Country house story- Chapter 1

Working title:

Country House Story

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Chapter 1 - Previously

Somewhere in the English countryside, corroded pipes creaked as the morning sunshine lent its heat to their metal. In a dusty cellar, mice scuttled across the floor, hugging the walls and the shadows. The only human sounds were the turning of pages and the occasional scratch of a pencil. Out in the garden, butterflies chased each other through the the bushes. It was a peaceful scene, if you buy into that sort of thing. Then the front door opened and two men, dressed in black, stepped out carrying a pinewood box between them. They loaded it into the back of their long, shiny black car and closed the rear door. Then they drove off at ten miles an hour.
'Did you know this one?'
'No. But the wife knew the nurse.'
'Was she sick?'
'No. The nurse was for her husband, some crazy old fart. She was all right, though, she said.'
'Where's the husband?'
'Probably put him in a home now.'
'It's a shame. Hope you never end up that way yourself.'
'You've got to.'
'No. Not for me. I'd rather go quick. A bullet or something.'
'Or in your sleep, like her. Anyway, put your hat on, we're nearly there.'

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Lowering her sunglasses, Ooma Peterson put down her orange juice and picked up the ringing telephone.
'Hello? Giles. How are you?'
'Very well,' came the reply. 'I've got some good news about the house.'
'Wonderful. Have they accepted the offer?'
'They settled for twenty thousand below the asking price. You've made an absolute steal.'
'That's super. So is it ours now?'
'Not quite yet. A few forms for me to fill out. I'll fax over everything you need to sign this afternoon. But I must say, you've done frightfully well. In a few year's time the land alone will be worth twice the price you're paying.'
'That is good.'
'It'll need it bit of gentrification, but you already know that.'
'Quite.'
'Yes. Well, I won't keep you.'
'Goodbye, Giles.'
'Bye, Ooma.'
Ooma lay back on the sun lounger and looked up at the hazy blue sky. She and Pat didn't need the house, but agreed that it was a good place to invest some of his money. Property was doubly hot at the moment, their friend Giles told them. And, what with it being in such a splendid location, it would be good for the odd free holiday. Not that she had ever worried about money since she married Pat. The two of them were off to the Caribbean next week and had already decided to ask her sister, Hilary, to house-sit in the new place. Their only child finished school at the same time and Hilary could look after her, too.
Ooma sat back up again and reached for the phone. She was so happy about the house, and this good news needed to be shared.

* * *

At the kind of private school that prides itself on the size of its fees rather than the quality of its teaching, Jack Peterson sobbed away in his bedroom. He had been granted the privilege of his own private study after parents complaining about their sons having to share with a girl. The headmaster had been involved and, since all of the housemistresses had refused point-blank to take him in, Jack had been given one of the spare rooms in the teachers' wing of the school. Life as an eight-year-old transvestite was never going to be easy, but the new arrangement had its compensations. Use of the staff bathrooms was one of these and it afforded Jack some extra privacy.
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Jack patted the keys under his tunic and hopped off his bed. The masters would all be asleep by now. The coast should be clear. Tip-toeing to the door he eased it open and closed it behind him with exaggerated care. His stockinged feet made only the faintest sound on the carpet as he padded downstairs and along the corridor to the common room. He unlocked the door and closed it behind him. He was at home in the dark room and quickly threaded his way between the seats and empty bottles to a glass-fronted cabinet set into the far wall. As usual, the key had been left in the lock and Jack's fingers trembled only slightly as he prised open the door. An array of bottles stood before him. They were his only companions and chief confessors since the departure of the school chaplain.
Selecting a sweet sherry for tonight, Jack picked up a dirty glass from the counter and filled it half way. Gulping it down, he felt it scald his throat before the warmth of the liquor seeped up from his tummy to his head. Just in case, he poured himself a little more. Knocking it back and wiping his face with his dirty sleeve, he replaced everything as it had been and returned to his room, now certain of a peaceful return to sleep.

* * *

Cynthia Snapcase was comfortably well off. She had inherited a little money. She had married a substantial amount too. At present she drew a reasonable wage from several of the better sort of glossy women's magazines where she worked as a "fashion consultant". In practice, this meant that she kept going to all the most exclusive parties and shows, but now did not have to pay for the outfits she wore to them. At home her wardrobes looked as though a fabric-eating monster had vomited into them. Today she was as elegantly dressed as ever, in pencil skirt and chiffon blouse that showed off her new breast implants. She had the typical arrangement with her undersexed husband, but an unpleasant encounter involving two waiters and a pot of caviar meant it was necessary for her to lie low for a few weeks. She had been toying with the idea of a nervous breakdown when a phone call informed her that Pat and Ooma had just bought a new pad in the countryside. So be it: she was to do a feature on rural living.

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Hilary Saint-Ben was at her kitchen table making another list. She sipped weak, milky tea as she wrote down all the things she would need for her time in the countryside. Sunblock, instant coffee, books to read, her reading glasses, one of those little spectacle repair kits, aspirin, condoms, enough food to last until she found the nearest supermarket. She filled five pages in her notebook and then went back, crossing out all but the most essential items. No point in over-doing it. It wasn't as though she was going on safari. There was young Jackie to think of, of course. It was at least a year since she had seen her, and it would be good to have someone young with her. Children always enjoyed the countryside. They could pick flowers together.
Her sister hadn't given her much information about the house, except its address and how many rooms it had (twice as many Hilary's own house). Ooma never was one for details. The main thing was that it was out of the way and in a beautiful county.
With plenty of encouragement from Francesca, she had invited John. Unfortunately that meant constant worrying from now until Wednesday. On the plus side, with a bit of luck, it would mean romance from Wednesday onwards.

* * *
Somewhere in the English countryside, in the undergrowth, the moist earth below it, the pale sun overhead, a creature rolled lazily onto its back, legs pointing at the sky. It stretched and yawned, revealing long, yellow canines. It's ears were tattered and its fur was missing in patches. Responding to some inner signal, it span round onto its feet. Keeping its head low, it started to pace through the bushes, moving closer to the house. This creature, whom we cannot name at this at this stage, moved closer. A small, broken bell hung from its neck by the tattered remains of a collar.

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