Chapter 6

      I finish polishing the banister and stand back to admire it. I’ve used a beeswax mixture, and the wood feels soft and smooth and silky beneath my fingers. I lean forward and take a quick sniff – divine. It smells like honey, and would be Winnie the Pooh’s most favourite banister in the whole world.

      I walk up to the next floor, and stroke the big, oval wooden ball, which I note with satisfaction I can now see my face in. A weird, stretched bit of my face, but all the same it feels good to have helped Briarwood heal a little.

      There’s one of these oval wooden balls at the end of each curving level, and although they may well have a proper name, I always think of them as the Pineapple-Shaped Bottom-Stoppers.

      With hindsight, sliding down these banisters was probably dangerous. But a big house full of kids is always going to present a health and safety challenge, and I know I spent many happy hours whizzing up and down them. As soon as I finished the full set of slides, I’d gallop back up all the stairs with that endless fizzing energy that very young people have.

      By that stage, only Angel was still keeping me company on the slide-a-thon, and even then only when the older two weren’t looking. Auburn was way too cool for such nonsense at fourteen, and Van had given up that particular vice after a close encounter with one of the Pineapple-Shaped Bottom-Stoppers left him near-crippled in the goolies department. I fear I may have screeched with laughter on that occasion, as he rolled around the floor cupping his precious man-parts.

      It’s odd, remembering all of this. Some of it – the practicalities of day-to-day life, school, bedtime, boring stuff – is hazy. But other scenes are crisp and clear, frozen in time like little tableaux, as though they’ve been captured for posterity in my brain: carved into it like those little frescos of Roman Gods you see in museums. Except we’d be Roman street urchins, with smudged faces and tattered togas.

      I’m still stroking the wood when I hear the familiar ‘woof’ that announces the presence of Rick Grimes, and the sound of footsteps on the floorboards as Tom follows him into the building. He looks up, and I pop my head over the rail, waving.

      ‘Hellooooo down there!’ I shout, as Rick gallops up the stairs three at a time to be reunited with Bella. ‘I’m just upstairs, fondling wood!’

      He raises his eyebrows and smirks, and I realise a nanosecond too late how that one sounded. Ah well. C’est la vie.

      Tom makes his way up towards me, and I note with satisfaction that he also can’t help himself – his fingers are caressing the mahogany as he goes.

      ‘Your fingers will smell of honey now,’ I say, as he makes it to the top.

      ‘Could be worse,’ he says, shrugging, and looking on in amusement as Rick runs from room to room, sniffing the ground until he finds the one she’s snoozing in. I don’t know if dogs are capable of subterfuge, but if they are, she’s definitely pretending to be asleep right now.

      Tom looks down at the staircase, and sniffs the air appreciatively.

      ‘Thanks for this, Willow,’ he says, sincerely. ‘It’s already feeling much better in here. I know it’ll probably all get covered in dust and sawdust during the work, but I’m glad to see at least a bit of it coming back to life. Does that make sense?’

      ‘Well, it makes sense to me,’ I reply, screwing the lid back on the beeswax as I talk. ‘But I have famously low standards when it comes to making sense. I’ve finished all the windows, cleaned all the sinks in the boys’ bedrooms, and given all the hallways a sweep. Before I waste my time buffing floorboards or anything, why don’t you tell me a bit more about what you’re planning to do? I’d be really interested in hearing it anyway.’

      ‘Really? You would? Haven’t you got anything better to be doing?’

      ‘Well, I was supposed to be adjudicating a naked mud bath wrestling contest between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling this lunch time …’

      ‘Ah. To see which one wins the Ultimate Battle of the Ryans?’

      ‘That’s the one. But I can put them off until another time. Besides, they’ll never beat the Ultimate Battle of the Bruces – Willis vs Lee. That was a real humdinger. Karate chops, sub-machine guns, vest tops, the lot.’

      ‘Wow. Yippe-kay-ay, motherfucker,’ he replies, doing a more-than-passable John McClane impression. He leans down, and helps me gather all the cloths and dusters together. I pack them back into the bag I wear tied stylishly around my waist, and pause to admire his Goonies T-shirt as I do so. He has his Converse tied today, and his dark hair looks damp. I wonder if he’s been in the pond again, but don’t ask.

      ‘Well,’ he says, walking along the corridor and gesturing for me to follow. ‘I’m not entirely sure yet. I don’t even really know what I’m going to do with the place. It’s too big for me on my own, but I’m hardly in a position to fill it with friends and family, being a poor little orphan boy with a limited social circle. I suppose I’m still playing with ideas – mainly, using it as a retreat for young geniuses in need of free board and lodging, away from the temptations of the bright lights and wi-fi?’

      ‘Okay. Like, some kind of charity for brainiacs?’

      ‘Yeah, I suppose so … I mean. I have the money. It’s not like I’ve blown it all on Aston Martins and private jets. I have four patents that have paid off, and a couple more pending. I’ve already come up with a few more ideas since I’ve been here – basically because there’s nothing much else to do. So if it’s had that effect on me, it might work for others.’

      I nod, and follow him along the hallway. He peeks into the rooms, smiling wryly as we look into the one that used to be his, and I practically see the cogs of his super-tuned brain turning. He’s almost purring with intellect, which is strangely sexy.

      ‘I think I’ll have to get some of the floorboards replaced,’ he says, as we make our way down the stairs again. ‘Some will be okay if they’re sanded down and polished. Once the damp-proofing’s sorted, and I’ve had the roof looked at, I can start properly.’

      ‘And this …’ he says, as we reach the big main hallway and lobby area. ‘This just needs a really good redesign. There’s loads of space, but it still feels a bit dark and oppressive. I think I might knock through those little rooms there – the ones that used to be the cloakrooms – and open it all out a bit. Then there’s the big hall, which we used as a dining room – it’s huge, but gloomy. I need to fix that.’

      He carries on talking me through his ideas, sometimes adjusting them as he goes, and I actually start to see it: a complete facelift that manages to keep the building’s sense of history and character, but fills it with light and fresh purpose. He comes to life as he speaks, and so do his hands – he’s waving them around, gesturing at the ceiling, pointing into rooms, opening