Grimshaw Street E-Book

Jeff Hunt

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When Emily achieves her goal of becoming a city vet she expects to settle into the life of a sophisticated professional. Nowhere in her plans is a derelict gang house filling up with misfits and former criminals.
How is she to cope with a half-mad English professor, a talented troubled girl, and demanding men?
As her new life unfolds, Emily fights against an increasingly sinister descent into the former life of 23 Grimshaw Street.
But things are not as they seem. Although Emily and her home are confronted by the past, she learns to distinguish enemy from friend, admirer from threat, and finds that she can give and receive love and respect.
There is a solution to this madcap existence and Emily and her strange housemates will find a way through.
It is not just the inhabitants who must rebuild their lives. Twenty-three Grimshaw Street will find a positive future.

Leseprobe

Jeff Hunt

Grimshaw Street

Emily

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

A Beginning

Built in 1912, Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street graced the pages of the magazine, Women’s Affairs, in the spring of 1988. It was not the write-up that its architects and former owners would have wished for.

‘At a time when New Zealand houses were small buildings on generous sections, a corrupt administration and tasteless owner contrived to put a large, poorly appointed home onto a misshaped section. The small dark family rooms were awkwardly juxtaposed to pretentious entertaining rooms. The utility rooms were tacked on as an afterthought at the back. Subsequent additions, to provide further cooking and washing space were forced in haphazardly amongst the original rooms. When the house became a boarding facility, extra bedrooms were required. They were added around the outside, as space and internal passageways permitted. The result was a large, dingy and slipshod warren.’

The write-up was by a disillusioned minor criminal who had lived there and returned home to his parents with hopes of becoming a journalist. By writing exposés of fugitive life he prospered, and today maintains himself as a feature writer for a major news outlet.

The first twenty-five years of life in the Grimshaw house were as bleak as the house itself. When the occupants’ marriage finally failed completely it was because the lady of the house sustained a head injury during a drunken tirade from her husband. In his befuddled, alcohol damaged brain the points he wished to make were: her irresponsible behaviour in having ten children, her inability to keep everyone spotless and fed, the low wages she earned in her job, her inability to support her husband to get him out of bankruptcy and her carelessness in causing a worldwide depression, which by then was already over. The older children gratefully never saw their father again, settled their mother with a caring sister and sold the house, so they could live more suitably in the country where they could care for the younger children.

There was a family that lived there reluctantly, and were thankful when their working life ended, and they were able to retire to something more comfortable.

The next buyer had hopes. There was a need for cheap accommodation and it would make an ideal boarding house. The new owners were adequate but uninspired landlords. They knew that boarding houses required as many bedrooms as possible and some extra cooking and sanitary facilities. The narrow passageway came to an abrupt stop at an awkwardly placed and far too small kitchen. The problem was solved by adding an extra passage offset from the first and just beyond the strange lateral passageways serving the tiny bedrooms. Now extra rooms could be built into the tiny backyard. A bit of space was lopped off of the cavernous main room for a second and more functional kitchen and Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street Boarding House opened for business. It was never a success, but never a total failure. It survived for the working life of its owners, into the late 1980s when they retired to a small house further from town.

Mr and Mrs Harrington also saw its potential. They were able to buy a large house in a respectable area close to town, with a waste area behind that had never been developed. A maze in which to hide people and things when it was preferable that the police should not see them. Now Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street rose to its greatest heights. The crowning glory was a small hole in the floor at the strange kink in the passage. It looked like what it was; a shoddy piece of workmanship on a tricky corner. But with suitable training, the initiated could roll back the carpet, reach back under the floorboards with a wire hook and release a bolt. Several solid looking floorboards could then be lifted to reveal a cavernous storage place. With practice the residents found that they could perform this operation, conceal whatever required concealing and have the carpet back over the whole passage within the time it took the police to confirm that they had a search warrant and effect an entry. On the one occasion that the carpet was lifted during a search, the floor was observed to be solid with no loose boards, and only one insignificant hole. It was not necessary to look further.

Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street enjoyed its longest period of profitable success. Amongst many strange tasks set for the inhabitants by Mr Harrington was the occasional digging of large holes in the waste area behind the house. Nothing was seen to be put into these holes, but when the inhabitants filled them back in and planted vegetables to disguise them, they were not as deep as they had been. The Harringtons grew rich and old and argumentative running their house. And then Mrs Harrington was not to be seen any more. Another vegetable garden was developed, and soon after, Mr Harrington was gone as well. That was not unusual. At first, it was expected that he would return, but the months rolled past without him.

Bear, a young and skilled former resident, did return. But he had dreams of a better life for himself and the householders. When he learned that the Harringtons were gone and discovered that the wealth accumulated over the years was mostly untouched, he made his own plans for the house and its inhabitants. Lacking an advanced education himself, he had, without realising it, a snobbish respect for academia. So when he found a retired and apparently otherwise homeless old man who claimed to have been a professor of English living at Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street he asked him to stay to manage the house for him. The English Professor agreed. Believing that Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street was in capable hands, Bear returned to his travels.

However fate intervened. The English Professor was not the man to keep a difficult household under control. Without leaders the occupants were not as clever. When a police raid with special warrants was made, simultaneously bursting in at all external doors, they were unprepared. There was unexplained money, a large cache of illegal drugs, stolen goods and several inhabitants for whom arrest warrants were outstanding. The long run of success for Twenty-Three Grimshaw Street was at an end. Mr Harrrington, wherever he was, did not return and Mrs Harrington was assumed to be unable to do so. The house stood almost empty, with only the English Professor left behind. He had no need of, or interest in hoarded wealth.

Buying

The estate agent shook her head again. Emily bleakly wondered if her other customers received as many head-shakes as she was getting. “I’m afraid that anything near the centre of Merriton is close to a million, and you will be lucky to be able to raise half of that. You need to lower your expectations.”

Emily tried again. “I really don’t want to be so far from the veterinary practice that I need my own car. The practice owns a car that I use, but I can’t rely on it every day. Is there no bedsit or something rough that I can get close-by?”

She received another head-shake. “They’re all new or renovated. There’s so much activity in suburban housing that cheap accommodation is rare.” There was a pause. The agent was building up to saying something. Emily held her breath. Was there hope?

The agent made a decision. “Look, I wouldn’t normally suggest this, but your requirements are so specific and your resources limited, and I think you might have the drive and initiative to cope. There is the Den.”

Emily waited in vain for more. The agent had run out of courage or perhaps regretted offering whatever it was she thought she was offering.

“The Den?”

“It’s also known as the Haunted House and The Gang House. It’s around the corner from the veterinary practice. Just where you want to be and within your price range. But there are complications. There’s a squatting tenant who claims legal rights, and it is dilapidated. Ownership may be disputed as the owner is missing, and the bank is selling it as a mortgagee sale. Space around it is limited, although there is an unmaintained inaccessible area at the back. Also, there is a history to it that has created unpleasant stories and buyer resistance. My job is to have it sold, but I couldn’t in conscience press it onto you without a warning, despite its low price.”

“Is it the old place on the overgrown section in Grimshaw Steet?”

For once Emily got a positive nod. “I have another appointment now but if you want to go to look at it the tenant will show it to you. He’s weird and a bit scary, but basically decent and safe. Take your time and come back to me for the contracts if it doesn’t scare you off.”

The day was more positive than the agent’s promotional spiel. Emily was warmed by a spring sun as she walked the short distance to Grimshaw Street. She struggled to get herself into a similarly positive state. The house was close and cheap and this was modern New Zealand. How difficult could a weird tenant be? Or how bad the house? The bank had reclaimed it. She would be the legal owner, regardless of who thought they should have it. Anyway she was a bit desperate. Emily had thought that the money she had saved, plus a donation towards her first house from her parents, plus the six months she had spent in a temporary first job as a veterinarian would give her a good start in the house market. How wrong she had been. In a rural area she could barely get a decent home. In the city she was required to consider something called The Gang House which even an estate agent was nervous about promoting. But no harm could come from looking. So she would look.

The grass was nearly up to the windowsills. Emily could cut grass and plant nicer things. That was not a problem. The paint was cracked and falling off. Not so good. Paint jobs cost money and effort, but so what, bad paint and long grass reduced the price. But what about the rest of it? The weather boards looked suspect. The gutter a bit droopy. Emily’s spirits drooped with it. She told herself that no one lost money buying cheap real estate in a good location. Courage and resolution were called for. She must look closer. She knocked.

The door was opened by an old man who looked a little world-worn but reasonably safe, normal, and respectable. He spread his arms, knocking his knuckles against the door frame, winced, then intoned:

‘A beautiful woman delights the eye; a wise woman, the understanding; a pure one, the soul. Minna Antrim.’

“And here I see all three. Or perhaps I should say that I see the first and anticipate the rest.”

Okay, perhaps not entirely normal.

He continued, “Not quite the quote for the moment, but one can’t always have the perfect quote to hand can one?”

Emily agreed that one can’t. “I’ve come about the house,” she said a little desperately.

“You have come about the house, and so you must come in and then you will be about the house and when you have seen the house you will be about to leave the house. Have you ever considered how ridiculous our language is? I’m Theodore Hogg.”

Emily was grateful for the change of subject, so she didn’t need to discuss the many definitions of ‘about’.

“Emily Dyson,” she said, as she shook hands.

“But doorsteps are not made for conversation, come in and view the mansion.” Mr Hogg stepped back and waved expansively down a shabby dim passage and burst into more verse:

“There are long, circular stairs In a mansion by the sea, Where a duchess of regal chivalry Walks down its Persian carpets In an atmosphere of royal airs.

John Lars Zwerenz”

Since there were no circular stairs, nor mansion, nor sea nor duchess or Persian carpet, Emily stifled a giggle, but risked her host’s sense of humour by saying, “I’m not sure that that’s entirely appropriate either, but I’ll do my best with royal airs.”

They reviewed the house together. Mr Hogg had a quote for the loveliness of each feature. Emily had no such enthusiasm for either the helpfulness of her guide or the beauty of the décor. The house generally seemed to be untouched since it was last extended some time in the mid-twentieth century. And the numerous bends and odd angles suggested it had been extended quite a lot. It was scruffy, but not filthy. If one old man was in charge of the cleaning, it really wasn’t too bad. What was not so good was the tired wood and paint and ancient tiles and bricks. The kitchen had a stove and fridge that surely would be welcome in a museum. But apart from some mould on the wall at the back, Emily could not see anything that suggested it was anything other than a neglected, but fundamentally sound, house. Then inspiration took her. There was a building site in the next street. If she bought the house she would need to spend money on repairs. She wondered if a builder would take some time in the hope of drumming up business.

Hogg waved her off quoting ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’ at her, despite her saying she would be back in a few minutes. It was silly, but funny, and she left in better spirits.

A Builder and a Building Site

An intimidating line of red tape and keep out messages stopped her at the building site. It seemed she was expected to be fitted with a hard hat and boots before she even attempted to make contact with someone called, Site Foreman. And it was not obvious how to do that without crossing the line that said, ‘All visitors must report to Site Foreman’. “Well shit, this seems rather circular. How do I get in to talk to the Site Foreman to ask if I’m allowed in, if I’m not allowed in?” she asked the open air.

A laughing elderly man appeared from behind some timber. “We prefer it if you stay out. If we drop a chisel on you in here it goes very badly for us with the authorities.”

Emily felt the blood rushing to her face. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously not. Now that you are talking to the Site Foreman, what can we do for you?”

Emily suddenly felt awkward. She’d been warned about time-wasters in the veterinary practice. People who want professional advice whilst pretending they are just chatting. But too late now. “I’m considering buying the old neglected house in Grimshaw Street, and I was wondering if one of your builders could give me an opinion.” That sounded like begging, so she added, “I’ll need repairs once I’m in and it might be business for you.” She desperately hoped this wasn’t a binding verbal contract. They might be expensive incompetent rogues.

The site foreman faltered. “Hell, you’re brave. Not afraid of ghosts, huh? And you’ll certainly need us, or someone.” He turned back towards the site and bellowed, “Ollie, here’s your chance to look at The Den.” Seeing that Emily had flinched and stepped back he said, “Sorry, there’s no need for town criers any more, but I stay in practice, just in case.”

Ollie stepped out through a hole where a window was to go. There was a moment as Ollie realised he was about to walk down the street with a rather attractive young woman, and Emily realised that her building consultant was a bronzed, broad shouldered, well muscled, narrow waisted young man of above average height. They recovered themselves and set off to The Den.

Ollie said, “Isn’t there a dangerous squatting vagrant in residence with occupation rights? That must make things awkward.”

“Actually he seems quite reasonable and educated, but rather odd. If he is scaring off other potential buyers he’s indirectly doing me a favour. I think he may be a professional man who has had some sort of breakdown. And I don’t believe private houses have occupation rights when they sell, but I’ll check.”

Ollie gave Emily a quirky smile. “Ah, but you need to watch out for those professionals. My dear old mother took the cat to the vet and received such a dressing-down about Tibby’s eating habits that she’s hidden sobbing in the bedroom ever since.”

Emily knew she was being teased, but he had touched her professional pride. “That cat is a kilogram overweight. Your mother, if that’s who it was, is killing him with kindness and needed to be told. How did you know it was me?”

“To quote my mother: The new vet is a beautiful, petite, sloe-eyed young woman with long glossy black hair. She looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but when she saw Tibby she ripped me to shreds and left my broken bleeding body in the gutter. Does that description fit anyone we know? Oh, and you carry a bag promoting a drug company.”

Emily glanced down at her shoulder bag with an advertising slogan on it, and laughed, partly at the pleasure of the description of herself and partly at the absurdity of the description of her behaviour. “Oh I did not. I merely did my job. And your mother is made of sterner stuff than that. If she said that, she has an imagination and a tendency to exaggerate. When she left me, she was laughing.”

“It was fear. The poor woman is now quite schizophrenic about cat feeding. Tibby glares at her accusing her of cat abuse and deprivation, but her newly acquired vet-phobia prevents her feeding him. When she collapses completely you can expect to receive her medical bills. But I confess she didn’t quite say that. I embellished the story. The essentials, however remain.”

Emily was enjoying herself. She hadn’t had time or opportunity to make friends in Merriton and Ollie was good funny company. His mother had actually been amusing and amused, and had accepted Emily’s comments gracefully and promised to try to make amends.

At The Den, Ollie walked around the outside thumping the walls. He got a derelict ladder out of an equally derelict garden shed and cautiously climbed onto the roof. He called down, “The roof will hold for a few years yet, but it needs a patch here at the back. There’s a leak into the wall.”

Theodore Hogg was waiting for them at the front door. “Here’s a knocking indeed,” he said.

Ollie startled Emily and Theodore by completing the quote: “If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key.” When he saw the two of them looking at him with startled respect, he added, “I was the porter in Macbeth in the school play.”

It was a happy coincidence. He had won the old man over. “An artisan and a scholar both. The highest accolade anyone can have,” he announced.

“I’m not sure that five minutes of opening a door during a school play made me a scholar,” Ollie laughed. “Nor did a year and a half at university discovering I would never be an accountant. But as an artisan, I’d like to see the state of this house.”

They walked through it together. Theodore had a fresh set of quotes to explain each feature.