Free A Week in Winter: A Novel by Marcia Willett Page A

imagine it’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? Houses are houses. Don’t let us hold you up.’
    He followed his wife into the sitting room. ‘Just
look
at this fireplace,’ Rob heard her say. ‘It must be positively ancient. Darling! Wooden shutters! Can you believe it…?’
    Rob retreated to the kitchen and stood by the open door, listening. He heard their footsteps cross the hall and more cries of pleasure.
    ‘This just
has
to be my study.’
    ‘Darling, have you noticed the beams …?’
    When they arrived in the kitchen Rob was washing out his mug at the sink, his back to the door. They stood for a moment, silenced by the sheer size of the room, before Mrs Baxter came across and stood beside him at the sink.
    ‘What an utterly incredible view,’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he replied, without looking at her. ‘Yes, even washing up can be a pleasure here.’
    She turned her back to the window, leaning against the working surface, barely glancing at him but allowing a faint lifting of the brows to indicate that she had not been addressing him.
    ‘I have a dishwasher,’ she said briefly. ‘Martin, can’t you just see this with the right furniture in it? Provençal farmhouse, would you say?’
    Rob stood his mug on the draining board. ‘Or even English farmhouse,’ he said lightly. ‘The Esse heats the water as well as being a cooker.’
    ‘Esse?’ She glanced about her. ‘Oh, the range. We’d probably want an Aga, wouldn’t we, darling?’
    ‘It’s probably the same sort of thing.’ Martin Baxter sounded slightly embarrassed. ‘Is it gas-fired, Mr … ah … Abbot?’
    Rob laughed. ‘There’s no mains gas piped on to the moor,’ he said. ‘No, it’s oil-fired and just as good as any Aga.’
    Mrs Baxter frowned. ‘I think I’d prefer it to be electric’
    ‘Until the first power cut,’ said Rob laconically. ‘We get a lot of those round here. Then you’d be blessing the fact that you can cook and bath, if nothing else. Assuming the lorry’s been able to get up here, that is. It’s not always so easy in the winter. Plenty of paraffin lamps, that’s what you need. Unless you want to use the old generator. It’s still there, out in the barn. That’s what they used in the old days.’
    ‘Oh, it can’t be that bad,’ she said dismissively—but her husband was frowning a little.
    ‘Power cuts? That would be a damn nuisance when you’re using a computer. I’d be working a lot from home and I don’t want to be sitting here in the dark with a morning’s work lost.’
    ‘Oh, darling, it can’t be that bad,’ she repeated. ‘Millions of people live in the country these days and work at home.’
    ‘But you’re high up here,’ Rob pointed out. ‘Look out there. Straight down to the coast with nothing in between. The gales fair whistle up across the moor. It’s very exposed. Come and see it on a wet day with a southwesterly blowing. It’s pretty bleak.’
    Martin Baxter looked at him curiously. ‘Not exactly trying to sell the place, are you?’
    Rob shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business, either way. But I’ve seen people move down here to remote houses that look wonderful on a sunnyday, only to sell up a year later because they can’t take the long winter months. Have you any idea how much it rains here?’
    Mrs Baxter looked at him angrily. ‘I was born and brought up in the country. We know all about rain, thank you.’
    He smiled at her. ‘And where was that?’ he asked sweetly.
    ‘Hampshire.’
    She turned her back on his chuckle. ‘Come on, Martin. I want to look upstairs.’ They went out together. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ Rob heard her say. ‘Everyone knows how mild and temperate Cornwall is.’
    ‘Well, he might have a point.’ Martin Baxter sounded uneasy. ‘That’s more in the south, I think. It’s pretty high up here.’ There was the rustle of paper. ‘I see that there’s no mains water or sewage, either. There’s a septic tank