’ ‘Well, you’re my cute little sister.’ ‘I’m not little!’ Maggie said angrily and then stopped. They both burst out laughing. ‘We should talk more often Stells, we seem to be the only ones who enjoy winding each other up.’ ‘You’re right Mags.’ She hugged her younger sister. ‘Now, I gotta dash. Coming to the dance next week?’ ‘Probably. There is some serious tormenting to be done…’ ‘…And we’re the girls to do it!’ Stella laughed over her shoulder as she entered the transport. Maggie waved her sister off and then went inside to meet the new arrival. Her father was talking with a boy of about her age. ‘Margaret, this is Mark. You are not…’ ‘Yes, yes. I know dad. I’m not to pick on him. Stella told me already. So I promise.’ ‘Good girl. He’s going to be in the spare room, your old room. So get him settled in and then show him the farm.’ ‘Yes sir.’ She turned to the boy, who was looking at her with amused interest. ‘This way, Mark wasn’t it?’ He nodded and followed her as she led him to. Mice, noses twitching, inspect droppings seeking a grain, a morsel, vestiges of human occupation long since consumed, and pursue a relentless course around the skirting boards amongst and over the detritus of ornate plasterwork crumbled on the floorboards that marked the salon, facing the river, as a place of splendour in a bygone age. The dissipation of the daytime heat brings fractional movement to the building fabric, timber creaking, roof-tiles settling, opening further to the ravages of weather. The rendered wall to the courtyard facing the full glare of the sun bears witness to times’ relentless march, a fine dust cascades from the surface swirled in the late evening breeze slowly exposing layers of burgundy red bricks where tunnel bees bore into the mortar and weaken the walls resolve. Above, the crumbling cornice once painted as stone betrays its core of brick, a masquerade, ornamentation to enhance a long past glory. In the last glimmer of light bats emerge from the attic.
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