A house. A large, red brick, Kentish farmhouse, over two centuries old.
- Once it overlooked fields spotted with oak trees, patterned with hedges of beech and hawthorn, but times have changed. The spring lambs are gone. Cattle gone. The winter-stark outline of oak, gone. Satellite dishes, sprout on the new housing estate.
- The house has seen many people pass through. The first brought two chairs, a bed, delivered by horse and cart. Today, an enormous van rumbles on the driveway.
- They have a key. They come crashing in; bumping large boxes into walls. They scuff skirting boards, bruise paintwork. They flick lights, on and off, on and off.
- The house has been still and silent, but these people are noisy. Their movements shake the house awake. A lady lived here, died here. She was here a long time. She died, but the house was fine with her lying in the iron bed. She was taken away.
- One of the new people whistles. He thumps walls, stamps on floorboards. He yanks at a bannister. But it is an old house, solid. It takes it.
- A woman runs her fingertips along sills and opens up windows. She turns on taps and watches the rusty water drain away. The water clears and she fills a vase and drops in roses.
- The house is more awake. It senses something about the woman as she moves through the freshening rooms. When she stops, and looks through a window, the house feels an extra, tiny, fast-beating heart.
- The woman wanders from room to room. In the place where the old lady died, she pauses, senses, then shakes her head. She opens doors. On the back of a wardrobe door, is an old mirror. She looks in the mirror and the house knows. It sees… She is searching.
- The house died with the old lady. But now it senses this lovely young face, the heartbeats. It's hopes are refreshed.
- Now a boy owl-hoots up the stairs. A leather ball, falls bump, bump, bump down the bare boards. A deep voice grunts from under the weight of a bed. Two men. The bed wobbles before rising up the stairs. "Go outside," the mother tells the boy. "Take the ball outside."
- The voice, under the bed, mutters.
- "Where is the bedding?" the woman asks the man. "Pillows and sheets. The boxes were marked up - have you seen them? They were fresh."
- The ball bounces outside. Thud, thud, thud.
- "A fresh start," the man replies, and then he moves to her, holds her so close that for a moment the house can't tell one heartbeat from another. They are filling the house up, almost moved in. By the morning, they will belong. This will be a home.
- Later, they are ready for bed. They are about to go up. The man decides to check a few things around the house. He goes outside and walks the length of the garden. He checks the gate. He steps inside the greenhouse, crunching over broken panes.
- When he returns, he pours himself a drink. He sits for a while and smokes. By the time he goes upstairs the woman is sleeping. She feels him get in to bed. They lie awake, silent. The sheets smell of honeysuckle. They smell of a fresh start.
*
- Morning, the man showers. Later the woman will bathe while the boy plays in the garden, but now she busies herself. Bacon sizzles, coffee perks. Lemon spray sharpens the windows, bleach shocks hard tiled floors. Cobwebs are flicked from corners.
*
- The evening meal. The meat cooked slowly. The table has been laid; the red wine is open, breathing, filling the house. The boy is in bed. The woman waits for the man. He comes in, drops his briefcase. She lights the candles. He sits down but pushes the food away.
- "It won't do," he tells her. "It's not enough."
- "We need more colour," she says quickly. "I'm taking the emulsion back. It's all pastel. We've had all that. We need a change, patterns maybe. What do you think?"
- "It's no good," he says.
- She puts down her knife and fork.
- "Don't worry," she tells him, still rushing. "I'll figure it out. Can't hurry things. I'll take it room by room. Pastels for the baby."
- "It's not going to work," he tells her. "I can't do it."
- "Stop," she says. "Just one more day. We've only been here one day and you've been out to work. You have to give it time."
- "I didn't go to work," he says. "I couldn't be away from her. That's it. That's all there is to say."
- Upstairs, the child is twisting and turning. He calls from his bed. He is still half-asleep, but he calls "Mummy, mummy!" But the house is awake now. It can get into his dreams. As he runs along the dark pathway through the forest the house can knock the brambles out of his way.
- The mother walks around the downstairs room. Her son is calling and her husband is leaving. She keeps walking.
- But the house is in the boy's dream now. It stands solid in the middle of his forest. He's stumbling along towards it when lights appear. He steps through an open door. It closes behind him. Now he is quiet.
- The woman paces, stops. She sips her wine then bites her lip.
- "We never should have moved," she says.
- "But this house was a gift," he says, "from your family."
- "I need you, Tom. Jack needs you."
- "No." He says and he walks to the window and looks out towards the lonely apple tree. "Everything you ever wanted is here."
- She puts a hand on her belly and sees him flinch. "That's not fair," she says. "I was happy where we were."
- "Nothing was ever enough," he says. "Not even one child."
- She spits it out. "What the hell has she got?"
- He doesn't answer, and when he simply stands there she shouts, "Bastard!" and hurls her wine glass at the wall. It shatters. The man looks at the bleeding wall, then looks back at her. He shakes his head.
- "You'll have everything you need," he tells her. "But I can't stay. It's impossible. I was stupid to try."
- "I hate this house," the woman says. But the house, now truly awake, knows she doesn't mean it. The man picks up his overnight bag, his briefcase. As he turns the woman cannot quite believe it. He walks towards the door, doesn't look back.
- The woman leans against the wall, the old, kindly house. Her heart thumps. The little heart within pulses frantically.
- The woman is just a slight thing but so pretty, even now, tired and broken as she looks. The burden she carries barely shows but she will struggle to raise her family on her own. The house knows this. It's detached too. People have come, gone, survived, grown.
- The boy sleeps but the mother goes to him now. Her husband has gone, but now she has this house. It is her house now.
- It wraps her up.
