‘Are you really sure it’s going to fit, darling?’ Emily asked.
‘If it’s too tall we’ll just have to lop a bit off the top.’
‘But the top’s pretty – we’re so stupid, we should have measured the height of the room.’
There was a howling draught in the van, and the roar of the exhaust and the road, as they drove with the rear doors partially open and held by string, with the end of the Christmas tree poking out. Emily slowed, as the sign to Cold Hill loomed ahead in the bright sunlight.
‘I’m starving!’ Emily said.
‘Me too.’
There was a tantalizing smell of curry from the warm samosas they’d bought in the garden centre for their lunch, along with provisions for the next week, a box of candles and a couple of powerful torches just in case of power cuts. Jason picked up the carrier bag at his feet. ‘Want a bite?’
‘No, let’s wait, we’ll be home in five minutes and we’ve got some nice salads to go with them.’
‘I was about to say we could bung the samosas in the microwave!’
‘Not funny. Shit, that voice last night,’ Emily said. ‘I can’t get it out of my head. I’m still really freaked by it. Then the microwave exploding.’
‘There has to be a rational explanation.’
‘Great, I’m still waiting for it. Do you have one?’
‘Hopefully the manufacturers will. I’ve never been totally comfortable with them – microwaves. I googled microwaves last night. They can explode if the wrong things are put in them.’
‘Like my rhubarb crumble?’ she said. ‘What kind of wrong thing is that?’
‘I don’t know – maybe you can’t put crumble in a microwave.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can! It’s fine to warm it up as I was doing.’
She turned left off the main road onto a winding, narrow lane. They passed a sign saying COLD HILL – PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY THROUGH OUR VILLAGE, with 30 mph warning roundels, then swooped over a humpback bridge, the tree scraping alarmingly along the van floor.
‘Hey, slow down!’ Jason said, reaching an arm through the gap between the seats and grabbing the base of the tree.
‘Sorry!’
There was a cricket pitch with a small pavilion to their left and a short distance on, a decrepit-looking Norman church on their right. It was set well back and perched high above the road.
They passed through a corridor of terraced Victorian artisan cottages on both sides of the lane, a pretty-looking pub called the Crown, a smithy, a cute cottage with a white picket fence at the end of its immaculate garden and a sign reading BED & BREAKFAST – VACANCIES, and a shop: COLD HILL VILLAGE STORE. The lane then went steeply uphill, past detached houses and bungalows of varying sizes on either side.
A tractor came thundering down towards them, a grizzled old man in the cab with a look of grim determination on his face, and making no sign of slowing down. Emily pulled the van hard over to the left, onto the verge, the wing mirror scraping along the hedgerow. ‘Thanks a million, mate!’ she called out.
‘Bloody lunatic!’ Jason said.
She carried on a short distance up the hill. A red postbox, partially buried in a hedge, came up on their left, and a high, weathered stone wall on their right. She braked, indicating as they approached the entrance to the new estate, which was marked by two stone pillars topped with savage-looking ornamental wyverns, and open wrought-iron gates. Affixed to the wall to their right was huge blue board, reading:
FOREST MILLS DEVELOPMENTS
COLD HILL PARK, 2, 3, 4 & 5 BEDROOM HOUSES
AND APARTMENTS.
SALES AND MARKETING OPEN 7 DAYS, 9 A.M.–5 P.M.
CONTACT RICHWARDS ESTATE AGENTS.
PHASE 1 COMPLETING SHORTLY.
They drove in, and ahead was a sapling-lined traffic island with a KEEP LEFT sign, dividing the incoming traffic from the exiting via a short dual carriageway, and which ended fifty yards on in a plethora of road signs: PARKVIEW WAY; COLD HILL CLOSE; THE AVENUE. Lakeview Drive was the first left.
The brand-new road, with brick pavements and Victorian-style street lights, curved to the left past several partially completed detached houses with steel Heras fencing securing them, and no sign of anyone working on them. As the road curved right, the houses were finished, each with sale boards and details fixed close to their front doors.
‘Sort of weird being almost the first here,’ Emily said.
‘I rather like it,’ Jason replied. ‘Very atmospheric. I’m looking at all these houses, wondering what kind of lives the people who buy them will have.’ He changed into a strange, Mitteleuropean accent. ‘Zer might be veirdos; swingers; serial killers; it might be so dangerous to go out we vill have to lock all ze doors and stay inside vor effer!’
‘Yep, and they’ll be pointing at our house and saying, “Zat ist vere zer real veirdos lif!”’
He shook his head. ‘Not after they see our neighbours’ Christmas decorations, they won’t. Then they’ll know vere zer true veirdos lif.’