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between iron railings had promised as much. But Flaxfield Grange was a serious disappointment. ‘A converted eighteenth-century farmhouse,’ Ollie called it as he led us through the back door, but unconverted outhouse looked nearer the mark. A wood-panelled corridor led past a cramped dining room, dingy snug and gloom-lined study; the three rooms must once have been loose boxes or cow stalls, I decided. Beyond them lay the kitchen, with broken floor tiles. The contents dated from the forties or fifties (no dishwasher or microwave), which would have been sweetly nostalgic had the chunky wall cupboards been less lopsided and the whitewashed walls lessflaky from damp. From the kitchen we turned right, under a thick stone lintel, into the living room. The rafters and crossbeams suggested a hayloft, and Ollie clearly expected us to admire it. But the conversion had sacrificed the charm of the original without putting comfort in its place. The old brick floor beneath the tasselled carpet reeked of earth mould and the beams were noosed with spiders’ webs. Along the mantelpiece were three dusty photographs (a woman in a hat and two boys in school uniform) interspersed with porcelain dolls: the glazed expressions of the humans in their frames made the dolls look animated. The dolls and photos were reflected in the yellowing mirror behind, scarred and mottled with skin disease. Strangest of all was the display over the fireplace: a pair of swords X-ed below a mounted badger head, like a skull and crossbones.
‘So what do you think?’ Ollie said.
‘What do you think they think?’ Daisy said, stepping through the French windows behind us. ‘They’re trying to be polite.’
It’s always a shock to be reminded how short Daisy is, five foot two at most. In my memory I obliterate this, as though the space she occupies in my head makes her physically large as well. But the real shock was her hair, which she’d grown again: it was almost as long as when I first knew her, falling halfway down her back.
She kissed Em first, then me. Her pebble-blue eyes were less implausibly bright these days but she smelled of almonds, the same as ever.
‘Well, we like it,’ Ollie said, gesturing towards the high ceiling.
‘Ollie likes it,’ Daisy said.
‘No television. No phone. No DVD player or hi-fi system. It’s wonderful.’
‘It’s a nightmare,’ Daisy said. ‘We have to drive to the main road to get reception on our mobiles. I’m amazed there’s even electricity.’
‘Who needs mod cons? We’re on holiday.’
‘Yeah, on holiday in a hovel. Come outside while Ollie gets the drinks.’
As we followed Daisy, I wondered if Em was thinking what I was thinking: that we’d only been asked because they were too embarrassed to ask their posher friends.
The garden was a slight improvement on the house. The French windows gave out onto a terrace laid with stable bricks and, beyond, a round pond, palisaded with irises, a stone man fishing in the middle. The lawn was a decent size and, knowing Ollie, I half expected to see croquet hoops or a badminton net. But the grass was too rough and tussocky for games. And the eucalyptus tree at the far edge had shed its leaves, which crackled like tinfoil under our feet. We crossed into the orchard – apple and pear trees with lichened trunks, and raspberry bushes overwhelmed by bindweed. Beyond the orchard lay a stubbly cornfield, with bright yellow bales like giant cotton reels strewn round its edges. A solitary tree stood in the middle, bare limbs thrust out in shock. We stayed there for a minute in the heat, leaning on the fence and sucking straws, like farmers surveying their harvest.
‘There’s shade over here,’ Daisy said, leading us to a metal table, chairs and parasol set out below a high brick wall — the north side of the house. Above us, the orange pantiles had slipped from their batons, exposing black felt.
‘You poor darlings, you look exhausted,’ Daisy said, as we sat