The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl

I suspected none of it had seen a lick of paint or a roll of new wallpaper since the sixties or seventies but the house oozed charm and character. I tried to imagine my ancestors here: Barty and his brother William, my great-great-grandfather, running up and down the stairs as boys; their father Bartholomew writing letters in the study downstairs; their mother serenely embroidering a sampler by the fireside in the drawing room. There would have been servants here too, living in those attic bedrooms.

      We finished the tour and went back downstairs. Harold was still dozing beside the fire in the old study. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Delamere,’ I said. ‘I have really enjoyed imagining my ancestors living here. It’s a wonderful house.’

      ‘It is, yes.’ She shook her head. ‘Sadly it’s too much for Harold and me nowadays. We shall soon have to think about moving out and into somewhere smaller. But I hate the thought of developers carving it up into flats, and I’m certain that’s what would happen. We’ve been approached by a couple of developers already.’

      ‘Mmm, yes, I can see you’d want it to stay as it is.’

      ‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind the idea of it being done up inside. Lord knows it needs it – tastes have changed and I know it’s very dated. But I’d want to think of it remaining as a single family home. Ah, well.’ She caught hold of my hands and leaned in to kiss my cheek. ‘Katie, it’s been so lovely to meet you. I hope you’ll come again – I’d love to hear more about how you researched your ancestors, and how you knew they lived here.’

      ‘Well, it was all via the census records,’ I said, as I slipped on my coat. ‘They’re available on the Internet now, which makes it all pretty easy.’

      Vera smiled. ‘I’m afraid we don’t even own a computer.’

      As I left the house I sensed someone’s eyes on me, and turned to look back. Vera was standing at the study window, watching me go with a wistful expression on her thin face. I waved, and she smiled and waved back. I crossed the street and took a few photos of the house for my records, then headed back home to Southampton. As I drove back down the motorway I wondered what kind of mood Simon would be in. Hopefully he’d have got over himself by now. I was buzzing with excitement about having seen inside my ancestors’ home and wanted to be able to share it with him.

      ***

      Simon was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of bolognese sauce for the kids’ tea. I put my arms around him from behind, stretched up and kissed the back of his neck.

      ‘Mind out! You nearly made me knock the pan over.’ He shrugged himself out of my hug.

      ‘Sorry. I’ll take over if you like.’ I gave the pot a stir then waltzed off around the kitchen. Our four-year old, Thomas, came in pushing a small yellow digger along the floor and making engine noises. He giggled when he saw me dancing. I scooped him up and danced with him.

      ‘Hey, not while I’m cooking!’ said Simon, brandishing his wooden spoon. ‘There’s no space in here for mucking about. I take it from your happy dance that you found what you were looking for?’

      ‘Yes, I found the house!’

      ‘What house was this?’

      ‘Oh, Simon, I told you this morning!’ I put Thomas down. He retrieved his digger and resumed excavations in the hallway. ‘It was the house where the St Clairs lived, for over a hundred years. My great-great-grandfather William St Clair would have been born there, and his father Bartholomew before him.’

      ‘Ah, yes. You’ve been rummaging around in the pointless past again while I look after the future, a.k.a. our children. So you got a photo of this house?’

      ‘More than that – I went inside! The owners are a lovely elderly couple called Harold and Vera Delamere and they remember how the older folk in the village told them stories of Barty St Clair when they moved it. Apparently he was a bit strange. Very sociable but wouldn’t let anyone in the house. Maybe he was hiding something – ooh, maybe there’re some skeletons in my ancestors’ closets!’

      ‘Good stuff. I don’t get this obsession with your ancestors, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose.’ He grinned, and patted my shoulder. His way of apologising for the morning’s row. I smiled back, accepting the apology.

      ‘Kids! Dinner’s ready!’ Simon called. He plonked three plates of spag bol on the table, then left the kitchen. Looked like supervising the kids’ dinner time was going to be my job, then. Fair enough. I’d had my time off. I helped Thomas climb up onto a chair, and ruffled Lewis and Lauren’s hair as they sat at the table.

      ‘Hey, mind the gel!’ Lewis ducked away from my hand. Only ten but already spending hours in front of the mirror before school each day.

      ‘What do you want to put gel in your hair for, you’re not a girl.’ His twin sister Lauren flicked his ear. ‘With those spikes you’ll puncture the ball when you next play rugby with Dad.’

      ‘You don’t head the ball in rugby, derrr,’ retorted Lewis. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

      ‘More than you, stupid.’ Lauren swished her blonde mane over her shoulder and stuck out a bolognese-encrusted tongue in his direction.

      ‘That’s enough, you two,’ I said. ‘Eat up and if you can’t speak nicely to each other don’t speak at all.’

      They glared across the table at each other but otherwise got on with it. Little Thomas, as usual, was keeping his head down and out of trouble. He caught my eye and flashed me a winning smile. Apart from the strand of spaghetti that was slithering down his chin it was one of those expressions you just wish you’d caught on camera.

      I made myself a cup of tea while the children finished their dinners. Once they were finished and the kitchen was clean, I sat down at the table sipping my cup of tea, and drifted off into a pleasant fantasy in which the Delameres sold up and somehow Simon and I could afford to buy the house, move in and discover all its secrets.

       Chapter 4

       Hampshire, December 2012

      ‘I know,’ I said, decisively, ‘let’s take Mum and Dad out for Sunday lunch at the pub this weekend, rather than cook it here. It’s always a squash when they come for dinner, and it’d be lovely to have someone else do all the work.’ It was a few weeks after my visit to Kingsley House. Simon and I had managed not to row again, mainly because I’d not said a single word more about my ancestry research, and he’d foregone another rugby practice to take the whole family out to see The Polar Express at the cinema.

      Simon put down the book he was reading and peered over his glasses at me. ‘OK, and maybe your dad will want to pay …’

      I threw a cushion at him. ‘No, we’ll pay, you tight git. It’s supposed to be Dad’s birthday dinner, after all. Anyway, we can easily afford to since your promotion and pay rise.’

      He hugged the cushion and threw his feet up onto the sofa. It was a cold, dark evening – one of those where you wish you had an open fireplace instead of a gas fire, when you just want to cuddle up with a blanket and a good book. And maybe a glass of wine.

      ‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ I said.

      ‘Yeah, go on then.’ Simon swung his legs off the sofa and stood up to fetch a bottle. ‘Arrgh, what did I tread on?’ He hopped around then sat back down to investigate the damage to his foot.

      ‘Lego, I expect. Lewis had some in here earlier.’

      ‘When’s he going to grow out of Lego?’ grumbled Simon, kicking the offending piece under the Christmas tree.

      ‘About the same time as Thomas grows into it,’ I replied. ‘I’ll get the wine, seeing as you’re incapacitated.’

      ‘Thanks.