Eleanor! Eleanor, where are you, love?” Nicholas Harrison’s voice carried from the living room. “Get in here! Something’s come up!”
“Coming, coming!” Eleanor answered, drying her hands on her apron. “What’s happened? Is the house on fire?”
“Better! Much better!” He jumped up as she entered the room, grabbing her elbows. “Listen, remember Clarkson? My old boss? The one who retired last year?”
“Of course. What about him?” Eleanor grew wary. When Nicholas got this animated, it usually meant trouble usually brewing.
“He phoned just now! Can you believe it? He’s selling a three-bedroom flat right in central London! He’s offered it to us! Practically giving it away, Ellie! Says he’ll sell it for half price because I helped him out once before – remember when I got his nephew a job?”
Eleanor slowly sank into her armchair. Thoughts spun like a whirlwind in her head.
“Nick, what flat? What are you on about? We haven’t got that sort of money!”
“That’s the brilliant part!” Nicholas perched on the armrest, speaking fast and excitedly. “Clarkson says we can pay in instalments! Small amounts, he’s in no rush. He’s moving to the country to live near his daughter and doesn’t need the city place. Ellie, do you realise what this means? We’ve been squeezed into this tiny flat our whole lives, and now this chance!”
“Nick, wait…” Eleanor rubbed her temples. “Why do we need a three-bedder? The kids are grown and gone. This place suits us fine.”
“What do you mean why?!” He sprang up, pacing the room. “Ellie, you’re clever! Grandkids will visit – where will they stay? When we’re proper elderly, maybe the kids will move in to help, or we’ll need a live-in carer – she’ll need a room too!”
Eleanor silently watched her husband. Married thirty years, and he was still the dreamer. Always convinced big luck was just a step away.
“How much money is needed?” she asked cautiously.
“Well, the first payment’s manageable, about thirty grand. Then monthly payments of five grand.”
“Thirty thousand pounds?!” Eleanor nearly leaped up. “Nick, have you lost your mind? Where on earth would we get that?!”
“Ah, Ellie, I’ve got that covered,” Nicholas sat beside her, taking her hands. “Remember Gran’s ring Mum left me? The diamond one? I got it valued at the jeweller’s, it’s worth around forty grand. We sell that – money sorted!”
Eleanor snatched her hands away.
“The *ring*?! Nicholas Harrison, what are you saying?! That’s your mother’s memory! She gave it to you on her deathbed!”
“So what?” Nicholas shrugged. “Mum wanted us to be happy, didn’t she? Well, we will be! Big place, central London!”
“What if we can’t keep up the payments? What if something happens? Illness, or you lose your job?”
“Nothing will happen!” Nicholas waved dismissively. “Ellie, this is our *chance*. Understand? Opportunities like this come once in a lifetime!”
Eleanor stood and walked to the window. Rain fell outside, streaks running down the glass like her tangled thoughts.
“Nick, what about the kids? Have you spoken to them? What will they say?”
“What could they say? They’ll be chuffed! Imagine Emma’s face! And James will be dead proud – his parents living central London!”
Emma, their elder daughter, was a schoolteacher, constantly busy, constantly knackered. James, the younger, had gone to Manchester after his service and rarely phoned. *Would* they be happy about the parents’ new flat? Eleanor doubted it.
“Listen,” she said, not turning around, “maybe we shouldn’t rush? Think it over, get some advice…”
“Advice from who?!” Nicholas threw his hands up. “Ellie, Clarkson flies out to his daughter’s tomorrow! We need to decide *today*! Or someone else snaps it up!”
“And why is he offering it to *us* specifically?” Eleanor suddenly asked. “Surely he has other mates?”
“Well… he says we’re reliable. Trustworthy.”
Something in his tone made Eleanor turn. Nicholas was avoiding her eye, fiddling with the tablecloth.
“Nick, are you telling me everything?”
“Course! What could I be hiding?”
“Dunno. But I feel you’re holding something back.”
Nicholas was quiet, then sighed heavily.
“Alright. There’s one little hiccup. The flat… well, it’s not quite as tip-top as you’d hope. Needs a bit of work. Serious work.”
“How serious?”
“Well, new plumbing, wiring. Floors maybe. And wallpaper, obviously…”
“Nick!” Eleanor sat back down hard. “That costs a fortune! A proper fortune!”
“But then we’ll be set!” Nicholas spoke passionately. “Ellie, I’ve dreamt of a place like this my whole life! Central, high ceilings, cornices like the old films! And here’s the chance!”
Eleanor looked at Nicholas and saw the same sparkle in his eyes as thirty years ago when he courted her. Back then, he made big plans too. She’d believed him. Married him, raised the kids, worked, scrimped. And he kept dreaming big.
“Alright,” she said finally. “But on one condition. We view this flat first. Honestly see what the repairs will cost. Talk to the kids. *Then* we decide.”
“Done!” Nicholas beamed. “I’ve already arranged with Clarkson – we see it tomorrow morning!”
Eleanor lay awake that night, thinking. On one hand, Nick was right – a bigger flat central London was posh. Maybe it *was* worth the punt? On the other, their cosy little flat felt like home. Their children grew up here, so many memories…
Next morning, they went to view it. The building was indeed grand and old, with wide staircases and tall windows. But when Clarkson opened the flat door, Eleanor gasped.
“Blimey, was there a flood here?” she asked, eyeing the water stains on the walls.
“Ah, neighbours above have a leak now and then,” Clarkson offered a guilty smile. “No worries, it dries out.”
Eleanor walked through the rooms. Wallpaper hung in shreds, floors creaked loudly, the bathroom tap was dodgy. The kitchen window had a lovely view over a square, but the glass was cracked.
“Nick,” she whispered to her husband, “it’s a wreck.”
“But the *potential*!” he hissed in her ear. “Imagine what we could do here!”
Clarkson was in a hurry. Said other buyers were keen, they had to decide quick. Nicholas fidgeted, pacing the rooms, measuring them with his strides.
“We’ll take it!” he suddenly declared. “Ellie, we’re taking it!”
“Nick, wait…”
“No, decided! Clarkson, draw up the papers!”
That evening, seated at their kitchen table, Nicholas sipped tea and mapped out renos. Eleanor stayed quiet.
“Just picture it,” he said, “biggest room our bedroom. Middle one the lounge, maybe with a fireplace? The small one my study. Computer in there, bookshelves…”
“How do we pay for the renos?” Eleanor asked.
“Bit by bit. Focus on one room at a time. Make ourselves a liveable spot first, then sort the rest, make it lovely.”
“What if we can’t scrape the payments together?”
“We will!” Nicholas waved it off. “I’ll find a side gig. Maybe build sheds or something weekends.”
Next day, Nicholas went to sell the
Right then, here’s how that whole messy business wound up, love: Arthur and Rosemary eventually learned that chasing after a fancy London postcode meant binning the simple contentment of their old life in Canterbury; the grand flat became a constant reminder of the cosy happiness they’d thoughtlessly thrown out with the rubbish.
