round the head with a frying pan.
Tom emerges from the camper, ducking his head, and carrying two teas of steaming deliciousness. I always have a flask with me when I’m working, but it tastes even better when someone else has made it for you.
He sits next to me, settling himself carefully into the chair as though he expects it to collapse beneath his weight, and hands me the tea.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ I say, stating the obvious.
‘I know. It is. Taking a bit of getting used to, though – home is usually a flat on the top storey of a block in London. All mod cons. Night-time lullabies of sirens and car alarms. Rick prefers it here, but I’ve actually struggled a bit with the quiet since I arrived a couple of days ago.’
‘Would you like me to arrange for some of the locals to come by and have a drunken argument outside at three a.m.?’
‘Yes please,’ he replies, smiling. ‘And if you could persuade them to leave a half-eaten kebab on the doorstep and possibly smash a couple of bottles while they’re at it, I’d feel even more at home.’
I nod sagely, and wonder who’d be up for it … any of them, I reckon. Maybe Becca and Sam. They’ve got a six-month old baby, Little Edie – little to differentiate her from her ninety-one-year-old namesake, Big Edie – so they’re rarely asleep anyway. Plus Becca lived in her own flat in Manchester for years, so she’d probably have the urban nightscape routine down perfectly.
We look on as Bella decides to head into the camper van to investigate, followed quickly by her love toy. I raise my eyebrows to ask Tom if that’s okay – some people are funny about that kind of thing – but he waves his hands in a ‘no worries’ gesture.
‘When you go back in,’ I say, sipping my tea, ‘she’ll be curled up asleep on your bed, and Rick will be on the floor, gazing up at her. She is now his Queen, and he is her subject. His life will never be the same again.’
‘Well, he doesn’t seem to mind. The fact that he’s not gone for her throat or snarled at her shows that. It’s a revelation – so long live the Queen. Anyway … how’s it going, in the house? Making progress? I didn’t really expect anyone to be cleaning it – I asked the estate agent to get someone to just make sure there weren’t any dead bodies in cupboards, killer tarantulas in the cellar, that sort of thing.’
I involuntarily shudder a bit – it’s the thought of the cellar – before I reply: ‘Well, I get a lot of work like this, cleaning up places that have been empty a while. But this one … well, I’m sorting the windows so it’s nice and bright, and I’ll concentrate on the things you might keep, like the sinks and the lovely woodwork, but I’m guessing you might be planning on a refit anyway?’
I’ve phrased it like a question, and I hope I’m not being too nosy. Instead, he seems quite keen to talk about it.
‘Where it’s needed, yeah,’ he says, gazing off into the distance while he thinks about it all. ‘It’s structurally sound – I had all the surveys done – but I’d say there’s probably a bit of a damp problem, and it all needs re-wiring, so the lights stop flickering on and off like something from a horror film. Did you notice that?’
‘Only all the time,’ I say, nodding. ‘That would definitely be an improvement.’
‘Plus I’d like to do some restoration work – the cornices and ceiling roses, some of the panelling; it all needs a bit of TLC. I’ll redecorate, obviously, and sort out the gardens and the fountain. I used to love that fountain – I could see it from my window, and I’d watch the other kids playing out there all the time, jumping in and out of it in the summer, splashing each other. I could hear it at night as well, and it was … well, reassuring, I suppose. I need to find some local trades people to help with some of it, but I’m planning on doing at least part myself.’
‘Right. Are you good at that kind of thing then?’ I ask, knowing I’m frowning but not quite able to stop myself. ‘DIY, I mean?’
‘I can be, yes – why, don’t I look like I am? Don’t I look like a guy who could knock down a wall, or build an extension?’
He is pretending to be offended at this, as though I have somehow questioned his masculinity, but I can tell from the smile he’s trying to hold down that he doesn’t mean it.
‘To be entirely honest …’ I answer, smiling back. ‘… you look like the type of guy who can speak Klingon.’
‘Maybe I can speak Klingon,’ he responds. ‘At least a few words. But I’m a Renaissance man – I also know my way around an angle grinder.’
‘Well that’s good – not to be obtuse, but I don’t even know what an angle grinder is. I apologise profusely for implying that you were anything less than a rugged frontier man.’
He pauses before he replies, drinking his tea and kicking off his Converse, toes wriggling in freedom.
‘Obtuse. Good gag. And truthfully? I’m not that rugged. I do understand the mechanics of houses, and the ways they work, and how to build them, but I’ve never actually done it. I started my career as a design engineer, and most of that involved being cooped up in a cubicle in a warehouse full of brainy nerds. Seriously, it was like that place where they hide the Ark of the Lost Covenant … loads of us, all really young and keen, beavering away, perfecting the essential next generation pencil sharpener or cat-flap or whatever.’
‘Like High School Musical for Inventors?’
‘A bit like that, yeah – but without the jocks or cheerleaders or cool kids. Just the nerdy ones. Eventually, after that and a few other jobs, I successfully invented something. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was a part that’s used in the manufacture of small spherical objects. Like ball bearings, or beads, or a few of the items used in plumbing …’
I pretend to snore, and let my head loll to one side as though I’m asleep. After a second or two, I jolt back ‘awake’, careful not to spill my tea during the whole charade.
‘Sorry!’ I say, brightly. ‘You lost me at ball bearings …’
‘Ha ha,’ he snarks back, kicking my ankle in retaliation. ‘You are so hilarious.’
‘I know, right? I should do stand-up. Anyway … so why the move here? Why leave your city idyll and escape to the country?’
‘I don’t know. Ask me that in a few months’ time. I was site-surfing one day, and came across this place and recognised it. “Small Victorian manor house,” it said, “in need of some renovation.” I did a bit of digging – not actual digging, you understand, my milky-white skin is far too delicate for that – and found out it’d been sitting empty for all these years. It made me … well, it made me sad. Like I said, I was actually happy here – as happy as I could’ve been, under the circumstances – and I hated the thought of it being neglected. Stupid, I know – sentimental and stupid. It’s a house, not a person. Now you probably think I’m nuts, as well as a pathetic city slicker nerd.’
Wow. That’s quite a speech. I suddenly get the impression that this is the first time he’s tried to put all of this into words – or at least spoken those words to anyone other than Rick Grimes, who probably isn’t that chatty.
I put my mug down on the grassy floor, and it immediately
