Free Civvy Street by Fiona Field

Nathan insisted he wanted to ‘go see the nice doggy’. Maddy didn’t think German shepherds or Rottweilers generally came under the heading of ‘nice doggy’.
    The front path had to cross over a narrow concrete bridge that spanned what looked like a drainage ditch, only it would be pushed to drain anything as it was completely overgrown with weeds and brambles. Maddy vaguely thought that if the undergrowth was cut back and the banks laid with turf it might look quite nice if planted with spring bulbs – but right now it was just one more eyesore amongst many others.
    The front door opened and out bounced the estate agent, all dapper suit and beaming smile. He glanced from one woman to the other. ‘Mrs Collins?’
    Susie extended her free hand. ‘Susie. And this is my friend who has kindly given me a lift – Maddy Fanshaw.’
    ‘And I’m Damien. OK, so the house is ready for you to view.’ He turned and led the way up the cracked concrete path. ‘The village is lovely isn’t it?’
    Susie and Maddy exchanged a look before Susie said, ‘The centre is, certainly.’
    ‘Very sought after,’ continued Damien. ‘In the catchment area for a good comp, on a bus route and only five miles from Warminster. What more could you want?’
    A house a bloody sight nicer than this one, thought Maddy, but she didn’t voice her opinion.
    Damien threw open the front door and led them inside. The house was cold, despite the fact that outside it was a warm summer’s day. And it smelt weird... not disgusting weird but of cheap scented candles or air freshener or stale pot-pourri – something unidentifiable and sickly sweet and quite overpowering.
    ‘Poo,’ said Nathan, loudly. Maddy giggled.
    They were in a big sitting-dining room with open-plan stairs heading up to the first floor. In the corner of the L-shaped room was a door to the kitchen.
    ‘Nice room,’ said Maddy. ‘Double aspect.’
    Susie gave her a look before she walked across the tatty, stained carpet and checked out the kitchen. Damien hurried after her.
    ‘It does, of course, need updating,’ he said.
    It needs ,’ said Susie, firmly, ‘ripping out and burning.’
    Even by the standards of the crap army kitchens that Susie and Maddy had been used to, this one was eye-wateringly awful. One of the cupboard doors had fallen off and had been replaced by a tatty piece of now-grubby fabric stretched across the opening on a length of washing line. The flooring was cracked and worn lino and the counter tops were covered with scorch marks and stains. The oven was revolting. Had it ever been cleaned?
    In silence they traipsed upstairs to find the bathroom suite, beneath the years of accumulated limescale, was avocado green and the surrounding tiles dark brown, and the four bedrooms were done out in a variety of shades of pink, ranging from salmon to magenta, which clashed with the turquoise carpet that covered the entire first floor.
    ‘It makes you realise the army is wise in painting everything magnolia,’ said Susie, with a shudder.
    ‘But,’ said Maddy, ‘rip out the carpets, paint everything cream, redo the gloss and this place could be quite sweet.’ She looked out of the window. ‘The view is stunning.’
    And it was. The back of the house looked over rolling hills and downs, dotted with sheep, an arc of clear blue sky providing the perfect backdrop to a scene of rural tranquillity. Springhill Road lay in a shallow valley that ran behind the main village and it was, despite being a pretty run-down area of ex-council and current social housing, remarkably peaceful. Or it was at this time of day.
    Susie joined Maddy at the window and looked out too. ‘But you can’t live on a view,’ she said, tonelessly. ‘A view doesn’t pay the mortgage.’ She fingered the frame of the bed. ‘But,’ she sighed, ‘it could be worse. At least both the girls’ rooms are the same size so they won’t kill each other over who has which and we could probably just