Chapter 1

Wednesday 20 April 1983

At four o’clock on a sunny but cold afternoon in April 1983, the doorbell rang. I, David Evans, stirred myself from my desk and, being the only inhabitant of River House that afternoon, made shift to walk the first floor corridor from my room, descend the wide imposing central staircase and traverse the ornate tiles of the spacious square atrium to answer the summons.

I was expecting the caller, and I had come from work early in order to meet her. Her, because provided it was not someone selling fresh fish, or inviting me to have our trees cut down, or even to contribute to a worthy charity, it was she who had made the appointment to see me, or rather see River House.

The house I inhabited was very large: a mansion sized town house. It had been built at the beginning of the reign of George the Third, 1765. At that time it stood in its own extensive grounds of some 250 acres, though it was only five miles from the centre of the Town of Manchester.

Needless to say, with Manchester’s rapid expansion in the industrial revolution, and after, most of its parkland had been sold off and swallowed up by housing of various kinds, from humble terraced slums nearer the centre to detached dwellings suitable for stock brokers and bankers, and now it stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, which had been the original drive leading to the House, lording it over an avenue of houses which, while large and opulent in themselves, were dwarfed by their stately neighbour.

To say it was and still is a very roomy house would be an understatement, but so comfortable to live in!

I was one of eight residents. I was accepted into the House for the last year of my law degree. After graduating, I joined Jordan and Abrahams, the law practice which administered the trust which had been settled on the House, so I was co-opted onto the house committee as Manager and Trust Representative.

The regulations under which the House was run required that prospective residents were to be interviewed and needed to be accepted by the other residents, since the living areas in the house were shared. Community living.

My highfalutin title meant that I had to do all the managerial work! During my two years’ postgraduate training with the practice, I remained in the House, and became used to my position, for which I was paid a small emolument in addition to my salary for the grinding work.

Thus it fell to me to conduct the initial interview with prospective residents, which brings me to the reason I was opening the door that afternoon. There was one vacancy for a resident from August that year.

I opened the door.

I’ll long remember the moment for its initial lack of visual impact, but for the immediate gentle rapport between the woman and me. It was obvious and it was strong.

Before me stood a girl. Well, I knew it would be a girl, perhaps I should say a young woman. What did my eyes take in during those first few nano-seconds before I greeted her?

She resembled so many other female undergraduates of the University. That was exactly it. She was ordinary. Not as tall as I was, even taking into account that I was standing a step above her.

A clear oval face with rich brown eyes. Quite pretty. Nice little nose, nice widish mouth forming a pleasant smile. Longish brown hair falling to below her shoulders. Of what I could see of her there was a good deal of ‘ish’ and ‘nice’ about her.

That said, there was not much to see of the rest of her. She was wearing a beret french style, a warm woollen coat with scarf over neat trousers, and shiny mid-heel shoes. All in all she was pleasant to look at. One would pass her in the street, think ‘Pretty Girl’ and promptly forget her. Indeed she was a pretty girl.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “I’ve come about the vacancy.” Her smile widened and asked me to like her. Her voice was soft and silky; I liked it. Indeed, I liked her immediately.

“How d’you do!” I said. “I’m David Evans. Please come in.”

“Helen Metcalfe,” she replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Let me take your coat.” I offered.

So far we had observed all the niceties and as I said I instinctively already liked this girl and felt deep down she immediately liked me. So where did the attraction I felt to this stranger come from?

Look, most men are turned on by sight first and foremost, and different men are attracted by different looks. I was a ‘slim blonde, medium to large breasts, long slim legs, really pretty face, blue eyes’, sort of bloke (yeah, yeah, typical male who has never met such a goddess nor is ever likely to impress one).

So I’ve established she was not my type, but nevertheless there was this real tug of attraction, a strong desire to know her better, be with her more.

She unfastened and shed her coat into my arms revealing an Arran pullover. She unwrapped her scarf and tucked it into the arm hole of the coat, took off her beret, and handed that to me as well, with a lovely smile. Perhaps it was the smile that did it. I really did want to know her better.

“Shall we start with a tour of the house?” I invited her. “And in the process I can show you the room that’ll become vacant?”

“Yes, please, that would be good. This hallway is very imposing! That ornate ceiling, and domed high glass roof! The beautiful floor tiles! Wonderful wide central staircase! And everything so clean! You should see the house I’m sharing at the moment. Ugh!” She shivered at the thought.

“Well, let’s begin here,” I said, moving to an open door in the right hand wall, taking her coat to the cloakroom within, and leading her there. I hung her coat up and hung the beret above it. “As you can see, this is the cloakroom and post-room. Each person has a place for mail, and parcels go on this table. After the post has been, whoever is down first usually sorts it into each pigeon hole.

We emerged and I indicated a corridor leading down the side of the post room away to the right hand wing of the house.

“Down there, there is a suite of rooms, three of which we have made into bedrooms for visitors. Originally it was a flat for the housekeeper. Obviously a house this size needed servants. There’s a laundry and drying room down there as well, and a mud room leading out to the garden.”

I gestured to a door to the right of the central staircase, “and that door by the stairs opens into the house office.”

“The house is massive!” she exclaimed. “When was it built?”

“1765,” I replied. “It was built by Isaac Jordan, a solicitor in Manchester. It stood in 250 acres then. As you can see, he had plenty of money. I suspect he had family money as well as his law practice. The family owned it until the early 1970s. That’s when Aaron Jordan and his wife left.

“When he came to retire he faced a dilemma. He no longer wanted to ‘rattle round’ in this mansion. You can imagine that with all the servants gone, and he and his wife into old age, just housekeeping would be too onerous. His then adult children showed no interest in taking it over, constantly urging him to sell it and move to the outer suburbs, but he loved the old house and knew that if he sold it, a developer would most likely demolish it and replace it with a soulless block of flats. You could get a goodly number of flats on the footprint of this house.

“He had the house listed, then adapted it to allow for the multiple occupancy of people who favoured living communally. The seventies were a decade for experimental living, shared houses and communes. It appealed to Aaron.

“On his death he left the building in trust for the residents, each person’s lease being subject to a basic number of rules designed to keep the house in good condition, clean and tidy. The trust is administered by the law practice that he led with his partner David Abrahams: Jordan and Abrahams, Solicitors at Law.”

“I’ve heard of them. They’re quite a big firm, aren’t they?”

“Yes. I work for them as well as living here, which is why I’m showing you round.”

“River House?” she asked. “There’s no river anywhere near it.”

“Isaac had a sense of humour,” I said. “His name? Isaac Jordan?”

“Oh!” she laughed. “The River Jordan!”

“A river dear to Isaac who was Jewish,” I said.

“Your name, David, are you–”

“Welsh origin.” I said. “C of E. Not even Methodist!”

“Oh,” she said.

“Disappointed?” I asked with a grin.

“Not at all!” she replied with an answering grin.

We walked across the Hallway to an imposing pair of double doors opposite. I allowed her to go first and open the doors herself. I enjoyed the gasp of amazement.

“It’s so big!” She referred to the ballroom with another highly decorated lofty ceiling.

“We call it the ballroom, and indeed that’s what it probably was originally.”

The room was now furnished with sofas, armchairs and occasional tables most of them left behind by Aaron Jordan.

“It’s too big really, but we do hold the occasional party in here,” I said.

As we stood in the doorway the tall windows were on our left, and the fireplace wall was on our right. On each side of the wide chimney breast was another door. We went through the nearer one that led us into a dining room, in which was a table to seat twelve and an oak sideboard of the same design.

“We usually eat in the kitchen, but have dinner parties here. We use it as the meeting room as well.” I told her.

The further door off the ballroom led to a drawing room which doubled as a library, and was in turn connected to the dining room in which we stood by another door, in the corner of that room. We entered the drawing room through that door.

Helen was fascinated by the books.

“Some of these books are ancient!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, they were left behind by Aaron. There are encyclopaedias, history books, plays and classical novels, as well as more modern novels added by the residents. There is a whole section devoted to law, which I found very useful – still do.”

We passed back through the connecting door to the dining room, where a door in the far corner led to the kitchen.

“Wow! It’s huge!” she exclaimed on entering. “But ... There are two of everything? It’s like a mirror, even two sinks at the far end.”

“Now why d’you think that is?” I asked, mockingly, which surprised me. I really felt so much at home with her I felt I could play games.

She thought. “Nope!” she said. “No idea.”

“The clue is in the names of the lawyer family that lived here: Aaron, David, Nathan, Abraham,” I said and waited. She broke into a smile.

“Oh, I get it!” she said exultantly. “You said it before: it was a Jewish family. Milk and Meat. Got to be kept separate.”

I nodded. “Now our vegetarians use the blue left hand side, and the carnivores use the red to the right.”

“How many people live here?” she asked.

“There are eight residents when we’re full, but sometimes romance blossoms and a member will want to bring in a partner. The member is responsible for the guest. Fire regulations decree that we can’t have more than fifteen people living here permanently.

“We have nine at the moment, Murray has Elsa living with him, and they’re the ones who are leaving.”

We left the kitchen through a door leading back to the entrance hall. I took her up the stairs and we halted at the top. A corridor stretched in both directions.

“There are four main rooms in each wing,” I told her. “All en suite now. There are two bathrooms on this floor if you wanted a soak, and more rooms in the attic; they used to be servants’ quarters. The doors at each end of the corridors are fire escapes. You’ve no idea the trouble the trust had getting the external fire stairs approved: this is now a listed building thanks to Aaron!”

We turned along the left corridor, reaching the second door on the left. I knocked though I knew there was no one at home. Then I used my master key to open the door.

“This is the room that is coming vacant,” I said, showing her in. “That door leads to the shower and toilet. Go on, have a look.”

She did as asked and then returned. “This is just perfect. It’s a lovely room, so spacious! I’d love to live here. Can we talk business?”

She was keen, and I felt elated. I wanted her here.

“Let’s go down to the office, and I’ll get out the documentation,” I offered.

“David?” she asked, puzzled, as we retraced our steps. “How do you keep everything so clean and tidy? I can’t get over this place. Two of my housemates never do any cleaning, and the kitchen is appalling. Out of the four of us, it’s always Jill and I that end up cleaning. There are eight of you here and the place is so huge!”

Her reaction was good news to me. “I’ll explain the set up when we get to the office.”

I could not remember ever having enjoyed showing anyone round so much, she was so appreciative. I felt exultant at impressing her, and inwardly mocked myself for it. ‘You’re sweet on her already!” said a little inner voice.

We descended, and were soon seated at the office desk at two adjacent sides, after I had extracted a folder from the filing cabinet in one corner of the room.

I explained the set-up, the Trust and the administration of it, and how life in the house was organised.

“So you see,” I told her, “the house members and the trust representative, that’s me, interview each applicant, and only if everyone is agreed is the applicant accepted.”

I gave her the agreement with the rules of the House. “The rules have been agreed by everyone,” I said. “If anyone wants them changed they bring it up at the monthly meeting.”

“How does food work?” she asked. “We each cook for ourselves where I am now.”

“There are four vegetarians in the house at present, and the other five are carnivores, and each uses the appropriate side of the kitchen as you saw.

“You’ll have noticed also the big white-board in the kitchen. That’s for all the notices. Eating is pretty flexible. The four veggies tend to cook for each other, but it’s rare for all the meat-eaters to eat together. Quite often two or three will cook for each other. Most of us like cooking, so no one is landed with it all the time.

“Whoever’s cooking puts up a menu the day before they’re cooking or even earlier, with the time of the meal, and if you want to eat that meal you add your name the night before or first thing in the morning.

“The cook buys the food unless it was bought at the weekend, and everyone chips in to pay for it. Some of the veggie stuff is delicious, so often meat-eaters will join the veggies, though obviously not the other way round! Cooks do not wash up, that’s the job of those eating. If a person is cooking for themselves alone, then they’ll clear up their own mess.

“We take it in turns to do a weekly shop for staples, and anything people want for cooking during the coming week. Staples are accounted for in the rent, for the rest we pay as we go. Diners chip in to repay the cook.”

“House cleaning?” she asked.

“We decided on a rota for that a long time back. Common areas are tidied, vacuumed and dusted once a week by two residents. We have a cleaning company to do a thorough clean and polish of the common areas once every two months. They also clean the rooms between tenants.

“Each person is responsible for his or her own room. Some are messier than others. That’s their business: rooms are private property.”

“How d’you get people to actually do the house cleaning? Jill and I have a devil of a job there.”

“Your lease is technically renewable every three months (you’ll see it’s in the agreement), so if a resident gets lazy and doesn’t do their bit, or they don’t fit in in other ways, they are warned at the monthly meeting, and thereafter if they still don’t pull their weight, the lease is terminated by the trust with deductions from the deposit to pay for a cleaning company to come in.

“What we find is that generally we all prefer the place clean and tidy. We’ve never had to invoke that clause while I’ve been here. We all grumble about doing the cleaning, but we get on with it.

“We insist people keep personal stuff in their rooms, so that keeps the common areas clear. Anyone who accidentally leaves stuff lying around will find it’s been moved to the post room. There’s a range of store rooms in the cellars for bulky stuff.”

She smiled that smile again, and again I felt an emotional tug and a warm glow.

“I’d really like to live here,” she said earnestly. “What should I do now?”

“Take the agreement home and read it. Then fill in the application form I’ve given you. You’ll be invited for an interview with the members. Don’t worry, it’s informal and not that frightening. If they all agree, and you sign the tenancy agreement, we’ll agree on a date for you to move in.

“You’ll see that the deposit is quite large, and the rent slightly more than what you’d expect from a hall of residence, but you do get a rather exclusive and comfortable place to live.”

“Thanks David,” she said rising to her feet.

Suddenly I did not want her to go. I desperately wanted her to stay a little longer. I wanted to know her better, or simply be with her. I’d never felt a pull like that before with a woman. It confused me, reminding me that she was not anything like the sort of girl I’d normally go for.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” I asked, trying to keep my invitation casual, rather than begging.

She smiled again, gazing at me in a way that made me feel weak at the knees. Did she feel the same?

“I’d love to, but I have to meet someone soon when I leave here.” Her face seemed to show genuine regret or disappointment, as if to show me it was not a brush off.

We made our way to the hallway and I retrieved her coat and beret, helping her on with the coat, touching her shoulders as I did so and feeling an intense reaction. I gave her the scarf and hat, and loved watching her put them on. What was wrong with me?

She turned, standing close to me, and there came that entrancing smile again. Was she going to hug? Kiss? No.

“Thanks so much, David. I’ll fill this stuff in and get it back to you.”

“I look forward to seeing you when you come to meet the members of the House,” I said, stifling the urge to hug her or at least to stroke her arm.

A worried frown crossed her face. “Is anyone else interested in the room?”

“One person came, but I think he was put off by our set up. He didn’t take the folder with him. So you’re the only one, and in any case it’s first come first served, so no one else will be invited until you’ve been interviewed.”

I was conscious of trying to encourage her, and felt gleeful that she was concerned to be the first in any queue of applicants.

“That’s a relief!” she sighed. “So, I do hope to see you soon!”

“Me too!” I echoed a little too fervently.

She laughed, almost a giggle, “‘Bye then!” she said, and that happy smile of hers seemed wider.

“‘Bye!” I returned as I opened the door for her, and with a pretty little half-wave, she was off down the drive.

I shut the door and leaned against it, letting out a deep sigh. I couldn’t work out how I felt. I was conscious of my initial reaction to her as she stood on the step. Those thoughts kept coming back to me: she was very much the girl next door, but there was no doubt, I really wanted her in the House.

I shook myself and went to my room to study a contract ready for work the next day, but I found it hard to concentrate. It came to me and made me smile that since my room was next to the vacant one, she really would be the girl next door.

Would she apply? Have second thoughts? Would the members accept her? She seemed to like me: she smiled at me a lot, but she refused my offer of coffee. Further, she was going to meet ‘someone’; a boyfriend perhaps, in which case, she would be a lost cause already.

Before I knew it, I heard the front door open and close and remembered I was supposed to be cooking the evening meal for three of the carnivorous housemates.

Chapter 2 »