As I walk past the parlour on the way out, I pause in the doorway and listen, but there’s no further advice forthcoming from Charlotte. I guess I’m on my own.
***
Dain’s house is a five-minute walk from the parsonage, off the main street. It’s a two-storey, semi-detached of butterscotch-coloured stone with a gabled roof at one end. A low stone fence encloses a paved front garden area. There aren’t any plants in it, only a few wind-blown shrubs around the perimeter. I take it he isn’t into gardening, or the weather permits only the hardiest species.
Dain unlocks the front door, which is a glossy black and has a gold door knocker.Fancy.
‘Come in.’
He reaches down to take my wheelie off me, and I’m ushered through into an entranceway with a black-and-white-tiled floor. It contains an assortment of boots, shoes, and trainers all arranged neatly in a line. I feel a tiny thrill of privilege that he’s invited me to stay at his house. Dain sheds his outdoor coat and hangs it up on a wooden coatrack. I decide to keep my jacket on until the central heating kicks in as it’s a little chilly.
‘I’ll give you the tour. You can leave your bag there.’
I drop my tote onto the chair he points out and follow him curiously into a passageway with sombre grey walls. A flight of dark wooden stairs leads up to the first floor. The house seems a little dim, but I’m sure he’ll turn the lights on as we go.
He walks through an arched doorway and states, ‘So this is the parlour.’
I trail behind after him, expecting a normal lounge set-up. But it’s nothing like that. Silently, I survey the lounge or, should I say,parlourwith its ruby-red flower-motif wallpaper and dark polished floorboards. There’s no TV, stereo, or anything remotely resembling modern living. Just a large round mahogany table with a few stiff-backed red velvet chairs, a cast-iron fireplace, and an elegant antique couch with curved wooden legs, also in red velvet, placed in front of it. Thick black-and-gold brocade drapes hang on either side of the windows, and the far wall is inset with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase painted red to match the wallpaper. It’s like stepping into ‘Victorian Room of the Month’ in the 1900s edition ofHouse Beautifulmagazine.
Really, knowing him as I do, I should’ve expected this. But it’s still startling.
‘What do you think?’ Dain seems anxious to get my opinion.
‘It’s very cool,’ I say, bemused.
And it is. But I assume this room is his passion project, that he’s done an interior design course so he could create a Gothic reading room. But I’m not too bothered.There’s probably another more comfortable lounge elsewhere.
‘I thought you’d like it.’ Dain looks pleased.
I go over to the bookshelf and peer at a few volumes. I was right about the Brontë box sets—and there are classics galore: Bram Stoker, Charles Dickens, George Eliot, Oscar Wilde, Mary Shelley.
‘Wow, this is bordering on a library.’
The sun has gone, and the afternoon has turned gloomy, which is making it difficult to see in here. And the heating still hasn’t come on yet. I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me.
‘It’s a little cold for reading, though.’
‘I’ll light the fires soon,’ says Dain.
‘Ah, OK.’Fires? Does he mean fire up the boiler?
I look around for a light switch by the door. But the wall is blank, and there’s no fixture in the ceiling.
‘Where’s the light?’
‘There isn’t one. I use these.’ He gestures to a couple of kerosene lamps sitting on a wooden sideboard, along with a collection of candles.
‘Oh, I thought those were for show.’
He shakes his head, watching me carefully.
A worrying thought enters my head.
‘Are thereelectric lights in any of the rooms?’
He shakes his head again.
‘What?’ I say, hardly believing it. Surely, he’s joking! But it seems he isn’t.
