elegant proportions, the pleasing roof lines. London, I thought to myself, aware of how deeply I was growing to love it. London.
Above my head, the sky was translucent as enamel. I was a contented man that afternoon.
Number 7, Prickett’s Green was at the end of the small row, looking west. Next to it, on the other side of the elm trees, the houses of Cheyne Walk continued.
There was something a little out of sorts about the house. The paint was beginning to peel, the windowpanes were filmed over and altogether the row had been neglected by contrast with its fashionable neighbours, but the shabbiness was oddly reassuring to me and I was in no sense deterred from exploring further. I stood with my back tothe river on the far side of the road. The houses were in shadow now, the windows black, vacant eyes, whereas in others, lights shone out from lamps and chandeliers, curtains were draped elegantly back, and thinking of the people in those rooms and of the warm fires, conviviality and comfort, I felt a wave of loneliness and bleakness of spirit rise and break over me, so that I shuddered and hunched down more deeply into the collar of my overcoat. It lasted only a few seconds but it disturbed my serenity of mood and left me uneasy again, and, above all, longing for a companion.
I hurried across the road, and unlatched the low iron gate that let me into the gardens of Prickett’s Green.
A note had come from the bursar of the school, giving me directions to the house, and the name of Mr Silas Threadgold, the caretaker, who would admit me. But, for some time after I had twice pulled the bell and it had jangled thinly in some distant passage, there was complete silence, and as the house was in darkness and had that indefinably melancholy air suggestive of emptiness, I was about to turn away, thinking, perhaps, of investigating a back entrance, but pulled the bell once more and was answered at last by an irritable voice calling out to me to have patience and heard footsteps dragging along a stone floor.
It was impossible to guess the exact age of Mr Silas Threadgold, who might have been anywhere between fifty and ninety. He was thin, gnarled and twisted in upon himself like an ancient tree, with a bent back, dirty linen and a greasy coat. He opened the front door to me and stood back without a word, so that after a pause I was obliged to take the gesture as an invitation and stepped inside the hall. It was unlit but he turned, still without speaking, and limped ahead of me, and at the foot of the old staircase turned up the gas, which gave some dim illumination to our ascent.
On the first landing, through a narrow window, I lookedout at the sky burning down in the last of its glory, ‘red as any blood’.
The boards were bare and sounded loudly to our tread. All the doors we passed were closed.
‘I take it the house is empty,’ I said, pausing to get my breath.
‘Always excepting the basement.’
‘In which you live?’
He nodded but did not otherwise reply, and then unlocked a door and, grunting slightly, stood back to let me pass through. As I did so I was unable to restrain my exclamation of surprise and pleasure.
The room extended the whole length of the house, some thirty feet or so, and with three sets of tall windows. I stepped over to them. Below lay the river, almost completely dark now, but still just flushed over its surface by the last light from the sky. And as I looked the lamps began to come on one by one along the embankment and their light formed pools of gold on the river below and made oases on the pathway.
I was on a level with the tree tops that stood to my left and through the black branches I saw the bridge, strung out to the opposite bank, across the water. It was to me as glorious an outlook as I had ever dreamed of, the rooms were perfect for this reason alone and I knew that I would take them no matter what – though they were more than adequately furnished, if shabby, and I could buy
Above my head, the sky was translucent as enamel. I was a contented man that afternoon.
Number 7, Prickett’s Green was at the end of the small row, looking west. Next to it, on the other side of the elm trees, the houses of Cheyne Walk continued.
There was something a little out of sorts about the house. The paint was beginning to peel, the windowpanes were filmed over and altogether the row had been neglected by contrast with its fashionable neighbours, but the shabbiness was oddly reassuring to me and I was in no sense deterred from exploring further. I stood with my back tothe river on the far side of the road. The houses were in shadow now, the windows black, vacant eyes, whereas in others, lights shone out from lamps and chandeliers, curtains were draped elegantly back, and thinking of the people in those rooms and of the warm fires, conviviality and comfort, I felt a wave of loneliness and bleakness of spirit rise and break over me, so that I shuddered and hunched down more deeply into the collar of my overcoat. It lasted only a few seconds but it disturbed my serenity of mood and left me uneasy again, and, above all, longing for a companion.
I hurried across the road, and unlatched the low iron gate that let me into the gardens of Prickett’s Green.
A note had come from the bursar of the school, giving me directions to the house, and the name of Mr Silas Threadgold, the caretaker, who would admit me. But, for some time after I had twice pulled the bell and it had jangled thinly in some distant passage, there was complete silence, and as the house was in darkness and had that indefinably melancholy air suggestive of emptiness, I was about to turn away, thinking, perhaps, of investigating a back entrance, but pulled the bell once more and was answered at last by an irritable voice calling out to me to have patience and heard footsteps dragging along a stone floor.
It was impossible to guess the exact age of Mr Silas Threadgold, who might have been anywhere between fifty and ninety. He was thin, gnarled and twisted in upon himself like an ancient tree, with a bent back, dirty linen and a greasy coat. He opened the front door to me and stood back without a word, so that after a pause I was obliged to take the gesture as an invitation and stepped inside the hall. It was unlit but he turned, still without speaking, and limped ahead of me, and at the foot of the old staircase turned up the gas, which gave some dim illumination to our ascent.
On the first landing, through a narrow window, I lookedout at the sky burning down in the last of its glory, ‘red as any blood’.
The boards were bare and sounded loudly to our tread. All the doors we passed were closed.
‘I take it the house is empty,’ I said, pausing to get my breath.
‘Always excepting the basement.’
‘In which you live?’
He nodded but did not otherwise reply, and then unlocked a door and, grunting slightly, stood back to let me pass through. As I did so I was unable to restrain my exclamation of surprise and pleasure.
The room extended the whole length of the house, some thirty feet or so, and with three sets of tall windows. I stepped over to them. Below lay the river, almost completely dark now, but still just flushed over its surface by the last light from the sky. And as I looked the lamps began to come on one by one along the embankment and their light formed pools of gold on the river below and made oases on the pathway.
I was on a level with the tree tops that stood to my left and through the black branches I saw the bridge, strung out to the opposite bank, across the water. It was to me as glorious an outlook as I had ever dreamed of, the rooms were perfect for this reason alone and I knew that I would take them no matter what – though they were more than adequately furnished, if shabby, and I could buy
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