The House on Cold Hill

59

‘Are we nearly there yet?’

Connor, sitting on the rear seat next to his sister in the Porsche Cayenne hybrid that was loaded to the gunwales with their possessions, had been driving both his parents nuts all the way down from London.

‘Just a few minutes now.’

Why the hell couldn’t his son be quiet, like his sister, Seb wondered? Leonora was sitting next to Connor with her headphones on, absorbed in the movie playing on the screen set into the rear headrests.

Nicola glanced at the satnav and turned to Connor. ‘Five minutes, darling!’

They passed a sign saying Cold Hill — please drive slowly, then moments later the car, gliding fast and silently on electrical power, almost took off over a humpback bridge.

‘Whoops!’ Seb said.

‘Slow down, darling,’ Nicola cautioned him.

‘Dad!’ Leonora chided.

‘Can we do that again, Dad?’ Connor asked, excitedly. ‘Can we, can we?’

It was a fine, late summer day. The roads from London had been clear all the way and they’d made good time. Seb was excited. He’d been a townie all his life, as had Nicola, but moving to the country had always been his dream. Now the takeover, by an American bank, of the wealth management company he’d been employed by for the past ten years had given him a massive windfall on his share options, enabling them to afford this country pile a few miles north of Brighton.

He shot a glance in the mirror and saw his son’s excited face. ‘This is where we’re going to be living, Connor. We’ll have tons of opportunities to do that bridge again!’

‘Yeahhh! Coolio!’

‘Coolio!’ Seb replied.

He had never felt so happy in all his life. They were now minutes away from their new life.

It was going to be incredible!

Cold Hill House.

They’d already had the headed notepaper printed. Cold Hill House.

Not bad for a state-school-educated chap, whose dad had been a London postman. Not a bad achievement for a man who had not yet reached his fortieth birthday. Not bad at all, he thought, the grin on his face growing wider by the second.

They drove past a Norman church on their right, with an ornate wooden lychgate, a row of terraced Victorian artisan cottages, then the poshed-up gastropub, Bistrot Tarquin, where, just two months ago, he and Nicola had lunched on Oysters Rockefeller followed by grilled lobster, washed down with a rather fine Pouilly-Fuissé, and made the decision to offer on the house.

They passed a building with a sign, YE OLDE TEA SHOPPE. The road wound steeply uphill, past detached houses and bungalows of various sizes on either side.

The satnav read: 150 yards to destination. An arrow indicated right.

Seb slowed the car down and flicked the right-turn indicator. ‘Here we are!’

On their right, opposite a red postbox, were two stone pillars, topped with savage-looking ornamental wyverns, and with open, rusted, wrought-iron gates. Below the large Richwards ‘Sold’ board, fixed to the right-hand gatepost, was a smart gold-on-black sign announcing: COLD HILL HOUSE.

A minute later they crested the drive, and the house was directly in front of them. Seb’s heart did a little flip at the beauty of the location. ‘We’re here!’ he whooped with joy.

Nicola, peering through the windscreen, said, ‘Who’s that in the house?’

‘Where?’

‘I saw some people — there’s a man, a woman and a young girl up there — in that window above the front door. The one with the Juliet balcony.’

Seb slowed down and stared up to where she was pointing. ‘I can’t see anything.’

‘I must have imagined it,’ she smiled.

‘It looks pretty spooky!’ Leonora shouted.

‘Maybe it’s full of ghosts!’ Connor shrieked. ‘Wooooo... wooooo!’

Seb halted the car in front of the porch, and glanced at the house through the windscreen. ‘Just as soon as we get the planning permission through, we’re going to tear the whole place down and build our dream home here!’

Nicola leaned over and kissed him.

A moment later his phone pinged with an incoming text. He looked at the screen and saw the message on it.