Cynthia had been pleased to see that Fair Isle Man, as they had christened their erstwhile taxi driver, had either taken the day off or was on another job. His replacement was a much smaller man with wavy dark hair and a thin face, who leaped out on arrival to open both passenger doors and closed them punctiliously before re-installing himself in the driving seat. Further sources for pleasure were that the car seats didn’t reek of stale tobacco and that there wasn’t a constant supply of conversation to which they had to respond. The journey to the station was accomplished in near silence until they reached their destination where once again they were escorted out of the car like royalty. Cynthia insisted on paying the fare and for the train tickets as well. Having Gladys always willing to pick up the tab was one thing—with George it was almost irresistible. “I insist on paying my share,” she told him as they boarded the train. “And that includes lunch where I owe you from the other day.”
“We’ll see about that,” George replied.
This time they’d chosen a train which should enable them to make their first house viewing at the appointed hour rather than thirty or forty minutes before. George suggested taking a taxi when they arrived in Central London to avoid, in his words, “messing around on the tube breathing in fumes” and to deliver them to the first address where they wanted to go. The other ones which Cynthia had identified looked both to be within comfortable walking distance of the first and would take them on a gradual shift northward from Clapham Common. Cynthia had a paper copy of the map stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans rather than having to rely on her phone. The brisk wind had persisted from the day before and she was wearing a black leather jacket over a big sweater. George had on a blue Barbour jacket, which was his usual go-to choice when out walking.
When the taxi came to a stop outside the house Cynthia stepped in quickly to pay, dismissing George’s protestations before they could achieve any traction. She held on to his arm as they stood looking at the house. “We need to look like a normal couple” had been his mantra beforehand. She’d decided to interpret that in her own way. The aspect of the house was pleasanter than she’d expected from the pictures, maturing elegantly into the medium term as she recalled the description she’d read once on a bottle of wine. It was built almost entirely of yellow brick, set back from the busy road outside and shielded by a high beech hedge. The semi-circular driveway was dotted around with weeds, and a small pond was losing out to creeping vegetation. It was the kind of place which earlier in life she could have cheerfully fastened on to and set her stamp on. Their mission today was a totally different one, as she sternly reminded herself. With that in mind she took especial note of the garage, which was attached to the house in a straight line.
The door was opened by a well-dressed lady with flowing grey hair and a friendly demeanour. She welcomed them in and invited them to look around at their leisure. It soon became clear if there had been any doubt that this wasn’t the place which Metz had visited. The lady and her husband had lived there all their married life over forty years, had brought up their children there and now planned to move permanently to their holiday home in Devon. George and Cynthia wasted little time in traversing the spacious rooms.
“This is a little too large for us,” George informed the owner. “We’re really looking more for a pied-a-terre, but it has to have a garage.”
“There aren’t many with a garage round here. They’re very sought after. Even off-road parking is hard to find.”
“I can imagine—we have found two more to look at. We were told about one which had a garage at a slant to the house.”
She wrinkled her nose in apparent distaste. “That sounds rather strange. I can’t think of any house in the neighbourhood like that. Most of the houses have been turned into flats of course. I expect ours will go the same way. If you were content with a flat, there are quite a few of those, purpose-built, some of them with garages at the back.”
“No,” Cynthia replied. “We have our hearts set on a house.”
“Fine—do you want to show me the addresses where you’re going. I might know them.”
Cynthia produced the particulars for her to see. “I don’t know this one,” she said after a brief glance and handed one of the pages back. “That’s much closer to Clapham North. The other one I do know. It’s ten minutes or so to walk behind us here. It’s a terraced property of course with a small garage on the side—rather rundown as far as I remember. The frontage is greyer than it looks in that picture. It would be less expensive than here if that’s important, but then property prices have gone through the roof in this area like they have everywhere else.”
“In another life before the Village I could have gone for that,” Cynthia declared when they were back out on the pavement. “It’s not unlike the house where David and I used to live—ours was out in the country of course.”
“We always lived in north London,” George responded. “Demands of the job dictated that—I was never far from work. That was what drew Miriam and me to the Village. It’s quiet, you can walk out on the common, very secure. Things we didn’t have before.”
“The security appealed very much to Gladys and me as well. Plus I have David across the road.”
They relapsed into silence until they reached the next house where a rather battered front door was opened by a harassed looking woman in a flowery housecoat. “Sorry, we’re already under offer—just this morning,” she announced, closing the door as part of the same flourishing movement which had opened it.
“Not much luck there,” George said as they walked back down the short path to the front gate.
Cynthia surveyed the house from the roadside. “The garage isn’t right anyway. This is the archetypal wild goose chase, isn’t it? The house Metz went to has probably long since been completely altered, the garage torn down, turned into flats as the other lady said. We’re probably wasting our time.”
“Are we? Well, it’s a very pleasurable way of doing it. We might as well go on until hunger for lunch takes over. There may not be many more adventures to come for the taskforce.” He offered his arm for her to link on to and she accepted. After a while she clasped her gloved hands together around his arm, apart from the odd reference to the map.
The third house had been the most recent to come on the market. It was similar to the previous one on the end of a row with an even smaller piece of land beside it where the garage had been placed. As a result, the garage was at right angles to the house. All the houses in the row consisted of two storeys and consequently were shorter than many of the others they’d passed.
“Come on,” George urged Cynthia on. “Let’s give it a go.”
This time they were greeted by a man aged probably no more than thirty chewing on a mouthful of food with a napkin in one hand. A tempting aroma of roast lamb trailed behind him. “We just started lunch,” he explained indistinctly. “You’re the fourth lot today and we only put the house on yesterday.”
“Well, if it’s inconvenient…” Cynthia started.
“No, no, not at all.” He stood to one side. “You’re welcome to wander round and take a look?”
“Has the garage always been there?” George asked.
“What a funny question! It certainly has for as long as we’ve been here—that’s five years. I don’t know before that but the house has been here for well over a hundred years so before cars were thought of. There aren’t many with space at the side to build one. We did build on that extra piece you can see to link it on to the house, saves you having to go out in the rain, if you know what I mean.”
“So before it would have been separate?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, look, we’ll leave you to have your lunch. We have several more houses to see but perhaps we can come back later.”
“By all means.”
“We’re looking for a place which has a garage on a slant from the house but we haven’t found it so far. A friend told us about it and said it might be for sale. He wasn’t sure of the address but we think it’s around here somewhere. Would you have seen anywhere like that?”
“That sounds a bit weird but yes, there is one like that in the next street.” He pointed down to the left. “Down there and turn right. You’ll see it on the end. It’s a bit of a tip, mind you. It’s rented out and the tenants are constantly changing. I believe there have been problems with rubbish piling up and stuff like that. I didn’t know it was for sale but perhaps the owners have had enough.”
Cynthia turned over her cache of papers. “Would that be 125 Brayfield Road?” she asked.
“You have done your homework—that’s right.”
“Thanks—we’ll see you later.”
“Great.” The door shut with a slam.