years’ time would encircle the farm and engulf it. On the way out there in the bus Dagwood noticed places where this process had already been completed, where grey stone country houses, each with a surviving strip of vegetable garden and a small orchard, were surrounded by lines of new red brick villas whose gardens were still no more than churned-up plots of raw earth.
Dagwood could get no answer from the front door of the farmhouse. He made his way round to the back and, glancing through a window, caught sight of a girl, stripped to the waist, washing herself in the kitchen sink. The girl looked up at that moment. She and Dagwood stared at each other.
‘Be with you in a minute! ‘
The girl snatched up a towel while Dagwood retreated to the back door. She was wearing a heavy oiled-wool sweater when she opened the door. Repressing the tiny urge of sexuality at the knowledge that she was almost certainly wearing nothing underneath the sweater, Dagwood raised his hat.
‘Is Mr Watson at home?’
‘He isn’t at the moment,’ the girl said. ‘But can I help you? I’m Mrs Watson.’
The girl blushed. Dagwood blushed in sympathy.
‘I’ve come about the barn you’re converting into a flat,’ Dagwood said, his blush deepening into a ripe peony colour.
‘Gosh, how did you come to hear about it so soon? We’ve only just finished it.’
‘Somebody in ‘The Smokers’ told me about it.’
‘Gosh, how the word gets around! It’s not quite finished yet, but would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Watson.’
‘My name’s Molly, actually.’
‘Molly.’
Molly took a key from behind the kitchen door and led the way across the yard, past a line of sheds and a well.
‘That looks a very old well,’ Dagwood said.
‘Oh yes, they say it’s about a thousand years old. The pump doesn’t work now. Nobody’s been able to get any water from it for years.’
They were joined by a sheepdog puppy, which began to bark and jump at Dagwood’s heels.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Shep. Don’t mind him, he doesn’t mean any harm. It’s just his nature to do that.’
Molly walked up a cinder path to the barn.
‘Here we are.’
The Tithe Barn was constructed like a Roman granary, and was probably almost as old, with solid stone walls and thick buttresses. A slate roof had been added and windows cut in the walls. Inside, the barn was split into two compartments, the first a large, high-roofed living-room and the second a much smaller section containing the kitchen and the bathroom. The bedroom was above the kitchen and bathroom and was approached by a set of wooden steps from the living- room. The living-room was lighted by four windows, two looking north towards the yard and the farmhouse and two looking south over the orchard and a field. There was also a long skylight in the roof. Molly showed Dagwood the electric cooker, the kitchen sink and the bath, the immersion heater in a cupboard, and the coal shed outside the back door. There was a brown stove in one corner of the living-room, two old armchairs and a sofa, a dining table set against the wall, and four chairs. The inside walls had just been whitewashed and there were several faded carpets covering most of the stone floor. It was crude, and probably very cold in winter time, but for one person looking after himself it appeared to be almost ideal.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Dagwood impulsively.
Molly was more practical. ‘It’s four pounds a week,’ she said cautiously. ‘That includes water and rates but not electricity.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘When would you like to move in?’
‘Now.’
‘Oh, but there are lots of things we’ve got to do first! We have to get the electricity man to read the meter . . .’
‘What for?’
‘You want to start off with a clean sheet, don’t you? You don’t want to have to pay for the electricity we’ve already used this quarter.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes. Oh yes, you’d better get the
Dagwood could get no answer from the front door of the farmhouse. He made his way round to the back and, glancing through a window, caught sight of a girl, stripped to the waist, washing herself in the kitchen sink. The girl looked up at that moment. She and Dagwood stared at each other.
‘Be with you in a minute! ‘
The girl snatched up a towel while Dagwood retreated to the back door. She was wearing a heavy oiled-wool sweater when she opened the door. Repressing the tiny urge of sexuality at the knowledge that she was almost certainly wearing nothing underneath the sweater, Dagwood raised his hat.
‘Is Mr Watson at home?’
‘He isn’t at the moment,’ the girl said. ‘But can I help you? I’m Mrs Watson.’
The girl blushed. Dagwood blushed in sympathy.
‘I’ve come about the barn you’re converting into a flat,’ Dagwood said, his blush deepening into a ripe peony colour.
‘Gosh, how did you come to hear about it so soon? We’ve only just finished it.’
‘Somebody in ‘The Smokers’ told me about it.’
‘Gosh, how the word gets around! It’s not quite finished yet, but would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Watson.’
‘My name’s Molly, actually.’
‘Molly.’
Molly took a key from behind the kitchen door and led the way across the yard, past a line of sheds and a well.
‘That looks a very old well,’ Dagwood said.
‘Oh yes, they say it’s about a thousand years old. The pump doesn’t work now. Nobody’s been able to get any water from it for years.’
They were joined by a sheepdog puppy, which began to bark and jump at Dagwood’s heels.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Shep. Don’t mind him, he doesn’t mean any harm. It’s just his nature to do that.’
Molly walked up a cinder path to the barn.
‘Here we are.’
The Tithe Barn was constructed like a Roman granary, and was probably almost as old, with solid stone walls and thick buttresses. A slate roof had been added and windows cut in the walls. Inside, the barn was split into two compartments, the first a large, high-roofed living-room and the second a much smaller section containing the kitchen and the bathroom. The bedroom was above the kitchen and bathroom and was approached by a set of wooden steps from the living- room. The living-room was lighted by four windows, two looking north towards the yard and the farmhouse and two looking south over the orchard and a field. There was also a long skylight in the roof. Molly showed Dagwood the electric cooker, the kitchen sink and the bath, the immersion heater in a cupboard, and the coal shed outside the back door. There was a brown stove in one corner of the living-room, two old armchairs and a sofa, a dining table set against the wall, and four chairs. The inside walls had just been whitewashed and there were several faded carpets covering most of the stone floor. It was crude, and probably very cold in winter time, but for one person looking after himself it appeared to be almost ideal.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Dagwood impulsively.
Molly was more practical. ‘It’s four pounds a week,’ she said cautiously. ‘That includes water and rates but not electricity.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘When would you like to move in?’
‘Now.’
‘Oh, but there are lots of things we’ve got to do first! We have to get the electricity man to read the meter . . .’
‘What for?’
‘You want to start off with a clean sheet, don’t you? You don’t want to have to pay for the electricity we’ve already used this quarter.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes. Oh yes, you’d better get the
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