5 Books For Eveline

8

8

A good few hundred yards beyond the gardens of the last houses of the town, Turnberry house stood on a large plot that had become almost hidden by overgrown hedges, trees and long grasses. The little picket fence had gone, leaving only broken stumps poking from out of the ground, swallowed by rampant weeds.

The house had once had a tarmac driveway, now pitted and broken, reduced to grey blocks of bubbled tar, scattered far beyond the environs of the driveway itself, that curled around from the road, giving a side-on view of the house as guests arrived. Or, it would have, at one time. That view could no longer give a reaction of awe, but of sadness.

Purdy could imagine what the house once looked like. Two stories, with two wings that cradled the entranceway. A wide, wooden porch that circumnavigated the entire house, providing shade on hot days and cover from the regular rains that could appear and disappear within minutes in this part of the country.

The lawns would once have seen the use of a large, sit-down mower, keeping grass down to manageable lengths, where children and animals could play with abandon, far removed from the dangers of a main road into the nearby town. A glance to the side, and Purdy saw the broken, listing doghouse, once the pride of a fluffy, large, barking dog, that the book had described so well.

She made a circle of the entire building, noting the separate garage, the doors broken and fallen to the ground, and the garden shed where the aforementioned mower would have sat, unused for the majority of the year. It almost pained Purdy to see the house fallen into this state, wishing she could have seen it in all its whitewashed prime.

Now, it looked the skeleton of some great, dark beast. Broken ribcage-like struts reaching skyward, with arthritic fingers, blackened and twisted, splintered and shattered. The vague shape of the building remained, but only in so much as a number of half-window frames remained, devoid of glass. The broken eyes of the home, closed forever, blinded without a family to see out of them at their once beautiful garden.

Stepping up to what remained of the porch, Purdy heard a damp creak from the boards beneath her feet. She felt glad that she had worn sensible footwear, today, in anticipation of walking for long hours. Thick-soled boots, crushing soaked splinters of wood beneath detailed treads that would help to stop any slippage against the slick, algae and lichen that had gathered upon the boards over the years, fighting for prominence.

An up-ended folding chair tilted against the remains of the clapperboard wall, untouched for so long, it had made an indentation in the mottled, faded whitewash of the wall. She wondered how many times people had sat upon that chair, drinking tea, or brandy, watching the Sun lower in the sky. The flaming oranges and reds of a sunset in Summer. The chilled blues, whites and greys of a Winter's eve.

Perhaps the family had tossed a ball from this porch, sending their excitable dog chasing after it, fetching it back to them and dropping the saliva covered toy at their feet upon sandpapered and varnished wood boards that didn't creak when they stepped upon them. Not then. Only now, as Purdy made careful moves around the house's porch area, looking for a way into the interior of Turnberry house.

She didn't know where to begin. As she hadn't known where to find this house, she hadn't taken down a great many notes about the place. In order to have some idea of where to look for the second book, she would have to read the relevant passages, once again. It felt almost intrusive to walk along these boards, to even think about searching the house, but only faint spirits remained to complain.

Leaning against the wooden post, that held up what remained of the porch roof, she took the book from her coat pocket, flipping through the pages. Even speeding through the pages, she caught glimpses of passages that continued to make her wonder about the story and its author. She couldn't take the time to ponder those questions, right now, however.