Sally had always hated the ‘small house’ or doll’s house as anyone else would call it. It was an exact replica of the rectory that had been in George’s family for generations. The last person to live there had been his great, great aunt Hettie and it looked as though she hadn’t changed a stick of furniture or a yard of curtain since the turn of the century. They’d visited her before they were married. Probably, Sally thought, to give the old woman the chance to look her over and decide whether she was suitable to enter the family. George, she suspected, wanted to make sure of his slice of the legacy once Hettie died and the house was sold. It worked. They’d managed the down payment on their own house with his share and she’d thought that George would forget the rectory once and for all. But it didn’t work like that. He decided to embark on a miniature copy and over the years painstakingly worked on a small scale version, creating an interior which exactly replicated the original. Sally wondered how he could remember it all in such detail. The heavy furniture, dust filled drapes, gilded mirrors, ornaments on mantelpieces, even the spines of books filling the library shelves. The Chinese room held special horrors. She remembered the night they’d spent there, after the funeral. She’d had nightmares, dreaming she was chased by Triads.
At first George’s ‘hobby’ hadn’t bothered her too much. She continued to work as the trained hairdresser she’d been before her marriage and told herself there were worse things George could have been doing in his spare time. But she wished he’d take up golf, or fishing, even football rather than holing up in the garage, night after night re-creating something from the past, a lifestyle that no longer existed.
Three years after their wedding Sally came down with a severe attack of bronchitis that kept her in bed for weeks and left her feeling weak and lifeless. George was marvellous, cooking, shopping and doing all the housework as well as holding down his job as head of planning at the local council. He didn’t encourage her to go back to work.
‘There’s no rush Sal. We can easily manage on my salary and I don’t want you tiring yourself out when there’s no need. You just stay home and let me look after you.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ said her sister, over the phone.
‘Well, George has been so good and it’s nice to be cosseted. Why should I work when I don’t have to?’
‘Hmm mm.’ Her sister didn’t sound convinced. Glenda had worked full time right through her marriage until it had ended when her husband found somebody else. Sally didn’t want that to happen to her.
She did miss the girls at work though, and the customers. Some of them had been coming to the salon for years and Sally realised she was missing out on news of their families, not to mention the odd piece of gossip. People relaxed when they were having their hair done and the chat came easily.
George, on the other hand, seemed to be expanding his social life. He’d joined the history society and made friends with an antique dealer called Eric. Sally didn’t know quite what to make of this new acquaintance. She’d met him a couple of times – he’d been quite pleasant and George was full of praise for his new friend. The pair often went to salerooms together.
‘There’s not much Eric doesn’t know about antiques.’ he’d say. ‘He knows all the pitfalls and just what to look for.’
Sally had joined them once but she didn’t enjoy herself. She hated the musty smell, the dust and the style of furniture. She much preferred a sleek, clean, more modern look, so she let the two of them get on with it.
The trouble started when they got carried away, bought far too much stock for Eric’s shop to accommodate, and Sally and George’s house was used for the overflow.
‘You can’t bring that thing in here George. It’s horrible – just like one of the sofas from the rectory.’
‘It’s only for a few weeks, Sal, until Eric’s got room for it. Anyway, I like it – it’s got character.’
‘Look George – I can take it round to my brother’s – he’s got plenty of room and —‘
‘Don’t be silly Eric. It’s fine here. Sally’s just got a ‘thing’ against fine furniture.’
Sally was furious and stormed out of the house. She stalked down the road and bought herself a gin and tonic at the local pub. It was early evening and she felt self conscious. She’d never gone into a pub on her own in her life. There was nothing for it but to go home again.
‘You’re back then,’ her husband acknowledged. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you some supper.’
That night Sally couldn’t sleep, knowing that the hideous sofa was downstairs in her sitting room. The more she thought about it the more convinced she became that it was an exact replica of the miniature one gracing the drawing room of the model rectory. George had been asleep for hours, snoring his head off so she thought she’d just creep out to the garage and check. Grabbing the torch that they kept by the bed in case of a power cut, Sally got downstairs without waking George and opened the garage door. She could just make out her enemy in the corner but she needed to get close enough to look through the drawing room window. As she put her hand on the outside wall, shining the touch through the fake glass window an electric shock went right through her and a red light came on inside the model. She screamed and fled, waking George as she sobbed her way up the stairs and into their bedroom.
‘That ‘thing’, that ‘small house’ of yours has attacked me. It’s evil George, its evil — I — I —‘
‘Now then love, come back to bed and tell me all about it.’
Sally gratefully climbed into her husband’s arms and when she’d stopped shaking he made them both a mug of cocoa.
‘The thing is Sal, I know you don’t like it but the ‘small house’ is my pride and joy and Eric thinks it might be worth quite a bit of money. The lock on the garage door is iffy and it wouldn’t take much for anyone, that way inclined to steal it or vandalise it. The simplest thing was to rig up an electric circuit round the outside connected to an interior light. I never dreamed that you would want to go out there on your own to look at it.’
Sally didn’t know whether to be relieved that the model wasn’t inhabited by an evil spirit or annoyed with George for creating such a dangerous deterrent. It was agreed that she needed a break and would go to her sister’s for a few days.
‘It’ll do you good,’ said George. ‘I’ve always liked Glenda.’
On her return not only was the awful sofa still in place but George had papered the chimney breast in a pattern that looked suspiciously like that in the rectory’s dining room.
‘How could you?’ Sally stormed. ‘You know I don’t like wallpaper.’
‘I thought it livened the place up a bit – made it a little less plain. But if you don’t like it, it can always be painted over.’
Next day Sally made her way to B&Q and chose the largest tin available of matt, apple white emulsion.
‘It’ll need at least three coats’ she thought ‘and I expect the rest of the room will need to be painted to match.’
She dragged the steps from the garage, being careful to avoid the ‘small house’ and set to with the paint brush tackling the highest point where the wall met the ceiling. This was more difficult than she’d thought and she had to stretch on tip toe, balancing on the top step to reach. With the weight of the paint tin in one hand and the brush in the other she lost her bearing and fell, narrowly missing the hearth with her head. Her left leg had twisted under her, the steps, fallen on top of her and the paint tin spewed ‘apple white’ all over the floor. Sally came round, realised she was still alive but couldn’t move her left leg because of the pain. Inch by inch she manoeuvred herself from under the steps until she was close to her bag. She found her mobile and dialled 999.
George came straight from work to the hospital. He grabbed her hand.
‘You silly sausage, whatever were you thinking of? I would have done the painting – no trouble.’
They kept Sally in for three days until the hospital staff were satisfied she could manage the crutches and had some degree of manoeuvrability. George brought her home and proudly presented the newly painted chimney breast in the sitting room.
‘There,’ he said proudly. ‘Is that better? No trouble at all.’
Sally couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘It’s the same shade as the master bedroom in the rectory!’
‘Is it? I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought of that. Don’t tell me you don’t like it.’ George looked genuinely crestfallen.
‘I expect I’ll get used to it. I’m feeling quite tired George. Could you help me up to bed?’
Over the next six weeks Sally was virtually housebound due to her plastered leg and felt powerless as more and more ugly items reminiscent of the rectory filled the house. When George and Eric installed a black lacquer chest, a perfect copy of the one in the Chinese room, she was at breaking point.
George came home from work that evening to an empty house and a note propped up on the kitchen table. He read it, sighed and made his way to the ornate drinks cabinet, (the latest addition to the sitting room), and poured himself a large whisky. Sally had left him – for good it seemed. She’d mentioned solicitors and divorce. He’d miss her, of course he would but they were just too different. The house would be sold, they’d split the proceeds and each go their separate ways. When he thought about it, the plan had gone much more smoothly than he could have hoped.
ONE YEAR LATER
George and Eric have found the perfect, Georgian town house. It needs a lot of work to make it habitable but they’re both excited and can’t wait to get started. The ‘small house’ is already there, under a dust sheet, waiting to be consulted about every aspect of the renovations. Although not nearly as impressive as the original rectory the proportions of the rooms are similar, (albeit with higher ceilings) and the space, given the basement and the third floor not that different.
Sally has gone back to hairdressing, although in a modest way, visiting customers at home. Glenda has given in her notice and the sisters have their eye on a suitable premises in the high street which they plan to run together. They dream of a pristine white interior with shining surfaces and lots of chrome. They might introduce some quirky light fittings but the overall theme will be one of modern minimalism and clean, bright efficiency.
George often peeks under the dust sheet and blesses his great, great aunt Hettie. ‘She had’, he muses,’ such good taste.’
–
(c) 2024 Katya Marsh.
