Cynthia

Sadie was beyond tired of London. I know, I know, 'if you're tired of London, you're tired of life'; honestly, she was tired of life. The trees didn't seem so green these days, the birds seemed to sing less and less, and the things that had once made London perfect - noise and chatter and people and places and things to see - suddenly seemed overwhelming, almost impossible to cope with. The underground was crowded. Her flat was tiny. The streets were busy. Work was hard, and long, and she was tired all the time. Ever since the funeral, she had felt as if she were walking through honey, every step, unable to move faster than a snail's pace. Sadie was tired of London, and tired of life.

The funeral had been a long and arduous affair, far more religious than her mum would have actually wanted, but still not religious enough to please her Uncle Tony, a Pastor in one of the nearby villages. Sadie’s dress was a lovely, not-too-sexy-but-still-nice lacy black number, and under her dress she had worn bright red underwear. She didn't want God to be too happy with her. 

Uncle Tony held the service, his voice shaking a little, and eulogised an incredible woman who was kind, generous, calm, inspiring, and essentially perfect. He wasn’t eulogising her mother. 

Afterwards, she stood in the entrance of the old house and listened while person after person told her how sorry they were for her loss. Frankly, they were sorrier than she was. Again and again and again she heard herself say ‘thank you for coming, lovely to see you’, even to people she didn’t know. Uncle Tony had assumed he would inherit the house, and was so pissed off it seemed un-Christian. She didn’t want the house. It was full of childhood memories. The entrance hall was nice, though, interior design wasn’t an area where her mother lacked. White walls with black framed pictures, a glossy hardwood floor, antique side tables and an old rotary phone sitting on top of four or five ornamental poetry books. The room was lit well by tall, thin windows and a hanging light over the central rug. God, the floors were shiny. Even after death, her mum had everything spotless.

Given that she wasn’t sad at the funeral, and she didn’t want to move back home, and she didn’t want to speak to Uncle Tony, why was the house all she could think about?

On the number 412 bus to Knightsbridge, Sadie booked train tickets back to Castle Combe. The village was small and tight-knit, the house was large and isolated, twenty minutes drive from the city centre, an old building but newly decorated. Sadie didn’t want to go. She wasn’t going to go. She definitely would not go.

She got on the train. 

The train journey had been too long, the bus had been too crowded, and the house was too empty, somehow. Sadie headed for her childhood bedroom. It still had a twin bed. The walls were pastel yellow, a compromise between her preferred blue and her mother’s preferred pink. The curtains were simple white cotton, the carpet a different shade of white, and the bed covers a third - slightly different - shade of white. It didn’t used to be like this. They must have faded badly, or collected too much dust, or something. She set her suitcase down heavily, expecting a wave of dust, but none came. Maybe her mother had hired cleaners. She couldn’t imagine the great Cynthia Rodgers even looking in her daughter’s room, let alone cleaning it - there was no one there to complain to, after all, so what would be the point?

Used to a queen-size, the only luxury item in her flat, the twin bed felt cramped, and it creaked with every movement. Eventually, after an hour of tossing and turning, Sadie reached across and pulled the light’s cord. Nothing happened. 

Shit, these old houses are all broken.

She groped around on the floor for her phone, switched on the torch, and wandered out into the hallway. There was only one bed in the house which was comfortable, new, and big enough.

Her mother’s room still smelled of that Oscar de la Renta perfume. The bed was made, starched, and massive. The springs were new. The covers were clean. Sadie fell asleep almost instantly. 

The light didn’t shine through the curtains until it was gone noon. Sadie must have been exhausted from the travelling, because her phone alarm didn’t wake her, and even when the sun was bright on her face it took a few minutes to gain consciousness. She drew the thick, heavy curtains and looked out the window. The grounds of the house were small but well maintained, a neatly trimmed lawn, a small pond, some fruit trees. Rows upon rows of snowdrops lined the edge of the lawn, and they made her feel a bit sick. She’d forgotten this house, a little. 

The winter sun was too bright. She shut the curtains.

Downstairs, the rotary phone didn’t stop ringing all afternoon. Builders, decorators, cleaners, gardeners - tradespeople her mother had hired, fired, and never paid. That was how it was. Sadie could feel her mother’s presence as she squinted through the phonebook, trying to decipher the names and numbers calling, cursing the broken electrics. How was it that the phone, the most annoying part of the house, was the only thing that worked? The fridge was broken, and had been for a while - she’d noticed it at the funeral, she remembered, but didn’t want to deal with it then. Whoops. Food was slowly rotting in the back of it, and she couldn’t stand the smell, so she didn’t put milk in her coffee. The water - boiled on the old, reliable Aga - tasted a bit metallic, and she left it, half-drunk, on the sideboard. She really was turning into her mother. All she needed were some high heels.

When the electrician called, Sadie was grateful, and quickly explained her problems. He’d be over ‘pronto, but the traffic’s a right hell hole and I can’t promise nothing’. 

As night started to fall, her laptop battery was running low, and she’d switched her phone off to save power. The only discernible light source in the house was the cupboard full of candles, which she had to light on the stove, and place all around her mother’s bedroom. It felt a bit like a seance. The windows and door were tightly shut, and yet, somehow, there was a draft. There must have been a draft, because the candle flames cast shadows which danced manically around the room. She shouldn’t have come here, Sadie knew that deep in her bones. At the same time, she felt that this was the only place she belonged - it was as if the house knew her, it was calling her, it needed her. Who else would fix the electrics, hire the cleaners, drink the metallic water?

Sadie opened her laptop again.

Hi Tim,

Sorry but I think I’m staying in Castle Combe for a bit longer. Would you mind hanging on to Violet for me? She’s a lovely cat and I’ll pay you whatever you need, I’ll only be a week or so. If not, let me know, and I’ll ring the vets.

- Sadie

Sadie tensed, waiting for something to happen. She sat for a few seconds, the email open on her screen, and held her breath. In the hall outside, she could see a light had switched on in her bedroom, where she’d pulled the cord last night.

‘I know you’re there, mum. I’m not stupid.’