My room is off the kitchen. It’s not large, but big enough to fit a double bed against one wall and a free-standing antique wardrobe against another. Dain nodded when I remarked this was probably where a servant slept, but as he said, it is cosy because it gets the residual warmth from the Aga. There are no black-and-gold drapes or copper in here. The theme is lighter with white walls, pinewood furniture, and cream curtains.
Not that I can see it now as it’s dark, but there’s also apparently a view out to the back garden, and it gets the morning sun. Dain lit me a kerosene lamp, and it’s flickering and throwing up eerie shadows on the wall. I shudder at the thought of the long night ahead with no proper lighting.
I’m having to quickly adjust to the fact that if I live here, all the home comforts I’m used to won’t exist. Heating food in three minutes flat in a microwave—nada. Hot showers—nada.
I stare at a washstand next to the wardrobe, which holds a blue-flowered jug of cold water nestled in its matching bowl, a towel, and a cake of soap ... And—I’m not joking (reader, I wish I was)—there’s a chamber pot with the same flower design under the bed!
Dain is used to living this way and obviously thrives on it; he’s got one foot firmly in the past and embraces it wholeheartedly without any qualms. But I feel like I’ve been thrown in the deep end. Noticing the tight expression on my face when he told me there was indeed an outdoor toilet, he said I should ‘think of it as an alternative lifestyle experiment’. But apart from non-existent plumbing, how am I going to charge my laptop or my phone? (How does he, for that matter?)
I’m sitting on the bed, an embroidered pillow propped behind my back, feeling completely bewildered and thinking maybe I should do a runner, when a folded piece of paper is hesitantly pushed in stages underneath the door, as if the person who’s pushing it isn’t sure how it will be received.
I get off the bed, pick up the paper, and unfold it. It’s a note addressed to me—written in black ink with a quill pen. I sigh. Is he trying to be funny?
I have to use my phone torch to read his handwriting because it’s in Gothic cursive.
Dear Lizzy,
Sorry if this is a lot to take in. I told you it was an unusual set-up! I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you will get used to it. It’s not an uncomfortable way to live, just different. And there are benefits. At least I’ve found there are. Anyway, I hope you’ll stay and give it a try. I promise it will be nothing like you imagine it will be.
Yours,
Dain
Huh, how does he know what I’m imagining? I scrabble in my tote for a pen and write on the back of the notepaper in my best handwriting,
I feel a little tricked. You could’ve told me how you lived before I decided to move in so I knew what I was getting myself into!
I fold the paper and push the note smartly back under the door. There’s silence, then a scratching noise that goes on for a few minutes. The note appears again, this time more abruptly.
You broke up with Klint and showed up with your bags before I had a chance to explain! Not that I’m criticising your decision, but you have to admit it was a quick turnaround.
That is true—things did move fast today. I can’t blame him for my own impulsive behaviour. I write underneath his sentence,
You’re right. I didn’t give you a chance to explain. I know I don’t seem it, but I am very grateful that you’ve offered me a place to stay. But I’m also a teensy bit worried about how I’ll cope. I might need some time to adjust. PS: Your cursive handwriting is really cool.
I post the note under the door. This is kind of fun. There are further scratching noises, and the note pokes out again.
Thanks! Since there’s no TV, I’ve had to take up a few hobbies. Practising cursive handwriting is one of them. Btw, Tabby is here and wants to say hello. Can she come in?
I post back,
Yes she can.
The door opens a crack, and a fluffy white cat with big green eyes and a cute pink button nose pushes into the room with her tail in the air and a haughty expression on her whiskered face. She jumps up on the bed, stretches out on the flower duvet cover, and looks at me as if to say ‘You may pet me now’.
Dain pokes his head in after her and grins at me. ‘Meet Tabitha, but she doesn’t mind if you call her Tabby.’
I stroke her soft fur, and Tabby’s tail flicks lazily. ‘What is she?’
‘A Turkish angora.’
‘She’s lovely. I always wanted a cat. But Klint is or, should I say,wasallergic.’ It’s the first time I’ve thought of him since I stepped foot inside the house. I’ve been too distracted.
At the mention of Klint, Dain’s smile wavers. ‘Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Come out to the kitchen when you’re ready. I’m going to make some bread.’
I look at him. ‘I assume by hand?’
‘Yes, it’s pretty easy.’
