enthusiastic chatter, so I fell mum and let the house itself do the selling. Meanwhile I willed them to say something appreciative, just as I had willed matinee audiences to laugh or cry or do anything other than sit in stony silence. The Gunters’ faces were stony too, to the point ofgrimness. What on earth was the trouble? Were they in the midst of a divorce, with this house being part of her settlement?
I unlocked the back door for them. A green woodpecker was working its way up the trunk of a nearby tree. As we stepped on to the patio, it caught sight of us, and withdrew to the far side. Mrs Gunter held out her hand to keep us still and quiet. The bird peeped round at us, pulling back again sharply, for all the world a child playing hide-and-seek. It peered again. Mrs Gunter was grinning as broadly as I was.
And I knew I’d seen her before, maybe even met her. The problem was where. I simply could not place her. Weekly rep somewhere? A dentist’s waiting room? It could be anywhere.
Was that why she had kept her face so stony, eyes so downcast? Because she was afraid I might tactlessly remind her of our acquaintance? Or because she had seen me starring on stage and was sorry that I had descended to this?
Gunter coughed, deliberately, I thought, as if to make the bird fly and spoil the moment. It felt like a hint that he could spoil much more if he had the urge. I locked up carefully – I always thought it made a bad impression for me to scurry round checking at the end of a visit – and ushered them up the steep and awkward stairs that had almost defeated Mrs Brosnic. Mrs Gunter took one lookand slipped off her shoes, but I knew it was a bad mark against the house.
Mr Gunter tapped the brochure. ‘Is this just estate agent-speak, or are the views from the turret room roof really spectacular and unmissable?’ His lip curled in a potential sneer.
‘Why don’t you see for yourself? The turret room itself is pretty special. It would make a most wonderful hideaway if you wanted to write that Great Novel.’
They stepped inside. Mrs Gunter made straight for the windows, but looked at, not through them.
‘Graffiti!’ she declared. ‘Look at this spidery old writing.’
‘And the stairs to the roof?’ he asked.
I opened what looked like a cupboard. ‘I have to go up first, I’m afraid, to unbolt the hatch. It’s a bit of a knack.’
‘Are you sure it’s not too heavy for you?’ she asked. ‘Alan will do it, won’t you?’
But I could hardly admit that one of the main selling places of the home was inaccessible. In any case, I’d taken the precaution of applying some WD40 after being humiliated on a previous visit.
‘There!’ My efforts were rewarded with a brilliant shaft of sunlight. I turned to assist the Gunters.
He ignored my helping hand. Once on the leadshe peered about him, not so much appreciative as appraising.
I leant down to assist his wife. ‘Mrs Gunter?’
Her upturned face expressed pure panic. ‘I can’t – I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’ll just stay down here. Vertigo! Don’t worry about me.’
‘But…’ I smiled ineptly. I could hardly demand that she come up, and there was something about the set of Mr Gunter’s jaw that suggested it was better not to insist that he go straight back down. Company policy? Well, if Greg could ignore it when it suited him I could ignore it when I had to. On the whole, doing the sort of mental risk assessment Toby had joked about, I thought it was better to stay on the roof, lest Gunter take it into his head to leap off, than to watch Mrs Gunter idly fingering ancient scratch marks.
He gave the whole roofscape his careful attention, which, in view of the maintenance costs involved in a place like this, I took as a good sign. He even fished out his mobile and took a few photos of the view. But – no, why on earth should a man be taking pictures of the leads? If only he was the sort of man one could ask. In his own good time he
I unlocked the back door for them. A green woodpecker was working its way up the trunk of a nearby tree. As we stepped on to the patio, it caught sight of us, and withdrew to the far side. Mrs Gunter held out her hand to keep us still and quiet. The bird peeped round at us, pulling back again sharply, for all the world a child playing hide-and-seek. It peered again. Mrs Gunter was grinning as broadly as I was.
And I knew I’d seen her before, maybe even met her. The problem was where. I simply could not place her. Weekly rep somewhere? A dentist’s waiting room? It could be anywhere.
Was that why she had kept her face so stony, eyes so downcast? Because she was afraid I might tactlessly remind her of our acquaintance? Or because she had seen me starring on stage and was sorry that I had descended to this?
Gunter coughed, deliberately, I thought, as if to make the bird fly and spoil the moment. It felt like a hint that he could spoil much more if he had the urge. I locked up carefully – I always thought it made a bad impression for me to scurry round checking at the end of a visit – and ushered them up the steep and awkward stairs that had almost defeated Mrs Brosnic. Mrs Gunter took one lookand slipped off her shoes, but I knew it was a bad mark against the house.
Mr Gunter tapped the brochure. ‘Is this just estate agent-speak, or are the views from the turret room roof really spectacular and unmissable?’ His lip curled in a potential sneer.
‘Why don’t you see for yourself? The turret room itself is pretty special. It would make a most wonderful hideaway if you wanted to write that Great Novel.’
They stepped inside. Mrs Gunter made straight for the windows, but looked at, not through them.
‘Graffiti!’ she declared. ‘Look at this spidery old writing.’
‘And the stairs to the roof?’ he asked.
I opened what looked like a cupboard. ‘I have to go up first, I’m afraid, to unbolt the hatch. It’s a bit of a knack.’
‘Are you sure it’s not too heavy for you?’ she asked. ‘Alan will do it, won’t you?’
But I could hardly admit that one of the main selling places of the home was inaccessible. In any case, I’d taken the precaution of applying some WD40 after being humiliated on a previous visit.
‘There!’ My efforts were rewarded with a brilliant shaft of sunlight. I turned to assist the Gunters.
He ignored my helping hand. Once on the leadshe peered about him, not so much appreciative as appraising.
I leant down to assist his wife. ‘Mrs Gunter?’
Her upturned face expressed pure panic. ‘I can’t – I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’ll just stay down here. Vertigo! Don’t worry about me.’
‘But…’ I smiled ineptly. I could hardly demand that she come up, and there was something about the set of Mr Gunter’s jaw that suggested it was better not to insist that he go straight back down. Company policy? Well, if Greg could ignore it when it suited him I could ignore it when I had to. On the whole, doing the sort of mental risk assessment Toby had joked about, I thought it was better to stay on the roof, lest Gunter take it into his head to leap off, than to watch Mrs Gunter idly fingering ancient scratch marks.
He gave the whole roofscape his careful attention, which, in view of the maintenance costs involved in a place like this, I took as a good sign. He even fished out his mobile and took a few photos of the view. But – no, why on earth should a man be taking pictures of the leads? If only he was the sort of man one could ask. In his own good time he
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