mind your head' every two seconds. Finally a bathroom to which I paid no attention whatsoever.
I pushed a creaky door and was met by a shower of dust and spider webs. How long did that man say this house had been uninhabited?
It opened onto old stairs which led to an attic with very old beams, bent by hundreds of years and held together by wooden pegs. More dust, more spiders and a huge amount of bric-à-brac .... (this is where later I would retrieve a folder with dozens of love letters written to ma chère Simone).
We walked back down the two flights of stairs and headed for the garden. We had a quick tour of the 'dépendance' and were both suitably amazed. It did look to us as if there was a tiny cottage at the back of the garden. On top of that there was a coal shed complete with a pile of coal ...
'And finally, please, this way ... to the underground cellar.' our man proudly announced.
I thought there was no need really to stress the word 'underground' and to put on that slightly spooky tone of voice. But I guess he was getting his revenge. Fair play to him. I realised I had been behaving myself and had not mentioned anything remotely weird or unusual.
'Mind your heads!'
It was a vaulted cellar that ran the length of the dining room above. It was impressive. We were marvelling at the brick vault when I noticed two things: a square cavity in the wall on the right hand side and facing us what looked like a blocked entrance. It struck me because the passage was blocked with modern breeze blocks.
'What's this?' I asked.
'Well, in this area, during the war there was a lot of tunnels and secret passage ways so that square cavity might be one of those ... as for the breeze blocks there. I don't know ... but it might lead to a second cellar that would be right under the oldest part of the house ...'
'Interesting! This house is not boring at all!'
'No it isn't. And as you can see, it has plenty of history so it is a house with a soul ... and ...' he turned with a quick movement of the head towards the breeze blocks and added 'And God knows what's behind those!'
Back home, the kids were asleep and we had an opportunity to talk sensibly. I said to my husband:
'Did you see any toilets?'
'No. Did you?'
It was sunnier - which honestly was not in itself an achievement - and yet the front of the house looked the worse for it. Dirty white paint all other. The corridor seemed even darker and narrower ...
The estate agent was a lot more cheerful though and teacher-me thought it was because he had had time to do his homework.
'So, as I told you, the keys were dropped in that very morning ... out of the blue, and we did not even have it on the market when I showed it to you. But since you liked it ... (he looked at me sideways) ... You are the only people who have seen it ... Honestly it is quite a gem if one knows what they are looking for (an other glance in my direction) ... An old lady was living here, the doctor next door ... they are ... found her and took her to hospital. Where she died ... (an other glance in my direction) ... so the house has been empty for some time now. (He looked up as if the cobwebs were a proof of his honesty) ... The family is far away, somewhere in the East ... So they ... the house has ....'
I had stopped listening and was walking around the downstairs floor. The tiles were still there and that cheered me up instantly. At the same time I thought how stupid can you get being cheered up by floor tiles. But then my sane and English husband (therefore not the kind to lose his head over trivialities such as floor tiles) said:
'These tiles do look the part, don't they?' to which our estate agent was off again.
'Can we see the upstairs?' I rudely interrupted.
'Yes! Yes, of course. Let's go this way.' He sounded so pleased with himself as he opened the cupboard door.
The door indeed opened onto stairs leading up to the first floor, nicely hidden in the cupboard (this would become the naughty steps, which mischievous little children playing tricks with the lock, but that is an other story) and we went inside the cupboard to go up the stairs!
The first floor in itself was very uneventful. A landing shaped as if on second thoughts led to two rather large bedrooms. The beams were so low that my husband banged his head right away and following that the estate agent would go 'mind your head' every two seconds. Finally a bathroom to which I paid no attention whatsoever.
I pushed a creaky door and was met by a shower of dust and spider webs. How long did that man say this house had been uninhabited?
It opened onto old stairs which led to an attic with very old beams, bent by hundreds of years and held together by wooden pegs. More dust, more spiders and a huge amount of bric-à-brac .... (this is where later I would retrieve a folder with dozens of love letters written to ma chère Simone).
We walked back down the two flights of stairs and headed for the garden. We had a quick tour of the 'dépendance' and were both suitably amazed. It did look to us as if there was a tiny cottage at the back of the garden. On top of that there was a coal shed complete with a pile of coal ...
'And finally, please, this way ... to the underground cellar.' our man proudly announced.
I thought there was no need really to stress the word 'underground' and to put on that slightly spooky tone of voice. But I guess he was getting his revenge. Fair play to him. I realised I had been behaving myself and had not mentioned anything remotely weird or unusual.
'Mind your heads!'
It was a vaulted cellar that ran the length of the dining room above. It was impressive. We were marvelling at the brick vault when I noticed two things: a square cavity in the wall on the right hand side and facing us what looked like a blocked entrance. It struck me because the passage was blocked with modern breeze blocks.
'What's this?' I asked.
'Well, in this area, during the war there was a lot of tunnels and secret passage ways so that square cavity might be one of those ... as for the breeze blocks there. I don't know ... but it might lead to a second cellar that would be right under the oldest part of the house ...'
'Interesting! This house is not boring at all!'
'No it isn't. And as you can see, it has plenty of history so it is a house with a soul ... and ...' he turned with a quick movement of the head towards the breeze blocks and added 'And God knows what's behind those!'
Back home, the kids were asleep and we had an opportunity to talk sensibly. I said to my husband:
'Did you see any toilets?'
'No. Did you?'
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