STANDING OUTSIDE HUGO’S house, Tess had to acknowledge she was piqued by the idea of being a descendant, albeit through an illicit liaison. When Doris had told her, it had been exciting, something which made her ‘different’, but her mother had soon squashed the idea, telling her Doris was delusional and although the story had been handed down over the generations, there had never been an ounce of proof. Tess had been told, in no uncertain terms not to mention the subject again. She hadn’t dared say anything to Clive in case he snitched on her. It was what eight-year-old brothers did. Fortunately, as he grew up, he became her ally against their mother but by then Tess had forgotten about the family legend. Until now.
She forced herself to stop imagining her three times great-grandmother in bed with Hugo, and carried on down the street towards what had been her family’s home. All the houses on this side were of a similar type, either early Victorian or late Georgian, she guessed. Some had been rendered and others left in their natural granite state. Most looked well cared for and were substantial properties in what was considered a good area. Then she arrived at her aunt’s house. This was plain granite, looking dark against the neighbouring white houses, and its peeling window frames and front door did little to help. The decorative stonework of the ground floor bay window and front door were badly in need of repair and the three sash windows upstairs looked rotten, as did the attic window. Standing back, she could see the roof had slipped tiles but didn’t look too bad. She remembered it as a large house, although Doris only used part of it. Rooms had been filled to overflowing with books and papers of all description and Tess had never ventured upstairs. All the windows had drawn curtains, giving the impression of a house asleep. Do not disturb. The words flashed through her mind and Tess shivered. She didn’t believe in ghosts and was sure Doris hadn’t said anything about the house being haunted. It was probably her mother trying to put her off.
She was about to move on when the neighbour’s door opened and a middle-aged woman looked at her somewhat warily.
‘Can I help you?’ Her tone not the friendliest.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning to burgle the place,’ Tess replied, with a laugh. ‘Not that it looks worth burgling.’ She stretched out her hand. ‘I’m Tess Le Prevost, and my great-aunt Doris left me her house. I’m over for the funeral.’
The woman’s face split into a broad smile and she shook hands with a strong grip.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you. Doris told me she was leaving you the house. Please accept my condolences.’ Her smile faltered.
‘Thanks. I hadn’t seen Doris for years, but we did keep in touch by letter and card. Birthdays, Christmas, you know. I have fond memories of her from my childhood.’
‘We’ve been here ten years now and I hardly ever saw your aunt, she was quite independent, but she did come in for a cup of tea sometimes.’
Tess stole a glance at her watch.
‘I’m afraid I have to go, but I’d love to catch up later, Mrs...?’
‘Barker, Heather Barker. I’ll see you at the funeral and we can arrange something then.’ Heather shook her hand and Tess continued her walk into Town, looking forward to talking more with Heather. Anything she could learn about Doris over the past few years would be a bonus. Minutes later she stood, open-mouthed, in Market Square gazing at the transformed old market and the rest of the area. The lovely old market building had been hijacked by, among others, a national clothes chain, a sports shop and a supermarket. Tess was horrified and began to understand why her local friends weren’t happy with the result. It just wasn’t Guernsey. No lovely stalls selling fresh produce, the smells tingling the senses as you walked around. Shopping here with her mother had always been a delight, never knowing what might be bought for dinner that night. A choice of fresh fish and shellfish competed with the offerings of the butchers, complemented by the colourful fruit and vegetable stalls.
In some ways it reminded her of Exeter centre, where the beautiful, medieval buildings jostled for space with the modern, characterless malls. She loved shopping there, it was a vibrant city, but this was dear old Guernsey. Keeping an eye on the time, Tess decided she could grab a coffee before her appointment and turned into Commercial Arcade, which, thankfully, looked as she remembered. Dix Neuf Bistro, which had seemed so sophisticated to her twelve-year-old self, was still in situ and she found an empty table by the window and ordered a latte. Shoppers and tourists walked past and Tess half-expected to see someone she recognised. But after twenty years realised it wasn’t likely.
The coffee finished, Tess walked up High Street, which still had some shops she remembered, and at the top, by Boots, turned left into Smith Street and up to the small street housing several advocates’ offices. Less than an hour later, she left the office with a bunch of keys for what was now her house, and various legal papers neatly collated in a file, together with a letter from a local property developer offering to buy the house. For quite a substantial sum. Much more than the cost of a similar property in Exeter. Tess would be able to pay off her mortgage and still have money over to buy a house instead of a flat. Apart from the value of the house, she had been surprised to learn her aunt had been a canny investor, amassing a decent sum of money from her shares when the advocate sold them. Tess was delighted, but at the same time wished Doris had spent money on herself and the house, St Michel. She could have lived out her days in comfort instead of what appeared to be near poverty. Taking a deep breath, Tess retraced her steps to Hauteville and St Michel.
‘Oh my God!’ Tess said out loud, surveying the entrance hall and stairs. It was worse than she remembered. The staircase, a once beautiful mahogany she guessed, was to the right and some of the spindles were missing, which wasn’t a big deal, but piles of books on the treads almost blocked the way upstairs. In the narrow hall books were stacked along the wall and along what could be glimpsed of the panelling under the staircase. Wallpaper peeled off the walls and a strong, musty smell caught the back of her throat. The advocate had tried to warn her; he had been to the property shortly after Doris’s death but had left after the briefest of visits.
‘I’d known your aunt for several years, and she always insisted on coming to my office even when her legs were painful. She was never what you might call smartly dressed for someone of her means, but she was always clean and neat so I had no reason to expect what I found at the house.’
Tess opened the door on her left to the sitting room and found it had been converted to a bed-sitting room. The sofa had been replaced by a single bed but there was still an old armchair nearby facing a television. Everywhere else books and papers covered tables and chairs. Tess recognised the pervading air of sickness hanging in the room and had to gulp down tears for her aunt. Why hadn’t she sought help? She could have afforded it. Easily. Must have been pride. And stubbornness. Tess wrenched at the sash window, managing to open it enough to let a small stream of fresh air mingle with the stale within. A door on the further wall led into what had been a dining room originally. The bay window looked out over the garden and towards the harbour and was a much lighter room. Again, books and papers were the main occupants, covering a large table groaning under their weight, and a couple of dining chairs. Tess struggled with the window and this time managed to push it up about a foot. The salty tang of sea air which rushed in provided a welcome relief.
Back in the hall, Tess opened the door to stairs leading down to the basement and the kitchen. She had been here as a child and found it a dark and dismal kitchen from the 1950s that would have horrified her mother who, wherever they lived, insisted on the latest gleaming kitchen of the moment. Switching on the light, she saw it hadn’t changed. If anything, Tess thought it was worse. Two more decades of use had dulled the Formica units and worktops and caused cracks and splits to spread. The doors of the battered fridge stood open, revealing an empty interior, for which Tess was grateful. A modern electric cooker, about five years old, she guessed, looked out of place at the end of a run of units. A wooden kitchen table and chairs sat in the middle of the room and Tess checked the larder (empty) and the WC leading off. At the end of a dark passageway was the door to the garden and she unlocked it with the key hanging on a hook to the side.
The door was stiff and Tess wondered how long it had been since her aunt had ventured outside. Judging by the state of the garden, it had been some time, she thought, gazing at the overgrown grass looking more like a meadow than a lawn. Shrubs and weeds vied for space and over it all hung an air of neglect. She couldn’t see a clear path to the bottom of the garden, about forty feet away, so she perched on a garden chair propped against the house. The garden sloped down to the end, allowing a sliver of sea to be visible beyond the houses in The Strand, the street running parallel below. Glad to have a chance of fresh air, Tess sat still, with her eyes closed, trying to imagine what the house and garden could look like if renovated. It proved difficult so she returned inside to see the rest of the house.
Watching her step as she negotiated the obstacles on the stairs, Tess made it to the landing and wasn’t surprised to find overflowing book shelves between the bedroom doors. There were two double bedrooms at the front, but with only basic single beds and wardrobes in each. Surprisingly, no piles of books or papers but the rooms looked unused and unaired. At the back Tess found her aunt’s room, a huge double with wonderful views over the harbour and islands from the bay window. The biggest surprise was the bed. It looked antique, a mahogany four-poster with a threadbare canopy and curtains. There was also a chest of drawers, bedside table and a chair. Opening a door, Tess found a deep cupboard used as a wardrobe, with only a few items hanging from the rail. The bedroom looked as if it hadn’t been used for some time and dust caught in her nose and made her sneeze.
Tess had toyed with the idea of living in the house before any renovation, but now realised it was a non-starter, particularly after viewing the bathroom. Like the kitchen, it was in a time-warp, but of indeterminate age. Possibly pre-war, Tess thought, eyeing the loo with the high-rise cistern and bulbous pan; the cracked wash basin with taps rubbed clear of their original chrome finish; and the chipped enamel bath with taps matching those of the basin. All set against walls covered in yellowing paint which might once have been white and complemented by a brackish smell which left a metallic taste in her mouth. No, as temporary living went, it was far worse than any student accommodation she had lived in. She needed a plan B. Assuming she still wanted to live in Guernsey.