encapsulate the hesitation she felt at the large damp stains spreading over the greasy beige walls, not to mention the faintly rancid smell. On the other hand, Mark's point that, as a former fish and chip shop, it suited her nonmeat-eating sensibilities better than the erstwhile butcher's could not be disagreed with.
"Plenty of potential, as I'm sure you'd agree." The agent rattled a vast quantity of loose change in his pocket.
"But it's only got an outside loo," Rosie muttered.
"Yes, but have you seen it?" enthused Nigel in a nasal voice uncertainly poised between gruff and squeaky. He wore a badly fitting double-breasted suit, had extravagantly oiled hair combed forward in short spikes, and seemed all of sixteen. "It's an original Crapper. Beautifully enameled and would probably fetch a fortune on The Antiques Roadshow . A work of art." He rattled his coins again.
Rosie's heart sank. Within seconds of seeing the board displaying available properties at the estate agents', it had been obvious that, as impossible dreams went, her vision of a period cottage with beams, large fireplaces, a garden, and an abundance of character ranked somewhere above asking for the moon. In their price range, at least. Yet there must be somewhere better than the property they were currently inspecting. Not only was it on a main road, but enormous lorries that shook the place to its foundations seemed to be passing every five minutes. "It doesn't seem to be a particularly safe place to live," she ventured.
"The house is perfectly safe, madam!" Nigel shouted as, right on cue, a huge juggernaut thundered past inches from the windows. Mark, who had been staring absently out of them, leaped back in alarm. "There is," the agent continued, "an entire pavement between the property and the road."
"Which is almost entirely taken up with a vast crash bar," returned Rosie, as gently as she could. There was something rather heroic about the optimism with which Nigel approached his profession.
"We can't be too picky," Mark warned her as they drove off in their spluttering old Peugeot. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know."
"I do know. But it's got to be the right cottage. Or, at least, not something that's so obviously wrong ."
"Well, you heard what Nigel said."
Rosie nodded. That the overenthusiastic agent was not accompanying them on the next visit, having been suddenly called back to the office, was a relief. His parting shot had, however, been a little alarming.
"Ooh, it's all hands on deck back at KBS," Nigel had announced, shoving a vast and chunky mobile back into his pocket. "Someone's just rung up wanting instant details on all our premier properties. This areas getting very popular, you know. Best to buy while you can." In a gesture pregnant with meaning, he had then handed Mark the large envelope containing the keys and details for the remaining properties on the day's agenda.
"Actually, the next one looks great," Mark said, waving under Rosie's nose the photograph of a cheerful-looking, low-slung building framed by mature trees. "Limestone Cottage. Amazingly lowpriced as well."
Rosie crossed her fingers as Mark swung suddenly round a sharp bend of the single-track road. The narrow lanes seemed under constant threat from the burly hedgerows that, running along either side of them, were apparently intent on muscling into the middle.
It was now the end of January, and the sky was a high, pale blue, overlaid with clouds shirred like thinly sliced smoked salmon. A brilliant, low winter sun irradiated fields ridged like green corduroy trousers and stretching to distant heights of blond moor. As Rosie wound down her window to get a view uninterrupted by bird poo, a flood of air as clear, sharp, and cold as a bucketful of water dashed into her face. She smiled, her eyes streaming with the chill and a sudden leaping
"Plenty of potential, as I'm sure you'd agree." The agent rattled a vast quantity of loose change in his pocket.
"But it's only got an outside loo," Rosie muttered.
"Yes, but have you seen it?" enthused Nigel in a nasal voice uncertainly poised between gruff and squeaky. He wore a badly fitting double-breasted suit, had extravagantly oiled hair combed forward in short spikes, and seemed all of sixteen. "It's an original Crapper. Beautifully enameled and would probably fetch a fortune on The Antiques Roadshow . A work of art." He rattled his coins again.
Rosie's heart sank. Within seconds of seeing the board displaying available properties at the estate agents', it had been obvious that, as impossible dreams went, her vision of a period cottage with beams, large fireplaces, a garden, and an abundance of character ranked somewhere above asking for the moon. In their price range, at least. Yet there must be somewhere better than the property they were currently inspecting. Not only was it on a main road, but enormous lorries that shook the place to its foundations seemed to be passing every five minutes. "It doesn't seem to be a particularly safe place to live," she ventured.
"The house is perfectly safe, madam!" Nigel shouted as, right on cue, a huge juggernaut thundered past inches from the windows. Mark, who had been staring absently out of them, leaped back in alarm. "There is," the agent continued, "an entire pavement between the property and the road."
"Which is almost entirely taken up with a vast crash bar," returned Rosie, as gently as she could. There was something rather heroic about the optimism with which Nigel approached his profession.
"We can't be too picky," Mark warned her as they drove off in their spluttering old Peugeot. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know."
"I do know. But it's got to be the right cottage. Or, at least, not something that's so obviously wrong ."
"Well, you heard what Nigel said."
Rosie nodded. That the overenthusiastic agent was not accompanying them on the next visit, having been suddenly called back to the office, was a relief. His parting shot had, however, been a little alarming.
"Ooh, it's all hands on deck back at KBS," Nigel had announced, shoving a vast and chunky mobile back into his pocket. "Someone's just rung up wanting instant details on all our premier properties. This areas getting very popular, you know. Best to buy while you can." In a gesture pregnant with meaning, he had then handed Mark the large envelope containing the keys and details for the remaining properties on the day's agenda.
"Actually, the next one looks great," Mark said, waving under Rosie's nose the photograph of a cheerful-looking, low-slung building framed by mature trees. "Limestone Cottage. Amazingly lowpriced as well."
Rosie crossed her fingers as Mark swung suddenly round a sharp bend of the single-track road. The narrow lanes seemed under constant threat from the burly hedgerows that, running along either side of them, were apparently intent on muscling into the middle.
It was now the end of January, and the sky was a high, pale blue, overlaid with clouds shirred like thinly sliced smoked salmon. A brilliant, low winter sun irradiated fields ridged like green corduroy trousers and stretching to distant heights of blond moor. As Rosie wound down her window to get a view uninterrupted by bird poo, a flood of air as clear, sharp, and cold as a bucketful of water dashed into her face. She smiled, her eyes streaming with the chill and a sudden leaping
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