‘Well, I could do – but I don’t have to.’
Mike Muir looked down at his pad. ‘Well, I can certainly put a rental advert out for you – see how we get on. However … can I give you some advice?’ He looked at her hopefully.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Well, as it stands, the place is a bit, er, how shall I put it …?’
‘You can say neglected,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Aye,’ he agreed uncomfortably, his ruddy cheeks darkening to become burgundy splotches. ‘However, if you made a few renovations … instead of looking at long-term tenants – which might cause you some bother out here – you could think about letting it out as a holiday rental instead. We look after a property for a family in the next village who’ve done something similar, and they’re making an absolute killin’ … It’s got to be at least double what you’d get for a long-term rental, all said and done.’
‘Really?’ Grace felt her mood rising. ‘So what do I need to do?’
Mike Muir appeared delighted by her enthusiasm. ‘Well, country getaways like these are quite sought-after. But to be canny about it, you need to set it up properly. Keep the best bits of a traditional cottage – your log fires, your wooden beams, and so on – but surround it with modern appliances and some nice furnishin’s and you’re on to a winner. See, if you took out this wall –’ he knocked his knuckles on the wall next to them ‘– make it open-plan down here, you’ve got a much bigger area. Right now, it’s too poky. Put new cupboards in here, like, and redo the living-room fireplace so it’s a bit of a feature. There’s not too much you can do about upstairs, but you could upgrade windows, make the bathroom en suite, that kind of thing. You could do a miracle makeover on this place, and it’ll be cosy and trendy rather than … than …’ His face coloured up again.
‘Claustrophobic and drab?’ Grace finished for him.
‘Aye!’ He beamed at her, seeming pleased at how easy this was proving. ‘And if you do decide to sell down’t track, you’ll get much more if you’ve done some work on the place already.’
Grace liked the sound of his suggestions. She was turning things over in her mind when he began to get up. ‘Look, take my card, and give me a call when you’ve decided what to do next.’
‘Thanks.’ Grace ran a finger over the embossed lettering, her mind swirling with possibilities. ‘You’ve been great. I’ll think it over, and let you know.’
She went to see him out, leaving Millie in her high chair banging her spoon repeatedly against her Weetabix with a dull thwack. At the door, Mike turned and the colour was high in his cheeks again.
‘I remember your Adam,’ he said. ‘He played for Skeldale cricket team for a time, he was a crackin’ spin bowler. I was right sorry –’
‘Thanks,’ Grace cut in, her unease as acute as his. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, then closed the door smartly to escape her discomfort; but not before she caught one last sight of Mike Muir’s forlorn face looking back at her from the doorstep.
There was only one shop in Skeldale, one of the small villages between Roseby and the coast. It was just a terraced house really, no different to its dozen or so neighbours on the narrow lane, except for the sign outside, and notices Blu-Tacked against the glass of the bay windows. No one else was in sight as Grace hovered in the doorway, casting her eye along the advertisements. She couldn’t see what she was searching for.
A cowbell clanged loudly as she pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside it was dingy, the scant space crammed with paraphernalia. Boxes of fruit lined the shelves to one side of her, precarious towers of tins stacked in the gaps. On the other side an eclectic mix of items were piled in disordered groups – among them, stationery, candles, postcards and packet noodles. More boxes spilled their assorted contents onto the uneven stone-flagged floor, and in one corner were what looked like a group of witches’ broomsticks. Grace peered into some plastic pots as she went past, to see they contained honeycombs, oozing golden liquid from their tiny pores.
The countertop was almost hidden by boxes of confectionery, and Millie reached out. Grace pulled her away, as an old woman shuffled into view from a door behind the counter. Her dress strained against its seams, and the loose skin hanging in folds under her chin quivered as she swayed towards the desk. ‘Now then, lass, what can I do for yer?’ she rasped.
The shop certainly hadn’t been organised with children in mind, and almost everything was within Millie’s grasp. The little girl leaned backwards and grabbed a box of matches, which Grace extricated from her and returned to the shelf. The woman watched them impassively.