The House in the Hedge by Melanie Leavey

The House in the Hedge by Melanie Leavey

Author:Melanie Leavey [Melanie Leavey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Three Ravens Press
Published: 2024-04-27T00:00:00+00:00


Malmont Manor wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I imagined, probably from touring too many National Trust properties, that it would be well-preserved, but dated, and filled with 18th century charm. It was, speaking generously, a crumbling ruin.

Alfie met me in the yard – a lovely, atmospheric place, all cobblestones and old stable blocks. I chose not to dwell on the doors that hung off and the faint whiff of old, damp straw.

Toby paused the quad bike long enough for me to scramble off and then tore away again without so much as a backward glance. It took me several moments to get my land-legs again, and longer still to twist my dress back into shape. Murk, having curled himself up in a ball in my hood, appeared to be in no hurry to get out. Bracken, her tongue lolling happily after her run across the moor, beside the bike rather than in front of it, greeted Alfie like a long-lost friend, despite having just seen him the day before.

“Don’t ask,” I said, waving away Alfie’s question, “Let’s just say that whatever points he might have gained by charming Bracken, he’s just lost in triplicate.”

Alfie just grinned.

“Am I terribly late?” I asked, following him through a door leading off the yard. It led into a dim, damp sort of mudroom area where I was instructed to remove my boots and put on a pair of worn sheepskin slippers. I found that a tiny bit off-putting. I have an aversion to wearing other people’s footwear. Something to do with the panic-mongering surrounding verruca warts and swimming baths when I was little.

“It’s a strangeness of his Lordship,” said Alfie, when he saw the look on my face. He pointed down at his own feet, clad in a splendid pair of tartan slippers, complete with mock sporran fluffy bits at the toes. “Trying to keep the wear off his good floors, I suppose.” He finished, chuckling.

I saw the irony of his comment as we made our way through into the kitchen. The floors had obviously once been of fine hardwood but were now worn and scuffed. There were several buckets placed at intervals into which water dripped. It wasn’t raining so I couldn’t imagine where the water was coming from. Worn clippy mats and threadbare Turkish rugs were thrown haphazardly over the floor, no doubt disguising the worst of the damage. The whole place had an air of benign neglect. It seemed clean enough, the floor that was visible was without dirt or dust, but it just seemed so very…well, tired, I suppose.

The kitchen, on the other hand, was a different thing altogether. A vast room which probably hadn’t changed much for centuries, it held a long scrubbed wooden table in the centre, around which ranged several people, plates and glasses in hand, deep in lively conversation. Walking into other people’s fun is another one of my most hated things to do. I tried to hide behind Alfie.

“Hazel’s here!” announced Alfie, pushing me forwards.



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